Queen of Diamonds, page 7
* * *
The momentous night finally arrived. As did Harking, with Browne getting out of the coach behind him.
Harry was struck dumb. She really was a dressmaker. The tiny shop was fairly empty, but the sign outside read Madame Denise Designs, and had a whimsical painting of the poodle Parfait wearing a bonnet. The front window held a mannequin wearing a black gown. Harry’s quick glance could not tell him if the style was in fashion—a longer look could not have told him, truth be told—but she really was a dressmaker!
Hope-born images of a gentlewoman fallen on hard times flashed through his mind, only to fade. No true lady attended the Cyprian’s Ball. And no female with such a face and figure ever fell on hard enough times to ply a needle.
Still, Harry’s dismay at the night dissipated. The lady was not necessarily for sale to the highest bidder; her gowns were! What a lovely evening it was going to be.
Queenie was staring out the door, at the magnificent coach waiting for some royal personage to board it, with four liveried servants to assist. Then she took another look at Lord Harking in the lamp light. He was dressed to the nines in midnight blue and pristine white, with no hint of the casual countryman about him. He was no less handsome in her eyes, but far more assured in his dark formal evening wear, as if he knew he belonged in London, as if its history ran through his blood, which it likely did. He really was a lord.
She must have spoken the thought aloud for he said: “An unillustrious minor viscount. What, did you doubt I truly held a title?”
“Men are not always what they appear. I had only Mr. Browne’s courtesy to you as evidence. I suppose some women might have rushed home to consult their Debrett’s Peerage book.”
“But you did not.” That was a statement, not a question. Then, because he truly was curious, Harry asked, “Does it make a difference?” He could not ask if she would like him better if he had a higher title.
“No, of course not.” Except now her knees were locked in place and she would never be able to walk out of the shop to the coach.
While she stood staring at her toes, Harry belatedly handed over a box, a larger one than the jeweler’s velvet case that was in his pocket. This box came from a florist, who might have been a diamond merchant, too, for the price he charged. Of course, when one went searching for the rarest of that new breed of orchid he’d heard of, one with vivid blue in the throat of the blossom, one had to pay. “You do not have to carry it, of course. I was not certain about your gown’s color.”
Queenie was already pinning the flower to her reticule, to carry with her or dangle from her arm. “It is perfect.”
So was her gown, Harry thought, now that he could think, after the first heart-stopping look at his evening’s companion. Her gown was black again. Lud, do not let her be in mourning for the absent Monsieur Lescartes, he prayed, with her heart in the grave with him. But this ensemble was no widow’s weeds, not the silk underdress or the gossamer lace that covered her arms but left half her admirable bosom bare. No, here was a celebration of life and love– or lovemaking, at any rate. Tiny blue flowers were embroidered at the hem, as if she walked through a meadow, and a circlet of silk forget-me-nots crowned her black curls. As if any man could ever forget this woman.
Harry might forget his name, and the direction to his hotel, but this night, this female, would stay in his mind’s eye forever. Dash it, how was he to find a respectable bride when the time came?
He thought of offering the sapphire pendant since her throat was bare. Most of the other women would be dripping in jewels tonight, he knew, but Madame Lescartes was correct. Her satin skin was adornment enough, letting nothing take a man’s eyes away from the gown or the woman who wore it.
Then she turned to bid the dog farewell. Harry’s eyes nearly crossed. There was almost no back to the back of her gown, almost to her waist. Which meant she wore no stays, no corset, no shift, nothing to keep a man’s hand—once he tore his glove off with his teeth—from touching tender flesh. Great gods, how was he to get through the night and still call himself a gentleman? By fixing his gaze on the birthmark beside her lip, he decided. Not her full, rosy lips that appeared eminently kissable, and not her blue, blue eyes that made a man think of heaven. Not her creamy bosom, for certain, and not her soft black curls that would look magnificent against a white silk pillowcase.
