Anne Barbour (8 page)

“Jonathan,” she cried in pleased accents, “what a nice surprise!”

“Good morning, my love.” Jonathan lightly clasped the gloved hand extended to him by Clea. He nodded briefly to her companion. “But what are you doing out in the world at such an early hour?”

“Oh, it’s the silliest thing.” She giggled nervously. “Miles said that after such a late evening of dancing I would not be seen until it was time to promenade in the Park this evening, and of course I told him that was just nonsense. So, he challenged me to an early morning ride this morning, and I accepted, although I must look positively hagged.”

She lowered her lashes and waited. To Tally’s irritation, Jonathan responded on cue.

“Nonsense, my love. As usual, your radiance shames the dawn.”

A delicate flush spread over the Beauty’s cheeks.

How does she do that, wondered Tally rancorously.

“But, dearest,” breathed Clea, “whatever are you doing here?”

Jonathan smiled fondly.

“I, too, issued a challenge of sorts last night. Lady Talitha revealed that she is used to riding out early at her home in Cambridgeshire. Since my own custom is much the same here in the city, I asked her to join me. If I had any notion that you would be stirring so early, I would have asked you to join us.”

For the first time Clea turned to look at Tally, and as her gaze moved over the form-fitting old riding habit, the tiniest of frowns creased the ivory perfection of her brow.

“But aren’t you going to introduce me?”

It was the voice of Lady Belle’s riding companion, who had raised his quizzing glass for his own inspection of Tally’s attire.

“But, of course,” exclaimed Clea, “how remiss of me! Lady Tabitha—Burnwood, is it? Allow me to present my cousin, Miles Crawshay,”

Murmuring her correct name through stiff lips, Tally extended her hand to Crawshay, who bent to grasp it with practiced ease.

He was a tall man, and, though slender, gave the appearance of being formed of spring steel. His eyes were of a curiously light brown, set beneath coppery hair cut in a short, military style. With his aquiline nose and sharp features, he bore the appearance of an elegant fox.

“So very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Talitha.” His lips brushed her fingertips. “I take it you are newly arrived in the metropolis?”

“Y-yes,” breathed Tally, flustered by the man’s unexpected gallantry. “I am—visiting friends. The Thurstons. In Half Moon Street.”

Crawshay bowed again.

“I look forward to waiting on you there.”

Though his words were commonplace, something in the way his glance strayed first to her mouth, then to the place where her riding jacket buttoned tightly across her breast, caused Tally’s heart to thump, and she unconsciously edged her horse a little closer to Jonathan’s Horatio.

“Oh, my dear,” Clea burbled at that moment, “Miles has been telling me of a new gaming house which has just opened up in Henrietta Street. It’s owned by a Madame de Robitaille. There are rooms for roulette and faro, and her dinners are superb. It sounds marvelous, doesn’t it? Of course, only the best people are seen there. I want to go, Jonathan. Will you take me?”

Jonathan’s lips tightened.

“I’ve heard of Madame’s establishment, and I don’t think it’s at all the sort of place you’d care for, Clea.” Lady Belle’s laughter gurgled engagingly.

“But it sounds just the sort of place I’d care for. Please?”

“Really, my dear, I think not,” Jonathan responded quietly. “The play is very deep, and rumor has it they fuzz the cards.”

“Surely not,” Crawshay interposed in a shocked voice. “I’ve been there several times, old chap, and I assure you I’ve seen nothing that would indicate any sort of shady dealings.”

“Mmm, perhaps not, but,” the viscount addressed Clea, “I still must regretfully refuse to accompany you there, my dear. Surely you can find enough play to amuse you in the endless round of balls and routs in which we seem to indulge.”

Clea’s lovely mouth hardened into a mutinous line. “You know I hate playing for chicken stakes. Jonathan, I want to go to this new place!”

The smile had left Jonathan’s eyes.

“We’ll discuss this another time, my love. In the meantime, what do you mean to wear to Lady Talgarth’s ball? I should like to send flowers.”

But Clea was not to be placated. With a vicious jerk on her reins, she turned away. “I’m not sure I shall be attending Lady Talgarth’s ball. Come, Miles.”

In a swirl of dust, she was gone, and Crawshay, with a jaunty wave, galloped after her.

