Talk of the Ton

by Eloisa James

  He laughed. “Then you’re going to be a most unbecoming shade of brown, my sweet.”

  “Not if I wear a bonnet and carry a parasol.” She gave a wistful sigh. “Oh, how I’ll love wearing a bonnet again! And dresses and a riding habit!”

  “If you’re willing to compromise your vow a fraction,” he offered, remembering her vow not to return to London until she could do so as a young lady, “I’m willing to take you to the most fashionable dressmaker in London before I take you to Lord Davies’s house and attempt to persuade her to open her shop.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I’m a very good customer,” he said. “Or rather, my mother is.” He shrugged. “But I pay the bills. I’m sure Madam Racine will be willing to make an early morning exception for me.”

  “What about your breakfast meeting?”

  He was surprised she remembered. “I’m already a day late. A bit longer won’t make much difference.”

  “So long as you think I look respectable and no one sees what’s under this burnoose except a dressmaker, I’m willing to compromise.”

  “You look entirely respectable in your black cloak,” he declared. “Rather like a young lady in mourning. And I feel rather naughty knowing that I’ll be the only man in town who knows what’s beneath it.”

  “In that case,” she said, “let’s see if we can persuade a dressmaker to open her shop, because I’ll be thrilled to be rid of these Turkish trousers! So thrilled I vow I’m going to burn them all!”

  “Don’t burn all of them,” Jonathan suggested gently as they entered the city of London. He urged the pony into a brisk trot, skillfully negotiating the city streets that were all but deserted by anyone except the street vendors and the gentlemen making their way on horseback for their morning rides on Rotten Row.

  “Why not?” she demanded. “I’m heartily sick of them!”

  “That’s understandable.” He nodded sympathetically as they made their way around the park to Bond Street in record time. “Although I am certain that you’ll look extraordinarily beautiful in a dress, I must confess that I’ve never seen anyone as lovely as you are in those trousers.”

  India was stunned. No one had ever told her she looked beautiful in her Turkish trousers. None of the eunuchs, nor any of the ladies of the harem, and certainly not the sultan. The idea that she might look beautiful in the costume they’d forced her to wear, in the costume she hated, had never occurred to her. “Truly?”

  “Truly.” Jonathan transferred both reins to one hand so he could make the sign of the cross over his heart. “My fondest dream is that I may see you in them again one day.”

  “Then I shall save them to wear for you on special occasions.”

  Jonathan pulled the gig to a halt before a beautifully decorated shop window. This wasn’t the best place for a lengthy conversation. It was early, and they still ran the risk of being seen, but India was a stranger in London and would be devilishly hard to recognize swathed as she was in an ocean of black muslin. “India . . .”

  “I’m not innocent,” she said. “I’ve been trained in myriad ways to please a man—ways I never dreamed existed—”

  “India . . .”

  “I know I’m ruined because I’ve spent dozens of nights in the sultan’s bed,” she confided. “And I’ve no right to expect marriage to a gentleman who deserves the best, but I want you to know that while I was forced to pleasure the sultan, he was only intimate with me once.”

  “What?”

  “He took my maidenhead because he felt he was obligated to do so. But he never spilled his seed in me again. That honor was reserved for his kadins. And although everyone thought I was one of his favorites, I was greatly relieved not to be. So, if you want me as your concubine, I’d be honored to share your bed.” She looked up at him to gauge his reaction. “But only if you want me. Rescuing me from Mustafa doesn’t obligate you in any way—”

  “Obligate?” Jonathan threw back his head and laughed. “My dear sweet love, I was worried that you might feel obligated to offer because I rescued you from Mustafa—”

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “I offered because I can’t imagine life without you. I know it’s sudden, but Jonathan . . .”

  “India . . .”

  “I love you,” they said simultaneously.

  “What do we do now?” she asked, suddenly nervous.

  “I can think of dozens of things,” Jonathan said. “And all of them involve you, a bed, those Turkish trousers, and solving the mystery of what keeps that sapphire in your navel.”

