A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  The greedy bastard could hardly contain himself. Garrick waited, timing his response to give it greater weight. When he finally spoke, he did so with a deliberate slowness that emphasized his unwillingness to compromise.

  “You are to stay away from Isabelle and Jenny. Make no contact with them. Completely absent yourself from their lives.”

  Tate drew himself up indignantly. “That’s preposterous.” His spittle flew with every syllable. “Absolutely—”

  Garrick slid the check across the desk. Tate glanced down, instantly silenced by what he saw. It was a generous amount.

  “On the other hand, a father must sacrifice himself for the good of his children.”

  “Then you agree?”

  “Of course.” Tate nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

  Garrick released the check. Never in his life had he wanted so badly to hit someone. “Now get out.”

  Tate frowned, and Garrick thought they might yet come to blows. But the hell with it. He would welcome the fight.

  Tate smirked at Garrick and got to his feet. “Only too happy to oblige.”

  He had what he’d come for, the bastard was ready to leave. Garrick watched Tate swagger from the room, then slumped back in his chair when he heard the front door close behind him. “Good God.”

  He felt utterly defeated. The reason why took a while for him to understand, and even longer for him to admit. It wasn’t that he had succumbed to Tate’s blackmail. The money meant nothing, the cost well worth it if Tate complied.

  No, he felt defeated and ashamed because the man’s corruption had exposed his own. Because when Tate revealed the family’s dirty secret, his immediate thought had been reprehensible. As was his overwhelming sense of relief. Even now, with the shock beginning to fade, his response remained the same. Better Isabelle than Jenny.

  * * *

  The moment the landau halted in front of Monique’s townhouse, the front door opened and a servant hurried forward to help them down. At first miserably self conscious riding in the open vehicle, Isabelle had eventually consoled herself with the knowledge that no one paid her the slightest notice so long as Monique sat beside her. She followed Monique into the house, swept along behind her as she had been the entire day, an insignificant wisp of down caught in the gale force of Monique’s energetic self assurance.

  “What a busy day we’ve had!” Monique peeled off her gloves and casually tossed them onto the hall table.

  Isabelle drew off her own gloves and carefully laid them on the table, then untied the ribbons under her chin and removed her bonnet, which she placed next to her gloves.

  A maid appeared and silently helped Monique out of her walking jacket. Monique took no notice of her, though not unkindly. It was as if all creation existed to serve her, Isabelle decided, remembering how strangers hurried to open doors for Monique, or offered to help her with a package. Of course, all those strangers had been men.

  Monique turned to face the mirror. Isabelle stood behind her, watching Monique’s reflection as she removed a long pin from her feather trimmed hat. With their images in such close proximity, Isabelle saw herself for what she was, a mousey creature whose dull brown hair and hazel eyes were no more than a weak echo of Monique’s vivid coloring.

  “And our trip to Madame Demarest’s shop was a grand success, was it not?” Monique said.

  “Yes, very much so.” Though the actual fitting had been more of an ordeal than she wished to admit, Isabelle hastened to add, “Thank you for your help.”

  Monique removed her hat and handed it to the maid without taking her eyes from the mirror. “It was nothing. Shopping is my favorite pastime.” She cast a sidelong glance at Isabelle’s reflection and smiled wickedly. “Or I should say, my second favorite.”

  It took Isabelle a moment to catch Monique’s meaning. When she did, her cheeks grew warm. She turned aside to hide her embarrassment and busied herself with straightening her gloves, which already lay perfectly aligned, one atop the other.

  “We will have our tea in my boudoir,” Monique informed the maid, then looped her arm through Isabelle’s. “It is more intime.”

  Isabelle had no idea what the French words meant. Rather than ask, she let Monique guide her toward the boudoir. Once inside, she understood. Boudoir. The bedroom.

  Though much smaller than her own bedroom at the Nashe mansion, Monique’s was more feminine, with its lace curtains and pillows piled high against the bedstead. The room was warm and inviting, like Monique herself.

