Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  “For this moment only, Alex.” Christa leaned over and placed a light kiss on his forehead, then stood before he could embrace her again, an embrace that could easily destroy her pride and sense of self-preservation. She was grateful that he was a gentleman; if he seriously attempted to seduce her, she doubted her ability to withstand him. But then, if he were not honorable, she would not love him.

  Alex stood also, then placed both hands on her shoulders and looked down, his eyes searching as he spoke with unconscious poetry. “You are such a blend of contradictions. You can enjoy life with the simplicity of a child, yet have a wisdom rare at any age. The logical mind of a lawyer with a body to drive a man wild. Child and woman, ice and fire.”

  Her gray eyes were quartz-clear in the moonlight as he continued. “What kind of plans and dreams do you have, Christa?”

  She gazed back, sadness in her voice. “Plans? I think the gods mock those mortals who think they control their own lives. I try to sail where the wind sends me.” Christa shrugged. “For now, I’ll continue with Miss Annabelle. If I have a dream, it is to have my own business, perhaps be a modiste with my cousin, Suzanne de Savary, who makes your sister’s gowns. To be independent, to have a little comfort and a little freedom.”

  Alex chided himself for his sharp surge of disappointment. After all, was it likely she would answer that she sought a rich man to keep her? “And what of marriage and children?”

  There was a slight catch in Christa’s voice as she answered, “That least of all can be planned for. But I think I am too particular in my tastes, and may never marry.” Uncomfortable under his intent stare, she asked, “And what will you do when we return to London, my … Alex? Do you aspire to become a man of leisure rather than a man of action?”

  He shook his head. “As much as I have enjoyed this summer, I will be ready for more employment in London. It was suggested that I might be of value at the Admiralty, so I intend to volunteer my services there. The Royal Navy is growing rapidly to fight the French, and my experience may be useful.” Alex glanced at the moon, calculating the hour, then said, “It is time to go back to the house, if we are to make an early start tomorrow. I will walk you back.”

  Christa glanced up at him as he slid his arm around her waist and they walked along the pier toward the beach. “You think I would not be safe on your land, Alex?” She liked saying his name, rolling it on her tongue in a distinctively French manner.

  “I must admit that you are in more danger from me than from bandits or wild beasts.”

  “Do you truly expect me to believe that?” Christa asked softly.

  “You should,” Alex said wryly. The moonlight burnished his bright hair.

  The rest of the walk was made in companionable silence, at as slow a pace as two healthy adults could manage. Once again, it was the sight of the house, a black-and-white mosaic in the moonlight, that brought them back to awareness.

  Christa stopped, the breath caught in her throat at Alex’s expression before he wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug. “It is so hard to let you go …”

  “But you must, my lord. It is time for the princess to become once more a scullery maid.”

  Alex laughed ruefully as he released her. “You have a talent for bringing things down to earth.” Once more he asked, “What should I do about you, Christa?”

  “Nothing, my lord,” she said firmly. “I am not yours to dispose of.”

  He sighed. “I know. You belong to yourself …”

  “And I intend to keep it that way.” Christa’s voice was low but the message was unmistakable.

  Alex was unprepared for the wave of desolation that swept over him as he watched her graceful passage down the gentle slope to the house. It took every ounce of his willpower not to follow her and beg that she become his mistress. The desire that Christa had always aroused in him was now an inferno, and he doubted that any other woman would be able to extinguish it.

  But he was afraid to make the offer. Alex wanted to believe that her steely integrity and independent spirit could not be corrupted. It was a romantic fancy on his part, since part of her charm was the irresistible combination of cool logic and sensuality. The same practicality that led Christa to avoid a casual entanglement might make her willing to sell her body in return for the money to finance her future. If so, he didn’t want to know it—if she would not give herself freely, he would not buy her with gold. As he watched her enter the rear door of the house, Alex damned himself for an idealistic fool.

