by Thea Devine
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sensibilities, and that she might harbor ill will toward his protogιe. Nevertheless, he begged her indulgence still, and expressed his firm desire to have her carry on just as they had planned as a very great favor to him.
Soon, he promised, she could come to value Miss Bowman as not only the beauty that she was, but also as a woman who was forthright, well-meaning and not a fortune hunter.
She doubted that, Lucretia thought, but in point of fact she could not renege now: it wasn't good ton, especially when a half hundred of your peers had witnessed you taking the chick under your wing and fairly abducting her from the evils of the gaming house.
But then Nicholas knew that as well as she, and she supposed he was counting on that as well as her seeing the humor of the whole thing.
She would have given a lot, she decided, to see the statuesque Miss Bowman chasing Nicholas around the room with a chocolate pot. She didn't think anyone had ever chased Nicholas anywhere, and she wondered if he had come out worse from the battle of wits than had Miss Bowman. That surely would explain the contrite tone of his note.
She wished she could have seen him before he left.
Finally, she looked up at Jainee. Yes, the goddess of the game was rigged out in blue once again, her hair neatly bound up and entwined with matching ribbon. Her beautiful face presented a picture of cool, perhaps calculated, serenity, but her eyes blazed with emotion, and the spots on her cheeks were not rouge or a heavy hand pinching.
"Sit down, Miss Bowman."
Jainee sat and folded her hands into her lap.
And she knew when to be quiet, Lucretia thought, an estimable quality in any woman. But her hands were tight, almost as if she had confined her emotions as well as her words in the hollow of her lap.
She was not stupid, this little protegιe. There was an intelligence that radiated out of those startling blue eyes; there was a force of personality, and more than that, Lucretia had a sense
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that there was a great pragmatism in this woman. She was no frivolous doll who would repine over the least little setback or setdown.
And she knew how to handle people—she must if she had been behind the tables at the Alices.
The question was, could she handle Nick?
"I hope you ruined his clothes—and his morning," she said at last, and she was amused by the flash of surprise in Jainee's eyes.
"Indeed, my lady—top to bottom," Jainee confessed instantly, wondering at this tack when Lady Waynflete had been so angry and distrustful not two hours before. But she saw no reason not to tell the truth; something in that letter had lessened her suspicions, and she assumed it was a note from Southam. However, she could not picture him making apologies, and she assumed she would never know what he had written to sway Lady Waynflete's opinion.
"Are you mercenary?" the old lady asked next, the words cracking into the air like a whip.
Again Jainee was startled, as she deduced she was meant to be. "I hope not, my lady, but surely in this atmosphere of easy money, it is hardly a great leap to become so."
"Are you an adventuress?"
Even Jainee paused at that one. Was she? She had made the mistake of characterizing herself as one, but even she was not sure there was a name for a woman who sold herself to keep a deathbed promise, and meant to renege on the bargain in the process. A liar, perhaps. A cheat. A gambler. An adventuress . . .
"What I am, my lady, is a woman who has lost her parents; one died, one abandoned the family when I was young. I seek my father, Lady Waynflete, nothing more," she said slowly, carefully. No lies this time. Omissions, yes. Misconstrued motives— oh yes. Southam's part in it —no explaining that whatsoever. "I made a promise to my mother when she died. And I have searched my soul endlessly on the question—who would know if I didn't try to find him. There is no answer, my lady, except that I would know."
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Lady Waynflete cut right into it. "That is a very pretty story, Miss Bowman, and perhaps it is true, but where does Southam come into it?"
Canny Lady Waynflete. "You must know, my Lady, I lost an extravagant sum of money to him — " Oh, she hoped Lady Waynflete knew, but what if she didn't? "—we made a bargain."
"Yes," Lady Waynflete said drily. "I can quite conceive of the kind of bargain you would make."
Well, she was down now: Lady Waynflete inferred the worst. She could not defend that position, nor, she thought, did she want to. Once again, she must attack to circumvent a request for details.
And at that, it was easy. Lady Waynflete was not used to such brass-faced boldness even though she possessed it herself. "You mistake the matter, Lady Waynflete," she said stringently, "and with all respect due to you, I cannot see how it is your business to question an agreement between Lord Southam and myself when you are in the process of putting the proper face on it."
"I'll tell you what, my dear, you had better curb that sassy tongue of yours. I will not be the last to say that you pulled off the trick that no other woman has been able to these past five seasons: you have Nick eating out of your hand and chewing up the most impossibly implausible story I have heard in twenty-five seasons in London, and you do it very well. My own mistake was trusting the boy, and thinking he couldn't fall prey to a body or a face or his inexplicable penchant for gambling. But I won't underestimate him again—or you.
"You are correct: I have no choice but to put a proper face on it and I will do all that Nick requests." She waved the letter at Jainee. "But one misstep, my dear, and I will toss you through the hoop and out the door, and then see where your career will land you.
"Nevertheless, since Nick is footing the bill, you shall have all the fripperies, gowns and entertainment that London can afford you, and we shall see just how fast you connect with this long-lost father of yours, Miss Bowman. If I were a gambling woman, I would wager it will take you no longer to find him than the
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moment that Nick decides you do not fascinate him any more.
