Lost Lords 6 - Not Quite a Wife (14 page)

M
adame Hélier’s very exclusive salon was tucked discreetly behind Oxford Street, with only a brass plaque saying HÉLIER’S on the door leading up to the premises. As Laurel climbed the enclosed stairway, she smiled wryly at how the owner had chosen to be a floor above street level. One mustn’t allow the vulgar to peer into windows.

When Kirkland ushered Laurel into the serenely tasteful showroom, she saw that the location allowed great swaths of sunlight to pour in through the wide windows. That had to be useful for choosing colors.

And there was color in abundance. The soft, neutral shades of the carpets and furnishings set off lengths of brilliant fabrics draped across two of the walls. Violet said in a low voice, “See how carefully they’ve chosen the display fabrics? Any woman who walks in here will see at least one color that will look splendid on her.”

“You’re right. Like this reddish-brown silk would become you.” Laurel rubbed the fabric between two fingers to feel the sumptuous weight and texture.

“Devonshire brown.” Violet gave the fabric a swift, longing look, then turned her attention to the other materials on display. “But we are here for you today, my lady. That blue silk would be lovely. Or that misty green. The gold brocade.” She pointed out different lengths of rich materials.

Violet’s color sense was flawless; even Laurel could see that. Laurel’s gaze touched on a wide chest to one side. The massive piece of furniture had dozens of small drawers, each marked with samples of what was inside. Buttons of wood or shimmering seashell or exquisite Wedgwood china. Lengths of ribbon and lace and other trims. For the first time in her life, Laurel really understood the pure aesthetic pleasure of finery.

As Laurel and Violet enjoyed the colors and textures, Kirkland and Madame Hélier greeted each other in a friendly way. Laurel tried not to look for signs that Kirkland had expensively outfitted his mistresses at Hélier’s, but saw nothing. Perhaps mistresses frequented different establishments.

After Kirkland introduced Laurel to Madame Hélier, the modiste said, “Lady Kirkland, welcome to my modest domain.” Madame Hélier was a slim woman of middle years with a slight French accent, and she wore an elegant dove gray gown that displayed her talents. Her eyes were shrewd but thoughtful as she studied Laurel.

Kirkland said, “My wife needs a complete wardrobe so she will be prepared for all occasions, and it needs to be done slightly faster than is humanly possible.”

As Madame Hélier laughed, Laurel said firmly, “I am not planning to have an extensive social life. I need only a morning gown and perhaps a walking dress, plus a more formal gown suitable for dinner with friends.”

“She will need more,” Kirkland said, his gaze slanting toward Laurel. “We have plans to attend the opera and the theater. Not to mention Astley’s Amphitheatre.”

“I can’t wear the same gown again and again?” Laurel asked, knowing the answer.

“It would be remarked on if Lady Kirkland had only one evening gown,” he said gravely. “I would be considered a neglectful and miserly husband.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That wouldn’t be fair to you, but too large a wardrobe seems wasteful.”

“We shall begin with one each of morning, walking and dinner gowns to be created right away. More garments can be added later as needed,” Madame Hélier said tactfully. “Lady Kirkland, what is your personal style? How do you wish to present yourself to the polite world?”

Laurel had never thought of her wardrobe in such terms. She didn’t have a personal style, only clothing chosen for comfort and practicality so she didn’t have to think about it much. “My personal style is casual to a fault. Violet, how do I want to look for the polite world?”

“Classic simplicity,” her maid said without hesitation. “Timeless and flattering and dignified.”

“A style not unlike Madame Hélier’s,” Kirkland said. “But with more color.”

The Frenchwoman’s brows arched. “I’ve never been singled out as a model for my clients.” She flicked her hand at her soft gray gown. “Like the furnishings of my salon, I wish to be quietly in the background.”

“But you have understated elegance,” Laurel said as she admired the cut of Madame Hélier’s gown. It fit perfectly and the fabric flowed around the modiste’s trim figure. “I would like a similar look.” She glanced at her husband. “With more color.”

Kirkland smiled at her. “A riding habit will also be needed. Shoes and cloaks and all the underpinnings. Also, Violet, you have a talent for hairstyling. Would you like a session or two of tutoring by a master stylist?”

“Oh yes!” Violet’s eyes rounded with excitement.

Laurel thought with amusement that being tricked out as a suitable countess might be tedious for her, but Violet was enjoying the process. There were other benefits for the girl as well since it was traditional for a lady to give discarded garments to her maid for reselling. With Kirkland insisting on outfitting his wife in high style, eventually Violet would earn enough from her mistress’s castoffs to start her own shop.