  Chapter Eleven

  The cavalcade to London might have left on time had it not been for complications from an unexpected source. Monsieur Sabine had been more than usually moody the last few days, and on this morning he crossed his arms on his chest and flatly refused to leave. When the butler, Morrison, attempted to determine why, the Monsieur managed to convey that he could not leave the Orchard, before his speech deteriorated into a babble of French imprecations and sweeping gestures.

  Grateful that the Monsieur did not have his carving knife in hand, Morrison sent for Lord Kingsley. While it was unusual for the master to concern himself with the details of belowstairs life, cooks were personages of great importance. After a moment’s thought, Morrison also sent for Christa to translate, suspecting that his lordship’s French might not be up to the torrent of invective pouring from the Monsieur.

  Christa arrived in the kitchen to find Alex attempting to make sense out of Monsieur Sabine. The cook was waving his arms and periodically grasping at his plump chest. Alex greeted her entrance with relief.

  “Thank heaven you’re here! Can you understand what he is saying? I’m afraid he may be having some kind of heart attack.”

  There followed several minutes of Christa asking patient questions, then listening to voluble replies. Struggling to keep a straight face, she turned to Alex and said, “It is an attack of the heart, in a manner of speaking. Monsieur Sabine refuses to leave because of Mrs. Ives. The cook, you know,” she said helpfully.

  “Of course I know Emma Ives,” he said with bafflement. “But what has she to do with Monsieur Sabine?” Alex glanced at the chef, who had crossed his arms on his chest and was waiting like a Buddha for matters to be resolved to his satisfaction.

  Christa lowered her voice and said confidentially, “Apparently he feels that Mrs. Ives is necessary to his art. He says the soufflés don’t fall as quickly and the sauces don’t curdle when she is around. So either you must persuade her to go with us to London or resign yourself to eating his cooking only when you are in Suffolk.”

  When the viscount still looked puzzled, Christa shook her head in resignation. Really, men were so slow. Carefully she said, “She is a comely woman, you would agree?”

  Laughter showed in Alex’s eyes as he caught her meaning. “And she has been a widow for some years now. Well, I shall see if she is willing to go to London.”

  Mrs. Ives blushed like a schoolgirl. The good lady had never been out of Suffolk in her life, but she “wouldn’t mind, if that is what Pierre wants.” Alex and Christa exchanged a speaking glance that almost sent them both off into whoops. Pierre, indeed! Obviously something had been going on amongst the garlic ropes.

  One of the baggage coaches was detailed to wait while Mrs. Ives packed her possessions and the Monsieur’s special knives and omelet pans. Monsieur Sabine was so pleased that he handsomely offered to leave two ropes of garlic. The offer was received with faint enthusiasm; garlic was all very well in heathenish French delicacies, but had no place in honest Suffolk fare. Meanwhile, the Kingsleys finally left for London.

  Christa was grateful for the bustle of activity that awaited her in the city. All of the other servants welcomed her warmly; her young friend Miranda, looking healthy and happy compared to the peaked waif of last spring, was delighted to see her and demonstrate how she had practiced her letters over the summer.

  After a frenzied week of updating his wardrobe to new dimensions, Jonathan was off to Eton for the Michaelmas
term. And true to his word, Alex volunteered his services to Admiral Hutchinson at the Admiralty. He was gone from the house early most days, and his casual morning visits to his sister’s room were a thing of the past. It would have been difficult to determine whether Annabelle or Christa missed the visits more.

  It was remarkable, Christa decided, how two people could live under the same roof without ever seeing each other, but of course a servant and a master lived in different worlds. The informal companionship of the summer had been an aberration—the present lack of contact was the norm. Resolutely she pushed aside all thoughts of Alex the man, and dedicated herself to making Lord Kingsley’s sister happy and successful. Only in the reaches of the night would she feel his touch, remember how the laughter in those amber eyes always kindled a response in her.