  “What a lovely room.” Isabelle looked around the room in open admiration. She decided that inviting was not the right word to describe the place. No, the word that best described Monique’s boudoir was enticing. The room exuded sensuality.

  Her eyes came to rest on Monique’s dressing table. An array of crystal jars filled with powders and creams covered its surface. She took a step toward it, fascinated, then stopped abruptly when she recognized the man in the silver framed photograph.

  “Is that Hunter Galbraith?” Isabelle realized as soon as she asked the question how rude it was and, in spite of herself, added, “The actor?”

  Monique picked up the frame and handed it to Isabelle. “Do you know him?”

  Isabelle could not believe how casually Monique asked the question, as if it were actually possible that she could know the famous actor. She studied the handsome likeness, nodding. “Yes.”

  Isabelle looked up from the photograph. “I mean, no. I know of him. Everyone knows Hunter Galbraith.”

  “Yes,” Monique agreed. “Sometimes I think that is the problem.”

  Isabelle returned the picture to the dressing table, carefully arranging it on the small silver easel where it had rested. “Do you know him?”

  She had thoughtlessly asked another rude question, one that was stupid as well. Before Isabelle could think of an apology, Monique shrugged with bored indifference, a gesture that was hauntingly familiar.

  “He is one of my lovers.” She pursed her lips as if the fact were a mild annoyance.

  Isabelle gaped, at a loss for words. She couldn’t decide which was more shocking, the knowledge that Monique and Hunter Galbraith were lovers, or that the well known actor was one of many. With fortunate timing, the maid entered, pushing the tea trolley, and rescued Isabelle from the awkward moment.

  “Come, sit beside the window.” Monique guided Isabelle across the room toward a silk covered settee. When the maid had left, she took the chair beside Isabelle and poured a cup of tea for each of them.

  “Your sister is a charming girl.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle answered cautiously. Jenny had been anything but charming toward Monique, though for the life of her, she couldn’t think why.

  “Sugar?” Isabelle shook her head, and Monique handed her the cup of tea. “I understand now why Richard speaks of her as he does.”

  The cup rattled against its saucer before Isabelle could steady it. “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, he thinks well of her.” Monique lowered her voice confidentially. “I want to know what you think of the mysterious Mr. Nashe.”

  Isabelle gripped the saucer between both hands. The sudden turn in the conversation caught her unprepared. She didn’t feel comfortable sharing what amounted to gossip concerning Jonathan. And though she thought of him often, she didn’t know her exact opinion of him, much less know how to explain it to someone else.

  “I believe . . . ” She hesitated, searching for a statement that would be truthful, yet benign. “He is a kind man.”

  “He is certainly kind to you. Madame Demarest’s skill as a dressmaker is well known. She does not come cheaply.”

  Monique gave her a knowing look. Isabelle did not want her to have the wrong opinion. She tried to discount Jonathan’s generosity.

  “The money means nothing to him. He has so much, for him it’s like the air we breathe, all around us. We need it to live and yet we give no thought to it.”

  Monique laughed lightl
y. “What a fortunate man. I have thought of nothing but money all my life.”

  Monique’s admission surprised Isabelle. She studied her, attempting to judge her sincerity.

  “It is true,” Monique said, as if she saw the doubt in Isabelle’s expression. “As a child, I dressed in rags. I never knew where I would find my next meal. When I wasn’t dreaming of food, I longed for money, the way a foolish woman longs for the love of a man who has given his heart to another.” She paused, tilting her head to one side. “Does that shock you?”

  “No.” Isabelle shook her head, for the first time feeling a kinship with Monique. “Poverty is all I’ve ever known.”

  Monique arched her brow. “Until now.”

  “Until now,” Isabelle agreed. Monique’s frankness inspired her own. She had never been able to share her amazement at her good fortune with someone who truly understood. “I cannot believe my incredible good fortune. Mr. Nashe is paying me more than I had ever hoped to earn.”

  Monique smiled. “Now you can know how much fun it is to spend your money,” she said gaily.

  “But that is the best part of it. As long as I’m living at the Nashe mansion, I can save everything I earn.”

  “Why? Frugality is no fun.”

