Silken Promises

by Lisa Bingham

  Fiona dropped the towel and did as she was told, sighing at the cool caress of China silk on her skin. Never had she imagined that undergarments could be so delightful. These were delicate as a cobweb, as sleek as rainwater.

  After stepping into the first petticoat, she joined Alma. Minutes later, she was dressed in the rest of the underpinnings needed to support her gown. Yet when Alma held out a pale pink underskirt for her to don, her eyebrows rose. This was the first day she had been given something other than the ugly black suit she’d ordered from Mr. Peebles. After confronting him in his shop, the Beasleys had completely changed Fiona’s wardrobe orders, never letting her see what they planned for her to wear. While shopping, Fiona had helped pick out shoes and gloves and hats in all sorts of styles and shades without a clue as to what she would wear with them. Through it all she’d seen women wearing sherbet-colored gowns and she’d yearned to wear something that feminine.

  She eyed the pink skirt with obvious hunger. “I’m supposed to be in mourning. Isn’t that a trifle… cheery?”

  “Trust me, dear.”

  Sure that Jacob would be angry at the dash of color, but not willing to argue with Alma Beasley, she allowed the taffeta creation to be slipped over her head.

  “Amelia?”

  “Yes, Sister?” The call came from the sitting room.

  “Have you called for Mr. Peebles?”

  “He’s just arrived.”

  “Have you retrieved the gown from our room?” Wishing to keep tabs on which deliveries had been made from which stores, the Beasleys had arranged for all the boxes and bags to be delivered to their room.

  “Yes indeed.”

  “Well, bring it in here.”

  Amelia’s apple-withered face appeared around the edge of the door. “She’s ready?”

  “Of course she’s ready!”

  Amelia grinned and bounded inside, her frail arms fairly heaping with skirts and flounces and ruffles.

  “Here you are. Mr. Peebles is waiting in the other room in case any alterations need to be made.”

  “Good. Hand me the items as I call for them, Amelia. Blouse.”

  A sheer delicate shirtwaist of ivory silk with lace insets was pulled over Fiona’s arms, then fastened with tiny pearl buttons down the front.

  “Overskirt.”

  Next came the first layer of the gown, a heavy skirt made of ebony satin with a deep flounce that fell from her knees to the floor and yards of fabric that mounded over her bustle and cascaded into a train. As Alma reached beneath the garment to adjust the tapes and buckles that would control the degree of puffed fabric, Fiona indulged a small sigh of regret—the only breath she could manage beneath the tight lacing of her corset. Her underslip might be pink, but the gown would be black.

  “The swag, please.”

  Fiona gasped in delight, seeing that her fears were not to be realized. The gathered apronlike garment of black and pink stripes was draped around her hips, then tied in the back with a huge bow.

  “Jacket.” Alma paused to apologize. “I know the heat is dreadful, dear, but your position as a widow does demand you wear a coat. But I have instructed that it be of the ‘open’ variety, meaning that it is not necessary to button anything more than the vest.”

  She handed Fiona the outer covering, one that would have been somber in its ebony color if not for the faux vest of a smaller pink and black stripe that fastened at her waist and the pink silk piping, which lined the high collar and military-style cuffs.

  “Now the shoes.”

  Amelia ran into the other room, returning with a box that she opened to reveal a pair of black and pink satin hightop boots with jet buttons.

  “Sit, please.”

  Fiona took her position on a small chair, and the two women slipped the shoes onto her feet and fastened them with a pair of buttonhooks. Then Alma turned her attention to dressing Fiona’s coiffure with sparkling, jet-tipped hairpins, while Amelia hurried to collect the rest of her accessories.

  Prior to stepping from the room for Mr. Peebles’s final vote of approval, a tiny bonnet was pinned to the loose curls piled on top of Fiona’s head. A small swathe of illusion veiled her eyes. She’d been given bob earrings with jet and garnet stones, pink gloves, and a black and pink parasol.