  Fortunately, arranging Annabelle’s ball was a demanding task. Nominally Annabelle’s Aunt Agatha was the hostess and organizer, but in fact Christa made all the arrangements after discussing the possibilities with her mistress. Over the summer the girls had considered numerous themes and settled on an Arabian Nights fantasy. The ballroom would have panels of gauzy fabric sweeping from the center to the walls in simulation of a tent, and the refreshments would include exotic pastries and spicy lamb dishes as well as the usual ices and lobster patties. The date chosen was October 15, Annabelle’s twenty-first birthday, and they had five weeks to clean and polish, send out cards, and see to the other minutiae of entertaining.

  On the fourth day after their return to London, Christa went to her cousin Suzanne’s shop, ostensibly on behalf of Annabelle’s wardrobe but in reality because she felt the need to visit a friend. By arriving early, she caught Suzanne before the shop became busy, and they were able to retire for a proper cup of French coffee.

  After exchanging hugs and commonplaces, Christa asked, “How is the business doing?”

  “Quite well. I have retained almost all of Mme. Bouchet’s customers, and acquired a number of others as well. Except for your Miss Kingsley, there are no aristocrats, but that is not altogether a bad thing. I understand that merchants’ wives pay their bills more promptly than members of the beau monde.”

  “Your clientele should increase soon. Yesterday Miss Annabelle and I were walking in the park when she fell in with a friend of her aunt’s, Lady Camwell. While they were chatting, I walked with Lady Camwell’s maid, who was most curious to find out who made Annabelle’s gown. It was the pomona-green walking dress—you remember it?”

  “Of course,” Suzanne said eagerly. “Then what happened?”

  “Well, of course I was most reluctant to divulge the information, but after much coaxing, I told her. In the strictest confidence, naturellement.”

  Suzanne started to laugh so hard she choked on her coffee. “Naturellement, indeed, you minx. You could not have picked a better method to publicize the shop if you had run advertisements. I’ve heard of this Lady Camwell—five daughters, and one of the biggest gossips in London.”

  “Exactly so,” Christa said complacently. “Soon you will be everyone’s favorite little dressmaker, ‘such an unfashionable address, my dear, but a marvelous way with style.’ ” Christa mimicked the bored tones of a lady of fashion with wicked accuracy. “And soon you will be busy enough to take me on.”

  Suzanne looked at her with a slight frown. “You know that we can always find a place for you, ma petite. Are you unhappy in the Kingsley household?”

  “Oh, no, no,” Christa quickly reassured her. “Miss Annabelle is kindness itself, the work is pleasant. But I can foresee the time when I will be ready for something more … challenging. Perhaps in the spring. I will have been in service for a year then, long enough to prove that I can do it.”

  Suzanne relaxed a trifle. “That would be better for me. I have just paid the children’s school fees, and I am negotiating for the lease of the shop next door. Henry assures me that my business will be expanding and I will need the space soon.”

  “And who is this Henry?” Christa asked as she sipped her coffee. She was interested to note a faint tinge of color rising on her cousin’s cheekbones.

  “Henry Worth, the draper who supplies my fabrics. He has been a great support to me these last months.”

  “Hmm?” Christa said with a twinkle.

  Her blush deepening, Suzanne said, “His wife died last year, leaving him with two little ones. Les pauvres were so sad. They like to come and play with my children.”

  “And what do their parents do when the children are engaged in their play?”

  “Henry has behaved with complete propriety,” Suzanne said with austerity, then burst into giggles, “but it is not for my lack of trying to make it otherwise. He is a perfect gentleman. Too perfect.” She reached for the coffeepot to refill the cups, then said happily, “Henry doesn’t want to compromise my reputation. He thinks it is better to wait until we are married.”

  Christa jumped up to give her cousin another hug. “That is wonderful! Have you set a date?”

  “Not yet—next summer, perhaps. But he will not be a perfect gentleman all that time, or my name is not Suzanne de Savary!”

  They laughed together, but under her happiness for her cousin, Christa felt a pang of envy for Suzanne. “He will make you happy, Suzanne?”

  “Yes. Henry is a truly good man. And he is proud of me—he thinks I am very clever! He says our businesses will do well together. I get first choice of his fabrics, he refers customers, and of course I am already one of his best clients.”

