by Amanda Scott
“Very well, I’m sure, m’lady,” said that worthy calmly, “but if you be meaning to deliver this here lace to that Frenchwoman afore noon, ye’d best be up and doing, and if ye be wantin’ to present yerself in public lookin’ as though ye cried yer eyes out the night long, ’tis no concern of mine, I’m sure.”
“Oh, get the ice, then, if you must, but I’ll thank you to say no more, Sarah.”
Obediently silent if rather reprehensibly smug, Sarah left the room, returning minutes later with a bowl of ice and cloths in which to wrap it. Still silent, she assisted her mistress in the proper placement of these items, then left her alone with only her thoughts for company.
Brittany had not bargained for that, but gamely she tried to tell herself yet again that the only reason she was cross was that Faringdon, whose place was certainly at her side, had basely deserted her for affairs of business that had never before interested him in the slightest. The very least he might have done, she repeated to herself for the fortieth time, was to communicate his intention to her. Instead, he had left it to his friend. It was all of a piece, was it not? He left everything to Cheriton and had done so since the first night he had brought the gentleman to her notice. How could she have known, that first night, what the obliging marquess would come to mean to her?
Cheriton’s image leapt to her mind’s eye so clearly then that it was as though he had entered the room. No longer did she feel the chill of ice on her eyes, only warmth throughout her entire body at the thought of his presence in her bedchamber. Indeed, some parts of her body seemed a good deal warmer than others. Her breasts, for example, swelled beneath the soft material of her nightdress. Her nipples stirred and hardened, and there was a ticklish warmth between her legs that she had never felt before. Snatching the ice bags from her eyes, Brittany sat bolt upright, looking around the room in startled expectation. But there was no one else there. Flushing deeply at her dismaying thoughts and the physical stirrings they had initiated within her, she rang sharply for Sarah.
The maid came quickly, exclaiming over her mistress’s sudden impatience. “What’s this, then? Someone light a fire under ye, m’lady?”
Blushing again at this statement that came too near the mark, Brittany demanded a carriage dress. “The blue, I think, and hurry, Sarah. You were quite right. I have lain abed unconscionably late already. I cannot think why Bella has not been in here clamoring to know why I have delayed so long in attending to her errand.”
“A-cause the Lady Arabella has gone riding in Hyde Park with Lord Toby Welshpool, that’s why,” Sarah informed her with a sniff. “Wasting ’er time on that one, sure as check. He’ll never get caught in no parson’s mousetrap, not that lad.”
“Oh, Sarah, do not be absurd. We have known Lord Toby all our lives, and Bella has any number of strings to her bow. You have only to watch the front hall any afternoon to know that. If she has gone riding with Toby, ’tis only to gain a respite from all her other admirers.”
“That’s as may be, ma’am. Shall you wear the blue hat or the yellow straw?”
“The blue, I think. I wish to have a commanding air about me, you know. The straw is too demure. Order Mama’s landau brought ’round, too, Sarah. The crest on the door will impress Monique and remind her of who I am. You will remain here, however, so you’d best tell William I shall need him as well.”
Whether it was the hat, the equipage, or merely her air of resolution that did the trick, Brittany had little difficulty in seeing to her errand. Leaving her carriage at the curbstone, she beckoned William to accompany her and soon was discussing her errand face to face with Monique, who, though it would have stunned most of her clientele to learn of the fact, was no more French than Brittany was. Though the modiste seemed a bit distracted, she gave Brittany no argument whatsoever, merely agreeing in a trice that the lace would be the very thing to give Lady Arabella’s gown a certain je ne sais quoi.
“Will you take a cup of tea before you go, my lady?” the woman asked in a heavily accented voice.
“No, thank you, I must be going,” Brittany replied, noting for the first time since her entrance into the shop the presence of a large black man, wearing little more than a yellow silk vest over baggy trousers, and another man of somewhat lighter complexion dressed in the clothes of a gentleman. She raised her eyebrows slightly and turned back to Monique. “I see you have other customers.”
