Talk of the Ton

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

“I do have a smock, and antery, and a caftan to go over my harem clothes to make them less revealing and a black burnoose that veils my face and covers me from head to toe.”

  “What did you wear to travel in from Turkey?” Jonathan asked.

  “I wore the black burnoose over my caftan.”

  “I suppose that will have to do until we find a dress for you to wear.” He smiled at her. “Fellow’s leg is fine, and we’re going to the village to hire men to help with Mustafa and then on to London. Unless you’ve any objections?”

  India beamed. “Not at all. When do we leave, Lord Barclay?”

  “As soon as you’re ready,” he said. “And my name is Jonathan.” He looked at her over the back of the horse. “When two people have given and received kisses and overcome a great many of their demons on a red silk pallet in a stable with only a horse for a witness, I believe it’s permissible to address one another by their given names, don’t you?”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jonathan,” India said shyly. “And to receive your kisses. My name is India.”

  “Beautiful, vibrant, exotic India. It suits you.”

  “Jonathan. God’s gift. To those in need.” She smiled at him. “Very heroic.”

  “Just remember,” he warned in his rumbling baritone voice, “only my mother calls me Johnny.”

  “You’ve a mother?”

  “Most people do.”

  India reddened. “I meant alive.”

  “Very much alive,” he said. “And apart from her ambitions for me and her adoration of the ton and her penchant for committing Debrett’s to memory—and for forcing me to do the same—she’s a very good mother. And would make a very nice . . .” He’d almost said, mother-in-law, but Jonathan caught himself in time and amended it to, “ally.”

  “I hope I shall have the opportunity to meet her,” India murmured.

  “If you’ll hurry and get dressed while I saddle our noble steed, we can be in London in time for me to make my breakfast meeting and for you to be delivered safely to Lord Davies’s house. Then, if you’re a good girl, you may get the opportunity to join me and my mother for our weekly nuncheon.”

  “We’re that close to London?”

  Jonathan nodded. “The only reason I didn’t continue on my journey last night was because I feared the horse might be permanently lame if I didn’t stop for the night. But as you can see, he’s none the worse for wear for having thrown his shoe.”

  “It was fate,” she said. “You were fated to rescue me.”

  “That I was,” he finally agreed. “And part of that rescue includes delivering you to London . . .”

  India took the hint, hurrying out of the stable, down the gravel path, and into the cottage.

  Mustafa hurled invectives at her as she entered the back door. He still lay exactly as they’d left him, just as Jonathan had promised. The only difference was that he was awake and furious. Squelching the almost overwhelming desire to kick him, India ignored the angry eunuch, raising her chin a notch higher as she made her way through the kitchen to her bedchamber.

  She exited the cottage some ten minutes later carrying the black burnoose over her arm.

  Jonathan, properly attired in shirt, waistcoat, cravat, and coat, was leading the gelding from the stable when he glanced at the back door of the cottage. He gasped when he saw India standing there in the early morning light, dressed in sapphire-blue brocade from the ridiculous little hat, worn at an angle and decorated with a king’s ransom in precious jewels, to the tips of her blue kid shoes, also decorated with precious gems. There were pear-shaped sapphires in her ears, and he’d bet his title they matched the one affixed to her navel. She sparkled like the constellations in the morning sky. All of her outer garments were embroidered with gold and jewels. Even her buttons were made of precious gems. But the most spectacular piece of the ensemble was an old-fashioned girdle worn over the garment she called a caftan, for it rode low on her hips and was constructed entirely of gold, diamonds, and sapphires.

  Jonathan despised the sultan and everything he represented, but he had to admit that the man knew how to dress his women. His body tightened in response. She looked like a queen standing on the gravel path, and Jonathan was struck by how proud of her he was and how much he wanted to have the right to stand by her side.

  “I’m sorry,” India said, grimacing as she glanced down at her costume, “but this is the only thing suitable for travel. The sultan made me a gift of it when he released me.”

