Dugdale looked at his granddaughter, tears forming in his eyes. “Did you hear that, Valerian? She’s an angel, an angel sent to me in my affliction. Cherries, eh? I like cherries. Now why didn’t Aggie know that? Do you think we can get any cherries here in Brighton this time of year?”
Allegra knew opportunity when it struck and, to her mind, it was banging most mightily on the door at precisely that moment. She sprang to her feet, grabbing onto Fitzhugh’s forearm. “Valerian will know just where to go, won’t you, Valerian? Why, we shall leave this very moment, just as soon as I fetch my wrap, and scour Brighton from one end to the other until we find cherries. And if we should find a dress shop or two along the way so that I might discover some gown suitable for wearing when dining beneath a chandelier held by a dragon, well, wouldn’t that be above everything wonderful?”
Before Valerian knew what had hit him—actually, he knew what had hit him but found himself unable to resist either Allegra’s enthusiasm or the chance to be with her for just a little while—the two of them were going out the door.
CHAPTER SIX
ALLEGRA CLUNG closely—dared he stay too closely?—to Valerian’s arm as they walked along the windblown Steine, the first part of their mission accomplished. It had taken inquiries at six different shops, and her refusal of one basket of hothouse-grown cherries as being entirely too hard for her liking, but at last Allegra had pronounced herself satisfied.
Valerian had paid for a clerk to deliver the fruit to Number 23—and paid for the cherries as well, as Dugdale did not keep an account at that particular shop—and now they were merely walking and talking, enjoying the day.
If anyone had told Valerian that he could take pleasure in window shopping with a young miss not yet out of her teens, listening to her chatter about ribbons and flounces and the merits of silk linings, he would most probably have laughed out loud. Yet he knew himself to be happy in Allegra’s company.
Now that he thought of it, he was almost always happy in Allegra’s company. Or angry. Or amused. Or confused. Well, at least he was never bored. She was an intelligent little minx, well traveled—if only in Italy—and not in the least bit missish or shy. She seemed to be endlessly delighted with everything and everybody, and Valerian found himself thinking how wonderful it would be to repeat his tour of Europe with her by his side.
“Cold, imp?” he asked as Allegra gave a delicate shiver. “Ladies usually shun walking for carriages in February, you know.”
She looked up at him, the brim of her green velvet bonnet grazing his shoulder, and he could see that the wind had brought a flattering bloom to her cheeks. “Do they really, Valerian? I have always liked to ride on San Francesco’s horse—which you know means to go on foot, as did the good Saint Francis. What a shame your English ladies do not like walking, when it is so very invigorating to face down the elements.”
“Always looking for another challenge, aren’t you, Allegra? I imagine you’ll be trying the bathing machines one of these days.”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Betty has told me all about them, and this woman, this very strong Martha Gunn, who dips ladies into the water. I love the seaside, don’t you? But I think I most love to look out over the ocean and think of the places that lie beyond the water, the people who live there, the wonderful sights I could see. Valerian—have you ever traveled to America? We discovered it, you know. We Italians, that is. Our Christoforo Colombo, in 1492, I believe—although the silly Spanish like to take credit for it, of course. Isn’t that always the way of it?”
Valerian’s lips twitched in amusement. “The silly Spanish might have thought that, as they had put down the money for the project, they deserved some recognition. And no, I haven’t yet traveled to what we still would like to call our colonies. Would you like to go to America, Allegra?”
“Oh, my, yes!” she exclaimed, skipping a bit as they passed over an uneven patch of flagway. “I have wanted with all my heart to tour in America—singing, you know—and in Paris, and in Vienna, and in Moscow, and maybe even in faraway Japan, where women do not sing.” Her face fell and she added, “But I never shall, I suppose, or at least not for many years to come. For now I must be a supporting prop to Nonno, and then later, well—how could I enjoy myself on my poor dead nonno’s money?”
“You couldn’t, could you?” Valerian directed their steps to a wooden bench along the side of the flagway. Once they were seated and he could see into her eyes, he asked, “What do you intend to do with your inheritance then, imp? Stuff it into boxes and bury it all in the back garden?”
