“Ah.” She smiled. “A salve to your conscience.”
“I have no conscience,” he reminded her.
“Quite right. Very well, then,” she replied cheerily, “if it will keep you at a distance, I shall be glad to comply with your wishes.”
“Capital. I shall bring you a pair of my trousers and a shirt. You may take them to your modiste for a fitting this afternoon. I collect that recutting would be faster than starting from scratch. Have her send the bill to me.”
“How generous of you, my lord. And when she asks why Lord Geoffrey Morgan is paying my bills, what would you like me to say?”
Damn. He hadn’t thought of that. He could simply give her the money, or…. He glanced at a clock on the mantel at the far end of the room. “Fetch your wrap, Miss Deauville. I shall take you to a modiste I know.”
By the time Dianthe had donned her dark wig and hurried downstairs to the foyer, Mr. Prescott had departed and Lord Geoffrey was waiting. Pacing, actually. She could not imagine what he was thinking. Hiring her a fencing master so he would not have to defend her? She hadn’t realized she was so loathsome to him.
He rushed her out the front door, handed her into his private coach and climbed in after her. Instead of sitting beside her as he’d done last night, he sat across from her and watched her with cool intensity.
She cleared her throat. “I was not aware that men were familiar with modistes, Lord Geoffrey.”
“I’ve known a few,” he said.
“Through your women folk?”
“I have no women folk.”
“Then—”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “If you must know, Miss Lovejoy, I know them from my mistresses. You will learn, once you enter the demimonde, that Cyprians prefer to have their patrons pay for their baubles and frippery. I confess I’ve made more than one trip to a modiste for a new gown or a special luxury.”
Dianthe glanced out the window, unable to meet his gaze for fear he would see her discomfort. She had suspected he’d had mistresses—perhaps many—but she hadn’t been prepared for the sudden annoyance his admission caused her. A flash of memory of last night in this very coach kindled an unaccustomed pain when she thought of him doing such things with other women.
“Have I discomfited you?” he asked.
“I suspect you have done it on purpose. Several days ago I vowed to give you no trouble, Lord Geoffrey. Alas, I fear you have tested me rather more than I anticipated, and I have veered from that course. But now I know your game, and you shall not provoke me so easily.”
He sat back again and folded his arms over his chest. Though he said nothing, she knew she’d surprised him. He made no further comment until they arrived at an expensive looking shop. There was no sign above the door, just a needle and thread painted in gold on the window to the street.
The moment they entered, a lovely woman with auburn curls hurried from the back room. When she saw who it was, she clasped her hands together and grinned widely.
“Là! Lord Morgan, ’ow nice to see you. I cannot remember ’ow long it ’as been. A year? Two?”
“Two,” he admitted. He glanced down at Dianthe and turned back to the modiste. “This is Miss Lizette Deauville. I’d like you to fit her for trousers and a shirt. She is going to take fencing lessons. We shall need them by tomorrow morning. Lizette, this is Madame Genevieve LaFehr. She is the premiere modiste to the demimonde.”
Madame LaFehr gave a throaty laugh as she led them toward a dressing room. “It is a specialty, Miss Deauville. As you know, there are sometimes unique requests, eh? Per’aps a game or two to play? A fantasy to indulge? Lord Morgan, though, ’as not requested anything so exotic in the past. I collect ’e ’as found a new passion and a new game, eh?”
Dianthe turned to Lord Geoffrey in time to note a slight twitch at the corner of his eye. If she could keep her own embarrassment at bay, this could be amusing. “Yes, Madame LaFehr. Something close fitting and without frills.”
“But feminine, yes? Lord Morgan would not want you to ’ide your…assets.” Madame LaFehr turned to him and asked, “Do you wish to stay as usual, my lord, or will you wait in the parlor?”
“Surprise me, Madame. I’ll wait in the parlor.” He left them and went down another hallway.
Madame LaFehr led Dianthe into a square room with a small dais and a separate dressing closet. “Strip down, petite Lizette,” she instructed, “and I shall take the measures.”
