Heiress in red silk, p.14
Heiress in Red Silk, page 14
That heartened her, and confirmed her belief that making good use of a street-level window would benefit her. She had decided, however, to also take the front chamber up above for the shop, to have it available for anyone who did not want to be served down here.
Another wagon stopped outside.
“Hopefully, it is the hat forms and the buckram,” Mrs. Ingram said as she came out to the front room. “No point in showing those plates if we don’t have the materials to make the hats.”
Two men came in the door, burdened with clumsy rolls and boxes. Mrs. Ingram directed them to the workroom in back.
“Once the Monday deliveries come, we should be in fine shape,” she said approvingly while she watched the men disappear.
“With you here, I’m sure we will be.”
“You make sure to keep an eye out while in Paris. Don’t forget to make some drawings. Whatever they do there, we can do here.”
“I’ll stare rudely so I get all the details.”
She looked down at her apron and the old dress beneath it. Both showed signs of the dusting and washing she had done today. She eyed Mrs. Ingram’s dress, even older than her own. She would have a few new ones made for her. If Mrs. Ingram was going to greet patrons in a Mayfair shop, she needed better garments.
The men left, taking their wagon away. Rosamund set some caps in the window too, so any curious eyes had more to view. She unfurled an ostrich feather in front of it all. While she did that, a carriage pulled up on Oxford Street. She opened the shop door as Minerva stepped out and came toward her.
“I wrote that I would call on you tomorrow,” Rosamund said.
“You also wrote that you could not do it today because of duties here, so I decided to visit and see your shop, if you will allow it.”
“Of course, although it is not nearly finished.”
Minerva’s stride slowed as she neared. Her gaze went to Rosamund’s cheek. So did Rosamund’s fingertips. She had used some paint this morning, but the sun shone brightly and the “salve” barely helped.
“The rogue,” Minerva said before embracing her. “Now, show me and tell me everything about it.”
Rosamund introduced her to Mrs. Ingram, then gave her a tour. They ended it in the back workroom. Minerva looked over the materials and notions.
“Someday you must allow me to watch you create a masterpiece,” she said. “I am envious of anyone with artistic sensibilities.” She turned to face Rosamund. “You wrote that you needed my professional services again. How can I assist you?”
“Come with me.” Rosamund led Minerva out of the shop, then up the stairs to the first story. She took her guest to the apartment in back that had been arranged for Mrs. Ingram to use. She invited Minerva to sit at the small table set near a back window.
“You told me that Charles lives in Paris. Do you know exactly where?”
Minerva opened her reticule. “I suspected you might want that information if you have engaged me again. I do know where he resides. Here is the street and number.” She handed over a folded paper. “Have you decided to write to him?”
Rosamund fingered the paper. Just holding it made her heart quicken. “I have decided to make a journey to Paris. I intend to call on him while I am there.”
“How fortunate of you, to visit that city. Perhaps when you arrive in Paris, you should write to him first, and not surprise him unawares.”
She looked up from the paper, into Minerva’s eyes. “Do you think it a mistake to do this?”
“I spend many hours finding past friends or lovers, or lost family members. The reunions that ensue do not always unfold the way my patrons envisioned. Time changes people. Are you traveling alone?”
Would time have changed Charles very much? Might he have forgotten about her? Her heart refused to believe it. Theirs had not been a common love, but one of astonishing depth.
“I will be making the journey independently, but Mr. Radnor is also going at the same time. He will be available to provide help if I need it, and I will be available to sign documents if he needs that.”
Minerva’s eyebrows rose a fraction . “Is your maid Jenny accompanying you?”
“I asked her to help Mrs. Ingram here, and she has agreed to. I expect I can hire a maid at the hotel. Mr. Radnor recommended the Hotelle Le Meurice. Do you know it?”
“It will certainly do. I will send you the names of a few others tomorrow. Chase and I visited there last autumn, and I will also jot down directions to some shops you may want to visit, and send along some letters of introduction to friends who live there, should you need help. When do you leave?”
“Monday.”
“So soon? Have you recovered sufficiently from what transpired the other night . . . ?”
“I am not dwelling on it. There were things said, however, that I have been wondering about. Not said by Philip, but by others. About . . . our benefactor. Perhaps you can explain them. If they aren’t part of secrets, I mean.”
Minerva’s face lost most of its expression, except for a firm, somewhat distant smile. “If I can in good conscience explain, I will try. He fell off a parapet at his country home. It was declared an accident.”
“Yet some in the family don’t think it was. Lady Dolores, for example.”
“No. Some don’t.”
“Do they believe someone done him in?”
“Some do.”
Rosamund swallowed hard. “Do some think I did that? What with the legacy, I had—”
“No one has cause to speculate about you. You were in Richmond, so you can pay all of the gossip no mind at all.” Minerva smiled, as if that settled that. “Now, I will take my leave so you can finish whatever you need to do here. When you pack for this journey, remember to take along your best garments. You may want to attend the opera or theater, or dine in one of the special establishments there.”
