Sapphire

by Rosemary Rogers

  “Aye, Miss Sapphire.” Avena curtsied, walked toward the door and curtsied again, her face flushed.

  After days of cajoling, they had learned that Avena was actually only eighteen years old. It was tragic what a short time on the streets could do to a woman. The longer Sapphire lived in London, the more she discovered that while there were many exciting and beautiful things for the privileged, for most of the city there was abject poverty, pestilence and even death. It was terrible that there could be so much grief and sadness in such a wonderful place.

  “Girls!” Lucia called from down the hall. “Are we almost ready? Your escorts will be here any moment and Mr. Stowe has arrived!”

  “Bad news, monsieur?”

  Armand looked up from his chair on the terrace to see Tarasai standing over him, her lovely face lined with concern. He realized then that the sun was about to set and darkness about to fall over his jungle home. He wondered how long she had been there, how many times she had spoken before he heard her. He glanced down at the letter on his lap, fingering it absently. “No. I don’t believe so, ma chère. At least I hope not.”

  “I brought you a blanket,” Tarasai said, raising a lovely multicolored patchwork quilt made from squares of homemade native cloth.

  “I’m not cold.”

  “Put it on anyway,” she said in her lovely, lilting voice. “The breeze is cool tonight.” She took the letter from his lap, laid the quilt over his bony knees and returned the letter to him without looking at it. Not that it would mean anything to her; like most of the native people of Martinique, she could not read.

  “Is this letter from your daughter?” Tarasai asked, walking to a burning torch near the French doors that opened into the house. She took a dry blade of grass, lit it and walked back to light the oil lamp on the small table beside him.

  Armand realized he spent a great deal of his time on the terrace these days. At first, when his Sapphire, Lucia and Angelique had left, he had tried to go back to his daily routine, visiting villagers, walking the fields, checking in on the drying warehouses, but he no longer had the strength. As his illness grew more severe, and with Tarasai’s gentle nudging, he had begun staying closer to home. Mostly he read, worked on his moth and butterfly collection and simply sat on the terrace listening to the jungle, watching its ever-changing beauty. In the year after Sophie’s death, he had shared his bed with many women—mostly native girls—but lately there had been only Tarasai. Tarasai was the only one he wanted, the only one who did not look upon him sadly, already thinking toward his death rather than celebrating his life.

  The oil lamp cast light onto Armand’s lap and the letter. “Are they well, monsieur?”

  “Yes.” Again, he looked at the letter, then up at her face—such a sweet face with round, dark eyes. And skin the color of coffee with just a little milk added to it. “Well, I think.”

  She waited.

  He adjusted his glasses and reread one of the lines Lucia had written. “They are no longer staying with Lord and Lady Carlisle—they have struck out on their own. I will have to send more funds at once.”

  “Of course, monsieur.”

  “She…says that, sadly, our Sapphire’s father is deceased and there is a new Earl of Wessex, but that they are hopeful the matter of her birth will be resolved.” He said this with more enthusiasm in his voice than he actually felt. For the hundredth time he wondered if he had made the right choice in sending Sapphire away. Just one more year and she would have been wiser, perhaps not quite so innocent and trusting. But this was what her mother, his Sophie, would have wanted…. He had vowed that he would fulfill his dead wife’s dream and he could not lie peacefully in his grave if he did not keep his word.

  “You should not worry so much, monsieur. Miss Sapphire is a smart young woman. She will find what she wants. She will have all she wants and more. She is lucky, that one, born under lucky stars.”

  He smiled, squeezing her hand. “I would like to write a letter and send it along with a draft from one of my accounts in London.”

  “You sit, monsieur, and enjoy your garden.” She rose. “I will bring you ink and pen and paper and then I will bring you soup.”

  Armand wasn’t hungry; he was never hungry anymore, but he knew better than to argue with Tarasai. It was easier to just take a few sips from the spoon and pour some out into the garden if he found the opportunity. “That would be nice,” he said, watching her go. “Thank you.”

