As Jemmah fought bitter tears, Adelinda had pouted. "You know better than to lend me your things. I always lose them, Germ.”
Germ, the hated knick-name Adelinda insisted upon calling Jemmah.
Mama thought it quaint and amusing, a show of sisterly affection.
Balderdash and codswallop. Crafty and mean-spirited better described the moniker.
However, the one time Jemmah dared call Adelinda “Adder”—a fitting moniker since Adelinda meant noble snake, Mama had berated Jemmah for a full thirty minutes before sending her to bed without supper.
Small comfort knowing Jemmah meant precious gem while her sister’s name meant a cold, slithery, vile creature.
Mama’s given name, Belinda, meant beautiful snake, which was probably why she became so peeved at Jemmah calling Adelinda Adder.
A raspy chuckle filled the air.
“You actually fell asleep, my dear? While all these other young women are trying to snare a husband, you’re napping in Theo’s parlor. By all the crumpets in Canterbury, I admire you. Indeed, I do.”
“No need for admiration, I assure you. I simply didn’t find my bed until almost five this morning.” Jemmah licked her lower lip and searched for a footman. “Truth to tell I am quite thirsty.”
The dowager tutted kindly. “Five, you say? Hmph.”
She made a brusque sound of disapproval.
“I’ll wager staying up all night wasn’t of your own choosing.” She opened her mouth then snapped it shut. “I could use a glass of punch myself, my dear. Would you oblige an old woman and fetch me a cup?”
“Punch?”
Jemmah tried to hide her shock. Ladies didn’t drink the spirit-heavy libation. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a ratafia?”
“Too syrupy.” Eyes flashing with mischief, the dowager shook her head, and the ostrich feathers tucked into her stylish coif bobbed in agreement.
“Lemonade? Or perhaps an iced champagne?” Jemmah offered hopefully. Rather frantically, truth be told.
“I think not. Too insipid. Like men, I prefer something with a bit—actually, a great deal—more vigor and potency.”
Not quite believing her ears, and trying to subdue the heat crawling up her cheeks, Jemmah tried one last time.
“Tea? Wine?”
Lord, she couldn’t just stride up to the table and snatch a glass of punch. Tongues would flap faster than flags in a hurricane.
Cocking her head, humor sparring with patience in her gaze, the dowager chuckled. “My dear Miss Dament, do you truly believe none of the ladies present tonight ever imbibes in alcohol?”
Not publically.
“Look there, beside Lord Beetle Brows.” With her cane, the Dowager Lady Lockhart gestured at a proud dame.
Lord Dunston does have rather grizzled eyebrows.
“See Lady Clutterbuck?”
How could I miss her in that primrose gown?
“She trundles her thick backside off regularly and takes a nip from the flask she has hidden in her reticule.”
Jemmah bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling.
“Over there,” the dowager swung her cane toward a regal dame, epitomizing haut ton elegance. “Lady Dreary—
“I believe that’s Lady Drury—”
“Hmph. She’s as dreary and cold as frozen fog on a grave. But that was beside the point. Her ladyship is most clever—keeps whisky stashed in her vinaigrette instead of ammonia or smelling salts.”
How, for all the salt in the sea could Jemmah have forgotten the ... erm … unique labels the clever dowager attributed to others? Sometimes she explained a name’s genuine meaning, but others, as she’d just demonstrated, a droll play on words.
A speculative glint entered her ladyship’s watered-down-topaz-colored eyes. “Even Lady Wimpleton, whom I admire very much indeed, is wont to take a nip on occasion.”
Jemmah laughed and threw her hands up in defeat. “You win, my lady. I shall return shortly. Pray my mother doesn’t espy me.”
Though how she would manage the task without Mama hearing of it or some other nosy dame deciding it was her duty to chastise Jemmah, she hadn’t yet conceived.
“I can deal with Belinda well enough, my dear. You’re kind to humor an old woman’s idiosyncrasies.”
As Jemmah neared the table, a footman loading a tray with filled punch glasses smiled a polite greeting. “Good evening, Miss Jemmah. Mary said you were attending your aunt’s ball.”
“Frazer Pimble, isn’t it?”