  India beamed at him. “It’s—”

  Jonathan cut her off by placing a finger against her lips. “Don’t tell me,” he begged. “I spent a good part of this morning wondering, and I’d like to solve the riddle myself. But not with my concubine. With my wife.”

  India looked crestfallen. “But, Jonathan, I’m disgraced. Think of your reputation. . . .”

  “Hang my reputation!” he exclaimed. “If it doesn’t survive my marriage to an honorable young lady, then what good is it anyway? I love you, India, and nothing has made me happier than to learn the sultan was only intimate with you once, but if he’d been intimate with you dozens of times, it would make no difference so long as you survived to marry me.”

  “Oh, Jonathan!” India flung her arms around his neck and began covering his face with kisses.

  Jonathan responded by pulling her onto his lap and kissing her back quite thoroughly in front of Madam Racine’s Dressmaking Shop.

  An early riser, Madam Racine had been about to go down the street to the coffeehouse for her morning coffee and a cinnamon pastry, when she opened the door and saw a gentleman and a lady kissing. She was astonished to discover that gentleman was none other than the dashingly handsome Earl of Barclay. The lady was a mystery.

  Feeling it was her duty to intervene, Madam Racine stepped up to the gig and touched Lord Barclay’s shoulder. “Lord Barclay? What are you doing? Here? At this time of morning?”

  India buried her face against Jonathan’s shirt as he broke the kiss and looked up at woman standing beside the gig. “Ah, Madam Racine, just the lady we’ve come to see. We need your help.”

  “How may I be of assistance, my lord?” she asked.

  “The young lady is in desperate need of a dress.”

  Madam Racine gasped. “You don’t mean that she is . . .”

  “Oh no,” he hurried to reassure the dressmaker. “She’s fully clothed beneath her cape, but her garments are not the garments of an English lady.” He turned the full force of his charm on the seamstress. “Would it be asking too much of you to open your establishment so that we might dress my companion in the manner befitting an English lady?”

  The dressmaker glanced down the street at the coffeehouse. “I was just about to break my fast with coffee and a pastry.”

  “I’ll make this favor worth your while,” Jonathan promised. “And once you and the young lady are safely inside selecting dresses and discussing fashion plates and fabrics, I’ll fetch us coffee and an assortment of pastries.”

  Madam Racine shrugged her shoulders in the classic Gallic gesture. “How can I refuse?”

  Two hours later, India was fashionably and properly attired in a sprigged muslin morning dress complete with shawl, gloves, bonnet, stockings, shoes, and the usual assortment of undergarments.

  Madam had been so enthralled by India’s Turkish costume that she’d agreed to alter two morning gowns she’d completed for another young lady to fit India, after India admired them. She had asked permission to study the cut of India’s caftan, declaring it the perfect design for an outer coat to be worn over an afternoon dress or evening gown, and she declared that with slight modifications to the basic design, the caftan would make a darling riding habit. India allowed the dressmaker to study the caftan to her heart’s delight and then stood perfectly still while Madam fitted and pinned and basted the morning dresses, an afternoon dress, and an extraordinary pale blu
e silk evening gown.

  They shared coffee and pastries as India and Madam Racine concluded the fabric and pattern selections and Jonathan read the morning paper and nodded his approval of the selections or shook his head to disapprove.

  When the dressmaker finished her measuring and the fitting of the gowns she’d promised to make, Jonathan paid for the garments India was wearing and the ones Madam was to make up and send to Lord Davies’s address as soon as possible.

  “Lord Davies’s address?”

  “Yes,” Jonathan confirmed. “Lady India will be staying there until her grandfather returns and we’re wed.”

  “Wed?” Madam Racine was stunned. She’d been dressing Lord Barclay’s mother for years, and she’d listened while Lady Leticia despaired of her son ever submitting to the parson’s mousetrap.

  Jonathan nodded. “You may wish us happy, madam, for I have asked Lady India to be my wife, and she has honored me by accepting.”

