Читать книгу Tarnished Amongst the Ton - Louise Allen - Страница 10

‘May I go shopping, Mata? I would like to visit the bazaar.’

‘There are no bazaars, Sara. It is all shops and some markets.’

‘There is one called the Pantheon Bazaar, Reade told me about it.’

Ashe lifted an eyebrow at his father as he poured himself some more coffee. ‘It is not like an Indian bazaar. Much more tranquil, I am certain, and no haggling. It is more like many small shops, all together.’

‘I know. Reade explained it to me while she was doing my hair this morning. But may I go out, Mata?’

‘I have too much to do today to go with you.’ Their mother’s swift, all-encompassing glance around the gloomy shadows of what they had been informed was the Small Breakfast Parlour—capital letters implied—gave a fair indication of what she would be doing. Ashe had visions of bonfires in the back garden.

He murmured to his father, ‘Fifty rupees that Mata will have the staff eating out of her hand by this time tomorrow and one hundred that she’ll start redecorating within the week.’

‘I don’t bet on certainties. If she makes plans for disposing of these hideous curtains while she’s at it, I’ll be glad. I can’t take you, Sara,’ the marquess added as she turned imploring eyes on the male end of the table.

‘I will,’ Ashe said amiably. Sara was putting a brave face on it, but he could tell she was daunted as well as excited by this strange new world. ‘I could do with a walk. But window shopping only, I’m not being dragged round shops while you dither over fripperies. I was going along Jermyn Street. That’s got some reasonable shops, so Bates said, and I need some shaving soap.’

An hour later Sara was complaining, ‘So I have to be dragged around shops while you dither about shaving soap!’

‘You bought soap, too. Three sorts,’ Ashe pointed out, recalling just why he normally avoided shopping with females like the plague. ‘Look, there’s a fashionable milliner’s.’

He had no idea whether it was in the mode or not. Several years spent almost entirely in an Indian princely court was not good preparation for judging the ludicrous things English women put on their heads and he knew that anything seen in Calcutta was a good eighteen months out of date. But it certainly diverted Sara. She stood in front of the window and sighed over a confection of lace, feathers and satin ribbon supported on a straw base the size of a tea plate.

‘No, you may not go in,’ Ashe said firmly, tucking her arm under his and steering her across Duke Street. ‘I will not be responsible for explaining to Mata why you have come home wearing something suitable for a lightskirt.’

‘Doesn’t London smell strange?’ Sara remarked. ‘No spices, no flowers. Nothing dead, no food vendors on the street.’

‘Not around here,’ he agreed. ‘But this is the smart end of town. Even so, there are drains and horse manure if you are missing the rich aromas of street life. Now that’s a good piece.’ He stopped in front of a small shop, just two shallow bays on either side of a green-painted door. ‘See, that jade figure.’

‘There are all kinds of lovely things.’ Sara peered into the depths of the window display. Small carvings and jewels were set out on a swirl of fabrics, miniature paintings rubbed shoulders with what he suspected were Russian icons, ancient terracotta idols sat next to Japanese china.

Ashe stepped back to read the sign over the door. ‘The Cabinet of Curiosity. An apt name. Look at that moonstone pendant—it is just the colour of your eyes. Shall we go in and look at it?’

She gave his arm an excited squeeze and whisked into the shop as he opened the door. Above their head a bell tinkled and the curtain at the back of the shop parted.

‘Good morning, monsieur, madame.’ The shopkeeper, it seemed, was a Frenchwoman. She hesitated as though she was surprised to see them, then came forwards.

Medium height, hair hidden beneath a neat cap, tinted spectacles perched on the end of her nose. Perfectly packaged in her plain, high-necked brown gown. Very French, he thought.

‘May I assist you?’ she asked and pushed the spectacles more firmly up her nose.

‘We would like to look at the moonstone pendant, if you would be so good.’

‘Certainement. Madame would care to sit?’ She gestured to a chair as she came out from behind the counter, lifting an ornate chatelaine to select a key before opening the cabinet and laying the jewel on a velvet pad in front of Sara.

