"I don't quite see how you are to convince your majordomo that I am—that I have the proper authority."
"You may leave that to me."
That hint of arrogance was in his voice once more. Or was it quite fair to call it that? It might just as easily be no more than total self-confidence.
"I will admit that you are in need of someone to direct your servants,” she said slowly, “but what makes you think that I can do it? You know nothing about my capabilities."
"You couldn't be worse than Sarus."
"The people in your employ may not take orders from me."
"They will or you may discharge them and hire others more amenable."
She stared at him, at the strong lines of his face and the calm and intent expression in the depths of his eyes. With asperity brought on by his annoying assurance and her own sense of helplessness, she said, “Since you have demolished my every objection, I suppose I must agree."
"Only if you wish. I am not coercing you, merely requesting your assistance with a problem."
"I did not mean that you—” she began, then stopped as she realized the impossibility of explaining the constraint upon her. “I will be happy to help you in any way I can."
"A generous offer, but I will not explore it. The next problem is one of outfitting you for your position."
"That is simply done,” she said with resignation. “I am sure you must have a regular supplier of the usual gray stuff, plus aprons and caps."
"No.” The word was hard, uncompromising.
"It should be easy enough to discover one. You have only to ask among the maids."
"You misunderstand me, and with purpose, or so it seems. Let me make myself plain. I do not require that you dress as a servant."
"Then how,” she asked, her voice hard, “do you require that I dress?"
"In furbelows and frills and clinging gauzes, in satins and ribbons and discreet veilings of lace? Like a whore, in fact?” He smiled, and his voice was caressing. “What a lurid imagination you have, my chère. But no. We will call in Madame Palmyre."
"No!"
"Now why should you object to the attendance of Paris's most celebrated modiste?"
Here was the snare, sprung when she had least expected it. And she had blundered into it with open eyes. It had been Madame Palmyre who had made the gown she had on and a dozen others. The modiste would recognize her on sight.
"Her—her prices are certain to be far too dear for the outfitting of a mere housekeeper."
"Mere? Remember my position if you will—and recall that you must appear something more to Sarus, who knows a great deal about such things, having escorted ladies to modistes in the past."
"I don't care what your other women wore, I can manage well enough with something less fashionable."
"Petulant and peevish. Now I wonder why? You will not be one among many. It is some time since I was willing to be entertained by the expensive antics of courtesans."
"I am not jealous if that is what you are implying!"
There was a glint of appreciation for the swiftness of her uptake in his eyes. “You might have pretended. It will be Madame Palmyre then."
She lifted her chin in defiance. “I prefer to make my own."
"As you did the once charming creation you are wearing?"
His tone was faintly mocking, but without other inflection. She was beginning to know him, however, and her senses signaled a warning. She summoned a frown as she glanced down at her gown. “I don't think so. But I feel sure that I am good with needle and thread."
Roderic studied her, allowing his gaze to move over her hair drawn back into a soft knot from a center part made touchingly inexact in her hurry, and down the pure line of her cheek. She had made a good recovery, but she had been shaken; he knew it. “You will have very little time for plying such a skill. Besides, it might be adequate for day gowns, but what of ensembles for more formal occasions?"
"There will be no need for me to appear at events of that sort."
"You will stay hidden away, cowering in your room in shame and disguise? How do you ever expect to discover who you are?"
"Suppose I am someone best not discovered under your protection? No, I prefer to hope that I will remember, given enough time."
"How much will be enough? A few weeks, a month, a year? You can't stay hidden forever."
"But I can for—for a little while."
He was disappointed. He recognized that the irritation he felt sprang from that source and so refused to give it rein; still, he felt it. He had thought that he might come to some understanding with this woman he thought of only as Chère, that she might trust him. Or failing that, if her lack of memory was real, he might with sheer force of will bring her to remembrance. Neither had happened. The puzzle of her was beginning to haunt him. The thought of her lying abed under his roof had been a constant distraction in the last few days as he caught up with the paperwork and contacts neglected during his absence. He had kept himself informed about her progress in anticipation of the day when she would be well enough for further questioning. That she still eluded him left him restless, dissatisfied. He recognized all the symptoms within himself, in fact, of a towering, royal pet and was grimly amused.
"Do as you will then. It is only my wish that you be properly attired, and since you have no apparent means of seeing to it, the responsibility is mine. For the supplies of the household, food, wine, and other goods, you may select what you will, where you please, and have the bills sent here to me; the same arrangement will suffice for your clothing. But I reserve the right to decide what is, or is not, suitable as to quality of material or cut."
"I will try not to disgrace you."
"It will be better if you seek to please me."
The interview, if such it could be termed, appeared to be at an end. Her smile was icy as she set her untasted wine aside and stood up. “Better for whom?"
"Oh, for me, of course,” he said gently. “Who else?"
"Bonjour, mademoiselle. I am Worth. How may I be of service?"
