Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

“Miss Winston, we meet again.” The smile he gave her bore none of the charm it had when he’d approached her at the playhouse.

  “You dropped this, sir.” Adalia handed him the pouch, her voice clipped as she caught her breath. Joy rushed up to them, halted, but stepped back beneath the man’s imperious gray eyes.

  A flash of disappointment, maybe even disgust, rolled across his face before he took the pouch. “Such honesty, miss. How can I ever thank you?”

  Yet Adalia got the impression the man harbored anything but gratitude.

  “No need. Good day to you, Mr. Saville.” She swerved about, clutched Joy’s arm, and hurried down the street, away from the odd man with the stormy eyes—eyes that reminded her too much of Sir Walter’s.

  One glance over her shoulder told her he remained in place staring her way. Shrugging off the eerie feeling, she rounded a corner. Up ahead, Adalia spotted Mr. McCalla, the mayor, his wife on his arm. Tugging from Joy’s grasp, Adalia continued onward, stepping in front of her maid. It wouldn’t do for the couple to see her servant walking beside her in such a familiar manner. Her acceptance into society was tenuous at best. She had appearances to maintain if she were to ingratiate herself further. For Morgan’s sake, of course.

  “Good day, Miss Winston.” The mayor tipped his top hat in her direction. His wife smiled as they sauntered past. Their acknowledgment landed on Adalia shoulders like an inaugural cloak of acceptance as she made her way forward. It wasn’t until she entered the tailor’s that she remembered Joy. Turning, she found the girl waiting outside the shop, her chin lowered. Adalia’s heart shriveled. Chastising herself for her thoughtlessness, she went and stood before her maid. No, not her maid, her friend. “I’m so sorry, Joy.” She laid a hand on the girl’s arm. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  Joy flashed her a pained look. “I understand, miss. I knows my place.”

  “Your place is beside me. We are friends. I honestly don’t know what came over me.” She’d never cared about what others had thought of her before. Shame and remorse stripped away her ill-fitting cloak as she silently repented of her behavior. “Now come, let’s have a look at my new gown.” Looping an arm through Joy’s, they entered the shop together.

  Leaning back into the upholstered Queen Anne chair—one of four that circled the small table at Dillon’s Inn—Adalia listened to the orchestra play Beethoven’s Second Symphony. She’d never heard such mellifluous harmony before. Not even at the balls she’d thus far attended. The pleasant sound flowed from a full band—complete with percussion, brass, woodwinds, and strings—perched on a dais at the far end of a large oblong room dotted with tables and chairs. Light from several lamps and sconces flickered over the scene, dancing in harmony with the music.

  Closing her eyes, Adalia attempted to drown out the muffled whispers of the Charleston haut ton, including Emerald and Caroline, who sat at the table with her, and tune her ears to the delicate peaks and plummeting valleys of notes that sent her on a pleasant voyage to a distant world. A world without cruelty and class and slavery. She was almost at the gate of that distant haven when a man’s voice jerked her back to reality.

  “We meet again, miss.”

  Not Morgan’s voice. He had gone with Drayton to get refreshments for the ladies. This voice was higher, slicker, reminding Adalia of expensive oil. She opened her eyes to see Mr. Saville, holding a steaming china cup.

  He bowed elegantly before her, but not before he shared an odd glance with Miss Emerald. “I must thank you again for your honesty today, Miss Winston.” His gaze dropped to her hand as if he wished her to raise it for his kiss. Which she could not bring herself to do.

  “I have brought you some tea. A small token of my appreciation.” He slid the cup onto the table.

  “That is too kind of you, sir, but Mr. Rutledge is bringing me something to drink.” Adalia peered through the crowd in search of him, suddenly longing for his presence—his protection.

  Mr. Saville fingered his mustache then drew his lips into a pout most inappropriate for a man of his class and maturity. “It is a special brew you’ll only find here at Dillon’s and only on certain occasions, miss. I had it made just for you.”

