Читать книгу The Lady Travelers Guide To Scoundrels And Other Gentlemen - Victoria Alexander - Страница 14
ОглавлениеThere are moments of tedium in the course of travel when one is confined to a train carriage or ship’s cabin that provide the perfect opportunity to study the places one is headed. The clever lady traveler will be prepared with books not only on the current state of one’s destination but on its history, as well. However, fictional tales of misadventure or mayhem are best avoided as they will serve only to make even the most stalwart lady traveler uneasy.
—The Lady Travelers Society Guide
INDIA STARED AT the ornate white ceiling embellished with entwined plaster swags and flowers and, for a moment, couldn’t determine exactly where she was. Of course. She was in Paris, where even the beds were decadent. Although apparently, when it came to blissful slumber, there was something to be said for a certain amount of decadence. She struggled to sit upright in spite of the soft, cushiony mattress that seemed determined to seduce her back to sleep under downy covers and the scent of fresh-washed linen. Pity she was made of sterner stuff.
She couldn’t remember ever having slept so soundly. Perhaps, when she returned to London, she’d look into replacing her firm, sensible mattress with something a bit more self-indulgent. Although her excellent night’s sleep probably had less to do with the bed and everything to do with her overwhelming fatigue. Who would have thought doing nothing more than sitting on trains and steamboats would be quite so exhausting? She’d done nothing of any merit all day yesterday save to change from train to boat and back to another train. Although travel was not without its perils. She had quickly learned Mrs. Greer had an unending reserve of completely inconsequential topics she delighted in expounding upon given the slightest opportunity. In that, she and her husband were well matched, although his chosen topics were of a more intellectual nature—the influence of classical thought on the architecture of the last century as opposed to his wife’s ponderings on whether the French would be relying more on feathers or silk flowers for the decoration of hats this year. India’s hats were sensible, practical creations and in no need of such frippery.
Never in her entire life had India imagined she would be going to Paris—that bastion of sin and debauchery. Whereas Heloise had gone on and on about the delights of Paris—the innovation, art, history and food—and couldn’t wait to sample it all for herself, India was perfectly happy with the impressive history, practical innovation, notable art and solid food of her native England. France held no particular lure for India, nor did the French. She’d never met a Frenchman but had heard they were uniformly rude and condescending. She was not fond of being condescended to by anyone.
While India preferred not to be bothered by idle chatter, she’d had no choice but to engage in conversation during meals with the Greers and Mr. Saunders—Derek, he’d insisted she call him as they were to be traveling companions for the foreseeable future. As Mrs. Greer—Estelle—was already doing so, it seemed rude of India not to. But the rest of the day she avoided unnecessary discussion by claiming to be engrossed in one of the books she had brought with her—although admittedly reading Dyke Darrel, The Railroad Detective, a story of murder, theft and all manner of mayhem may not have been wise when one was actually traveling by rail. Why, such a story might put a less rational person than herself in the position of looking with distrust at every suspicious person on the train. Although there did seem to be a significant number of questionable travelers—especially once they were in France. India would have been much better off rereading her copy of Mr. Bazalgette’s Agent about the indomitable Miss Miriam Lea, although the very idea of a female detective was totally absurd, if oddly compelling.
India drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and studied the room. She’d barely paid any attention to her surroundings upon their arrival last night. Far larger than her bedchamber at home, the room allotted her was colored in muted shades of lilac and blue. It was at once serene and calming and distinctly welcoming. Lace curtains fluttered slightly at the long windows at the end of the room. The furniture was delicate in appearance, colored in aging shades of white, accented with burnished gold. From the pastel Aubusson rug on the floor to small, crystal sconces on the wall, the room spoke of wealth and heritage and feminine grace. It was as far from her own taste as if some obstinate, contrary creature had designed it with annoying her in mind, and yet she rather liked it.
By the time they’d actually set foot on Parisian soil, it had been quite late. The professor had arranged for their baggage to be collected from the Salle des Bagages, and insisted upon waiting to accompany the luggage while Derek had found transportation and escorted the two ladies to their lodgings. India had assumed they would be staying at a hotel, but Derek explained, given the Paris Exposition opened its doors last month—as did its remarkably ugly iron tower centerpiece—hotel rooms had been booked for months. He said it was fortunate that he had a relative with a large house in the center of the city. India was far too tired to care at that point, although now she wondered at the wisdom of staying in the private home of a relation of his, even if he was right and they had little choice. They were no doubt lucky to have a roof over their heads at all, let alone one quite as opulent as this.
Professor Greer was probably no more than a few minutes behind them, but neither India nor Estelle could keep their eyes open. They were both whisked off immediately to their respective rooms by friendly, smiling maids who chattered the entire time in a manner reminiscent of finches. Poor Estelle’s French was minimal, but India was quite adept at languages and had studied French, Italian and German. Admittedly, she had never spoken anything but English outside of a classroom.