  No doubt to impress her grandfather and the prince regent, Jonathan thought. And although he couldn’t say whether it would impress India’s grandfather, the prince regent, who loved beautiful things and was perpetually short of blunt, would be dazzled—as much by the vast wealth she wore as India herself.

  She was wise to refuse to wear that into London, for thieves and beggars would set upon her before she reached the city gates.

  “The sultan is a fool,” Jonathan pronounced. “No man seeing you like this would ever let you go.”

  Will you? India wanted to ask, suddenly realizing that she felt safe for the first time in years and that Jonathan Manners, eleventh Earl of Barclay, was the reason. “He never saw me wear it. He sent it to the harem the morning I left. Besides . . .” She shrugged her shoulders. “All the ladies in the harem dress this way.”

  Jonathan laughed. “So much for making a quiet entrance into the village. The good folks of Pymley will turn out like children following the Pied Piper to see this.”

  “I brought my burnoose.” She lifted her arm to indicate the black robe. “But it goes over my head, and I need help putting it on.”

  He crooked his finger at her.

  India moved closer and handed him the robe.

  Jonathan dropped it over her head.

  It covered her completely. The only things visible were her eyes, and a patch of finely woven black mesh shielded them.

  Jonathan didn’t know which was worse. Having her dressed like a queen and wearing a fortune in precious gems or having her covered. Either way, they were bound to attract attention. “Is there any way to uncover your face?”

  India shook her head. “That’s the point. Whenever women go out in public, their faces and their bodies must be covered.”

  “That may be the way it is in the sultan’s realm,” Jonathan said, “but this is England, and there’s no reason for you to ever cover your face again.” He bent to remove a knife concealed in his boot. “Hold your hands against this.” He nodded toward the mesh. “While I modify the opening.”

  India did as he asked, then watched in amazement as he used his knife to cut out the mesh and widen the opening in order to expose her face and neck.

  “There,” he pronounced in satisfaction, before lifting her onto the saddle and putting his foot into the stirrup to mount behind her. “Now it looks as if you’re wearing a hooded cloak instead of a prison.”

  Jonathan hired a dray and a team of oxen in Pymley, along with the men needed to work them. He knew the men he hired. He’d worked with them before and knew them to be completely discreet and trustworthy. And to insure that they remained completely discreet and trustworthy, Jonathan paid them handsomely for their services in removing what he had euphemistically referred to as a mound of Turkish rubbish.

  Jonathan left Griffin’s gelding at the livery to be fitted for new shoes, then hired a gig so that he and India might travel in comfort when they accompanied the group back to Plum Cottage.

  They found everything they needed at the village except a dress for India. Pymley was a working village too small to support a seamstress’s or a milliner’s shop. The dresses the matrons in the village wore were fashioned for work, except for their Sunday dresses that were cut and sewn from fashion plates published in Godey’s Lady’s Book and in London newspapers, but none of the women Jonathan encountered wore the sort of dress India required. Or the sort of dress he wanted to see on her. For that, they needed a lady, and ladies in P
ymley were in short supply.

  Jonathan knew India was disappointed not to find a dress, but her disappointment paled in comparison to her excitement at riding into the village on horseback and returning to Plum Cottage in an open gig with her face uncovered and turned to the sun.

  The journey back to the cottage was brief, and the road, though muddy, was quite passable. Jonathan tried to mitigate India’s disappointment by handing over the reins to the gig and teaching India to drive.

  She laughed with delight as the pony sped along far ahead of the dray and the oxen. She laughed all the way to the cottage, and her laughter was contagious. Jonathan laughed more in her presence than he could ever remember doing. As he helped her slow the pony for the turn into the drive leading to Plum Cottage, India turned to him and exclaimed, “I wish I could drive all the way to London!”

  “I see no reason why you can’t,” Jonathan told her. “So long as you allow me to in the event that we encounter heavy traffic.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Then I shall relax and nap while you drive us to London.” He’d do nothing of the kind because, like everything else she did, India drove with a joie de vivre that scared the trousers off him. But he wouldn’t dream of ruining her delight in her new accomplishment by letting on that she was anything but the most capable of drivers.

