by Laura Parker
“I did it to protect my privacy.” The anguish in her eyes increased and he wished instantly he had been more gallant.
Still she rallied almost instantly. “I suppose it does not matter to you how much Lady Simms blackens my character.”
“Did I agree with a single thing she said?”
“You did not contradict her.”
He felt a coward for not answering her genuine need to be assured but false hope was not his purpose. “Truth never spiked gossip’s wheel.”
The hope of rescue died in her dark eyes. “So then, you do not care that I am called your mistress and you are thought to be the debaucher of five young girls.”
“Madame, if I thought that farce would be seriously accepted I should shoot myself. As I think it merely odious and tedious, I will continue to ignore it.”
When she did not reply he turned and picked up a fur-lined wrap he had brought in with him. “You will need this. Snow is threatening again.”
Japonica held still as he swung the cape about her shoulders. She wished she possessed his innate belief in himself. After all, what did it matter what London society thought of her? She had no real need of the trappings of an aristocratic title. Soon she would be away from here, and Lord Sinclair.
Devlyn watched outraged emotions play across her face, the struggle warming her cheeks with the color she had moments before lacked. His purpose was accomplished, if at the price of her liking. He should leave it at that. But he could not.
As she reached up to pull the cloak closed under her chin he covered her one hand with his and bent close to her. “You are beautiful. Has no one ever told you so?”
Japonica turned away. She did not want his comfort, did not want the warmth of his touch that made her feel that her safety lay within his power. She could not allow that. “Yours is too extravagant a compliment, Lord Sinclair, to be believed.”
He caught her chin in his strong fingers and drew her face up until she was looking into his eyes. “You are beautiful. Believe it.”
Quite before she was prepared for it, she was moving into his arms. There was plenty of time for her to notice a dozen delightful disturbing things about him, the crisp texture of his formal clothes, the whiff of sandalwood rising from his warm skin, the powerful strength of his body held in check as he bent to her. It was a light kiss, no more than the brush of his lips across hers, but it nearly stopped her heart.
When he lifted his head, he was still smiling. He took her hand and folded it in the crook of his arm. “Come, Lady Abbott, we go to face London.”
Chapter Seventeen
The façade of the house in Mansfield Street was ablaze with torches posted along the lane. Curiosity seekers, kept in check on the opposite side of the street by Bow Street Runners, gaped in awe of the crystal and gold and silver chandeliers on display through windows with drawn-back drapery. So many candles ablaze, more than two score East End households could afford to use in a year. Footmen flanked the entrance in new red scarlet coats. The livery had been delivered by the English government for the express use of those engaged in service to the Mirza. All onlookers remarked upon it at length, for red livery was reserved for the King and the Heir Apparent. The women gazed with great envy at the two rows of deep gold lace showing through their coats. Waistcoats of green and gold had the favor of the Dandies among them. All admired the tricorn hats cocked with gold lace. This mark of esteem and respect to a foreign ambassador was theretofore unheard of. Which, of course, increased the fervor to catch a glimpse of this mysterious being from Persia.
As the number of observers increased, so did the number of servants who hurried forth to welcome guests as they emerged from the carriages drawing up before the house.
“What place is this?” Japonica asked as she was handed down.
“Did I not say?” Devlyn replied in the most causal of voices. “We dine tonight as guests of his Excellency Abdul Hassan Khan.”
“The Persian ambassador?”
He smiled at her incredulous expression. How could anyone so strong-willed and resourceful be at the same time so completely unguarded at a moment like this? He longed to touch her cheek with the back of a finger. Instead he merely said, “Courage, bahia.”
They were led into a room brilliant with candlelight reflected in the high-polished paneling and multitude of mirrors that doubled and redoubled the luminescence. With Devlyn at her side, Japonica was quickly introduced to a succession of gentlemen, many in full military regalia. Among them she recognized Lieutenants Hemphill and Winslow. They smiled but kept their distance, as did all the rest.
