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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

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“When we are married, I shall order up eel pie as a matter of course. Doubtless my chefs shall resign, but as they do so regularly anyway, it shan't make a smidgen of difference.”
Tessie decided to take the path of least resistance. For the purpose of this delightful, well-sprung carriage ride, she would let him think what he willed. Then, when he set her down at the Colonnade, she would simply disappear. A cowardly tactic, she knew, but possibly the only one that would work. And if she did not act quickly, she knew she would no longer have the will to act at all. The temptation set before her was far too irresistible.
If it were not for the fact that she persisted in her belief that Cathgar was merely being a combination of headstrong and chivalrous, she would doubtless have melted, unresisting, into his arms a long time since.
So in answer to this blatant statement of fact, she smiled demurely, fluttered those luxurious eyelashes of hers, and bit into some pastry.
“If you must know, ordinarily I hate eel. I was merely hungry.”
“Ah, an admission at last! It is not so very pleasurable to be little more than a maidservant, now, is it?”
“I can cope with it, my lord, if it is to save Hampstead Oaks.”
“Bravely spoken, but stop ‘my-lording' me. All claim to such formality must surely have ceased when you insisted on coming to my bed.”
“You rogue! You know I came only because you were injured and helpless as a baby.”
“Oh, helpless, was I? You have high standards, my Miss Nobody. I shall have to exert myself more in the future. Think what a scandal it would be if the Earl of Cathgar was known to be helpless in bed!”
“I am sure nobody would say any such thing, my lord. And you are taking liberties again.”
“The pot calling the kettle black, for which is worse, taking liberties or telling whopping great tarradiddles?”
“I did not—”
“Yes, you did, unless there is some
other
peer who has had the great misfortune of proposing to you?”
For a moment, Tessie nearly lied, but she could think of no one who would be in the least likely to back up such a tale, so she clammed her mouth shut and said nothing instead.
“Ah, I have scored a point. How perfectly pleasurable! Now, don't be so glum. I have only to go home and ponder why you should feed me such a lot of unadulterated nonsense, and the riddle will be solved. It is not my evil scar, perchance?”
“Don't be ridiculous! It is a very . . .
noble
scar.”
Nick's mouth twisted. “That is not what I hear whispered behind fans. I once made a young lady swoon from the very sight.”
“Then she must have been a very silly female indeed.”
“Ah, but you do not know its history. I acquired it, evidently, in a duel. I believe I was cast as the villain.”
“More likely in service to king and country.”
“You have faith, little Miss Nobody.” Nick was surprisingly touched. Not so much because she had unwittingly guessed the truth of it, but because she believed in him. Heaven knew, he was not a fool; he had heard all the worst of the rumors. He had just never cared sufficiently to put the record straight.
Or perhaps, quixotically, he did not wish to set the record straight. His rakish reputation was a natural cover for the more clandestine services he delivered to the realm. He preferred, for the moment, to keep it that way.
“Yes, I have faith, for I know that despite your deplorably arrogant ways, you risk your life for what you believe in. It is commendable.”
“A compliment, by God! If Joseph hadn't drunk the last of my carriage champagne, I swear I would open a bottle now!”
“Very likely you drank it yourself, my lord, and have forgotten.”
“Ah, I am cast down again. You temper your compliments with faint moues of disapproval.”
“I am not disapproving, though doubtless I should be, for I am sure you can get very drunk indeed, and Grandfather, who used to drink at least two clarets upon an evening, always said—”
The earl groaned. “Is there no silencing you?”
“No, for there is nothing more dismal than a carriage trip undertaken in perfect silence. Now, where was I?”
“I can't remember.”
“Of course you can! I remember myself! Grandfather Hampstead always said there was no shame in holding one's drink—indeed, he insisted I learn to drink fortified wines at a young age, for he never held with orgeats or some of those vile syrups concocted for the young—but he did say there is no more foolish-looking sight than a man dead drunk, and though I have never actually
seen
any gentleman in such a predicament, though very nearly, when Uncle Hester . . . but, oh! I digress.”
“Indeed you do, you awful child. Now I don't know whether to pursue the intriguing issue of your drinking fortified wines, or the matter of your poor inebriated relative.”
“Neither, I think, for they are both tedious. I can't think why I introduced such idiotish topics.”
