by Mia Gabriel
Then, buried beneath the other dresses, I found the one I’d hoped was there: golden-yellow silk with an overlay of black lace, close-fitting and cut low in front and in back, with small wisps of sleeves that barely clung to my shoulders. It was new, and I’d yet to wear it. Tonight would be perfect.
“This one, Hamlin,” I said triumphantly.
“Yes, ma’am.” Hamlin pursed her lips, and I wondered if she’d brought the yellow dress by accident. “Shall we begin with your hair?”
“Yes, yes,” I said, hurrying to sit at the bench before the dressing table. “I haven’t done anything to it since yesterday, and it’s quite the rat’s nest by now.”
At once Hamlin pulled my haphazard braid apart and began to drag my silver hairbrush down the length of my hair. Usually this was my favorite part of dressing, the comforting rhythm of the brush smoothing the tangles and unevenness from my hair, as if all the cares and worries of my day could be as easily brushed away, too. Seeking that solace, I closed my eyes and relaxed.
But this time instead of peace, my thoughts restlessly returned to Savage and whatever it was he did not wish for me to know. I knew it was not my affair, but there was something about the way he’d phrased it—things that are better for you not to know—that troubled me. He had every appearance of being a wealthy, powerful man with a title and property to insulate him, and yet I couldn’t help but wonder if he was being threatened by secret danger.
Was that what he meant about protecting me?
My father had wanted to keep me safe, too, but he had done it with iron gates around our houses and armed Pinkerton men on our train. How could Savage mean to accomplish the same by taking me to a fashionable and very public restaurant instead of keeping me within his house? How could that be a safer place?
Unless the danger lay within this house, instead of outside of it.…
“That’s not your robe, ma’am,” Hamlin said, cutting into my uneasy thoughts. “I’d know it if it were. It’s a gentleman’s robe, not yours.”
I took a deep breath that was more of a sigh and opened my eyes. So much for reveries.
“The robe belongs to Lord Savage,” I said, trying to state a fact and not sound defensive—which of course I already was. “He was kind enough to make a loan of it to me while I am his guest.”
“His guest, ma’am.” Hamlin clucked her tongue. “No respectable unmarried lady is the guest of an unmarried gentleman, not in America, not in England.”
“Hamlin, you forget yourself,” I said as sharply as I could—which was nothing to Hamlin, now that she’d begun.
“What would your poor father say to that, ma’am?” she asked. “What would Mr. Hart himself say?”
“They’d say that you were speaking out of turn, Hamlin,” I said. “You are fortunate that neither of them is alive to hear you address me like this.”
“Oh, they’re the fortunate ones,” Hamlin said, undeterred. She began to pin my hair up, jabbing each hairpin into place for emphasis. “Being dead and buried, so they don’t have to see the shame you’re bringing on your self with this lord!”
“He is an earl, Hamlin, a peer of the realm,” I said, “and deserving your regard.”
“And I’m from Boston, America, where we don’t have much use for earls and realms and such.” She sniffed disdainfully, twisting my hair. “Where I’m from, ma’am, we haven’t forgotten 1776 and what Paul Revere and John Adams and all those other brave lads did to toss that English king where he belonged, him and his tea, too.”
Any other time I might have laughed at her version of American history, but now I was too agitated to find anything amusing in it.
“I do not require a history lesson from you, Hamlin,” I snapped, “nor do I have any wish to hear your opinions on my private affairs.”
“But they’re not private any longer, ma’am, are they?” asked Hamlin as she pinned my favorite diamond star into my dark waves. “You haven’t been discreet, ma’am. Every servant in the Savoy is whispering about what you and Lord Savage are doing together, and if waiters and chambermaids are talking, you know their betters are, too.”
I sighed and turned around on the bench to face her.
“That defines backstairs gossip, Hamlin,” I said sternly. “It’s exactly how the most malicious tales and falsehoods are spread, whispered from one to another. Where are my underthings?”