He looked at Hellen instead. The other woman was pirouetting in front of Browne, exclaiming over her own bouquet, which Harry had bought as an afterthought. She wore pink sarcenet and looked as sweet, and as tempting, as a raspberry tart. Browne was practically drooling and his spectacles were befogged, making Harry wonder if he looked like such a mooncalf himself.
Surely Madame Lescartes was a genius, he decided, to garb the younger woman so seductively, while retaining a hint of innocence, to say nothing of the engineering marvel of her own gown.
“You are bound to be a success with designs such as these,” he said, knowing his words were inadequate, but heartfelt nevertheless.
His compliment meant the world to Queenie, for it was not directed to her looks, for which she could take no credit, but toward her own efforts, her own imagination. She gave him a smile so bright it rivaled his missing diamonds.
* * *
Ah, the show. The drama, the well-rehearsed actors, the splendid scenery, the bright costumes, the scintillating dialog. Drury Lane had nothing on the Assembly of Eros.
This early in the evening, few of the revelers were deep in their cups or sequestered in dark corners. Most of the guests were still looking for a partner for a country dance, a card game or a cuddle. So all eyes were on the entrance when Harry and his party entered, still arguing over Harry’s earlier purchase of the four tickets. The chatter abated, the movement stilled. Even the smoke cleared, it seemed.
Viscount Harking had never been seen in such surroundings. Hard-nose Harking at the Cyprian’s Ball? Hell must have frozen over. Very few of the women were acquainted with him—a situation they instantly decided to rectify. His companion was a total unknown—a she-devil in ice skates, obviously, to get him there.
Ah, she was French! That explained the style, the glitter, the a la modality of Harking’s chérie amour. It did not explain Harking. Who knew the blockish rustic had it in him, the sly dog?
The other men would have taken his place here or in Hades gladly. The deuce take them, they would have suffered fire and cold for eternity—their souls were already likely consigned to the nether world—for one night with Harking’s Incognita.
Regrettably, the men recognized possession when they saw it, and knew they had less chance than the proverbial snowball. If the viscount held his paramour any closer, he would be sharing her gown.
And what a gown! If the women could not pry an introduction to Harking, at least they could discover the name of the woman’s mantua-maker. Whispers were soon making the rounds of the female’s name, and her profession.
A waste, the men derided. With that face, that figure, Madame Denise Lescartes was meant for one career. Unfortunately, Harking had already claimed her time. She clung to him, and smiled slightly—but only for him.
Harry felt her hand shaking where it rested on his arm. To his surprise, and the burgeoning of his protective instincts, the elegant, worldly Madame Lescartes was nervous, uncertain, a-tremble at the attention they were drawing. He drew her nearer and placed his arm over her shoulder. He whispered close to her ear, “You are the most beautiful, intelligent woman in the room, and I am the luckiest of men.”
And here he always thought empty flattery was beyond him.
It was. He spoke the truth.
Chapter Six
Queenie laughed, a gentle, rippling sound like angels singing.
Lord Higgentham spilled his drink, Earl Mainwaring stepped on his partner’s foot, and Harry felt ten feet tall.
“I mean it,” he said.
Queenie knew he did. That was why she was smiling.
For a moment, amid the crowds and the jostling, the noise and the confusing swirl of movement, she had forgotten who she was. The stares and the strangers terrified Queenie Dennis, the shy, cowering waif who hid behind Molly’s skirts. The leering men and the jealous-eyed women frightened the timid creature who lost herself in books and lessons, rather than playing with other children.
But she was Madame Denise Lescartes, not the girl she used to be. Oh, no, not by half.
Lord Harking’s approval made her remember. His large, warm presence made her safe. She had nothing to fear from the envious glares from the women, the amorous ogles from the men, not while he was at her side, tall and broad and strong. His look of favor—and respect—gave Queenie back her confidence. Here was a decent man who did not have designs on her virtue, just her company for one paltry party. According to Molly, and Queenie’s own experience in Paris, all men had lewd and licentious thoughts, but Lord Harking would never act upon his. His eyes might stray to her lips or her bosom, but he was a gentleman. Her own gallant knight for the night.
