Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

  “Yes, very. Sir, I hope you are not suggesting what I think you are. I could not allow it.”

  “Could you not, Bainbridge? Not even for your country?”

  “You asking me to use my fiancée to spy against the Americans,” he said baldly.

  “Oh, no.” Castlereagh managed to look shocked. “Nothing so sordid, I assure you, Bainbridge. But if, as you say, she is pretty, think what the Americans here, so far from home, will think of her. Wouldn’t they be more likely to open up to her than to one of us?”

  “Perhaps, sir, but I can’t allow it.” Oliver’s face was stony. “Sabrina is not only my fiancée, she is my ward. I cannot put her in a dangerous position. Besides, I doubt she has a thought for politics in her head.”

  “No?” Castlereagh’s gaze dropped to the papers on his desk. “Well, consider it, Bainbridge. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

  “Perhaps.” Oliver rose and, bowing slightly, turned toward the door.

  “Bainbridge.”

  “Sir?” Oliver turned.

  “You will think about it?”

  “You have my word, sir,” Oliver said, and went out, more disturbed than he cared to admit.

  That evening Oliver lay ensconced in a deep feather mattress, a thick comforter pulled about him, contemplating his reflection. The sound of the rain against the windows and the firelight playing on the walls made the room seem wonderfully cozy. In the dimness he couldn’t see the crimson wallpaper, or the gilt dressing table with its litter of perfume bottles and cosmetic jars. He could almost believe himself in his own bed, were it not for the mirror on the ceiling.

  The mirror was a new innovation since his last visit, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. Lovemaking was a very pleasant activity, but one looked ridiculous during it. He knew Moira was vain. He’d known it from their first meeting, when she had been a debutante and he had fallen in love with her. It had been a tragedy when her father had sold her into marriage to the highest bidder, though time had healed that particular wound. Now she was a wealthy widow, with all the freedom she could wish, and a beauty that had only grown over time. She was at last his. He only wished he knew who had told her about mirrors on the ceiling.

  The woman in his arms stirred, looking at him with eyes a smoky green. There was nothing of the shy innocent about her now; her hair was tousled and her lips looked bruised. “welcome back, darling,” she murmured, stroking his cheek.

  “Mm,” he said, his mind still on the mirror.

  Moira sat up, pouting. “Oh, Ollie,” she said. In the mirror, she looked like a petulant child.

  “What is it?”

  “Are you thinking about another woman?”

  “No, why should I?”

  She pouted. “I know all about your other woman, Ollie. All of London knows about her.”

  Oliver lay back on the pillows, his hand clasped behind his head. He had been expecting this since he had walked in. The only thing that surprised him was that it had taken her so long to broach the subject. “Pray do not enact me any Cheltenham tragedies, Moira.”

  “Cheltenham—!” she began, and then stopped herself. “Very well. Perhaps there’s a good reason why you’re planning to marry and you never even told me?”

  “You married someone else,” he pointed out.

  “You know it wasn’t my choice, Ollie,” she said, coaxingly. “Papa wished me to marry well.”

  “My title was the equal of Marshfield’s.”

  “Yes, but he had more money.” And he had been old, a factor she had quite coolly taken into account when she had made her choice, all those years ago. “So who is this cousin you are marrying?”

  “She’s a child. She also happens to be my ward.”

  “Your ward!” She sat up. “I didn’t know you had a ward! Why are you marrying her, Oliver?”

  “Grandmama wishes it, and it’s time I set up my nursery.”

  If he’d been looking in the mirror he would have seen Moira’s eyes grow narrower. She had never been fond of the dowager, who, it seemed, had out-maneuvered her. But not for long. “What is she like?” she asked, proud of how calm her voice sounded. Oliver did not like scenes. She had thought long and hard about how she would greet him when he finally returned to her, as he would, again and again. That, she did not doubt. “Pretty?”

  He shrugged. “Pretty enough, I suppose.”

  That was lukewarm enough praise to allay her fears. He surely did not sound like a man in love. “Then, darling, why marry her?”