A knock sounded at her door, and before she could respond, it flew open.
“Good morning, mademoiselle.” A pretty dark-haired girl, one of the maids from last night—Suzette, if India recalled correctly—breezed into the room carrying a tray bearing a plate of pastries, a pot and a cup. “I hope you slept well.”
“Quite well, thank you.” And apparently she was starving. The food they’d purchased from vendors yesterday was no more than adequate, and they had all eaten sparingly. “You speak English?”
“I have been studying the English for some time, mademoiselle.” Suzette set the pot on a side table, then deftly unfolded short legs under the tray and set it in front of India on the bed. India stared at the golden pastries accompanied by a dish of raspberries. It was not at all her usual kind of breakfast—lightly buttered toast, coddled eggs and a small slice of ham. No, this was...French. “My fiancé, Jerome, and I will settle in America after we marry. One of us should know the language. Jerome is a carver of stone. His cousin is in America and writes that there is very much work for a man with Jerome’s skills.”
She filled the cup with a rich, dark chocolate. Good Lord, India hadn’t had chocolate in longer than she could remember. Leave it to the immoral, irresponsible French to have chocolate on an ordinary day. The aroma drifted past India’s nose, and her stomach growled. She picked up the cup and took a sip, resisting the urge to sigh with delight. It tasted every bit as wonderful as it smelled. Perhaps in this, and this alone, the French were on to something.
“He is a true artist, mademoiselle. What the man can do with his hands...” Suzette heaved a heartfelt sigh, and India wasn’t entirely sure if she was still talking about stone. “But he is not, oh...adept at words. So I will translate American for him, and he will earn our fortune.” She beamed at India.
“That sounds like an excellent plan.” India broke off a piece of a croissant and popped it in her mouth. It fairly melted on her tongue. There may well be something to be said for decadence—at least at breakfast. “Tell me, Suzette, where exactly am I?”
“Why, you are in Paris, mademoiselle,” she said cautiously and inched toward the door. “You did not know that?”
“Yes, of course.” She gestured with the pastry in her hand. “But whose house is this? I was so tired when we arrived, I’m afraid that has slipped my mind.”
“Ah.” Suzette’s expression cleared. “I see. This is the home of the Marquess of Brookings,” she announced with a flourish.
“Brookings?” India swallowed the bite of croissant in her mouth. “He’s English then?”
“Indeed he is, but his mother was Parisian.” Suzette smirked with satisfaction. “This was his mother’s family’s house.”
“And he lives here?”
“As well as in England, but he is here as often as possible.”
“But why?”
Suzette stared as if the very question was mad. “Because it is Paris.”
“Even so, he is English,” India persisted. After all, why would a subject of Her Majesty’s choose to live anywhere but England? “It makes no sense to me.”
“And it makes no sense to a Parisian to live anywhere but Paris.”
“But he’s English.”
“I would suggest you ask his lordship why he chooses to live where he does,” Suzette said firmly. “I do not gossip about my employer.”
“Of course not. I never thought—I am sorry.”
Suzette waved off the apology as if India’s comments were already forgotten. “I am to assist you during your stay. Please call for me at any time. Is there anything else you need at the moment?”
“Yes, actually, I was wondering...” India held her arms out. Her sleeves dripped with delicate lace, an extravagant lace-trimmed ruffle plunged down the center of her chest, far lower than any nightgown she’d ever even imagined wearing. “Whose gown is this?”
As their luggage had not arrived with them last night, she had been provided with borrowed nightclothes. She’d paid no attention; she’d practically fallen into bed and was asleep in minutes. The gown was as decadent as the bed. Pale peach in color—to complement the room no doubt—silky against her skin, with no weight to the fabric at all, and far sheerer than anything any respectable woman would ever wear, even in the privacy of the bedroom. She could see more than the mere shadow of her arm in the sleeve and was afraid to get out from under the protection of the covers for fear of what she might reveal. “The marquess’s wife perhaps?”
Suzette scoffed as if India had just said something absurd. “The marquess is not married.”
“Then whose gown is this?”
“I am not entirely certain, mademoiselle.” Suzette frowned thoughtfully. “Probably a mistress but I do not know which one.”
India stared in shock. “He has more than one?”
“Oh no, not at the same time,” Suzette said matter-of-factly. “That would be...difficult.”
India snorted. “One would think.” She did need to get out of bed. “Has my luggage arrived?”
Suzette shrugged. “I have not seen it, mademoiselle.”
“I’m sure it’s here somewhere.” India sighed. “Very well then, until it’s located, I shall have to make do with what I was wearing yesterday.”
“Yes, of course, mademoiselle.” Suzette nodded. “Your clothes are being brushed and pressed. I shall bring them as soon as they are ready.”