  “For Jenny. I want to save enough to send her to finishing school for a year. And after that, perhaps I will have enough for us to move to another city, where Jenny can meet a nice young man.” A sharp longing pierced her unexpectedly. Isabelle looked out the window and added wistfully, “Jenny can get married, have children—have a better life than mine.”

  “I see.”

  Isabelle returned her gaze to Monique and was surprised to see disapproval written on her face.

  “But what about you? Don’t you wish to marry?”

  Isabelle’s response came with the same speed as her anger. “No.” She shook her head. “I can never marry.”

  “Why?” Monique lowered her head, her green eyes looking up at Isabelle with disconcerting directness. “Don’t you like men?”

  “Not . . . ” Isabelle faltered at the admission. “Not in that way.”

  Monique watched Isabelle steadily, waiting for an explanation. Isabelle blushed, yet in the end decided it was easier to confess the truth than to endure Monique’s expectant stare.

  “Even if I found someone willing to marry me, I can’t imagine . . . ” She looked away, unable to meet Monique’s eyes. “The physical requirements of marriage repulse me.”

  “Unless the man is a complete pig, there is much pleasure to be found in love making.” Monique leaned forward and placed her hand on Isabelle’s arm in a comforting gesture. Isabelle stiffened, and Monique withdrew her hand.

  She could never confess the real truth. Some things were too shameful to repeat, even to another woman. “I never want to surrender myself to a man. I never want to give him power over me.”

  To Isabelle’s surprise, Monique laughed. “My dear, you have it the wrong way around. It is the man who surrenders to your charms. A woman holds all the power, if she will only use it.”

  “A woman as beautiful as you. Not the woman I see when I look in the mirror.”

  “You are quite wrong.” Monique stood, taking Isabelle’s hand to urge her to her feet, then led her across the room to the dressing table. “Sit down.”

  Isabelle started to object, but Monique quieted her with a look before turning her attention to the items on the table. She chose several crystal jars from among the many, unscrewed the lids, then plucked a long handled brush from a bouquet of them arranged in a small vase. “Close your eyes,” she ordered.

  The soft brush tickled at first. Monique had a delicate touch, though, and soon Isabelle began to enjoy the feeling. She relaxed, willing to indulge Monique, who would realize soon enough that all the powder and paint in the world could not improve her irredeemably dull features. Another, wider brush flicked across her forehead, down her nose, along her cheekbones. When the sensation ceased, Isabelle opened her eyes, about to ask if Monique had done all she could do.

  “Be still,” Monique warned. She was holding another brush now with fine sable hair that looked like one an artist might use to add the final, delicate details to a canvas. She dipped it into a pot that held a carmine colored cream, then began applying the cream to Isabelle’s lips. When she had finished, she stepped back to study the results of her work.

  Monique nodded in satisfaction and, smiling broadly, stepped aside to let Isabelle see the results in the mirror. “Voilà!”

  Isabelle gasped. “My.” She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Oh my.”

  “What did I say?” Monique was obviously pleased with the results.

  “How did you?” Isabelle looked down at the jars and brushes scattered across the dressing table. “You can do anything with this make up.”

  Monique laughed. “At my age, it is a necessity.”

  Isabelle leaned closer to the mirror. Her complexion looked as smooth as ivory. It glowed. And her eyes stood out, almost, it seemed, a different color.

  “Hunter has taught me his tricks,” Monique went on. “With stage make up and wigs and false beards, he can become a different man. Any character, young or old.”

  “Yes, I saw him once, when he played Othello. His dark skin was very convincing. Anyone would have thought he was a real Moor.”

  “But for you, the make up merely enhances what is already there.”

  Isabelle shook her head, embarrassed by Monique’s flattery. “Will you teach me how to do this?” She gestured toward her image in the mirror.

  “But of course.” Monique laughed, then abruptly turned away and went to her wardrobe. She opened it and thrust her hand inside, rapidly shoving aside garments until she found what she was looking for. “Now, however, I am going to teach you about power.”