  “I have to marry sometime, and she is a Carrick. But nothing will change between us, Moira. I promise you that. I wish could offer you marriage, but—”

  “Don’t be silly, darling! Why would I want to marry again? I have all the money I could wish, and my freedom, and”—her voice deepened—“you.”

  Neither one thought of Sabrina for a long, long time. After a while Oliver got up and began picking up his clothes from the floor. “Must you go?” Moira asked, pouting.

  “It’s late.”

  “Darling, stay here for tonight.”

  “And give the gossips something else to talk about?” He turned from her dressing table, where he was manfully trying to tie his crumpled neckcloth into a respectable knot. Moira was lying on her back, making faces at her reflection on the ceiling. He grinned as he bent to kiss her. “Whatever made you put a mirror on the ceiling?”

  “Don’t you like it, darling?” She rose from the bed. Oliver eyed her appreciatively as he shrugged into his coat.

  “It has its uses,” he said, glancing up and tweaking his neckcloth.

  “Ooh!” Her arm swung back, as if she would strike him. He sidestepped her neatly, gave her a quick kiss, and then was gone. Moira looked after him with a disappointed pout, before climbing back into bed.

  Gnawing at her thumb, she gazed up at her reflection without really seeing it. After all this time, she’d thought she’d known him. Most men were drearily predictable and therefore controllable. Not Oliver. Oh, she had made a mistake all those years ago, choosing Marshfield. Marriage to the old duke had suited her; he had allowed her far more freedom than a younger man would have, and his passing had left her wealthy. However, it wasn’t until her husband had died that Oliver had succumbed to her lures. She had no intention of losing him now to someone else.

  Unfortunately, she was not getting any younger. Only when she was in her room, alone, did she ever admit to that. And now here was this unknown cousin, a real threat to her plans. Somehow she was going to have to bring him up to scratch. Looking up at the mirror, she thought she knew how. Let the chit do her worse. Moira was not about to let him go.

  Chapter 9

  By the next morning all of London knew that Bainbridge had returned, this time with the mysterious fiancée in tow. Gwendolyn, wise in the ways of society, knew what that meant. The ton would soon be flocking to Bainbridge House, all eager to see the subject of the latest on-dit. Heaven help them all if Sabrina weren’t up to snuff, for society would be only too happy to find things to say against her. She already had a severe handicap in her nationality, but Gwendolyn was determined that nothing else about her would be open to criticism. The girl’s manners were a bit free, perhaps, a bit too open and easy, but there was nothing the least bit missish or shy about her, and that was to the good. Dress her properly, style that beautiful hair, and there’d be no one to hold a candle to her.

  “What are your plans, Grandmama?” Oliver asked, and Gwendolyn glanced over at him. With breakfast over, she and the other females of the household had repaired to the morning room, but it was rare for Oliver to follow them there. He had his own interests to pursue.

  “I plan to take Sabrina to Celeste’s today,” she said, and Oliver’s lips pursed. “She must be rigged out properly, Oliver, and Celeste’s gowns are exquisite.”

  “And expensive,” he retorted, glancing toward the sofa where Sabrina sat, her head bent close to Melanie’s, as they examined the fashion plates in the late
st Ackermann’s Repository. And that was the girl Castlereagh thought might be useful to them? Hardly, and yet her presence in London could serve as an excuse for other, more innocuous purposes. Anything that increased American understanding of England, and the converse, was a worthy undertaking. “That was not what I meant, though. What are your plans for her come-out?”

  “Why, the usual things, of course. I’ve already arranged for her, and Melanie, too, to be presented at court, and Sally Jersey called yesterday afternoon.”

  “Ah. Vouchers for Almack’s?”

  “Yes, so you need not worry on that score.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, I was not worried.”

  “Don’t be impertinent. You know quite well perfectly unexceptionable girls have been refused entree there.” She glanced over at Sabrina. “She is a sweet girl, but I did not know how the patronesses would take to her.”

  “Because she is an American, you mean.”

  “Well, naturally, Oliver! I must say, her manners are better than I hoped. She will make her bow there next Wednesday. There is also the opera. It will be a good introduction for her. And of course we must have a ball.”

  “Of course,” he said, in that same ironical tone.

