“I, my lady?” The barmaid took a step back.
“Not ‘my lady.’ Just ‘miss,’” Augusta corrected. “That is—‘Mrs.’ Yes, I should like you to have them. If—if you want them.”
“Oh. Oh, thank you, my lady—I mean, Mrs. Yes. Thank you.” With a hesitant hand, the young woman reached for the gloves. For a moment, she only stroked the soft kid, looking as though she did not dare to draw them from Augusta’s grasp into her own. Augusta rose from her chair, just enough to lean over the table, and she pressed the gloves into the barmaid’s hand.
“Enjoy them,” she said. “I hope your fellow shall notice how lovely you look with them on. But really, he should notice your loveliness all the time.”
The two women shared a smile: one plain and one vivid, one tired and one cosseted. Somehow, they both looked prettier in their moment of shared delight in a simple pair of gloves.
But it was not so simple, was it? The gloves she gave away with scarcely a thought were forever beyond the means of the barmaid. Of men like Joss, should they wish to give her a gift.
He had thought to draw her closer by bringing her to a place where he belonged. It was so easy for the truth to find them, though; to remind him of the chasm between them.
As the delighted barmaid swanned away to fetch their dinners, Joss folded his arms against a crawling frustration. “Why flaunt your wealth by giving such a gift to the barmaid? You do not even know her.”
“I know something about her.” Her gaze followed the thin figure between the tables; the woman now seemed to have a spring in her step. “She likes pretty things. And she probably doesn’t have as many as she deserves.”
“How are you to know what she deserves?” What if she turned her attention to him next? If she gave him charity, he could not abide it—but the alternative was to think he deserved nothing.
“I don’t. I don’t know anything about what she deserves, or you, or anyone else in the world. All I know is what I deserve, and I know that I have far more than that. So someone else in the world probably has less.” She ran her hand over the wood of the table; to her bare fingers, it must feel smooth and faintly sticky from spilled ale. “A pair of gloves won’t make a difference to the barmaid. Not really. But it made her smile for a few minutes. Isn’t that better than if she never smiled at all?”
Maybe. But when the smile disappeared, it was all the more difficult to bear. Like a promise broken. “It’s not your responsibility to make anyone smile.”
Her brows lifted. “Josiah Everett. I have little responsibility in the world, but I have a great many gloves. Please stop your caterwauling.” A tremulous smile touched her lips. “You said I was worthy. I want to be, even just in small ways.”
With such gifts, she wanted to help herself along with others. Charity he could not stand, but generosity with a dash of self-interest—well, that he could bear quite well. “You are worthy no matter how you treat others. And I am sorry I was harsh. You were kind to her. You showed her that a fellow human noticed her.” He gave his tankard a half turn but did not lift it. “These are not the small things you might think them.”
Her brows had practically reached her hairline by the time Joss finished speaking. “You are giving me quite a bouquet of kind words. I must take care not to let them go to my head. This beer, however…” Putting the tankard to her lips, she took a long drink of the small beer. Joss had tasted it before: yeasty sweet and amber colored, with a thick, sudsy head.
Her throat worked. As she lowered the tankard again, a bit of foam was left on her top lip.
He had no right to reach out a thumb, to brush it feather-lightly over the curve of her mouth. No right, yet he wanted to so much he had to clench his fist. You would do, Joss reminded himself against a groaning throb of lust. That’s all she said. You would do.
Until she could say more than that—with words, not only with a stolen, fiery kiss—he must keep his hands to himself.
Pink tongue darting out, she licked her lip clean, then spoke. “I like this place, Joss. It’s…alive.”
“Alive? In what sense?”
“Interesting. Busy. Loud.”
“It certainly is those things. But there’s nothing particularly romantic or elegant about taking mutton in a public room.”
“There’s nothing shameful or improper about it either. Just as there’s nothing admirable about having a cook prepare far more food than anyone could ever eat, then wasting it with a languid appetite.” Her brandy-brown eyes drank in the room as eagerly as she had drunk the small beer. “I’ve never eaten in a public house before. Can you credit that? My parents always wanted the best for me, and when I traveled, that meant taking my meals in the carriage with a lady’s maid. In truth, I didn’t even travel much. Life was in London. Business was in London.”
“Life was business?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I suppose it was.”
He had never wondered whether a life of only the best could limit one’s choices. With wealth, how could a person not pursue whatever he or she wanted? But each class had its own expectations. Its own proper sphere, outside of which one was not to stray.
It was a relief when the barmaid returned with their dinner, for Joss wasn’t sure how to reply.
“We’ve a fine cheddar,” said the young woman. “I brought you a wedge of that, plus the mutton and potatoes. Will there be anything else, my lady—Mrs.?”
Joss had become invisible, it seemed. This was often the case when he ventured into public in London. His plain clothing and dark complexion suited him for shadowy corners, to be overlooked until needed.
Just now, he didn’t mind a bit. All the better to look at Augusta’s sunshine face, at the smile with which the barmaid’s long day was brightened.
“Thank you,” said Augusta. “That will be all.” After the barmaid had bobbed another curtsy and turned away, Augusta leaned forward. Her eyes closed as she inhaled the aroma of the meat. “This smells wonderful.”
