by Lucy Ashford
Back at her shop Belle swiftly took off her pelisse and bonnet, trying to look calm when inside she felt sick. To have let him kiss her again... ‘Has everything been all right while I’ve been out, Gabby?’
Gabby hesitated. ‘Oh, madame, we have been so quiet that I sent the girls home.’
Belle’s stomach pitched. Adam Davenant was forgotten. ‘No customers at all?’
‘No one, madame. But you look so tired, I will make you a cup of tea. And there is a letter for you.’
Belle opened the letter and this time went cold with utter dismay.
It was from her landlord, giving details of the next quarter’s rent—and the amount was double what it used to be.
She could not pay it. She simply stood there frozen, while the letter dropped from her hands.
Gabby came back in with the tray of tea things, making an effort to be bright and cheerful. ‘And so, what is it like, the house Monsieur Davenant has provided for you? Is it very grand? Is it—?’
Belle cut in. ‘Gabby, I’m afraid this shop will have to go.’
Gabby put the tray down rather shakily. ‘But—what about Jenny, and Susan, and Matt?’
‘I will find us something else,’ Belle assured her quickly. ‘A smaller shop, in a less expensive area. But I doubt if I can keep paying the girls and Matt.’
Gabby’s voice trembled a little. ‘Matt and I—we are going to be married!’
‘Oh, Gabby.’ Belle hugged her. ‘But this won’t stop you, will it? Matt will still have plenty of work with his brother, surely?’
Gabby was dabbing her eyes. ‘His brother says times are hard also. Madame, we all like working here for you so much—’ She broke off with a small sob.
Belle paced the floor. ‘I will ensure, then,’ she said almost fiercely, ‘that I find somewhere that makes enough profit for me to employ you all. Though as I said, it will have to be in a less fashionable district.’
‘But if you do that,’ Gabby cried, ‘we will surely lose the rich customers we have left! Why not ask Monsieur Davenant for help?’
Belle shivered. ‘He’s not a charity, Gabby. In fact, I’m not even sure he particularly likes me. He just wants me to fend off the hordes of society beauties he seems to imagine are clamouring for him.’
‘But they are!’ pointed out Gabby. ‘I told you so, remember? He is—’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Belle, ‘I believe you’ve already told me quite enough about Mr Davenant’s—attributes, thank you, Gabby!’ She picked up the letter from her landlord and read it again distractedly, then thrust it upon the table.
Gabby sighed. ‘Ma chérie,’ she went on tenaciously, putting her hand on Belle’s arm, ‘Monsieur Davenant is going to a great deal of trouble and expense just to set you up for his convenience. He must have regard for you, and why not? You are so brave, so beautiful.’
He thinks me an utter fool. And no wonder. Belle felt a very strong desire to cry. But she pulled herself up, blew her nose and said, ‘I’m going to look at my account books and see how we can cut our losses when we have to close this shop.’
‘But—’
‘Please don’t argue, Gabby. We will have to search for another shop, you and me, without Mr Davenant’s help, and there is an end to it.’
* * *
When Gabby had gone Belle put her palms to her cheeks, drew a deep breath then walked round rather agitatedly amongst the lengths of silk that gleamed at her cruelly.
She was afraid, because her life was collapsing around her.
She simply couldn’t go on with her arrangement with Adam Davenant. What a fool she’d made of herself today—and that was just the beginning.
But if she refused to fulfil her part of the bargain, then Davenant might immediately demand that Edward reimburse him for those gambling debts. And as for those dratted sheep...
She felt rather sick. Clearly she’d have to confide in Edward, however distressed he was about his poor baby. There had to be some way out of this, there had to be.
* * *
Belle had no other relatives to turn to; Aunt Mildred and Uncle Philip had washed their hands of her nine years ago, when Belle told them she had fallen in love.
After several months of secret if brief assignations in Bath, Harry Marchmain asked Belle to marry him. Harry had been so handsome, so gallant in his army uniform, and Belle had felt so sure of their love that she earnestly told him she would defy not just her family but the world for him. But though Harry was of good family he had no money apart from his army pay. ‘It’s a totally unsuitable liaison,’ Uncle Philip had told Belle sharply.
