by Brenda Hiatt
"Very good, madam," replied the butler as the ladies mounted the staircase.
"Whatever can he want, I wonder?" At a time like this, Lady Platt found her sister's ear adequate, as a servant's obviously would not do.
Brie, who had gathered from the exchange below that such a visit was very much out of the ordinary, had no theory to offer. "No doubt Sir Seymour will inform us once the Duke has departed," was the best she could do.
Angela favoured her with an impatient glance. "You can be sure he will! We had best change for tea immediately. And do try to look your best, for the Duke of Ravenham will likely be joining us. As you are new to Town, I suppose I must inform you that the Duke is one of the highest sticklers of the ton and must not be offended."
"I shall be most careful," said Brie, hoping her sister heard the edge to her voice. She went at once to her room to avoid any further such advice.
When the ladies descended a few minutes later, Brie in a lilac muslin bought just that morning (which needed taking in but was more presentable than anything else she owned), Sir Seymour was waiting for them, a satisfied smile upon his dissipated countenance. The duke was not in evidence.
"My dear, you will never guess who was just here" were his first words, uttered in a tone which implied an intention to keep the ladies guessing as long as possible.
"What? Has Ravenham gone already?" was his loving wife's reply. "Never tell me that you neglected to ask him to tea?"
Sir Seymour looked crestfallen that his great secret was no secret after all, but quickly recovered his spirits upon recollecting the good news he would still be able to share with his lady. "Indeed I did invite him, but he would go. However, I have some information to impart over our own tea that I am persuaded you will find most agreeable."
This was sufficient to pique even Brie's interest, and Angela seemed nearly beside herself with curiosity. Without a word, the ladies followed Sir Seymour into the elegantly gaudy parlour and seated themselves.
"Well?" demanded Lady Platt, when her husband showed no immediate sign of unburdening himself. "What is this wonderful news? I don't suppose the Duke came to offer for my sister, sight unseen?" she asked sarcastically.
But Sir Seymour was enjoying the rare treat of being in control of a situation and had no mind to give it up so easily. "Not quite that, my dear, but perhaps you are closer to the mark than you realise," he said tantalisingly.
Brie paled slightly at this, but made no comment; Angela was not to be put off, however. "Enough of this tiptoeing about the edges of the issue, Seymour!" she exclaimed. "What did the man want? And pray tell us in plain words."
"Oh, very well, my dear," replied her husband almost regretfully. "In short, it was a matter of a wager."
"What?" Lady Platt fairly shrieked. "Never say you have lost our livelihood to the Duke of Ravenham! You promised not to wager beyond the monthly amount I set for you, and you could never be such a fool as to think you could best someone like him. Why, the man's luck is legendary!"
"Not this time, apparently," returned Sir Seymour smugly. "No, my dear," he said to his wife's suddenly hopeful glance, "I did not game with him, but I still seem to have come out the winner." Both ladies gazed at him in perplexity. "Lord Garvey, with his odd wagers, appears to be our benefactor. He and Ravenham wagered over some matter, the details of which I was not told—" he pursed his thin lips over this omission "—and the Duke lost. Garvey insisted that he do a favour for the next man to enter White's, and that lucky fellow happened to be myself!"
Now Angela's eyes fairly glowed. "A favour, from the Duke of Ravenham! Why, it is in his power to restore me— us— to the very pinnacle of Society! Almack's! You must tell him to speak to Lady Jersey to have our vouchers restored—"
But Sir Seymour was speaking again. "It is already settled, my dear, and I flatter myself that I managed to hit on the very thing. The Duke has agreed to help us fire off little Gabriella in style— establish her in the forefront of Society. That way she will have the best possible chance of marrying advantageously. There! Did I not do well?" Sir Seymour sat back, awaiting his wife's praise.
"You...he... When I could have..." Incoherent as this speech was, it nevertheless conveyed to her listeners that Lady Platt was less than overjoyed. Brie had no trouble understanding this, but her brother-in-law seemed perplexed.
