The Scoundrel and I: A Novella (5 page)

“A collector of printing presses?” she said, her pretty eyes decidedly skeptical as she untied her bonnet and revealed the coils of midnight satin he’d spent hours fantasizing about since the night before. Unbound. Flowing over his hands. Spread out on a pillow.

“A collector of all sort of knickknacks and whatnot, actually,” he said, ignoring the tightness gathering in his breeches. “So happens that when my cousin and I were little mites we’d spend hours ’n’ hours lost in that collection. Uncle Frederick hates any of it to leave the house. But he never minded it when Seri and I rummaged about, as long as we left everything as we found it.”

“And?”

“And dashed if I don’t recall a box in that collection that was precisely like this one”—he gestured to the printing press—“full of type.”

“A box full of type? Do you mean to say a chase with set type? Really?” Her eyes had gone round again, and sparkly. When she looked him like that, he felt like he was on the quarterdeck, every sail full, in a following wind. He nodded.

“But there are many makers of printing presses,” she said. “Type that has been cast for one press will not necessarily fit into another.”

“Suspected that. This one had a name carved into the side of it. W-A-R,” he said slowly, so as not to bungle it, “B-U-R-G.” He crossed his arms. “Daresay it’s still right where it used to be. Uncle Frederick never moves a thing, just piles up new on top of the old.”

Instead of throwing herself into his arms and declaring her undying gratitude, she reached for a pair of pliers and came at his groin.

“Now, miss,” He backed up a step. “No need to—”

She plied them to the side of the machine in front of him. With a few quick twists of her wrist, the outside edge of the frame loosened. Her slender, strong fingers tugged away a brace alongside the frame and he was almost too distracted imagining those fingers on him to see what she’d revealed.

Warburg
. Emblazoned along the side of the box of type. She turned her face up to him and her eyes looked odd—almost watery but not quite.

“Now, don’t go weeping,” he said with a smile. “We ain’t accomplished the thing yet.”

“We
have not
accomplished it yet,” she said with a little grin. “And I never weep, Captain.”

“Ever?” He wanted to reach up and stroke a loose tendril of hair from her cheek and feel that smooth skin.

“Never.” She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the pliers. “Will you go to your uncle’s house and retrieve the type today?” she said, then set down the tool and crossed to the desk to take up a pen. “I will write a list of the letters and symbols that are missing.” She dipped the pen into an inkpot. “Then you can take from your uncle’s collection only the letters that—”

“No,” he said. “That won’t do. Best if you pick out the bits you need yourself.”

“But—”

“I can’t be counted on to get it right.”

“Captain, I find it hard to believe that a victorious naval commander could not accomplish such a small task without assistance.”

She wouldn’t be the only one
.

He went toward her, forcing a jaunty grin. “Trust me on this, Gabrielle. It ain’t going to be quite as easy as knocking on Uncle Frederick’s door.”

“It
is not
. Why not?”

He glanced at her gown that had seen better days. Many better days. And yet in the simple frock that displayed her curves without embellishments of laces and whatnot, she looked as sweet to him as a mango tree after a westbound crossing.

But Bishop Frederick Baldwin would take one look at her and turn up his nose.

“My uncle don’t like people he don’t know coming into his house.”

“Doesn’t
know.”

“And he
doesn’t
go out much. I’ve got an idea of where he’ll be two nights from now, though, and I can introduce you. Then you won’t be a stranger. Have you got a ball gown?”

“A ball gown?”

“You know the sort of thing, a fancy dress for—”

“I know what a ball gown is, Captain. For what, pray tell, do you suppose I would ever require such a garment?”

He lifted his brows. “Attending balls?”

Her lush pink lips went perfectly flat. He wanted to kiss them. He wanted to take those lips beneath his and taste every flavor of her sassy mouth. By God, his pulse was flying at ten knots and he wasn’t even touching her.

Touching her in that manner, however, was not in the cards for him.

Cards
.

Blast it.

Also, she was looking at him like he was a blockhead.

“I suspect I am as likely to have a ball gown, Captain, as you are. Unless you are hiding an interesting secret beneath that coat.”