An awkward silence seemed to crawl toward eternity before Jonathan said with a rueful chuckle, “Clea is not at her best early in the morning.”

“She is very beautiful,” murmured Tally, somewhat at a loss for words.

Jonathan’s eyes followed Clea’s voluptuous form as the riders disappeared from view. Really, thought Tally in some irritation, one almost expected him to lick his lips.

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” he sighed. “I still can’t believe my good fortune. I thought I had lost her forever, and now — it is like a long cherished dream come true, knowing that she....”

He seemed to come to himself with a start.

“Forgive me. I don’t know how I came to prose on like this. I don’t usually open my budget on such short acquaintance.”

To this Tally could find no answer. Fumbling for another subject, she returned to the discussion that had been occupying them before Lady Belle’s unfortuitous appearance.

“It is getting late, and I must return home. May I ask you to consider my suggestion once again? About conducting our business meetings at Cat and Richard’s home?”

“I have done so already, and I believe you are right. It’s the only viable alternative. I shall send you a few chapters of
Town Bronze
by messenger today. Let me know when you have completed your illustrations for them, and then we can meet.”

Tally drew a deep breath. She could hardly believe that her life as a professional artist was about to begin. She wheeled her horse about for the return home, and as she paced slowly beside Jonathan, she could not help but envision cozy afternoons with her head bent close to his.

Chapter Seven

Tally returned to the Thurston home to find Cat waiting impatiently for her in a third-floor salon which had been transformed into a sewing room. On a sturdy work table reposed a small mountain of pattern books and fashion magazines, over which poured Cat and her dresser, an intimidating female known as Fosdick.

Tally!” cried Cat, “At last. You have breakfasted, haven’t you? Good, then we can begin. Now,” she continued purposefully, “I think our best plan would be to make some choices from these.” She waved a hand at the mountain, which threatened to topple to the floor at any moment. “Next, we shall make the rounds of the modistes, so that we can choose a few things to be delivered immediately. Then ... what in the world are you laughing at, Tally Burnside?”

“Nothing,” said Tally with a chuckle as she sank into a nearby chair. “Except that I think you should be sent to the Peninsula, for I’m sure you would be of much more use to Wellington than any of the generals he has now.”

Cat lifted her nose, refusing to be drawn.

“As I was saying, after we have chosen some gowns that can be delivered right away, we shall go round to the linen drapers and mercers and purchase the material for the ensembles we have picked out from the magazines. Then I shall send word round to my sewing-woman to come make them up.”

She handed Tally a recent issue of
La Belle Assemblée.

“I want you to look at the evening dress in here—it’s the first gown pictured. Fosdick and I both agree that it would suit you beautifully. I especially like the stomacher a la Venus, although I think you would show more to advantage in a pale peach rather than the rose shown there.”

Tally turned to the page indicated and gazed at a tall maiden who stared haughtily at the world from beneath a headdress a la Turque, adorned with pearls and a diamond crescent. She was encased in an underdress of white satin, over which flowed a drapery of rose-colored figured satin, edged with silk floss trimming. The low-cut bodice was draped with white spotted lace, and the sleeves, made of the same fabric, fell to her wrists, where they were caught up by more rose-colored satin.

“Cat, I’d look like Christmas beef in this outfit. It’s much too ... too.”

“You would
not
look like Christmas beef, you widgeon,” retorted her friend. “And it is not ‘too...too’ ”. ... It is elegant, and it will be vastly becoming. Well,” she amended, “except for the headdress, perhaps. The headdress is a little much. But,” she hurried on as Tally opened her mouth, “the gown is elegant, and you will look a dream in it.”

Tally closed her mouth.

“Now, then,” continued Cat, pressing her advantage. “Look at this opera dress. I think in a jonquil Chinese crape, don’t you, Fosdick?”

The dresser pursed her lips thoughtfully and nodded. She then pointed out that a trimming of lace worked in the Dutch style would finish the gown admirably.

“Yes, that would be just perfect. And see here, a Regency cap to add the finishing touch.”

Tally sat silently, beginning to think she had faded from view as Cat and her henchwoman conferred over page after page of ball gowns, morning gowns, carriage dresses, opera dresses, and demi-toilettes.

Finally, she cleared her throat loudly.

“Excuse me,” she announced.

“...and what do you think, my lady, of this India muslin scarf to go with...”

