Realm 03 - A Touch of Cashemere

by Regina Jeffers

  “If we can fool Uncle Charles, that shall be the true test.” Caught up in her sister’s excitement, Satiné giggled also.

  *

  “When did the viscount return?” Murhad Jamot sat in a small inn situated on Edinburgh’s outskirts. He hated the country’s dampness, but the area’s rough terrain along the English border had provided him with several places where he could hide and re-evaluate his efforts after the failure of his last encounter with the Realm.

  “The county be back near on a month now,” said the groomsman with whom Jamot had made friends over a shared drink and some cut powder to which Jamot had connections. The Baloch had followed Mir’s orders, but he had seen no reason he could not profit from a side venture in opium while he spent time searching the British countryside for Mir’s emerald. “A man has to eat,” he had told himself on more than one occasion.

  Jamot took a sip of his drink. The ale did not sit well with his constitution, but he feigned contentment. “And neither girl returned with the man? That seems odd.” Jamot had taken time to reflect interest but not an obsession with the man’s story.

  “It all be most suspicious. For months old Averette be crowin’ ‘bout marryin’ off them sisters to Charters and ‘nother man he chooses. Then neither returns.” The man swayed in place. The weakened drug and weaker ale having an effect on him. “Charters put the hurt on the county on Tuesday last. Jemmy be sayin’ Charters told Averette that he paid good money for the younger girl, and he wanted her back.”

  Jamot had heard all he needed for the time being. He no longer suspected either Kerrington or Fowler had Mir’s emerald, but he did believe they knew of its whereabouts. Now, he had the names of those he could approach to assist him with the next suspects on his list. “Think I will find my bed,” he slapped the groomsman on the back and turned toward the exit. “I will find you again soon, Friend.” However, Jamot thought the groomsman had served his purpose.

  *

  “Uncle, it is terrible what the Averettes have done to Cashémere in the name of love,” Satiné sobbed. She and the baron had ridden out together on the pretense of visiting several of the tenants, but they had shared a secluded outcropping less than a mile from the main house. Satiné had asked the only parent she could remember to accompany her for she required someone with whom to share the confidence. They had returned to Chesterfield Manor a week prior, and as they had agreed, she and Cashé had begun to teach each other about their respective lives. Satiné did not explain to their uncle what precipitated these sharing sessions, but of what her sister had spoken she had felt compelled to tell in the baron.

  Ashton’s body stiffened, and she recognized the anger coursing through him. “Tell me what your sister has confided. Before I can protect Cashémere, I must know it all.”

  “I am ashamed to say that I would have crumbled long ago,” Satiné declared. “The Averettes have an unusual lifestyle. In some ways, they practice what we think of as Society–arranged marriages, men’s supremacy, and rules of propriety. Yet, there are extremes also.” Satiné hiccupped as she swallowed her sobs. “The worst part is Cashé believes much of what the viscount does is acceptable. My sister does not question Lord Averette’s authority.”

  “I understand.” The baron placed his arm around the girl’s shoulders. “It must be difficult on a young woman of your station, but it is important, Satiné, that you tell me everything just as Cashé has explained it to you.”

  “Our grandmother,” she began with a deep inhalation, “required Cashé to spend hours on her knees in meditation whenever she misbehaved as a child. Once, my sister had torn and muddied her dress, and our grandmother locked Cashé in a broom closet for a whole day without food and with only a chamber pot in the space. Another time, Cashé forgot to do her chores, and Uncle Samuel placed her on her knees before a room full of guests and forced her to read the book of Exodus aloud. She was not permitted to stand until she had read the entire Biblical passage. Cashé was eight at the time.”

  Ashton bit back his reaction. “What else?”

  “None of the women are permitted opinions nor are they given privileges within the church. Such contradictions are difficult to accept. Although parties are condemned as evil, Uncle Samuel allowed His Grace to escort the Aldridges about London recently.”

  The baron spoke through gritted teeth. “I suspect Aldridge uses his religion as an excuse for avoiding what he does not wish to do. It is his mantle–something he brings out when convenient.”