  She turned in the doorway. “You do not have to thank me, monsieur. I thank you for giving me a home and that which I carry under my heart.” She smiled, drawing her hand over her breast and down to her slightly rounded belly.

  Armand smiled. It was hard to believe that at his age and in his rapidly failing health, he could still father a child.

  Sapphire alighted from the four-horse carriage onto the street in front of the Drury Lane Theatre with the aid of a handsome young baron. Lord Thomas, one of the first suitors to appear on her doorstep after hearing the rumor that the Fabergine sisters were in need of protectors, was presently a student at university, or at least he was, he had explained to her, as long as he was not booted out next week for his latest antics. His father, the Earl of Crumpton, was a member of the House of Lords, his family having served there for more than two centuries.

  “Miss Fabergine, have I told you how truly bedazzling you look tonight?” Lord Thomas declared dramatically, pressing his lips to the back of her gloved hand, his smile utterly roguish.

  Spreading her skirts, Sapphire glanced down at the jewel-blue fabric of her off-the-shoulder fichu-pelèrine gown and smiled to herself, feeling much like a princess tonight. Her gentlemen escorts were charming and the gown was the grandest she’d ever worn. She just hoped it wasn’t too expensive, especially when she had ordered three more evening gowns from the dressmaker. “You must look the part to attract the caliber of man you’re in search of,” Lucia had explained, seeming to forget that Sapphire’s goal was to gain not a protector, but a family name.

  Lucia had written to Armand telling him of their change in housing and was certain finances were forthcoming, but their pile of bill receipts kept inside the desk in their new parlor was growing taller by the day. Armand had sent them with adequate funds to stay with the Carlisles, not to live on their own in London where rents were exorbitant and the price of a pound of tea would have purchased a wagonload of fruit and vegetables in Martinique.

  “Lord Thomas!” Angelique called as she appeared in the doorway of the carriage, beckoning him with a fan painted with dancing naked cherubs.

  Sapphire turned to see Angelique throw out both arms, allowing the young baron to lower her to the street, his hands spanning her tiny waist, her hands planted on his broad shoulders. Four more gentlemen piled out of the carriage, all dressed similarly in dashing black frock coats and silk top hats. Behind their carriage was another, smaller one, from which Lucia was being escorted by Mr. Stowe.

  “Allow me to escort you, Miss Fabergine,” Mr. Carl Salmons insisted. He was a young widower who, though untitled, was supposedly one of the wealthiest men under thirty years of age in the city. He had made his money in the import business and had brought Sapphire a gift of a Chinese painted fan that matched her new gown almost perfectly. A man who had taken the time to discover what color gown a woman intended to wear was the kind of man Sapphire thought she might like to know better. And not only was Mr. Salmons clever, but he was funny and articulate, as well. It was obvious that Mr. Salmons was in search of a woman to keep, but he would certainly take a wife again, she reasoned. Once she was acknowledged as the late Lord Wessex’s legitimate daughter, and the entire “in need of a protector” rumor was squelched, Mr. Salmons might be the kind of man who would call on her…or might even request her hand in marriage.

  “Hey, Salmons, I had her first!” Having passed Angelique to the arm of Lord Carter, one of the most eligible young men in London, Baron Charles Thomas took Sapphire’s gloved hand again an
d wrapped it possessively around his arm.

  “Perhaps you could both escort me,” Sapphire soothed with a bright smile, offering her free arm to Mr. Salmons.

  Angelique winked at Sapphire as she took the dashing Lord Carter’s arm. She had met Henry that night at the reception at the Wessex town house and he had begun calling on her regularly, even before the outrageous rumor that Angelique and Sapphire were searching for patrons reached London’s parlors, men’s clubs and the Royal Exchange.

  Lord Carter’s family had made it known that their son would soon be marrying, but it was evident that young Henry was not the least bit interested in settling down with a wife and children in the country. A schoolmate of Charles Thomas, he was too busy drinking, gambling and womanizing, activities that seemed to endear him even further to the adventurous Angelique.