Dianthe went into the little closet and did as she was told. When she was finished, she stepped onto the dais in her pantalettes and chemise. Madame LaFehr began knotting strings for the measurements as she kept up a steady stream of chatter.
“So you are Morgan’s new obsession, eh? I knew ’e was due. Per’aps overdue. I am a little surprised, no? You are so fresh, chère, not ’is usual sort at all.”
“No?” she asked. “What is his usual sort?”
“More experienced, of course. You look to be new at this trade. You are so fortunate to ’ave found Morgan so soon. ’E is a most generous man, no? Oh, and the things ’e can do! Là! Are the others jealous, chère?”
“Others? What others?”
“The women who aspired to be next, chère. ’Is former paramours? They all call ’im the Sheikh.”
The Sheikh? What could he have done to earn that title? Dianthe wondered as the modiste brought bolts of cloth from another room. Heavens! Had he kept a harem?
“Now, chère, what is the game?”
“Game?”
“For which ’e orders the clothes. Fencing, eh? Will there be real swords, or just the…figurative sword?”
Dianthe realized what the woman meant and couldn’t stop her blush. “Real, Madame. I am actually to take fencing lessons.”
Madame LaFehr raised an eyebrow. “Yes? From the on dit, I would not ’ave thought Morgan would like it…rough.” She pulled several skins from the pile she had amassed. “This one for the trousers, eh? We would not want you to suffer the cuts.”
Dianthe felt the texture. It was a very fine suede that felt like chamois. She tried to imagine what it would feel like next to her skin. There were skins in black, tan and a deep rich brown. She stroked the brown wistfully, knowing it was far too expensive for her.
“The brown.” Madame LaFehr nodded. “Usually not a good choice with the black ’air, but your coloring requires it. And now, for the shirt,” she said, pulling several rolls of fabric from the pile.
“Oh, Madame, I really cannot afford—”
“Mais non, chère! Morgan will pay. ’E always pays when ’e brings ’is women.”
So this was a pattern with Lord Morgan? The odd annoyance was back. Dianthe glanced at the fabrics again, wondering which ones were the most expensive. She touched a rich ivory fabric that felt like cool liquid, and when she lifted it between her fingers, it slipped over her hand like a second skin. Such a fabric would be very expensive, indeed, and since Morgan was paying… “This one, Madame,” she said.
“Voilà! Perfection!”
“Will you obtain approvals from Lord Morgan now?” she asked, relishing the prospect of his chagrin when he found she was squandering his money.
“Ah, Lizette. ’E will not care. I ’ave seen ’im insist upon finer fabrics and patterns, never poorer. And there is no time, eh? ’E said these must be delivered no later than tomorrow morning. I will ’ave four girls sewing all night.”
Dianthe shrugged. She hoped she could be present when he opened the bill.
“Shall we begin with the Four Governors?” Mr. Prescott asked the next afternoon as his gaze swept Dianthe’s form. She felt nearly naked. The leather breeches hugged her hips and legs while the shirt draped her form, laying like water on her skin, the ruffle on the sleeves falling over her hands. She’d never been so revealed in front of a man before. Mr. Prescott, though, seemed not to notice. He lifted a rapier from the rack and cut a pattern through the air, then handed it to her, hilt fir
st.
She took the sword and gripped the hilt as he demonstrated. “The Four Governors?”
“Perception, distance, timing and technique. The essential elements of swordsmanship, Miss Deauville. You must master them all to prevail.”
“Perception, distance, timing and technique,” she repeated. That did not sound beyond her.
“Stand beside me,” Mr. Prescott instructed. “Imitate my moves while I walk you through a basic exercise. Watch your form in the mirrors and concentrate.”
His tone, deadly earnest, led her to believe that this might be a serious endeavor. Mr. Prescott moved with the grace of a dancer, showing her a series of moves including lunges, parries and passes.
“There is much more, Miss Deauville,” he said after an hour or two. “And we shall get to that. For now, practice what I’ve taught you. I shall be back tomorrow, in the morning, I think, whilst you are still fresh.”