Here was Jemmah’s answer to her dilemma. Most providential to come upon her maid’s brother.
“Aye.” He nodded once, a kindly smile emphasizing the swath of freckles across his nose and cheeks.
“May I impose upon you?” When he nodded, Jemmah angled toward the ballroom’s west side. “See that lovely lady in the gold and black, with the spray of black ostrich feathers in her hair. The one holding a cane and peering in our direction?”
“I do, miss.”
“She desires a glass of punch, and I don’t dare take it to her.” Jemmah bent a tiny bit nearer and murmured, “Can you imagine the gossip? Would you be so kind as to put a serving in a teacup for her?”
Frazer gave a quick glance around. “Leave it to me, miss. Do you need a beverage as well? If I may be so bold, you look a bit flushed.”
“I would love lemonade, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
He nodded and gave a small wink. “Return to your seat, and I shall be along straightaway.”
Jemmah resumed her seat and had just turned to explain the plan to the dowager when, true to his word, Frazer approached, carrying a tray with a glass of lemonade in addition to a teacup and saucer.
He presented the china cup to the elderly dame, and Lady Lockhart’s eyebrows crept up the creases of her forehead to hang there suspended.
“Tea?” fussed the dowager, giving Jemmah the gimlet eye. “I most definitely declined tea.”
“Oh, but this is a very special brew, my lady. I’m sure you’ll quite like it.” Frazer inclined his head, and the dowager’s eyes rounded.
She took a dainty sip, then smiled in pure delight. “Indeed. An exceptionally fine brew. Thank you.”
Frazer left them, and her ladyship turned an approving eye on Jemmah.
“That was well done of you, Miss Dament. Clever too.” Her watery gaze bored into Jemmah for a long moment before she nodded slowly, as if coming to a conclusion. “I’ve been of a mind to sponsor a worthy young woman this Season, someone to act as my companion too. I would be honored if you’d consider the proposition.”
Jemmah choked on her lemonade.
Eyes watering and swallowing against the burning at the back of her throat, she gaped.
Smack her with a cod.
A way out?
A way to escape Mama and Adelinda?
She wiggled her toes and gave a tiny glee-filled bounce upon her seat.
Aunt Theo had tried for years to persuade Mama to let Jemmah live with her, but truth be told, Mama was reluctant to lose Jemmah as a servant.
But turn down the dowager’s sponsorship?
That Mama wouldn’t do.
The only thing she valued more than Adelinda was money, something the Daments were perpetually short of.
Jemmah laid her hand atop the dowager’s. “I would consider it the greatest honor to be your companion, your ladyship, and there’s no need to sponsor me. I’m not meant for routs and balls and such.”
“Oh, posh. What rot. Of course you are, my dear,” Lady Lockhart assured Jemmah. “But if it makes you more comfortable, you may begin as my companion straightaway. We’ll take the Season sponsorship a jot slower.”
“Companion...?” Mama sidled up to them, a ribbon-thin, forced smile tweaking her mouth’s corners. “If anyone is granted a sponsorship and the privilege of being her ladyship’s companion, it must, quite naturally, be Adelinda. I’m sure you understand, my lady. She’s the elder daughter, after all.
”
All hail the elder daughter.
Bah!
“Are you entirely daft, Mama?” Adelinda hissed near Mama’s ear, her usual artificial smile making her seem the mild-tempered innocent to the casual onlooker. The fury in her coffee-colored eyes told an entirely different tale.
Lady Lockhart slid Jemmah an I-knew-she’d-pitch-a-tantrum look.
Adelinda grumbled on, a pout upon her rouged mouth.
“You expect me to wait upon another? An old woman? At her beck and call?” She huffed her outrage, flinging a hand toward the dowager while thrusting her dainty chin upward in haughty arrogance. “I am not companion material. Most especially not to a deaf, demented, aged crone.”
Her chin descended an inch as if granting a royal favor. “Jemmah may act as the companion, and as the eldest, I shall accept the sponsorship.”
La de dah.
The last she uttered with the austerity and entitled expectation of a crown princess.
Jemmah lifted her cup whilst eyeing the dowager.