It dawned on her only as they approached the last group that she was the only lady in the room. Had gossip galloped so far that gentlemen would keep their wives at home lest they be insulted by her presence? Or was it simpler than that? She was a commoner and their wives refused to be introduced to her into circles where she did not belong.
“I am the sole lady present?” she asked quietly of the man at whose side she walked.
Devlyn looked down at her. “If so, the gentlemen will be grateful. They need not divide their attention between you and their wives.”
His reply did not answer her question but she noted he had gone out of his way to phrase his answer charmingly when most often he blasted her for a ninny. Was he trying to bolster her courage? Unless he, too, was dismayed by the results of the rumors his aunt had carried in and plopped at their dinner table like a proud cat displaying a dead mouse.
“I shall fetch you an orgeat,” he said and left her side almost before she could refuse.
She watched him quickly leave the room, and looking around the assembly of gentlemen engrossed in conversation, wondered if she would be left to her own devices for the rest of the evening. She did not have long to wait for the answer. The doors to the main door opened and a footman made the announcement.
“His Excellency, the Persian Minister, Abul Hassan Khan.”
Preceded by the heavy perfume of expensive incense, the man who strode into the assembly hall was as exotic as his name.
He was a head taller than those flanking him. His thick black beard, bristling, and glistening with scented oils, gave him a fierce appearance. Yet Japonica saw at once in his long-lidded dark eyes intelligence and humor to match his elegance and youth. A man in full vigor and much to be admired. The first man ever to compare to the Hind Div.
He wore a brilliantly embroidered gold brocade robe. Over his shoulders was a sable vest with skirts of emerald and red gold-embossed silk. About his waist was a thick scarlet band embroidered with gold thread. Tied over that a black belt bearing seals of state held suspended a gold and leather scabbard whose encased saber had a jewel-encrusted hilt.
Japonica felt an instant affinity with this noble stranger, a sense of familiarity that could not be real but which felt very much like a letter from home. When he spied her at the far end of the room and came toward her she sank to the floor as if greeting her own sovereign. She might be English by custom but she was Persian by place of birth.
“Who is this lady?” she heard him ask in Persian of one of his companions.
Keeping her head bowed in the manner of respect, she nonetheless took the opportunity to answer for herself in Persian. “A handmaiden of Bushire, burra sahib. A thousand honors you do this humble soul by your notice.”
She saw him take a startled step backwards. Because she was staring at his sapphire blue leather slippers with pointed toes she only heard disapproval in the murmur of male voices. She had overstepped the bounds of propriety by addressing him directly. Yet it seemed so natural to do so.
A hand appeared before her eyes. Large in size, it was smooth as a girl’s and bore an ornate turquoise ring with a stone so large it covered the first knuckle of three fingers. “Rise, memsahib.”
She took the hand he offered and rose to her feet but kept her eyes downcast. Nor did she speak again, for it seemed the entire room
was watching them.
But the Mirza was not content with that. “You wear no veil, memsahib. Are you truly a countrywoman?”
“I am by birth and heart if not in nationality.” Finally she dared meet his gaze. “One of the delights of foreign travel is the observation of customs different from one’s own. Is not the English custom more delightful than one which keeps a lady hidden behind her veil?”
The indrawn breaths of those around her surprised her, for she had meant no insult in her challenge. Men of the East admired women who were clever and flirtatious in their manner, as long as they did not incur a husband’s wrath.
She saw a twinkle deep in the Mirza’s eyes and knew she was right. “Indeed, the English custom is better. A veiled woman with downcast eyes is like a caged bird: when she is released she lacks even the strength to fly around the rose-garden.” He leaned toward her, his beard coming within an inch of her face, and said in Persian, “ ‘Around the world my course I’ve set, Many great beauties have I met, Who stole my heart—never yet, Was any one like you.’ ”
“Ah, then it is true. ‘A friend knows the voice of a friend.’ ” The familiar Persian saying brought an expression of delight to his handsome face.
