Mouette spun around. "Mother! Come in! Perhaps you can talk sense to—to Nathan! He's being horribly contrary."
"So I gathered," Devon murmured dryly. "It's so good to see you again, Mr. Weston!" Gracefully, she crossed the room and extended her gloved hand. "We can't thank you enough for coming over to fit Nathan. He hasn't been feeling very well, you know."
"My pleasure, Mrs. Raveneau," replied Weston, London's most fashionable tailor. "Has this illness affected his brain?"
She managed a rather sickly smile while darting a glance at Ryan. "I certainly hope not! Nathan, darling, I do hope you have listened to Mr. Weston's excellent advice."
"Absolutely, Mother. However, I was under the impression that these clothes were being made to be worn by me, not Mr. Weston."
The little Frenchman began to make choking noises, his bright blue eyes bugging out. Devon turned to look at him rather frostily. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure, sir."
Mouette rushed between them. "Mama, this is Monsieur Marcel Dinde, the wonderful valet I told you about. He's come especially to instruct Nathan, but I'm afraid that... they've gotten off to rather a bad start."
"Your son is an idiot!" Dinde screamed.
Devon arched an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon? I don't mean to make rash judgments, sir, but if you intend to instruct Nathan in the niceties of your behavior, I cannot approve. Now, if you would be so kind as to take a chair, I will deal with Mr. Weston before continuing this discussion with you."
Clenching his fists and muttering in French, the little man obeyed. Devon then turned to her son and the tailor.
"Now, what's all this about blue coats?"
"Madame, as you must be aware, every well-dressed gentleman these days wears a blue coat with brass buttons and biscuit-colored pantaloons. It is almost a uniform! Your son, however, insists that he wants..." Weston paused to swallow audibly. "He wants... pastel coats."
Devon looked at Ryan, who gave her a barely perceptible smile. "Am I not allowed to choose?"
Deciding that her intervention might be helpful, Lindsay came up behind her mother and whispered, "Trust him. We've discussed this and I think he's right."
"Kindly follow my son's instructions, Mr. Weston, and you will be paid accordingly."
The tailor heaved a sigh. "As you wish, madame." He turned back to Ryan, wincing. "Pale yellow, did you say? And sage green?"
"That's correct. Dove gray and tan as well. And cream? What do you think, Lindsay?"
A bubble of happiness rose inside her. "Absolutely! And what about a very pale blue, perhaps with a hint of gray in it? That would go splendidly with your eyes, Nathan."
He gave her a dazzling grin. "You're showing signs of genius, dear sister."
"It's a family trait, I believe." She beamed.
On the settee, Mouette and her mother exchanged surprised glances over the head of the sulking French valet.
"I'd better ring for tea," Devon remarked. "This promises to be a very long afternoon!"
Chapter 13
June 4-6, 1814
Over the next three days, the Raveneau home in Grosvenor Square was a hive of activity. Hoby, the bootmaker, who was also a Methodist preacher, came to fit Ryan for Hessians, top boots, and shoes for evening wear. That same afternoon, Rowland, the French coiffeur, came to cut his hair in the currently popular windswept style. Ryan rebelled against more than a trim, however, and when Rowland produced a bottle of Macassar Oil, a hair preparation of his own invention, he forbade him to remove the stopper. His crisp, slightly curly hair would have to do in its natural state, he said in a voice that brooked no argument.
The next day, Weston sent an assistant in his place to deal with the recalcitrant Nathan Raveneau. The young man brought a selection of the wardrobe Ryan had ordered, including four coats of superfine cloth, one of which was the dark blue he had finally agreed to. There were pantaloons for morning wear; buckskins, brocade, and plain buff waistcoats; embroidered cambric shirts; muslin neckcloths; and high stiff collars. Dinde nodded approvingly after helping Ryan into one of the coats, for it fit like a second skin. The young tailor's assistant assured them that the rest of the garments, including a selection of evening wear, would be delivered within three days.
Harry Brandreth accompanied his wife to Grosvenor Square the next afternoon. Bursting in on the family as they shared luncheon in the sunny morning room, he announced that he didn't have to be at the House and was prepared to take his brother-in-law round to the clubs to apply for membership. London was in a state of festive anticipation over the pending visit of Europe's royalty, and Harry suspected that even the bucks who ruled the world of fashion from the bow window in White's were likely to be expansive about admitting Ryan to their privileged circle.
