Vixen (10 page)

He had intended leaving her in the charge of the dressmaker while finding some much-needed liquid refreshment in a nearby tavern. Now it became apparent that he couldn’t trust her judgment, and knowing how determined she could be, he was fairly certain the modiste would be unable to guide her choice. The bottle of burgundy would have to wait.

He fortified himself again from the hip flask and turned into the doorway of a discreet establishment displaying a dainty gown of sprigged muslin in the window. “In here.”

“That looks very ordinary.” Chloe wrinkled her nose. “I much preferred the other shop—the one with the flame redingote.”

“Yes, I’m sure you did. However, we are going in
here.” A hand on the small of her back urged her through the door.

The modiste bustled out of a back room at the sound of the bell. Sharp black eyes examined Chloe and saw through the hideous, ill-fitting serge to the beauty beneath. She bowed to the gentleman, shrewdly assessing his worth. It was hard to tell. He was respectably dressed, the cloth of good quality, but there were no obvious signs of wealth—no jeweled pins or fobs, or even rings. But he was clearly a man whose tastes ran to the very young when it came to setting up a mistress. Although this very young lady was a diamond of the first water.

Smiling, Madame Letty asked how she could be of service. Her smile became calculating as the gentleman explained that to start with, his ward required a riding habit and at least two afternoon dresses.

“Suitable for a debutante?” she inquired, nodding with satisfaction. This promised to be a lucrative transaction. Guardians did not normally accompany their wards shopping, but the nature of the relationship made no difference to profits.

“Exactly so.” Hugo had a fair idea of the construction the modiste had put on her customers, but so long as she knew her job, she could think what she pleased.

Madame Letty called sharply, and a girl of about thirteen came into the shop. She curtsied, twisting her work-reddened hands, keeping her eyes down. At her employer’s instruction she fetched gowns from the back room, laying them out for the customers’ inspection.

Chloe was unimpressed. The afternoon gowns were all of sprigged muslin or cambric, demurely cut, trimmed with lace. Something caught her eye on a rack in the corner of the room. Abandoning the display, she wandered over to the rack and pulled out a gown of
peacock-blue taffeta, lavishly adorned with silver thread.

“This is lovely.” She held it up in front of her. “Isn’t it the most beautiful gown?” Her hands caressed the material. “I love the way it shines in the light.”

Hugo winced and Madame Letty cleared her throat. The little maidservant covered her mouth with her hand to hide a grin.

“I think Miss would be more comfortable in muslin,” Madame said,

“Oh, no, I don’t want any of those boring dresses,” Chloe declared with a dismissive gesture at the previous offerings. “I like this. I want something that stands out.”

“Well, you’d certainly stand out in that,” Hugo said.

“May I try it on?”

The modiste looked in appeal at the gentleman, who nodded infinitesimally. With obvious reluctance she gestured to a fitting room. “If Miss would like to come this way, Mary will help you.”

Hugo sat down on a couch and waited for the apparition to appear. He had the faint hope that once Chloe saw for herself how ridiculous she would look in a dress made to appeal to the pretentions of a high-class whore, the issue would resolve itself.

The hope was not realized. Chloe emerged from a dressing room, beaming, rustling across the floor toward him. “Isn’t it lovely? I feel so grand.” She twirled before the cheval glass. “It’s a little big, but I’m sure it could be altered.” She adjusted the neckline of the decolletage with a tiny frown. “It does reveal rather a lot though, doesn’t it?”

“Far too much,” Hugo declared.

“I could always wear a fichu,” she said cheerfully. “I’m going to have this gown. Oh, and you know what will look beautiful with it, that tulle hat we saw in the milliner’s down the road.”

Hugo closed his eyes and prayed for strength. “That hat would make you look like a squashed pumpkin. It’s far too big for your face.”

Chloe looked dismayed. “I’m sure it wouldn’t. How can you know until I try it on?”