She was taking a chance in returning to Maison Gagelin, the draper's establishment on the rue de Richelieu that she had visited with her grandmother. It seemed unlikely that anyone would remember a single customer out of all those who must have been in and out of the shop since. She had bought only a shawl on that visit, not placed an order for something important such as a trousseau or funeral vestments. There was no reason at all that she should stand out in the mind of the sales staff, and she knew that here she would be certain of a quality of cloth with which the prince could not find fault.
It was ill luck, nothing less, that brought the same young Englishman who had sold her the shawl to serve her. She was tempted to turn and walk out at once, but not only would it be rudeness to one who had been of great help to her before, it might well appear strange to Luca, who was acting as her escort.
She had thought at first that purest altruism had prompted the gypsy to accompany her, that perhaps he had felt it was unsafe for her to be on the streets alone. But as the morning had worn on and he had followed her in and out of boucheries searching for the freshest meat, through innumerable pâtis-series testing for the best small cakes and jellies, and even marching past the stalls at the open market of Les Halles looking for the freshest vegetables, she could see his boredom. He would much have preferred being with the other members of the cadre who were off on some expedition near Montmartre, the purpose of which had not been explained to her. The only thing that had kept him from it, she strongly suspected, was orders to the contrary. He enjoyed her company, but what she was doing was the province of women, not of men. He was more uncomfortable in some of the places than others, she knew, and was particularly so here at the draper's where one of the clerks eyed the way he was dressed, his dark skin, the earring in his ear, and the cowrie amulet, and had audibly sniffed before turning away.
Luca gave no sign that he had noticed. He only stood leaning against a ma
rble column, surveying with weary disdain the red Persian carpet, the damask-covered walls, the crystal chandeliers on chains reflected in tall looking glasses, the hothouse flowers, and the mahogany serving counters.
"Bonjour,” she said, returning the polite greeting before stating her need for cloth for a few day gowns. She had decided that four would suffice to make her presentable. She would sew one together quickly to show her skill and to give her something to wear other than the white silk now concealed under her cloak. The silk, with the addition of a bit of lace or ribbon trim at the waist and clever needlework to hide the tears, would be adequate for evening wear, should she need such a thing.
Worth inclined his head in understanding. “Will you come this way, mademoiselle? But I know you, do I not? Ah, you are the lady with the gray shawl. So pleasant to see you again."
Had Luca heard? She could not be sure he had not, though they had moved some distance from him. Who would have thought the shop assistant would remember her? At least he had not blurted out her name, probably because he did not know it. She had been just another customer, one who took her purchase with her rather than having it delivered.
From under a counter the Englishman began to pull out bolts of cloth. He worked with a will, this young man in his early twenties who handled the materials as if they were precious stuffs, nearly alive, in his hands.
As Mara saw the jewellike colors he had selected from the stock, she said, “No, no, I should have told you. My need is for something quite practical, perhaps in gray or brown."
"As you wish, mademoiselle,” he answered, his English accent suddenly pronounced. He was frowning as he placed a bolt or two in the colors she had indicated on the counter.
Mara had no time to concern herself with the approval of a shop assistant. She picked up the corner of each piece of cloth in turn. The material was fine wool challis, tightly woven and with a silky texture to the fibers. She hesitated over it, however, touching first one bolt, then another in the attempt to make a choice. She had worn such drab colors for so long before coming to France. They had little appeal now.
"If I may be permitted to make a suggestion, mademoiselle?"
She sighed as she nodded agreement.
"The tan will extinguish you, draining your face of vitality. The gray is better. But best of all would be this.” He picked up a bolt of rich, deep red with a hint of purple in the folds and sent it flowing over the counter.
"It's beautiful, but hardly the thing for supervising the cleaning."
"Why not? One should look just as soignée for such a task as for attending the theater or pouring tea. And the color is no more likely to show stains, perhaps even less so. Besides, in it your skin will appear with its true clarity and perfection."
His words were said with such earnestness that it robbed them of any hint of flattery. “You are very persuasive."
"I am right,” he said simply.
She consented to the garnet red, also to a clear deep blue and a rich green in addition to the gray. With that out of the way, she stood considering how the dresses should be made up in order to decide on the amount of each color needed. It would not do to scrimp on trim, but there was so much of it added to gowns these days, so much draping and swathing, so many bows and rosettes and flounces, that such things often took as much cloth as the gown itself. She said as much aloud.
"True, mademoiselle, and a great waste it is, for this excessive decoration inclines one to look at the gown, not the wearer. For you, it would be a mistake in any event. You have the look of a Raphael madonna, pure, natural, but with a hint of the sensual. You need no great adornment."
This was a most unusual shop assistant. She came very near to asking him if he had some idea of designing women's apparel, but dismissed the idea. It was far more likely that he wanted only to increase his sales to the point that he would be made head manager with nothing to do but wear a tailcoat and direct the other assistants.
"I require also a few lengths of white lawn or cambric,” she said.
"Certainly, mademoiselle. A shipment of exceptional quality arrived this morning. I will show it to you."
It was obvious that such a request could only be for undergarments. Worth's agreement was polite without a sign of consciousness, however. It might well be that he would become head manager in no great length of time, perhaps before he was thirty.