She laughed out loud. “And I am the most fortunate of women.”
He waved his free hand toward the crowd, the boldest pushing forward, hoping for an introduction. “They are impressed, as I am.”
Despite his words, one last shiver rippled through her. “They are staring and shoving, like pigs at a trough.”
“I thought gaining their attention was the point. You have succeeded admirably. Would you rather dance, though, than speak with them?”
Her gown was meant to swirl. She should dance, Queenie knew, to show off the artful construction, the perfect drape, the daring back, but she was not proficient at the steps, having had few opportunities to practice—and hated being looked at as if she were on exhibit at a museum. Standing in one place, however, left her open to the crowds. “Perhaps we should stroll about instead, to look for your brother-in-law.”
What brother-in-law? Harry had eyes for no one but her. He had even forgotten that he was a poor dancer himself, in his eagerness to hold her closer. With pride and a rein on his passion, he might have floated through the dance. Instead he fell down to earth with a thud. “Oh, Martin. Of course.”
Harry did not like the knowing look behind Browne’s spectacles, so he cleared his throat and told them all: “He is a fair-haired chap, about thirty and five, with pale blue eyes and a slightly hooked nose.”
Which might describe a quarter of the gentlemen present.
“Does he possess nothing distinctive?” Queenie wanted to know, happy to have something to consider other than why Lord Harking made her feel so comfortable.
“My family diamonds, but I doubt he is carrying them, deuce take the rum touch. But no, he is of average height and build. His ears stick out a bit, but he keeps his hair long and his shirt collars high to cover them. He dresses in the current fashion, with unpaid tailors’ bills to prove it, so I suppose he will be wearing a dark coat and white linen like every other man here.”
So Harry and Queenie walked about the rooms, with Hellen and Browne behind them. For now Hellen was content to gather admiring glances. When she could get away from Queenie’s careful chaperonage, she would gather information. She knew a few of the women present through her mother’s circles, so finding out a gentleman’s prospects and proclivities would be a moment’s work. With Queenie fashioning her wardrobe, Hellen could afford to bide her time, basking in Mr. Browne’s sweet regard.
They edged the dance floor, with Harry trying to avoid any of his acquaintances so he could avoid having to make introductions. When he could not, he was abrupt, if not downright rude.
“No, you may not call on Madame Lescartes,” he told Lord Vanderquist, “unless you are purchasing a gown for your daughter.” Who was not the angry female at Lord Vanderquist’s side, although they were of the same age.
“No,” he told Sir Maxim, “the lady does not give private showings. Her designs are written about in the fashion journals. You can read, can you not? Or is your vision so poor that you truly need that silly quizzing glass you have stuck in your eye?”
“No, Madame does not need a ride home,” he snarled at Mr. Carpenter. “But your wife might, from whichever party she attends.”
He kept his arm on her shoulder, a grim look to his mouth, and less than an inch between them. No one could mistake his warning. The lady was not for sale. She was not that kind of woman, despite dressing like that, looking like that, being in this place. And if she were that kind of female, then she was Harking’s. Possession mattered in a world where a man might diddle his friend’s wife, but he would not hunt on another man’s preserves—or steal his mistress.
Harry intended to enforce that unwritten codicil to the code of honor, even if the circumstances were not entirely appropriate. After all, Madame Lescartes was not his mistress and was never going to be. Why, he might not even see her after tonight.
He stumbled, and had to apologize for nearly knocking his companion off her feet…the way the notion of never seeing her again had knocked him to flinders. “Sorry. I was, uh, thinking I saw my brother-in-law ahead.”
He was thinking that he had not brought a gift to the gathering only for another man to unwrap the treasure. He was thinking that French modiste or bachelor fare, she was a woman of uncommon distinction—and he wanted her as he had never wanted another female in all his living days. Chances were, he’d want her with his dying breath, too.
