"Then we must forgo the lavender satin,” Rowan told her ruthlessly.
She bit her lip. "Perhaps”—she sounded reluctant— "perhaps I have the answer, sir.” She clapped her hands and her assistant appeared. "Celeste, bring me the blue gown we have just finished. ”
"But that gown is for Madame Monserrat,” was her assistant’s scandalized protest. "We made it up from a fashion doll that she herself had sent from Paris!”
"I know, I know, but Madame Monserrat has not paid her bill from the last time.” The shop mistress’s voice hardened. "And the gentleman is paying cash, is he not?” Her questioning gaze sought Rowan, who nodded. "And we have already kept the gown for two weeks because Madame Monserrat has left for Oporto. We will deal with the matter when she returns. Hurry, Celeste, the gentleman must not be kept waiting!”
The gown Celeste brought out was of a delicate blue that Charlotte’s mother had called “Prussian blue” but which Rowan called “Copenhagen blue.” It reminded Charlotte of the skies over the Scillies. The fabric was almost tissue-thin. “Real Italian silk,” the shop mistress assured them with pride. “And”—she studied Charlotte’s slim figure—“with a little alteration it should be a good fit.”
“Try it on,” commanded Rowan, and Charlotte retired to a small dressing room and had the gown pinned up—for Madame Monserrat had not been blessed with Charlotte’s tiny waist, and was a shade taller—by the shop mistress herself and by two seamstresses who had magically appeared from a back room, one with a mouthful of pins. The gown’s wide flaring neckline just missed Charlotte’s shoulders. It was shield-shaped and executed a slightly dipping V directly over Charlotte’s forward-thrusting young breasts. Indeed it was cut so daringly low that it was Charlotte’s opinion that it revealed more of her breasts than it hid. Still, daring or not, the effect was devastating. Pearly white, the tops of her breasts rose and fell, the pink nipples barely obscured by the sheer material. At the point of each shoulder was a large lace rosette set into a frame of pale blue satin ribands, giving the effect of a small corsage on each shoulder. A delicate blue ruching marched down the tightly fitted bodice and when it reached the skirt became abandoned, with fluffy blue silk rosettes peeking here and there from great scalloped flounces. Brilliants were set here and there, making the dress sparkle as she moved, and the upper part of the three-quarter sleeves, which became a spill of white lace at the elbows, were frosted—along with the tip of the bodice—with tiny clear beads that gave Charlotte, standing before the French cheval glass, the appearance of rising from a flower-filled blue lake with tiny droplets of water glistening from her shoulders and bust and cascading spectacularly downward. Some of the beads were sewn on in short iciclelike groups so that they dangled, and the effect was that her young breasts seemed to quiver at the slightest breath.
Charlotte had never even imagined a dress like this.
“And with your hair up—so,” said the shop mistress, lifting Charlotte’s hair impatiently when they came out for Rowan s viewing. “And with—what do you think, Ada, a small coif?” And when the seamstress with the mouthful of pins shook her head, “No, I suppose not. Perhaps some lace ruffles for her hair?” she suggested to Rowan.
Rowan was studying his dazzling wife with pride. “No,” he said with decision. “A plain blue satin riband to twist in her hair, long enough to allow it to cascade down over her shoulder. And blue kid gloves—with brilliants if you have any. And then we must hurry back to the cobbler, Charlotte, for now you will need pale blue satin slippers with very high heels.”
“Ah, perfect!” cried the shop mistress, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “The alterations will be completed by tonight—it may be a trifle late,” she added anxiously.
Rowan paused and frowned. “No, it must be ready this afternoon for my wife to wear to dinner,” he said. For who knew when the Talybonts might leave Lisbon? Who knew, they might be booked for sailing on the morrow!
“Oh, but, sir!” cried the flustered shop mistress. “My ladies”—she indicated the seamstresses, who were looking at each other with resignation—“would have to drop their other work that is promised for this afternoon—”
“Even so,” Rowan cut in with a shrug. “Unless you can have this gown ready in under two hours, I will have to take my custom elsewhere.”
“It will be ready for you, sir,” gasped the shop mistress, and turned to her henchwomen. “Drop everything you're doing, Ada, and come with me. You too, Rowena.”