“Lord Kirkland, it is time for us to take your lady’s measurements and perhaps fit a particular gown for her,” Madame Hélier said. “Do you wish to wait in the gentleman’s parlor, or will you be leaving now?”

“I brought some work with me, so I’ll wait.” He’d brought his lap desk, so he carried it with him as an assistant escorted him to a cozy side chamber. He was being asked his preference of tea, sherry, or some other beverage as he disappeared from view.

“At least my husband won’t be bored,” Laurel observed to Violet as they entered the fitting room behind the showroom.

“I brought a book of poetry to read to you if you need diversion, my lady. Lord Byron,” Violet said. But her gaze was moving hungrily over the racks of rich, colorful fabrics. There were even more here than in the main showroom.

“It’s time to remove your outer garments so we can take your measurements, Lady Kirkland.” Madame Hélier gestured to a low dais. “If you will step up . . . ?”

Laurel handed her light shawl to an assistant and stepped up, but said, “I’m increasing, so my new gowns must have room to expand.”

“Congratulations to you and your lordship!” The modiste looked genuinely delighted for them. “I shall make sure your new garments will look well from now right up to your time of confinement.”

Laurel found that it was difficult to maintain her distaste for the fitting process when everyone around her was so helpful and enthusiastic. Violet never did get around to reading poetry. She was too busy exploring every inch of the salon.

As Laurel’s very ordinary gown was removed, she said quietly to the modiste, “That Devonshire brown silk in the showroom. Do you agree that it will suit my maid?”

“Oh yes. The color would bring out her golden skin tones.”

“Add a dress length of the fabric to my order. I’m sure Violet will make a really lovely gown from it.” The girl deserved something new, not a remade castoff.

Madame Hélier nodded approvingly. “It shall be done.” She studied Laurel’s stays and shift thoughtfully. “One of my assistants is a talented corsetiere, so we have available a supply of stays of different sizes and shapes. A fine dress requires a fine foundation. I would like you to try a set of Betty’s stays.”

“As long as they’re comfortable,” Laurel said warily.

“They will be. Once we have your measurements, Betty can make custom stays, but what is available now will do reasonably well.”

With a sigh, Laurel let Betty remove her old, well-broken-in stays and replace them with a new set that fit quite well and wasn’t uncomfortable. She could get used to these, she decided, if she could be convinced they were of benefit.

Madam nodded approvingly when Laurel was laced up. “You must choose fabrics, and there is a draper’s shop across the street if you wish a broader range of choices. But for today, I have a walking dress that should suit you.”

She gestured to an assistant who disappeared into the adjoining room and returned holding a dark orange gown. “I keep a number of partially sewn garments here that can be quickly finished if a lady is in need of a new gown immediately.”

Curious, Laurel asked, “Do all London modistes have so much fabric and trim and their own corsetiere?”

“No, Madame Hélier’s is unique. I decided it would benefit my clients to offer as many services as possible under one roof,” the Frenchwoman explained. “I also offer swiftness without sacrificing quality.” She held up the gown. “This color is called ‘capucine’ and will be splendid on you. Here, lift your arms so I can help you into it.”

Laurel complied, and Madame Hélier dropped the gown over her head. After she tightened the lacing up the back, she did some swift pinning. “Very little work will be required to fit this to you properly. Turn and look in the mirror.”

Laurel did, and her jaw dropped. She’d never worn anything like this rich, dark orange shade, and it did wonderful things for her hair and complexion. The gown was cut lower than what she usually wore, but not so low that she felt the need to reach for a fichu. There was delicate peach ribbon trim, and the garment flowed gracefully over her body, making her look simultaneously demure, dignified, and just a little provocative.

“Oh my,” she breathed. “You were right about having the proper stays. How long will it take to finish this gown so I can wear it?”

“Less than an hour.” Looking pleased, the modiste removed the gown and handed it to a pair of assistants to hem. “Would you like a cup of tea and perhaps some cakes while you wait? We can decide on fabrics and styles for the other garments. I also have accessories you might like.”

“Tea would be very welcome.” Laurel raised her voice. “Violet, I need your assistance in choosing materials and styles.”

“While we are looking at samples, she can also restyle your hair.” Speaking to Violet, the modiste said, “An upswept style like the one I have, yes?”

Violet nodded. “That will suit my lady very well.”

Soon the round table at one side of the room was covered with tea cups, fabric samples, fashion plates, and meticulously dressed fashion dolls showing the latest styles. To her surprise, Laurel enjoyed discussing her choices with two experts.