Joss sawed at his mutton, then speared a bite. It was tough, but well seasoned and rich. Satisfying after a long, cold morning and a short, cold walk.
“I had curried mutton once in London,” Augusta said, cutting at her own dish. “At an odd little restaurant in George Street. My father wanted to meet the owner, and I begged him to take me along. The man was a Hindu Indian who had once worked for the British East India Company.”
Joss had just taken a deep pull of ale. Dark and sweet upon first taste, yet bitter as it rolled through his mouth. Clunk. He set down his tankard harder than he intended to. “What did you think of the place?”
She freed a bite of mutton and speared it on her fork. “As I remember, the meat was tender and had a lovely flavor of spices. Clove, I think? It was unexpected, and I liked it.”
“I imagine it was delicious.” During Joss’s childhood, his grandmother’s Calcutta-born cook still worked at Sutcliffe Hall. Though the aged man usually prepared English fare, he was permitted to cook Indian food when the Sutcliffe family was absent from the estate. Not for decades had Joss tasted a sauce laced with clove and cardamom, with earthy cumin and bright turmeric, or torn into flat bread so chewy it resisted one’s bite. But he would always remember the feeling of warm, floury dough dusty on his fingertips, of spice popping on the tongue.
“Since I was just a girl, my father didn’t allow me to speak to the owner myself,” Augusta added, “but he seemed to like the man a great deal. My father loved to speak with anyone who had a notion and turned it into a business. People with dreams turned real.” She chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t think the restaurant is open anymore.”
“Oh.” Joss cut more of his mutton into rough-sawed pieces. “I wonder what happened to the man. If he stayed in England.”
“I don’t know, but I was glad to get the chance to go along. I always liked learning things. Seeing places
most women didn’t get to see, not merely the back room of a dressmaker’s shop or the corners of a London ballroom.” Her jaw was set as she hacked at the wedge of cheddar they had not yet touched. “Do you want some of this?”
“Certainly.” He took a ragged chunk of cheese from her and bit it, letting the curds squeak in his teeth, salty and sharp. Before Augusta could do further damage with her knife, he pulled the board toward himself and began chopping off small slices. “I assume what your parents thought of as the best was not always what you wanted the most.”
She shrugged. “What parents and offspring are always in perfect accord?”
“A good question, and the answer is probably none.” She didn’t return his smile; her expression had not shed the worried pucker he had hoped to chase away. “Augusta. You called on me today—very scandalous of you, I might add—because your mind was burdened with many weighty thoughts. I have tried feeding you into a contented stupor, but you won’t have it. So instead I shall sit here and eat cheese. If you wish to unburden yourself, my ears are at your disposal.”
She traced the metal hoops that gave shape to her wooden tankard. “I don’t really want to talk at the moment. I would rather listen.”
Joss dropped the knife in a parody of shock. “Surely not.”
“Indeed, it’s true. A paragon of masculinity once told me I ought to tell less and ask more.”
“He was being far too harsh. Indeed, he sounds like the sort of fellow who is often more harsh than he ought to be.”
“He is honest,” Augusta said. “Which I have come to…to value.”
A smile touched his lips; he felt as though she had touched him far more deeply. “What would you like, then? A story? Perhaps one about a kind fairy who gives kid gloves to everyone, at least until fairyland’s supply of kidskin is exhausted.”
“No, no fairy stories. I want an answer. An honest answer to just one question.”
The answer doesn’t matter as much as the question. Chatfield’s calm words rang in his ears. In this corner, hidden behind a wall of sound and bustle, they were nearly as alone as if the room were empty. “One answer, then.” What her question might be, he could not imagine.
She scooted her chair nearer until she could whisper below the din. Breathing deeply, she shut her eyes. “Why do you wear sandalwood oil?”
When her eyes opened, she was so close—close enough, almost, to capture.
He did not know the name of his favorite flower. He did not even know if it was a real fragrance or something concocted by a gifted perfumer. He only knew that its scent lay sweetly in the hollow of her throat, and that he wanted to lean closer. Breathe her in, take her in his arms, make her some part of him and himself a part of her.
But it was impossible. Not only because of honor—an efficient summation of thirty-one years of difficult decisions—but because he belonged nowhere but alone. Always alone, outside the clique of society or the camaraderie of the servants. Part English and part alien; part respectable and part scandal.
He did not want to be alone.
He traced a crack in the tabletop, where the old, time-rubbed wood had long ago split apart.
“I choose sandalwood,” he said, “because it reminds me of my birth. You see, my grandmother was born in India, and my mother was half-Indian.”
Fourteen
Her elbow slid on the table; her sleepy-looking eyes flew open. “You’re of Indian descent?”
As he had expected, she sounded surprised—though somehow, he had hoped the truth wouldn’t matter. “In part. Yes.” Joss leaned away from her in his chair.
“I had no idea.”
“What would you have me do? Write ‘Josiah Everett, possesses Indian blood’ in the Pump Room guest book?”
“That would be intriguing.”
“Please note,” he said loftily, “that I am glaring at you. Because I am not amused.”
