by The Bargain
At the small but unmistakable frown of annoyance she exhibited, Brett arched one eyebrow speculatively. "Something concerns you, Ashleigh?"
Oh, so now it was Ashleigh, was it? She gritted her teeth in an effort to control her mounting anger, which, she vaguely realized, was really prompted by a subtle undercurrent of fear at being alone in his presence and without the protective benefits of Megan's chaperonage. Swallowing twice and then taking a deep breath, she managed to answer him in a voice she could only hope did not betray her fears. "That tale you gave out about my being your ward, Your Grace: it does not sit well with me, I must tell you."
"Really, my dear?" Brett replied, a hint of a sneer implicit in his tone. The turquoise eyes bored into her. "And why is that?"
Ashleigh fidgeted with the plain black piping on her pelisse and attempted to draw the garment more tightly about her, as if to use it to block his gaze. "It—it is simply that—that I am quite unaccustomed to... dissembling, Your Grace. Even as a small child, my—"
"Disabuse yourself of the notion that you are being asked to do anything immoral, miss!" Brett's eyes flashed with the statement, then shuttered, and she was left with the well-remembered lazy, mocking grin. "All immoral acts," he softly added, leaning down toward her to be sure they would not be overheard, "that you might have been induced to participate in, are well behind you. You and your companion had, I'd believed, my assurances last night. You have my word on it now."
Later, Ashleigh was to ask herself where she came by the boldness to say it, but whatever the cause or impulse, she suddenly found herself remarking flippantly, "You are contrite, then."
Again there was a flash of turquoise as his eyes locked with hers. Ashleigh forced her gaze downward, damning her impudent tongue, and she chanced to see his hand made into a fist, clenching and unclenching while he sought to control himself.
At last he spoke, his voice ominously low. "My dear Ashleigh, not only am I contrite, as you put it, I am doing penance! Damn my soul for the code of honor I must live by! Why else do you think I would invite two such... females into my life? For the sheer pleasure of it?"
Ashleigh felt the blood drain from her face at the onslaught, for, though his words were softly uttered, there was no mistaking the anger that fed them. Taking a backward step, she swallowed past the lump of fear that had lodged in her throat and answered him with eyes gone huge with fright. "N-no, Your Grace. I—I only meant—"
"Well, you can put such concerns out of your head—at once!" he snapped. "From now on, you are my ward. A letter went out to Adams, my solicitor, early this morning, instructing him to take the necessary steps to make that situation a reality. As for the tale I gave out regarding your past, I suggest you begin to memorize it until you know it as well as your own name—and begin believing it as well! Our only hope in having you received by those who matter lies in its total acceptance, and there's an end to it." He took a step toward her, and the turquoise eyes held hers. "Is that understood?"
Speechless, Ashleigh nodded, her own eyes wide and unblinking.
Brett nodded, but his gaze continued to bore into hers. "See that it is. As for your other concerns, know this: I deeply rue the day I mistook your innocent protests for manifestations of other motives, for it has begun to cost me in all kinds of ways. Suffice it to say, therefore, that I have no further designs on your person—" his eyes travelled briefly down the length of her, then back to her face "—lovely as it may be. Having once been burned by its temptations, I'd be a fool to be lured in that direction a second time." He paused and withdrew the gold pocket watch Ashleigh had seen him consult earlier, then turned his eyes back to hers. "And I," he added with a snap of the timepiece's hunter-case cover, "am not a fool!" He turned and headed for the door.
"Wh-where are you going, Your Grace?"
Brett turned at the half-opened door and regarded her. "My dear Ashleigh," he said in a tone that was better suited for speaking to a child, "the fitting session you are about to embark upon should take a good two, perhaps three, hours. I assure you, I have better things to do with my time than stand about and wait until you are through. My carriage driver has instructions to wait and collect you and your companion when you are ready. I shall find my own way home and see you this evening at dinner. Good day." With the briefest of nods he passed through the door and was gone.