  “Cashémere brags of the good deeds the church accomplishes. My sister speaks of the schools established for the poorer children, and you are aware of what she says regarding the church’s protection of the needy families; yet, when she speaks of the power of both the parochial elder and of the deacon, I fear something is amiss.”

  “Your fear is well placed,” Ashton warned. “Satiné, you must continue to encourage Cashémere to entrust you with her memories, and then you must make me aware of each experience your sister shares–no matter how insignificant that memory may seem.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Now, my Sweet, share with me the rest of what you know, and then we should return to the estate. You must promise me that you will not tell Cashémere of our discussion. Your sister must not know you turned to me for comfort.”

  “I understand, Uncle, but you will protect Cashé, will you not? My sister cannot return to Lord Averette’s household.”

  Ashton kissed her forehead. “I promise that Cashémere will never return to Scotland.”

  *

  It had taken Marcus two days to reach his estate. He had spent his first night on the road dreaming of making love to Cashémere, waking hard with desire. He had ridden steadily through the day, taking only a few breaks to rest his horse. Subconsciously, Marcus realized he needed to put the miles between him and the woman he had kissed so passionately or else to return to Linworth and claim her. His conscience had bothered him as he had ridden away: He had betrayed one of his closest friends. Yet, images of Cashé’s trusting countenance clung to his mind’s recesses, and Marcus knew he would kiss her again–in a heartbeat.

  “You are home,” Trevor said when Marcus entered the drawing room.

  Marcus sat close to where his brother and his companion played cards. “I apologize for being away so long. Have you and Jeremy completed your lessons today?” Marcus nodded to the young man he had hired to stay with his older brother.

  Trevor placed a card on the table with a flourish. “Jeremy made me clean my room today,” Trevor declared.

  Marcus smiled indulgently. “Jeremy was correct. A gentleman does not leave extra work for his servants.”

  Trevor protested, “Jeremy is not a gentleman.”

  Jeremy Ingram had been a Godsend. The young man, a by-blow of one of his father’s dearest friends, had agreed to become Trevor’s companion for ten years. In return, Marcus’s father had educated Ingram in the finest schools and had set aside a sizeable trust for the man when he finished his time with the family. Marcus had already identified a youth in a similar situation, who would replace Jeremy when the man left the Wellston household. It was an unusual business arrangement to which Marcus gave his father the credit for developing the position. With Trevor’s condition, the family held no idea of his brother’s lifespan. The doctors had not given them much hope. In fact, the physician had encouraged the former earl to place Trevor in an asylum, but Lionel Wellston had adamantly refused. Because Trevor had a man’s body, but a childlike mind, Jeremy’s employment provided Trevor stability, and it relieved his father, and now Marcus, to tend to estate business. Marcus likened the situation to hiring a destitute female as a governess or a lady’s companion.

  Thankfully, his brother’s companion had kept his opinions to himself, but Marcus corrected, “Jeremy is a gentleman, Trevor–the same as I. Jeremy is a minor son also.”

  “I am a number one son,” Trevor asserted.

  “That is correct,” Marcus mo
tioned for the tea tray to be place where his brother could reach the cakes and finger sandwiches. “You were father’s first child.”

  Abandoning the card game, Trevor had taken the plate the maid handed him. “We had different mothers.”

  Marcus frowned when Trevor spoke before swallowing. He motioned for his brother to use his napkin. “Yes, our father remarried.”

  “My mother died when I was born.” The maid judiciously handed Trevor a half-filled cup of tea. Over the years, the household staff had adapted to Trevor’s poor coordination skills. They had cleaned more than one of his brother’s accidents. “My mama died and your mama died and Papa died and Myles died and Maggie died...” Trevor recited in a singsong rhythm.

  Marcus swallowed the predictable desperation creeping into his chest. The litany of his family history set poorly with him. “We have suffered too many losses,” he said softly.

  Suddenly, Trevor looked very agitated. “When you die, Marcus, who will take care of me?”

  It was the type of question young children asked of parents when a beloved grandparent passed, and Marcus answered as he would in that situation. “First, it will be a long time before God calls me to Heaven, but you should not be afraid. Father and I have made plans for your care. You have nothing of which to worry.”

