A Rogue’s Pleasure (16 page)

Unlike the servants' area, the upper floors were well-lit, and she easily found her way to the study. She cracked open the door and peaked in. Empty.

Slipping inside, she closed the door behind her and went to the desk. The invitation must be somewhere amidst the clutter. Drawing the lamp closer, she began sifting through. Like excavated ruins, the most recent papers were closest to the top. At last she came across a likely candidate. The gold-embossed foolscap looked expensive and the scrollwork
A
could easily stand for Ambrose.
Eureka
. She broke the seal.

Montel, fifth Marquis of Ambrose, requests the pleasure of your company at…

She'd present the invitation and slip inside with the other guests. Somehow she'd find out where the coins were, filch one, and then leave. In a day or so, she'd take it to Tobbitt. It would be difficult—and dangerous—for him to fence, but then such a treasure was likely to be worth thousands. She'd seen the gleam of greed in his eyes. He was certain to take it from her, especially when all she required were a few hundred pounds to complete the ransom.

It was a bold plan, a desperate plan, but what choice had she? After tonight's revelation, she'd be a fool to place her brother's life in his lordship's fickle hands.

She stuffed the note into her pocket and stepped into the hallway. Resisting the urge to look into the dining room one last time, she headed for the foyer. Her hand was on the brass doorknob when the tears started.

Anthony Grenville, you can take all your fine promises and go straight to the devil.

Dressed in Anthony's livery, Chelsea turned the corner from Bond to Oxford Street. After one-and-twenty years spent in the country, she found London's fashionable shopping district—with its beveled glass shop fronts, paved streets, and elegantly appareled patrons—as exotic as any foreign city. It virtually throbbed with vitality and untried pleasures.

Robert would love this
.

The familiar dull stabbing pain landed in her chest. While she was free to roam, even to enjoy herself, her brother was still a captive. And Anthony, the man to whom she'd entrusted Robert's rescue, his very
life,
had betrayed them both.

After decamping from Anthony's house the night before, she'd returned to Mount Street. Thankfully Jack was snoring on his cot in the pantry; otherwise, he would have taken one look at her tear-streaked face and dragged the truth from her. By the time she'd quit the house that morning, he'd already left to relieve Anthony at the Rookery.

Dear Jack. There was one man whose good intentions were beyond suspicion. But Robert was her brother. Saving him was her responsibility.

She'd strolled along the West End streets for more than two hours, Anthony's invitation tucked in her pocket.
Can I really do this?
she'd asked herself, followed by,
How can I not?

By noon, she was resolved. She turned away from a bookseller's that beckoned and instead headed for a cluster of clothing shops at the end of the street.

Five well-dressed young women, bags and boxes stacked at their feet, congregated beneath a painted wooden sign that read Maison Valen. More purchases were heaped on the seat of a wrought-iron bench. Two brawny footmen, foreheads gleaming, ferried packages back and forth between the sidewalk and a gilded carriage parked across the street.

Behind them in the shop window, several examples of the modiste's skill hung on dressmaker's forms. Chelsea peered through the glass, drawn to a simple green silk gown. The high waist and clean, classical lines suited her, and the rich color glittered like crushed emeralds. In the days before she'd worn mourning, she'd favored green. Studying the gown, she couldn't help but overhear the lively conversation going on around her.

“A new gown, shawl, bonnet,
and
gloves. 'Fess up, Olivia. You've received an invitation to Montrose's wedding and you've been keeping it from us.”

The green gown forgotten, Chelsea snapped around.

Olivia, waxily pretty, frowned beneath the brim of her leghorn bonnet. “And what if I have? I knew you'd only be jealous, so I thought it best to keep it to myself.”

“You can't really mean to go?” Her friend stared at her aghast. “Not after the shameful way Montrose treated you last Season.”

“Really, Caro, it's mean of you to taunt her so,” chided a sloe-eyed brunette. “I'm certain everyone has quite forgotten the way his lordship raised poor Libby's hopes…”

Chelsea edged closer.

“And then dropped her like a hot potato when Phoebe crooked her little finger,” put in another, her mouth curving in a nasty smile.

A gangling, freckle-faced girl leaned forward and confided, “They say he's positively mad for her, and who can blame him. She's spectacular.” She sighed. “Looks just like a fairy princess with that blond hair and those blue eyes.”

“And the intelligence of a sheep.” Olivia's mouth quirked. She fiddled with her bonnet
strings. “She's not even
that
pretty.”

“Now look who's jealous.”

Me,
Chelsea thought, catching her own sad-eyed reflection in the shop window. She turned away and leaned against the glass.