  “What are we seeing tonight? I know you chose something we’ll enjoy,” Sapphire said flirtatiously, remembering Angelique’s advice.

  “One of de Pixerécourt’s melodramas,” Lord Thomas said, jumping in. “I’ve already seen it twice and it’s quite charming. I’ve reserved a box, of course. And then, if you ladies would be so inclined, Lord Carter has reserved a private dining room above our favorite tavern, the Cock and the Screw.”

  Sapphire lowered her lashes, demurring at the words, but she had to be careful because she had not actually told any of these men she was searching for a protector. Since all was insinuated and nothing stated outright, it would be easy to wiggle out of the situation when the truth was ultimately revealed.

  “Or elsewhere, if you prefer,” Lord Thomas went on quickly, patting her gloved hand with his. “And of course, Mademoiselle Toulouse and Mr. Stowe are invited, as well.”

  Sapphire found it all very amusing how this game worked, as Lucia had explained it to her. Women could let it be known they were need of a protector who would keep them in apartments, pay their lavish dressmakers’ bills and escort them to the theater and balls. In return, a woman was expected to be the man’s lover, at his beck and call day and night whether he was married or unmarried. In Sapphire’s eyes, this was clearly a form of prostitution, yet a kept woman still behaved as if she was a pillar of genteel society.

  “I think a late supper with these handsome gentlemen would be divine, don’t you, Miss Fabergine?” Angelique piped in as they passed between the marble pillars into the theater’s extravagant entrance hall.

  Sapphire tightened her hold on both gentlemen’s arms, smiling at one and then the other. “I agree entirely, Miss Fabergine.”

  “And you two are sisters?” Mr. William Hollington asked, hurrying to catch up with the group. He looked at Sapphire and then Angelique. “Or are you cousins?”

  Sapphire smiled coquettishly. “Tell me, Mr. Hollington, what do you think?”

  The Earl of Wessex leaned back in his velvet chair, propped his ankle on his knee and let his gaze drift lazily over the crowd of theatergoers settling into their seats in the mezzanine below. The play had just begun but he was no more interested in the story line than the rest of the audience. The English theater, he had learned, much like the theater in Boston or New York City, was not so much a place to see a play as a place to see and be seen by others.

  Blake had been practically kidnapped and dragged to the Drury Lane Theatre on the insistence of the Countess Wessex and was now seated next to her and found that her only talent seemed to be her ability to whine incessantly.

  Blake shifted his attention to the elaborate set on the stage below and to the lovely actress presently speaking. She was tiny, appearing to be no more than twenty, and had a full head of pale blond hair and remarkable green eyes.

  He thought at once of another young woman with green eyes—one green eye, actually—and a familiar sensation rippled through him. He felt his groin tighten. He could almost smell the scent of her hair and could have sworn he heard her voice.

  Blake groaned and shifted in his seat, redirecting his focus to the actress below. When she finished her line, she looked his way, lifting her dimpled chin, meeting his gaze. She smiled.

  Blake smiled.

  Twice more he caught her openly looking at him, and when the intermission came, before he could excuse himself and make his way downstairs to purchase a double scotch, a boy brought him a note and Blake unfolded it with amusement.

  My dressing room after the show was all it said in a woman’s flowery script.

  He crumpled the note in his hand with a wry grin as he took the stairs down to the foyer.

  A few moments later, Blake was turning from the bar, idly sipping his scotch, when a commotion of laughter behind him made him turn around with curiosity. A group of young gentlemen in expensive frock coats surrounded two young women as they laughed gaily, pushing each other as young men do, mocking, retreating and advancing as they jockeyed for positions closest to the two beauties.

  Damn! It was the chit with the red hair. Sapphire Fabergine, he had learned when she had sent him a note after that night at Lady Wessex’s party. He had returned the message without reply because he would not play her games or entertain her false hopes. Not even as lovely as she was.

