The Taste of Innocence (14 page)

Fate smiled, and first Betsy, then Lizzie, both rather flustered and sporting blushes, came out of Madame’s tent. Sarah was the last of the three to duck beneath the richly colored flap. As it fell behind her, Lizzie and Betsy exchanged hushed confidences, then they bustled across to join their escorts.

Jon straightened and took his hands from his pockets. “So what did she say?” He directed the question impartially to both girls.

Lizzie and Betsy exchanged a glance, then Lizzie tapped Jon’s arm. “Never you mind. That’s for us to know and you to wonder about.”

The girls looked along the next alley; they jigged, impatient to get on. They glanced back at Madame’s tent; Sarah’s consultation was taking longer than theirs had.

Charlie inwardly smiled. Outwardly, he grimaced. “Why don’t you go on? I’ll wait for Sarah.”

The four looked at each other, wordlessly conferring, then brightly thanked him and bustled on to the next attraction—a line of booths selling ribbons and handkerchiefs.

Charlie watched them go, then smiled and settled to wait.

Inside the deep purple tent, Sarah sat staring into a large green glass globe. Her hands were cradling it, one palm pressed to each side as instructed. Madame had already pored over her palms, both of them, then frowned, shaken her head, and in a heavy accent informed her, “Is complicated.”

That wasn’t what Sarah had expected to hear. She didn’t truly believe in fortune-telling, yet given she was, at that very point in time, working to discover whether Charlie loved her or not, or alternatively if he might love her once they were married even if he didn’t yet, the appearance of Madame Garnaut and her ser vices had seemed an opportunity too potentially useful to pass by. She was willing to pursue any reasonable avenue to learn what she needed to know.

But she couldn’t see anything in the globe.

She glanced at Madame, seated on the opposite side of a small round table draped in deep blue velvet. The gypsy’s hands, strangely cool, were clamped around Sarah’s; she was peering, narrow-eyed, into the globe, a look of utter concentration etched on her much wrinkled face.

Madame’s hair, black as a raven’s wing, long and curly, seemed to lift and spread about her head. Then she slowly closed her eyes, slowly raised her head, and she exhaled. Into an eerie stillness, she spoke. “You wish to know whether this man can love you. He is tall, but not dark, and more than handsome. The answer to your question is yes, but the way is not clear. Whether you gain what you seek…that, in the end, will be up to you. It will be your decision, not his.”

A long moment passed, then Madame exhaled in a long sigh. To Sarah’s wide eyes, she seemed to deflate.

Madame removed her hands from Sarah’s, then met Sarah’s gaze. “It is the best I can do for you—the most I can tell you. So the answer is yes, but” Madame shrugged—“the rest is complicated.”

Sarah drew in a breath. Withdrawing her hands from the globe, she nodded. Pushing back from the table, she rose. “Thank you.” On impulse, she dug into her reticule, pulled out another sixpence and placed it on the table. “For your extra trouble.”

The gypsy took the coin and nodded. “You are a lady, but I knew that.” Her old eyes, a disconcertingly bright black, met Sarah’s. “I wish you good luck. With that one, it will not be easy.”

Turning, Sarah lifted the tent flap and stepped out—into disorienting brightness. She blinked rapidly, then saw Charlie—that one—lounging by the side of a nearby tent. She walked across the alley, busying herself retying her reticule strings, using the moment to regain her composure.

It will not be easy. It will be your decision, not his.

Reaching Charlie, she looked up.

He was grinning. “So what was it—tall, dark, and handsome?”

She smiled with more confidence than she felt. “What do you think?”

He drew her hand through his arm and turned her along the next alleyway. “I think that demonstrates why you shouldn’t believe the prophecies of fortune-tellers. They’re all charlatans.”

She’d thought the same. Now she wasn’t so sure.

But the last person she wished to discuss Madame’s revelations with was him. She glanced around as they strolled side by side, then realized the others were nowhere in sight. “Where are the others?”

“They headed this way.”