"But my angel!" he exclaimed anxiously. "Is this not exactly what you wished for your sister? You have said time and again that if only she might marry a man of fortune you should never have to listen to your mother's importunings again."
Angela quelled him with a glance; clearly, it did not suit her to have her motives so openly discussed. "That was not what I said, and you know it, Seymour." He did not dare to contradict her. "I only meant that it would please my mother prodigiously to see Gabriella well settled, which is perfectly true. Is it not, my dear?" she asked, turning to her sister.
Brie nodded mutely. It would not please her prodigiously, but she saw no particular point in saying so at this juncture.
But Angela had now had time to consider some of the ramifications of the Duke's "favour" and began to see ways to turn it to her own advantage. After all, Gabriella could hardly attend any social functions (or even Almack's) alone, and what more obvious chaperone could there be than her loving sister, who had brought her to Town in the first place? If she played her cards right, she herself would be reestablished at the pinnacle of Society along with her drab little sister. And who could tell? Perhaps Gabriella really could manage a respectable match with Ravenham's patronage, and Lady Platt might well receive a large part of the credit.
With a sudden, blinding smile at Brie, she said, "But of course you did the right thing, Seymour! I was merely overcome by surprise at first. This will be the very thing for Gabriella. When does the Duke propose to start this, ah, project?"
"He said he would call upon us in two days' time, to meet Gabriella and to discuss the particulars— that means who's going to come up with the ready, I expect."
"Pray try to refrain from vulgarity, Seymour," said Angela absently. She was thinking hard. "Two days. We'd best get an early start again tomorrow, Gabriella. We have a great deal to accomplish in that time."
* * *
Brie had thought that first day of shopping with her sister was gruelling, but it was as nothing compared to the second. Not that it involved much in the way of physical exertion— that she was well used to and could have managed —but the tediousness of shop after shop, measuring after measuring, with all decisions taken out of her hands, took its toll on her. To be sure, some lovely fabrics had been purchased, to be worked into very fetching gowns, if the drawings shown her by the modistes were to be believed, but she couldn't help but wonder if they could possibly be worth the effort— and expense!
"The first real conflict between the sisters occurred late on that second day, when Lady Platt introduced Brie to her personal hairdresser, Monsieur Philippe, with the announcement that he was to cut Miss Gordon's mane to a fashionable length. Miss Gordon adamantly refused.
"But Gabriella, dear, you must know that no one is now wearing hair so long as yours! It went out of fashion quite five years ago, and even then very few were to be seen thus." Angela's tone was that of a reasonable adult trying to persuade a sulky child, which was less than conciliatory.
"I'm sorry, Angela," said Brie firmly. Your monsieur may style my hair in any way you or he sees fit, but it shall not be cut. Papa told me many times that he loved it long, and I feel that it would be disrespectful to his memory to cut it."
To Brie's surprise and Angela's clear disgust, Monsieur Philippe agreed instantly, with all the fervour of a Frenchman. "But of course, mademoiselle, with such a reason as this we must not shear you of your memories. So fine a thing, to honour the memory of one's papa! Come, be seated, and I shall see what I may do with these glorious tresses." He let them fall through the fingers of one h
and, considering. "Perhaps if I may thin it a bit? But to leave the length as it is, I assure you!"
Brie cautiously agreed. The man certainly seemed understanding enough.
"But Monsieur Philippe, the pictures I showed you..." began Lady Platt indignantly, to be waved to silence by the artist as he contemplated.
"Non, madame, " he said loftily. "I am the last man you would find to dishonour the dead. Perhaps you would leave us a moment while I create." With a strangled exclamation of outrage, Lady Platt flounced out of the chamber, pointedly leaving the door open. Barely seeming to notice her exit, Monsieur Philippe returned to the task at hand.
A scant hour later, Brie had been transformed. The majority of her hair had been gathered up on top of her head in an intricate knot which left the ends to curl about her shoulders. She had consented to have a few wisps about her face cut short and they now formed carefully careless ringlets which framed it charmingly. She gazed into the mirror finally handed her by the hairdresser with admiring disbelief. How could a mere hairstyle effect such a transformation? She felt as she looked: elegant, dainty, ladylike. It was a completely unfamiliar feeling, but she found that she liked it.