The lighter-weight materials were in a different section of the establishment. As the young Englishman went away to fetch them, a man who had been standing somewhere behind Mara moved to her side.
"You are looking well, Mademoiselle Delacroix."
She whirled, her eyes widening as she faced a tall, thin, satanic-looking man dressed in black. It was de Landes, the man who had thrown her out of a carriage less than a week before. Even as she registered that fact, she was aware of Luca staring in their direction. The gypsy straightened, pushing away from the marble column as he waited to see if she required help with the man who was accosting her.
"I see you have a bodyguard,” de Landes murmured. “Send him away."
"How?"
"You are an intelligent young woman. Think of some excuse."
He did not tarry to see if she would obey, but strolled away a short distance, pretending an interest in a stand of umbrellas.
Mara turned back to the cloth still on the counter, fingering it as if still trying to come to a decision. She set her teeth into her bottom lip as she sought in her mind for a subterfuge. It crossed her mind to cry out, to allow Luca to overpower de Landes, then seek Roderic's help in finding and freeing her grandmother. But she could not. The risk was too great. Abruptly, an idea came to her and she turned, walking to where the gypsy stood.
"Shopping is such a wearying business, isn't it?” she said with a forced smile. “I don't think I can face the walk back to Ruthenia House. Could you please summon a cabriolet?"
"At once.” Luca inclined his head, but as he went he cast a dark look at the man by the umbrellas.
"What a fine conspirator you make,” de Landes said from close beside her a moment later. “I chose well."
She turned on him. “What do you want?"
"How fierce you are! You would do well to remember your position and that of your beloved grandmother.” The man touched his mustache, smoothing it into the thin black line that led on each side of his red, moist mouth to a narrow, pointed beard. His smile was cold.
Mara stared at him. Inside her rose a virulent hatred allied with a chill fear. De Landes was handsome in a dark and diabolical fashion, an image he deliberately heightened with his black clothing and the pointed shape of his beard and mustache. During the short time of their acquaintance, she had come to the conclusion that he enjoyed his scheming and considered himself another Machiavelli. That egotism made him no less dangerous.
He gave a brief nod of satisfaction at her silent acceptance of his rebuke. “Quickly then. I congratulate you on your swift conquest of the prince. I had not thought you would find it so easy."
"Your congratulations are premature. I am living under his roof, nothing more."
"How disappointing. It must be remedied."
His voice was cold, the words precise. There could be no misunderstanding. She raised her chin. “I see no need."
"Don't you? I will explain once again. In a short time you are going to have to exert influence over this man, this prince. Your greatest hope of being heeded is for you to be on the most intimate terms possible with him."
"It's madness,” she cried in low tones, her hands clenched at her sides. “He isn't a man to be influenced by a woman, no matter how close his relationship with her."
"All men listen to their mistresses, especially if the affair is new and the woman is clever."
"You don't understand. The prince is suspicious. He doesn't believe in the loss of memory, I know he doesn't. I'm afraid he may have brought me with him to Paris only to watch me. It won't work!"
"You must see that it
does. You can, if you will put aside your maidenly shrinking and foolish excuses. I assure you it's so, for even I feel your attraction."
She sent him a look of revulsion. “I can't do this, I can't!"
"You had best steel yourself to it.” His voice was sibilant, and there was a red tint to his white skin for her lack of response to his compliment. “In two weeks’ time the prince must attend a ball given by the Vicomtesse Beausire. It is your job to be certain that he is present. The consequences for failure you well know."
"But how—I can't—"
"An invitation will come. You will see that he accepts it."
"He may accept it regardless. There might be no need at all for my interference."
"And he could just as easily disregard it. Prince Roderic is known for being discriminating and also most politically astute when it comes to obliging a hostess with his presence. But this is an occasion he must attend. I depend on you."
"This is a political matter then?” Mara inquired.
De Landes ignored the question. “You will also see that the prince arrives at the proper time and that he is in the proper place. I will contact you later to tell you when and where."
"But how am I to do that without attending?"
"You will attend. The occasion will be such that a man may bring his mistress if it pleases him."
"What if I am recognized?"
"By then it won't matter."
"Not to you and your plans, but to me—"
"That is of no importance. There is much more at stake here than your good name, my dear."
"What is it? What are you doing? Why must I bring the prince to this ball?"
"It isn't necessary or advisable that you know these things, only that you realize what will happen to Madame Helene and to you if you do not comply exactly with my instructions."
"But I—"
"That will do. Remember what I have said. You have only two weeks. Use them well."
The shop assistant Worth was returning. De Landes bowed, smiling politely as if he had been doing no more than passing the time of day, before he turned and walked away.
Her hands were trembling, her whole body jerking. It was only by a great effort of will that she was able to turn back and complete her purchase. By the time she had given directions for where it should be sent, Luca had returned and the hired cabriolet was waiting. She thought Worth looked at her in some surprise as he wrote down the name of Ruthenia House, but she could not help it. Turning away, she allowed the gypsy to escort her from the shop.
Royal 02 - Royal Passion Page 8