Rosamund led the way down and saw Minerva off. Then she returned to the shop to help Mrs. Ingram. Her conversation with Minerva kept going through her mind whenever she rested for a few minutes. Her new friend had ended their chat firmly, before any more questions about the late duke’s death could be asked.
Chapter Twelve
“Ooo. C’est tres belle.” Margarite smoothed her palm down the silk fabric of the pale, lilac dinner dress.
Rosamund had no idea what had been said by this young maid provided by the hotel.
“It . . . is beautiful,” Margarite said in halting, careful English.
She spoke the way Rosamund assumed she herself sounded when she was trying to speak French.
Margarite continued to unpack the trunks. It would probably take some time. Never having traveled abroad before, and with Minerva’s advice in mind, she ended up bringing all her new garments and a good number of her old ones.
Rosamund returned to the bedchamber. Although not large, she thought it luxurious. The long windows gave it good light, and the elegant high ceiling, with all its plaster decoration, created opulence.
Then again, perhaps she liked it so much because of the sitting room attached to it. Even better, the sitting room had a little terrace that overlooked a big park across the street.
She stepped out on that terrace to take in the view. People strolled much as they did in London’s parks.
“Those are the Tuileries Gardens. It is where one goes to see and be seen.”
She turned to see Kevin Radnor emerging from a chamber onto another terrace beside hers. She had not realized his quarters were next to her own. After he spoke with the hotel staff, she had been escorted by a formal gentleman to her door, while Kevin disappeared.
Now she pointed to his long windows. “Do you have an apartment too?”
He shook his head. “I don’t need one.”
“Nor do I.”
“There may be evenings when you want to dine alone. The French are very liberal, and their restaurants are unsurpassed, but even they do not expect a woman to be seated alone. This way you can call for a meal in your suite but won’t have to eat in the bedchamber.”
“How thoughtful of you, to consider that. I heard you in discussion with the gentleman downstairs but had no idea you were arranging this for me.”
“One of us needed that extra chamber. If we require privacy, that is. Better you have it.”
“Require privacy?” Her heart quickened a bit, in a combination of alarm touched by—excitement. The latter made no sense, but she could not deny its existence.
She had not forgotten his parting words when she left his family’s house in London. Even as she rushed to prepare for this journey, it had remained in the back of her mind. When a man all but declared his intention to seduce a woman, that woman would be an idiot to ignore it. To then make a journey in that man’s company was probably foolhardy. Even dangerous.
When that man was handsome and appealing, it was probably normal to experience these peculiar reactions to him. On their journey here, he often became absorbed in his thoughts. She could not resist examining him then, wondering if he had said those words to tease her, or in revenge for her rejection. On several occasions, however, that gaze had turned on her without mercy, as if he guessed what she contemplated and deliberately sought to fluster her.
She had remained on her guard the entire way to Dover as a result. His presence across from her in the carriage could not be ignored. She kept waiting for something inappropriate to occur. The truth was, the anticipation had titillated her without Mr. Radnor doing anything at all untoward.
A fine thing that was. Stupid and embarrassing. Whenever it happened, she had summoned Charles’s image and concentrated on it. She had carried him in her mind on the packet, especially when Mr. Radnor on occasion stood by her side while they watched the sea from the deck. There was only one short spell, while they rode from the coast to Paris, when she sensed that an actual seduction was being contemplated by him.
Kevin had asked, while he arranged for transport, whether she wanted her own carriage. Being practical, it had seemed a stupid waste of money not to share one.
Within the first hour she had realized why it was not proper for women to travel alone with men. Even the most spacious carriage grew intimate over time. The space within might have accommodated shorter people better, but she was taller than most and his height meant his legs were always there, close to hers, intruding. In fact, after she had scooted over several times, it seemed to her that he deliberately sprawled in a way that imprisoned her against the window.
She might have suffered that as mere rudeness, but it was right then that he emerged from whatever thoughts had occupied him thus far and turned his intense attention on her. In the best of times that was disconcerting but cramped in that carriage his scrutiny felt relentless. It got much worse when he voiced his thoughts.
“How old are you?” he asked. “I’m guessing perhaps two and twenty.”
“You guessed wrong. I am almost twenty-four.”
She received a small frown for that. “Then you have been living independently for some years.”
With that his curiosity became annoying. “I was in service up until fairly recently.” She glared down at his legs. “I realize coaches are not built for men of your size, but you are taking more than your share of this one. Would you kindly move your knee?”
With a faint smile, he rearranged his limbs.
“How long until we reach Paris?” she asked.
“It will be evening when we arrive.... So you were in service, then opened your shop in Richmond?”
She could all but hear him doing calculations. “In between, I worked for a milliner in the City.”
“Then you have lived independently for two years or so.”
If she had known that Paris was a whole day’s journey from the coast, she might have hired her own conveyance so she could be spared this interrogation.
“Why are you asking me these questions? Are you still worried about some fortune hunter turning my head?”