He bit back a grin. “No ball gown, then?”

“No ball gown.” She was obviously fighting her own smile.

“I’ve got an idea.”

With a quick grin and a “Trust me,” the captain disappeared into the rain.

He did not reappear that day. Elle had no confidence that he would ever reappear, and no conviction that she wanted him to. And she most certainly did not trust him, no matter that the king and Admiralty obviously did. Only one man had ever deserved her trust, and he was now in heaven.

The following day she invited her friends to the shop to read Lady Justice’s latest installment.

“A sweet tongue and a soft caress,” Mineola read aloud for the fourth or fifth time, a quiver of excitement in her voice.

“That rules you out, Elle,” Adela said with a wry smile.

“That isn’t fair, Adela,” Esme said, stroking her fingertips along the edge of Charlie’s desk. “Elle offered both a sweet tongue and soft caresses to Mr. Josiah Brittle Junior.”

“Until he married that rich Scottish papermaker’s daughter.”

“And broke Elle’s heart.”

“And left her determined never to fall in love again, which is the most foolish part of it all.” Minnie’s lower lip poked out. “Really, Elle, you must relent someday.”

“If Peregrine appeared at the door of this shop at this very moment,” Esme said, “I suspect Elle would leap headfirst into love.”

Elle pursed her lips. “You three are a pack of romantic ninnies. If Peregrine did ever appear in this shop—”

The shop door opened and four pairs of eyes went to it, three hoping the caller would be arrogant, aristocratic, and named Peregrine. Elle hoped for a naval hero, despite herself.

Instead the caller was a man of about five decades, rather short, dressed neatly, possessed of a ramrod straight spine, with skin even more deeply tanned than Captain Masinter’s.

“Miss Gabrielle Flood?” he said.

Elle stepped forward. “Yes?”

“How do you do? I am Cob.” He gestured out the door. “The carriage awaits you.”

Her friends’ eyes went wide when they saw the vehicle: wheels and panels shining, the pair hitched to it splendid, and the coachman atop the box dressed even more nattily than Mr. Cob.

“The captain wished to escort you,” Mr. Cob said. “But he suspected you would prefer not to travel in a closed carriage with a gentleman to whom you are not related.”

Minnie gasped. Adela hiccupped. Esme lifted a hand to her mouth.

“Travel to where, Mr. Cob?” Elle’s heartbeats were ridiculously quick. She might have anticipated something like this. She should have. Men were, after all, men.

“To Madame Étoile’s home.” He pronounced the name
Ay-twaal
with perfect French intonation. “She awaits you there to see about a ball gown.”

“A ball gown?” Adela breathed.

“Madame Étoile?” Elle said.

“The premier modiste in London,” Minnie exclaimed. “Madame Couture complains of her stealing all the most elite customers. Why, Elle, she is famous!”

Elle looked into the astonished eyes of her friend, a seamstress at the modiste’s shop three doors down the street, and then at Esme and Adela’s astonished faces too.

“I should lock up the shop.”

The carriage was as impressive on the inside as on the exterior, with velvet cushions and satiny black tassels. Peering through the glass window, she offered her friends a little wave, and the carriage started off.

When the door opened again it was not Mr. Cob’s hand that appeared to assist her but Captain Masinter’s.

“How’d you enjoy the ride? Don’t have a carriage in town myself. A bachelor don’t need one, of course. I supposed you’d prefer a private vehicle to a hackney, and my cousin’s rig is bang up to the nines, ain’t it?”

“
Isn’t
it,” she murmured. The street was exceedingly fashionable and entirely residential, with birches heavy with leaves lining the clean-swept avenue. The stoop he gestured her toward was elegant and understated. This was no love nest to which he had conveyed her. This was the home of a gentlewoman of means.

The naval hero, however, was the most attractive part of the scene. Wearing a dark coat and buff trousers, without a hat, he seemed perfectly at ease in the summer sunshine that glimmered in his eyes, and she had no trouble whatsoever imagining him atop the deck of a great ship.