She lifted her chin in what, to him, was now her easily recognizable expression of defiance. “And what good would that do? You are making sport of me, Valerian, and I don’t think that is very nice. No, I have already decided what I shall do once dear Nonno is gone—which I can only hope will not be for a very, very long time. I shall take just enough money to keep myself until I can find employment as a singer, and give the rest to my zia Agnes.”
“You’re going to do what!” It was a good thing Valerian was sitting down, for he otherwise probably would have fallen, giving himself a nasty bump on his head while he was about it.
He longed to throttle her. How could he feel so in charity with this infuriating child one minute and long to strangle her the next? “Are you telling me that I gave up my trip and dragged you all the way to England just so you could turn up your nose at a fortune—and then give it to those ignorant, bloodsucking Kittredges into the bargain? Of all the stupid, harebrained—”
“Valerian!” Allegra interrupted, putting her gloved fingers against his lips to stifle his protests. “You have not brought me to England in vain. You saved me from Bernardo, for one thing. And you have given me back my family, after I thought myself to be all alone in the world. If I live to be one hundred I cannot thank you enough for what you have done.”
“If you mean to put me to the blush, imp, you are fair and far out,” Valerian told her, speaking around her fingers. “From what I’ve heard, I’ve done nothing more than land you in a nest of vultures who wish to strip you of your name while dressing you up like a dowager in mourning.”
Allegra laughed. “Nonno is not the soft, cozy grandfather I could have wished for, I will admit that easily, but he is at heart a fine, if shallow, man. The Kittredges, for good or ill, are the only other family I have—and the most sorry—looking trio I have ever seen. But they are also totally useless to themselves, I think, and it is not their fault that I was born. How can you believe I should sleep nights if I allowed Nonno’s plan to make friends with the good Saint Peter end with my zia and Cugina Isobel sleeping in the damp gutters of Brighton? Cugino Gideon, I must tell you,” she added with a smile, “I do not find it so terribly easy to worry about.”
Valerian hated to admit it, but the child made sense, bless her generous heart. He could feel all his anger fading away and raised a hand to hold her fingertips against his lips a moment longer. “It might help them build character,” he then suggested with a wry smile, trying to picture Gideon Kittredge camping in a gutter.
Allegra drew back her hand, doing her best not to pay attention to the way her fingertips now tingled in such a delicious manner. “You won’t tell my nonno, will you, Valerian? It makes him so happy to think he is making his sister’s life a misery.”
Valerian’s left eyebrow rose a fraction. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“No. Should it? Zia Agnes is not a nice woman. It does not hurt me to see her suffer for a while when I know she will come out right at the end. Besides, as long as she believes she will lose all Nonno’s money when he dies, she will take very good care to keep him most happily alive. And, before you ask me, I do not feel the least bit naughty spending Nonno’s money for him now—money that should have been my madre’s—great heaps of money—while he is able to see where it goes. Capisci? Understand? I still think I must get my sometimes terrible temper from my dear papà, but if I am mean, it only proves my Dugdale blo
od.”
Valerian helped her to her feet. “And whom do we blame, imp, for your twisted logic? No, don’t bother to answer, for I think I know. You are a woman. That is answer enough. Now, even if you are not cold, I am—as well as dizzy from listening to the way your mind works. I suggest we return to your grandfather’s house before you tell me anything else and I slide into a sad decline.”
She slipped her hand once more around his forearm and allowed herself to be led back the way they had come. “Uncail Max warned me that you were a difficult man,” she said, sighing. “Do you think, Valerian, that I am a difficult woman?”
“I think, imp, that you are a very generous child—although perhaps you are also still a little confused by all that has happened to you in the past weeks. I can only suggest that you give yourself some time before you make any binding decisions.”
