Mischief

by Laura Parker

  Finally she stepped back with a smug expression. “Voila! Now, viscountess, you are ready.”

  As Japonica entered the main shop, all eyes turned her way.

  “I say!” A gentleman who sat in a corner of the main shop jumped to his feet.

  Ladies paused in their shopping to glance in her direction and their mouths fell open.

  “But you are pretty!” Alyssum cried, as if she had never before set eyes upon Japonica.

  “Perfection, madam,” the modiste said behind her. Every expression seemed to resonate with the compliment.

  Flushed with embarrassment, Japonica turned and caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She moved closer, staring at what surely must be an apparition, for she could not believe she viewed herself. Yet it was her face and hair, altered by the cunning of professional care. For the first time in her life she appeared as she had never thought possible. She looked beautiful!

  Peony came up to her, eyes shining as though she were witness to a vision. “Oh, Miss, you are the most beautiful lady in all London!”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Laurel had expected the exquisite gown to show up the pretender in their midst. Yet, by some inexplicable transfiguration, the gown made Japonica Abbott stunningly attractive. Was it the color or the cunningly cut bodice that gave her bosom an unexpected generosity or the style of her hair, which suddenly seemed quite gloriously red? She could not decide and the lack of explanation made her very cross. “She looks well enough, for a commoner.”

  “She looks like a f-f-fairy princess!” Peony exclaimed.

  Cynara and Alyssum nodded in agreement. Only Hyacinthe sniffed and looked away, clearly as annoyed as her second sister.

  “I will wrap it up for the viscountess,” the modiste said.

  “Yes, I will take it,” Japonica heard herself say, when a second before she meant to refuse the gown.

  “You said you will have no opportunity to wear it,” Laurel reminded her.

  “Perhaps not, but I shall feel better knowing I own it,” Japonica answered. “Now what choices have each of you made?”

  “Do you mean there are a few pennies to be spent on us?” Hyacinthe’s voice carried throughout the showroom. “I rather thought our allowance was to be worn upon your back.”

  The insult drew a slight gasp from the imperturbable Madame Soti.

  “Shopkeeper’s brat!” Laurel whispered as she bent in close to Japonica.

  As she was turning away, Japonica caught Laurel’s elbow. “You may think what you will of me. But if you ever again utter one word against my parentage I very much fear I shall slap you soundly!” The shrill note in her voice appalled her but she had had enough.

  “Now then,” she said, taking a menacing step toward the taller Hyacinthe. “You will apologize.”

  Hyacinthe swelled up, her nostrils quivering. “I will never apologize to you.”

  “Then you will go directly to your room when we return and stay there until you find the decency to be heartily ashamed of yourself.”

  Though Hyacinthe’s face flamed with color, she held her tongue.

  No one said another word, but Japonica was shaking with fury when she returned to the dressing room.

  As the modiste slipped the dress from her shoulders she met Japonica’s tight-lipped expression. “The viscountess has the look of the lamb but the heart of the lioness. Bravo, madam!”

  A few minutes later the very subdued Shrewsbury Posy and their step-mama stepped into Bond Street and into the rain while packages for each of them were lashed to the top of the Shrewsbury chaise.

  Japonica wore a new green sarcenet barouche coat at the insistence of Madam Soti, who decried that she should be seen leaving her shop in a plain tobacco-brown walking dress. The color, a daring shade for one with hair so vivid, Laurel cautioned her, made her feel quite happy despite the miserable weather.

  As she stepped up into the coach she heard the distant cries of a crowd. Curious, she turned to the postillion. “What is going on?”

  The young man seemed surprised that she had addressed him but quickly answered, “The Persian ambassador’s in town, m’lady. It is expected that he will create a spectacle wherever he goes.”

  A great cheer went up at the back of his words, drawing all eyes toward the end of the street. Japonica had read in The Times of the Persian ambassador’s arrival but it had not made an impression on her until now. Homesickness arrowed through her. Too bad she could not call on him.