Her sister strode in a moment later, and the surprise which wiped away her aggrieved expression was comic. She opened and closed her mouth several times before saying, "Monsieur Philippe, I believe you must be a magician! Who would have believed it? Gabriella, little as I like to say it, your stubbornness may have served you a good turn in this instance. I dare swear you shall start a new fashion, once Ravenham is seen to notice you."
* * *
The next day, precisely at four, the Duke of Ravenham was announced.
Brie was clad, for once, in a gown which actually fit, thanks to Angela's persistence in alternately bullying and bribing the dressmaker. The day dress was charmingly constructed, with several flounces at the hem, but the colour was an insipid yellow which did nothing for Brie's complexion. She couldn't help wondering if this was intentional on the part of her sister, as she herself was wearing an outrageously low-cut gown of vivid blue, making the contrast between them nearly as striking as it had been on Brie's first day in London. She could not bring herself to voice such a suspicion, however, for the vast (to her) amounts of money her sister had lately expended on her behalf had engendered both awe and gratitude.
All such speculation was abruptly cut off by the entrance of the gentleman they awaited with varying degrees of eagerness. The past two days had given Brie ample opportunity to picture to herself the probable appearance of her benefactor. He would be a distinguished-looking man of middle age, possibly with a strong reputation in politics, who would publicly treat her as a niece or some other connection, thus assuring the world of her respectability. A paragon himself, he might even drop a hint to the other paragons of Society that Miss Gabriella Gordon would be an asset at any of their gatherings. She had not thought to verify these surmises with her sister, and thus was herself partially responsible for the shock she now sustained.
Looking up as he was announced, Brie felt the polite smile she had donned for the occasion stiffen as she froze in disbelief. The Duke of Ravenham was none other than the arrogant nobleman with whom she had crossed verbal swords at the Ruby Crown!
* * *
CHAPTER 5
As the introductions were made, it first appeared that Ravenham did not recognise Brie from their previous encounter. His glance slid negligently past her and Sir Seymour, coming to rest on Angela's opulent charms, so vividly displayed. Brie was unsure whether the slight lift of his brows at the sight denoted amusement or distaste; it certainly did not appear to be the admiration her sister so obviously expected.
The Duke's entire demeanour upon entering implied a strong desire on his part to be anywhere else, and Brie's discomfort increased. Of course, the man was here as the result of a lost wager and not by his own inclination, she reminded herself. But did he have to make it so obvious?
"And this is my wife's sister, Miss Gabriella Gordon, whom you have agreed to sponsor, your grace," Sir Seymour was saying. Brie murmured an acknowledgement of the introduction, determined to betray no recognition if the Duke did not.
At the sound of Miss Gordon's voice, Ravenham swung his gaze away from Lady Platt's cleavage and fixed it on her young sister's face in a disbelief which matched her own of a moment before.
"Your servant, Miss Gordon," said Ravenham before his silence could be considered rude. That low, musical voice, those unusual turquoise eyes— surely he could not be mistaken? Could there be two such girls in England? But the dress, the hair... surely this could not be the serving wench who had so boldly accosted him at the Ruby Crown! More likely a chance resemblance, he finally decided.
So, thought Brie, he recognises me but chooses not to acknowledge it. Very well, I shall play along— for now. She felt her composure returning as the memory of the anger she had felt at the Duke's treatment of his horse— and of herself— came to her aid. This might well be a perfect chance to bring him to a better understanding of his responsibilities, after all.
"Perhaps you would care to pour out for us, Gabriella," said Angela smoothly, seating herself and gesturing Ravenham to the chair next to her. Her tone was condescending, and Brie seethed inwardly that her sister would treat her so in front of their guest. She gave no hint of her feelings to the others, however, but proceeded to obey what had been little short of an order. His grace, she noticed, ignored the indicated chair and placed himself at her own side instead; while not actually desiring his attention, she could not suppress a small surge of satisfaction at Angela's barely concealed discomfiture.