CHAPTER TEN
Brett relaxed in his chair at White's and regarded the man across the table from him. There was an amused sparkle in the turquoise eyes as he appraised his companion.
"And what in hell is it you find so damned amusing?" demanded the huge man who was the object of his crinkled gaze. "Is it my cravat that's askew, perhaps? I'll admit, I certainly didn't spend the entire morning with my valet, like that fellow there obviously has," he added with an inclination of his head in the direction of the man sitting stiffly in the bay window a few tables away, "but then, I've better things to do with my life than emulate Brummell."
The upturned corners of Brett's mouth widened into a grin with the remark. "And I thank God you do, Patrick! I've had enough of dandies lately, to choke on! And, no, my friend, your cravat appears to be disgustingly perfect."
Patrick St. Clare grinned, displaying a set of white, even teeth in his deeply tanned face. It was an intelligent face; big, handsome and square-jawed—well suited to the gigantic proportions of the man. Bright blue eyes shone keenly from beneath heavy black brows that matched the inky curls covering his huge, well-shaped head. His nose, proportionately large but straight and even, bore a small scar on its bridge, but this in no way marred his rugged good looks. Completing the picture was a wide, pleasant-looking mouth that seemed easily disposed toward laughter, and as if to bear this out, Patrick now began to chuckle merrily as he looked at his friend.
"It's through no fault of my own, if it is, Brett! But, see, you haven't yet told me what it was that amused you so a moment ago. Out with it! Have I sprouted horns or the like?"
It was Brett's turn to chuckle. "The only horns you'd be associated with, you rogue, are the ones on the husbands cuckolded through your indiscretions!"
"Ha!" came the retort. "There's an example of the pot calling the kettle black, if I ever heard one! But, come to think on it, we might both be accused of sprouting the devil's horns, were the fair ladies of this land asked for an opinion."
"True enough." Brett grinned. "But lucky for us, just now they're too busy pinning that label on George Gordon. Thanks to Caro Lamb, it's he who has the public's eye and ear at the moment."
"Poor Byron—lionized and bait for scandal, all in a season! But come, back to the source of your merriment a few moments ago, sir! And I warn you, no further digressions!"
"Ah, yes," nodded Brett. "Well, it had to do with an encounter I had with Jersey and Castlereagh this morning...."
"Egad!" Patrick shrank back in mock horror. "Two from Olympus itself!"
Grinning, Brett continued. "Castlereagh, it seems, takes exception to Jersey's giving you a voucher for, ah, Olympus."
"Does she now? And what seems to be the problem? No, don't tell me. Let me guess.... Ah! I have it! My hair's too black... or perhaps it's my height. They've decided to exclude those over six-and-a-quarter feet! Poor Jersey must be red-faced, for she'll be having to carry her yardstick from now on." Patrick finished by making an exaggerated mime of a haughty patroness measuring a would-be applicant for admission to Almack's.
"You've missed your calling, Patrick," Brett chuckled. "You'd have made a fortune on the stage. Edmond Kean is no match for you!"
Patrick nodded with mock regret. "Ah, yes, and here I've wasted all those years being shipwrecked and carving out my fortune from scratch in America." He shook his head in mock solemnity. "Sad... so sad."
"Especially the American business," Brett told him with a wagging finger that matched his mocking tone. "For it was your years there that account for your pronunciation of your surname, Saint Clare, and it just won't do for Castlereagh. For the
grande dame it's Sin Clare or nothing!"
"Ah! So that's the way of it, is it? She'd have me publicly voice the sin in my life! There may be hope for the old girl yet."
"She's certainly having nothing of the saint you're parading about!" Brett quipped, and they both joined in a merry chuckle at their wit.
But then Brett's expression changed, and he regarded his friend with a serious look. "But, speaking of your family name, tell me—any news on your search?"
Patrick sobered instantly with the question; he shook his head, all trace of humor gone. "None. It seems there was a fire in the offices of the family solicitors several years back, and that, on top of the news I received a while ago that the senior partner we dealt with had died in 'oh-two, leaves me at a complete loss as to my next step."
