Tarnished Amongst the Ton

by Louise Allen

  ‘To find the treasures here one needs curiosity,’ she finished, her voice suddenly breathless. Her accent had slipped a trifle.

  ‘You may be sure you have stimulated mine,’ Ashe murmured. ‘All of them. I will return, with or without my… sister.’

  Her hand tensed in his and as suddenly relaxed. Oh, yes, she was as aware of him as he was of her and the news that he was unmarried had struck home.

  ‘I must wrap the pendant, monsieur.’ She gave a little tug and he released her. There was no wedding ring on those long slender fingers with their neat oval nails. The hunting instinct stirred again and with it certain parts of his body that were better kept under control when he was supposed to be escorting his sister on a blameless shopping expedition.

  Ashe slipped the flat box into his breast pocket, resumed his gloves and waited for Sara to gather up her reticule and parasol. ‘You open your shop every day?’

  ‘Non. I open as the whim takes me, monsieur,’ the lady of curiosities said, a little tart now and very French again. He had flustered her and she did not forgive that easily, it seemed. ‘I am often away buying stock.’

  ‘Down by the Pool of London, perhaps?’

  She shrugged, an elegant gesture that made him wonder if she was, indeed, French. But her accent when they first met had been completely English, he recalled and she had slipped up just now. ‘Anywhere that I can find treasures for my clients, monsieur. Good day, monsieur, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Au revoir,’ Ashe returned and was amused to see her purse her lips. She suspected, quite correctly, that he was teasing her.

  Phyllida shot the bolt on the door and retreated into the back room. Him. Here. As though she had not had enough trouble trying, and failing, to get him out of her head. She spread out her right hand, the one he had captured in his own big brown fist. She had felt overpowered, an unexpected sensation. What was most unsettling was that it was not unwelcome. A strong, decisive man after Gregory’s lazy indecision was… stimulating. And dangerous. She reminded herself that for all the charm he was a man and one who probably had no hesitation in seizing what he wanted if charm alone did not work. Men had no hesitation in using their superior strength to take advantage of a woman.

  He had been without his devil-bird, but with a charming sister who was, it seemed, as bright as she was pretty. The wretch, after that kiss, to let her think he was with his wife! It did not mean he did not have one at home, of course. Not that she cared in the slightest.

  But who was he? He had paid in cash, which must mean he was not one of the ton. If he had been, he would have simply handed her his card and expected her to send him an account. Besides, she had never seen him before yesterday and she knew everyone who was anyone, by sight at least. Whoever he was, he was wealthy. His clothes were, again, superb, with that hint of foreign styling. His sister, too, was dressed impeccably and the simple pearls at her neck and ears were of high quality.

  A wealthy trader? If he was with the East India Company it might explain his presence at the docks. A ship owner, perhaps.

  Phyllida realised she was twisting the chain of her chatelaine into a knot and released it with an impatient flick of her wrist. He was the first person who had connected any of the elements of her complicated life. But provided he was not in a position to link Mrs Drummond, the dealer who scoured the East End and the docks for treasures for the stock of Madame Deaucourt, owner of the Cabinet of Curiosity, with Phyllida Hurst, the somewhat shady sister of the Earl of Fransham, he was no danger, surely?

  Except for your foolish fantasies, she scolded herself. She had never enjoyed being kissed before and that caress by the Customs House had been skilled, casually delivered as it had been. The man was a flirt of the worst kind, Phyllida told herself as she jammed the tinted spectacles back on her nose and went to open up the shop again.

  And he must flirt with everything and anything in skirts, she decided, catching sight of herself in a mirror. He could hardly make the excuse that he had been so stunned by her beauty he had not known what he was doing. When properly dressed and coiffed she was, she flattered herself, not exactly an eyesore. But yesterday, in a plain stuff gown with her hair scraped back and hidden in that net, she should never have merited a second glance. Which was, of course, her intention. And it had taken him a while, even with those watchful green eyes, to recognise her in today’s outfit.