“Here, ma’am,” she said, and in uneasy silence we fell into our shared ritual of dressing me: drawers, chemise, petticoats, corset, corset cover, garters, and stockings, each to be pulled up or smoothed down, tied and hooked and buttoned into place.
All the layers made me feel like the weight of respectability was once again settling over my body, too, constricting me back into its expectations, and drawing me apart from Savage.
Finally came the yellow silk gown, falling over my head and body with a soft whoosh. At least that was as light as a rose petal, and when I looked at my reflection in the standing mirror I had to be pleased. The brilliant color would draw every eye, and the black lace made my skin even more fair by comparison. After days of going without a corset, it was oddly satisfying to wear one again, like returning to an old friend, and I reveled in the familiar way it narrowed my waist and plumped my breasts. Over my gown I’d wear a black velvet evening cloak embroided with glittering jet beads, the better to frame the brilliant yellow of my gown.
If Savage wished to show me off, then I’d done my part to make sure every eye would be on me. The only jewel I wore was the diamond star in my hair. I fastened the long strand of his pearls around my neck myself, and they fell familiarly over my breasts.
I glanced at the clock on the mantel, glad that I was ready early. Hamlin handed me my fan and draped my evening cloak around my shoulders, and I opened the door myself, eager to rejoin Savage.
“I don’t mean just the backstairs talk, ma’am,” Hamlin said behind me. “It’s modern days now. Someone’s bound to have sent telegraphs to New York, ma’am, and written about you in the newspaper columns. Everyone there will know by now, too.”
Reluctantly I paused, and looked back over my shoulder. Hamlin’s lips were pinched tightly together, and there were bright patches of emotion on her cheeks. She held my silver brush in her hands, preparing to put it away, and her fingers moved unconsciously across my monogram—the three letters that marked my married name—engraved on the back.
“It’s not just the servants who talk, you know, ma’am,” she said, returning to the topic that I thought we’d finished. “Mrs. Astor, Mrs. Vanderbilt, and all the others must already be talking about you and this earl. He’s a wicked gentleman, ma’am. Everyone knows it. You’re far too good for him, ma’am, and you’ll ruin yourself if you keep company with him. Or worse, ma’am. Or worse!”
I hadn’t expected such a tirade from her, and it shocked me. It was one thing to hear Laura’s misgivings about Savage but quite another to hear them from my lady’s maid.
“Hamlin, please,” I said. “I’ve spoken to you before about indulging in that kind of whispering and speculation, and I—”
“But there’s never been anything said of you before, ma’am,” Hamlin said plaintively. “You’ve always been better and more decent than the other ladies. But now, because of him, you’re—Oh, you’re not.”
To my horror, she burst into tears, standing before me sobbing with her arms hanging at her sides and my hairbrush clutched tightly in her hands.
I’d never seen her cry before, and it embarrassed me, especially because I was the reason for it. I went to the open trunk and found one of my handkerchiefs.
“Here now, take this,” I said, pressing it into her hand. “You mustn’t distress yourself, Hamlin, not over this.”
She took the handkerchief and pressed it over her eyes. “How can I not be distressed, ma’am,” she said, snuffling, “when I see what’s become of you?”
“Nothing has ‘become’ of me” I said patiently. “I’m still much as
I ever was.”
“Forgive me, ma’am, but you’re not,” she said, her sobs fading to hiccups. “You’re here in this man’s house, as common and familiar as if you were his … his kept mistress.”
I sighed, toying with my fan as I wondered how honest I should be.
“Very well, then,” I said finally. “I am different, because I am happy. I’m happy in a way that I never was as a child, or as a wife, either.”
She went very still. “That’s not possible, ma’am,” she said with startling vehemence. “Mr. Hart was a true gentleman, and kindness itself. He was very good to you, ma’am. No one could say otherwise.”
“But that wasn’t enough,” I said softly. “Not at all. His Lordship makes me happier and more … more alive than I’ve ever been. If I must trade decency and the regard of self-righteous women such as Mrs. Astor for that, then I’ll gladly do it, over and over, and without a single regret, either.”