  “Well, Mr. Peebles, what do you think?”

  He whirled from his perusal out the window, then paused, barely breathing, his lips slowly tilting in delight.

  “Stars and garters, Mrs. McFee! You look like an empress!”

  She laughed—she couldn’t help herself. She felt like royalty. She felt invincible.

  Mr. Peebles fussed over her for a few minutes, restitching the hem of her flounce when it proved too long, adjusting the drape of her skirt. Then he nodded his approval. “It’s time,” he pronounced.

  The Beasleys grinned in pleasure.

  “Let’s go see what we can find for breakfast.”

  Amelia patted her hand. “Just remember: You are a beautiful woman. Be proud of that fact. Not everyone is blessed with such a state.” Then the two women glanced at each other and giggled.

  As they walked from the room, Alma muttered for all to hear, “Can’t wait to get a glimpse of Jacob’s face when he sees you. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the man so pole-axed.”

  Pole-axed? Jacob?

  Never.

  Jacob scowled in the direction of the Grecian pillars that led from the dining room into the main lobby. There was no mistaking the two elderly ladies who peeked around the maître d’, then grinned and waggled their fingers in acknowledgment.

  “Come along, Amelia.”

  He heard Alma’s command from yards away. Why she was always bellowing that same instruction to her sister he didn’t know, for Amelia never strayed from her side.

  “Good morning, Jacob.”

  “Ladies.”

  The women met each other’s gaze, evidently very pleased with themselves. “She’s here.”

  “Who?”

  Alma rolled her eyes. “Who else?”

  Jacob grew still. “You didn’t bring—”

  “Fiona? Yes!” Amelia inserted, taking the chair beside him and whispering, “We decided she should make an entrance.”

  “I thought I told her to stay in the—”

  The words died in his throat as a tall, elegant creature stepped under the arch. If not for the fact that both elderly women bent close and punched him in the ribs, he might not have recognized her. Fiona appeared wealthy, refined, and sophisticated in her stylish suit and feather-topped bonnet.

  He found himself unable to breathe. Never in all his born days had he thought that Fiona McFee could ever look like… like that. Automatically, he rose to his feet, ignoring the napkin that dropped to the ground. She found his gaze, smiled ever so slightly, then looked away—just as a proper woman should.

  After that slight pause, she walked forward. His awe at her appearance dimmed somewhat as Jacob stood frozen, praying that she could carry off her role. He grew more tense with each step she took, wondering what Fiona would do to reveal her true identity: Trip on the rug? Swear? But to his infinite surprise, she surveyed the room with a cool gaze as she made her way into the dining hall, bustle swaying, parasol tapping.

  The maître d’ snapped to attention, leaning close for her murmured instructions. Then he led her to a table in the solar, seating her in the sun between two potted ferns.

  “Bravo,” Alma whispered, casting an I-told-you-so glance in Jacob’s direction. “There’s no need to keep her locked in her room, Jacob. The girl can play her part. However, she shouldn’t sit alone.”

  “It would invite the wrong company.”

  As if Amelia’s words had been uttered by an oracle, Jacob saw Darby Kensington wending his way through the tables.

  “Damn,” he whispered under his breath.

  “Oh, dear. He was watching her several days ago when we returned from
one of our shopping expeditions. She was wearing her veil, so I doubt he’ll recognize her.” Her lips pursed in disapproval. “It was obvious that it was the size of her retinue that attracted his attention.”

  Jacob scowled at the news. “Stay here, ladies.”

  He crossed the distance in slow, measured steps, not wanting to startle Fiona into revealing herself or call Kensington’s attention to his own presence. But his fingers automatically rested on the hilt of his revolver.

  Hell, he was too far away to prevent the ultimate confrontation. He saw the way Darby paused a few feet from her table. Fiona glanced at him—a brief, proper glance—then studied the menu.

  Darby moved closer, speaking, the words low so that Jacob couldn’t hear.