Together Belle and Harry arranged to be seen passionately kissing in a deserted conservatory at a ball in the Upper Assembly Rooms one night—and the ensuing gossip that spread like wildfire changed everything, just as Belle and Harry had intended. When, a few days later, Harry came once more to ask for her hand in marriage, Uncle Philip had no choice but to stonily agree.
Belle had thought it would never happen again. Thought that she would never let her life be turned upside down by any man. But dear heaven, the feel of Adam Davenant’s hands, the taste of him, still coursed through her veins and tightened her tingling breasts. And between her thighs a tender pulse throbbed sweetly, achingly.
She remembered Gabby’s awed words with a fresh thud of anguish. ‘Monsieur Davenant is well known indeed for the beautiful women he has escorted around the town. And of course there is all the talk of his virilité...’
She was as big a fool as any of his conquests, because he’d melted her with just a kiss. Sheer dread had her in its grip again. Her business faced ruin. She would have to start up a new shop in far less elegant, far less profitable surroundings—and surely Adam Davenant would no longer want her as his fiancée. So—oh, Lord, what would happen then to Edward’s debts?
She would find out tomorrow, when she told Davenant of this latest blow. And then, next morning, another letter arrived from Edward.
* * *
‘So you see,’ Belle said brightly to Adam Davenant, ‘I have decided to close my shop in the Strand and set up a new one. Of course this means a complete rethink of my plans and I must end our betrothal, but I will, instead, arrange to repay my brother’s debts to you in instalments. And you will save a fortune, Mr D., in not having to spend money on my vastly expensive refurbishments of that big house of yours in Bruton Street. La! The thought of you paying out for all those Egyptian antiquities I was set on acquiring—what a lucky escape you have had, to be sure!’
They were at the back of the auction room the next day. The place teemed with the fashionable crowds who’d been eagerly assessing the Egyptian items on display and were now intently watching the auctioneer as he climbed his rostrum.
But Mr Davenant had eyes only for her. And those eyes were hard as flint. ‘I’ve told you,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Do not call me Mr D. Where are you opening this new shop?’
‘Well, at first I thought of Bath...’
‘Bath is full of old maids and dowds,’ he said dismissively.
‘I haven’t finished yet. And then I thought of Soho,’ she said airily, smoothing down her walking dress of pink-and-white striped percale, over which she’d thrown an emerald cashmere shawl.
‘Soho?’ said Davenant dangerously.
‘Yes, I shall rent a stall in the Soho Bazaar, it will be such fun—oh, look at these lions’ heads, Mr D., aren’t they quaint?’
He ignored her attempt at distraction. ‘To set yourself up in the Soho Bazaar,’ he pronounced, ‘is little better than crying your wares from a stall in Cheapside, and you must know it. Which of your fashionable clients do you think would be moon-dipped enough to follow you there?’
She tilted her head, setting the feathers on her emerald bonnet a-bobbing. ‘Oh, women will always want gowns, you know. And...’ Her voice trailed away suddenly.
‘You might as well tell me what’s gone wrong,’ said Davenant.
‘It’
s the rent,’ she said in little more than a whisper. ‘The landlord has doubled my rent and I cannot afford it.’
He was silent a moment. ‘I thought business was flourishing.’
‘It was, until recently!’ she uttered. ‘But then there were problems. Complaints.’
‘I see. And how the deuce, Mrs Marchmain, do you intend to pay off your brother’s debts and thus rid yourself of my obnoxious presence—from a market stall?’
Belle fought for words as well as for breath. ‘Oh, you are so arrogant. I will work night and day; I will not stop until I’ve...’
Suddenly she realised she was being drowned out by the piercing voice of the auctioneer. ‘Nineteen guineas, ladies and gentlemen—any advance? Twenty guineas now, and a bargain. Twenty-one! Twenty-two!’
Belle waved her catalogue in frustration. ‘I will borrow the money, Mr Davenant,’ she cried, ‘rather than be bound to you a single day longer...’
‘Sold!’ cried the auctioneer in triumph. ‘Sold for twenty-five guineas to the lady in the green hat with feathers standing at the back of the room.’
Oh, no.
‘You’ve just bought yourself a pair of gilded sphinxes,’ Davenant told her flatly. ‘You were about to tell me how you’re going to pay off your brother’s debts. And don’t forget that the auctioneer will also need paying—today.’