“It makes nothing,” the woman said, but Brittany realized now that the woman was not so much distracted as in a state of nervous excitement. Monique rattled on, “Your own gown, m’lady, will be ready on Monday, as will that of the Lady Arabella. The Lady Alicia did not order her ball gown from me.”
“No, she did not,” Brittany replied, smoothing her gloves. She was dying to ask about the men, but she could not be guilty of such a breech of conduct as to display curiosity, particularly before one of the lower classes. Thus, since Monique seemed strangely disinclined to explain matters, there was nothing to do but to leave gracefully. Signaling to William, she turned about and left the shop.
The footman’s eyes were wide as he handed her into the carriage, and at first she thought he was merely as curious about what they had seen as she was. But then her eyes adjusted themselves to the dimmer light of the interior and she realized he had seen the bulky bundle on the floor before she had. The bundle stirred slightly, and just then there was a shout from behind and she saw the black man she had seen in the modiste’s shop coming down a narrow alleyway between that shop and the next. His agitation was clear. Her gaze moved quickly to the door of Monique’s. The other man was just emerging, his expression somewhat bemused, as though he had heard the shout but was uncertain as to its significance.
Thinking quickly, Brittany entered the landau and with a dignified air seated herself in such a way as to drape her full skirts over the bundle on the floor, which she saw now was covered by her tapestry lap rug. Keeping her movements matter-of-fact, she signed to William to take his position, whereupon the young man put up the steps, shut the door, and began to swing himself onto his place at the rear of the carriage:
At that moment, the man at the door of the shop shouted something in an unknown tongue, and the black man began running. Both were moving toward Brittany’s carriage. William stepped to the pavement again and moved toward the others.
“Something up, guv?” Brittany heard him inquire.
The man in gentleman’s clothing spoke urgently but in a lowered tone, whereupon William shrugged, spread his hands, and shook his head. When the black man moved to pass him, William put out a firm hand to stop him. The black frowned but made no further attempt to push past the stalwart young footman. William spoke again to the other man, then turned his back upon the pair and moved with deceptive swiftness to swing himself up behind. Almost before his foot touched the footstand, the coachman had whipped up his horses.
Looking back, Brittany saw the dark men moving quickly toward another carriage drawn up at the curbstone. Speaking softly, she said, “You may come out now.” The lap rug moved slightly, but nothing else happened. “Dear me,” she said aloud, “I hope you understand English.”
The rug moved again, but this time it slipped back to reveal a beautiful young woman with hair as fine as golden silk and eyes as large and dark as strong coffee. Her lips looked as though she had rouged them, but Brittany thought the rouge must be particularly fine stuff since there was no sign of its having caked around the edges as it did when her Aunt Uffington wore it. The young woman’s skin was like fine Sevres porcelain, but as she licked her red lips, Brittany realized she was very frightened.
“I do speak English,” the girl said softly.
“Goodness, you hardly have any accent at all,” Brittany told her. “But you mustn’t sit down there on the floor. You will get all dusty. Come up on the seat with me.”
“If you do not mind, madam, I will remain where I am for the present. Fahd will wish nothing better than to return me to my master, and
I do not wish to go back there just yet. First, I wish to see more of this glorious city of yours.”
“Your master is the Persian ambassador, is he not? You are the fair Circassian.”
“Yes, madam,” the girl replied, wrinkling her brow a little. “That is to say that my master is one Mirza Abdoul-Hassan-Khan, and he is ambassador to your country. But me, I am Zara, and if you will be so kind as to put me down once we are away from this street, I shall be very grateful.”
“Well, I cannot do that,” said Brittany, her eyes atwinkle. “’Twould be to put my own life at risk.”
“Why, how is that, madam? You have naught to do with what becomes of me.”
“Try to explain that to my sister Alicia after she discovers I had you in my coach and simply set you down at the nearest street corner,” Brittany retorted with a laugh.
12
NOT UNTIL THE CARRIAGE had crossed Old Bond Street and moved halfway along Bruton Street was Brittany able to convince her guest that it was safe for her to move from the floor up onto the seat. And then Zara insisted upon taking the seat opposite to hers.