Ashe watched his sister examine the pendant with the care their mother had taught her. She was as discriminating about gemstones as he was and, however pretty the trinket, she would not want it if it was flawed.

His attention drifted, caught by the edge of awareness that he had always assumed was a hunter’s instinct. Something was wrong… no, out of place. He shifted, scanning the small space of the shop. No one was watching from behind the curtain, he was certain there were only the three of them there.

The vendeuse, he realised, was watching him. Not the pendant for safekeeping, not Sara to assess a potential customer’s reactions, but, covertly, him. Interesting. He shifted until he could see her in the mirrored surface of a Venetian cabinet. Younger than he had first thought, he concluded, seeing smooth, unlined skin, high cheekbones, eyes shadowed behind those tinted spectacles, a pointed little chin. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and moved her hands as though to stop herself clenching them. There was something very familiar about her.

‘How much is this?’ Sara asked and the woman turned and bent towards her. Something in the way she moved registered in his head. Surely not?

Ashe strolled across and stood at her shoulder as though interested in her answer. She shifted, apparently made uncomfortable by his nearness, but she did not look at him.

She named a price, Sara automatically clicked her tongue in rejection, ready to negotiate. He leaned closer and felt the Frenchwoman stiffen like a wary animal. She had brown hair, from what he could see of the little wisps escaping from that ghastly cap. They created an enticing veil over the vulnerable, biteable, nape of her neck.

‘I would want the chain included for that,’ Sara said.

He inhaled deeply. Warm, tense woman and… ‘Jasmine,’ Ashe murmured, close to the vendeuse’s ear. She went very still. Oh, yes, this was just like hunting and he had found game. ‘You get around, madame.’

‘My varied stock, you mean, monsieur?’ She spoke firmly, without a tremor. Her nerves must be excellent. ‘Indeed, it comes from all over the world. And, yes, the pendant suits your wife so well that I can include the chain in that price.’

‘But—’ Sara began.

‘You want it, my dear?’ Ashe interrupted her. ‘Then we will take it.’ Interesting, and subtly insulting, that his acquaintance from the quayside assumed he was married. Perversely he saw no reason to enlighten her immediately, and certainly not to pursue this further with Sara sitting there.

What sort of man did she think he was, to kiss and flirt with chance-met women if he had a wife at home? Ashe knew himself to be no saint, but he had been brought up with the example of marital fidelity before him daily and he had no time for men who were unfaithful to their wives.

Which was why he intended to choose with extreme care. This was England, not India, and flouting society’s rules would not be excused here. The family were different enough as it was, with their mixed blood, his maternal grandfather’s links to trade and his paternal grandfather’s reputation for dissipation.

Ashe had a duty to marry, to provide the next heir, to enrich the family name and title with the right connections and the estate with lands and money. He glanced down at his sister, reminded yet again that her own hopes of a suitable, good marriage depended on respectability. But he would be tied to the woman who brought those connections and that dowry with her. There had to be mutual respect or it would be intolerable. Love he did not expect.

‘This is your own shop?’ he asked as he peeled off his gloves in order to take banknotes from the roll Perrott had provided. He calculated currency conversions in his head, valuing the stock he could see. Even at Indian prices there was a considerable investment represented on the shelves around him.

‘Yes, monsieur.’ She was doggedly sticking to her French pretence. Used to negotiating with hostile Frenchmen in India, he could admire her accent.

‘Impressive. I was surprised that the name is the Cabinet of Curiosity, not Curiosities.’ Without the conflicting stinks of the river and the alleyway the subtle odour of jasmine on her warm skin was filling his senses. His body began to send him unmistakable signals of interest.

‘My intention is to provide stimulation to the intellect,’ she said, returning him his change. Her bare fingers touched the palm of his hand and he curled his fist closed, trapping her.

‘As well as of the senses?’ he suggested. She went very still. Her fingers were warm, slender. Under his thumb he felt her pulse hammering. He was not alone in this reaction. Stimulation to the senses, indeed.

‘To find the treasures here one needs curiosity,’ she finished, her voice suddenly breathless. Her accent had slipped a trifle.