  The problem was that she found herself wishing with a positively reckless abandon that her nameless man would spare her a second glance. And that kind of foolishness threatened the entire plan of campaign she had set in motion at the age of seventeen and which had cost her so dear. Idiot, she lectured herself. If he looks at you seriously it will be as a mistress, a possession, not a wife. And marriage was only a dream, not a possibility, for her.

  ‘Bonjour, madame.’ She opened the door and dipped a respectful curtsy to Lady Harington, who swept in with a brisk nod. She was a regular customer who obviously had no idea that she had spent quite fifteen minutes in conversation with Phyllida in her respectable guise only two evenings previously at a musicale.

  ‘I have received a small consignment of the most elegant fans from the Orient, madame.’ She lifted them from their silk wrappings and laid them out on the counter. ‘Each is unique and quite exclusive to myself. I am showing them only to clients of discernment.’ And they are very, very expensive, she decided, seeing the avid glint in her ladyship’s eyes. Earning the money to drag them back from the edge of ruin and to bring Gregory into complete respectability was everything. Nothing must be allowed to threaten that.

  ‘Thank you for my present, Ashe.’ Sara slid her hand under his elbow as they made their way from St James’s Square and turned right into Pall Mall. ‘Why did you let the shopkeeper believe we were married?’

  ‘I corrected her soon enough. It is no concern of hers.’ She was interested, though.

  ‘You were flirting with her.’

  ‘And what do you know of flirting, might I ask? You are not out yet.’ One of the problems with being male, single and all that implied was that Ashe was only too aware of the thoughts, desires and proclivities of the other single males who were going to come into contact with his beautiful, friendly, innocent sister. It was enough to make him want to lock her up and hide the key for at least another five years.

  ‘I was out in Calcutta. I went to parties and picnics and dances. Everything, in fact.’ She tilted her head and sent him a twinkling smile that filled him with foreboding. ‘It is just that you were in Kalatwah and didn’t know what I was up to.’

  ‘That is different. It is all much more formal here. All those rules and scandal lurking if we trip up on as much as one of them. Especially for you, which is unfair, but—’

  ‘I know. Young ladies must be beyond reproach, as innocent as babies.’ Sara sighed theatrically. ‘Such a pity I am not an innocent.’

  ‘What?’ Ashe slammed to a halt, realised where he was and carried on walking. If he had to take ship back to India to dismember whoever had got his hands on his little sister, he would. ‘Sarisa Melissa Herriard, who is he?’ he ground out.

  ‘No one, silly. I meant it theoretically. You don’t think Mata is like those idiotic women who don’t tell their daughters anything and expect them to work it all out on their wedding night, do you? Or leave them to get into trouble because they don’t understand what men want.’

  Ashe moaned faintly. No, of course their mother, raised as an Indian princess, and presumably schooled in all the theory of the ancient erotic texts, would have passed that wisdom on to her daughter as she reached marriageable age. He just did not want to think about it.

  He had been away from home too long and his baby sister had grown up too fast. On board ship he hadn’t realised. She had been her old enthusiastic, curious self and there had been no young men to flirt with except the unfortunate Mr Perrott, so Ashe had carried on thinking of her as the seventeen-year-old girl he had left when he went to their great-uncl
e’s court. But she was twenty now. A woman.

  ‘Then pretend, very hard, that you haven’t a clue,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ his oh-so-demure little sister said. ‘So, were you flirting?’

  ‘No. I do not flirt with plain French shopkeepers.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not so certain she is plain,’ Sara said. ‘I think she would like to appear so. Perhaps because she has trouble with rakish gentlemen like you.’ They stopped before a rambling pile of red brick with two scarlet-coated guards standing in front. ‘What on earth is that?’ she asked before Ashe could demand why she considered him rakish and how she would know a rake if she saw one.

  He had been doing his homework. ‘St James’s Palace. It is very old.’

  ‘It is a sorry excuse for a palace, in my opinion—the most junior raja can do better than that.’ Sara wrinkled her nose in disapprobation.

  ‘Come on, we’ll go through to the park.’ Ashe took her past the guards before they could be arrested for lèse-majesté or whatever crime being rude about the sovereign’s palaces constituted.

