To Love a Wicked Lord (10 page)

“Oh, what a bouncer!” Lady Carstairs trilled as she mock-swatted at the tall gentleman. “Looking forward to dancing with me! I don't think so. I
doubt we'll ever clap eyes on you again. But it was nicely said. Thank you for the thought, and for all your kindnesses to us.”

He disengaged his arm and bowed. “It was a pleasure, my lady. I do indeed hope that we will meet again one day.”

“As do I,” the lady said. “Now where's that rascal, Montrose? We haven't seen him yet today. Does he mean to send us on our own? Not well done of him, I'd say.”

“He'll be here,” Whitley said. “Ah, as I said. Here he comes. No need to fret, my lady. He's a man of his word.”

Maxwell came strolling out of the inn, dressed in riding clothes. He bowed to them and spoke in a bored, fastidious drawl. “I breakfasted in my room, so that I could oversee my valet and be sure everything I needed was in my bags. It's tiresome to discover you've left a brush or a fingernail clipper along the way when you need one. I'll ride on beside your coach, ladies, along with the footmen, to see you safe until our next stop.”

He handed Lady Carstairs up into the carriage, as Pippa and his friend stood and watched. Once Pippa's grandmother announced she was comfortably settled inside, Maxwell offered his hand to Pippa.

She looked up into his face. “I'm sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “It won't happen again.”

He didn't pretend to not know what she meant. He laughed. “You've stolen my speech. You've no need to be sorry. Allow me to apologize for my actions. I'll see you at the next stopover.”

Pippa got into the coach, and once seated, looked back out the window. Maxwell and Whitley were saying their good-byes, and they looked serious and somber. She wished she could speak with Maxwell that way too, without the requisite flirting and coyness and nonsense that must go on between an eligible male and female when they have a conversation. She wished he would consider her a friend. She needed one. She sat back, impressed by her new thought. She could be that. If he could act the fop when he surely wasn't one, she could stop all the foolishness involved with being a well-bred lady, and act more like a well-bred gentleman. And so she would. It would be easier for both of them.

“Handsome as he can stare,” her grandmother commented from the opposite seat as she watched the direction of her granddaughter's gaze. “Now, aren't you glad you wore something livelier this morning?”

“He didn't notice, I'm sure,” Pippa said.

Her grandmother snorted. She closed her eyes,
and folded her hands in her lap, preparing to catch up on her lost sleep.

But Pippa kept her eyes wide open. She would speak with all the reason and sensibility that her grandmother had been so glad to be rid of. She knew no other way she could cope with Lord Maxwell. If she couldn't be his lover, and didn't want to be a flirt, then she could certainly become a friend. It would be a new thing for her and for all she knew, for him too.

 

“All in gold and red, fresh and fragrant as a dewy rose,” Whitley was saying to his friend. “Can you resist her?”

“I can, I will, I'll certainly try,” Maxwell said. “But help me here.”

Whitley looked at him curiously.

“Pray that I find her damned Noel for her before much more time passes,” Maxwell said.

I
sn't London grand?” Lady Carstairs sighed, looking out her hotel window.

“It certainly looks that way from here,” Pippa answered carefully.

It wasn't the right time to remind her grandmother that they'd been in London for three entire days and had gone nowhere except for a daily walk around their street. When they did go out, they wore hoods or poke bonnets that shadowed their faces. The only saving grace for Pippa was that it had rained the entire time. She thought that if the sun were out she'd have tossed her bonnet away and literally run mad; dashing into the nearby park just to feel the light and air on her face, because at last they were in London, and yet they were still indoors, in seclusion.

But now the sun was peeking through gray clouds that were shredding overhead.

“We had some sort of social life at home, but nothing like the one we'll have in London,” Lady Carstairs said happily. “You've been to parties, soirees, teas, and morning calls, all with the best people in our district, to be sure. But that's like saying you've seen the sea, when all you've ever seen is a pond. We'll go to those as well as masquerades, musicales, fetes, and festivals, the theater, and the opera. It will be wonderful. And tomorrow night!” she said with rapture, “we go to a grand ball. I haven't been to one in ages.”

Her lined face suddenly grew comically sad. “Good heavens! Ages? I'm right. It has been an age. You never went to a grand ball with me when we were here last, did you? Well, don't fret. Tomorrow, at last, is our night. I shall wear my new gold silk. And you?”

Pippa looked up in surprise and trepidation. She'd gotten used to her grandmother's strange new attitude. There were no gentlemen for Lady Carstairs to flirt with, so that, at least, had stopped. Even if she were half out of her wits, Lady Carstairs had told Pippa, albeit reluctantly, when the men who worked at their hotel smiled at them, “No decent lady would flirt with a footman or a butler, a waiter or a tradesman—at least, not in plain view.” Her grandmother might be half unhinged,
Pippa thought with relief, but not wholly so. She wasn't yet lost to all reason.

They hadn't heard from the marquis. There were no other gentlemen on the scene and so the ladies still had to avoid the public eye lest the sight of them caused Noel, or those who might be holding him captive, to flee. These days she and her grandmother were, Pippa thought disconsolately, like members of a strange new order of nuns.

