by The Bargain
"The picture o' contentment, Mary. Wide-awake she is, with her da's turquoise eyes lookin' back at me."
Mary smiled as she peered at her granddaughter's delicate face. Raven-haired and with her father's eyes! she thought. Already showing every promise of becoming a great beauty!
"I just thank God the colic's gone!" said Ashleigh. She turned back to Mary. "But you were saying... about Castlereagh, I mean?"
"Oh, yes, that one! Well, it seems she remembers me from when I was a girl. Her mother knew my mother—that sort of thing. And it seems the late Caroline Westmont, Edward's second wife, once snubbed her at a garden party. She now greets me as if we've been bosom friends all our lives, if you can fancy that. She even let it be known that I would have no trouble finding entree at Almack's!"
"Really!" Ashleigh exclaimed. "But I thought, that is, with all the trouble over Brett and—"
"Oh, you are quite right on that account," said Mary, smiling. "She hinted that while I might gain entrance at Almack's, you, my darling duchess, might have to wait until, ah, 'the winds blow more favorably,' I believe was the expression she used."
"I see," said Ashleigh.
"Humph!" said Megan.
Mary grinned. "Think not a jot more about it! I immediately informed that august patroness, you see, that such an arrangement was out of the question! That, where I go, my son's little duchess goes, or I do not go at all."
"You did not!" Ashleigh exclaimed.
"Of course I did. And do you know what she said? She said we really ought to appear at the establishment in question on Wednesday night, next; that scandalous dance, the waltz, was making curious headway there, and she would value our opinions on it—our being lately so well traveled on the Continent and all!"
Ashleigh chuckled. "Mary, I fear you've already taken London by storm!"
"Hmm, perhaps—perhaps not. But give me some time, my dear, and I think I shall. I'll do whatever is necessary to help Brett and Patrick, you see."
"Oh-oh," said Megan, "speakin' o' seem', here comes that old gossip, Lady Bunbury, and she sees us well enough. She's headin' straight toward us!"
Lady Bunbury's carriage drew up alongside theirs, and Ashleigh signaled their driver to halt.
"Good day, Your Grace," the plump matron called. "Countess, Lady St. Clare." She nodded amiably in their direction. "It's so good to find such pleasant weather in April, is it not? I see it even prompted you to take your little one out."
"Indeed," said Mary, "our little viscountess seems to thrive in this air." Privately, she was detesting the appearance of this woman. Unbeknownst to Ashleigh, whom she had no intention of worrying with it, she had recently learned that Bunbury was the carrier of a scurrilous piece of gossip about Brett's wife. Where she'd gotten the idea, Mary had no inkling, but this fat gossip had begun putting it about last summer, after Ashleigh left London, that the duke's young wife had been wildly promiscuous prior to their marriage and that, indeed, the duke was divorcing her because she even carried another man's child!
Fortunately, the couple's arrival in London together, as well as the obviously satisfactory status of their marriage, had helped Mary in her efforts to put the lie to that rumor since she'd caught wind of it. But now, as she peered distastefully at the corpulent Bunbury, she got an idea that she felt might deal the whole gossipy business a final deathblow.
"You really ought to see this healthy child," she said to Lady Bunbury. "Here, Megan, dear, hold our sweet Marileigh up so dear Lady Bunbury can see her."
Megan gave her a look that indicated she thought she'd gone daft, but carried out her wishes. Propping the gurgling infant up, she held her aloft so the old matron could clearly see her face.
Ashleigh, too, appeared puzzled as she looked on. Had Mary had too much sun? What was so particular about Bunbury that she should be treated to this private viewing of the baby?
"I think you will agree," Mary was saying, "that the viscountess will be a beauty of the first water, Lady Bunbury. She favors her beautiful mother, of course, but look at those eyes! Are they not the very replica of her father's? His Grace, of course, has not seen them since they changed color from their former baby blue, but we have informed him of their present hue, and, I must say, he is ever so proud!"