By the time the capucine gown was ready to wear, Laurel had ordered half a dozen garments and numerous accessories, and she’d spent more of Kirkland’s money than she wanted to think about. Her conscience twitched—but not as much as she’d expected.

Madame Hélier helped her into the gown, then tied a matching capucine ribbon around Laurel’s throat. The final touch was to drape a magnificent patterned Indian shawl around Laurel’s shoulders. The rich colors of the shawl were a perfect complement to the gown. “There, my lady! Admire yourself in that mirror, then go and show your husband how fine you can be.”

Laurel studied herself in the long mirror. She looked like—a lady. Sophisticated and quietly confident and even, amazingly, fashionable. “You are a worker of wonders, madam.” Head high, she left the fitting room, crossed the showroom, and opened the door to the gentleman’s parlor.

Kirkland was frowning at a document, but when she entered, he looked up—and froze. In his eyes were surprise, approval, and desire. She slowly pirouetted so that he could see the whole outfit. “Behold Madame Hélier’s work.”

He rose, his gaze locked on her. “You look—exactly as you should. Like a lady. Like a countess. Like a woman who has accomplished important things and deserves all respect.” He smiled. “You also look like a cat in a cream pot. Did you enjoy this more than you expected?”

“I did indeed.” She also realized rather uneasily that she had moved from reluctant wife to a woman who wished to please her husband. She put the thought aside for future consideration. “Madame Hélier made it very easy for me and will keep the number of fittings to a minimum. She’s promised a morning dress and a dinner dress for tomorrow, so I’ll be ready for your friends when you invite them.”

Amusement lurked in his eyes. “Just as you enjoyed this more than you expected, I hope you enjoy my friends more than you think you will.”

Her animation faded. A modiste who was eager to please was very different from devoted friends who would have doubts about Kirkland’s long-absent wife. But at least she would be well dressed for the interrogation.

Moody watched the passengers alight in front of Kirkland House with satisfaction. Captain Hardwick had been right that Kirkland was a bloody lord. Ah, the slave girl climbed out of the second coach. She was as hot a moll as any he’d ever seen. Even Kirkland’s wife, whom Moody remembered as plain, looked worth a poke.

Wouldn’t be long until the captain had his ship in London. Then it would just be a matter of grabbing the slut and sailing off with her. Moody licked his lips. After the captain was done with her, maybe he’d share.

V
iolet was finishing her breakfast when Jasper Rhodes approached. He’d been very kind about introducing her to all the servants at Kirkland House, and she suspected that he might have worked behind the scenes to smooth her way.

But they hadn’t really talked since the journey up to London. As Lord Kirkland’s valet, Rhodes was one of the most important members of the household, and he seldom dined in the servants’ hall. When he did, he was the object of attention from two of the young housemaids. Young, pretty, blond housemaids. Violet knew there was little age difference between her and the housemaids, but she felt ages older in experience, and sadly, she’d never be blond.

No matter. There were things she’d like to ask Rhodes, or stories he might find amusing, but she was here to work, not gossip, and lucky she was to have such a fine job. Nonetheless, she smiled when he claimed the empty chair beside her at the breakfast table.

“I’ve scarcely seen you, Violet, busy as we’ve both been,” he said with a contagious smile. “But you’re looking very fine. Do you like being in Kirkland House?”

There was a clean cup across the table, so she poured him tea from the nearest pot. “Everyone has been very kind. I think you had a hand in that, so my thanks.”

He shrugged and took a sip of tea. “I just said I thought you’d fit in well, and from what I hear, you have.”

“Her ladyship is the best mistress I’ve ever had. I’d do anything for her.” Which was true, but perhaps too revealing, so Violet continued, “I haven’t seen much of you, though. You take your meals elsewhere?”

“Sometimes. His lordship has me doing some special work for him.” Not elaborating, Rhodes asked, “What’s this I hear about a self-defense class for females that will be taught in the ballroom this morning?”

“It was Lord Kirkland’s idea. He knows a woman who fights well, and she’s agreed to give us some basic lessons,” she explained. “Every female in the household is invited to attend, from the countess on down.”

Rhodes arched his brows. “Should I be afraid to ask you to go for a walk with me this afternoon since it’s your half day? You may be wanting to practice your lesson on some unworthy male!”

Violet’s pulse beat a little faster. “As long as you behave as a gentleman, you’re safe from me. But is it allowed for us to go out together?”

“As long as we do our jobs well and act responsibly, there’s no problem,” Rhodes replied. “Kirkland treats his servants like adults, not children, and those who want to learn and take on more responsibility are given the chance.”