  “I have not scheduled it yet, but we must start thinking about it.” She looked at Oliver with suddenly narrowed eyes. “And why are you so interested in this?”

  “Merely that I would like you to give a dinner party, Grandmama.”

  “When?”

  “This Friday.”

  “Friday!”

  “Never say you can’t do it.”

  “Why, of course I can, but it is cutting it rather close to ask me now, is it not?”

  “Well?”

  “Oh, very well,” she said, crossly. “Who do you wish to invite?”

  “I have the guest list here, Grandmama,” he said, pulling a sheet of paper from a pocket.

  Gwendolyn’s eyes widened. “Holland, Broughton—Jonathan Russell? Oliver, what is this? You’ve the entire American legation listed here.”

  “Don’t you wish to be known as a great political hostess, Grandmama?”

  “No, I do not! I’ll leave that to Lady Holland.” Her eyes narrowed still further. “Oliver, what are you up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Mm.” Gwendolyn glanced down at the list in her hand and then over at Sabrina. A frown darkened her face. “You’re testing her, aren’t you?”

  “If she is to be my bride, Grandmama, then she must learn how to deal with political dinners.”

  “That ain’t what I meant, and you know it. If you’re using her for some political reason—”

  “Peace, ma’am.” Oliver held up her hand. “Rest assured I won’t do anything to cause her harm.”

  “You had best not, Oliver.” She glared at him. “Very well, you’ll have your dinner. But just this once, mind you.”

  “I imagine that is all I’ll need,” he said, bowing, and left the room.

  Gwendolyn frowned after him and then looked back at Sabrina. There were times, lately, when she had the odd feeling that she didn’t know her grandson at all. “Sabrina.”

  Sabrina looked up. “Ma’am?”

  “We are going shopping,” she said abruptly, rising from her chair.

  “Oh, what fun!” Melanie exclaimed. “May I come, too?”

  Gwendolyn, about to make a caustic remark, stopped. Whatever else she might be, Melanie knew fashion. “Yes,” she said, grudgingly, “but don’t keep us waiting.”

  “I won’t! I shall just get my wrap. Oh, this will be such fun, Sabrina!” she said, tugging on Sabrina’s arm. “Come, we don’t wish to delay.”

  Sabrina freed her arm. “In a moment, Melly. Grandmama?”

  Gwendolyn turned from the door. “Yes, child?”

  “You needn’t buy me anything. I have more than enough clothes now.”

  “Nonsense, girl, do you wish to be a figure of fun? Oliver has just asked me to give a dinner party, and we must be prepared. Your gowns are fine for the country, but never for town. And we must do something about your hair,” she said, looking critically at the long, shining mass hanging over Sabrina’s shoulders.

  “My hair is fine,” Sabrina said coolly, her head held high. After a good night’s sleep she was well rested and ready to see as much of London as she could, as much as she ever would. For no matter what happened, no matter how Grandmama and Bainbridge treated her, always in the back of her mind was the knowledge of her background, and the uneasy awareness that she could not keep it secret forever. She had no illusions as to what would happen then.

  “It is not fine, girl. Just now any other girl in the ton will outshine you! And I do hope you will not need lessons in deportment as well?”

  Sabrina flushed. “No, ma’am. I am sorry for speaking so.”

  Gwendolyn thawed. “I understand, child. But you have the Carrick pride in abundance. See that you guard against it.”

  “Yes, Grandmama. But I would like to see London,” she said, wistfully.

  “Another time. For now, shall we be on our way?”

  Though Gwendolyn had not been to town for many years, her consequence was such that when they reached Madame Celeste’s establishment in Oxford Street, the modiste herself came forward to greet them, with many Gallic protestations at the honor done her. “And if her name really is Celeste and not Alice or Emma or some such, I will be most surprised,” Gwendolyn whispered. “She is no more French than I am!”

  Sabrina, clad only in shift and stockings while Madame’s army of assistants took her measurements, was hard put to it to hold back giggles. A visit to the dressmaker’s could be exhausting, but one look at the beautiful gowns on display had convinced her it was worth it. After years of wearing dark wools and linsey-woolseys and broadcloths, filmy muslins and gossamer silks were most appealing.