She glanced at him, waiting, but he didn’t add anything, no suggestion that he intended to find, let alone rejoin, the rest of their group. She thought, then inwardly shrugged. That suited her well enough.

Especially given Madame Garnaut’s revelations. If matters were going to be complicated and if all would hinge on her decision, then the more she knew…

Her gaze fell on a portly figure, nattily dressed, promenading down the alley toward them. She leaned closer to Charlie. “I gather you keep abreast of changes in the industries around Taunton. Have you met Mr. Pommeroy?” With her head, she indicated the man approaching. “He’s the owner of the new cider company—they’ve set up premises just outside town.”

“Out to the west, isn’t it? I’ve heard of it, but I rarely pass that way.” Charlie drew his gaze from Mr. Pommeroy and met her eyes. “Do you know him?”

She nodded. “He’s taken on two apprentices from the orphanage so far.” Without waiting to be asked, she put on her best smile and angled toward Mr. Pommeroy.

Noticing her approaching, he beamed and halted. “Miss Conningham.” He took her hand between both of his. “I have to tell you those two lads of yours have been working out very well—very well, indeed. If you have any more like them coming along, we’ll be happy to have them join us.”

“Excellent!” Retrieving her hand, Sarah gestured to Charlie. “Might I introduce Lord Meredith?”

Mr. Pommeroy was gratified. He bowed. “My lord.”

Charlie nodded, precise and correct. Mr. Pommeroy introduced his wife, after which he and Charlie spent the next five minutes talking of factories, and yields, and transport. Sarah listened; she was always on the lookout for any new openings for the orphans—such as the increase in carting that, from Charlie’s and Mr. Pommeroy’s discourse, she realized must be occurring. She made a mental note to have a word with Mr. Hallisham, who owned the local cartage business.

Mrs. Pommeroy, however, despite the smile fixed on her face, started shifting. Taking pity on her, Sarah intervened; under cover of asking a more general question, she pinched Charlie’s arm. He glanced at her, but fell in with her clearly concluding remarks, and they parted from the Pommeroys.

As they moved on, she murmured, “You can ride out and visit him sometime. It doesn’t do to put up the backs of owners’ wives.”

Charlie’s brows quirked, then his lips curved and he inclined his head. “I suppose not.”

“Lady! Pretty lady!”

They’d turned into the next avenue of booths. An older man with a broad weathered face and gnarled hands waved Sarah to his counter.

“Come see! Just right for you—pretty as a picture.” His head bobbed as, beaming, he beckoned her nearer. Curious, she stepped his way. He glanced down at his tray, thick fingers picking over his wares, searching. “Straight from London. Enamels from Russia. Perfect colors for you.”

There was no harm in looking. Sarah towed Charlie to the booth, stopping before the raised counter.

“Ah!” The man looked up. Draped over his large fingers he displayed a necklet of interlinked enamels. A medley of bright spring greens and summer blues patterned on white decorated each shield-shaped piece. The strand looked ridiculously delicate against the man’s huge hands.

Sarah’s eyes widened. She reached to touch.

“Come.” The trader whisked out from behind the counter. “You try it and see.”

Deftly, he strung the necklet around Sarah’s throat and fastened the catch.

Charlie watched, resigned; he had to give the man points for adroitness. He knew how to sell to ladies.

But the necklet did indeed suit Sarah. Head tilted, Charlie examined it, considered how it looked on her as, fingers lifting to stroke the enamel, she studied her reflection in a spotty mirror the trader had produced from beneath his counter.

The effect was…complex. The enameling appeared to be quite fine. The result was a piece that melded innocent simplicity with the decadence of vibrant color.

One look at Sarah’s face was enough to tell Charlie that she appreciated the piece as much as he. He didn’t need to glance at the shrewd trader to know the man was now watching him closely—ready to encourage him to indulge and impress his lady.

Charlie studied the necklet. The light seemed to corruscate with color when it struck. Despite an ingrained resistance to wasting any blunt on fairground gewgaws, he raised a finger and traced the shields. In the mirror, Sarah glanced at him; he saw but didn’t meet her gaze.