“I hope his idea becomes popular. In most households, servants are treated like something between children and thieves.” And slaves were treated even worse. “But surely not all of Kirkland’s servants live up to their responsibilities. What then?”

“They get one warning, and if they don’t do better, they’re gone.” Rhodes finished his tea. “That’s rare, though. Most everyone hired here appreciates their luck.”

As Violet did. “Then if it won’t get me discharged, I’d love to go out. We’ve visited some shops and every day I accompany her ladyship when she walks in the park in front of the house, but I’ve done no exploring on my own. I’ve not had the time.” She sighed. “And to be honest, I’ve been afraid to go out alone.”

“That’s wise.” Rhodes frowned. “I’ve learned more about that Captain Hardwick. He’s a nasty piece of work and no mistake. But you’ll be safe with me.”

Having seen how dangerous Kirkland could be, it was easy to believe that his man might have some of the same abilities. Violet smiled with anticipation. “Let’s hope the sun comes out by then.”

“I’ll put in a special order for more sunshine,” Rhodes promised as he rose from his chair. “Till later, then. Enjoy learning how to beat up men.”

Though she didn’t know if she’d enjoy it, she intended to learn as much as she could. But not all men needed beating, and she was increasingly sure that Jasper Rhodes was one of the good ones.

“How did the self-defense class go?” Rhodes asked when they met in the servants’ hall to go for their walk.

Violet gestured at the excitedly talking female servants who were pouring into the servants’ hall. “It was wonderful! Look at how much everyone enjoyed the lesson.”

“You can tell me all about it as we walk.”

“I’d like to eat first.” She studied a basket of fresh baked rolls that sat on a sideboard, ready to be served. “Learning how to beat off attackers gives one an appetite.”

He scooped up two of the rolls and gave her one. “This should hold you until we reach Shepherd Market. It’s nearby and there are good food stalls. As you see, I managed to procure sunshine for you, but I can’t guarantee how long it will last.”

Violet missed the sunshine of Jamaica, but she’d kill herself rather than return there to slavery. She collected her bonnet and shawl and they exited Kirkland House from the rear door, which led to the streets of mews that ran behind the grand houses of Berkeley Square. Equally grand carriages and horses were kept on the ground level of the mews, while grooms and coachmen lived in apartments above. It was a bustling place, though a girl had to watch where she stepped.

As she munched on her fresh roll, Rhodes said, “Tell me about the class.” He took a bite from his own roll. “I want to know what to beware of.”

“Our teacher is Hazel Wilson. I think she works for his lordship, but not here?”

Rhodes nodded. “I know Hazel. You wouldn’t look at her twice in the street, but she is one very capable woman.”

“She certainly is! She and Mrs. Stratton found several old feather beds in the attic and laid them out in the ballroom to cushion any falls.”

“How many of the females in the household attended?”

“
All
of them!” Violet exclaimed. “Including Mrs. Stratton and her ladyship.”

Rhodes’s brows arched. “That’s . . . disturbing that so many women felt the need to learn how to protect themselves.”

“You’ve never been a woman, or you’d understand,” Violet said tartly.

“Guilty,” Rhodes said meekly. “What was Hazel able to teach in one morning?”

Violet considered how best to explain. “She said that self-defense begins in the mind. If you’re out and about, be aware of what’s around you. If a man makes you nervous, pay attention to the feeling and get away or prepare yourself if getting away isn’t possible. If you’re attacked, react immediately. Don’t stand there passive as a rabbit hoping that the big bad wolf won’t hurt you. Scream, kick, bite, shove. Fighting back will be enough to drive some attackers away.”

“Hazel is right. What else did she teach you?” Rhodes asked.

“She said don’t be afraid to get hurt, because you’re apt to be hurt worse by your attacker. Since women can endure the pain of childbirth, they can endure being bruised when fighting to save themselves.”

“That’s good advice,” Rhodes said. “If attacked, fight as hard as you can because in the terror and excitement, you probably won’t feel much pain.”

“What about later?”

He chuckled. “You’ll feel the bruises then, but that’s all right since the fight is over and you’re safe again. What fighting tricks did she show you?”

“She said that learning to fight really well takes a long time, but there are simple things that any woman can do. Stick fingers in the man’s eyes or throat or other soft, vulnerable spots.” Violet made a V with her index and middle finger and jabbed sharply at the air. “Or bend fingers back.”

She took Rhodes’s hand and bent the little finger back until he yanked his hand away hastily and said, “Clever, and you don’t have to be strong to do them. How did her ladyship do with the lessons?”