"I'm sorry, my friend," said Brett as he placed his hand on Patrick's. "What will you do now?"
Patrick sighed. "Oh, I'm not sure, exactly. Go back to Kent, perhaps. After all, I went there in the first place to learn the news of the tragedy."
Brett nodded. "It was a hell of a homecoming. Tell me, though, didn't you suspect something amiss after your letters went unanswered for so long?"
Again a sigh. "You're forgetting that I spent most of those years abroad not knowing who I really was. For a dozen years of my life I was Patrick Saint, with not a trace of a recollection of my past before the shipwreck. The only reason I retained the bulk of my name was that the shirt I was wearing had part of a label left on it, inside my collar where I'd sewn it myself: Patrick St.—"
"No, I'm not forgetting, Patrick. But I was referring to the letters you began to write a little over a year ago when that fall from your horse brought everything back. After all, that's still a good while before you made it back to England."
"I know," Patrick nodded. He paused a moment to sip at the cup of coffee he held. "It took me a while to settle things on my estate in Virginia. You might recall the Americans and the British have been having a bit of a time of it lately. The end of 1812 was a hell of a time for me to get my memory back and discover I had strong ties on both sides!"
"Agreed. It must have been even more disconcerting to discover, after you arrived here, that you were a Virginia planter who was now also an English baronet!" A note of compassion entered Brett's voice. "But the worst had to be the way you learned of your family's end."
"I've had the time to digest it now, and I've done my mourning for my mother and father."
"But not for your young sister," Brett said pointedly.
"No, not for my sister." Patrick's eyes deepened to the color of sapphire, and for a moment Brett had a twinge of something vaguely familiar, but it was fleeting, and he proceeded to give his friend his full attention.
"Dammit, man," Patrick continued, "why should I? The one piece of information I was able to glean from those left in the area who were able to tell me anything, was that there was no body of a child found in the ruins of the fire. My parents', yes, and those of several servants, all of whose graves I've seen, for they're plainly marked, but of the little one there's no trace! That's why I've got to keep searching. I must! Until I know for certain one way or the other, I cannot give up hope. Can you understand that, Brett?"
Brett glanced away, not wanting Patrick to read his thoughts. He, too, had buried family over the years—his beloved grandfather just last week. But because of the circumstances affecting the earlier losses—those of his childhood— he'd come to a method of dealing with such tragedy that tended to make him cut his losses and put them behind him, forcing himself to concentrate on the future. Being of such a mind, he wasn't at all sure he could sympathize with Patrick's obsession with finding out what had happened to his sister. He was inclined to think the girl was dead and put it into the past. After all, if she were alive, where was she? Why wasn't she coming forth to claim the rightful place in society she was entitled to? The St. Clares, if Patrick was to be believed—and Brett had no reason to doubt him—might have wound up impoverished, but theirs was an old and honorable name, going back to the time of the Conqueror. Surely a surviving daughter with that kind of legacy wouldn't simply have disappeared into the woodwork!
Still, Brett thought as he turned back to his companion, Patrick was his friend—their relationship going back to their days as cabin boys, even if it was interrupted by the big man's hiatus in America—and as such, he deserved his full-hearted support. Smiling, he reached forward to clap him warmly on the shoulder. "Patrick, if there's anything I can do to aid you in your search, you know you need only ask."
Patrick returned his smile. "Thanks, my friend. And perhaps there is. When we've done with this business at Carlton House, I think I'll make that run to Kent again. Can you put me up while I'm down there?"
"I wouldn't think of your staying anywhere else." Brett looked thoughtful for a moment as he took a sip of his coffee. "I have my own notions of why our prince regent might be interested in each of our views on what's been happening since the allies made their triumphant entrance into Paris at the end of March, but you haven't told me yours." He glanced around the room, which had begun to fill up since the two had met there a half hour before. "I think we'll have more privacy if we stretch our legs a bit, don't you?"
Nodding, Patrick rose while Brett signaled their waiter, and a few minutes later, both were strolling casually along the street outside.