  Lord Davies rushed into the sitting room of his Park Lane mansion as soon as his butler, Saunders, announced his unexpected callers as Lady India Burton and Lord Jonathan Barclay.

  “India, my dear.” Lord Davies embraced her. “Thank God you’re safe . . . When Captain Marks told me the eunuch refused to leave, I didn’t quite know how to manage it.”

  “You managed it exactly right,” India told him. “I cannot thank you enough for sending Lord Barclay to retrieve your parcel.”

  Lord Davies frowned. “I didn’t send Lord Barclay.” He nodded at Jonathan. “And I only asked my son-in-law, Lord Grantham, to retrieve you because I couldn’t go myself. Not with my wife injured. . . .”

  “Be glad that I offered to go in Colin’s stead,” Jonathan told him. “The eunuch did his best to kill me, despite the fact that I had a key to the cottage.”

  “What?” Lord Davies was clearly shocked. “I had no idea. We paid the ransom. And Captain Marks explained the significance of the keys. . . .”

  “It didn’t matter,” India told him. “Mustafa’s orders came from the sultan, and the sultan considered me his property until my grandfather or an emissary acting in his stead relieved him of his duty.”

  “Lady India tried to convince the eunuch that I was an emissary sent from His Highness the prince regent and her grandfather.”

  “And when that failed,” India resumed the narration, “Lord Barclay took matters into his own hands.”

  “Tell me everything,” Lord Davies instructed.

  “It’s a long story,” Jonathan warned.

  “Then come in and make yourselves comfortable,” Lord Davies invited. “And tell me everything.”

  “By now, Mustafa should be well on his way to your shipping line office in Dover,” Jonathan concluded when he and India had related the details of everything that had happened since India had arrived at Plum Cottage. “I don’t know where he’ll be bound,” Jonathan admitted, “but I told the workmen that I wanted him on the longest possible route to Istanbul.”

  Lord Davies threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That will be by way of Australia. Provided, of course, that your cargo made it to the docks in time. The Lady of Botany Bay is scheduled to sail on tomorrow’s evening tide.”

  “They made it,” Jonathan told him. “The men I hired are without fault. They’ve proven themselves on numerous occasions.”

  “We’ll await confirmation from the captain nonetheless,” Lord Davies said. “Captain Owen has been with me from the beginning. He’s completely trustworthy, and he knows Lady India’s grandfather. He’ll send word as soon as he receives the cargo.” He clapped his hands together and stood up. “In the meantime, we’ll see that Lady India is comfortably settled into her room.” He walked over to the cord hanging near the door and rang for the butler. “Saunders, please show Lady India to her room. I’m sure she’s tired and would like to freshen up,” he instructed when the butler appeared.

  India rose from her seat and followed the butler up the stairs.

  “India,” Jonathan called.

  India paused on the stair and turned to look at him.

  “I’ll pick you up for nuncheon with my mother at two.”

  Lord Davies lifted an eyebrow in query.

  “I’ve asked Lady India to marry me,” Jonathan informed the older man. “And she has done me the very great honor of accepting.”

  Lord Davies looked at Lady India and then back at Lord Barclay. “Isn’t this rather sudden?”

  “Very sudden,” Jonathan replied. “But I’m told that falling in love sometimes happens this way.”

  “Who told you?” Lord Davies demanded.

  “Your son-in-law, Colin.”

  Lord Davies coughed to cover his laughter. “Is this what you want, Lady India?”

  “Very much,” she breathed. “For I seem to have fallen head over heels myself. And after spending the last five years confined to a . . .” She blushed. “Confined. I would very much like to begin my new life as Lord Barclay’s wife.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “Thank heavens,” Lord Davies breathed. “For your grandfather’s prayers have been answered.”

  The shops on Bond Street were doing a brisk business, and tongues were wagging with the news of Lord Barclay’s indiscretion by the time Jonathan left Lord Davies’s house and returned to his residence at Albany.

  He and Lady India Burton had become the talk of the ton in the space of a couple of hours.