  “Oh, Jonathan!” She released the reins into his capable hands, then flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Thank you! Thank you! A thousand times thank you!”

  “You’ll want to take back some of those thank-yous when your arms feel as if they’ve been pulled from their sockets tomorrow morning,” he warned with a laugh.

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Then thank me properly.” Jonathan pulled the gig to a stop beside the hitching post near the paddock, secured the ribbons, then turned on the seat and kissed her in earnest. And India kissed him back. Thanking him most improperly for being the man who came to her rescue, for being the man with whom she had fallen in love in the space of a few hours.

  They were still kissing when the men from the village arrived with the team of oxen and the dray.

  One of the workmen cleared his throat, “Uh-hmm, sir, if you’ll just tell us where the mound of Turkish rubbish is, we’ll be about our work and leave you to your pleasure.”

  Jonathan reluctantly ended the kiss, then met India’s bemused gaze. “Mound of Turkish rubbish?”

  He shrugged his shoulders in a boyish gesture India loved. “It seemed appropriate.”

  “Most appropriate,” she agreed.

  “Would you like to wait inside the cottage while I help the men remove it or . . .”

  India shook her head. “I wouldn’t miss this for all the spice in India.”

  “Neither would I.” Jonathan laughed at the devilish sparkle in her eyes, then removed his coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. He looked at the workmen. “If you gentlemen will follow me.” He led the way to the back door of the cottage, flung it open, and pointed.

  Mustafa cursed him vociferously from his position on the floor.

  The workmen stared at the enormous eunuch trussed like a Christmas goose on the floor of the cottage. “But, sir,” one of them said, “this is a man.”

  “Only half a man, actually,” Jonathan corrected. “And that doesn’t change the fact that his presence here is unwanted.”

  “You were right to hire a team of oxen,” the leader of the workmen said. “Moving him while he’s trussed up like that is going to take some doing. A team of oxen is the only thing that could move him.”

  “I’m not suggesting you move him while he’s trussed up like a Christmas goose,” Jonathan told them. “You’re welcome to turn him over and loosen his ties.”

  The leader of the workmen frowned. “Begging your pardon for asking, sir, but how long has he been trussed up like that?”

  “Since shortly before midnight,” Jonathan replied.

  The workman winced. “He’ll be in agony if we loosen his bindings now after spending the night on the floor like that.”

  “Exactly.” Jonathan grinned.

  The workman doffed his cap and grinned back at Jonathan. “You’ve a wicked, mean streak in you, sir. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Not at all,” Jonathan replied. “And for future reference, my wicked, mean streak is generally reserved for men who try their damnedest to kill me. And fail.”

  “Like this mound of Turkish rubbish, sir?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then we’ll be sure to loosen his ties afore we drag him out.”

  Mustafa screamed in high-pitched agony as Jonathan and the three workmen rolled him onto his side. The blood rushed into his numb limbs as the circulation was partially restored, and Mustafa alternately screamed, cried, and cursed. Jonathan loosened the red silk cord and the brocade sash binding Mustafa’s feet and hands to each other, and retied them. He bound Mustafa’s hands in front of him this time and retied his feet tightly enough to restrict him but loosely enough to allow the blood to flow.

  “Ignore him,” India advised as Mustafa continued to curse the workmen in general and Jonathan in particular.

  “I don’t speak Turkish,” Jonathan reminded her, “and his French is barely intelligible at the moment. What’s he saying?”

  “He’s cursing you,” India replied cheerfully from her ringside seat in the gig, “and all your future generations. Mine, too.”

  One of the workmen crossed himself, but Jonathan looked Mustafa in the eye and replied in French. “At least we’ll have future generations, which is more than I can say about you, you mound of sheep dung.”

  It took them three-quarters of an hour to maneuver Mustafa through the doorway, out into the yard, and onto the dray, but they finally loaded him onto the dray.