  “Looks to be the crowd’s comin’ this way, m’lady. We’d best clear the street afore them,” the postillion advised.

  “I want to see the P-P-Persian,” Peony said. “Oh, please, may we not wait and see the p-p-parade?”

  “Yes, please!” three of the others joined in. Only Hyacinthe remained silent, looking as cross as a wet cat.

  “I suppose,” Japonica said, though she was not particularly pleased by the thought of standing in the rain when she had just recovered from quinsy. “I will meet you in the carriage at the end of the street.” She climbed up and directed the driver to move on.

  As the chaise moved away from the curb she saw her charges hurrying in the direction of the cheering crowd.

  The driver turned off Oxford Street onto a quiet lane called Mansfield Street in Marylebone where they waited for the parade to pass. Instead, to Japonica’s surprise, the noise of the crowd drew closer until curiosity made her drop the carriage window and look out.

  A traveling coach passed her at a spanking pace, its fancy undercarriage and wheel rims splashed by the accumulated mud of a long journey. Midway down the street she saw it pull up at a lovely house of the distinctive Adam design. Doubtless in expectation of this arrival, servants ran from its white-columned portico with umbrellas in hand to meet the arriving guests.

  She saw a handsome youngish man stand down when the coach door was opened. Striking even for a Persian, he was tall, with black hair curling beneath the edge of his brocade turban. He sported a thick flowing beard and wore robes so colorfully embroidered as to shame a peacock. Even in her life in Bushire, she had never seen his equal. Women were not, after all, allowed in the Persian court. Her father’s tales were all she had of the Shah’s royal palaces. The Mirza fit the tales like one of the characters from the oft-mentioned Arabian Nights.

  As if on cue a crowd appeared, running from the direction the traveling coach had come, cheering as if the ambassador were a war hero or a member of the royal family. Banners magically appeared as people tied kerchiefs and other bits of cloth to sticks and canes and waved them overhead.

  Japonica studied the faces of the other men climbing down from the carriage, searching for any familiar face from Bushire, but she could not decide which of the officers might be someone she had met before. Two were very young. The others wore the uniforms of His Majesty’s Life Guards. Those not in military dress were clearly strangers. All but the Mirza seemed pleased with their reception. He stood stiffly for several moments before allowing himself to be escorted indoors.

  Finally, her gaze lit on a tall, rail-thin man with black hair and a hawk-like stare whose own gaze was scouring the on-lookers. At the last moment her nerve failed her and as his gaze swept in her direction she sat back out of his vision.

  Lord Sinclair was up and about, and in the company of Abul Hassan Khan. She was not wrong. The Hind Div had come to London!

  Even as she drew in a shuddering breath, it was quite clear to her that she must make the first move. This game of nerves, if that was what Lord Sinclair was playing, had cut up her peace and had her peeping and starting at shadows. Even she had her limit of fear. So be it, she would brave the lion in his den. If she were to be chewed up and spit out it would be at her own choosing.

  “But when?” she murmured.

  The chaise door swung open and her five charges climbed in, all talking at once about the amazing sights they had seen.

  At precisely a quarter pa
st three on the following afternoon, Lord Sinclair sat entertaining four fellow officers in his home. Though he had not wanted company, Devlyn felt compelled to play host once they arrived. For a quarter hour they had drunk his wines and eaten his biscuits as if this were no more than an “at home” for friends. Yet he was not fooled. They had come to him for a reason and he was curious. What would compel this uncomfortable truce between men who had not forgotten their last encounter?

  Thanks to a note of warning from Winslow, he had been able to meet the Mirza’s convoy on the outskirts of the city the day before and ride in with them. Yet he had returned to his own home only after the Mirza retired for the night.

  “You look recovered from your fever.” Winslow slanted a brief glance at Sinclair’s right arm. Minus the hook, his arm ended in a neatly pinned sleeve.

  “I look like hell, even on my best day,” Devlyn answered shortly. “But you have not come calling for a reading of my health.”