“Your cousin?” was all she could manage.

“You’ll meet her inside.” He offered his arm.

She placed her fingertips on his elbow and a slight smile creased his cheeks.

“Thank you for sending the carriage,” she said.

“There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“What was not?” she said warily.

“Accepting help.” His crooked smile showed a wedge of white teeth. “I suspect that you, Miss Gabrielle Flood, are unaccustomed to allowing others to help you.”

“I do not trust many people.”
Especially men
.

“Trust me,” he said so simply, so peacefully, it felt as though she had come in from the cold and he led her to a crackling fire and tucked a cup of tea into her hands.

Then the door was closing behind them and a young woman in flowing robes of every jewel tone imaginable was gliding down the stairs toward them.

“She is just as lovely as you said, Anthony!” she exclaimed in a voice of rich honey. Gliding to Elle, she grasped her hands, spread her arms wide, and her eyes that were as dark as coffee perused Elle from tip to toes. “Oh, yes. Yes,” she said. “You will do magnificently.”

“Miss Flood,” he said, “allow me to present to you my cousin, Madame Étoile. Seraphina, this is the lady whose employment I carelessly put in danger.”

“It is a delight to make your acquaintance, Miss Flood,” the beauty said. For beautiful the modiste most certainly was, with wide dark eyes, thick hair fixed away from her face with jewel-studded combs and tumbling in soft curls down her back, and skin as tan as the captain’s but not, Elle thought, from exposure to sun.

Cousin
was far too convenient a term, and he had addressed her familiarly. She was probably his mistress.

The sinking sensation in Elle’s stomach made her furious. A fine carriage and a knee-weakening smile were not sufficient grounds upon which to trust a man.

“Magnificently?” she said.

“Magnificently suited for the gown I have been preparing for you since yesterday, of course.” She tucked her hand into Elle’s arm and guided her toward the stairs. “We shan’t need you, Tony,” she threw over her shoulder. “Not for hours yet.”

“Happy to wait,” he said in the same easy tone in which he said everything.

Elle allowed the beauty to lead her up the stairs, casting one swift glance back at the captain. He stood at the base of the staircase, watching her thoughtfully.

In a chamber furnished in pure feminine luxury, with draperies and upholstery of shimmering pink- and cream-colored satin and plush pillows corded in gold, the modiste bade her recline on a divan fit for a queen and tugged on a bellpull. From an adjoining chamber appeared two women garbed elegantly, if not as ostentatiously as Madame Étoile. They proceeded to undress Elle to her shift and spirited her clothing away.

“To be cleaned and pressed while we work,” her hostess said, leading her to a tea table laid with the most beautiful porcelain Elle had ever seen—bone white limned in gold with tiny pink flowers—and cakes iced in pastels and gold dust.

“Do take a lemon tart, Miss Flood,” one of the assistants said. “They are scrumptious.”

Turning away from the delicacies, Elle said, “I am grateful for your time, Madame Étoile—”

“How charmingly you say my name. Tony did not tell me that you speak French.”

“He does not—” She glanced at the waiting assistants and lowered her voice. “He does not know that I speak anything except English. He does not know
me
. But that really is not to the point. Madame Étoile, I am grateful for your time, but the simple fact of it is that I cannot afford your services.” She could not afford the iced cakes arranged on the gold and pink plate. She could not afford her grandmother’s medicine either. And after the Brittles returned, she would not be able to afford the rent on their flat. Or food. “In truth, I do not even understand why I am here or for what occasion the captain believes I need a ball gown.”

“Didn’t Tony tell you?” She chuckled and drew Elle forward. “This, Miss Flood, is the gown that you will wear to the ball tomorrow night where you will meet our uncle who so rarely leaves his house that it is a miracle he is attending an event.”

Fashioned of silver-shot tulle over an underdress of white silk, and scattered with tiny diamonds and silver sequins like stardust, it had delicate little puff sleeves, a waist that sat tight up to the bodice, and a demi-train trimmed in silver embroidery.

“This cannot be for me.”