Dianthe rolled her neck to relieve the tension that had built up with her concentration. “Do you really think any of this will help me, Mr. Prescott? After all, I haven’t the advantage of strength, size or stamina.”
“I thought not, Miss Deauville, but now I think I was wrong. You have a natural grace that will compensate for much. You can master all the important elements, except, perhaps, distance. Your sword arm is not as long as most men’s, but you can offset that with speed. You are quite agile and there are defensive moves that will leave your enemy confounded.”
“Then you think I should continue with the lessons?”
“Most certainly. You will be effective in the riposte and the traverse. Your opponent will not expect that from you.” He frowned and then laughed. “He will not expect any resistance from you. Listen well, Miss Deauville, because this may be the best advice I give you—do not allow your enemy to know your skill. Surprise will be your greatest asset, and if you follow surprise with finesse, you’ll have a fair chance at victory.”
She laid a finger against her lips to indicate that she would keep her silence.
He smiled and nodded. “I think I shall teach you the Mysterious Circle first. It is the quickest method to develop your skills. And then we shall learn al la macchia, the rough-and-tumble fighting you would encounter if trying to defend yourself against attack.”
Al la macchia? Dianthe nodded in understanding. She was not likely to be formally challenged to a duel, but an attack could come from anywhere. She shivered as she remembered that horrible voice in the library on Curzon Street. Yes, she would learn, and as quickly as possible.
Mr. Prescott bowed from the waist again and departed, leaving her in the ballroom. In the mirrors she saw a quick skittering movement behind her and knew it would be either Giles or Hanson. She’d yet to meet them, and she’d begun to think of them as cockroaches, always disappearing when she turned a corner or lit a lamp. She’d begun to make a game of trying to surprise them.
Well, there was nothing to do until supper. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin and saluted herself in the mirror as Mr. Prescott had taught her to do. She might as well perfect her moves. God knew it was better than thinking of Geoffrey Morgan’s mouth. Or the wild yearning he had created in her.
Chapter Eight
The morning light in Lord Geoffrey’s office spilled onto Dianthe’s lap as she settled into a comfortable chair. A soft summer breeze filtered through the open French doors. She threaded a needle and lifted the pink satin gown awaiting her attention. A little snipping and cutting, and it would be fit for an evening gown. She had thought of going to Madame LaFehr’s and having a new gown made, but she suspected the modiste would be much too expensive for her means. All she had left was five pounds and she imagined a gown by Madame LaFehr would cost twice that.
Judging by the reaction she’d garnered at the theater, she only needed to lower her necklines and leave her arms bare. There was more to seductive dressing than that, she knew, but nothing she could accomplish with her limited resources. And she could ill afford to sit around any longer. She had to take action tonight—before the killer found her.
She sighed and glanced up at the portrait above the fireplace. An enigmatic beauty with long dark hair falling to the middle of her back stood beneath a tree, a straw bonnet in one hand. Her gown was a maidenly pink trimmed in white, and a wistful smile curved her full lips. By the manner of the subject’s dress, the portrait had been painted no more than ten years previous, perhaps seven, judging by the style of her bonnet. Dianthe knew it couldn’t be the fabled Constance Bennington. She’d seen a miniature of that woman in Lady Annica’s sitting room.
She could not tear her eyes from that portrait. There was something very familiar in the vulnerable face and the grace of those hands. A cautious curiosity shone from the woman’s dark eyes and made Dianthe smile. She fancied she would have liked this woman.
“Miss Lovejoy? Did you need something?”
She turned at the sound of Lord Morgan’s voice. He carried a hat and gloves, and she suspected he was on his way to an appointment. She shrugged and held up her pink gown. “I just came to find some good light to repair my gown, my lord.”
“Ah, well…” He looked awkward. “I shall have Giles bring additional lamps to your room.”
“Am I not allowed in here?” she asked.
He hesitated, then shrugged. “You have access to anywhere in the house but my apartments. You were quite right. The morning light is best in here. Pray continue.” He took several steps toward the open French doors to the back terrace.
“Lord Geoffrey?” She waited for him to halt before she continued. “Who is the girl in the portrait?”