  ‘So, are you looking for a mistress?’ she enquired as they went through the improbably named Milkmaids’ Passage and into Green Park.

  ‘No!’ Yes. But he certainly was not going to discuss that with his little sister. It was far too long since he had been with a woman. There had been women after Reshmi—he was not a monk, after all—but the voyage had lasted months and the ship might as well have been a monastery.

  ‘You will be looking for a wife, though. Mata said you would be. At least there are lots more women in London to fall in love with than there were in Calcutta society.’

  ‘I have no intention of falling in love. I need to find a wife suitable for a viscount.’ And one who was heir to a marquisate at that.

  ‘But Father and Mata made a love match. Oh look, cows wandering about. But they aren’t sacred, are they?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so.’ He spared the livestock a glance. ‘Not unless the Church of England has developed some very strange practices. Look, there are milkmaids or cow herds or something.

  ‘Our parents met and fell in love before they knew Father’s uncle had died, making grandfather the heir,’ he reminded her. ‘Mata even ran away when she found out before the wedding because she did not think she would make a good marchioness.’

  ‘I know, but it is ridiculous! She is clever and beautiful and brave,’ Sara said fiercely. ‘What more could be needed?

  ‘She is the illegitimate daughter of an East India Company merchant and an Indian princess—not the usual English aristocratic lady, you must agree. She only agreed to marry Father and to take it on because she loves him—why do you think he stayed in India until the last possible moment?’

  ‘I thought it was because he and his father hated each other.’

  That was one way of describing a relationship where a bitter wastrel had packed his own seventeen-year-old son off to India against his will.

  ‘Father made his own life, his own reputation, in India. He never wanted to come back, especially with Mata’s anxieties, but they know it is their duty.’ He shrugged. ‘And one day, a long way away, I hope, it will be mine. And I’m not putting another woman through what our mother is having to deal with. So much to learn, the realisation that people are talking behind her back, assessing whether she is up to it, is well bred enough, watching for every mistake.’

  ‘I had not realised it would be that bad. I am an innocent after all,’ Sara said with a sigh. ‘I will do my best not to add to their worries.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘I can be good if I try. And I suppose if you find the right wife she will be a help to Mata, won’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ashe agreed, wishing it did not feel so much like buying a horse. ‘She can take on some of the duties of chaperon for you once we are married. And a suitable bride will have social and political connections.’ He knew little about English politics as yet, but the intrigues of an Indian court seemed simple in comparison to what he had read.

  ‘I want to find someone like Mata found Father. Poor Ashe.’ Sara squeezed his arm companionably. ‘No love match for you.’

  He should have answered faster, made a joke of it, because Sara knew him too well. ‘Oh, was there someone?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps. I don’t know.’ He was mumbling. He never mumbled. Ashe got a grip on himself. ‘It never got that far.’

  ‘Who?’ When he didn’t answer she asked, ‘At Kalatwah?’

  Reshmi. The Silken One. Great dark eyes, a mouth of sinful promise, a heart full of joy and laughter. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You left her?’

  ‘She died.’ Two years ago. It was impossible, he had known it was doomed from the start and finally he had told her, far too abruptly because he didn’t want to do it. They said it was an accident that she had trodden on a krait hidden in the dry grass and he tried to believe that it was chance, that she would never have chosen to kill herself in such a ghastly, painful way. But his conscience told him that she had been too distracted, too full of grief to be as careful as she normally was.

  It was his fault. Since Reshmi he had organised his liaisons with clinical care, generously but with no misunderstandings on either side. And no attachments either.

  ‘It was a long time ago, I don’t think of her now.’ He tried not to, because when he did there was still the ache of her loss, the memory of the sweetness of her lips on his. The guilt at having had so much power over another person’s happiness and having failed her.

  He would never find it again, that almost innocent feeling of first love. It had been cut short, like an amputation, and that, and the guilt, was why it hurt. He would never be that young, or foolish, again, which was a mercy because love seemed to hurt both parties. How would the survivor cope with the pain if one of his parents outlived the other?