‘You may be sure you have stimulated mine,’ Ashe murmured. ‘All of them. I will return, with or without my… sister.’

Her hand tensed in his and as suddenly relaxed. Oh, yes, she was as aware of him as he was of her and the news that he was unmarried had struck home.

‘I must wrap the pendant, monsieur.’ She gave a little tug and he released her. There was no wedding ring on those long slender fingers with their neat oval nails. The hunting instinct stirred again and with it certain parts of his body that were better kept under control when he was supposed to be escorting his sister on a blameless shopping expedition.

Ashe slipped the flat box into his breast pocket, resumed his gloves and waited for Sara to gather up her reticule and parasol. ‘You open your shop every day?’

‘Non. I open as the whim takes me, monsieur,’ the lady of curiosities said, a little tart now and very French again. He had flustered her and she did not forgive that easily, it seemed. ‘I am often away buying stock.’

‘Down by the Pool of London, perhaps?’

She shrugged, an elegant gesture that made him wonder if she was, indeed, French. But her accent when they first met had been completely English, he recalled and she had slipped up just now. ‘Anywhere that I can find treasures for my clients, monsieur. Good day, monsieur, mademoiselle.’

‘Au revoir,’ Ashe returned and was amused to see her purse her lips. She suspected, quite correctly, that he was teasing her.

Phyllida shot the bolt on the door and retreated into the back room. Him. Here. As though she had not had enough trouble trying, and failing, to get him out of her head. She spread out her right hand, the one he had captured in his own big brown fist. She had felt overpowered, an unexpected sensation. What was most unsettling was that it was not unwelcome. A strong, decisive man after Gregory’s lazy indecision was… stimulating. And dangerous. She reminded herself that for all the charm he was a man and one who probably had no hesitation in seizing what he wanted if charm alone did not work. Men had no hesitation in using their superior strength to take advantage of a woman.

He had been without his devil-bird, but with a charming sister who was, it seemed, as bright as she was pretty. The wretch, after that kiss, to let her think he was with his wife! It did not mean he did not have one at home, of course. Not that she cared in the slightest.

But who was he? He had paid in cash, which must mean he was not one of the ton. If he had been, he would have simply handed her his card and expected her to send him an account. Besides, she had never seen him before yesterday and she knew everyone who was anyone, by sight at least. Whoever he was, he was wealthy. His clothes were, again, superb, with that hint of foreign styling. His sister, too, was dressed impeccably and the simple pearls at her neck and ears were of high quality.

A wealthy trader? If he was with the East India Company it might explain his presence at the docks. A ship owner, perhaps.

Phyllida realised she was twisting the chain of her chatelaine into a knot and released it with an impatient flick of her wrist. He was the first person who had connected any of the elements of her complicated life. But provided he was not in a position to link Mrs Drummond, the dealer who scoured the East End and the docks for treasures for the stock of Madame Deaucourt, owner of the Cabinet of Curiosity, with Phyllida Hurst, the somewhat shady sister of the Earl of Fransham, he was no danger, surely?

Except for your foolish fantasies, she scolded herself. She had never enjoyed being kissed before and that caress by the Customs House had been skilled, casually delivered as it had been. The man was a flirt of the worst kind, Phyllida told herself as she jammed the tinted spectacles back on her nose and went to open up the shop again.

And he must flirt with everything and anything in skirts, she decided, catching sight of herself in a mirror. He could hardly make the excuse that he had been so stunned by her beauty he had not known what he was doing. When properly dressed and coiffed she was, she flattered herself, not exactly an eyesore. But yesterday, in a plain stuff gown with her hair scraped back and hidden in that net, she should never have merited a second glance. Which was, of course, her intention. And it had taken him a while, even with those watchful green eyes, to recognise her in today’s outfit.

The problem was that she found herself wishing with a positively reckless abandon that her nameless man would spare her a second glance. And that kind of foolishness threatened the entire plan of campaign she had set in motion at the age of seventeen and which had cost her so dear. Idiot, she lectured herself. If he looks at you seriously it will be as a mistress, a possession, not a wife. And marriage was only a dream, not a possibility, for her.