  For long moments after the assistants had finished with Sabrina Celeste stood and regarded her. “Yes,” she said, finally. “Yes, I know what I shall do with this one. Her figure is perfect. Small, perhaps, but perfectly proportioned. She will not need a corset, this one.”

  “Thank God,” Sabrina said, and Madame smiled, briefly.

  “I will design gowns for her that will give her height. Simplicity, always. How will you dress her hair?” she asked Gwendolyn.

  “We have not decided yet. What would you suggest? Should we cut it?”

  “No!” Sabrina said.

  Madame protested at the same time. “Oh, non, non, you must not.” Madame studied her for a moment. “Bon. Like that. Do you not agree?”

  “Loose?” Gwendolyn said in surprise.

  “But, yes. I assure you, she needs nothing more. She will set a style.”

  “I often wear my hair like this,” Sabrina said, shyly. It was not often that Grandmama’s opinion was overruled.

  “Bon. It is decided. For more formal occasions, I know a coiffeur who will make of your hair magnifique. Now we must choose the perfect colors for you.”

  “Pastels, of course,” Gwendolyn said, confidently. “She is just being presented to society.”

  “Oh, non, non. Pastels would make her look, how do you say, insipid. Darker colors, madam. Rose. Sky blue. Dark peach. Emerald, to bring out her eyes. Clear colors, do you understand?” She regarded Sabrina for a few seconds. “I have something that will be parfait. Thèrese!” She clapped her hands together sharply and one of her assistants came forward, curtsying. “The rose silk! Now! You will like this,” she said, as Thèrese scurried back with the gown draped over her arms. “You will like this very much.”

  Sabrina raised her arms and stood still as the dress was hooked up the back, and then, at a nudge from Madame, turned to the mirror. What she saw made her gasp. The gown, of rose silk moire, might have been made for her. It fell from the high waistline, draping over her hips and thighs in soft folds that reached nearly to the floor. The effect was such that it almost looked as if she had damped her petticoats, as she had h
eard that some very fast girls did, but though the gown clung it also moved when she did, with a seductive whisper of sound. Around the hem were appliqued motifs of silver lace, and the same lace adorned the neckline, which was very low. Much too low. If she leaned forward too far she was certain to pop out, which would never do! Surreptitiously, she tugged at the neckline.

  “But, non, non,” Madame protested. “You must not do that.”

  “But it’s so low. Grandmama.”

  “Nonsense, child, you’ll see worse than that before you are through,” Gwendolyn said.

  “And mam’zelle fills it quite nicely, n’est ce pas? No need for padding. A gentleman would rather see this.”

  Sabrina’s flush deepened. Of course men would rather see this. In fact, in her experience they didn’t need even this much encouragement. Except for one man. She gazed at herself again. What would Oliver think when he saw her in it?

  Something in her eyes must have given her away, for Madame laughed, low and rich. “Mam’zelle is thinking of one gentleman in particular, peut-être?”

  “Grandmama,” Sabrina said in appeal.

  Gwendolyn ignored her. “Yes, that is perfect. We’ll take that one, Madame. What else do you have to show us?”

  There was a great deal more. Together Gwendolyn, Melanie, and Sabrina, dressed again in her own clothes, studied the fashion plates that Celeste provided, deciding on just the right styles. Before they were done they had ordered day dresses and morning dresses, walking costumes and traveling ensembles, evening gowns and another riding habit. Melanie could not resist the lure of such creations, and the dowager even condescended to order several gowns for herself.

  From Celeste’s, they went to the linen drapers, to purchase the material for their gowns—muslins and dimities, sarcenets and velvets—and from there to the shoemaker, the milliner’s, and the glover’s. Sabrina was giddy with it all, but in the back of her mind a thought was forming. So far, she had not attempted to attract Oliver. Young as she was, with her uncertain background always on her mind, she hadn’t felt quite up to it. Today, however, looking at her reflection, she had seen someone else, someone attractive enough to hold her own with the Lady Marshfields of the world. No one, seeing her in Celeste’s gowns, could doubt that she was a woman, and that was something that my lord duke was going to learn before too long.