  Christa gave her cousin a serious look. “Do you miss your old life, Suzanne—the gaiety of Paris, being an aristocrat?”

  A firm shake of the head was her reply. “No, not at all. It was different for you—you were at the center of everything. You were born for the political salons, the balls. But my branch of the family did not have a fraction of the money that yours did. My dear foolish husband, Guy, refused to live within our means, and sometimes it was a nightmare of placating creditors, of making sure the children were taken care of. We lived on the fringes of the haut monde, pretending that we belonged in the center. It was exhausting.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Christa said with surprise.

  “I am glad—it means I was successful at keeping up appearances. But all that is gone now. I shall be happier as an honest tradesman’s wife, managing a household, and doing something I am good at.”

  The girl who was minding the shop put her head between the curtains and said, “There is a Lady Camwell here with her daughters and two friends. She insists on seeing you personally.”

  The cousins’ eyes met in a mirth-filled glance before Suzanne drained her coffee cup and stood. “Christa, here is the package of ribbons and gloves you came for. Be sure to have Miss Annabelle come within the next week for the final fitting of her court dress.”

  Christa stood also and smiled as she made her farewell. She was happy for her cousin, but Suzanne’s marriage would certainly affect their future partnership plans. As she made her way through the busy streets, Christa wondered if she herself would be content to marry a draper. If he were like Alex Kingsley she would be. Her mouth tightened at the unbidden thought; it was impossible to imagine Lord Kingsley as anything other than he was, and that was far above her touch.

  While Christa chatted with her cousin, Annabelle received an unexpected caller. Her heart started beating faster when a footman brought her the card and an exquisite nosegay of late-summer flowers. Sir Edward Loaming, Bart. All summer Annabelle had remembered that meeting with him in the park. He was so handsome, so romantic.

  … She sighed happily in remembrance before her brow clouded over. Alex had said she was not to let him call. She fingered the card. Surely it would be wrong to refuse to see him without explaining why? Yes, definitely, explaining in person why she could not receive Sir Edward was the most honorable course of action. Her rationalizations firmly in place, Annabelle went down to her visitor.

  Sir Edward stood when she enter
ed the drawing room, gazing at her admiringly. Today he was resplendent in a bottle-green jacket and pale yellow inexpressibles, a collection of gold watch fobs and a quizzing glass adorning his elegant person. He executed a faultless bow, then said throatily, “Miss Kingsley, you are even lovelier than my memory of you. Dare I hope that you remember me?”

  Annabelle stared at him, a moth to his candle. The adoring youths of the summer had been pleasant companions, but mere boys. This was a mature man, virile and confident. And her memory had not played her false: he really was the handsomest man she had ever seen. The dark curls and profile were reminiscent of one of the more scandalous Greek gods, and those liquid dark eyes were fixed adoringly on her, plain Annabelle Kingsley.

  “Sir Edward,” she said falteringly, “it is a pleasure to see you again, but … I fear I will not be able to receive you in the future. My brother has told me not to continue the association.”

  Sir Edward’s brow darkened, and only partially for effect. The adored only child of elderly parents, he had been raised to believe that even the best was barely good enough for him. It was a great shock to discover after his parents’ deaths that his inheritance was a mere competence, scarcely adequate to keep a gentleman in clothes, much less in gaming.

  For five years Sir Edward had been on a collision course with disaster as his debts mounted and his heavily encumbered estate was squeezed to the last farthing. Then three years earlier he had found a measure of financial relief when he courted and won favor with the bran-faced daughter of a banker. To the baronet’s delight, before he could persuade her to elope, her disgusted but pragmatic father offered him a substantial amount of money to take his handsome hide out of the heiress’s vicinity. Nobly proclaiming the purity of his love, Sir Edward had taken the money and run.

  The experience had provided him with a new source of income, and three more heiresses followed the banker’s daughter. The last time, they had actually made it halfway to Gretna Green before the outraged guardian caught up with them. Prior to taking the weeping girl home, the guardian had signed over a substantial amount of money to ensure that no word of the elopement would issue from Sir Edward’s well-chiseled lips.