  “Did the duke marry?” Trevor changed the subject, unable to sustain a long conversation.

  Marcus smiled, “Yes, His Grace took a wife. Do you remember Brantley Fowler?” He knew Jeremy would have read Marcus’s letter to Trevor.

  “I remember names,” Trevor revealed triumphantly. “Jeremy says I remember names better than anything else. There is Brantley Fowler and James Kerrington and Carter Lowery and Gabriel Crowden and...”

  Marcus interrupted, not wishing to hear Kimbolt’s name and be reminded of his irrational desire for the viscount’s love interest. “I need to change my clothes and rid myself of the trail dirt.” Marcus stood to emphasize his point. “Then I will be in my study, addressing all the correspondence Mr. Dylan has waiting for me.” Carter gave Trevor an abbreviated bow, reminding his brother of his manners. “I will see you at supper, if not before.”

  *

  “Surely you practice an untruth,” Cashé accused.

  Satiné strolled about the room, playacting at being at a Society party. “I am quite serious. A woman may use her fan to speak secretly to an established suitor or a potential one. Now, watch this.” Satiné took the open fan in her left hand and delicately fluttered it before her face. “This means, ‘I wish to speak to you.’” Satiné demonstrated again. “It is your turn.”

  Cashé reluctantly mimicked her twin’s actions. “What else?”

  “Oh, there is a whole language.” Satiné took up the lesson. “If a woman fans slowly, she is telling a man she is married, and if quickly, she is engaged.”

  Cashé looked puzzled. “Then what does a woman do if she is too warm and simply needs a bit of air? She could be saying something, which is not true. I am neither married nor engaged, but fanning myself after a robust dance might be saying otherwise.”

  “Oh, silly, it just is not the same,” Satiné assured her. “As new debutants, we shall wear white, and the men will know we are not involved in a serious relationship.” Cashé rolled her eyes in vexation, but Satiné ignored her sister’s stubbornness. “These are the important ones.” Satiné took the fan again to demonstrate each maneuver. “Drawing the fan across the man’s cheek means, ‘I love you.’ Pulling the fan through the hand tells the man that you care nothing for him. Touching your right cheek means, ‘Yes,’ and, of course, ‘No’ is the left cheek. A fan placed near the heart tells the man that he has won yours, and a half opened fan pressed to the lips means you will accept his kiss.”

  Cashé thought about the passion she had shared with Lord Yardley. She held no fan then, but the earl knew she had wanted his kiss. Still desired his kisses. Feeling flustered by her unexpected wantonness, Cashé blushed.

  “Did I say something that brought on your color?” Satiné laughed lightly. “Oh, do not tell me, Sister, that you have never been kissed.”

  Cashé thought instantly of Wellston, but she quickly hid her fluttering heart. “I have been kissed,” she asserted.

  “By your intended? By Mr. Charters?” Satiné teasingly questioned.

  Cashé’s countenance answered the tease. “No, not Mr. Charters.”

  “Then who?” Satiné demanded. “A kiss when you were ten does not count.”

  Cashé walked away, partially turning her back on her sister. “No, not when I was ten. This past week, in fact.”

  Satiné flinched. “Lord Yardley?”

  Cashé hid her amusement. She liked seeing her sister at a disadvantage. “Actually, Lord Lexford.”

  Satiné puffed up in denial. “You said we are to convince Lord Yardley and Viscount Lexford that each had the wrong twin!”

  Cashé trailed her finger nonchalantly along a bookshelf. “We did, but the viscount kissed me before we came to our agreement.”

  Satiné crossed her arms across her chest in disbelief. “Lord Lexford would not have done so. He is a gentleman.”

  “His Lordship most certainly kissed me!” Cashé declared in triumph.

  Satiné admitted, “I am not certain I like the idea. If we are to switch affections, I would prefer the viscount knew you less rather than more.”