Which made him no better than all the other cads who were undressing her—what there was of her dress—with their eyes even as she walked at his side. He was no better than his profligate papa, no better than his sister’s hedonistic husband.
No! He’d spent his adult life trying to be better than them, to be an honorable, estimable gentleman. He was not about to give up believing in his own decency. Or acting on his beliefs. Even if it killed him.
“Sorry,” he apologized again, this time for stepping away from Madame Lescartes so fast she almost lost her balance again. He stayed close enough that no one could come between them, but not close enough to breathe her scent or hear the whish of her skirt or look down at the vee between her perfect, milky—
“I need something to drink. I think the refreshments room should be close by. Shall we see what they have to offer?”
Supper was not being served yet, but they found a footman ladling out a potent punch, and another with a tray of filled Champagne glasses. After sampling the first and toasting the success of Madame Lescartes’s new enterprise—Hellen raised her glass to her own venture—with the second, they stood chatting, avoiding any more introductions—or, for Harry, unwelcome thoughts. They could not stand in a quiet corner all night, however, despite both Harry’s and Queenie’s wishes, so continued their walk.
They found the room set aside for cards, and a few darkened chambers set aside for other purposes, empty this early, thank goodness. They found glass doors leading to a poorly lighted terrace, and a young gentleman casting up his accounts over the balcony, even this early.
They did not find Sir John Martin.
They found Ize instead.
That is, Ize found Hellen when they returned to the ballroom. Cleaned, shaved, except for the hair in his ears and nose, and dressed in only slightly used finery, Ize had come to survey his customers in their milieu—and reclaim a ruby brooch that had somehow left his possession without payment. Hence the young gentleman clutching his stomach on the balcony.
Satisfied with the evening’s work, Ize set his mind to pleasure, and spotted Hellen Pettigrew across the crowded dance floor in company with a toff, his fancy piece, and a flat. Thinking there might be profit in the newcomers, Ize waved across the room at Hellen, then headed in her direction.
Queenie turned her back to the room and pretended to adjust the ribbon threaded through Hellen’s hair. “Oh, no. He’ll be sure to recognize me next to you. We have to leave,” Queenie whispered to Hellen.
“Leave? Now?” Hellen’s voice was shrill enough that Harry took a step closer to the women, fists clenched against any threat.
“He’ll only be more curious if we leave suddenly,” Hellen whispered, watching Ize dodge around cavorting couples on his way to their position. “And he might follow. But if you go off with his lordship, Ize will think nothing of it, especially if you laugh and flirt with your handsome, well-heeled escort. Hurry, go be gay and silly and carefree. Ize will never suspect who you are because Queenie would never act like that. She would be quiet and quaking.”
Which was precisely what Queenie was: struck dumb and deathly afraid.
She told herself to breathe, and then she told herself to be brave. She was not going to let her fears overtake her, not now when she had come so far. Straightening, she turned to Lord Harking and gave him a dazzling smile. “Perhaps we should have that dance after all, my lord. I swear the music is making my feet restless, and…and I am eager to see how such a fine figure of a man performs on the dance floor.”
Floor, figure, eager? Before Harry could recover from the bewitching smile and the bewildering words, Madame Lescartes placed her arm on his, her chest nearly rubbing against his—damn the stupid striped waistcoat—and laughed that rippling laugh, only louder.
Before they left to take their places in the country dance, she turned to John George Browne. Harry might be wrong, but he could have sworn he saw a long sewing needle suddenly in her hand, then lost in the folds of Browne’s neckcloth.
“You shall look after my friend,” Queenie whispered, still wearing that wide smile. “Or answer to me.”
Browne swallowed hard and nodded. “Won’t let her out of my sight.”
“Or mine. She stays in public, away from dark corners.”
Browne gulped. “That too, I swear.”
Harry glanced back as he and Madame Lescartes walked away. “What was all that about?”
She patted his cheek. The gentleman on her other side in the set they joined sighed.
She laughed again as she curtsied to Harry, then the men at the other corners. “I was just reminding Mr. Browne that Hellen is young and innocent.”