Nick grinned. “Good! Now, upon the subject of your marrying me . . .”
Tessie's luminous expression vanished. “The subject is closed.”
“Do you deny you wish it wasn't?”
“No, though it is beastly of you to pray upon my honesty.”
“I don't recall your being strictly honest with me the last time we met.”
Tessie colored. “I
had
received a proposal of marriage!”
“Yes, from a peer of the realm. Lord Alberkirky is undoubtedly that. What he
isn't,
however, is your affianced.”
“I didn't actually say he was.”
“You led me to believe he was.”
“Your mistake.”
“I shall be more careful in the future. Is there any reason, Tessie, why you are being so damnably stubborn and intractable?”
Tessie tilted her chin. “Despite the name I chose for myself, I am not a charity basket, Lord Cathgar.”
“Good gracious, I should hope not! I despise the things!” The earl took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully, trying his utmost to be reasonable and logical and, above all, convincing. It was hard with Tessie so close, in disarray yet again, her bonnet all askew, sublimely licking her fingers of the eel pie and turning her large, impossibly curling lashes toward him.
Not flirtatious this time, but attentive. Her eyes, below, seemed enormous. She was awaiting his reply breathlessly again, and he knew, for some momentous reason, his happiness depended upon getting the correct sequence of words out. His mama, if she'd seen him as tongue-tied as a schoolboy, would have laughed out loud.
Fifteen
The moment lengthened as Nicholas tried to figure out the peculiarities of the female brain. Particularly
this
female, who was as unlike most other females as he could imagine. He began slowly, taking care to be cool, collected, and logical, as he was positive Miss Theresa Hampstead of Hampstead Oaks would wish.
“You are not a charity basket, Tessie, but you
are
a gently bred female with a damnable line of bad luck behind you, some of it caused by
my
unwitting interventions. You should be married, and I am fortuitously at hand.” He found it hard to keep the irony from his tone, but Tessie was too sensitive not to hear it.
Her heart ached. Oh, if only he had said he loved and adored her! But all this cold reason! She knew what he said was perfectly true, and that there were thousands of such marriages made for much lesser reasons every day, but it was not what she wanted!
Worse, she was convinced it was not what he wanted either, despite this temporary persistence of his. If she had not saved his life, doubtless he would not feel so strongly or be so obligated. It was a debt of honor to him, no more. But it was more to her, and she did not want him to regret paying that debt every day and forever.
“I make my
own
scandal broth, my lord. No one forced me to venture to London unchaperoned, but I did. Just that circumstance puts me beyond the pale, and I think you know it. Disregard, if you please, the whole little episode of me in your bedchamber. It should never have happened, and, indeed, if you will be so good as to hold your tongue, it will never be known. That is all you have to concern yourself about. The rest was of my own making, and I shall pay the price as my grandfather did before me.”
“Bravely spoken, O Mistress Pride.” Nick's words were hollow, even to his own ears. “There is no convincing you, then? Not if I throw these confounded pies through the window and grab you in my arms?”
Tessie thought that might make all the difference, but she shook her head resolutely. She did not like being called Mistress Pride! But she refused to wrangle with him, so the remainder of the carriage ride was undertaken in silence, until they rounded the corner and Nicholas indicated for the horses to halt. They did so beside a huge crested barouche, where several of the fine team were grazing idly from hay bales. The coachman, resting beside the team, seemed to recognize Nick, but then, as Tessie knew, half of London did!
“Where are we? This is not the Colonnade!”
“Indeed, no. It is Madame Fanchon's. See, just behind you?”
Tessie peered through the window and did indeed see the familiar steps leading up to the elegant establishment.
“I thought I would save those half boots of yours. You were intending . . .”
“Oh, yes. But . . . oh, how I look! And my gown is ruined. I cannot possibly . . .”
“I'll buy you a new gown.”
“You are determined to compromise me. You shall do no such thing! Only, can you help me with my bonnet?”
Nick forbore to utter any of the epithets he would have liked to, for now he was condemned to touching her for the sole purpose of losing her again. He only hoped that the countess of Cathgar—whose carriage, painted in regal purples, now blocked his own—could work a miracle. As Tessie held still patiently while he fumbled with the ribbons like a fool rather than the experienced rake that he was, he had never felt more in
need
of an appropriate word.
“Wish me luck, my lord.”