  Steam rose from the dark liquid, bringing the scent of almond and vanilla to Adalia’s nose. “I thank you, sir. I shall try it then.”

  The man bowed. Then turning on his heel, he sashayed into the crowd, one lacy hand in the air, and disappeared like a smoky apparition. Picking up the tea, Adalia warmed her hands on the cup, allowing the soothing scents to calm her heightened nerves. Mr. Saville was just being kind, she told herself. He could not help that he made her uneasy. She sipped her tea. A pungent, yet sweet flavor set her tongue on fire. But the warm liquid slid down her throat and loosened the knot in her belly. And the ones in her nerves.

  The orchestra stopped for a break, and the crowd rose from their seats and flitted through Dillon’s Inn, partaking of tea cakes, apple pie, madeira, and the latest gossip. Adalia turned to face Caroline. “I’m so glad you joined us, Caroline.” It was the first time Adalia had seen her at any event in weeks.

  Caroline cast a wary glance over the room. “It would seem, aside from a few snickers, that my embarrassing incident is all but forgotten.”

  “As I told you it would be.” Emerald patted her friend’s hand then shifted to Adalia. “I do believe you’ve made a new admirer, Adalia.”

  “He is not an admirer. He is merely thanking me for—”

  “How nice.” Emerald twirled a finger around one of her curls and surveyed the crowd. “Mr. Saville doesn’t offer his special tea to just anyone. I hope you appreciate it.”

  Adalia studied the woman, such a dichotomy of emotion and intention. One minute cruel, the next doting. One minute her words carried a bite; the next her tone was innocuous. Adalia had no idea which to believe. Was the lady friend or foe? Adalia’s scars had never been mentioned, yet they lingered in the air between them, taunting Adalia with whispered threats and spreading an ever-widening gulf of distrust between the two ladies.

  Regardless, Adalia determined to return Miss Emerald’s scorn with kindness. She took another sip of tea. “I do appreciate Mr. Saville’s generosity. The tea is delicious.” But what were the ingredients? Vanilla, almond, perhaps a bit of cocoa, honey, but something else that added a sharpness, a warmth to the brew. A warmth she was beginning to feel all the way down to her toes. She wiggled them within her satin evening slippers as tension cracked and slipped from her shoulders. She would have to discover the secret of this tea. Perhaps she could use it as a sedative for her patients.

  Morgan and Drayton returned, drinks in hand. Morgan’s brows rose as he set the lemonade on the table and eyed the tea in Adalia’s hand. “I see you grew tired of waiting.”

  “A gift.” Adalia adored the look of jealousy crawling across his eyes.

  “I should have known not to leave such a lovely lamb alone among wolves.”

  A faint snort sounded from Miss Emerald’s direction as Drayton handed them drinks and dropped into one of the chairs.

  Morgan proffered his elbow. “A turn about the room, Miss Winston?”

  Adalia rose. The room tilted. Tables canted like ships in a storm, candle flames swirled around her. Even Morgan seemed about to topple over. Then the scene leveled again.

  Shaking her head, Adalia clung to his arm as they began their stroll.

  “Are you feeling well?” he asked.

  “Yes, quite.” Aside from a bit of dizziness, she felt more relaxed than she had in years. Relaxed and something else—uninhibited, liberated. Free to allow her bold gaze to wander over Morgan as they walked. To enjoy the way candlelight braided gold through his hair that was strung tight in his queue. To enjoy the way his forest-green eyes purveyed the scene with authoritative aplomb. The way his satin waistcoat strained beneath his thick chest.

  But most of all, she enjoyed the way she felt protected and cherished by his side.

  He caught her staring at
him. His perplexed look transformed into one of delight as he leaned toward her. “You look lovely tonight, Adalia. But then you always do.”

  “Do you like my new gown?” She gazed down at her evening dress of black velvet trimmed with gold cord and nearly tripped. She tightened her grip on his arm.

  “Yes, and apparently I’m not the only one.”