  Cashé quickly realized her sister’s insecurity. In some ways it gave her comfort to know that the polished Satiné held her own self-doubts. “You must remember that I have known Lord Lexford for a longer acquaintance.” She paused, recognizing that she needed to give Satiné more comfort. “His Lordship wished to ease my feelings after Uncle Samuel’s departure. It was not as if I encouraged the viscount,” she protested. “Trust me! I have no desire for a repeat of Lord Lexford’s affections.”

  “Was the kiss deplorable?” Satiné appeared suddenly concerned over Lexford’s abilities.

  Cashé chuckled. “No, nothing as such. His Lordship’s kiss was very tender–not demanding.”

  “What do you mean, not demanding?”

  A light turned on in Cashé’s understanding. “You have never been kissed!” she blurted out.

  Satiné’s hands fisted at her waist. “I will have you know that Lord Yardley kissed me before he departed!”

  “You speak an untruth!” Cashé declared.

  Satiné grimaced. “I am not of a habit of being dishonest,” she snapped. “Lord Yardley offered me a farewell kiss, just as Lord Lexford bade you adieu.”

  The possibility of Yardley rewarding Satiné with his attentions enflamed Cashé. “I extend my deepest sympathies, Satiné. You are delusional, Sister!”

  Satiné’s voice rose in desperation. “It is true! Lord Yardley kissed me!”

  Cashé strode to the door. “I pity you for your weakness,” she declared.

  “What weakness?” Satiné challenged.

  Cashé turned on her twin. “Your true vulnerability. It gives me some recompense to know that you do not have all the answers.”

  “Why do you not believe me?” Satiné shouted.

  Cashé smiled deviously. “Because Lord Yardley kissed me repeatedly before he left for Northumberland, and I can assure you, Sister Dear, that tenderness had nothing to do with the earl’s show of affection!”

  Chapter 9

  “Did you dance at the duke’s wedding?” Trevor asked as they had dined together. Marcus had returned to his estate a week earlier, and he had repeatedly answered his brother’s questions about the wedding.

  Marcus looked up and smiled. Images of his waltzing with Cashé readily materialized. He had dreamed of her each evening, and in the privacy of his chambers, he had brought Cashé to pleasure. At least, in his mind, he had done so. “It was a small gathering, and we celebrated during the evenings leading up to the exchange of vows.”

  “But did you dance?” Trevor insisted.

  Marcus indulgently answered, “Y
es, I acted the gentleman and escorted several ladies onto the floor.”

  “Then there were pretty girls at the party,” Trevor asserted.

  Marcus barked out a laugh. “And why would you think there were pretty girls in attendance?”

  Trevor gave him the silly, lopsided smile that Marcus treasured. “You do not enjoy dancing, so if you danced, it must have been with a pretty girl.”

  Marcus choked on his wine. “I...I suppose...that makes sense.”

  “Were they very pretty?” Marcus reminded himself that although Trevor had a child’s mind, that his brother possessed a man’s body, holding a pre-adolescent interest in girls. As the oldest, at the age of four and thirty, Trevor should have been the Earl of Berwick. Trevor would have inherited if he had not been born with his disabilities. Trevor’s mother had never delivered a healthy child, and his brother’s birth had brought disappointment. The physician had said that the countess had passed her prime years for delivery–her being in her early forties when she had given birth to Trevor. The first Lady Yardley had passed when Trevor was not quite one, and twenty months later, the earl had married Marcus’s mother. Lady Margaret Sterling Wellston quickly delivered forth an heir, Marcus’s brother Myles; and two years later, he and his twin graced Tweed Hall. Little did anyone in the family realize that only the oldest and the youngest would survive.

  “Yes, very pretty.” Marcus joined in the banter.

  Trevor put down his utensils and focused his attention on Marcus. “Tell me.”

  “Well, let me see.” Marcus purposely paused in a teasing manner. “There were four women with us at Viscount Worthing’s estate.” Another pause. “First, Viscountess Worthing is quite tall and statuesque with golden blonde hair and green eyes.”

  “Lady Worthing is tall like His Lordship,” Trevor observed.

  “Yes, very much so.”

  “Then they will have a tall baby.” Jeremy, who sat beside Trevor, tried to caution his charge about appropriate mealtime conversations, but Marcus gave a small shake of his head to allow Trevor to continue.