“All right, all right.” She picked at the edge of her cloak, wadded over a chair, then let it fall again. “It just seems unfair that your secret is hidden and mine is obvious.”
“It’s not obvious that you’re not a widow. And how could it be hidden that I have mixed blood? I wear it all over my skin. Figuratively,” he added when her nose wrinkled.
“I didn’t think about it, honestly. I’ve seen Welshmen as dark as you, so your coloring does not seem unusual. Have you ever been thought Welsh?”
Joss snorted, folding his arms tight about himself for what seemed like the thousandth time since this odd dinner began.
Augusta arched a brow. “Don’t fly into a rage. I’m merely interested. You’ve given me new information, much like if you told me you had a twin. I just need to add it to my mental list of things that I know about you.”
Despite his wariness, this piqued his curiosity. “Indeed? What else is on the list?”
She considered. “Sharp tongue. Two eyes, nose, mouth. Shoulders, arms—”
“Ah. So your list is concerned with my body.”
She turned red, a deep brick shade that argued with the color of her hair. “Ah—never mind. I wish I had bargained for more than one question. Because right now, I really want to know whether this is why you don’t lodge with your cousin in Queen Square.”
“What, the fact that my grandmother was born on a different continent?” He spoke the words lightly, as though the question was ludicrous.
But the truth was: he didn’t know.
His fraction of noble blood opened the narrow corners of the ton to him, but he was far too angular and sharp to slot neatly into them. What caused him not to fit? Was it his relative poverty? The scandal surrounding his parents’ almost-too-late marriage? Or was it his Indian blood? His conception represented so many sins against society that he could never be completely absolved.
Did that matter, though? He had a seat in Lady Tallant’s drawing room when he wanted it. Once, he had even had been invited by the countess’s dear friend—now the Duchess of Wyverne—to visit the Duke of Wyverne’s estate in Lancashire.
Surely it was not necessary to win over all of society as long as one could rely on a few friendly faces. Surely it was not even necessary to be treated as family by a man like Sutcliffe, who had little feeling for anyone other than himself. A man so shallow ought not to be able to inflict a deep wound.
Ought not. And yet. “My Indian blood doesn’t affect who I am,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
This was not true, of course. As he had just admitted to Augusta, he thought of it every time he opened his last vial of sandalwood oil and breathed its faraway scent. Every time he looked at his grandmother’s worn botanical ledger and wondered when somalata had first grown in the Sutcliffe Hall conservatory.
Every time Sutcliffe spoke to him as a servant rather than a relative.
Still. He meant to be reassuring, so Augusta would once again see him as a proper English gentleman.
Well. Semiproper. Somewhat gentlemanly.
But as he had once observed, the course of conversation never ran smoothly around Augusta. Far from appearing reassured, she looked appalled. “I hope you don’t mean that. Or even think you mean that.”
“Why? What possible argument could you make with my determination to be English?”
“That is not the part that bothers me. It’s the fact that you just said you would cut away one of your grandparents. As if she doesn’t matter to you.”
Guilt tugged at him. “I never knew her,” he excused. “She died before I was born.”
“But you would never have been born at all if she hadn’t given birth to your mother. Your grandmother is part of you.”
He stared at her, surprised by this vehemence. Fiddling with one of her hairpins, she added, “Do you suppose I was never embarrassed by my parents? My father had the broadest Portsmouth accent you could imagine. Every w
ord was clipped off, every vowel an ‘ay.’ My mother always thought more lace, more trim, more bugles were better on every gown. They’d been born poor and became wealthy. They wanted better for me, and they didn’t always pursue it the right way. But don’t you see? They made me. If they had been a lord and lady, they’d have been ashamed of my unfashionable red hair. If I had been raised the daughter of an earl, I would never have been allowed to learn so much about business.”
At some point in this speech, Joss realized that Augusta’s outpouring of feeling was directed less toward him than to some wound in her own heart. Something at which she had hinted, some loss that still lanced her.
He toyed with the idea of making some serious reply. Tell me something else you remember about your parents. Augusta had had more than two decades with her parents. Long enough to hoard memories by the hundreds—the thousands. Happy, everyday memories. The sort other people seemed to take for granted. The sort of which Joss possessed far too few.
But no, that reply would be too dangerous. It would wrap them in an intimacy even deeper than when they had kissed: the intimacy of memory revealed.
So he settled upon flippancy instead. “I thought you wanted to listen, not speak.”
She grimaced at him. “I did, yes. But I needed to say that. And maybe you needed to hear it.”
Blunt-spoken woman, wasn’t she? Yet her carrying speech about family creating one—personality as well as body, behavior along with soul—made sense. So long, he had taken for granted that the mixing of races had made him different from everyone else he met. This was true, but she was right: it had made him. And rarity alone was no cause for shame. There was only one king, after all. One prime minister. One yearly winner of the Epsom Derby.
Such comparisons made him smile with their unlikeliness. “Thank you.” He stroked back a strand of Augusta’s hair that had tumbled free from her pins. “I suppose I did need to hear it. You give me a new way to think about the matter.”
Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress Page 15