‘Bonjour, madame.’ She opened the door and dipped a respectful curtsy to Lady Harington, who swept in with a brisk nod. She was a regular customer who obviously had no idea that she had spent quite fifteen minutes in conversation with Phyllida in her respectable guise only two evenings previously at a musicale.

‘I have received a small consignment of the most elegant fans from the Orient, madame.’ She lifted them from their silk wrappings and laid them out on the counter. ‘Each is unique and quite exclusive to myself. I am showing them only to clients of discernment.’ And they are very, very expensive, she decided, seeing the avid glint in her ladyship’s eyes. Earning the money to drag them back from the edge of ruin and to bring Gregory into complete respectability was everything. Nothing must be allowed to threaten that.

‘Thank you for my present, Ashe.’ Sara slid her hand under his elbow as they made their way from St James’s Square and turned right into Pall Mall. ‘Why did you let the shopkeeper believe we were married?’

‘I corrected her soon enough. It is no concern of hers.’ She was interested, though.

‘You were flirting with her.’

‘And what do you know of flirting, might I ask? You are not out yet.’ One of the problems with being male, single and all that implied was that Ashe was only too aware of the thoughts, desires and proclivities of the other single males who were going to come into contact with his beautiful, friendly, innocent sister. It was enough to make him want to lock her up and hide the key for at least another five years.

‘I was out in Calcutta. I went to parties and picnics and dances. Everything, in fact.’ She tilted her head and sent him a twinkling smile that filled him with foreboding. ‘It is just that you were in Kalatwah and didn’t know what I was up to.’

‘That is different. It is all much more formal here. All those rules and scandal lurking if we trip up on as much as one of them. Especially for you, which is unfair, but—’

‘I know. Young ladies must be beyond reproach, as innocent as babies.’ Sara sighed theatrically. ‘Such a pity I am not an innocent.’

‘What?’ Ashe slammed to a halt, realised where he was and carried on walking. If he had to take ship back to India to dismember whoever had got his hands on his little sister, he would. ‘Sarisa Melissa Herriard, who is he?’ he ground out.

‘No one, silly. I meant it theoretically. You don’t think Mata is like those idiotic women who don’t tell their daughters anything and expect them to work it all out on their wedding night, do you? Or leave them to get into trouble because they don’t understand what men want.’

Ashe moaned faintly. No, of course their mother, raised as an Indian princess, and presumably schooled in all the theory of the ancient erotic texts, would have passed that wisdom on to her daughter as she reached marriageable age. He just did not want to think about it.

He had been away from home too long and his baby sister had grown up too fast. On board ship he hadn’t realised. She had been her old enthusiastic, curious self and there had been no young men to flirt with except the unfortunate Mr Perrott, so Ashe had carried on thinking of her as the seventeen-year-old girl he had left when he went to their great-uncle’s court. But she was twenty now. A woman.

‘Then pretend, very hard, that you haven’t a clue,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ his oh-so-demure little sister said. ‘So, were you flirting?’

‘No. I do not flirt with plain French shopkeepers.’

‘Hmm. I’m not so certain she is plain,’ Sara said. ‘I think she would like to appear so. Perhaps because she has trouble with rakish gentlemen like you.’ They stopped before a rambling pile of red brick with two scarlet-coated guards standing in front. ‘What on earth is that?’ she asked before Ashe could demand why she considered him rakish and how she would know a rake if she saw one.

He had been doing his homework. ‘St James’s Palace. It is very old.’

‘It is a sorry excuse for a palace, in my opinion—the most junior raja can do better than that.’ Sara wrinkled her nose in disapprobation.

‘Come on, we’ll go through to the park.’ Ashe took her past the guards before they could be arrested for lèse-majesté or whatever crime being rude about the sovereign’s palaces constituted.

‘So, are you looking for a mistress?’ she enquired as they went through the improbably named Milkmaids’ Passage and into Green Park.

‘No!’ Yes. But he certainly was not going to discuss that with his little sister. It was far too long since he had been with a woman. There had been women after Reshmi—he was not a monk, after all—but the voyage had lasted months and the ship might as well have been a monastery.