“Alhamdolillah valmenah! I am presented with a lady who can converse with me as if I were at home.” He threw back his head with laughter as big as the rest of him, a thing that enveloped the room in boisterous sound.
The men about him relaxed into smiles and chuckles. As long as the Mirza was pleased by the lady’s unorthodox manner so were they.
“Who is she?” she heard the Mirza ask again, this time in heavily accented English.
“May I present Lady Abbott, your Excellency,” Lord Sinclair supplied though Japonica had not seen him approach. “Widow of Lord Abbot, fifth viscount of Shrewsbury and former member of the East India Company’s board.”
“Ah, nobility,” she heard the Mirza say with a smile. “Perfect.”
She longed to glance at Devlyn and see if he approved of her actions but he was standing behind her and she did not want to offend the Mirza by turning away.
The Mirza slanted a glance down at her, his expression both imperial and lively. “In Persia a clever woman is sometimes rewarded her weight in gold, memsahib.”
“Then I shall eat well tonight, your Excellency, for I should wish to be worth a great deal.”
“Delightful lady!” This time the Mirza clapped his hands to express his pleasure. Then he indicated that she walk beside him as they entered the dining room.
It was laid out in the Persian fashion. Persian rugs covered the floor upon which were placed deep red silk Ottoman cushions edged in three rows of gold lace. Low tables contained vessels of gold and silver and dishes of crystal and porcelain laden with delicacies, some of which she had never before seen. Inscribed on each plate and cup was the name of the Shah in gold lettering. Potted plants of fragrant cypress, juniper, citrus, and quince flanked the dining area while lanterns of pierced metal hung in the rafters, throwing designs of moons and stars among the shadows of the ceiling. At the far end English musicians played popular tunes.
The Mirza smiled, seemingly pleased with the preparations. “Tonight we dine in both the English and Persian fashion. My servants have prepared a Pillau. This perhaps you have enjoyed before, memsahib?”
“But a poor substitute,” Japonica answered. “The honor of dining at the table of a host of exquisite taste and refinement will be a rare privilege.”
“You will sit beside me for dinner.”
“As you wish, Burra sahib.”
Lagging behind the Mirza and his newfound companion, Devlyn watched with an unexpected sensation brewing in his gut. He had hoped Japonica would be equal to the evening. He trusted her knowledge of Persian customs and language would ease the way. He expected her comeliness would be a respite for the Mirza’s melancholy. He had not anticipated that she would be taken up so propitiously by the Persian nobleman. Nor that she would look upon her host with such undisguised admiration. How beautifully she smiled at the Mirza.
He knew her to be quick-witted. He, on the other hand, had seldom been the beneficiary of her charm and never her flattery. Yet in a few exchanges she so well stroked the Mirza’s masculine pride that he was purring. She had never shown the flirtatious side of her nature to him, in fact had been at pains to eschew any art of feminine coquetry. He had not any inkling of its existence.
The discomforting feeling rising like bile in him was heretofore equally unknown but he recognized it nonetheless. He was jealous!
Sir Ouseley was beaming as he came up to Devlyn. “You have done well, my boy. Lady Abbot is the very answer to our prayers. My dear friend Hassan has not looked so contented in a fortnight. She is tonic for his Persian soul. Wherever did you discover her?”
“She discovered me,” Devlyn answered dryly.
“Happy chance.” Ouseley pulled him aside with a tug at his sleeve. “We, too, are in luck, at last. I am told, though not yet advised to announce it, that the King will see the Mirza next Wednesday. In the meanwhile we must thank our lucky stars we have Lady Abbott to distract him. Perhaps we may prevail upon her to visit him daily until then.”
Devlyn was not at all certain that was a good idea. In fact, the longer the evening lasted the more certain he became that he had made a miscalculation. Seated to Japonica’s left, he had a full viewing of the evening’s events.