“My sister, Charlotte,” he said without turning.
That was it! That was why she’d looked familiar. She had the same dark eyes, the same hint of sweetness beneath the surface. The same graceful, expressive hands. The same vulnerability? But Lord Geoffrey was not vulnerable, was he? And hadn’t he said he had no women folk?
She turned back to him with the question on her lips, only to find that he had slipped out the open doors. At almost the same instant, she caught a scurrying in the hallway just outside the door. She raised an eyebrow as misplaced frustration snapped a thread of restraint. She would deal with Giles and Hanson. But Mr. Prescott would be here soon for her lesson. She needed to change. Giles and Hanson would wait.
Exhausted from her lesson, Dianthe rubbed her right shoulder and rolled her head to ease the tension in her neck. She never would have guessed that fencing could be so strenuous. Of course, the three hours of practice after her lesson hadn’t helped. Her calves and thighs hurt, her arms and shoulders ached and even her buttocks were sore.
When she left the ballroom, she found her luncheon waiting outside the door—another sneak attack by Giles or Hanson. She picked up the tray and headed for the kitchen with a deep sigh.
When she heard soft voices in the pantry, she silently placed it on the worktable and took a chair. She’d sit there as long as it took them to come out. In the end, she did not have long to wait. They obviously hadn’t heard her coming.
Both appeared to be in their middle years. The taller one was lean, with a balding head and gray hair, while his companion was shorter, plump and had dark hair shot through with silver. And both stopped dead in their tracks to stare at her in horror. They obviously were not accustomed to being encountered in their kitchen.
“Good afternoon,” she said as pleasantly as she could manage. She followed with a smile, wondering if even that would put them at ease. “I wasn’t aware that you’d brought my lunch and I lost track of time while I practiced. Could I trouble you to warm my soup, please?”
“I, ah…” The shorter man hurried forward and lifted the bowl of fish chowder off her tray so fast that it almost spilled over the polished surface of the table. “S-sorry, miss.”
“I do not believe we have met,” she said. She stood and bobbed the slightest of curtsies in polite respect. “My name is Dianthe Lovejoy, late of
Bloomsbury Square.”
The taller man, who, by his more circumspect manner, seemed to be in charge, bowed deeply, as if determined to outdo her in politeness. “I am Giles, Lord Morgan’s valet, Miss Lovejoy. And this—” he waved at the plump man “—is Hanson, the cook.”
“How very nice to meet you both.” She settled herself at the table again.
“Would you not be more comfortable in your room, miss?” Giles asked.
“I do not wish to put you to the trouble of bringing the tray up.” She watched their faces with veiled amusement. They really had no idea what to do with her. She couldn’t resist teasing them. “Please spare me a few moments. I’ve been lonely since coming here, and since we are all here now, we should become acquainted. I must admit that I was beginning to think it was fairies that brought my meals and changed the linens.”
A deep flush stained Giles’s face and she instantly regretted teasing the man. “Has Lord Morgan told you that I am a fire-breathing dragon?”
“No, miss,” Hanson answered over his shoulder as he ladled fresh soup from the pot on the stove. “He said we were to keep an eye on you but leave you alone.”
Yes, that sounded like Lord Geoffrey—always walking a fine line between helping and hindering. He might call it “not interfering,” but she called it infuriating. She buried her irritation and smiled reassuringly again. “I would not take conversation amiss, Mr. Hanson. Indeed, I would find it quite reassuring.”
Giles stepped forward and bowed again, slightly. “Very well, Miss Lovejoy. What did you wish to talk about?”
She shrugged and picked up a spoon as Hanson put the bowl of hot soup in front of her. “Well, we could start with my presence here. What has Lord Morgan told you about that?”
“That he owes your cousin a debt of honor, miss, and that he has agreed to keep you safe until your relative returns to town.”
“And that you’re in a bit of a pickle,” Hanson contributed. “I think he is a little afraid for—”
“That’s enough, Hanson,” Giles said with a stern look. “No sense in frightening the young woman, is there?”
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