Before their shopping expedition was over, Charlotte found herself laden with more slippers, a pale blue feather fan, ribands, pomades and assorted cosmetics—“Which I hope you will know how to use,” was Rowan's comment. “For you need very little, if any. Perhaps just a touch of lip rouge, and you can pinch your cheeks to make them red.”
Charlotte flushed. “I assure you I can do something myself!”
Rowan chose to ignore her outburst.
“Observe the wig in this shop window,” he said, bringing her to a halt on the cobbles. “Do you think you can manage that coiffure, or will you need help?”
“I think I can do it,” Charlotte said doubtfully.
“We will get help,” decided Rowan, noting her hesitation. “Observe the way it is done so you can copy the style yourself when help is no longer available. ”
And so, powdered, pomaded, and with her gleaming gold hair arranged in an impossibly difficult but altogether lovely style, Charlotte tripped downstairs in her high-heeled blue satin slippers alongside Rowan, who had bought for himself only a fresh cravat and shirt and a new pair of white silk stockings to display his calves below his fashionable dark knee breeches.
“Good tailoring takes time,” he explained. “I have no intention of buying anything that takes less than a week to fashion.”
Charlotte regarded him in awe. She had never heard any man speak like that. She decided Rowan was halfwarrior, half-dandy.
“And now as to what you will do,” he said as they got into the carriage after leaving their inn. “I wish you to humiliate Katherine by drawing her husband’s attention— yes, and the whole room’s attention if possible—away from her and to yourself. ”
“You want me to flirt with him?” demanded Charlotte in surprise.
Rowan looked down into those clear questioning violet eyes.
“Yes, I want you to flirt with him,” he growled. “You know how to flirt, don’t you?”
“I suppose so.” Charlotte bit her lip.
“With a face and figure like yours, you should have little difficulty going about it,” he added in an almost gloomy voice. Charlotte was not to know that his gloom was occasioned by his vision of seeing her play up to another man. “Just keep turning about this way and that,” he counseled. “Talybont’s eyes are sure to follow you. ”
Charlotte regarded him doubtfully. She had never considered herself such a beauty, but seeing herself in this blue gown in the cheval glass had been a revelation.
Perhaps Rowan was right, perhaps she could attract the attention of a man on his wedding journey beside a strikingly beautiful bride—but she was not sure. Anyway, she would soon find out.
“And,’’ he told her, “we are going to change inns. We will be staying at the Frango Real—that means Royal Cockerel,” he added absently.
“Where the Talybonts are staying?” she guessed.
“Just so.” He nodded—and at that moment she was not quite sure she liked the look in his dark eyes.
16
Rowan and Charlotte arrived by carriage at the fashionable Royal Cockerel, where the Talybonts were staying. The inn was three-storied, whitewashed, with a side door leading out onto a cobbled alley. The shutters were painted a charming blue, and blue “azulejo" tiles decorated the wide entrance. They alighted in a busy courtyard and their boxes were immediately snatched up by a dark-skinned servant wearing a red cross-stitched shirt, who carried them into the common room, set the boxes down, and stood stolidly waiting.
&n
bsp; People churned about, conversations in many languages mingling. Nearby they could see the harassed landlord explaining to a couple who seemed to have no fewer than fifteen children that the inn was indeed full.
“Wait here.” Rowan made way through the crowd for Charlotte and seated her on a long painted wooden bench near the entrance. A rather plainly dressed woman in tabby was already seated there, and she moved quickly down the bench to make room for this elegant newcomer whose wide skirts threatened to take up the entire bench.
Charlotte smiled her thanks at the woman, who seemed to speak no English, and looked up to see that Rowan was on a direct collision course with a tall thin woman dressed in black, who was moving fast through the crowd and carrying two large boxes, one atop the other, which partially obscured her vision. Before Charlotte could call out to him, they collided and the boxes fell to the floor. Both flew open, spilling out a lady’s rose-pink hat and a gentleman’s distinctive tricorne in vivid blue and gold. The woman—Charlotte could now see that she was wearing a lace-trimmed white cap and a neat white apron, which had been gathered up in her hands as she held the boxes and which probably marked her as a lady’s maid—seemed quite startled and waxed voluble as Rowan bent to help her retrieve the hats and stuff them back in their boxes. Although in the hubbub Charlotte could not hear what the woman was saying, she saw the woman smile her thanks at Rowan and then, boxes in hand again, hurry away up the wide stairway.