“It is not suitable that I should sit beside so fine a lady as yourself,” the young girl said diffidently.
“Well, you would have a much better view of the city if you did. Here we come to Berkeley Square, however, and since your master’s house is near, perhaps you will wish to avert your face.”
“My master is from home this day, and no one who might recognize my face is likely to see it now that Fahd is well behind us,” Zara said in her soft, musical voice. “Do you live nearby, madam?”
“Yes, and I wish you will call me Brittany or even my lady. Madam makes me feel as though I am my mama or even the late queen. If I am to call you Zara, you must call me Brittany, I think. Certainly, my sister Alicia will not hold with being addressed as madam.” Brittany chuckled at the thought, and although Zara seemed bewildered by her attitude, she smiled dutifully. “Have you run away, Zara?”
“I fear so. I grew so ennuyée with my solitary existence, you see, that I was led at last to play a small trick upon Fahd and Muhammad. Fahd is what you might call my master’s majordomo, and Muhammad is one of my guards. Hassan-Kahn—for that is how I call my master—had most generously given his leave for me to have an English lady’s dress made for his reception for English ladies. He thought perhaps they would be more inclined to look kindly upon me if I did not appear to be too exotic by their standards, you see. He did not, however, agree that I should visit the modiste’s shop myself, even though I told him I thought she would be less inclined to babble about my custom if she could not prove that she had actually called in Berkeley Square. No one would believe I simply stepped into her shop, I told him.”
“And so you went there without his permission and then gave your companions the slip,” Brittany finished.
“The slip?”
“You eluded them.”
“Ah, Fahd and Muhammad.” Zara nodded. “Yes, and since your carriage was right there and your coachman was so obligingly watching the street and not that small alleyway, I was able to get aboard without disturbing him. Thankfully, I do not weigh enough to tilt the carriage.”
“No,” Brittany agreed, looking at the small, slender form of her guest. “It will be something else to get you past our butler, however, and I cannot think it will be a good notion to have your presence within the house come to my father’s notice.”
“I will go elsewhere, then,” said Zara simply.
“No, that you will not. I have explained, have I not, about my sister. Indeed, this adventure ought by rights to have been hers, for she has followed your progress across the Continent most avidly and has often expressed a wish to free you from your slavery.”
“Slavery? But I am not a slave. I am a concubine, which is quite another matter altogether.”
“Try if you can to explain that to my sister,” Brittany recommended with a grin. “You do seem to have a command of the language, so perhaps you will succeed as well as you succeeded in convincing your guard and your master’s majordomo to assist you in disobeying your master.”
“Oh, but I did not,” said Zara with a mischievous grin. “It was entirely Fahd’s idea that I should visit the establishment of that Monique person, and although I believe he meant only to do me a mischief, I agreed to go with him. Do you know,” she added, “that though Monique says she is French, she does not speak French very well at all—only phrases, and those not so well. Me, I speak French much better.”
“Well, never mind about that now,” Brittany said. “Do you mean to say that Mr. Fahd encouraged you to go to Monique merely so that you would displease the ambassador?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Zara, unconcerned. “He is very jealous, Fahd is, and would be happiest if my master would order me drowned.”
“Goodness! Might he indeed order such a thing? He could not do so in England, you know. At least,” Brittany added conscientiously, “I do not think he could.”
There was confidence in Zara’s smile. “He will not. He will be angry, of course, but his anger will pass. And I shall have seen more of London than the back garden of my master’s house.”
Though Brittany found her guest’s every word fascinating, there was time for no further conversation, because the landau had come to a halt before Malmesbury House. To her relief, slipping unnoticed into the house proved to be less difficult than she had anticipated, simply a matter of sending William on ahead to clear the way and trusting that young man to keep a still tongue in his head. She knew he would not betray her to her father. She wished she could be as certain that he would say nothing to Pinchbeck. Nevertheless, the coast was clear when they entered the front hall, and Brittany took her charge swiftly up the wide stairs to the second floor, where they found Alicia in her bedchamber, reading that day’s Morning Post.