"It's clear I was overheard that night a few weeks ago when we shared a few draughts together," said Patrick. He looked only mildly abashed as he added, "I usually hold my liquor better than that, but I hadn't eaten a bite all day, and—"
"You said nothing that could be constituted as loose-tongued. After all, what harm is there in wondering about the wisdom of sending Napoleon to a Mediterranean island? Elba is a bit too close to France, if you ask me!"
"Yes, and not only that," Patrick added, "but they called it an unconditional surrender and then proceeded to give him an income of two million francs a year! And his wife, Marie-Louise, receives the duchies of Parma, Piacenza and Guastalla, and they both retain their imperial titles! It's lunacy! The man almost succeeded in swallowing up all of Europe, and they treat him with—with kid gloves!"
"Of course, I agree with you, Patrick—as I did then. We've not seen the last of the Little Corsican yet, mark my words."
Patrick chuckled. "Evidently somebody did exactly that, that night at the Red Lion. They marked both our words!"
Brett grinned. "You're right, of course. So now, with the entire city in a flurry over welcoming the heroes of the allied victory, I suppose the prince regent and his ministers don't wish to take any chances. They'll sound us out on our recently, and—ah—publicly, expressed views over the wisdom with which Boney was handled."
"Well, I can't blame them," Patrick told him. "It could be awfully embarrassing if, in the midst of a victory celebration, Napoleon were to somehow make it off that island and begin to gather troops about him again."
"Don't tell me you're going to tell that to Prinny!" Brett stopped and gazed at his friend in mock horror.
"Oh," answered Patrick with a grin, "I might... I just might.... You know, Brett, they really don't know what to make of me. I've functioned as an American citizen for years, but suddenly, one day I turn up here in England and we all discover I'm a blue-blooded, full-fledged member of the peerage. Add to that my Irish good looks inherited from my sainted mother, and you know what you've got?"
"The kind of man who keeps political ministers lying awake at night."
"It's the truth!" Patrick's voice rang out cheerfully with the comment, causing the heads of several passersby to turn. He immediately lowered his voice. "It's a good thing I have a bona fide intelligence man as a friend to vouch for my harmlessness."
"Softly, man, softly," Brett warned him in a whisper. "Because you saved my life that night in the alley, and, of course, because of so much more I've learned about you since we've resumed our friendship, you know I'd trust you with my life. But th
ere are times when I wish your rescuing me from the knives of those French assassin-spies hadn't made you privy to the nature of my undercover occupation. You haven't had the training in watching your tongue, and—"
"But all that's over and done with now, isn't it?"
Brett smiled, but the look in his eyes was cynical. "With Napoleon only as far as Elba? I wouldn't bet on it, my friend. I wouldn't bet on it."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ashleigh and Megan sat in the smaller, front drawing room of Ravensford Hall and sipped the tea Brett had asked the butler to serve them. To an observer they might have appeared to be two genteel English ladies stopping for a visit on their round of afternoon calls.
Ashleigh wore a frothy pink voile concoction newly cut by Madame Gautier in lines that were the last word in feminine fashion, its high waist tied with a deeper pink satin ribbon that matched the ties of her bonnet and the slashes in her full sleeves. Its floor-length, slightly flared skirt was edged in delicate lace that echoed the lace at her wrists and the yoked neckline. On her feet were matching pink kid slippers, and the spirals of glossy black curls that peeped from beneath the fashionable bonnet were appropriately chic and feminine at the same time.
Megan's outfit, while cut along the same lines, was more sedate. Understanding the need to play down the use of ribbons and frills when designing for a woman with Megan's statuesque proportions, Suzanne O'Sullivan had put together a dress of soft, sage-green silk with only the narrowest piping for trim where it was needed—this cut from the same sage-green fabric. Her bonnet, in a straw that had been dyed to match, was wide-brimmed, yet simple, and served perfectly to set off the understated elegance of the whole ensemble. To anyone's eye, Megan O'Brien was as far removed from her former profession as any well-dressed lady of the ton.