Charlotte lost interest in the woman and turned to watch Rowan, who was now talking rapidly to the innkeeper, a short wiry man who was shaking his head and making despairing motions with his hands. Into one of those hands Rowan now dropped several coins, and the innkeeper’s head stopped shaking negatively.
He beckoned, and Rowan, with the servant trailing after him with their boxes, followed the landlord upstairs. It seemed only moments later that he was back again, moving through the crowd toward her.
“We will not have the best accommodations,’’ he told her. “But we will have a side room on the second floor, which is the best we could expect to get in this crush. I told our landlord that these boxes are but the fruit of today’s shopping, that our main luggage will arrive later,” he added with a grin.
Charlotte was a little daunted by Rowan’s taking only one room. But his face was bland.
“We must hurry,” he said before she could speak. “The dining room will be filling up.” He piloted her skillfully toward a large frescoed room in which she could see numerous tables. “Now, drop your fan,” he murmured when they reached the dining-room door. “I want to make sure everyone remarks you.”
By “everyone” Charlotte presumed he meant the Talybonts She let her new fan slide negligently from her fingers, hoping it would not be damaged by the fall.
“Ah, wait, Charlotte, you have dropped your fan!” Rowan said in a ringing voice that turned nearby heads to watch him. He retrieved the fan with a flourish and Charlotte dimpled and made him a half-curtsy as a reward. By this time most of the dinner guests were aware that a beautiful young woman had entered the room in the company of a tall, somewhat dour gentleman who wore his sword as if he meant it. A servant appeared to lead them to their table.
“No, I do not think that table will do for Mistress Charlotte,” objected Rowan in a strong voice. “I believe it will prove too drafty.” The next table was much too ill-lit— why, they would not be able to see their food. Finally a suitable table was found—“That is, if you position it a little more this way, to give Mistress Charlotte a better view of the room.”
By now there were covert smiles all about as the diners watched Rowan fussing over the beautiful girl who languorously waved her fan and did her best to gaze up at him adoringly.
Katherine and Eustace Talybont, late diners ever, had not yet arrived when Rowan and Charlotte made their entrance. They arrived as Rowan was pulling out Charlotte’s chair at their final table.
Charlotte felt Rowan tense, for the chair seemed to waver under her for a moment and she looked up to see a vision of dark loveliness that was enough to shake her own confidence. Katherine Talybont was a classic beauty, a trifle cold perhaps, but then, her beauty was of a type much admired. Her skin was creamy satin, her big dark eyes endlessly appealing, her rouged lips wore a slightly challenging pout, and her carriage had just the suggestion of a slither that made her seem to undulate in her silken gown. That gown was of a deep crimson, its skirt as wide as Charlotte’s and heavily trimmed in rich black lace that seemed to augment the beauty of Katherine’s own black satin tresses. She was wearing a necklace of heavy jet, and long jet earrings bobbed in her ears.
“She’s wearing rather a lot of jet jewelry, isn’t she?” murmured Charlotte, staring at the massive display, which, she thought, rather spoiled the effect of Katherine’s low-cut gown.
“She hasn’t got the Talybont rubies yet,” muttered Rowan. “Nor is she likely to!”
“Why?”
“Talybont’s parents didn’t much like the marriage—they had someone else in mind for Eustace.”
Charlotte studied the long jet earrings—that one day might magically become rubies—dangling from Katherine’s ears; the flashing rings that adorned her fingers (perhaps they were paste, who knew?); the cleverly affixed brilliants that lit up that lustrous dark hair.
And Rowan wished her to outshine this. Well, she would do her best.
Charlotte, with no jewels but only a long blue satin riband, twirled it languidly so that its silken sheen raced in and out across her golden hair, and waited for this wonder to approach them.