“Of course, of course,” Allegra answered absently, pulling him toward a shop window. “Oh, Valerian, it is beautiful, is it not?” she asked, pointing to a gown hanging just behind the display in the bow window. “It’s like un romanzo rosa—a pink novel. A perfect love story of a gown.”
Valerian sighed and closed his eyes. Allegra might be different in many ways, but she was proving very much like all other women when it came to her wardrobe. He knew what would happen if he stepped inside this shop with her. He would be trapped for hours.
He felt her tug at his arm once more and sighed, knowing what he had to do. Reluctantly, he led Allegra into the shop.
Once inside, Valerian was in for a surprise as Allegra, upon being greeted by a thin, sallow-faced Frenchwoman, immediately launched herself into a torrent of faultlessly accented French that left him standing with his mouth open. Within a matter of minutes Allegra had disappeared into a dressing room, the shopkeeper trotting behind holding gown, shoes, hose, cape, and elbow-length kid gloves.
It had taken Allegra only that long to make her selections, eyeing the contents of the shop from one end to the other with the sharp eye of one who knows exactly what she wants.
How different this was from Valerian’s previous experiences in such places, when he had accompanied his mistress of the moment to Bond Street in the years before he’d learned that a simple gift of money was just as appreciated, if not more so. He had hated the experience then and he had believed he should hate the experience now, but so far Allegra was proving him wrong. Finding himself a seat in a corner, he sat down beside a vase filled with large feather plumes that insisted upon drooping onto his left shoulder, to await further developments.
He didn’t have long to wait. After making him promise to “squeeze your eyes closed, ever so tightly, Valerian, and do not open them until I tell you,” Allegra stepped out of the dressing room, the Frenchwoman walking behind her, wringing her hands and weeping at the beauty of the sight in front of her.
“All right, Valerian.” Allegra spoke from somewhere in front of him. “I will allow you to open your eyes now.”
He obeyed, not realizing that his world was about to change forever.
Valerian, at the age of two and twenty, had taken a fall from his favorite horse, landing flat on his back so that all of his wind had been knocked out of him. He hadn’t been able to curse, or to yell, or even to breathe. He had only been able to lie there, not really hurt, but just looking up at his mount, disbelieving that the animal could have surprised him so.
He felt the same way now. Unable to talk. Unable to think. Unable to breathe. Able only to look.
The gown Allegra wore had been fashioned of the richest taffeta and was white without really being white, but more like a deep, rich cream. The body of the gown was magnificently simple, hugging her tightly just beneath the breasts, then sweeping downward to a simple hem adorned only by a modest edging of taffeta flower petals sewn with tiny seed pearls.
The entire bodice, what there was of it, and to Valerian’s mind there was precious little, was similarly decorated, each of them at least one hundred separate, pearled petals so cunningly placed on both the bodice and the short, off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves that Allegra’s shoulders and head seemed to rise from the gown like a perfect summer rose in full bloom.
Her breasts were not overly exposed, but only gently hinted at, the slight cleavage revealed by the cut of the bodice rendering the illusion of enticing innocence rather than deliberate enticement. With every breath she took, the pearled petals trembled delicately, subtly, causing Valerian’s blood to pound heavily against the base of his throat.
Allegra’s naturally pink lips and cheeks, sparkling sapphire eyes, and deep-as-midnight curls gave the only real color to what, to his bemused mind, could only seem to be a painting of some glorious angel come to Earth.
Was this the same dusty termagant he had discovered in Florence—the barefoot urchin with a string of garlic sausages stuffed in her bodice? Could this glorious creature possibly be the same child he had teased about her voracious appetite, or been ashamed to be seen with in public, or even the one he had dismissed as a child who—although intriguing—was not really a woman, and most definitely not the woman for him?
Valerian fought the sudden urge to flee for his life.
“Well—are you going to say something or are you just going to stand there? What do you think? I am a thing of beauty, yes?” Allegra took hold of the skirt on either side and made a half-turn, looking back over her shoulder at him. “Madame Mathieu says she has poured her life into this gown but there has never been anyone she wished to sell it to—until now. I do so love to be in costume, and this is just like a costume, isn’t it? Oh, that I might ever appear on stage in such a magnificent creation! I should then be the real prima donna!”