She could have wept. She gazed at him, utterly stricken.
Davenant went on, ‘Have you even told your brother what’s been happening? If he had any decency at all, he would be dealing with all this himself instead of skulking in Somerset. What the hell is he thinking of?’
‘His baby died,’ she whispered. ‘I got a letter from him this morning. The baby was born two weeks ago. It was very ill, and now it’s died. And his wife has been told that for the sake of her health, she must not bear another child...’
She tried to swallow down the huge lump of grief that was blocking her throat. This morning as she’d read that letter Belle had felt quite numb with sorrow for the little life lost and for Edward and Charlotte’s agony. Her brother, whatever his faults, adored Charlotte and had shared her desperate longing for children.
The auctioneer’s voice started to rise again as bidding began for the next item.
‘Let’s go outside,’ Davenant said abruptly, ‘before you end up with a six-foot-high marble elephant. I’m sorry about your brother’s child. But I am determined our original plan will go ahead.’
‘No! I cannot possibly accept your charity.’
Adam Davenant clenched his teeth.
Just then a porter came hurrying up. ‘Two gilded sphinxes—was they for you, sir?’
Davenant handed him his card after scribbling on it. ‘Deliver them to this address in Bruton Street and send me the bill.’ Then he guided Belle into the empty hallway beyond the noisy auction room. ‘Mrs Marchmain, I’ve already told you how you can pay me back—by appearing in public with me as my fiancée. And I’ve a new idea. Yes, you will reimburse me, but we will do it properly, in a businesslike way. I’ll invest in your shop. And it won’t be in some damned rookery in Soho, but in Piccadilly.’
Now, where the hell had that idea come from? Simple, really; he couldn’t let her break off their betrothal. He had to keep his bargain with Jarvis. But damn it, that piece of land for his railway was getting more expensive by the minute.
Belle’s hand had flown to her throat. ‘Piccadilly! But—’
‘I happen to know,’ he pressed on relentlessly, ‘of a jeweller’s shop close to Hatchard’s that’s becoming vacant shortly. You’ll like it—big glass windows for your displays, a workshop at the back for your staff. I’ll tell my secretary Lowell to acquire the lease.’
Just like that. ‘I will not put myself further in your debt!’
‘My intention is that you won’t,’ he said abruptly. ‘I will be extremely disappointed, in fact, if I don’t make a healthy profit. I’ll expect you to become all the rage.’
‘But our betrothal is only temporary—’
‘This need have nothing to do with our betrothal. This, Mrs Marchmain, is business.’
The porter was trundling past them with the two sphinxes on his wheeled trolley; Davenant gazed at them and said, ‘Do you know, I’ve rarely seen anything quite so hideous in my life. By the way—I assume you’ll agree now to move into the Bruton Street house?’
He saw her hesitate. Damn it, she was still desperately trying to wriggle her way out of this. How she must detest him.
‘You’ll do so as soon as possible if you’ve any sense,’ he said. ‘After all, the gossip about you and me will do no end of good for your shop.’
* * *
A few days before the expiry date of her old lease, Matt and his brother moved all Belle’s stock to her new Piccadilly premises. Bernard Lowell had approved the legal work, the shop sign had been painted and hung, and Belle had elegant cards printed and sent to all her clients.
Secretly she was awed by the shop’s prestigious situation, its airy rooms. Adam told her to order the furniture she needed, and so she did—no gaudy ornateness, but counters of polished walnut and floor-to-ceiling shelves in pale oak, fitted by Matt to display her valuable rolls of fabric.
Adam’s contributions—though he claimed to know nothing about the dressmaking trade—were invaluable. It was he who suggested that she continue with her eye-catching designs, but make them available also in softer colours to appeal to women of less adventurous tastes. He displayed, in fact, a remarkable knowledge of fabrics and styles, and Belle tried to stop herself sharply reflecting that he’d probably visited rather a lot of
modistes with all his previous mistresses.
There was accommodation above the shop—a small but pleasant bedchamber and sitting room—and when Gabby and Matt told Belle their marriage date was set, Belle offered the rooms to them.