  Jonathan had just finished his bath and was in the midst of donning fresh linens when two of the three original Free Fellows burst into his apartments uninvited.

  “Where the devil have you been?” Colin McElreath, Viscount Grantham, demanded, barging into Jonathan’s dressing room and waving his valet away. “You were due back last evening.”

  “Delivering your father-in-law’s parcel.” He turned from his shaving mirror and faced them.

  “Good God, man! What happened to your neck?” Griffin, Duke of Avon, inquired, leaning closer to get a better look at the collection of cuts. “And where the devil is my horse?”

  “Your horse lost a shoe. He’s at the stable in Pymley getting new ones,” Jonathan answered. “And as you can see, I had a spot of trouble at Plum Cottage. I suffered a few cuts, but I took care of the problem.”

  Colin glanced at Griffin. “Then the rumors Gillian and Alyssa heard at the milliner’s this morning were rubbish.”

  “That depends upon the rumors,” Jonathan replied.

  “The rumors that you were kissing a lady in an open gig on Bond Street early this morning,” Colin replied.

  “I heard the same rumor while riding on the Row this morning,” Griffin said. “And at White’s this morning, I heard you are engaged to be wed.”

  “Those aren’t rumors,” Jonathan answered cheerfully, as he tied his cravat. “I was kissing a lady in an open gig on Bond Street early this morning. And I am engaged.”

  “Have you lost your senses?” Colin demanded.

  “No, my heart.”

  “Your heart?” Griffin repeated. “May I ask to whom?”

  “The parcel.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Griffin didn’t think he’d heard him correctly.

  “The parcel Lord Davies wanted delivered. The parcel Colin allowed me to collect in his place. The parcel who turned out to be Lady India Burton, the love of my life. I asked her to marry me this morning.”

  “You proposed? After knowing her less than a day?” Colin was stunned. “Are you certain about this?”

  “You only knew Gillian one day,” Jonathan retorted. “And Griffin only knew his duchess one day. Were you certain?”

  “He’s right,” Griff answered with a grin. He looked at Colin, then back at Jonathan. “Lady India Burton,” Griff puzzled. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

  “Because she was one of the passengers on the HMS Portsmouth,” Jonathan answered. “And she’s spent the past five years in a sultan’s harem.”

  “Good Lord!
” Colin exclaimed. “She must be every bit as extraordinary as my father-in-law intimated when he swore me to secrecy, and asked me to collect her.”

  “She is,” Jonathan affirmed. “A most extraordinary woman.” He looked at Colin and Griffin, then began to tell them about his betrothed and the extraordinary events that had changed the course of her life and his.

  “Your betrothal is going to cause an uproar,” Colin warned. “But we’ll do everything in our power to ease the way, for we wish you the happiest of marriages.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Jonathan began.

  “You don’t need to thank us. We’re your friends. It’s the least we can do for you and Lady India and Miss Lockwood.” Griffin smiled. “Besides, you’re not yet thirty. That means you owe us—”

  “Five hundred pounds each,” Colin crowed, reminding Jonathan of his Free Fellows League pledge to pay each member five hundred pounds if he married before the age of thirty.

  “So I do,” Jonathan mused. “So I do. And I’ll be delighted to pay it.”

  “And we’ll be delighted to accept it,” Colin told him. “So long as you and your countess live happily ever after.”

  Epilogue

  Lady India Burton and Jonathan, eleventh Earl of Barclay, were married two months to the day after her arrival in London so that Lady India’s grandfather, Sir Harold Gregory, might arrive in plenty of time to get to know the bride before giving her into the hands of her earl.

  Their two months of courtship continued to be the talk of the ton, but no one disputed the fact that they were clearly a couple over the moon for one another. It was just that no one in the ton had ever expected Lord Barclay to marry—especially a young lady with a past.

  And what a past! The newspapers were full of the accounts of Lady India’s life, and she became an instant heroine when news that her information was helping to secure the releases of other English captives and thwart Bonaparte’s plans in the region reached the ears of those who eagerly spread gossip to the members of the ton.