Lady Bunbury, faced head-on with evidence that her choicest piece of gossip in years simply wasn't true, had the good grace to blush. And one look at the grandmother's face assured her that her little speech and demonstration just now had been done with a calculated purpose. Moreover, this countess was quickly becoming the darling of the ton, and if she, Amelia Bunbury, weren't careful, she'd find herself on the outside looking in!
Looking about distractedly for a way to change the topic of conversation, her eyes fell on Megan. "Ah, Lady St. Clare, how nice to see you again. It isn't often we see you about, or at least not as frequently as Her Grace and the countess. Tell me—" she peered curiously at the redhead "—how is your mother?"
"Me—me mother!" questioned Megan, perplexed. What did this old gossip know of Pegeen O'Brien, now comfortably warm and well-fed in Ireland, thanks to the generosity of Patrick?
"Ahem—ah, yes... her health, that is. I... was wondering if she was still, ah, enjoying her food these days."
"Oh, more than ever!" Megan assured her. "She sends word that she and all my brothers and sisters have grown plump as eels!"
Eels! thought Lady Bunbury with a horrified expression. Quickly she forced herself to make her farewells and, after signaling her driver, took off in her carriage at a brisk pace. Eels! she thought again as she cast one last, over-the-shoulder glance at Lady St. Clare. But, instead of eels, there was another kind of animal that loomed in her thoughts as she sped away in her carriage, looking quite aghast.
* * * * *
Ashleigh sat across from Mary in Brett's brougham as it traveled along Pall Mall. They were on their way to her first cotillion at Almack's, and yet she felt no thrill over it. It was now over a month since they'd arrived in London, and there was still no word as to when—or if—Brett and Patrick might be released.
Somehow, it simply didn't seem right that she should be attending a fancy-dress ball while her husband and brother languished in prison. Of course, she quickly corrected herself, perhaps "languished" wasn't exactly the right word. Brett's letters assured her that their well-furbished rooms at the Admiralty were actually quite comfortable and, except for their inability to leave, they were enjoying all the comforts they were accustomed to, and were in no way ill-treated.
Nevertheless, she thought, here she was, dressed in a gown that was all the crack—or "all ze crek," as Suzanne had so charmingly put it—and on her way to Almack's! Oh, if Brett hadn't written to add his urgings to his mother's, she'd never have considered it!
"Nervous, cara!" asked Mary. The countess was sitting across from her, dressed in a cream-colored satin gown trimmed sparingly—elegantly—with bits of gold embroidery and clusters of seed pearls on its empire bodice and again on its slightly flared hemline. She wore a matching floor-length evening cape, and at her throat was a magnificent triple-strand choker of perfectly matched pearls.
"Not really," said Ashleigh. "My head is too full of the unfairness of Brett and Patrick's situation for me to worry about this frivolous cotillion, I'm afraid."
Mary nodded. "We are both of the same mind, I fear." She smiled and leaned forward to smooth the skirt of Ashleigh's gown, which showed between the parted folds of her cloth-of-silver evening cape. The gown itself was constructed of layers of sheer, midnight-blue silk shot with silver threads, and wearing it, Mary thought, together with the diamond necklace, earrings and tiara she had lent her, Ashleigh looked every inch a duchess.
"But it is just as well that you haven't the inclination to be nervous, darling. That way, you'll walk into Almack's looking as if this is very much an everyday affair, and that can only add to your status among the ton. They very much admire a coolness of aspect, you know."
"Oh, I kn
ow," said Ashleigh wearily, "but if you think I care a fig about those snobbish—"
"Now, now, carissima, contain yourself, please. You and I both know that what those people think is not ultimately crucial to us. But we must think of Brett... and your brother. Winning a favorable opinion among the ton can only help them. And think of the future while you're at it, my dear."
"The future?"
"A debutante ball may not mean very much to you now, but how will you feel when Marileigh is of an age to be presented? Will their acceptance mean as little to you then?"
Ashleigh smiled and shook her head, thoughts of her sweet little daughter filling her head. She was growing by leaps and bounds. Already she recognized the faces of most of those she saw every day, including all the children. And just the other day she had smiled her first truly genuine smile—not one of her mechanical little newborn smiles—and her entire face had lit up when Ashleigh bent over her cradle to see if she was awake.