Hugo had somehow assumed that women were born with a dress sense as they were born with ten fingers and ten toes. But apparently it was an acquired talent … one that had not been acquired by this practically motherless child who’d grown up behind the high walls of a seminary, smothered in brown serge.

The situation required drastic measures. He stood up.

“Would you excuse us for a minute?” he said to Madame Letty. “I’d like a word in private with my ward.”

The modiste hustled the maidservant out of the room and Hugo took a deep breath. Chloe was regarding him with an air of earnest inquiry.

He came over to her, took her by the shoulders, and turned her to face her image in the mirror. “Now, listen to me, lass. This gown is made for a woman who lives on Quay Street.”

“What kind of women live on Quay Street?” She frowned at him in the glass.

“Whores,” he said succinctly. Her eyes widened. “Look at yourself.” Reaching around, he plucked at the loose neckline. His arm brushed her breast and he drew a sharp breath but doggedly continued. “To wear a dress like this, you need to be rather more lavishly endowed than you are. You also need to paint your face, wear a great deal of trumpery jewelry, and be at least ten years older than you are.”

Her face fell. “Don’t you like it?”

“That’s an understatement. It’s an utterly tasteless garment and makes you look ridiculous.” Brutal, but he adjudged it necessary.

She bit her lip, tilting her head as she examined herself
in the mirror. “It would look better with the right shoes and hat.”

Hugo closed his eyes on another fervent prayer. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “If I can’t convince you, Chloe, then I’m going to exercise a guardian’s right of command.”

“You mean I may not have it?” Her chin went up and her eyes darkened with anger.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” He began swiftly to unhook her. “Try on one of the others and I’m sure you’ll see how much prettier you look.”

“I don’t like the others,” she said flatly. “I want to look different, not ordinary.”

“My dear girl, there is not the slightest possibility that you could ever look ordinary,” he said with conviction.

She continued to look at him in the mirror, assessing the strength of his determination as she had in the stable the previous night. But this time she had no master card up her sleeve.

“I am resolved, lass,” he said softly. “Looking daggers at me isn’t going to change anything.”

He turned to the gowns over the chair, sorting swiftly through them. “This one goes with your eyes,” he cajoled, holding up a sprigged muslin gown with a cornflower-blue sash and blue ribbons.

“It’s so demure,” Chloe muttered.

“It’s so suitable,” he retorted, and called the modiste. “Miss Gresham will try this gown.”

With as good a grace as she could muster, Chloe submitted to being divested of the peacock-blue taffeta and buttoned into the muslin. Madame Letty tied the sash around the slender waist and stood back with a smile.

“Beautiful,” she said. “Mary, fetch that chip straw hat, the one with the matching ribbons. It will look exquisite.”

Chloe was unconvinced and rather glumly stepped out of the dressing room to show her guardian.

A slow smile spread across Hugo’s face as he examined her. “Come here.” He beckoned her and turned her to face the mirror again. “Now, that, lass, is a vision to delight the most jaded eye.”

“Is it?” Chloe looked longingly toward the glitter of the discarded taffeta.

“Trust me.”

When they left Madame Letty’s an hour later, Chloe possessed three gowns, a velvet cloak, the chip straw hat and a well-cut but unexciting riding habit of dark blue broadcloth. Hugo had allowed her a tricorn hat with a silver plume to go with the habit, but otherwise had ruled the selection with an iron hand. Chloe was quiet as they walked back to the George and Dragon, and Hugo tried to think of something to make up for her disappointment.

Suddenly, Chloe was gone from his side. With a shout of outrage she darted into the road, dodging in front of a curricle driven tandem by a young blood in a caped driving coat with a dozen whip points thrust into the buttonholes.

His leader reared, snorting, as Chloe ducked, jumped sideways, and plunged into the center of the traffic-filled thoroughfare.

Hugo, without looking at the driver, seized the leader’s harness, holding his thrashing head as he stared across the street anxiously for some sign of Chloe. The young man filled the air with profanity.