  Abandoning her study of the menu, Fiona caught Jacob’s eye. He was close enough to hear her say, “I am afraid, sir, that you are taking frightful liberties.”

  Darby was far from dissuaded. “With one so beautiful, I pray I can be forgiven.” He paused, then said, “I hope I might also be allowed to join you for a moment.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Grey?”

  Jacob nearly stumbled when she caused Kensington to turn and measure the worth of his adversary.

  “What say does… Mr. Grey have in your choices?”

  One of her brows rose. It was obvious that Fiona found him far too assured of himself.

  “He is,” she stated slowly while beckoning to a waiter, “my bodyguard.”

  At the word “bodyguard” it was Kensington who demonstrated his surprise.

  “You find yourself in need of protection?”

  “Don’t all women?” She handed the menu to Jacob. “Would you be so kind as to order for me, Mr. Grey?”

  He silently applauded her tactic—one that relegated him to the role of a mere servant while managing to pique Kensington’s interest all in one move.

  As Jacob gave an order for fresh fruit and a tray of sweetbreads, part of his mind centered on the pair at the table.

  “I haven’t seen you at the hotel before today.”

  Jacob thought he saw her eyes twinkling. “Haven’t you?”

  “Surely I would remember someone like you.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Kensington?”

  The waiter retreated, allowing Jacob to eavesdrop openly.

  Kensington’s brows rose and he leaned on his walking stick. “You know me?”

  “I know of you.”

  Jacob didn’t understand where Fiona was leading the conversation, but he hoped she wouldn’t go too far.

  “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Oh?” Kensington drawled, bending even closer.

  “Your reputation with cards.” A very subtle chiding note feathered her tone, causing him to grin.

  “Only with cards, Miss…”

  “Mrs.”

  His good humor dimmed ever so slightly.

  “As my late husband used to say—”

  “Late husband?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kensington. I am a widow.”

  “You have my condolences.”

  “Which are appreciated, but unnecessary. You see, my beloved groom was very old, very rich, and very talented. Prior to his death he passed on to me his wisdom, his money, and his craft.”

  “What craft would that be?”

  She paused, then drawled, “Gambling, Mr. Kensington.” After her announcement, she stood up. “Mr. Grey, I am no longer very hungry. Will you please cancel my repast?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then I should like to go for a drive if you deem it prudent.”

  Jacob’s lips twitched in amusement over the use of a word that days ago she hadn’t even known.

  “I’m starving.”

  Fiona waited until the carriage had pulled well away from the hotel before speaking, but she wasn’t about to hold her tongue completely.

  “You were wonderful in there.” Jacob’s comment caught her by surprise. “I never dreamed you would find a way to capture Kensington’s attention in a manner that would appear so natural, yet so intriguing.”

  “I didn’t ruin anything?” She waited on tenterhooks, aware of the fact that she’d failed him too many times in the past few days when she’d been unable to grasp the finer graces he’d thought she should employ.

  He squeezed her hand beneath the fullness of her skirts. “The man’s interest was clearly engaged. Not just because of your mention of gambling, but also because you are so lovely.”

  She tipped her head, studying him through the veiling of her hat.

  “Do you really think so?” She couldn’t prevent the question. She needed to hear him say the words.

  “I do.” He touched her chin, then, after ascertaining that her parasol hid them from the sightlines of the hotel, he leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on her lips.

  She smiled, a spark igniting the same slow heat that invariably eased through her veins when she found herself in his company, his arms.

  “The Beasleys met with Mr. Peebles and made sketches of this dress for him to copy.”

  “I like it.”

  “I suppose this was what you had in mind when you hired Mr. Peebles?”

  “No.” The answer was low, rich, husky.

  “No?”

  “It’s better, far better. You look… you look…”

  “What?”

  “Like a lady.”

  It was the highest compliment he could have given her, but there was more. Brushing his thumb across her knuckles, he said, “But you’ve always been that, haven’t you, Fiona? You’ve always been a lady—inside, where it counted.”