Oh, how she wished Brett could be here to see her grow, to play with her and watch her smile! It wasn't fair. It just wasn't! Something had to give, and soon, or she wasn't sure what she was going to do. This waiting was beginning to drive her mad!
The carriage came to a halt outside of Almack's, and one of Brett's grooms sprang down to open the door for them. As they stepped down, another carriage pulled up behind theirs and Mary exclaimed, "Good Heavens, it's Agatha! I'd know her family crest anywhere. Why, I haven't seen her since..."
But as Mary stepped toward the other coach to greet her old friend, Ashleigh's eyes were drawn to another scene taking place on the street in front of the building.
"Take your bloody paws off me!" snarled a filthy, garishly dressed blonde who had all the earmarks of a woman of the streets. She was protesting violently against being urged, physically, away from the area in front of Almack's by two footmen whose livery matched that of the one standing near the entrance.
"Here, now, Miss Doxy," said one who had her by the arm, "we can't have the likes of you plyin' your trade near this fine establishment. There's a good girl... on your way, now."
"I tell you, I must see Baron Mumford!" screeched the whore. "He doesn't know about how his wife and daughters threw me out, and I must tell him—I must!"
Suddenly Ashleigh froze. That voice! She'd know that voice anywhere. It was Monica, dressed in that embarrassingly low-cut, dirty red satin dress! Monica, who'd made Ashleigh's life miserable at Hampton House!
Then, all at once, Ashleigh saw Monica break loose from the two footmen and run toward where she was standing. She pulled up short, however, when she saw Ashleigh in her path. The footmen were right behind her, but as they went to grab her, Ashleigh held out her hand to indicate they should desist.
"Just a moment, gentlemen," Ashleigh said. Then she looked at the heavily made-up face she barely recognized from a year ago, so had it changed, showing signs of age and other ravages. "Monica?" she questioned. "Don't you know me? It's Ashleigh."
A frown of confusion, and then dawning horror crossed the blonde's features. She froze for a moment, and then murmured, "No... no, it couldn't be!" She began to back away from Ashleigh, the look of horror on her face increasing. "It couldn't be!" she repeated, then, after a brief downward glance at her ragged dress, followed by a quickly assessing look at Ashleigh's finery, she whirled and began to run. "No!" they heard her cry as she disappeared into the darkness. "No!"
"Ashleigh, is something amiss?"
It was Mary's voice.
"I'm dreadfully sorry to have left you like that, but I thought I'd seen an old friend. As it turns out, it's not she, but her daughter-in-law. Ashleigh...? Are you feeling quite well? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Ashleigh managed a small smile as she turned to join Mary in walking toward Almack's doors. "Perhaps I have," she stated quietly. "Perhaps I have."
Mary gave her a perplexed look.
"Oh, it was nothing, really. I—I suppose I'm just nervous about tonight, after all."
"Well, don't worry, cara," said Mary. "I'm certain you'll do just fine."
She gave Ashleigh a wink as they walked toward the front doors of the gaily lit building. "For St. George and old England," she whispered, and then, in an even softer voice, "and for Brett and Patrick!"
The footman inside examined their vouchers and announced them; then another escorted them a short distance to the Great Room, as it was called, and they were announced.
"Her Grace, the duchess of Ravensford, and the Countess di Montefiori."
A great many heads turned as they made their entrance, but Ashleigh barely noticed as she kept her head regally aloft and her eyes focused on one of the many glittering chandeliers while she and Mary descended the short flight of stairs to the ballroom. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the small orchestra that was playing in the balcony; the music was light and energetic, and she was reminded of the accompaniment for the French contredanse she had learned as a child.
"That would be a quadrille they're executing," Mary whispered to her from behind an exquisite ivory-and-gold fan. "I understand Lady Jersey brought the dance back from her visit to Paris."
Ashleigh smiled and raised her own fan, a beautiful piece of workmanship in silver and jet. "She may thank her stars that she returned well before the twentieth of March!"
Both women smiled grimly at her reminder of the date Bonaparte reentered Paris.