  “We’ve come to lay your duty back at your door,” Howe said shortly.

  “And that would be?” Devlyn inquired softly.

  “Keeping the ambassador’s feathers unruffled. I wish you well of it. The man’s skin’s as thin as a newborn babe’s.”

  “You saw how he behaved yesterday.” Frampton helped himself to another serving of his host’s port. “Ordering the carriage windows rolled up when the crowds were cheering him. Damned impudence!”

  “Hate to admit it but Howe’s right,” Hemphill said. “The Mirza takes offense at the least slight.”

  “And he perceives a slight at every turn,” Winslow concurred. “Said he might as well have been a bale of goods smuggled into town for all the honor he received from the King upon his arrival. Goes on and on about the lack of an official welcome.”

  Devlyn nodded. “An Isteqbal.”

  “He bloody well expected the King himself to be on the carpet for him!” Frampton said in disgust.

  “That would be within his expectation. His family lineage is quite a bit older than the present king’s,” Devlyn answered blandly. “Why was there no official welcome?”

  “Who knows the methods of the crown?” Howe groused. “Still, it don’t serve for a foreigner to think he can dictate the terms of our customs.”

  “This is London, can you think of nothing with which to distract him?” Devlyn’s voice was edged with indifference. “There are plays and pleasure gardens and gaming halls and mistresses enough to occupy any man with the Mirza’s tastes and vigor.”

  “That’s just it,” Hemphill answered. “The Mirza has sworn by an oath to his sovereign. He cannot stir out of doors until he has delivered his credentials to His Majesty at his Court.”

  “And well you know the temperament of these Asiatics.” Howe rolled his eyes. “ ’Tis a diabolical yet subtly constructed device. By imposing his own house arrest he hopes to embarrass the Court into acting quickly.”

  “I take it the delay is dictated by the King’s health?” Devlyn said.

  “Don’t know and don’t care.” Howe sat forward in his chair and jabbed a finger in Devlyn’s direction. “ ’Tis your headache. Our part is done. The Life Guards have more important duties to perform than minding a puffed up Oriental peacock.”

  “Walking the royal bitch, perhaps?” Devlyn smiled for the first time. “ ’Tis noted in the news that Princess Amelia’s lapdog has a new litter. That should keep a man of your capacity fully occupied.”

  “Now then!” Winslow said quickly as Howe muttered under his breath. “Someone’s got to bring the Mirza round. Distract him. And you’re … you’re ….” A huge sneeze caught Winslow by surprise.

  “Bless you,” Devlyn said with a slight smile.

  When he recovered, Winslow looked about, noticing for the first time the lack of window drapes and carpets in the room as well as the distinct smell of camphor and wood polish in the air. “What the devil are you about, Sinclair? No one redecorates in December.”

  “Spring cleaning,” Devlyn answered with a sigh. “The viscountess’s idea.”

  Howe looked interested in the conversation for the first time. “Is she the reason you deserted us en route?”

  “Can’t say that she is, as I haven’t yet laid eyes on her.”

  “What?” The four men chorused in surprise.

  “Not even a howdy-do?” Winslow pressed.

  “She keeps to herself. As do I.” Devlyn wished he had not brought up the subject. “There are five daughters to command her attention.”

  “Five?” Howe harrumphed. “Gad! She must be either full-sprung or wrung to a prune. Neither is meat to tempt my taste.”

  “Still, there might be a spark left ….” Frampton mused.

  “Or desperation,” Hemphill suggested. “Widows are often good for high jinx.”

  “And the ill-favored spinster.” Howe chuckled. “They are so grateful for a man’s attention they’ll do anything. And I do mean anything!”

  As the other gentlemen laughed at the bawdy jibe, Devlyn turned his head, for he heard the salon door open. Into the room stepped a young woman in a simple sarcenet gown and mob cap. “The room is occupied. Leave us!”

  To his consternation she held her ground. “Forgive me, Lord Sinclair, but as you were entertaining I thought it as good time as any for you to introduce me to your companions.”