  Adalia’s glance took in the myriad male eyes latched upon her. Heat suffused her face.

  Weaving through the crowd, Morgan stopped before one of the bay windows. Lanterns flooded the gardens of Dillon’s Inn as people mingled about in search of fresh air. He drew close until she felt his breath on her neck. “You don’t know how beautiful you are, do you?”

  A thrill sped through Adalia. Before she’d met Morgan, she’d never felt beautiful. An object of desire, yes, but never beautiful. “That you find me so is all that matters.” The words tumbled from her lips like rebellious sprites.

  These were not the words of a friend. Not the words of a lady trying to keep her distance. Trying to win this man’s heart for God.

  Morgan’s grin told her he had not missed the ardor in her voice.

  Thankfully, the orchestra began to play, and he escorted her back to their table. Steam rose from the tea cup she’d left empty. Or had she? She sipped it as she allowed herself to once again get swept away in the music. What delightful tea! It warmed her all over, ushering her into in a dreamlike state that sent her worries scurrying into hiding. Miss Emerald should have some of this tea. It would do much to liberate her from the irritation that seemed to plague her. She needed to relax, enjoy the music. Adalia offered her some, but she declined.

  The concert came to an end. Flashes of glittering gowns and tailcoats of fine velvet passed before Adalia like images from a heavenly mirage. The honeyed notes that only moments before had sweetened her ears dissolved beneath the clamor of nonsensical chatter.

  Feeling suddenly flush, Adalia rose to her feet. The room spun. An uncontrollable giggle spilled from her lips as she toppled backward. If not for Morgan’s strong arms, she would have surely landed on the floor in an embarrassing exposé of lace and petticoats. Oddly the thought sent another giggle to her lips instead of the horror she would have expected. A flood of disapproving eyes brought yet another chortle tumbling from her mouth.

  “Good heavens, I do believe Miss Winston has had too much to drink.” Emerald’s smile reminded Adalia of a panther on the prowl.

  “Don’t be absurd.” Morgan steadied her. “Adalia doesn’t partake of spirits.” The blur that was his face defined into a pair of concerned eyes.

  “Of course not.” Adalia hiccupped then covered her mouth and plopped into her chair again.

  An unusual smile spiked one side of Drayton’s lips. Caroline fixed her gaze in her lap as Emerald’s satisfied smirk oscillated in Adalia’s disobedient vision. Why could she not focus on anything? She gazed across the room. Tables, chairs, the musicians mulling about the stage, patrons, and even the flickering oil lamps, all joined in some sort of perverse country dance. “Are we on a ship?”

  Grabbing her teacup, Morgan raised it to his nose. “Jamaican rum.” His voice was belligerent. “What did you do, Emerald?”

  Adalia put a hand on his arm. “Don’t be cross, Morgan. It’s too fine a night to be angr … angee”—oh drat, now her voice was rebelling as well—“angry,” she finally managed.

  Emerald stood and lifted her chin. From Adalia’s viewpoint, it resembled the jagged edge of an iceberg. “How dare you, Morgan! I had nothing to do with this.”

  “She said the tea was a gift. From you, perhaps?”

  The words seemed muffled, distant, drifting through Adalia’s mind and evaporating before she could make sense of them. Or even care what they meant.

  Morgan slammed the cup down and continued arguing. Drayton’s voice joined the fray, but Adalia was staring at a man dressed in white who emerged from the crowd and drifted toward her. A familiar expression of serenity glowed from his face.

  “For you are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.”

  Though he did not shout, his words slashed a trail through her thicketed mind.

  “Do you see him?” Adalia pushed to her feet, staggered, then faced her friends.

  “See who?” Morgan took her arm.

  “The man in whi—” Adalia turned to find that he had, once again, vanished.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Fury raged through Morgan. “Come, I’ll take you home, Adalia.”