  Monique carried the garment to her bed where she laid it out, arranging it lovingly before she motioned for Isabelle to join her. “We are nearly the same size, you and I. Come here,” she urged impatiently, “I have a gift for you.”

  “What is it?” Isabelle came to stand beside Monique and, looking down, answered her own question. “A dressing gown.”

  “Exactement.” Monique grinned and gave Isabelle a conspiratorial look. “Your weapon.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Monique lifted the hanger with its garment up to Isabelle’s shoulders, ignoring her confusion. “As I thought, a good fit.”

  “It’s too much. I can’t possibly—”

  Monique cut her off in mid sentence. “Be quiet now, while I explain.”

  Isabelle obeyed, a little offended by Monique’s bossiness.

  “You must wear the dressing gown completely fastened to the neck.” Monique fashioned the wide satin ties into a floppy bow, then stroked the dressing gown’s wine colored velvet with affectionate sensuality. “Let him imagine what lies beneath.”

  “Who?” Isabelle asked, feeling stupid as well as put upon.

  “The man you want to vanquish, silly.” Monique smiled slyly and gave Isabelle a coy look. “I wonder who he might be.”

  Isabelle could only shake her head. No one, she wanted to say. At the same time, she thought of Jonathan, and how she was always trying to imagine what lay beneath his mask.

  “After you stimulate his . . . ” Monique ran her tongue suggestively along her upper lip. “Imagination. Then.”

  “Then?” In spite of her scruples to the contrary, Isabelle had to ask.

  Monique gave one of the satin ties a gentle tug. When the bow fell apart, she cried out in mock surprise. “Oh, mon Dieu! Somehow I have come undone.”

  Isabelle giggled. Monique was quite the clown. She wondered if Monique had learned such theatricality from Galbraith, then decided that it was probably an inborn trait.

  “Of course, you are completely unaware of this disaster. You bend toward him—to offer him a cup of tea, perhaps—and quite innocently offer him much more.” Monique parted the dressing gow
n to reveal the low cut, nearly transparent negligee beneath.

  Isabelle covered her mouth with her hands. She had never seen so scandalous a nightdress. Nor one so beautiful. The delicate, snow white lawn looked as if it would melt at a single touch. Lace edged the neckline, which plunged to a high waisted satin bow. As slippery as the one that trimmed the dressing gown, the bow appeared to be the only means of preventing the loose bodice from falling off the wearer’s shoulders altogether.

  Monique grinned, seeming quite pleased by Isabelle’s shocked silence. “He will be the one undone.” She ran her finger along the neckline, coming to rest at the satin bow. “He will be at your mercy.”

  Such an outrageous idea restored Isabelle’s powers of speech. She shook her head. “That would never work for me. For you, I am certain, but not for me.”

  “And I say it will.” Monique narrowed her eyes, studying Isabelle a moment before she threw out the challenge. “I dare you to prove me wrong.”

  Isabelle knew she would never have the courage to do such a thing. And it went without saying that there was not, nor ever would be, any man she wished to place at her mercy. The idea was preposterous.

  The maid knocked on the open door, then stepped inside the room. “Dr. Garrick is here, Miss.”

  “Send him in, he knows the way.” Monique pointed to the dressing gown and nightdress. “Wrap these so Miss Tate may take them with her.”

  “Yes, Miss.” The maid curtsied, then gathered up the garments and left the room.

  Isabelle smoothed her skirts nervously, embarrassed to be seen with her hair down and her face painted. “Dr. Garrick will want to leave right away.”

  “Why?”

  Isabelle nodded toward the clock on the mantel. “It’s already half past five. Jonathan will fret if he’s late for their dinner together.”

  “I see,” Monique drawled.

  Isabelle fought back her blush, which bloomed all the more insistently for her effort. How could she have been so careless as to use Jonathan’s Christian name in front of Monique? She changed the subject, hoping against hope that Monique hadn’t noticed. “Thank you again. For everything.”

  Monique smiled knowingly, like someone who has just realized she holds the winning hand in a game of cards. “Remember to thank Jonathan. Men are insecure creatures. They need to feel appreciated.”