But that didn't mean that her grandmother had reverted to her normal self. When she spoke to Pippa she talked more about her yesterdays than their present days. Sometimes she talked about what they would do in London, plans of such grandiosity that Pippa doubted they could ever be achieved. Other times she stayed in her room and avoided Pippa altogether. Yet now she was excited about going to an imaginary ball tomorrow night? This was worrisome. Her grandmother had clearly finally mistaken fantasy for reality.

Pippa put down her book, rose from the chair she'd been sitting in, and went to her grandmother's side. “Won't it be better to wait until we have an invitation?” she asked gently.

“But we do, silly chit,” her grandmother said affectionately. “I showed it to you the other day.”

Pippa's face grew ashen and her heart felt cold.
She would certainly have remembered an invitation to a ball. But there had been no such thing. So far as they knew, they were still supposed to stay out of sight, unless they received a message from the marquis. That, she would never have forgotten.

What her grandmother said was then true madness. Pippa didn't want to argue with her. But someone had to talk sense to Lady Carstairs, and soon. Who could she turn to? Her grandfather was many days travel away from them, at home. She had an address for the marquis here in London in case of emergency. This was truly such, but she had no guarantee he was there. What was she to do? Let her grandmother get herself up in golden silk and diamonds, and then hold her down physically to keep her from going to an imaginary ball?

“I think we ought to go have a new gown made up for you,” Lady Carstairs mused.

“Yes, an excellent idea,” Pippa said as calmly as she could. Whatever Maxwell had said, keeping hidden hadn't been good for her grandmother. Let them be recognized if must be. Noel's welfare wasn't as much of a concern to her now as her grandmother's well-being was. Fresh air, sunlight, and a change of scene might help clear her mind.

“Wonderful,” Pippa said with false enthusiasm.
“But do you know of a good seamstress?”

“Seamstress?” Lady Carstairs said with a sneer. “Pah! We shall go to a modiste. We're in Society now, my dear. Now, in my day, it was Madame du Claire. Every modiste has a French name, you see, otherwise they would have no trade. The Franchise may be wicked, but no one knows fashion as they do. Of course, many of the modistes in London are plain dressmakers from England who use French names. But they aspire to Fashion and the best way to achieve a reputation for it.”

“How can we find the right one?” Pippa asked. “Shall we ride to the best districts and look for signs?” She hoped hours of riding in a coach, up and down the streets of London, might somehow clear her grandmother's mind.

“Searching for street signs? Peeping into windows? Perhaps asking well-dressed females in the street?” her grandmother asked playfully. “Ho!” she hooted. “No need! No valued modiste has a street sign. They don't encourage the rabble. But I read all the latest magazines, and hear that Madame Berthon is the latest one that anyone of any merit goes to have a gown made up. We shall have you fitted and insist on a quick resolution, and be damned to the cost!” She beamed at Pippa. “My granddaughter shall outshine them all. I
couldn't take you to London for your come-out, my love. But I'll make it all up to you now.”

The lady turned from the window. “Now, change your gown, Pippa, as I shall mine. Wear something striking. We can't go to Madame Berthon looking no account. I may want a few gowns made up too. And so the better we dress, the better we shall be dressed.” She tittered at her own jest, and shooed Pippa off to her rooms.

The first thing Pippa did when she got to her rooms was to sit and scrawl a note and then ring for a footman so she could have it sent to Maxwell. The second thing she did was raise her eyes to the ceiling and utter a brief prayer. And then, with her maid's help, she got dressed.

Her grandmother had been right about one thing. It was impossible to know that the shop was that of a modiste. There was nothing in the window but a swath of rich-looking cloth draped over a chair. Still, Lady Carstairs stepped out of their carriage with certainty. Pippa and the ladies' two maids followed less confidently.

A bell chimed when they entered the shop. Inside, it was quiet, slightly perfumed, and as well furnished as any lady's sitting room. The red curtain that acted as a partition to another room was the only thing that was different. Indeed, Pippa
thought, Madame herself didn't look like a tradeswoman. She was a tall, thin, well-dressed young woman who came through the drapery to greet them in a ridiculously heavy French accent. Then she looked at them with inquiry.

“I am Lady Carstairs,” said the elder woman with all of her former gravity. “This is my granddaughter, Phillipa. We are newly come from the countryside. She is to go into Society. We need a magnificent gown for a grand ball, for tomorrow night. No need to fling your hands in the air, Madame, I know your time is important to you, but it is of the essence for us. I also know that will be expensive. I will pay for it. Now, what do you suggest?”

“Helas!” Madame said with obvious sorrow. “Zees I cannot do, not for any money, my lady. I am rushed off my feets. I can give you zee name of another fine modiste in London. But it cannot be me.”

Pippa stood and looked around as the two women argued. She thought that the modiste meant what she said, but whatever mental state she was in, her grandmother never took no for an answer. Pippa turned as the bell sounded gently again and the door to the salon swung open. Her mouth almost did as well.