“Badly,” Violet admitted. “She doesn’t lack courage—I told you how she rescued me from a slave owner. But she found it impossible to strike another person.”

He grimaced. “Truly kind, gentle people aren’t good fighters. How did you do?”

Violet gave a smile that showed her teeth. “Very well. And I have the bruises to prove it.”

“Good. You need to take care of yourself.” Rhodes gestured at a narrow street on the left. “This leads into Shepherd Market. What would you like to eat? The meat-pie maker is one of the best in the city.”

Rhodes was right; the meat pies were delicious. So was the baked jacket potato that dripped with melted butter and fresh herbs, and they washed the food down with the tangy lemonade from another stall. Shepherd Market was like a fair, with music and street performers scattered among stalls that sold food, produce, kitchen goods, and used clothing.

Violet couldn’t remember when she’d had such fun. It was lovely to go out with a man she liked, and who liked her without making a nuisance of himself.

She was eyeing the gingerbread stall when Rhodes said, “Time to go. There’s one more place I want to take you on the way home. A confectioner’s called Gunter’s on the opposite side of Berkeley Square from Kirkland House. They make amazing fancy cakes, but they’re most famous for their ices.”

As they strolled back, enjoying the sunshine, she rather shyly took his arm. It was the first time she’d ever made any kind of advance to a man. He smiled and patted her hand where it rested on his arm, and did nothing to make her regret her action.

As they approached their destination, Rhodes explained, “This is a very fashionable tea shop. See all the carriages pulled up across the street by the park? The ladies eat their ices inside the carriages, their escorts lean against the railings to eat theirs, and waiters scurry back and forth across the street with orders.”

Rhodes waved down a waiter who’d just delivered an order to a carriage and who was heading back into the shop. Violet couldn’t hear what was said, but the waiter nodded and trotted back inside.

“The waiters are fast,” Violet commented as another one darted across the street.

“Because the ices melt quickly. That’s why everyone eats them right here. They’d be drinks if we tried to take them over to Kirkland House.”

After a few minutes’ wait, their waiter returned with their order and Rhodes paid him what Violet suspected was an extortionate amount. Rhodes gave her one of the small dishes, and Violet caught her breath when she saw that the ice was molded in the shape of a delicate pink flower. “How pretty! Let’s sit on that bench behind those trees. It looks fairly private.”

Rhodes agreed, and sure enough, by the time they reached the bench, the ice was starting to melt. Violet settled down in a fluff of skirts and sampled her ice with the small spoon. Her mouth filled with cold deliciousness. “This is wonderful! What’s the flavor? It’s not anything I recognize.”

Rhodes looked at her with a smile that started deep in his eyes. “It’s violet. They do several different flower flavors, and I was hoping that today they’d have violet.”

Violet bit her lip, tears starting in her eyes.

Worried, Rhodes asked, “Would you rather not eat your namesake?”

She blinked back the tears. “It’s just that . . . no man has ever tried to please me like this.”

“I’m glad I’m the first.” He scooped up a spoonful of his ice and offered it to her.

She leaned forward and licked the cold sweetness from his spoon, then offered a spoonful of her ice to him. He accepted it with pleasure.

The ices tasted even better when they exchanged them. Though the amounts were small and soon gone, Violet knew she’d never, ever forget this afternoon.

When they finished, Rhodes neatly stacked the dishes and spoons and set them on the ground below the bench. His gaze holding hers, he said seriously, “Any other girl, and I’d just try to catch a kiss. But because you are who you are, I will ask you whether you mind if I kiss you.”

She caught her breath. “I am not a nice English girl.”

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I find you so intriguing.”

She studied his face, which she’d found very average when they’d first met. But the better she knew him, the more attractive she found his intelligent gray eyes, his laugh lines, the quiet competence he radiated.

Their shady corner under the plane trees felt very private. Private enough for a kiss. Wordlessly she leaned forward and touched her lips to his. He tasted of violet ice and kindness and tightly controlled desire.

He caught his breath, then kissed her back and she knew that her life had opened up in ways she’d never dreamed of.

She loved ices, and it was quite possible that she could come to love this man.

 

 

Captain Hardwick’s schooner
Jamaica Queen
looked like any other fast cargo ship moored in the Pool of London. Nothing about the vessel proclaimed that it was a slaver, though when Moody climbed aboard, he thought he smelled the faint, ineradicable stench of transported slaves.

The captain didn’t make Moody wait long this time. He swung around in his chair and barked, “Have you found her?”