Watching them deeply engrossed in a private conversation that frequently brought laughter to the Mirza’s lips and smiles to Japonica’s, he wondered at their sudden and, apparent to all present, mutual regard. The fact that she barely reached the Mirza’s shoulder even when seated meant that he was forced to bend close to exchange words with her. Certainly the Mirza was handsome and charming, rich and idle, and no doubt reminded her of her home. That did not explain her besotted expression. The whole exercise began to fret his temper.
Blissfully unaware of Lord Sinclair’s dark thoughts, Japonica immensely enjoyed herself. No one had thought to engage her in true conversation in months. Never had she had the open admiration of a man of the Mirza’s caliber. Even the Hind Div had thought her other than she was, disguised by stain and kohl and veil. For the first time in her life she was the center of a man’s attention for no reason but her own self. A heady experience that made her reach often for her glass.
Devlyn told himself that it was concern for Japonica’s new-budded reputation and not his own ire at being ignored that caused him to finally speak uninvited to the Mirza between the third and fourth course. She was monopolizing the man in a manner detractors might justly label impertinent. “We have not yet heard, your Excellency, what you think of English weather.” Surely that was a safe topic.
“I am much disturbed by the English latitude,” the Mirza began, lifting his voice to address the rest of his twenty-some guests. “The army of the day cannot long prevail against the hosts of the night. Their black-shouldered soldiers march steadily after the retreated sun even as it reaches its zenith.”
“That is true, your Excellency,” Ouseley answered. “But we have discussed this before. The days will dutifully lengthen.”
“But how it this so?”
“’Tis a seasonal battle, burra sahib, in which none may win the war,” Japonica answered. “Though I have not seen it with my own eyes, I am told that in the summer the army of the day will overwhelm the hosts of the night with equal vigor. Late in the month of June it would seem the ebon soldiers remain in westward retreat for the whole of the day and night.”
“Such is true?”
“But for a few hours in the deepest night,” Devlyn concurred, “the summer sky is never quite dark”
“Amazing, this English island.”
Amid chuckles and more general conversation, the evening progressed. There came only one brief moment’s awkwardness, when the second main course was being served. The English course came first, a huge si
de of beef to be carved and served.
Japonica happened to look up at Devlyn’s face as a slice was being carved for him that would require the use of a knife. She had seen him use a fork with his left but…
She put up her hand to deflect the carver who would have placed an inch-thick slab on Devlyn’s plate. “Lord Sinclair will accept only the rarest cuts of beef. They must be tender, as well. As hostess in his home I have come to know his ways. He will not put a morsel of meat in his mouth that cannot be cut by the mere tines of a fork. His cook is quite distraught by the number of meals he sends back untouched.” She knew she was chattering like a squirrel but something had to be done quickly. “Better yet I would suggest, Lord Sinclair, that you wait to partake of the Pillau.” She glanced at Devlyn. “It is composed of rice and marinated fowls stewed together with spices. Its tenderness should more than meet with your approval.”
Thus challenged, Devlyn bowed his head in acknowledgement of her suggestion. But a little later, when the Mirza’s attention had been drawn momentarily away from her, he bent toward her and muttered, “I do not thank you for that. I can manage my own affairs.”
“I am well aware of it,” she said, smiling as though they were exchanging pleasantries. “But I’ve heard it said that the man of style in London is one who gives grief to his tailor and his staff. As you manage to give grief to everyone, I thought you should not stint upon this occasion.”
He gave her a glare that might have sent her scurrying away had they been alone.
When the meal was done, the Mirza asked that there be dancing. Though no one dissented, it was obvious there could only be one couple at a time and Lady Abbott would always form one half of it.
“Can there not be some entertainment more general, your Excellency?” Japonica asked when she caught sight of Devlyn’s scowl. “I am but one lady. How should I keep up with even one of these stalwart soldiers, let alone your own august person? Rather, burra sahib, if I might be allowed a small suggestion?” When he nodded she continued. “A round of poetry. A single dance goes as prize to the winner.”