Giggles and more sly comments followed, and Chelsea reminded herself that they weren't directed at her. The recipient was Olivia, who ducked her head and examined the toes of her slippers.

The brunette's expression turned dreamy. “If you ask me, 'tis his lordship who's the spectacular one.” One gloved hand stole to her bosom, heaving beneath her high-necked calico gown. “Faith, he's the handsomest man I've ever laid eyes on.”

The pronouncement prompted a collective sigh.

Chelsea had heard enough. No more weepy sentiment and schoolgirl crushes, she resolved. From now on, only action. She squared her shoulders and opened the shop door.

Inside, the shop hummed with competing female voices. Women thronged the marble-topped counter; others draped themselves over divans and damask-covered chairs, sipping tea, gossiping, and offering advice to friends emerging from the velvet-curtained dressing rooms. Still others stood atop carpeted pedestals. Frowning into pier glasses, they beckoned imperiously to the harried seamstresses working the parquet-tiled floor.

And then all activity, all conversation, suddenly ceased. Everyone in the shop went as still as mannequins. Following their frozen stares, Chelsea glanced behind her to the closed door.

She turned back to confront a sea of bulging eyes and outraged faces. Good Lord, she was the only male—or so everyone thought—in the room.

Courage, Chelsea. No turning back now.

If they thought her a boy, she'd better act like one. Hooking her thumbs into her waistcoat, she sauntered to the front of a snaking queue of shoppers.

She bowed to the tall, elegant woman behind the counter. “Madame Valen, I presume?”

“Oui, c'est moi.”
The modiste eyed Chelsea over the bump of her Gallic nose and frowned. “You come on behalf of your
maîtresse? C'est très irregulaire
. Still, you must wait your turn.” She motioned Chelsea to the back of the line.

Confident that her breasts were securely bound, Chelsea puffed out her chest. “For me master, truth be told. Lord Montrose.”

The modiste's scowl dissolved into a smile. “
Le vicomte!
But of course.” She waved a hand to indicate Chelsea's livery.
“Tu portes ses couleurs.”
She smoothed a hand over the chignon at her nape. “Such
un gentilhomme, le vicomte. Si beau, si charmant, si…
”

Riche,
Chelsea added to herself. An inveterate womanizer with a bottomless purse, Anthony would be a dressmaker's dream come true. Her hunch that he would be one of the shop's best customers had proven founded. And, judging by Madame's animated face as she rounded the counter, a personal favorite.

“How may I be of service to
le vicomte?
”

How indeed?
Chelsea forced down her rising jealousy. “He bade me fetch a ball gown he bespoke for a lady.” She winked. “A very special lady, if you take me meaning.”

“A ball gown?” Madame's high forehead furrowed. A moment later, she wrung her hands. “I know nothing of a ball gown.”

She beckoned to a dark-haired shop girl across the floor.

“Nicole, vite, vite
.
C'est le garçon de Montrose.”

Around a mouthful of pins, the girl squealed, “
Le vicomte!
He is here?” She dropped the bolt of fabric she'd been carrying and hurried forward, dark eyes bright and face flushed.

Chelsea gritted her teeth. “No, he sent
me
.”

Really, the silly women were behaving as though Anthony were the only man alive and making royal fools of themselves into the bargain. He must have half the women in London eating out of his hand…and the other half waiting in line for the privilege. Including…
her
.

Madame Valen sobered. “Nicole, do you know of a ball gown bespoken by Lord Montrose?”

The girl shook her head. “We have received no commissions from his lordship in these many months, Madame.”

Eyes pleading, the modiste turned to Chelsea. “There must be some mistake? Perhaps another shop?”

Chelsea folded her arms across her chest. “All I knows is what 'e told me. ‘You goes to Madame Valen's,' he says, ‘and bring me back that frock straightaway.' If I goes back empty handed, 'e'll flay me backside, 'e will.”

“Lord Montrose?” The two women's faces registered shock, a refreshing change from the moon-calf expressions they'd worn only moments before. “He beats you?” they asked in unison.

“Black and blue.” Chelsea leaned closer and whispered, “Last time, they had to call for a surgeon.”

“Vraiment!”

“Aye, 'is lordship can be a proper brute when 'e feels 'e's been ill-served. Quick to anger, slow to forgive, that's me master. What 'e'll do to you when I tells 'im you've lost his ladybird's frock is anyone's guess.”

The modiste pressed a fist to her mouth. “
Mon Dieu,
I'll be ruined.
Ruined!
”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Chelsea crooked a finger, beckoning them closer. “Maybe we could 'elp each other?”