“I do.”
“And thank you.”
“It is a pleasure. What about your eel pies?”
“Oh, you may eat them!”
Thus recovering both her poise and her spirits, little Miss Tessie made her descent.
In a private parlor draped all in crimson, Madame Fanchon's fingers flew through her work. It was not that she needed to anymore, for she was the Season's premier seamstress. As such, she could command any price she chose, and she had minions by the dozen to do the intricate beadwork she was currently engaged in. But sewing gave her time to think, and under the gaze of her patroness, she surely needed that time.
She snipped off a thread of blond silk and nodded crisply, at last meeting the gaze of the Countess of Cathgar.
“Indeed, madam, if such a one were to ever approach me . . .” She frowned as a tinkling bell disturbed her.
“What is it, Elsie? Her ladyship is just choosing between the riding dress and the broderie Anglaise. . . .”
“She is here!” The rich voice held a note of triumph and ill-suppressed excitement.
Madame Fanchon rolled her eyes and smiled apologetically at the countess. “Who, Elsie, is here?” She rolled her Rs ever so slightly, in the manner of the French.
“The lady Madam is searching for! She answers the case exactly. Dark hair, curls . . .” She peeped around at the countess. “Oh, a havoc of curls, your ladyship! And she wants to speak to Madame Fanchon!”
“There are many who wish to speak to me, Elsie.” The famous seamstress dropped the intricate bodice of lace and pearls and gazed inquiringly at her employee. She did not like being disturbed, especially as it seemed likely, to her experienced eye, that the countess would select both garments. But not if her train of thought was disturbed thus!
“But, madam!” Elsie's voice rose a little. “It is not gowns she wants, but work!”
The countess's interest deepened to the point of setting down her fan. Madame Fanchon, seeing her moment lost, recovered swiftly.
“Then by all means show her in, Elsie. And close the door after you, if you please. One would not care for her ladyship to catch a draft!”
It was not a draft her ladyship caught, but her breath. She had not expected such a beautiful face, or such a wistful smile beneath that tangle of curls. Now these she
had
expected, for they featured a good many times in Nicholas's rather graphic descriptions. And where was that famous reticule? she wondered. Ah, there it was, clasped firmly in the left hand, daintily gloved in matching olive. Oh, it was a shame. Olive was such a dreary color, to be sure!
“Madam, I interrupt. I can wait. . . .”
Tessie, under the stern gaze of not one but
two
ladies quailed. It was clear that the white-haired lady seated on the Egyptian clawed chaise longue was someone of consequence. She languished behind a jeweled fan, but her eyes were alert. She wore more rings upon her mottled fingers than Tessie had ever seen in all of her life. Madame Fanchon, of course, she already knew by sight. A tall, thin lady, dressed all in black but for a broad splash of buttercup yellow peeping from an under dress of sarcenet.
“You require work?”
It was Madame Fanchon who asked the question, but it was the older lady who appeared most interested in her answer. Tessie, had she not been desperate, would have been confused.
“Yes, indeed. I am quite skilled at needlework, but have never before worked as a seamstress. If you would be so kind as to offer me a wage, I would gladly learn all you have to show me.”
Madame Fanchon shrugged. The girl was pretty behaved enough, though she had stains upon her morning dress. If she knew no better, she would have said eel pie. She tried not to frown.
“You have no referees, then?”
“No, but . . .”
“All my seamstresses have referees, Miss . . .”
“Hampstead. My friends call me Tessie.”
Madame Fanchon, a little regal, ignored her, though her eyes slid to Lady Cathgar. What the woman could want with the girl, she could not conceive! She had trouble written all over her face despite her demure countenance. But ask for her she had, as had Lady Polly Leister, the countess's sister-in-law—who, incidentally, had bought an ermine cape at the same time—and Lady Randolph Peters, the present earl's sister, had mentioned something of the kind again.
It was Lady Cathgar, seated with an enormous turban upon her imposing head, who broke the silence.
“My dear, is it work that you seek?”
Tessie curtsied low, for though she did not know the identity of the lady, she did know she had rank—all her demeanor suggested it. It would not have surprised Tessie, indeed, to find she was in the presence of one of the famous Almacks patronesses, or even a duchess.
“It is, though as to referees, I have none.”