"Yes, this is the young lady we spoke of, Ravenham," drawled Sir Seymour into the silence, apparently feeling it high time they got down to business. "Still think you can pull it off?"
Brie squirmed at her brother-in-law's vulgar insensitivity, and even Ravenham had the grace to look embarrassed at such plain speaking, but he answered readily enough.
"I foresee no difficulty whatever. I must say you hardly did your sister-in-law justice in your description. She is even lovelier than you led me to believe." This last was said gallantly, and a bit belatedly, as though he had suddenly realised what the first part of his sentence had implied.
For her part, Brie could well imagine the unflattering picture Sir Seymour, ever guided by his lady's judgement, had undoubtedly painted. The thought did not trouble her unduly, but she almost grudgingly appreciated the Duke's tactful handling of the situation. Looking sidelong at his handsome, masculine profile, such a stark contrast to Sir Seymour's effete one, she wondered if it were vaguely possible that she might have misjudged him. Her thoughts went involuntarily back to their confrontation at the inn, which caused her to wonder uncomfortably what his beautiful wife's opinion of this bargain might be.
"Am I to understand that you are but lately come to Town, Miss Gordon?" asked Ravenham, cutting off whatever Sir Seymour had been about to say.
"Yes, I have been here but three days, your grace," she replied, not meeting his eyes. Suddenly, unaccountably, she felt shy of him and assiduously stirred her tea, hoping that perhaps he had not truly recognised her, after all.
"So you can well understand, your grace, that we have had little time to outfit my dear sister fashionably," broke in Angela at this juncture, refusing to be ignored any longer. "The gowns she brought with her were simply decades out of mode, so it may be a few days yet before she will be ready to spend much time in public. Only a few things have been purchased so far."
"If this is an example," said Ravenham, his gesture taking in the yellow muslin Brie wore, "I can hardly fault the style, though the colour might have been better chosen."
Brie barely managed to conceal a chuckle, while Angela's bosom swelled with silen
t indignation, as this gown, along with the other recent purchases, had been her own choice. Before she could swell completely out of the top of her bodice, as Brie was beginning to fear she might, she managed to control her resentment, apparently realising that she could scarce afford to queer the game so early.
"What colours would you deem more appropriate, your grace?" she asked sweetly after what must have been a brief but ruthless battle with her feelings.
The Duke turned to examine Brie with a thoroughness which caused her cheeks to warm slightly. "Blues, I think," he replied at length, "but not the pale insipid ones you see on so many debutantes. Her colouring demands richer shades, perhaps of aqua, to match her eyes. Deep rose should look well on her also, and... have you ordered her a habit yet?"
Angela shook her head. "There hasn't been time...
"A golden brown velvet would be just the thing," he said decisively, not waiting for her reasons. "Perhaps a hat to match. Her hair..."
"I tried to have it cut, your grace, but she would have none of it, I fear. Some sentimental rubbish about our father. Perhaps your word will carry more weight than mine in the matter."
"I was going to say that such a habit as I suggested should set off her hair to advantage. I believe we should consider her hair a definite asset. Under no circumstances should it be cut."
Angela's expression was chagrined. "But the fashion, your grace," she began uncertainly, but he shook his head.
"Short hair has been the fashion these three years and more, and I predict that to change no later than next season. Already the styles are longer in Paris, and you know what that means." Angela nodded vigorously. "Far better to be ahead of the styles than behind them, you must agree."
Brie was beginning to tire of the way she was being discussed as though she were not present. A portrait of her would have done quite as well as her actual presence, she thought with some irritation. Before she could say something of the sort, however, the Duke turned to her again, and she was forced to catch her breath at the impact of the smile he suddenly bestowed on her.
"There, Miss Gordon, we must not forget your feelings in this," he said, as if he could read her mind. "If you would care to ride out with me tomorrow, we can discuss these things further as well as begin our campaign to take London by storm. Would that be convenient?"