“Eh?”

“I'll warrant 'is lordship don't even remember what he ordered.” She almost added,
You know how men are,
but stopped herself in time. Instead, she pointed to the window platform.

“That green 'un'll do.”

“Oh, no, not that one. That is for
une autre cliente
.”

But Chelsea had set her heart on the green gown. For once,
this
once, she wasn't going to settle.

She dug in her heels. “Then why is it still 'ere?”

The modiste lifted her thin shoulders in an utterly Gallic shrug. Lowering her voice, she confided, “Wealthy women. They love to shop, but they do not always have the money to pay. I promise I keep for her another week, until she receives her next allowance. We have many beautiful gowns. Can you not choose another?”

Chelsea shook her head. “Unless the gown—that gown—is delivered this evenin', I doubt 'e'll darken your doorstep again. And once 'e puts the word out to his fancy friends, they're certain to do the same.”

The modiste paled. She hesitated as though weighing Anthony's wrath against that of her other patron. She looked so distraught that Chelsea almost took pity on her. Almost.

Madame's shoulders sagged in defeat. “Do you perhaps know the lady's measurements?”

Chelsea smiled. “As a matter o' fact, I knows 'em like they was me very own.”

 

Chelsea's final triumph was to have the gown, slippers, and sundry matching accoutrements charged to Anthony's account. The lot would be delivered to her Mount Street town house early that evening, in plenty of time for her to change and find her way to Vauxhall.

Well-pleased with herself, Chelsea walked out of the shop. As soon as she cleared the door, her pent-up laughter erupted. Further efforts to contain it only brought the tears streaming. Hugging her sides, she started across the street—and strode straight into a pudding-bag form.

“Oh, excuse me,” she apologized, stepping back from the sagging bosom.

“Mind where you're going, you stupid oaf.”

That voice.
Chelsea slowly looked up. Hard, angry eyes glared down at her from a familiar fleshy face.

Abigail Pettigrew.

For a second, Chelsea and the vicar's wife stared at each other. Shock, then fear, entwined Chelsea in a paralyzing grip.

Mrs. Pettigrew was the first to recover. “It is…
you
.”

Denial was probably pointless, but Chelsea shook her head anyway. She backed up, Mrs. Pettigrew advancing on her. Rosamund, standing behind her mother, came into view.

She set down her shopping bag and pointed. “Oh, Mama. You're right. 'Tis him.”

Mrs. Pettigrew grabbed the sleeve of a passerby. “It's him!” she shrieked to the startled gentleman.

He tried to shake her off as though she were an annoying insect that had landed on him. “Unhand me, madam.”

“But it's him. The blackguard who robbed me!”

“Robbed you!” He frowned at Chelsea from beneath shaggy gray brows. “By God, we can't have that.”

For an agonizing second, Chelsea stood still as though the soles of her shoes were nailed to the ground. Then the blood pumping from her frantic heart galvanized her leaden limbs. She turned and ran.

“Stop! Thief!”

Mrs. Pettigrew repeated the shrill exclamation. Chelsea stole a glance over her shoulder. The gentleman was running after her, trailed by a red-faced Mrs. Pettigrew and Rosamund.

Holding on to her wig, Chelsea fled toward Bond Street. She found herself pitted against the pedestrian stream, which seemed to be uniformly flowing in the opposite direction.

A stout, bearded man with a tray of Italian ices strapped to his chest stepped in her path. They collided, the tray upturning. Cursing in Italian, he stared down at the rainbow spread across the front of his white shirt. Chelsea sputtered an apology and kept running, dimly aware when he tore off the tray and started after her.

None of her pursuers were particularly nimble, but having to weave through the strolling shoppers was slowing her down as well. She needed to find a way off the main street and fast. She sighted a side alley. Perfect. She could hide there, then sneak back to Anthony's carriage after Mrs. Pettigrew and the others tired of the chase.

She darted across the street.

“Hey, look out, you!”

The horse reared. Chelsea screamed as front hooves bore down on her. She jumped back,
and the horse bucked again, dumping its rider into a rubbish bin. Groaning, the young dandy climbed out and brushed garbage from his pants seat.

Chelsea handed him his crushed top hat and sped away.

“Why, you little…I just bought this.”

The alley would never do now, for he'd seen where she was headed and was sure to tell the others. Another shout of “Stop, thief!” had her looking back over her shoulder. Dear Lord, there were five of them now and the horseman, despite his limp, was gaining on her.

She didn't see the tree root buckling the sidewalk until it was too late. Feet slipping in her oversize shoes, she tripped and fell.