Lady Lockhart planted both gnarled hands upon her cane’s floral handle and cut Adelinda a glare of such scathing incredulity, only the dame’s irises remained visible.
This ought to be very entertaining.
Her ladyship was precisely the person to knock Adelinda and her pretentious superiority off her self-appointed pedestal and onto her well-rounded arse.
“An old crone, most certainly, but not at all deaf, Miss Dament.”
Jemmah bit the inside of her cheek.
Most diverting, indeed.
The dowager’s gaze raked over Adelinda who didn’t have the refinement to look abashed, but rather contentious.
“I’d have to be demented to consider you for the position. But since it’s already been filled by your utterly charming sister, we needn’t worry on that account, need we?” She graced Jemmah with a wide—yes, distinctly smug—closed-mouth smile. “Oh, and the two go hand in hand—the sponsorship and the position, lest there be any confusion.”
Adelinda’s smile slipped a fraction and displeasure pursed her mouth. However, accomplished in artifice, she quickly masked her true feelings and pressed her point.
“My lady, surely you cannot mean to waste expense and time on my plain, wholly unexceptional sister, when both would be so much better spent on the more attractive of the pair of us. The little toad is hardly worth the effort, and I fear you’ll find the outcome most unsatisfactory.”
Adelinda tilted her head and summoned her syrupiest, most beguiling fake-as-a-purple-wig-on-donkey expression. The calculated one that inevitably ensured she acquired whatever the pampered darling coveted at the moment.
“Thank you for your kind words, sister.” Jemmah couldn’t attribute the acidic taste on her tongue to the lemonade she’d just choked on.
How could Adelinda be such a cruel, insensitive bacon-brain?
Adelinda laughed, the often practiced before her looking glass tinkle ringing hollow and shrill rather than light and musical. Snapping her fan open, she fiddled with the spines, expectation still arcing her winged brows.
Dense as black bread.
“Hmph.”
A sound very much like a stifled snort or oath escaped Lady Lockhart. She fumbled in her reticule for a moment then glanced up in triumph as she withdrew a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. “Aha, here they are.”
She extended them to Adelinda.
“I believe you are in more need of these than I am, if you think your sister is inferior to you in any way, but most especially in comeliness.”
In a soundless challenge, the dowager’s eyebrows crept upward as well.
They glared at each other, brows elevated and eyes shooting daggers in a silent battle.
At the imagery of Lady Lockhart’s and Adelinda’s eyebrows jousting, Jemmah muffled a giggle.
“I simply cannot believe this treachery.” Adelinda averted her gaze first, and in her typical harrying fashion, turned an accusatory scowl on Jemmah. “How long have you been scheming behind my back, Germ? Worming your way into her ladyship’s good graces so you could steal this opportunity from me?”
“You know as well as I, Adelinda, that I rarely am permitted to attend these functions, and I haven’t had the pleasure of Lady Lockhart’s company in months. And—”
“One year, two months, and ... ah ...” Lady Lockhart scrunched her eyes as she examined the ceiling, her mouth working silently. “...twelve days. Valentine’s Day last year, it was.”
She veered her knowing gaze at Jemmah. “You spent most of the afternoon hiding in the library.”
How on earth had she remembered that?
Mama seemed to rouse herself from her gawking stupor and touched Adelinda’s forearm. “We’ll discuss this later, darling.”
After taking a long pull from her teacup, God knew she needed it after a confrontation with Adelinda and Mama, the dowager bestowed a satisfied smile on Jemmah. “After tea tomorrow, we’ll need to see to acquiring you a wardrobe suitable for a young woman of your new station.”
“But... but…” Jealousy contorting her face, and seemingly oblivious to the small crowd that had gathered, hanging onto each recklessly-spoken word, Adelinda planted her hands on her hips and confronted their mother.
“Mama, tell Germ she can’t. You won’t allow it.”
Jemmah straightened.
No. No. No.
They would not steal this opportunity from her.
Mama opened her mouth, but before she could affirm Adelinda, Aunt Theo’s voice cut the air, firm and unrelenting.
“Oh, she’ll allow it, all right.”
They swung their attention to Aunt Theo, her approach having gone unnoticed due to Adelinda’s unbecoming show of temper and the semi-circle of intrigued spectators blocking their view.