“Fortune hunters will be interested no matter your age. You could be sixty and they would still dance attendance.”
In that case, perhaps he was just bored. Apparently he had run out of brilliant ideas to contemplate. When he did not seem inclined to talk further, she retreated with relief into thoughts of Charles, and the anticipation of their reunion. After all these years, she tried to imagine seeing him again. He would look a bit older, of course, but she didn’t expect any significant changes. He would greet her with a hard embrace and deep kiss, then laugh with happiness. She could imagine his broad smile and sparkling eyes while he looked at her running into his arms—
“I am trying to decide if you are an innocent.”
His calm statement put an abrupt end to her fantasy. “If I am a—Excuse me?”
“You asked why I was asking about your independence. That is the reason.” He looked over, as calm as could be. “And are you?”
“I can see why your family finds you so hard to bear. What a question to ask! Rude, inappropriate—”
“It is a very simple question.” He settled his head against the back cushion. “The entire idea that there are topics a man can’t discuss with a woman is ridiculous. One wonders who came up with these stupid rules. Probably women like my aunts.”
“More likely women like me who find them far too personal.”
“You only thought it too personal because you thought your answer would put you in a bad light, when in truth you merely confirmed my own conclusion, and in no way changed my opinion of you.”
He closed his eyes and folded his arms then, presumably to return to whatever else filled his head this day.
“I have not confirmed your conclusion because I did not answer your question,” she said.
“Of course, you did.” His eyes opened halfway and he looked at her through the slits. “If you were still an innocent, you would have said so. ‘How dare you suggest I am not, sir.’ Something like that. ‘I am unmarried. Of course, I am untouched. You are an inexcusable rogue to imply otherwise.’ Or, perhaps, ‘To address such a subject is beyond indelicate and an insult. I must demand you leave this carriage and ride up with the coachman.’”
She felt her face growing hotter with each response she had not given. Perhaps he saw that, because he unwound himself, sat upright and leaned toward her. “As I said, it in no way alters my opinion of you. My conclusion was a logical one, owing to your person and manner, but one never knows, what with the peculiar ideas the world has on such things.”
“It is of absolutely no consequence to me how you feel about whatever erroneous conclusions you may have drawn from this extremely odd conversation.”
“Not so odd.” He looked her right in the eyes. “After all, a woman of some experience presents no conundrum, but an innocent—I wouldn’t begin to know what to do then.”
Now, on the terrace, when she repeated his word “privacy,” he looked back to the gardens, a slow smile forming on his lips. “We will meet with Monsieur Forestier soon. Hard decisions will have to be made then. Those conversations should not happen in public.”
“Of course not. And I have many things I want to do here. I want to see the better shops, and observe the ladies’ fashions. I don’t suppose anyone speaks English?”
“The French assume that anyone who matters will learn their language.”
“Which your sort do.”
He not only spoke French, he spoke it in a long, unbroken, rapid, and incomprehensible melody.
“I am going to be helpless here, aren’t I?” She folded her arms in front of her to warm herself a little. The sun was setting in the west, casting long shadows. Paris seemed colder to her than London. The breeze carried a bite when it flowed from the north.
“I will escort you wherever you need to go so you don’t get lost.”
She could hardly have him escort her when she sought out Charles. However, if she spent a day traversing the city first, she could probably learn enough to tell the hotel where she wanted to go, and have them find her a carriage.
“Why don’t you visit the Palais-Royal tomorrow?” he suggested. “There are fine shops there, and you will also get a good look at current fashions in the garden. As for now, join me for dinner. I’ll explain the food to you.”
She agreed and returned to her chambers. The food needed explanations?
* * *
Miss Jameson insisted they were traveling independently, but of course they really weren’t. Kevin saw to that.
As a gentleman, it was his duty to see her safely to Paris, after all. The best way to do that was to travel with her in the carriages and keep watch over her on the packet.
Now, considering her ignorance of the French language and habits, he was obligated to continue acting as her guardian.
He could have said something when he surmised that the hotel manager made inaccurate assumptions about their relationship. He could have made it clear that the two chambers need not be close to each other because Miss Jameson was merely a friend. It would have been possible to do that without saying a word.
But it suited him to allow the assumption to stand.
Dressed for dinner, he presented himself at her door. A maid opened it, a pretty, young one with dark curls and a very French nose. She stood aside so he could enter the sitting room. Rosamund waited there.
She looked ravishing in the lilac dinner dress that she had worn at Aunt Agnes’s. A little headdress with a lively plume sat atop her blond hair. A few little tendrils hung around her face.
He offered his arm. “I thought tonight we would dine here in the hotel, if that suits you.”
She nodded while she looked around the staircase and up to the ceiling as they strolled down. “Me thinks—I think this will not be like eating at a coaching inn.”
“Nor like eating at my aunt’s table. Although there are French cooks in London. My cousin Nicholas has one, for instance.”
“Is the food that different?”
“Some of it is. Much of it is very familiar.”