“I do appreciate that, but what am I to wear until then?” India certainly couldn’t leave her room dressed like a tart.
“Ah!” Suzette brightened and stepped to the chaise near the foot of the bed. She picked up a garment matching the gown India wore and displayed it with pride. “There is as well a dressing gown to match the negligee.”
It was no more substantial than what she had on, but hopefully adding another layer would help. Regardless, she had no intention of leaving her room until she was properly attired.
“I see you’re awake,” a male voice sounded from the hall. “You slept much later than I expected. I rather thought you’d be an early riser.” A tall, dashing gentleman with hair colored a rich walnut and an infectious grin strode into the room. He looked to be about the same age as Derek and had the same lighthearted nature. “Forgive my impatience, but I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
India yanked the covers up to her chin. “Have you?”
He chuckled. “Derek has told me a great deal about you.”
“Has he?” Shock at this intrusion was apparently robbing her of all ability to speak in words more than one syllable long. But then she’d never had a handsome devil invade her bedroom before. A certain amount of stunned paralysis was probably to be expected.
“Oh my, yes.” His gaze raked over her in an admiring manner. “But apparently he left out some important facts.”
Heat washed up her face. Why, the man was flirting with her! How terribly forward. She clutched the covers tighter. “I beg your pardon, but I can’t imagine, even in Paris, one invades a lady’s bedchamber without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“The door was open.” He shook his head in a chastising manner. “I don’t think you can really call it an invasion if the door is open. An open door is more like, oh, an invitation.”
“I did not invite you!”
“And yet.” He grinned in a manner that was at once boyishly endearing and completely wicked. “Here I am. Allow me to introduce myself. I am your host, Percival St. James, Marquess of Brookings.” He swept an exaggerated bow. “And I am at your service.”
“Very nice to meet you, my lord,” she said without thinking, then tightened her grip on the covers with one hand and waved her free hand at the door. “And if you are truly at my service, you will take your leave at once.”
“I am truly at your service,” he said staunchly, although she suspected her definition of “at your service” and his were decidedly different. “And my friends call me Percy or Val, one of which I prefer to the other, but it makes no difference as anything is better than Percival. Don’t you agree?”
She stared, not entirely sure what to say. “I suppose.”
“As I am certain we are going to be friends, which would you prefer to call me, Miss Prendergast?”
“I do not share your certainty, and I will call you Lord Brookings,” she said firmly. “Anything else would be most inappropriate.”
“Precisely the point.” He grinned and glanced at the maid. “Suzette, if you would be so good as to see if Miss Prendergast’s clothes are ready.”
“Yes, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsy, aimed India a quick glance of encouragement and took her leave.
“And leave the door open if you will,” India called after her.
“Come now, India—”
“Miss Prendergast.”
“You are perfectly safe in my presence. In spite of what you may have heard, I have never ravaged a woman who did not wish to be ravaged. And with great enthusiasm I might add.”
“Given that I am in bed wearing the clothes of one of your mistresses, that is good to know.” India paused. “And I haven’t heard anything.”
He stared at her. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Nothing at all?” He frowned. “My reputation has not preceded me?”
“I’d never so much as heard your name until a few minutes ago.”
“That’s rather distressing.”
She stared in disbelief. “Why?”
“It does one no good to have a certain reputation if no one knows about it. Are you sure you’ve never heard of me?” he added hopefully.
Good Lord, the silly man was actually bothered that she’d never heard of his no doubt sordid reputation. She felt the tiniest bit sorry for him and dismissed the feeling at once. What on earth was she thinking? “Perhaps I have never heard of you because I am not active in society.”
“Oh, well then.” His expression brightened. “That makes perfect sense.” He stepped closer and perched on the side of the bed.
She slid to the center of the mattress, nearly upending the tray in the process. “You’re sitting on my bed!”
“Indeed I am.” He glanced around and patted the bed beside him. “I hope you found it to your liking.”
“Yes, yes, it was quite comfortable. Now if you would be so good as to remove yourself from my bed, I would be most appreciative.”
“But this is convenient as well as comfortable.” He pinned her with a firm look. “You didn’t expect me to keep talking to you from the other side of the room.”
“You were closer to the foot of the bed than the other side of the room.”
“And now I am closer still.” He grinned. Again. This was completely absurd. There was a man—a stranger—sitting on her bed! And as much as she tried to maintain her indignation, he was rather disarming. Which was every bit as annoying as the man himself. “I can tell you all sorts of stories.”
“I don’t care!”
He ignored her. “Some of them are even true, but most are simply the stuff of gossip. As you haven’t heard any of the stories about me it compels me, as your host and a man with an unsavory reputation—”
“Well earned I suspect.” She glared at him.
“I would say the tales of my misadventures are somewhere between well earned and a complete exaggeration.” He paused. “Perhaps not a complete exaggeration.”