But Hamlin wasn’t listening any longer. She was staring past me, and abruptly she bowed her head and dropped a curtsey.
I turned, and there was Savage in the doorway behind me. Gone was the old jersey and the rakishly unkempt look of a Bohemian artist. He was now impeccably dressed for evening, all crisp white and deepest black. His freshly shaven jaw gleamed above the white tie, and his hair was sleeked back as shiny as a raven’s wing.
Ignoring Hamlin, his gaze roamed freely over me, lingering on the low-cut bodice outlining my breasts in black lace. He must have approved, because he smiled, slow and sinfully seductive and enough to make me melt.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “No other woman in London can rival you tonight. Are you ready?”
I nodded and turned back to Hamlin. Her expression was like a mask, the emotions that had so recently spilled over once again carefully hidden.
“Have one of the men downstairs summon you a cab back to the Savoy,” I said, finding the fare in my purse. “There’s no need for you to remain here.”
“As you wish, ma’am,” she said with another quick curtsey. “Thank you, ma’am.”
I pressed the coins into her palm. “Please don’t worry about me, Hamlin,” I said, lowering my voice for her. “I shall be fine in His Lordship’s company.”
She nodded, but I glimpsed something close to sorrow in her eyes as her fingers closed over the coins.
“As you wish, ma’am,” she said again. “Whatever you wish.”
9.
Gaspari’s reminded me of Delmonico’s in New York: a large, lavish restaurant with a great deal of gleaming dark wood and glittering chandeliers. The tables were covered with snowy linens, and the silver and china were of the first quality. Black-clad waiters with immaculate aprons hurried among the tables, carrying steaming dishes over their heads as much to display the savory contents as to protect them. Conversation and the clink of heavy forks and crystal created a well-bred undercurrent of sound, punctuated every now and then by the pop of a champagne cork.
Also like at Delmonico’s, the diners were mostly male, a well-fed sea of black and white evening clothes and bristling whiskers beneath the haze of expensive cigars and cigarettes. I recognized their smugness and their arrogance, the sure signs of money and privilege. Because the hour was late for respectable women to dine the few ladies with these men—beautiful bright spots of silken plumage—were perhaps not ladies at all but actresses, opera singers, artists’ models.
When I’d accompanied my father to Delmonico’s, I’d always looked at such women with curiosity and fascination, and with a certain pity, too. They were the women ladies called “fallen” in a melodramatic whisper, as if their taint could be caught like a cold. As a girl I’d wondered what they’d fallen from; later I’d learned it was from respectability and decency, marking them forever as the sort of women gentlemen didn’t marry. Yet still they’d fascinated me, for they’d always appeared to be not only the most glamorous women in Delmonico’s but also the ones who were having the most fun.
It came as something as a shock to realize that being here tonight at Gaspari’s, in my golden silk gown and on the arm of a gentleman who had given me the pearls around my throat but would never be my husband, I’d become exactly the same as those long-ago women I’d glimpsed at Delmonico’s.
And because that gentleman was Savage I didn’t care one bit that I was. I’d been miserable in my respectable marriage. With Savage I felt vibrant, sensual, and happier than I’d ever been, and if that was the meaning of “fallen” then I’d embrace it.
Yet there was more than that: I was proud to be seen with him, proud to have nearly every eye in the large room turned towards us as we stood in the doorway. Savage had said he’d wanted to show me off, and he was doing exactly that.
Instead of offering me his arm he’d placed his hand on the back of my waist, a clear sign of not only familiarity but also possession. There’d be no doubt in anyone’s mind that we were together, and even that little touch, the pressure of his spread fingers and open palm at my waist, made me glow and warm with pleasure.
“Your table is waiting, my lord,” murmured the maître d’hôtel, bowing to one side before Savage.
“In a moment,” Savage said, his gaze swiftly scanning the room like a hawk searching for prey. “Is His Majesty here tonight?”
“He is, my lord,” said the maître d’hôtel. “He is dining privately with several gentlemen in the Salon Diamante.”