Smiling at her guests, Aunt Theo angled her head before suggesting, “I’m sure you’ll allow me a moment for a private family conversation.”
As Aunt Theo cordially looped her arms in Mama’s and Adelinda’s elbows, the onlookers scattered like roaches in sunlight. Drawing her mother and sister nearer, Aunt Theo dipped her head, her face granite hard.
“You’ve overstepped the bounds, Theodora. I shall determine which of my daughters is most suited for the position.” Mama slid Adelinda a smug, sideway glance.
“As I said, Belinda, you will allow Jemmah this honor. Because if you refuse,” Aunt Theo directed her wrath squarely at Adelinda, “this selfish, spoiled bratling will feel the full effects of my displeasure, and I assure you, after I’m done, a haberdasher won’t consider Adelinda for his wife.”
Sighing, feeling more content than he had in—well, in months, perhaps years—Jules untied his cravat, and after tossing it atop the French baroque table behind the sofa, sank onto the charcoal damask-covered cushions.
He’d bid a sleepy-eyed Sabrina goodnight, then retreated to his study to contemplate the evening’s remarkable events.
One specific incident, that was.
Stumbling upon Miss Jemmah Dament, and in an instant his life had changed.
He touched two fingertips to his lips, not surprised to find a cock-eyed smile bending his mouth. In the last two hours, he’d smiled more than in the past two years, and his providential encounter with Jemmah had set him on a new course.
By all the chirping crickets playing a grand symphony beyond the study’s French window, a path he eagerly anticipated.
He’d found his diamond in the rough.
Perhaps not so rough, except for her humble attire.
Jemmah would polish up brilliantly, and then those who’d ignored her, overlooked her loveliness, would grind their teeth in vexation.
She’d blossomed into a remarkable and sensuous young woman. Tall, lithe, and boasting delightful, rounded womanly curves, two of which had taunted him unmercifully above her bodice, her features and form had embedded themselves in his memory.
A self-depreciatory, yet joy-filled chuckle, burgeoned i
n his chest then rumbled forth, filling the silent, fire-lit room.
Mere hours ago, he’d avowed himself indifferent to marriage, and now, he calculated just how soon he might take the charming, witty, a trifle shy and awkward, but wholly delectable and precious Jemmah Dament to wife.
If someone asked him how he could be so absolutely positive he should do so, he couldn’t have answered them with logic and reason, for neither had anything whatsoever to do with the giddiness—yes, by all the cigars at Whites’s, giddiness—humming through him.
He just knew.
Simple as that.
Not a damned lucid thing about it.
Like wild creatures recognize their offspring, a river discerns what course its waters must flow, wildfowls’ instincts urge them to fly south for the winter, or even the sun understanding that it must rise every morning and then slowly descend each eve—
He knew.
Drowsy, content, and resolute, Jules shut his eyes and daydreamed about when he’d see his precious, sky-eyed Jemmah again.
Was tomorrow too soon to propose?
“Miss Jemmah. You needs wake up. Now. The mistress wants you to run an errand.”
At the frantic whisper and Mary Pimble’s small hand insistently shaking her shoulder, Jemmah cracked an eye open. A bit of drool leaking from her mouth’s corner and her head resting on her forearms, she surveyed the assortment of papers, pens, and drawings scattered mere inches before her line of vision.
She must’ve fallen asleep over her sketches while trying to decide which to take with her to show Jules at tea today.
After wiping her mouth, she yawned and blinked sleepily.
By all the brandy in Britain, no one could fault her for her for dozing off.
After all, the clock had struck two before she’d managed to undress Mama and Adelinda, see their sheets warmed, and their chamber fires stoked, the whole while subjected to their rancorous litanies of why Adelinda ought to have reaped the dowager’s favor, not Jemmah.
Their mutual fury over Aunt Theo’s blunt threat to cease all monetary support had nearly sent Mama into apoplexy, and for the first time ever, Adelinda’s face had mottled bright red as she sobbed and ranted into her abused pillow.
Jemmah arched her stiff back and stretched her arms overhead, almost touching the slanting ceiling’s rough boards with her fingertips.
A Diamond for a Duke Page 5