The wonder did not approach. The wonder, absorbed only in herself and expecting her spectacular good looks to make her the center of attention, was just then indicating a table in a position of vantage to show herself off. And the tall man dancing attention beside her, a man who at first glance looked not unlike Rowan with his dark hair and almost military bearing, was completely absorbed in assisting her in her design.
“Katherine!” Rowan’s hearty voice rang out across the room—and the wonder stopped in her tracks and turned to look at him in amazement. Beside her, Talybont, clad in sky blue, frowned. A moment later Rowan was striding toward them. “Katherine, it is good to see you and ...Talybont, isn’t it? Yes, I thought so. But you must dine with us, naturally. We are just over here. ” He was propelling them toward Charlotte even as he spoke, and they were brought up before her at the table. From this nearer view Charlotte could see that Eustace Talybont’s resemblance to Rowan was only superficial. He had dark hair and was about the same height and weight—and perhaps, she thought, that was partly what had attracted Katherine to him—but there was a certain slackness to his mouth, a vacant look in his watery blue eyes. He did not measure up to Rowan, she thought proudly.
“Charlotte, may I present Katherine Talybont and her husband, Eustace Talybont? This is my bride, Charlotte.”
What else was said at that moment, Charlotte was never sure. She was aware of a dazed expression on Katherine s classical features and of an admiring. “Well, I do say!” from Eustace. Katherine's mouth opened and closed again, and abruptly she sank down in the chair Rowan pulled out for her. Eustace sank gracefully down in the other chair.
“Well, what luck is this?” said Rowan even more heartily. “What better chance than to run into the pair of you like this! I take it you have extended your wedding journey since we find you here in Lisbon?”
Katherine did not feel obliged to answer that. Instead she bored in on the main question. “Have you been married long?”
Rowan laughed. “Not long. Charlotte was Lord Pimmerston’s betrothed, but the moment I laid eyes on her I knew I had to have her. We ran away and tied the knot in Gretna Green.”
“In Scotland?” murmured Katherine unbelievingly. “How very romantic of you, Rowan. ” Her voice was laced with irony. How long ago was it, she asked herself resentfully, that she had held this man in the palm of her hand and made him dance to her tune as if he were a puppet
on a string?
Charlotte felt she should do something. She moved restively, causing the tiny clear beads dangling on her bodice to stir and ripple. Eustace Talybont immediately noticed those rippling breasts, and his eyes never left them. He answered a sharp question from Katherine abstractedly.
“I said, Eustace, what do you propose to order for dinner?” she repeated in an irritated tone.
“Dinner? Oh, yes . . . er, whatever our host recommends,” he said vaguely.
“But let us drink first, a toast,” proposed Rowan, lifting his glass. “To friendship.”
Lifting her glass caused Charlotte’s beads to ripple magnificently. Under other circumstances she would have placed her fan directly between those pale bare mound-tops and Eustace Talybont’s devouring gaze, but tonight she was pledged to bewitch him. She wafted her fan coquettishly and laughed a little rippling laugh, then leaned down a trifle to intercept his gaze and beamed a brilliant smile directly into his face.
The full force of that beautiful smile, those sparkling violet eyes, those even white teeth, caught Talybont like a blow. He seemed to reel from it. “By the Lord Harry, however did Keynes find you?” he muttered huskily.
His bride was very annoyed.
“Really, Eustace! He ‘found’ her somewhere in the north of England, one must suppose. Or was it”—she challenged Rowan—“in London?”
Amused that the wily Katherine was half-convinced he had been carrying on with Charlotte even while betrothed to her, Rowan supplied simply, “In Cumberland.” And added, “Where the beauty of the scenery is a fitting setting for such a one as my glowing bride. ”
Charlotte was indeed aglow. Her gorgeous gown, the heady atmosphere, this frescoed room, her determination to help Rowan in this strange mission, the wine—all contributed to that glow. No one in the room, and certainly no one at their table, was unaware of it. She was vivid, vivacious, completely alluring. And Katherine could not help but see that there was a freshness to this girl, a sheen—the shimmer of untouched youth. Charlotte was undoubtedly younger than Katherine, whose age almost matched Rowan’s—and she looked it. Katherine gave her black lace fan such a violent wave that she nearly snapped its delicate ivory spokes.
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