‘You will be looking for a wife, though. Mata said you would be. At least there are lots more women in London to fall in love with than there were in Calcutta society.’

‘I have no intention of falling in love. I need to find a wife suitable for a viscount.’ And one who was heir to a marquisate at that.

‘But Father and Mata made a love match. Oh look, cows wandering about. But they aren’t sacred, are they?’

‘Shouldn’t think so.’ He spared the livestock a glance. ‘Not unless the Church of England has developed some very strange practices. Look, there are milkmaids or cow herds or something.

‘Our parents met and fell in love before they knew Father’s uncle had died, making grandfather the heir,’ he reminded her. ‘Mata even ran away when she found out before the wedding because she did not think she would make a good marchioness.’

‘I know, but it is ridiculous! She is clever and beautiful and brave,’ Sara said fiercely. ‘What more could be needed?

‘She is the illegitimate daughter of an East India Company merchant and an Indian princess—not the usual English aristocratic lady, you must agree. She only agreed to marry Father and to take it on because she loves him—why do you think he stayed in India until the last possible moment?’

‘I thought it was because he and his father hated each other.’

That was one way of describing a relationship where a bitter wastrel had packed his own seventeen-year-old son off to India against his will.

‘Father made his own life, his own reputation, in India. He never wanted to come back, especially with Mata’s anxieties, but they know it is their duty.’ He shrugged. ‘And one day, a long way away, I hope, it will be mine. And I’m not putting another woman through what our mother is having to deal with. So much to learn, the realisation that people are talking behind her back, assessing whether she is up to it, is well bred enough, watching for every mistake.’

‘I had not realised it would be that bad. I am an innocent after all,’ Sara said with a sigh. ‘I will do my best not to add to their worries.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘I can be good if I try. And I suppose if you find the right wife she will be a help to Mata, won’t she?’

‘Yes,’ Ashe agreed, wishing it did not feel so much like buying a horse. ‘She can take on some of the duties of chaperon for you once we are married. And a suitable bride will have social and political connections.’ He knew little about English politics as yet, but the intrigues of an Indian court seemed simple in comparison to what he had read.

‘I want to find someone like Mata found Father. Poor Ashe.’ Sara squeezed his arm companionably. ‘No love match for you.’

He should have answered faster, made a joke of it, because Sara knew him too well. ‘Oh, was there someone?’

‘Yes. Perhaps. I don’t know.’ He was mumbling. He never mumbled. Ashe got a grip on himself. ‘It never got that far.’

‘Who?’ When he didn’t answer she asked, ‘At Kalatwah?’

Reshmi. The Silken One. Great dark eyes, a mouth of sinful promise, a heart full of joy and laughter. ‘Yes.’

‘You left her?’

‘She died.’ Two years ago. It was impossible, he had known it was doomed from the start and finally he had told her, far too abruptly because he didn’t want to do it. They said it was an accident that she had trodden on a krait hidden in the dry grass and he tried to believe that it was chance, that she would never have chosen to kill herself in such a ghastly, painful way. But his conscience told him that she had been too distracted, too full of grief to be as careful as she normally was.

It was his fault. Since Reshmi he had organised his liaisons with clinical care, generously but with no misunderstandings on either side. And no attachments either.

‘It was a long time ago, I don’t think of her now.’ He tried not to, because when he did there was still the ache of her loss, the memory of the sweetness of her lips on his. The guilt at having had so much power over another person’s happiness and having failed her.

He would never find it again, that almost innocent feeling of first love. It had been cut short, like an amputation, and that, and the guilt, was why it hurt. He would never be that young, or foolish, again, which was a mercy because love seemed to hurt both parties. How would the survivor cope with the pain if one of his parents outlived the other?

Sara leaned into him and rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, too sensitive to ask more. After a moment she said, ‘Look, they are milking the cows. Is that not truly incredible? Right by the palace!’ She let go of his arm and ran across the grass, laughing, so he strode after her over the green grass, shaking off the heat and colours of India. That was the past.