“For God’s sake, man, stop swearing and look to your horses,” Hugo said impatiently, his eyes still searching the gathering throng for Chloe, even as he continued to hold the horse.

Without responding, the driver cracked his whip, catching the leader’s ear. The horse leapt forward and
Hugo jumped aside just in time. At the same instant he recognized the stolid features and flat brown eyes of the curricle’s driver. Chloe had run in front of Crispin Belmont’s horses.

He watched the curricle’s plunging progress up the steep street at the behest of its evil-tempered driver. Maybe not Jasper’s son by birth, but certainly by temperament. A small crowd had gathered on the opposite side of the road, voices raised in fervent argument. With considerable foreboding Hugo crossed the street and pushed through the crowd.

Foreboding was justified. Chloe bore no resemblance to the disconsolate girl of the dress shop. A diminutive firebrand, she was violently berating a large man sitting on the driver’s seat of a cart filled with turnips.

Hugo took one look at the horse between the shafts and understood. The sorry-looking animal hung its head, its hide ridged with scars from old weals, blood streaking from fresh whip cuts, its ribs painfully visible, its chest heaving as it struggled to gather strength for the rest of its uphill journey.

“Brute! I’ll have you taken up by the magistrates,” Chloe yelled. Her hands, unbuckling the animal’s harness, were deftly efficient despite her fury. “You should be pilloried!” She released the bit and launched a new tirade at the condition of the animal’s mouth, cut by the cruel curb.

The turnip seller jumped from his cart with surprising agility for such a large man. “What the ’ell d’ye think you’re doin?” He grabbed Chloe’s arm. She spun around like a top and kicked him in the groin.

The crowd gasped as the man doubled over as if the air had been punched from his body. Chloe turned back to the horse, unbuckling the girth.

“Chloe!” Hugo called out sharply.

She looked up impatiently, and he could see that
nothing concerned her at the moment but the horse. She was oblivious of herself, of the impression she might be making, of the gawking crowd. “Give this man some money,” she said, “I’m taking his horse. Even though he’s used the poor beast so dreadfully, it wouldn’t be just to take it without compensation.”

“You expect me—”

“Yes, I do,” she fired back. “Not your money—mine!” She had finally released the animal and now led him out of the shafts, her hand stroking the hollow neck. The crowd fell back as the animal’s owner tried to straighten from his agonized crouch.

“You take my ’orse and I’ll—” He gave up, gasping. The crowd began to mutter, sympathy for one of their own replacing curiosity.

Swiftly, Hugo dug into his pocket and tossed two gold sovereigns to the ground between the man’s feet. The decrepit animal didn’t look as if it would last the night, but the crowd would be on the side of the horse’s owner and he had to get Chloe away in one piece.

“Move!” he commanded under his breath.

Chloe seemed to take the point and hauled her pitiable prize through the crowd while they were still reacting to the sovereigns.

“Thank you,” she said somewhat belatedly as they reached the far side of the street.

“Oh, don’t thank me,” he responded with an ironical quirk of an eyebrow. “As I recall, it was
your
money.”

“What’s the point of having it if you can’t use it for what you want?” she demanded, one hand gently stroking the horse’s neck.

Like taffeta gowns and tulle hats, Hugo thought. The pathetic, maltreated beast seemed a fair exchange for the whore’s dress. However, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to spend another such day. His zealously unpredictable
ward was an exhausting companion. And he still hadn’t made contact with a decent drink.

However, he was not prepared to linger in the George and Dragon while she found something else to engage her attention in this city full of unrest and potential victims. Unrefreshed, he hurried Chloe and the turnip seller’s liberated nag homeward.

“W
HERE’S
D
ANTE
?” Chloe slipped from her pony in the courtyard and looked around, frowning. The dog’s absence was conspicuous. It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t have come rushing to greet her.