“I said,” repeated Tally in a loud voice, “excuse me.”

Two heads swung toward her.

“Excuse you for what?” Cat asked confusedly.

“Excuse me for interrupting this high-level conference, but I would like to put in a word—or two.”

Cat simply stared blankly, but Tally, satisfied that she had her friend’s attention, continued.

“I would like to make sure you understand that, while I am prepared to accept your very kind offer of a loan, I have no intention of buying out every shop in London. One or two moderately priced gowns should do for a start. Then, when I have my own money, we’ll see about India muslins and Chinese crape.”

Cat exchanged an exasperated glance with her dresser, then turned to her friend with an indignant stare.

“Tally, you are being such a peagoose about this —a silly, tiresome, stubborn peagoose. If you will only...”

Here, not unexpectedly, Tally uttered a spirited rejoinder, and within seconds the discussion degenerated into what could only be called a brangle. After a few moments Fosdick lifted her hand, in the manner of a nanny restoring order to a nursery, and the ladies subsided.

“I’m sorry,” said Cat in a voice of forced calm. “I should not have said that. But, if you will consider a moment—dearest---you will see that one or two gowns will not remotely approach what is needed for even a short sojourn in Town. However,” she went on in a slightly louder tone, as it became apparent that Tally was about to reopen hostilities, “I shall agree to stifle my inclinations.”

This last produced such a ludicrous picture in Tally’s mind that she giggled despite herself. In a moment the two friends were enjoying a hearty laugh, and Miss Fosdick permitted herself a faint smile.

A short time later the ladies sallied forth in Cat’s town coach and were soon tenderly deposited on the doorstep of Madame Poquette, arguably the foremost among the fashionable modistes of Mayfair. And, thought Tally, the most expensive. She gasped at being told the price of a jaconet muslin round dress that she admired for its elegant simplicity.

Madame Poquette, upon receiving a steely glare from Mrs. Thurston, one of her most valued patrons, abruptly called to mind that she had confused the price of this gown with that of another one, which, though more heavily embroidered, was not nearly as becoming as the jaconet muslin.

Tally was then induced to examine an evening dress of apricot silk. By coincidence, the price of this gown was also most reasonable, so that Tally was able to add to her selection, with a fairly clear conscience, another walking dress, two morning gowns, a robe suitable for evening wear, and a ravishing ball gown of amber satin, ornamented with slim bands of acorns and oak leaves embroidered in raised gold thread.

As they were assisted again into the carriage, Cat briskly directed the coachman to Leicester Square, the headquarters, she explained, of Newton’s, her favorite linen-draper.

“Um,” began Tally, hesitantly, “Aunt Sophronia used to patronize Grafton House. The prices there are much less dear than—”

“Really, Tally,” cried Cat in appalled accents. “Perhaps we should simply go to Cranbourne Alley and buy off the rack. Grafton House, indeed!”

“I fear,” Tally sighed,“that my hands will be shaking with age and unable to hold a pencil before I can repay you in full, Cat.”

“In that case, I shall probably be too old to care by then, so we needn’t worry about it.”

Despite her misgivings, Tally could only smile affectionately at the young woman who was, indeed, dearer than a sister to her.

In the draper’s shop, Tally’s eyes grew round as Cat drew her into a dazzling world of silks, satins, gauzes, muslins, and laces in all the colors of nature. Glittering spangles and rosettes, luxurious fringes and embroidered bandeaux jostled for space on the shelves with rainbows of ribbon, silk floss, and beaded trim.

“Look,” exclaimed Cat, “here is that jonquil crape we need. And, you know,” she added, as inspiration struck, I have a perfectly exquisite shawl that would add just the right touch. It’s a lovely, forest green, with the tiniest bit of scarlet, and some of this same deep yellow. I bought it last year, but then Richard gave me one very similar for my birthday, and, of course, that’s the one I always wear.”

“Oh, Cat, I couldn’t,” began Tally.

“Nonsense. I’m grateful that it can be put to some use before it simply crumbles away in a dark drawer someplace.”

Tally felt there was a flaw somewhere in this reasoning, but knew she was waging a losing battle. Thoughts of the crumbling shawl brought to Cat’s mind dozens of other accessories which, for one reason or another she was unable to wear herself, but was sure they would suit Tally admirably.