“Then why should this good lady employ you?” Madame Fanchon smiled thinly. Elsie, gaping behind her, tittered. She was waved away.
“Because I am good! I am not idly boasting, ma'am, though I fear I have a propensity to do just that at times, but only when we are riding or fishing . . .”
“You are good at these activities?”
“Yes!” Tessie's eyes lit up. She nodded shyly.
“Excellent, but an extraordinary accomplishment for a seamstress. Even an
unreferenced
seamstress.” Madame Fanchon's voice was dampening. The little chit was too exuberant by far and the countess seemed to have forgotten all about the riding habit and the blond silk.
Tessie's face fell. “I am sorry. I was so hoping . . .” She did not finish her sentence. It would be too humiliating to cry.
Damn
Cathgar! He was right. Securing respectable work was by no means as easy as she had imagined it. Perhaps she would have to return to Hampstead Oaks, after all, defeated, eating into her miserable ten thousand pounds, unable to assist the tenants . . . but no! She would speak out for herself. If she threw away her chances, at least she would have tried.
After all, as Grandfather always said, a person could only really fail if he has never tried. The trying is his salvation. A wise man, the viscount, if reckless.
“I was hoping, Madame Fanchon, that you would give me a chance. I'll not charge you for my first week's work. If it is satisfactory, I trust you will keep me on.”
“And your board? Do you realize how expensive it is to house and feed—”
“I'll pay that myself.” Tessie was firm, and she wondered why the lips of the regal lady were twitching.
She continued. “What is more, I shall fund the materials I require from my own purse. If the garment is not to your satisfaction, I shall bother you no more, and wear it myself!”
In the face of such defiance—wherein the countess's lips were seen to twitch even more—Madame Fanchon tried a new tack.
“Perhaps one of the less established houses . . . Cordelia Wiltsham's may answer, she is always at sixes and sevens looking for seamstresses, though heaven knows why, her establishment does not do half the trade of mine, but I shall send her a note. . . .”
“No!” The countess intervened. Both ladies started a little under her gaze. Madame Fanchon wary, Tessie surprised but interested. She wondered again who the lady was and why she should interest herself in her case. She did not wonder long, though the turbaned head was surveying her from top to toe with a quizzing glass and it seemed like an eon before she gestured her to take up a yellow cushioned seat next to her.
“Madame Fanchon, thank you for your kind services once again. Have the riding habit and the blond silk wrapped, if you please, while I speak to the young lady. Oh! I think also a gown for the good lady—not drab, I cannot abide drab colors—perhaps a marigold. Do you like marigold, my dear? Or perhaps a sky blue. Oh, bother it, I'll take both, but please do not forget the bonnet and stockings and gloves. Accessories are so important. Oh! The underclothes too, though I don't mean to put you to the blush, my dear . . .”
Madame Fanchon, very much more pleased at the track her ladyship was now taking, murmured helpfully. “Handkerchiefs? A fan perhaps . . .”
The countess nodded. “Yes, yes, all the folderols . . . you know what I am after. . . .”
Madame Fanchon's eyes sparked a little. “Indeed I do . . . her measurements . . .” She surveyed Tessie shrewdly. I shall have to borrow a little from Lady Celia's collection. Lady Celia is a little more rotund, but a few tucks . . . yes, yes, we can do it . . . short notice . . .”
“I am sure you can manage, my good woman, that is why we ladies of the
ton
all rely on you so.” The countess knew just how to bring the fashionable Madame Fanchon under her thumb. It was a mere matter, she knew, of loosening the purse strings and referring to her influence in society.
“Indeed, yes . . . yes . . . I shall have the garments sent around today. . . .”
“Thank you. And now, if you would be so good as to allow us the use of this chamber . . .”
“Indeed, indeed . . .” Madame Fanchon curtsied her way out, a calculating gleam in her intelligent French eye. Something was afoot, but for the life of her, she knew not what.
 
The man called Tallows loitered behind a lamppost. When he was eyed by the watch, he produced a few old apples from his pocket and shouted his wares. But what really interested him was the front door of Madame Fanchon's. Sooner or later, he was sure, the little miss would come out. It was sheer luck, really, that he'd caught sight of Cathgar's crested carriage and decided to follow it. More luck that he should recognize the girl, for Grange's descriptions from Newgate had been graphic, if more uncomplimentary than was necessary.

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