  Sapphire, a remarkable name for a young Englishwoman, he mused. He could still taste her lips on his. And now he could hear her voice, husky, deep, filled with seductive promise. So it had not been his imagination when he thought he had heard her earlier in the theater. Amid close to a dozen swains, with no chaperone anywhere to be seen, it was obvious she was some variety of exactly what he had accused. She was remarkable, all right, a woman out to extract whatever wealth or prestige she could from unsuspecting males.

  He drank from his glass and savored his scotch, and the smoky flavor somehow reminded him of her, of the taste of her mouth. He was just about to walk away when she turned.

  He drew a breath. She was even more lovely than he recalled, dressed in an exquisite blue gown the color of her name, filled out in all the right places. She had good taste, he would give her that. With that rich auburn hair, her unusual eyes and that full, sensual body, she was a woman begging a man to make love to her.

  She met his gaze directly, almost in challenge.

  He smiled lazily, lifting his glass in toast as if to commend her for her achievements here tonight. The redhead stared at him for a moment longer, then turned her back to him in an act of dismissal.

  Blake felt his jaw suddenly tighten. Women didn’t usually turn away from him, though he had no idea why he cared about this one. She was a cheap adventurer.

  He strode away, leaving the glass half-finished on a waiter’s tray, and walked out onto the street to smoke a cigar. He couldn’t stand another moment of the cloying theater, the countess, her daughter or the play.

  More than an hour later, men and women began to pour from the theater. Voices rose in the early summer night air, now scented with perfume. Blake entered the alley along the side of the theater and took the first open door inside, which led him down a long hall. When he bumped into one of the players, the young man pointed him in the direction of the lead actress’s dressing room.

  “Whatever took you so long?” she said when he knocked on the door and walked in. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “I would never keep a lady waiting.”

  10

  Lamplight danced off the whitewashed walls of the small dining room, softening the time-worn edges of the painted woodwork, and thankfully, Lucia mused, the lines on her face. Sipping from her wineglass, she studied the barrister, thinking she felt younger tonight than she had in years.

  “Did you enjoy the play, Mademoiselle Toulouse?” Mr. Stowe asked as he cracked a walnut and offered her the sweet meat from the center.

  They had shared an exquisite meal of turtle soup—an expensive delicacy in London—oyster-stuffed partridge with a jellied wine sauce, pork and peas pudding, and fresh bread. A serving girl had just cleared the table, brought another bottle of wine at Mr. Stowe’s request and served them a plate of f
resh fruits and nuts.

  Lucia plucked the meat from the nutshell and popped it into her mouth with a smile, washing it down with more ruby-red wine. The small room where the host had seated them was actually a hallway leading into a much larger dining room where Sapphire, Angelique and their group of young men dined in the rented rooms above the Cock and Bull Tavern. With the door left open, the dining arrangements were considered perfectly acceptable and her young charges were considered chaperoned, which amused Lucia to no end considering what the girls were up to. Somehow, the four gentlemen who had come to take them to the theater had become five by the time they arrived on Drury Lane, and had expanded to nearly a dozen by the time they reached the tavern.

  Lucia wasn’t concerned about the girls’ safety, even in a group of men so large—not that she ever worried about Angelique, a girl who had been born old. Tonight, even Sapphire seemed to be enjoying herself, playing the role of the flirtatious new girl in town. And, Lucia realized, she was certainly enjoying herself, too.

  Her gaze returned to Jessup Stowe’s jolly face. Lucia had made love to many men over the years, been loved by many men, but she had never been in love. She’d always teased her dear friend Sophie, claiming there was no such thing as love. Now, after all these years, she wondered if she had been wrong. Jessup Stowe was nothing like the men who paid such high prices for her affection in New Orleans, or like the men she had affairs with in Martinique. He was certainly nothing like the handsome Armand, whom she had come to care for a great deal. Perhaps that was what made Jessup Stowe all the more fascinating to her.

  “Come now, Mr. Stowe, I think it’s time we dispense with society’s decrees and use first names, don’t you?” Lucia set down her wineglass.

  He lowered the iron nutcracker to the table, glanced at her, then began to tidy up the table, sweeping nutshells into his hand. He seemed pleased but unsure how to take her suggestion.