‘How convenient,’ Adam had approved when she told him. ‘Your staff living on the premises means you have security as well as commitment. Well done, Mrs Marchmain.’
‘You think I planned it?’ Belle flashed. ‘You are so cynical! Sometimes love just happens!’
‘So I’m told.’ He shrugged.
* * *
On the opening day she was at the shop at dawn. Matt, Gabby and her two assistants Jenny and Susan were there, too; Matt as usual was the odd-job man and furniture mover while Gabby and Belle put finishing touches to the striking fabric displays they’d set up for passers-by to view through the plate-glass windows.
The shop was to open to selected clients at midday. Invitations had been sent out and the champagne was ready. As the minutes ticked by there was one last delivery—dozens of beautiful flowers in shades of cream, ivory and palest yellow. Belle opened the accompanying note with slightly unsteady fingers. I wish you luck today. You deserve it. A.D.
Something caught in Belle’s throat as she gave her staff their final instructions. ‘As from now,’ she told them, ‘Gabby will be in charge of this wonderful new shop. But I will still come every day, and believe me, your welfare and this business will always be uppermost in my mind.’
Gabby’s eyes twinkled. ‘We can manage here without you, you know, madame. I’ll keep you very well informed. All you need to do is call in two or three times a week, perhaps meet our most important clients.’
‘Two or three times a week?’ Belle was scandalised. ‘I assure you, I will do a good deal more than that. I’ll be here every morning!’
‘Every morning?’ Gabby said softly, merrily. ‘And what will Monsieur Davenant think of that, for goodness’ sake?’
Belle coloured slightly. ‘My plans have his full approval, since he is well aware I have a business to run.’
‘But when he makes you his wife, which surely he will...’
Again Belle felt a sharp lump in her throat. ‘Gabby. Please say nothing to anyone else, but I do know that I may well need this shop to come back to. It’s my refuge, it’s my life. Look after it for me.�
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‘Of course,’ said Gabby softly. ‘Oh, madame, do not cry. And Mr Davenant—I hear things, so does Matt, and Mr Davenant is said to be a good man, honest and fair.’
Except to those who have mortally insulted him, thought Belle rather desperately. Oh, if only she’d never met him at Sawle Down. If only... Regret was pointless; she had to deal with her life as it was now. Taking a deep breath, Belle went to open the doors to her new shop.
Chapter Eleven
There followed a hectic time in which Belle reached the startling conclusion that—if she pushed aside the precise reasons for her present situation—she was actually enjoying herself.
She’d moved into Adam’s house in Bruton Street. The London Season was in full swing, her new shop thrived, and Adam’s businesslike advice was invaluable. As for the house, Belle continued to add an outrageous piece of furniture here and a gaudy Egyptian antiquity there. The gilded sphinxes were a damned nuisance—she knocked her shins or caught her gown on them at least once a day. But even so she would find herself wandering around thinking, This is beautiful.
Her bedchamber was perhaps the loveliest room, light and airy with pale lemon wall-hangings. Even a huge old Egyptian-style chair she’d insisted on installing in one corner—made of heavily carved black wood with an overarching canopy—failed to mar its beauty.
She saw Adam most days, sometimes in meetings about her new shop together with his secretary Lowell; more often in the evenings, when he would escort her to some of London’s most fashionable venues such as the theatre or the ballet. After taking her back to Bruton Street well before midnight, he would leave for his own house in Clarges Street nearby, doing nothing more than nod his dark head in polite farewell.
Some sense of rebellion in Belle—or fear, perhaps, at the obligation under which she found herself—made her seek again and again to shatter Davenant’s calm demeanour with her bright clothes or with some outrageous remark. But it was like charging against a brick wall. Or bumping into one of the hideous sphinxes and sarcophagi that littered the corridors of her new house.
He was imperturbable. Indifferent, most likely, thought Belle with a strange little stab. She would be his fiancée for a while—oh, many were the congratulations she was offered on her engagement, and even more frequent the sly glances of envy—but in private he couldn’t have made it plainer that this was simply a business arrangement. She would give him respite from the marriage mart till the Season ended in July, then that would be the end of their betrothal. She would eventually pay back Edward’s debts to him through her profits, but doubtless that would be all sorted through Lowell.