  Sara leaned into him and rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, too sensitive to ask more. After a moment she said, ‘Look, they are milking the cows. Is that not truly incredible? Right by the palace!’ She let go of his arm and ran across the grass, laughing, so he strode after her over the green grass, shaking off the heat and colours of India. That was the past.

  Chapter Three

  ‘How elegantly your daughter dances, Mrs Fogerty.’ Judging by the amount of money lavished on Miss Fogerty’s clothes and the almost painful correctness of her manners, elegant was likely to be a very acceptable compliment to her doting mama.

  ‘Why, thank you.’ The matron simpered and made room on the upholstered bench to allow Phyllida to sit down. Her efforts to recall to whom she was speaking were painfully visible, but Phyllida did not enlighten her. ‘Her partner is an excellent dancer.’ Mrs Fogerty watched Gregory closely.

  ‘The Earl of Fransham? Yes, indeed. A very old family.’ Phyllida waved her exquisite fan gently and allowed Mrs Fogerty a good look at the antique cameos she was wearing. All part of her stock, although now when she wanted to sell them she would have to go to another dealer or they might be recognised.

  ‘You are related to him?’ The older woman was avid for details.

  ‘A connection.’ If it came to serious courtship, Phyllida was resigned to fading completely into the background. ‘Large estates, of course, and the most magnificent country house.’ With dozens of buckets under the drips, death watch beetle in the roof and pleasure gardens resembling the darkest jungle. ‘Although,’ she lowered her voice, ‘like so many of the really old noble families, the resources to invest are sadly lacking.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mrs Fogerty narrowed her eyes and regarded Gregory’s handsome figure and impeccable tailoring with sharpened interest. To Phyllida’s delight she had picked up on the hint that the earl was in the market for a rich wife and was not in a position to be picky about bloodlines.

  Mr Fogerty, a self-made Lancashire mill owner, was high on her list of wealthy parents in search of an aristocratic son-in-law and Emily Fogerty seemed bright and pleasant, although perhaps not
strong-willed enough to deal with Gregory. She was not the only one under consideration, however, nor her favourite. After a few minutes of conversation Phyllida excused herself and drifted off in search of Miss Millington, the sole child of banker Sir Ralph Millington and her ideal candidate.

  ‘Phyllida Hurst!’ The Dowager Countess of Malling stood close to the main entrance of the Richmonds’ ballroom.

  ‘Ma’am.’ She curtsied, smiling. The old dragon scared half the ton into instant flight, but she amused Phyllida, who knew the kind heart behind the abrasive exterior. ‘May I say what a very handsome toque you are wearing?’

  ‘I look a fright in it.’ The old lady patted the erection on her head and smiled evilly. ‘But it amuses me. Now, what are you up to these days, my dear?’

  She was some kind of connection of Phyllida’s mother and had done a great deal to mitigate the damage of her parents’ scandalous marriage and make the Hurst siblings acceptable to the ton, so Phyllida always made time to relay gossip, have her gowns criticised and enquire after the Dowager’s pug dogs, Hercules and Samson.

  ‘Shall we sit down, ma’am?’

  ‘And miss all the arrivals? Nonsense.’ Lady Malling fetched Phyllida a painful rap on the wrist with her fan. ‘Give me your arm, child. Now, who is this? Oh, only Georgina Farraday with her hair even blonder than normal. Who does she think she is deceiving?’ The set had just finished, the music stopped and her voice cut clearly through the chatter.

  Phyllida suppressed a smile. ‘I dare not comment, ma’am,’ she murmured.

  ‘Pish! Ah, this is more interesting. Now that is what I call a fine figure of a man.’

  Phyllida had to agree. The gentleman standing just inside the entrance was in his late fifties, but she doubted he had an inch of spare flesh on his lean, broad-shouldered body. His hair was silver-gilt, his evening dress was cut with an expensive simplicity that set off his athletic frame and on his arm was a striking golden-skinned woman with a mass of dark brown hair piled in an elaborate coiffure.