Devon listened to these plans with a certain amount of trepidation. After sending Harry to the kitchen to sample Mrs. Butter's Bakewell pudding, she paced before Andre, Ryan, and her daughters. "I don't think Ryan is ready yet. Why, we haven't even taught him to use a snuffbox or quizzing glass! And then there's his accent and manner....!" She shook her head. "I'd counted on several more days to work with him. Ryan, we need to rid your voice of all traces of Ireland and teach you to behave like a fop. I'm afraid that there's a good deal more to this persona you mean to adopt than modish clothes!"
Reclining in his chair, Ryan regarded her languidly from under veiled lids and drawled, "You wound me, dear Mother. This will not answer!" His accent was upper-crust American, with a cultivated British undercurrent. All traces of his Irish heritage had vanished. "Let me assure you that your son is prime and bang-up-to-the-mark in every respect. How could it be otherwise?"
Four pairs of eyes stared at Ryan in stunned amazement. "How did you do that?" Mouette exclaimed between bites of turbot.
He looked at Lindsay, his blue eyes sparkling, and smiled. "I've told you all before that I lived in England for several years, long enough for the accent to rub off on me. The same is true of my time in America. I can combine the two speech patterns easily enough, and I've certainly observed enough fops in my day to imitate their behavior."
Lindsay smiled back at him, unaccountably pleased and proud, while her mother scolded, "You should have told me, Ryan, instead of letting me prattle on all this time about the lessons I meant to give you! Sometimes I think that you're having a joke at our expense."
"On the contrary, Devon, I'm sure there's a great deal you can teach me. The finer points of a snuffbox, for example. I've never used one, and I will need to practice. For today I shall simply have to do without."
Devon eyed him suspiciously. "Are you teasing me? I don't know how to take snuff! I'm not an eccentric old dowager, after all!"
Andre drew her down onto his lap and chuckled. "Not yet, at any rate. We'll solve the snuff problem tomorrow, Ryan. For now you probably ought to get rigged out for our foray into St. James's."
This first outing was viewed, especially by the dubious Dinde, as a test of the infamous pastel coats. Ryan invited Lindsay to make the choice, and she daringly picked one of pale yellow, which they paired with a new, cambric shirt and a starched white high cravat. To placate Dinde, Ryan let him tie it in the Waterfall style but was alert to the movements of his fingers. A slate-gray brocade waistcoat, complete with fob and gold seal, snug white pantaloons, and gleaming Hessians rounded out the ensemble. When Ryan reappeared in the morning room for inspection, Lindsay thought that he had never looked more handsome. His black hair shone in the sunlight and his eyes were as blue and bright as the ocean on a cloudless day. Weston's superlative skill as a tailor was evident in the smooth, snug fit of the coat and trousers that showed Ryan's wide shoulders, narrow hips, and long, lean-muscled thighs to advantage. When he turned a smile on the three ladies, Mouette pretended to swoon.
"I don't know if it's safe to turn you loose on the streets of London," she teased. "Respectable matrons will be throwing themselves from speeding carriages without a second thought, driven simply mad by the vi
sion of such hitherto unimagined male beauty! Perhaps you ought to conceal a weapon to protect yourself."
"Only from you, Lady Brandreth," he shot back with cool amusement. "I'll take my chances with the rest of London's women."
"You look splendid, Ryan," Devon said, looking him over carefully. "The cravat is impressive, but are your collar points high enough for a true dandy?"
"Probably not, but I've heard tales of young swells cutting their ears on their collars, and I like my ears too much to risk doing them injury." His tone was light but distracted, and his gaze sought Lindsay and lingered. She was curled in a tub-shaped lemon brocade chair next to the window overlooking the sun-drenched square. An open book lay in the lap of her simple, high-waisted muslin gown, and burnished tendrils fell from a loosely wound Grecian knot atop her head. "Childe Harold?" he inquired softly.