The work was smooth, as good enamels should be. Hooking a fingertip inside the strand, he flipped it so the underside showed.

And was impressed. The work on the reverse of the shields was of similar quality to that on the faces.

Alathea had a fondness for enamels—preferably from one of the Russian masters. From her he’d learned the rudiments of distinguishing good from bad. This piece wasn’t from one of the masters’ studios, but it was a significant cut above the average.

Having a business-trained face was so useful. His expression utterly impassive, he met the trader’s gaze. “How much?”

Sarah blinked at him. She’d intended buying it for herself, he realized, but when he didn’t look her way, and instead engaged the trader in a brisk round of bargaining, she closed her lips and let him buy it for her.

A small, almost insignificant victory, yet he felt it to his marrow.

By the time he and the trader exchanged nods and he and Sarah stepped away from the booth, he’d bought not just the necklet, but also a ring and three brooches. One brooch for Alathea in red, black, and gold, and one for Augusta in her favorite purple, amethyst, and mauve. Steering Sarah away from the counter, he halted her by the side of the booth and pinned the third brooch, a match for the necklet in blues and greens, into the lapel of her riding habit.

Lips gently curved, she brushed her fingers across the surface, then looked up into his face. “Thank you. They’re very pretty.”

He met her gaze for an instant, then looked down, found her right hand, and raised it. Slipping the matching ring onto her middle finger, he raised her hand and laid it at her breast so he could view all three pieces together.

He did, and felt his lungs contract. He knew he was looking at enamels, but that wasn’t, in his mind, what he was seeing.

Lifting his gaze, he met her eyes. “Until you agree to let me give you something more valuable.” Her lips quirked, but before she could speak he asked, “Have you seen the Morwellan emeralds?”

She blinked, then slipped her hand into his arm; they started strolling once more. “No.” Frowning, she shook her head. “I can’t recall ever seeing—”

“You might not have. Mama rarely wears them—they don’t suit her. They’re pale, clear, and flawless. The set—necklace, earrings, bracelet, and ring—contains the largest group of perfectly matched emeralds currently known.” He glanced again at the woman on his arm—his countess. “They will suit you.”

She glanced up and met his eyes. “If I marry you.”

There was no “if” about it. The quiet challenge in her eyes provoked a quiet storm in him—an impulse to react and ruthlessly quash her resistance, to deny beyond doubt or even imagination that there was any other outcome possible. A muscle in his arm flexed. In something close to horror, he fought down the nearly overwhelming urge, primitive and powerful, to demonstrate the truth for her in simple, impossible-to-misconstrue actions, to make it plain that she was his.

His. He felt his jaw set. He fought and forced himself to acknowledge her words—her right to deny him—with an inclination of his head. Then he faced forward, unseeing, still struggling to subdue his reaction.

He wasn’t, hadn’t thought himself, a particularly possessive man. So where had such intensity come from? Why was it so strong, and what did that mean?

Regardless, if he gave in to it, if he in any way let her guess that in truth she had no choice—that she hadn’t had any choice from the moment he’d stood in her father’s drawing room and offered for her hand, quite aside from all that had passed between them since—if he gave her any inkling that their path was set regardless of her thoughts, he would run into a wall of feminine resistance.

One he knew well enough to avoid. Alathea had a similar defense, that construct of a steely female will, and so did many, if not all, the Cynster ladies. No sane male knowingly provoked such a defense.

There were some battles from which it was wiser to retreat.

He repeated those strictures until he calmed, until that prowling, lurking beast she’d pricked settled grudgingly back to watch, and wait.

Strolling by his side, Sarah pretended not to notice the tension that had flared, that he’d subdued and smothered, but that only gradually faded from the arm on which her hand lay.

Only gradually did the large hard body pacing beside her regain its customary loose-limbed ease, his signature grace.

Once it had, she breathed a little more easily. He definitely didn’t like her even obliquely suggesting that she might not marry him. Which again raised the question of what it was that was driving him—why he was so intent on marrying her.