She raised a brow.
“Possibly embellished more than exaggerated, although one or two might be fairly accurate.” He waggled his brows at her in a most disconcerting way. If she wasn’t so irritated, she might have laughed. “I would imagine it all depends on who is telling the story. You know how these things are.”
“I don’t know how these things are nor do I wish to. Now.” She aimed a pointed finger at the door. “If you would be so good as to get out of my room, my lord, I—”
“Percy. Or Val. Your choice.” He reached over and selected a piece of her pastry.
“Lord Brookings,” she forced a hard note to her voice, “if you don’t leave at once, I shall...I shall scream. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll scream. And quite loudly.”
“Because you fear for your virtue?” He considered her curiously and took a bite of the pastry.
“Not as much as I fear for my croissants!”
“I doubt that you have ever in your entire life screamed, quite loudly or otherwise,” he said mildly. “Unless of course it was at the unexpected appearance of a rat, but certainly not out of fear or rage or frustration. You don’t strike me as that type of woman.”
For a moment she considered lying, but what was the point? “I have never felt the need before as I usually have my emotions well in hand.”
“But not today.” He smirked, and she had the immediate impulse to smack his face.
“On the contrary, my lord, I am in complete control of my emotions as well as being both rational and logical.” She summoned a measure of calm. “As you will not depart willingly, it seems to me, if I were to scream as loudly as possible, you would then do exactly as I ask and leave my room.”
“You expect me to scamper away like a frightened bunny?” He tossed the rest of the croissant in his mouth.
“I’m not sure I would have used the term frightened bunny but...” She met his gaze firmly. “Yes, I do. Regardless of whatever reputation you claim to have, no man in his right mind wishes to have a woman’s scream echoing through his home. It tends to frighten servants, who will then seek other positions. And I imagine finding good servants in Paris is every bit as difficult as it is in London.”
“You have no idea,” he murmured and reached for another pastry.
“I would further suspect, even in Paris, neighbors who hear a woman’s scream—” she nodded at the open window “—might well be inclined to summon the police. Particularly if they lived next door to a foreign scoundrel with a scandalous reputation.”
He stared at her for a moment, then laughed. “Touché, India—”
“Miss Prendergast.”
“Derek calls you India.”
She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Mr. Saunders and I will be spending a great deal of time together, accompanied by Professor and Mrs. Greer. In the interest of expediency, it was decided we would call one another by our given names. There is absolutely no reason why you and I should be so personal.”
“Except that I am your gracious host.”
“And while you do have my gratitude, I am still not inclined to call you Percival, Percy, Val or anything other than Lord Brookings.”
“I see.” He took a bite of her croissant and chewed thoughtfully, studying her the entire time.
She picked up a raspberry and tossed it in her mouth. If the man was trying to make her uncomfortable, he was failing. Admittedly, she might have been a bit nonplussed when he had first appeared in her room. Who wouldn’t be given she was in a strange bed dressed like a harlot? Perhaps their absurd sparring was to blame, or possibly the chocolate, but she had regained her normal disposition. She had no intention of letting this arrogant, presumptuous relation of Derek’s get the better of her. Why, it would be almost as bad as if Derek was doing it himself.
“I shall make a bargain with you, India,” he said at last.
“Miss Prendergast.” She smiled pleasantly.
“Believe it or not, it is remarkably difficult to scream.”
“I can’t imagine that.”
“But you have never before screamed. One must let go of all one’s reservations. Put one’s heart and soul into it, if you will. I doubt that a woman like you can do it.”
“What exactly do you mean?” She drew her brows together. “A woman like me?”
“Derek says you’re cool and collected. Not the least bit emotional.” He lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “Even somewhat cold.”
“Does he?” India wasn’t sure why something she’d always prided herself on now bothered her just the tiniest bit.
“He does.” Lord Brookings nodded, a challenge in his eye.
She met his gaze directly. “Good.”
He laughed. “I shall make you a wager, India.”
“Miss Prendergast. And I never wager.”
“You see, I don’t believe you can overcome your reserve, your unyielding conviction as to what is proper and what is not. Therefore, if you can toss your inhibitions aside and truly release a bloodcurdling yell, I shall, from then on, quite properly call you Miss Prendergast.”
“Good Lord.” For a moment, she could have sworn she was governess again. “How old are you?”
He grinned.
“And are you really a marquess?”
“I am.”
“And that is an English title? Not some frivolous foreign designation?”
“I am the eighth Marquess of Brookings. My father was the seventh, my grandfather the sixth and so on. I have the papers to prove it if you wish to see them.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“So what’s it to be, India? Although I must say I like the sound of India and Percy. It fairly reeks of England, and yet I think it has a certain flair to it.” He reached for her last croissant. “Although, perhaps India and Val are even more—”
Before she could think better of it, India opened her mouth and screamed.