  Confounded, Devlyn stood up. “Why the devil should I wish to do that?”

  She closed the doors behind her. “Because, as I am new to London, it is your duty to make my way.”

  “Let her in, Sinclair!” Howe had come to his feet, a wide grin on his handsome face. “Your hospitality’s dull stuff. I prefer a bit of female companionship.”

  Devlyn’s gaze narrowed upon the young woman who dared challenge his authority. “I do not entertain governesses.”

  For an instant she stared at him in amazement, then her expression cleared. “But of course you would not know, as we have not been formally introduced ourselves.” She came forward with a smile and held out her hand to Devlyn. “I am Japonica Abbott.”

  “The viscountess Abbott?” Devlyn could hardly get the words past his surprise. Moreover, he left her extended hand hanging in midair, for this “widow” with five daughters could not be a day more than twenty.

  “The very same, Lord Sinclair.” She smiled at the stunned expressions on his companion’s faces. “May I join you?”

  “Certainly!” Howe and Frampton both jumped to their feet to offer their seats to her.

  Devlyn, too, moved quickly. He walked purposefully to the door through which she had just come and set his hand on the latch before turning back to the room. “Gentleman, as you were just leaving, I shall be brief. Lady Abbott, may I present Colonel Hemphill, Captains Winslow, Howe, and Frampton. Gentleman, the viscountess Shrewsbury.”

  She curtsied as the gentlemen bowed deeply. Devlyn was not certain who was more annoyed and chagrinned, the officers or her. All faces were flushed with strong emotion.

  As if he had not noticed a thing, Devlyn opened the doors and said, “Good day to you, gentlemen. I will join you in Mayfield Street for dinner. Meanwhile, Bersham will see you out.”

  Given no choice, they each murmured regrets and turned toward the door, all, that is, but Howe.

  He approached the viscountess and reached for her hand. “Now that we are acquainted, Lady Abbott, I look forward to our next meeting.”

  With the deliberateness even Devlyn recognized as swagger, Howe saluted her hand. To his satisfaction she blushed and hastily retrieved it from him. Then she was not altogether a goose! Howe was a rotter where women were concerned.

  Devlyn took his time in closing the doors. So this was the person Bersham had told him of, the one who nursed him through his first night beneath this roof. But she was young, a girl really! Chagrin, annoyance, and consternation vied for command of his emotions, for he retained the oddest memories of that night. Of a young woman …
of her crawling into his bed … ! Good Lord! It must have been the fever.

  He could not guess what thoughts ran through her mind. Yet he knew enough of the ways of women to suppose she had not randomly chosen this moment to interfere in his life, not when several days of opportunity lay between her arrival and now. She wanted something. What? Only one way to find out.

  He turned to her a blasé expression. “Now, madam, what the devil do you mean by barging into my private affairs?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Japonica wondered if she had made a mistake. She had thought these last days that she was the one avoiding a meeting. Yet when Lord Sinclair did not return the night before until after she had fallen asleep, and was gone before she rose this morning, the implication suddenly seemed clear. He must be making an effort to avoid her as well.

  That realization—along with a generous glass of sherry from the sideboard in the dining room—had given her the courage to barge in upon the gentlemen so that he might not escape again. Staring at him now, she could not think of a single good reason for having wanted to do so. He eyed her as if she had slithered out from beneath a stone.

  “I ask again. What the devil do you mean by this intrusion?”

  Out of habit, she curtsied. “I wished to make myself known to you, Lord Sinclair, for two reasons.”

  “No one I wish to meet would make herself known in a manner so ill-bred and outrageous.” He sounded as chillingly remote and condescending as the ancestral portraits lining the walls of Croesus Hall.

  Japonica looked quickly away, intimidation warring with her natural dislike of those who used their superior status to quell the feelings of others. Her appearance could be mistaken for that of a governess, but now that he was aware of her position she would not be spoken to as if she were a mere servant.