Allegra turned back to her still mute audience of one, frowning. “Valerian, you are once more looking at me in that strange way. Say something quickly, please, for you are beginning to make me nervous, and I do not like it.”
Valerian rose, not without effort, unable to stop staring at Allegra’s animated face. “She—” He had to stop and clear his throat. “She’ll take it. What else do you have, madame?”
AGNES KITTREDGE, of course, had been appalled. First of all, no real lady frequented a dress shop with a man. What were people to think? Only kept women did such things. Thankfully it had only been that strange little “Madame Matthew’s” shop, where no one of any importance would even think of making a purchase, yet alone browse, so perhaps they could scrape by without a major scandal.
Next there was the price! Ships had been launched for less. Armies had been fed for less. For Allegra had not stopped at that single gown, or the accessories so necessary to set it off. Oh, no. With that bewitched Valerian Fitzhugh’s help, she had all but bought out the shop, blithely sending the bill to her grandfather.
Her grandfather—ha! To Agnes, this perhaps was the unkindest cut of all. The insolent chit didn’t even know how to spell the man’s name. Agnes knew, for Agnes had peeked at the bill when the mountain of striped boxes had been delivered—with even more to be delivered in the next few weeks.
“To be paid for by the Baron Dennis Dugdaleo,” Allegra had scribbled across the bottom of the bill in a bold, almost masculine script. The chit had put an O on the end of the reverend Dugdale name, just as if Denny were Italian! Why, it was almost enough to make a grown woman—a grown woman who had not herself seen a new gown in nearly three months—weep.
It was enough to make a young woman weep, which was precisely what Isobel did when she, while Allegra and Betty were out on yet another of their lengthy walks, sneaked into her cousin’s bedchamber and took a peek into the armoire.
Pinks, yellows, greens, whites, lavenders, and robin’s egg blues. Silks, velvets, taffetas, bastistes, percales, and muslins. Morning gowns, redingotes, tunics, spencers, and shawls. Even a cashmere canezou, or hussar vest, edged with bands of sable. There was so much it threatened to spill from the armoire in a pastel rainbow of colors.
But that was not all. To supplement the fine but f
airly meager wardrobe she had brought with her from Italy, Allegra now also had drawer after drawer filled with the finest linen handkerchiefs, kid gloves, silk stockings, lace-trimmed petticoats, chemises—and not a single corset.
There were three embroidered silk purses, five pairs of silk slippers, a pair of overshoes, a multitude of combs and artificial flowers to be worn in the hair, two ivory fans, and three bonnets—any one of which Isobel would have gladly died for, not that she would ever tell her cousin that.
The worst, the very worst of it all, was that there existed nothing in the armoire or the drawers that even vaguely suited Allegra. Didn’t Valerian know that, even if her silly half-foreign cousin was too blinded to see it?
Allegra should never have been encouraged to buy such pale, flowery shades or such close-fitting styles. Her disturbing physical “faults” needed to be subdued, not accented. Egyptian earth. Pea green. Tobacco brown. And whiter-than-white whites. Those were the colors Isobel would have chosen for Allegra. And high necks. And lots and lots of lace. Yes, definitely a multitude of lace, to hide the girl’s “embarrassing” figure.
She told her mother as much, unfortunately while Gideon was in the room, so that the startled young man found himself forced to submit to a half-dozen sharp slaps between his shoulder blades from his frantic mama in order to relieve himself of the bite of muffin that had, thanks to his nearly hysterical laughter, become wedged in his throat.
This did not make for a reconciliation of brother and sister after a lifetime of spats, which otherwise might have transpired, considering the fact that they both had so much to lose if Allegra were truly to be named the Baron’s heir. It also did not endear Isobel to her mother, who had, just for a few single heart-stopping moments, believed she was about to see her beloved Gideon turn purple and expire, right in her lap.
The chaotic Miss Crispino Page 9