  Jonathan left the men in the yard and went inside the cottage to write a letter of explanation to the captain of whichever of Lord Davies’s ships the men managed to the consign the eunuch, along with a letter of safe passage for the men delivering the cargo, and a special letter he composed using a simple version of Bonaparte’s cipher. He returned with the sealed letter and a long silk scarf he’d found in Mustafa’s room. He tossed the scarf to the leader of the workmen. “Here, Mr. Copley, I suggest you use this to gag him and keep him quiet. And I suggest you use that sail canvas we brought along to cover him—at least until you get him onto one of Lord Davies’s ships.”

  “Aye, sir,” Mr. Copley answered.

  “I’ve written a letter of explanation for the ship’s captain and signed and sealed it with a mark they’ll recognize. And I’ve written a letter of passage for you and your men to deliver this cargo to the port in Dover. I trust you’ll use great caution, for it would be much better for all of us if no one questions the cargo or your right to deliver it.”

  “That goes without saying, sir.”

  “Quite right.” Jonathan nodded.

  “And seeing as how this mound of Turkish rubbish was found inside Lord Davies’s cottage, I doubt even the magistrate would question your right to remove it, seeing as how you’re acting in Lord Davies’s stead.”

  Jonathan nodded, then retrieved his coat and handed Copley a leather coin purse filled with money he kept for emergencies—like this one. “This should cover any expenses, ” he said.

  Copley understood he was to use the coin for expenses and bribes for port authorities, if necessary. “Where do you want the cargo to go?”

  “Istanbul,” Jonathan answered, “on the longest possible route. And he’s to remain confined for the entire voyage and fed like a common sailor.”

  Copley winced. “Like I said, sir, you’ve a real wicked mean streak in you.”

  “Glad to know it’s appreciated,” Jonathan replied.

  “Aye, sir, it is that,” Copley replied in an admiring tone of voice.

  Jonathan rubbed his hands together. “All right, then, let’s get him gagged, secured, and covered.”


  “Wait!” India scrambled down from the gig as they draped the canvas over Mustafa. “You’ll need these to send to the sultan.” She reached for Mustafa’s right hand and tugged a huge gold ring off one fat finger and a huge emerald off another one and dropped both rings into Jonathan’s hand. “The gold one is his seal of office. The other was a gift from the dey of Algiers.”

  “Anything else?” Jonathan asked.

  “These.” India reached into the pocket of her caftan and offered him a silk purse filled with the gems she’d taken off Mustafa’s clothing while Jonathan had slept.

  Jonathan whistled through his teeth when he opened the pouch.

  “I’m not a thief,” she told him. “But I couldn’t take the chance that he might try to purchase his way back.”

  “I never thought you were,” Jonathan assured her. “I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it.”

  “You would have eventually,” India offered. “But you were too tired to think clearly last night.”

  Mr. Copley cleared his throat once again. “We best be on our way, my lord, afore it gets any later.”

  “Thank you.” Jonathan shook hands with each of the men.

  “Our pleasure, my lord.” They gave him a brief nod and doffed their caps in a sign of respect and appreciation for the job. They’d just earned a month’s wages for a day’s work.

  Chapter Nine

  India handled the gig until they reached the outskirts of London. Traffic was light, for it was still quite early for everyone except the street vendors to be about, but Jonathan’s prediction was coming true. India was unused to the physical exertion, and Jonathan had taken over the reins when he noticed her arms beginning to tremble from the strain.

  But she learned quickly, and her driving had improved considerably with each mile. Before long, she’d be maneuvering her own vehicle for morning jaunts through Hyde Park.

  “You’ve spoiled me,” she said, as she handed the reins over to Jonathan.

  “How so?”

  “I enjoy driving so much, I’ll want a pony gig of my own. And I’m never going to stay indoors again.” She had shoved the hood of her burnoose off her head during the drive from Pymley and removed her ridiculous little hat, enjoying the breeze in her hair. But she reluctantly donned both the hat and the cloak as they reached the gates of the city.