“Yet it is. Anthony instructed me to dress you to impress. You will have a silver wrap, and white gloves, I think,” she added, glancing at Elle’s hands. “Silver slippers as well. Penelope will show you reticules later.”

“But I cannot afford to pay for this—the gown, wrap, gloves—any of it.”

“Oh, you needn’t. Anthony feels positively wretched about the accident, and has asked me to do this as a favor to him.”

“Someone must pay for it, though. I cannot accept—”

“You cannot accept such a gift from a gentleman, of course. Let us agree, then, that I am passionately eager to see this gown worn by the ideal model, and you are she, so in truth you are doing me a favor.” She smiled delightfully. “Now, Miss Flood—may I call you Gabrielle? It suits you so well.”

“Did you say ‘our uncle’? That is, Captain Masinter’s uncle is your uncle as well?”

“Technically, Uncle Frederick is Tony’s mother’s brother, so I am not truly related to him. But we spent any number of hours in his house when we were children, so I called him Uncle Frederick as well.” Her artfully sculpted brows rose.

“My friends call me Elle.”

“And you will call me Seraphina.” She grasped Elle’s hands warmly. “For I have a suspicion we will be good friends. Now, Elle, you must take a lemon tart and a cup of tea. For in no more than ten minutes you will be barred from all food and drink while I fit this gown for you.” She looked her up and down again. “Yes. Yes, indeed. What a fine eye for a lady my cousin has.”

“A lady?”

“Chocolate, Miss Flood?” Penelope said, placing before Elle a crystal plate adorned with bonbons.

“Why must I look like a lady tomorrow night?” Elle asked Seraphina.

Seraphina smiled mysteriously and drew her to the tea table where Penelope and the other woman urged her to eat while chatting away about silk and satin and stays, and never giving her a moment to ask another question.

~o0o~

Two hours later, Seraphina declared the fitting a success.

“Tomorrow night you will take the
ton
by storm!” She opened the door and drew Elle onto the landing.

“If it serves the purpose, I will be satisfied.” In the shimmering gown she had felt like a common duck dressed up in swan’s feathers. No one would believe she was an actual lady.

“Finished so soon?” The captain stood at the bottom of the stairs.

“You haven’t been in that spot for two hours, have you, Tony?” Seraphina said as they descended.

“Went over to Charles’s house to pay a call on the girls,” he said, but his gaze was on Elle. “How do you like my cousin’s shop?”

The girls?
This neighborhood was far too elegant for a brothel.

“Very much.” Elle did not understand him, or this world of fashionable society, or the project he had in mind for the following night. But she could not resist the honest pleasure in his eyes.

“Have you heard from Aunt Adelaide lately, Anthony?” Seraphina said.

“Sennight or so ago. Invitation to Father’s birthday party. Suppose you’ve gotten it too.”

“I did.” Seraphina tilted her head. “Will you drive me?”

“Wasn’t planning on going, actually.” He glanced away, toward the door. “All sorts of business to take care of here, of course.”

“Tony.” Seraphina’s voice softened. “I cannot miss it. But I will not enjoy it if you are not there.”

His eyes turned sharply to her face for a moment. Then he nodded, once, a short conciliatory jerk of his chin. “As you wish.”

Seraphina smiled. “Shall I include your reply to the invitation in my own?”

He drew in a tight breath. “Aye.” And then: “Thank you.”

Seraphina went to him, the diaphanous drapes of her sleeves fluttering, making her progress across the foyer seem like nothing less than the flight of a magnificent bird. She grasped his arm and went onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. She lingered there.

“You are the bravest man I have ever known, Anthony.” It was barely a whisper, but Elle heard it, and a peculiar rush of warmth spread through her body.

Then she saw something she had never seen before, something she had never thought to see: a great big elegantly dressed gentleman scooping up a fine lady in his arms and giving her an enormous bear hug. Seraphina’s laughter bubbled over his shoulder.

As he released her and came toward the door, Elle snapped her mouth shut.

“Until tomorrow, Elle,” Seraphina said with a conspiratorial grin. “I can hardly wait.”