Lindsay blushed. "Sense and Sensibility." She strove for a casual tone. "Are you waiting for me to join in this chorus of compliments? It's very bad for you, of course, but I suppose that this once it wouldn't do any harm to puff up your consequence since you're off to White's to face the mighty Mr. Brummell."
"Please don't compromise your principles on my account," Ryan said dryly.
"I don't mind. It's for a good cause." A dimple winked beside her mouth. "You look very handsome. The bucks of St. James's will pale in comparison."
"You'll never know what that means to me, coming from you, dear sister!" Good-natured sarcasm infected his tone, but he softened it with a smile and then bade them all farewell.
Ryan went downstairs and found Raveneau in his study, sifting through papers on his desk.
"Are we still off to White's, or has Harry changed his mind?" Ryan asked, wryly hopeful.
Andre glanced up distractedly and murmured, "No, he's around somewhere. In the kitchen, I think. I was just wishing I had those maps with me here. They would help me to better visualize the current naval battles...."
"It's just as well, sir. The possibility that those maps could fall into the wrong hands here in London is terrifying. Can you imagine what the British would do with your maps of America's eastern seaboard?"
Raveneau nodded. "Doubtless the city of Washington would be raided immediately—" He broke off at the sight of Harry crossing the hall and entering the study.
"Secret charts?" Harry inquired, approaching the desk. "May I have a peek?"
Looking irritated, Andre slipped the papers on his desk into the top drawer and turned the key. "There's nothing to see, Harry. Shall we go?"
Ryan lounged against a bookcase and proclaimed, "Gad, sir, let's be away. I've been waiting my whole life to go to White's! I'll be in my element at last, what?"
* * *
Once the front door had closed behind the three men, Lindsay felt anxious. What if Ryan's first foray into fashionable London went badly? Chances were that Beau Brummell, society's arbiter of style who had popularized the same blue coat with gold buttons that Ryan had rejected, would be presiding over the bow window at White's. If he greeted Ryan's pale yellow coat with disdain, he certainly had the power to bar him from the club.
At teatime, distraction appeared in the form of Devon's, and now Lindsay's, couturiere. Dolly Jones was a stately, white-haired woman who had been making gowns for Devon for thirty years. An American, she had married a British soldier during the Revolutionary War and returned home to England with him. Today she came to Grosvenor Square to fit the evening dresses Lindsay and her mother had ordered, but first Devon insisted that she join them for tea and gossip.
Eventually, Mistress Jones joined Lindsay in her spacious bedchamber, which was charmingly decorated in shades of rose, cream, and china blue. Standing near the Sheraton field bed with its curved canopy, Lindsay held her book out in front of her and tried to read while Dolly tucked and pinned the bodice of her gown. Though some details remained unfinished, it was already exquisite. The white lace dress over a satin slip was trimmed at the bottom with a drapery of white lace entwined with pearls and roses and edged with a rondeau of satin. The bodice, cut low over Lindsay's bosom, was fashioned of rose-colored satin with a row of blond lace falling over the top, and the gown's short puffed sleeves were also of rose satin, slashed with white lace and finished with a fall of blond lace.
Glancing at her reflection in the pier glass, Lindsay murmured, "I must tell you, Mistress Jones, that this is the most beautiful dress I've ever owned. It makes me feel like a woman!"
"I would have been glad to reassure you on that point," a dry voice said from the doorway.
"You're back!" Lindsay exclaimed in surprise, barely catching herself before calling him Ryan.
Dolly Jones, her mouth full of pins, made a muffled sound of exasperation at Lindsay's sudden movement. "You musht hode shtill!" she commanded unintelligibly.
"I'm sorry, truly! Mistress Jones, have you met my brother Nathan? He's just made his first visit to White's and some of the other clubs and I'm most anxious to hear how it went. Nathan, dear, do sit down and tell me everything!"
Tossing his hat and gloves onto a chair, Ryan crossed the room and kissed Lindsay on the cheek. Then, when Dolly's head was turned, he stole a glance down the rose satin bodice and grinned. "I agree with my sister, Mistress Jones. This evening dress is a fine piece of work."
"Shank you," she muttered, managing a pin-filled smile.