  “Oh, must we?” she cooed. “I don’t want to go home. It is far too early.” Her glassy eyes breezed over Drayton, Caroline, and Emerald as if to elicit their agreement, before landing on Morgan—buzzing around Morgan would be a better description.

  Though her inebriated state angered him—mainly because it was not her doing—Morgan had to admit he found this joyful, unfettered side of her quite adorable.

  Emerald gave a sordid chuckle and glanced at Caroline, whose look of sympathy transformed to one of languid mirth.

  Drayton leaned back in his chair and waved a jeweled hand through the air. “Ah, let the lady stay, Morgan. I must say, I’m quite enjoying this side of her.”

  “She is not here for your entertainment.” Morgan seethed. Then placing an arm around Adalia’s waist, he led her out of the inn. Beaded coiffures dipped behind fans. Whispers floated in the air as gentlemen’s glances followed them down the street. Morgan waved off his coachman in favor of walking. The night air would help clear Adalia’s head. Not that he was all too sure he wanted it to clear as she caressed his arm and placed her chin atop his shoulder to stare at him.

  “You have the most beautiful hair.” She reached up to finger a strand that had loosened from his queue.

  Morgan had not thought it possible that he could blush. Surely it was the warm night that caused heat to swamp his face. He tugged at his silk neckerchief, loosening the knot. Music drifted to his ears from another party down the street. Adalia began to play with the lapels of his coat.

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips, then placed it back on his arm. If the woman didn’t restrain herself, Morgan couldn’t be sure of his own self-control. The scent of rum swirled about him, reminding him that she was not culpable for her actions. Which also reminded him that someone had played a cruel joke on her.

  If it wasn’t Emerald, then who?

  “Adalia, dear, who gave you the tea?”

  “Ah, the tea.” She faced forward again. “Marvelous stuff. I simply must have the recipe.” She thrust a finger into the air before breaking into a song.

  “I smile at love and all his arts

  The charming Cynthia cried

  Take heed for love has piercing darts

  A wounded swain replied.”

  Morgan ushered her forward away from prying ears, an unavoidable grin on his face. Even deep into her cups, the woman was an absolute delight.

  “And who gave you this marvelous tea?” He tried again.

  Her brow furrowed. “That man who doesn’t like you. Mr…. Mr….”

  “Mr. Saville?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Morgan clenched his jaw. Of course.

  “Why doesn’t he like you, Morgan?” She leaned on his shoulder and smiled up at him.

  He nearly laughed at the childish look on her face. “An incident, a few years ago. I challenged him to a horse race, knowing he couldn’t ride, knowing he was a bit of a namby. His horse bolted out of control, and I was forced to rescue him. He landed in a mud puddle in the process.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I humiliated him in front of society. You know, we men must be proficient at riding. To be seen so incompetent was an insult to his manhood.”

  “Surely that wouldn’t be enough to cause such lasting hatred.”

  “One would think. Yet his intended, a young lady from Savannah, witnessed the entire ep
isode and broke off their relationship. Besides, I have denied him his revenge, his chance at restitution.”

  “By not dueling with him?”

  “He’s desperate to prove his virility to all of society, to prove he’s no limp-wrist.” Yet now, Morgan just might give him the satisfaction for getting Adalia besotted. But no, the dandy wasn’t worth it. Morgan would find another way to extract his revenge.

  Adalia seemed satisfied with his answer and began humming again. They turned down Queen Street. “That was such a beautiful concert, Morgan.” Sidling up to him, she leaned her head on his shoulder once again.

  Two gentlemen across the street winked in his direction. Their nods of approval showered him with shame. How many nights had he escorted an inebriated woman to his townhome only to take advantage of her weakened condition? Consensual, of course, but nonetheless inexcusably dishonorable. Yet wasn’t that expected of men of his station? Men who wore their amorous conquests like plumes in their hats. Even his own father? But as he gazed at Adalia, the idea of her becoming anyone’s plume ripped his gut open. Even his own plume. She was an innocent dove amidst a pack of licentious hounds. He must protect her.