Maxwell stood for a moment, poised in the entryway. He wore a long fitted tan jacket; there was a glimpse of a golden waistcoat beneath it. His highly shined brown boots came up to his knees, and didn't obscure the sight of the smooth buckskin unmentionables that showed off his well-muscled thighs. His neckcloth was dazzling white, tied in a casual knot that was clearly the work of a superior valet's art. Maxwell swept off his high beaver hat as he bowed to the women in the shop.

“Ladies,” he said in his cool voice, “I bid you a good day, but see it's not necessary. Never have I seen any of you in finer fettle.”

Pippa couldn't tell who was blushing and tittering more, her grandmother or the modiste. She realized he was in his highest aristocratic and foppish mode, the affect she especially disliked. Obviously not everyone did. She noticed that at the sound of his voice there was a sudden excited murmuring of lighter voices from behind the drapery, as it was drawn back a few inches to show several lovely young women's faces peering out at them. The modiste's models were watching the new arrival too.

“Ordering up new gowns, Lady Carstairs?” he asked as he sauntered into the room. “But why? You always look splendid.”

The lady smiled. “Not for me, my lord. But for my Phillipa, who hasn't a new gown in her wardrobe. And with the ball coming up tomorrow night, I felt it was necessary to get one at all speed. But Madame Berthon tells me that's impossible. What am I to do?”

“Impossible?” he asked, putting one hand over his heart and looking at the modiste. “I am staggered. Surely, nothing is impossible to you, Madame.”

The modiste straightened. “But of course not.
Vraiment!
But I did not know the ladies were friends of yours, my lord,” she added, her French accent becoming replaced with a Londoner's. “Because nothing is impossible for you. I have other clients whose gowns are almost finished. They will be delayed while the young lady chooses the one she wants.
Tant pis!”
she added, shrugging her shoulders. “What am I to do? Only the best I can for them, and better than that for you.”

Everyone in the room and behind the curtain, except for Pippa, smiled.

“Just as I hoped,” he said, bowing. “You continue to astonish and delight me, Madame. Now, if I may have a word with the young lady before she begins to try on your creations? I shall only offer her a bit of advice,” he told Pippa's grandmother. “The
same, I think, that you would do. But I am considered somewhat of an expert on fashion in certain circles. And I know how obstinate the young lady can be.”

They exchanged conspiratorial smiles, and Pippa clenched her teeth. Her grandmother and Madame Berthon began to talk of colors and cuts.

“She thinks,” Pippa whispered through those clenched teeth when she came to his side, “that we are invited to a grand ball tomorrow night. I sent for you because I didn't know what else to do. We haven't seen anyone or gone anywhere because you told us not to. I confess I'm a bit frightened. She never imagined things on such a large scale before. What am I to do?”

“This ball is the reason you sent such a frantic note to me?”

“What else could I do?” Pippa asked.

“You could believe her. She did get an invitation. I arranged to have it sent. I imagine she forgot to show it to you. A minor oversight and surely not senility. Are any other changes in her behavior worrying you?”

Pippa scowled, but relaxed. “No. But you might have had one sent to me too.”

“So I might have,” he said imperturbably. “Now I want a word with Madame, and I'll say my fare
well to you until tomorrow evening when I come to call for you.”

“But wait!” she asked. “Why do you suddenly want us to burst into Society? I thought you wanted us hiding so Noel's captors don't know we're here.”

“Or Noel does,” he corrected her. “No need any longer. He isn't a prisoner in London, that much I now know. Apart from that, he's either fled or still here for his own purposes. And if you go to the ball, and he is here, I'll wager he'll manage to find you.”

Pippa held her breath. “Truly?” she asked.

He grinned and touched the tip of her nose with one gloved finger.

“Truly,” he said, and ambled off to have a word with the waiting modiste. “If I may have a look at the gowns in question?” he asked her.

“But of course,” she said, and sweeping back the curtain that served as a partition, exposing several beautiful young women in the process, she invited him into her back rooms.

 

“No,” Pippa said, moving this way and that on the platform in Madame's back room. Three mirrors surrounded her. She said no to each one in turn as she turned. “It's beautiful, Madame,” she
went on. “Exquisite, actually. The cut and cling, the fit and fashion, are perfect. But scarlet? For me? I'm overpowered by it. My hair is too light, my face too pale, the color shouts and I'm afraid I only whisper. For a dark-haired lady, or one with brown hair, certainly. But me?”

She didn't mention how shocked she was by the astonishing curves—the soft scarlet material that had been pinned to her clung to her. They were curves she knew she had but never put on such public view. They were astonishing. Even she was impressed by her own high breasts, rounded hips, and flat abdomen. Impressed, and she secretly admitted, a little stirred. The color was vivid and compelling. She'd never guessed she could look so wanton, so seductive, so unlike the self she recognized. She was flattered and strangely envious of this other Pippa. But she knew it wasn't her.

“It is you,” the modiste insisted.

A babble of high voices agreed; Madame's covey of beautiful young models had been watching the fitting.

“A dab of soot on your lashes,” one model volunteered, “and a skim of it on your brows will make your eyes wicked bright.”