  She shook her head, but he touched her cheek, halting the refusal. “I was wrong. Being a lady isn’t how you speak or walk or act. It’s how you…”

  “Feel inside.”

  He smiled. “Yes. I think that’s it.”

  “So what happens now?”

  He grew serious. “I haven’t wanted to tell you before now—I didn’t want you to feel pressured—but Darby has booked himself on a tourist train that leaves the day after tomorrow.”

  Fiona felt a pang of anxiety. So that was why he’d been gone so much of late. He must have been taking care of details for days.

  “Yer sure?” she asked, her nerves injecting a note of the Irish, one that seemed to occur less and less under the Beasleys’ tutelage.

  “We’ve determined that Kensington has purchased a ticket. I’ve made arrangements for a private car for you and me.”

  “What about the Beasleys?”

  “Well…”

  “And Mr. Peebles?”

  “I can see the Beasleys have been instructing you quite thoroughly as to the servants required of a woman of station.”

  “You were the one who worried about what people would think.”

  “So you need to drag two old ladies along?”

  “Chaperones.”

  “As well as a tailor?”

  “We’ve ordered an entirely new wardrobe. The Beasleys and I have spent all our time taking care of the accessories and such.”

  “I gathered that from the stack of bills. As of today, I’ve seen nothing to warrant them but your wrapper and that dress.”

  She cast a worried glance in his direction, wondering if she and the Beasleys would be scolded for their excesses. “The Beasleys are keeping everything in their room for now.”

  “There’s no need to appear so concerned, Fiona. After seeing the results, I’m more than happy to deal with the consequences.” He released her hand to cup her cheek. “More than happy.” Bending forward, he pressed his lips to her own.

  Dear heaven, would she ever get enough of this man? Ever—

  Without warning he jerked away, pushing her to the floor.

  “What in—” Gunfire erupted, and the dull smack of a bullet striking the carriage filled her ears.

  Chapter 11

  “What
in heaven’s name?”

  Jacob wasn’t listening to her. Infused with a sense of purpose, he covered her body with his, shouting instructions to the driver. They rode pell-mell through the streets, not slowing their pace until it became clear that they’d lost the gunman. Finally the carriage clattered to a stop in the alley between a pair of brownstones.

  Jacob waited, his hand on her shoulder, keeping her flattened in an ignominious heap at the bottom of the carriage until he was sure that they were safe. When he finally offered his hand, Fiona was trembling so badly she could barely stand.

  Seeing her predicament, he swept his arms around her and lifted her onto the seat. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, still dazed by all that had occurred in such a short period of time. “No.” Her eyes fell on the seat. A jagged hole had appeared in the leather, and stuffing and horsehair popped out at the edges where the bullet had exited.

  “Someone shot at us,” she said, stating the obvious. Even the words sounded unreal. “Who?” She grasped Jacob’s hands. “Who shot at us?”

  Seeing her distress, Jacob spoke quietly to the driver, instructing him to check the streets and ensure that no one was still looking for them. It was an obvious ploy for privacy, but the man didn’t seem inclined to object.

  As soon as he’d gone, Jacob hauled Fiona into his arms. She clung to him, not caring that her actions could be interpreted as weak. At this moment she needed him. Needed his strength.

  “Why was someone shooting at us?”

  Her head was tucked beneath his chin so she was unable to see him, but she could feel the way he stiffened. “I think they were shooting at me.”

  When she would have straightened, he held her still. “Shh. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “How can you be so sure? You warned me that my involvement with Darby Kensington could prove dangerous.”

  “That’s true. But you met with Kensington just a few minutes ago. Did he strike you as threatening?”

  “No.”

  “I doubt he’s responsible.”

  “Then who did this?”

  He stroked her back with his hands, remaining silent for some time before saying, “Years ago, my sister, her husband, and I were responsible for putting a vigilante group behind bars. The leaders of that group recently escaped from prison. I have reason to believe that they would like to exact revenge on those they think responsible for their plight.”