Knave's Wager

“You are a coxcomb,” she said.

“If I were, I should not have been surprised at your knowledge of my dance partners. Yet I’m altogether amazed... and flattered. This is a far cry from invisibility.”

She returned his gaze, her face expressionless. “When I cross the street,” she said, “I look up to make certain no vehicles are bearing recklessly down upon me. I also look down, to make sure no noisome object lies in my path. I have found it necessary in recent weeks to observe similar precautions at social events.”

He laughed. “A reckless vehicle is apt enough—but the other? I am put in my place, just goddess. Your hair curls naturally, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, uncomfortable to find the talk redirected so speedily to her person.

“I thought so. You’ve never had to suffer the indignities of curl papers or scorching tongs.”

“Not those, no.”

“But others? What were they? Steel corsets when you were but a babe?”

“We will not speak of such garments, if you please,” she said in her best grande dame manner. “I meant applications of lemon juice, three times a day, day after day, week in and week out.”

“Ah, freckles,” he said. “Ghastly things.”

“Well, they were.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m sure you were adorable with your freckles.”

“I was not remotely adorable. I was too tall and too skinny, and my hair was too red, and I had forty-seven freckles upon my nose alone.”

“Then I wonder they never stood you in a field to frighten away the birds. You might have made yourself useful,” he said in tones of reproof. “Still, it is a relief to know you, too, had a misspent youth.”

She bit her lip, but the vision of a gawky, adolescent Lilith standing haplessly in a field of newly seeded corn was too much for her, and what began as a titter swelled into laughter.

“Mrs. Davenant,” he said sternly, “a misspent youth is nothing to be giggling about.”

“A scarecrow,” she said, still smiling. “Isn’t it odd that I’m one now? Flapping my arms to frighten off any wicked gentlemen birds from my nieces.”

“Protecting the tender young crop.”

“Yes.”

“Someone must, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Her smile faded. The mischief was gone from his eyes, and compassion had taken its place.

“That is why,” he said almost inaudibly.

She pretended not to hear, though she knew what he meant and what she had, unwittingly, revealed to his too-keen perceptions.

“Thomas will be wondering what’s become of me,” she said coolly enough, though her voice sounded shrill to her.

Lord Brandon returned Mrs. Davenant to her intended, then, more perturbed than he’d ever expected to be, left the Fevis house.

He’d known about the nieces and their Seasons with then-widowed aunt. He hadn’t suspected she financed these ventures single-handedly, though now he recollected that there had been some oblique reference to the matter in his conversation with Higginbottom.

He should have realised. If Mrs. Davenant was too proud to let him cancel Charles’s debt, she must be too proud to accept Bexley merely for her own financial security. She must have more compelling reasons for so ludicrous a match.

Still, this information changed nothing, Lord Brandon reminded himself. He’d never intended to break up her engagement. There was no reason Bexley should not marry her... after. No reason she should not continue presenting nieces until she had daughters of her own to bring out. A dozen daughters if she liked. A dozen fiery-haired, tall, passionate creatures like their mama.

He frowned. Or bland, tiresome, priggish, prating creatures like Bexley.

Gad, what did it matter? She would dote upon them even if they all looked like Lady Shumway’s unfortunate granddaughter.

“You will not,” he told himself firmly as he headed for the Cocoa Tree, “contemplate the getting of these grotesqueries.”

Chapter Twelve

“The blue silk?” Sally said, aghast. “But Mrs. Davenant don’t wear blue. Brown, grey—”

“If you know what Suzette makes for her, then you must know as well why she doesn’t give Suzette her custom any more,” said Madame Germaine as she nudged her assistant towards the rack in the sewing room.

“That was because Suzette sent some tart’s negligees, and Mrs. Davenant is very prim and proper,” Sally answered stubbornly. “She’ll take a fit if you show her the blue, mark my words.”

“Seeing you’re so wise, I wonder you don’t open your own shop.”

Thus silencing her assistant, Madame Germaine drew out the slate-blue gown she’d made for Lady Diana Stockmore before her ladyship had discovered she was increasing. “They’re nearly a size,” she went on thoughtfully. “We can do the alterations in a minute.”

Sally groaned. “But, missus, we’re over our ears as it is.”

“The others can wait. Everyone knows Mrs. Davenant pays her bills as soon as she gets them.”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Davenant when the slate-blue silk was displayed. “Nothing for me. My niece only.”

“And Sally’s measuring her at this moment, isn’t she? Such a lovely girl Miss Glenwood is. I’m sure anything we put on her will do us credit. Still, it takes time to measure properly. There’s no careless haste in my shop, Mrs. Davenant.”

“I shall be content to look at your pattern books,” said Lilith, though her glance lingered upon the tempting silk.

“Madam,” said the modiste. “I scorn flattery. I will not say this gown was made for you. It was made for another lady. But just once I’d like to see it on a proper figure before I have to cut it to pieces for some dab of a creature and trick it out with ruffles to make it look dainty.” She spoke disparagingly, though she had a score of petite customers whom she happily garbed.

“I suppose we giantesses are few and far between,” said Lilith wryly.

“Giantess, indeed. And you so slender and well-proportioned—-and with such posture.” She led Lilith to the dressing room. “I’ll assist you myself,” she said as though she were bestowing the Order of the Bath.

The slate-blue silk appeared at Lady Gaines’s ball that evening.

“I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me,” said Lord Robert, glancing past Cecily towards a comer of the room. “I couldn’t believe that woman was your aunt, even when I heard her speak.”

“You did stare, rather,” said Cecily.

“Everyone’s staring—not that you can see her for the crowd about her. Why, she looks ten years younger. What a difference a frock makes!”

“And to think we have your naughty friends to thank for it,” said Cecily. “If they hadn’t played their joke, Aunt Lilith wouldn’t have changed dressmakers. Madame Germaine must have a gift for managing her customers. She managed my aunt beautifully. Still, I’ll take some credit, because I did persuade Aunt Lilith to let Mary cut her hair a bit.”

“Well, I never thought I’d say so, Miss Glenwood, but your aunt is a stunner. No wonder Julian—” Scarcely missing a beat, he went on, “Is that a new scent? You remind me of a garden after a spring shower.”

“Damp and mouldy, you mean. What a pleasant compliment.”

“That isn’t what I meant at all. Clean and sweet and fresh.”

“I’m glad you think so. Your cologne is much more agreeable than Mr. Ventcoeur’s, so I’m sure your judgment must be sound.”

Lord Brandon stood by the French doors leading onto the terrace. The doors were open now. Prinny having come and gone, the company might at last inhale fresh air. The marquess might have stood nearer Lilith Davenant half the night without calling undue attention to himself, since there was a respectable crowd of gentlemen about her. He’d tried that already, and didn’t like it.

Unlike the others, Lord Brandon had not needed to see Mrs. Davenant costumed in a becoming gown to know she was desirable. Nonetheless, he could not have

guessed the impact such a gown would have upon him.

At first, it was her hair he’d noticed. The tightly braided coils had disappeared the night of her niece’s comeout. Even so, the widow’s style remained far too severe for a young woman of eight and twenty. Tonight, however, gleaming auburn curls danced wantonly about her face. The rest was caught up loosely behind, so that she looked tumbled, as though she’d just risen from her pillows.

Then he’d bent over her hand, and a creamy, silken expanse of bosom swam into his vision in swelling curves. He’d caught his breath... and remained breathless as his gaze slid discreetly over the smoky blue fabric that gleamed softly against alabaster skin and clung lovingly to her long-legged, supple figure. A wave of hot impatience had washed over him then, and he told himself he’d waited long enough.