"Don't looked shocked, my dear. The gossips are far more vicious than I. But at least you now know how things stand between us. We will take a light luncheon and I will escort you shopping. Your clothes are all very well to do, my dear, but you cannot bare your bosom in a morning gown—much as you may want to."
******************
And that was just the morning. Jainee had no idea what to expect that afternoon as Lady Waynflete politely introduced her to the manner in which the fashionables shopped—going to one of several wonderful bazaars and roaming from shop to stall, beginning at Grafton's for material, until one found exactly what one wanted; and ending at Lady Waynflete's mantua-maker who would transform the whole into proper and compatible style.
But Jainee saw immediately that Lady Waynflete had something very much in mind: she wanted to present Jainee with an aura of innocence. She wanted the light-colored silks and muslins, always leaning toward the color white, and high necks and over-decorated hats, layers of underclothing that Jainee had discarded years before. And the light of battle flared in her eyes as Jainee rejected each of her suggestions.
"I am no schoolroom miss, my lady. I do not wear hats, nor do I wear patterns. I prefer blue, and the low neck, the round gown without the trains and frills, and something vastly more sophisticated for evening. I do not wear hats, but I will wear ribbons, flowers or pearls in my hair. And I will not be made fool of."
"As you say," Lady Waynflete murmured, and held up a length of white sprigged muslin against Jainee's face; she made a noncommittal sound and put back the material and picked up something else.
After several tries, she shrugged and threw up her hands. "You win, Miss Bowman. No matter how hard I try, I cannot make you look insipid."
"My compliments, my lady, but none of this is necessary.
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Surely there is enough in my own wardrobe that we need not put Lord Southam to this excessive expense."
"You cannot appear more
than once in the same dress. And I promise you, there will be two dozen men who remember you from the Alices, and can tell you to a nicety exactly what you wore on any given night. Now, shall we proceed, Miss Bowman?"
They proceeded, from high-necked morning gowns to more elaborate afternoon round gowns to the thicker corded muslin walking dresses with their abominable waistcoat bosoms, which only constricted and emphasized Jainee's natural curves, to the best and most beautiful evening dresses of luscious silks and crepes, satins and fine translucent muslins, two of which became her immediate favorites: one a deep blue tunic caught at one shoulder over a flowing underdress of lavender sarcenet. The other was made of thick ivory shot satin with a scandalous neckline that fastened just above a deep oval which bared a good portion of her breasts.
And over this, as she moved from party to party, she would wear an elegant black hooded cape which was lined in fur.
"Which, of course, will be discarded in the carriage before you enter anyplace," Lady Waynflete instructed her as she fingered the material and nodded her approval.
"Excuse me? Do I understand," Jainee interposed, not quite comprehending the rules of dress Lady Waynflete was espousing. "I do not enter a place wearing this beautiful cape? What do I wear? What if it is cold?"
"There will be shawls, beautiful matching shawls for each of your dresses, and these you will wear when we ascend from the carriage. It is a mere step from there to any entertainment we will be attending. The cold does not signify in that event."
"My lady, this makes no sense."
"It is the way things are done," Lady Waynflete said with great finality.
Jainee girded herself to protest. "You are telling me then that this society demands that its women be fragile and clinging and then rules we must show our innate strength by freezing to
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death?"
"That is the way of it," Lady Waynflete said, "and you will comply with the manner in which things are done, Miss Bowman, without protests. Now, let us continue . . ."
She duly commissioned the matching shawls for each of the dresses, several pelisses for morning and afternoon wear, matching gloves for every outfit, silk stockings and matching garters, half-boots for day wear and beautifully worked kid slippers to match each of the evening gowns. And there was jewelry: pearls and gold and silver strands to wind around her throat or through her hair. And there were bracelets, a jewelry box full of them to complement the several she habitually wore, and rings and earrings and little bags strung with drawstrings to hold her handkerchief, her fan (a dozen to match every dress), her gambling money, and each of these reticules would be fashioned to match every outfit.
"Whatever you are," Lady Waynflete said somewhat grudgingly as they finished this go-round of measuring and choosing materials and accessories, "you are a pleasure to dress, despite your somewhat exotic predilection for the color blue. However, it does work well for you with your hair and eyes, and I will go as far as to say you were wise to overrule me on this account. You are no schoolroom chit, and anyone looking at you would know it immediately. Now, come . . ."
Jainee did not know whether she had been insulted or complimented, but she had no time to dissect the nuances of Lady Waynflete's comment.
Lady Waynflete, it seemed, never stood still. She had positively raced through the afternoon's shopping and fitting at her dressmaker's, and now they were embarked on a brief carriage ride around St. James Park while she discoursed on sundry topics that had nothing to do with their morning's discussion or her newfound suspicion of Jainee's motivations.
After twenty minutes, she directed her driver to turn into St. James Square where one of her great good friends, Jane Griswold, resided. Jane was married to a member of parliament and she was a stickler for etiquette and formality.