She looked up, saw her sister, and exclaimed, “Tani, only listen to this, all about the ambassador! ‘His excellency rises every morning at six and goes downstairs to bathe in a common bath, hired from a tin shop. His mornings are occupied by affairs of state, but he has agreed to make himself available for social activities each afternoon and evening, with the exception of Tuesday evenings, which will without fail find his excellency at home in Berkeley Square. Yesterday he rode in the park about half-past three o’clock. He was attended by his mahmander’ … Goodness, I wonder what a mahmander can be.”
“His personal servant,” said Zara softly. She stood a little behind Brittany, regarding Alicia with astonishment. “Do your newspapers often comment upon the precise habits of visitors to your country?”
“Always,” Alicia told her, sitting up. “Who are you, for goodness’ sake, and what do you mean by ‘my newspapers?’ Are they not your newspapers as well?”
“No, they are not,” Brittany told her, drawing her charge farther into the room in order that she might shut the door behind them. “This is Zara, Lissa, and she can no doubt tell you a good deal more than the Post can about his excellency’s habits.”
“Well, I doubt that, for besides reporting his every activity, the paper even describes his horse and trappings. Do you know that his saddle is studded with diamonds and emeralds and outlined with gold chain?”
“Of course,” Zara said, smiling. “I know also that he intends to give Kahn—that is, the Arab stallion described in that article—to your Prince Regent as a gift from our shah.”
“Goodness,” Alicia replied, “Amalie was saying only yesterday that she hoped the ambassador wouldn’t take it into his head to give Prinny a horse. If he rides the poor thing, he will very likely kill it, you know. Our Regent is prodigiously fat.” She gazed at Zara searchingly. “Who are you, and how do you know what the ambassador will present as a gift?”
“That is not the only gift he means to give him,” Zara said, clearly enjoying herself now. “He has brought a gold-enameled looking glass that opens to display a magnificent portrait of our shah. The intent, of cours
e, is to exhibit at one view the portraits of two sovereigns, the one in painting, the other by reflection. There is also a gold-enameled box, a magnificent and very costly sword, which is celebrated in my master’s country for the exquisite temper of its blade. It has also a sheath ornamented with emeralds, rubies, and dia—”
“Your master!” Alicia leapt to her feet. “You are her—she, I mean. Brittany, where did you find her? For goodness’ sake, do you know who this is?”
“I know,” Brittany replied, pleased with the effect of her surprise. “I found her in Mama’s carriage outside Monique’s in Conduit Street, and I rather thought you would like to make her acquaintance, so I brought her along home. Only now,” she added more thoughtfully, “I wonder what we shall do with her.”
“You ran away,” Alicia said triumphantly. “Well done. Well done, indeed.”
Zara’s smile was rueful now “It was not well done of me at all, I fear. My master will be most displeased with me—and rightly so, for I had no cause to flee his protection other than to satisfy my own feeble whims.”
“Good-enough cause, that,” said Alicia stoutly. “We have no masters here in England.”
“Oh, Alicia, what nonsense,” Brittany said. “Zara says she is not a slave, so for her to call the ambassador her master is no more than for either John or William to call Papa his master. And they would do so in a trice, you know, just as any other servant of ours would.”
Alicia shrugged aside such nitpicking and turned back to the fair Circassian. “You will stay with us as long as you like, of course. No one need know the least little thing about it.”
“Good heavens, Alicia,” exclaimed Brittany, “what are you suggesting? We cannot keep her here. The ambassador will be searching high and low for her, and her presence here is already known to William and possibly to Tom Coachman as well. And William may very well have told Pinchbeck by now.”
“Oh, pooh, William would not do anything so unhandsome, for he knows that Pinchbeck would feel obliged to inform Papa. And if Tom Coachman noticed anything but his horses, it will have been for the first time within memory.” She turned to Zara. “Will your master call in the Bow Street Runners, do you think? That is what people do in this country when they wish to find something that has gone missing.”