To Lindsay's further dismay, Ryan then threw himself down on her bed and folded his hands behind his head. The pale yellow coat fell open to reveal a hard, tapering chest that was impressive to behold and accentuated by the white shirt, starched cravat, and snug gray waistcoat that covered it. Lindsay stared for a moment, thinking how appealingly clean and strong he looked.
"White's went well," Ryan was saying, his eyes closed. "I met Beau Brummell, as well as Lord Alvaney, Byron, Colonel Dan McKinnon, Sir Lumley Skeffington, and Lord Wellesley Poole, just to name a few. The bow window was a positive gallery of dandies."
"You met Lord Byron?" Lindsay gasped in disbelief.
"He was eating cheese." Ryan opened one eye, watched her, and raised the brow above it. "Hard to believe that he eats and drinks like other mortals, hmm? One can only wonder what other bodily functions he performs. The possibilities are fascinating."
Dolly made a choking noise while Lindsay's face turned pink. Ryan closed his eye again and tried not to smile. "Careful, Mistress Jones," he cautioned. "Don't swallow the pins."
"Fortunately, Mr. Raveneau, I believe I'm finished. If you'll just remove the gown, Lindsay, I'll take it with me and finish it tomorrow. No doubt you'll be needing it for the round of parties that'll be given for the visiting royalty." As Lindsay disappeared behind a painted Chinese screen, Dolly looked at Ryan. "Are you looking forward to the celebrations, Mr. Raveneau? Perhaps you'll get to see Lord Byron drinking champagne!"
He grinned appreciatively. "Or burping."
"Nathan, stop being vulgar!" Lindsay cried as she reemerged in her simple muslin gown. "You'll give our family a bad name!"
He rose up on an elbow and pretended to ponder her words. "It's probably too late."
Laughing, Mistress Jones bade them farewell and left the room with Lindsay's evening dresses. Ryan resumed his supine position and had just closed his eyes again when he felt a poke in his ribs. "What now?"
"Tell me the truth. What was he like?"
Through his lashes, he saw Lindsay perched beside him on the rose counterpane. "Brummell?"
She poked him again, frowning. "Lord Byron!"
"You're dangerously close to becoming a bore, my dear." He sighed. "Oh, all right. He's handsome enough, I suppose. Thin and very pale, with soulful eyes and hair that I'd wager he curls at night. We didn't form an intimate acquaintance, and if I have anything to do with it we never will, but he seemed agreeable enough. Clever but conceited. Just as Byron is unable to write a poem or a drama without making himself the hero, he makes himself the subject of his own conversations."
Lindsay made a moue.
"I think you're just jealous."
His eyes opened. "Of what?"
"Well, of Lord Byron's celebrity. And his title, his aristocratic background, his education—"
"Let me bring this list of my shortcomings to a close. If I harbor any jealousy toward Byron it's because of the place he holds in your heart."
Startled, she stared at his face. Ryan could have been asleep for all the expression he betrayed. "Don't tease me."
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, but he said nothing.
Casting about for another topic of conversation, Lindsay discovered one instantly. "Tell me about Beau Brummell, then. He approved of you?"
"I'd say so. There's a certain air of humor, of mock solemnity attached to his preoccupation with clothes. I think he sensed that I had purposely broken one of his fashion rules with this coat and rather liked me for it. He said to Andre, 'Have you not instructed your son that the severest mortification a gentleman can incur is to attract observation by his outward appearance?' " Ryan paused to chuckle at the memory. "Then, Brummell felt the cloth of my coat, looked me up and down through his quizzing glass and said, 'I see you've been to Weston. That's a start, and I'll have to admit that the thing don't look bad on you. Do you truly like it, young Raveneau?' I assured him that I did, and he very nearly smiled before replying, 'Well, I do believe that what pleases is allowed.'"
"What a relief!"
He laughed. "Later, when we were leaving for Brooks's, the Beau approached me and suggested that I come to his house tomorrow at ten o'clock to watch him dress, thereby learning the proper way to tie a cravat. I accepted with pleasure but not too much pleasure. He's used to being fawned over, and my attitude must have piqued his interest. He said, 'You're like your father, I see! That's good. I'll take you round to Watier's and introduce you to Mildmay and Pierrepont.' "
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