Savage smiled. “Then we shall pay our respects before we dine ourselves.”
“Very good, my lord,” the maître d’hôtel said, and with another bow he turned to lead us through the crowded room.
“The king is here?” I said to Savage, my voice low so only he would hear.
“Oh, yes,” Savage said nonchalantly, as if the King of England were no more than any other man of his acquaintance. “His Majesty has always been something of a gourmand, and he would steal the chef here away from Signor Gaspari if he could.”
I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm, drawing him back.
“But I cannot greet the king, Savage,” I whispered anxiously as he paused with obvious reluctance. “It won’t be permitted. I haven’t yet been presented at Court.”
He smiled down at me indulgently, yet wicked enough to make me melt.
“You can, because the king himself will wish it,” he said. “The formal presentation is only to please the punctilious fools at Court, nothing more. You’ll be with me. You’ll be welcome.”
“You are certain?” Ever since I’d decided to come to England I’d been told that a formal presentation at Court was essential for any American lady wishing to make her way in London society. To breeze in upon the king while he was dining seemed impolite, even rude.
“Perhaps I should wait until after I’ve been presented,” I continued, wavering beneath the weight of a lifetime of ingrained rules for good manners. “I’ve already received my invitation to the next Drawing Room, so it’s not as if I’m not—”
“Stop,” Savage said firmly, and though his smile remained, there was more than a hint of my imperious Master in his voice. “The king will not object. Old Bertie may have one foot tottering over the grave, but he still has an appreciation for pretty American women—a weakness I entirely understand.”
I blushed, for even his most obvious compliments could do that to me, but still I hesitated.
“You are certain it would not be impolite?”
“Eve, Eve.” He smiled and ran his fingers lightly along my jaw. “He will like you. He will like you to an exceptional degree, I am certain. How many times must I ask you to trust me, in this and in everything else?”
Although the maître d’hôtel stood waiting to one side, politely pretending not to listen, I knew he must be overhearing.
Nor was he alone. Even if the diners at the nearby tables couldn’t hear Savage’s words, surely they must be able to guess at the depth of our connection from the way he was touching my face, and from the way he was looking
at me now they must see how I’d disappointed him.
My flush deepened, and not from embarrassment, either. I didn’t care about discretion. He was my Master, and it pleased me that the others would see us together and realize our intimacy. What was it he’d once said to me—that I liked an audience? Perhaps he was right, and perhaps I did.
I straightened my back and raised my shoulders to lift my breasts, subtly presenting myself to him the way he liked.
“There’ve been too many times when I haven’t trusted you as I should, Master,” I murmured. “Forgive me, Master, for I have failed you again.”
“Yes, Eve, you have,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. Yet there was pleasure there, too, for I’d realized as well that he also enjoyed an audience. It was all part of the Game—our Game. Who would have guessed we’d be playing it here, in the middle of Gaspari’s?
“I thought by now you’d learned how important it is to trust me,” Savage continued. “I’m afraid that you must be reminded more forcefully. I have a special punishment in mind for you.”
My pulse quickened with anticipation. “Yes, Master,” I said. “That will help me to remember.”
“It will,” he said, leaving no doubt of what we’d do later. “Now come with me, Eve.”
Once again he nodded to the maître d’hôtel, and this time we followed him. My hand remained in the crook of Savage’s arm, and he kept me close as he led me among the tables and other diners—so close that he could continue our conversation.
“Do you already have your dress for your Court presentation?” he asked. “With all the prescribed fripperies?”
It seemed like a curious question for a man to ask, but I nodded anyway.
I’d had my presentation dress made as soon as I’d decided to come to London, for there were precise requirements to follow. The dress had been outrageously expensive, even for me, with a long train, elaborate beading, lace, and embroidery, all in formal white as if it were an extravagant wedding dress. I would also be expected to wear three white plumes in my hair to show that I’d been married, as well as long, formal gloves over my elbows, and every diamond and pearl I possessed.