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She, Lady Waynflete thought, would give her an impartial reading of the impertinent Miss Bowman, and if Miss Bowman passed muster with Jane Griswold then she could feel secure in her sponsorship of her.
She wished heartily that Nick had not come to breakfast that morning; then she would not have had the slightest reservation about Miss Bowman at all. But that was Nick for you, ever doing the unexpected and taking his friends along for the ride. She only hoped the carriage would not overturn and crush them all during this caper.
Lady Griswold awaited them, having received Lady Waynflete's urgent note earlier that day and being perfectly willing to accommodate her good friend on such short notice.
Her house, one of a long block of similar such attached town-houses, was situated on a cul-de-sac called St. James Crescent, and was distinguished by its colonnaded front portico and the wide shallow steps that led up to it.
Lady Griswold met them in the parlor, holding out her hands to Lady Waynflete and murmuring, "Lucretia, my dear. She is eminently presentable. You must not worry."
Jainee of course heard none of this as Lady Griswold turned to her. She had the impression of great kindness behind Lady Griswold's pale green eyes, and great rectitude as well. Here was a lady with an iron will that was as unbendable as her manners.
Moreover, she had the same kind of height as Jainee and an imposing presence, due probably to her years and her position in society. Nevertheless, she did not seem predisposed to condemn, at least not at once.
This, Jainee thought, was the first test. Lady Waynflete was trying her out to see if she would win the sanction of her friends.
And all because she had carried on so badly with the abominable Southam this morning. Everything could be ruined, just everything. Southam would pay for the indignities heaped upon her this day by Lady Waynflete who, prior to this morning, had been perfectly amenable to the arrangement. And if she had been goaded into being indiscreet by Southam, well, she refused
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to take blame for it. She was giving up enough to the man, including the outrage of being picked apart by this seeming highest of the high sticklers, Lady Griswold.
Even if she were trying to be kind—for Lady Waynflete's sake.
"Miss Bowman?"
"Lady Griswold."
"Come in and sit down, wont you? This is a ghastly time of year to be in London, don't you agree?"
"Except if one is in good company," Jainee murmured, following Lady Waynflete's lead and settling herself opposite Lady Griswold.
Lady Griswold smiled. "How kind of you to say so." She lifted a small bell on a small table by her side and sent Lucretia Waynflete a meaningful look.
"I’ll ring for tea."
From that point on, it was easy. Jainee thanked her stars for the time she had spent with Murat at the French court while her mother played coy games with the emperor, and her several months with Murat in Italy.
She saw immediately that there was no difference in the expectations—all was either politesse or malice, and one had to learn to walk the very tricky ground between the two.
Jane Griswold was no threat. She wanted to like and approve of Jainee purely to be able to reassure Lady Waynflete.
And Jainee wanted to like her; she could even feel some admiration for a lady who always did things in the cleanest, most aboveboard way.
Yet Lady Griswold was able to appreciate the recklessness of youth. "My dear, to have come such a long way by yourself on luck and your wits—" she shook her head ruefully as she fed back the very story Lady Waynflete had concocted and now was assiduously spreading about. "But we mustn't talk of the hard times, must we? We can only be thankful that Lucretia found you in time and you are here with us now."
"I am eternally grateful," Jainee said with all the earnestness she could muster.
"Of course, it was Nick," Lucretia put in with just the faintest
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tinge of resentfulness in her voice.
"Oh, everything is Nick," Jane Griswold said. "There isn’t a day someone isn't talking about something he did or didn't do. And then that Gertrude Emerlin has the nerve to trumpet the return of Charlotte t
o town as if we had all been waiting for this miraculous news—or perhaps she thought that Nick had been. Oh, but that's neither here nor there. Nick is the most perplexing man I know, and dont tell me about his gambling, Lucretia. I don't understand it either, and certainly not over Charlotte Emerlin. So perhaps it is a good thing he has something to distract him in Miss Bowman and getting her launched as her father would have most properly wanted."
"Exactly," Lucretia murmured, her eagle eye on Jainee's mobile face, just waiting, just daring her to make some brass-faced comment that would put Jane Griswold out of sorts with her.
But Jainee understood perfectly the raison d'etre for the visit and what her part in it was. She was even a little amused by it, as she always was: the everlasting kowtowing to appearances which involved such verbal contortions were not even considered lies.
She didn't say a word as Lady Griswold served tea and little cakes which would most assuredly spoil her appetite, and then questioned what Lucretia planned to do with Jainee for the next several days.
Jainee was a little appalled that Lady Waynflete even had a program, and she found it hard not to publicly protest an agenda which included everything from going to the opera to visiting museums, rides in the park ("to be seen"), and fittings—one, seemingly, every day.
"But that's perfect," Lady Griswold said, turning to Jainee. "After all, London in March—well, it really is the time to visit all those dusty old places before all the matchmaking mothers descend and pull their daughters around in hopes of improving their minds and, of course, being seen. Although I don't know of anyone who visits the museums in May or June who would do so because he wanted to be seen. But anyway, it does pass the time most agreeably. And the opera—so colorful . . ."
And as they bid Lady Griswold goodbye, she took Lucretia