They were quickly surrounded by a number of smiling faces, and after several people greeted Mary, she proceeded to introduce Ashleigh to those she was unacquainted with. There was Lady Susan Ryder, Lady Harriet Butler, Miss Montgomery, the Count St. Aldegonde, Mr. Montagu, Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Standish.
But then the patroness of the evening, Mrs. Drummond Burrell, arrived and with her, someone Ashleigh knew only too well.
"Ah," said Elizabeth Hastings as she raked Ashleigh's form with cold, silver eyes, "the little duchess has returned. But, tell me, Your Grace, do you not find it, ah, rather awkward to be here without the escort of your husband?"
Ashleigh bristled inwardly, but to Elizabeth and the others—whose conversation had suddenly grown hushed—she presented a cool, unruffled exterior as she replied, "Why, no, Lady Elizabeth, I should never call what I feel awkward. Regretful, perhaps, and sad, certainly, that His Grace could not join me, but also hopeful."
"'Hopeful'?" queried Elizabeth, clearly put out that her nasty little arrow had failed to make its mark.
"Yes, hopeful," said Ashleigh with a cool smile, "for I am every day more hopeful that His Grace will soon be free to join us."
"Well spoken!" said Charles Standish who, it was clear, had quickly become an ardent fan of this beautiful duchess of Ravensford.
The orchestra, which had taken a pause, started up again, and the Count St. Aldegonde requested the pleasure of Her Grace's company in the dance.
Ashleigh hadn't actually given it prior thought, but now she wondered if it was proper to be dancing while things were the way they were with Brett and Patrick. A quick glance at Mary, however, caught her mother-in-law's approving nod, and she accepted.
As she danced the quadrille with Aldegonde, she recognized various people on the floor, among them Lord and Lady Holland, who were known for their hospitality at Holland House, their home in the city; the duke of Devonshire, who was over six feet tall and, her partner whispered, being unmarried, was considered the most eligible "catch" in England, now that Brett Westmont was married; Christopher Edwards, the earl of Ranleagh—who winked at her as she passed by him—and Lady Pamela Marlowe.
Brett's former mistress was resplendent in a gown of jade-green silk trimmed with fine gold braid. Ashleigh didn't expect Lady Pamela to be exceptionally friendly to her and was astonished when she left off talking to Christopher, who was her partner, to throw her a bright smile.
Why, thought Ashleigh, she looks positively radiant! What a transformation from the sour-faced woman I met at Ravensford Hall! I wonder what could hav
e caused the transformation.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden cessation of the music. At the same time, a stilled hush came over the room, and Ashleigh saw every head turn toward the entry steps. She turned. And then gasped.
There, standing proudly erect in formal evening clothes and looking heartbreakingly handsome, stood Brett!
His eyes swept the room as the footman announced him, then came to rest on Ashleigh. A slow smile broke over his handsome face, and he descended the steps, never once removing his gaze from her.
Ashleigh felt her knees grow weak and threaten to buckle. She felt the blood begin to throb in her veins and her heart pound so loudly, she was sure the entire room could hear it.
Frozen to the floor, she knew she couldn't have moved if her life depended on it. All she saw was her husband's face as he moved directly toward her, his turquoise eyes locked with hers.
Dimly, she was aware the music had resumed playing; out of the edges of her consciousness she saw Aldegonde bow and retreat. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered, except that Brett was free, and he was here!
Then he was standing in front of her, his turquoise eyes blazing into her blue ones. His smile was heart-stoppingly, achingly wonderful in his handsome, chiseled face as he continued to gaze down at her without words.
Then she heard him whisper, "Come," in a hoarse voice while he took her hand and led her toward a door to one of the small antechambers that led off the great room.
Half dazed, as if she were walking in a dream, Ashleigh followed until he drew her around a corner, and they were alone. He turned to her, but Ashleigh could only stare up at him. It was as if he weren't quite real, and soon she would awaken and all the loneliness and yearnings of the past days and weeks would come crashing down on her.
He stood quietly looking at her for a moment as his eyes drank in her face. Then his arms went about her and his head lowered as he crushed her to him.