“At least the whores will talk to me,” he remarked to no one in particular.
“I’ll talk to you, too.”
Adam looked up at the young man who hovered before him. “Northrup. Good to see you. If you have information to impart, you’ll stay close enough for me to hear, yet far enough to avoid any watching eyes. Sit down”—he pointed toward a table nearby—“over there.”
Northrup wavered, stricken with the conscience of the young. Obviously he wanted to thumb his nose at public opinion, yet at the same time dreaded the treatment meted out to Adam.
Adam insisted, “I will not sit at the same table with you.”
Relieved of the choice, Northrup stumbled in his haste to sink out of sight on a chair against the wall.
“Have a drink,” Adam instructed. “Say what you wish, but don’t look at me.”
“This is wretched,” Northrup said.
“I’ll not argue with you.” Adam risked a glance at Northrup. The young man’s new boots were scuffed, his new clothes were wrinkled. The powder clung in patches to his wig, and he sat in round-shouldered misery. Adam inquired, “About what do you speak?”
“Everything. Everyone sneers about you, the directors of the South Sea Company are promising a dividend they can’t pay, the stock is plunging—”
“Didn’t you sell when I told you to?” Adam asked.
He received no answer.
The barmaid sauntered over to take Northrup’s order, saying, “Garraway tol’ me t’ tell ye I ’ave t’ see yer coin before I can serve ye.”
Adam’s lips tightened at this reply to his question, and he smacked the impudent girl with his walking stick. “I’ll stand the bill for Mr. Northrup. Bring him what he wants.”
She shrieked and swung on him, angry until she saw who had treated her so. Then she smiled in malicious amusement and assured him, “Garraway’s none too ’appy t’ ’ave th’ likes o’ ye clutterin’ up his coffeehouse, either.”
Poking at her with the tip of his stick, Adam said, “I’ll take no messages sent through his trollop. If Garraway wishes me to leave, let him come and tell me.”
Stomping her foot, she said, “I’m no trollop.”
Adam said nothing, only looked at her.
She bore it for a moment, then made a sign to ward off the devil and whispered, “I’ll do as ye say, only stop lookin’ at me wi’ those eyes.” She stepped back. “Stop it, do.”
Adam continued to stare until she broke and ran back to the bar. “Silly twat,” he commented. Northrup laughed weakly, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow with a lacy handkerchief, and Adam returned to his attack. “You bought the third subscription released by the South Sea Company, did you not?”
“Yes.” Northrup raised his head. “And before you ask—yes, I bought it on credit. As did everyone.”
“Well, if everyone pledged to pay nine hundred pounds for a stock now worth four hundred pounds, you should rush to do so, too.” Adam couldn’t restrain his sarcasm, but he was sorry even as he spoke. Northrup leaped to his feet, and Adam ordered, “Sit down, boy.”
“I will not. I am not a boy,” Northrup said with a fierceness a that belied his calm.
“Please sit down, Northrup,” Adam amended. Northrup wavered visibly, and Adam said again, “Please.”
Northrup sat.
“You’ll have to pardon my lack of courtesy. No one has spoken to me for so long, I’ve lost the accomplishments required by polite society,” Adam said, half in jest.
“You never had them,” Northrup grumbled.
“Too true.” Adam plucked his handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose as a particularly malodorous member of the underworld passed. “Did you buy stock in the now outlawed companies?”
“Yes, I thought it wise to diversify. I thought it would protect me if the drop in the price of the South Sea stock came rapidly.” Earnest as a minister on collection day, Northrup explained, “You see, I did believe you when you said it would drop.”
Adam rubbed the tightness in his temples. “Didn’t you realize that when the outlawed companies dropped, all the buyers, not just you, would have to sell South Sea stock to meet their obligations?”
“If that’s so obvious, why did Sir John Blunt have those companies outlawed?” Northrup demanded.
“He doesn’t understand how this credit works. Buying on margin is a new concept, one we must handle with caution. Damn, Northrup”—Adam rapped the table with his knuckles—“why didn’t you sell when I told you?”
Northrup’s resentment bubbled over. “Because you told me. You didn’t tell me why, and I thought I was smarter than you.”
Adam leaned back in his chair and thrust his feet out before him. “Well, we have both learned something, haven’t we? Northrup, if you’re going to stay in the money market, you have to remember a few truths. Hunger and greed are similar, but hunger can be satisfied. Be one of the hungry ones, not the greedy ones.”
From the room behind the bar, the sound of a scuffle ensued. A few sharp slaps, the barmaid squalled loudly, and Garraway came puffing out, marching up to Adam’s table. Drawing himself up, he announced, “I never tol’ that idiot what used t’ work fer me t’ say any o’ that, m’lord.”
Adam lifted a brow. “No?”
“No, an’ ye might as well get that lofty look off yer face. I ain’t denyin’ sayin’ it, I’m just denyin’ tellin’ her t’ tell ye.” Using a grubby handkerchief pulled from his apron, Garraway wiped his face. “Ye’re bad fer business right now. But Garraway’s ’as been ’ere seventy years an’ it’ll be ’ere another ’undred, so I guess I can lose a few customers because o’ ye. Weren’t any too good o’ customers, anyway.”
For the first time in days, Adam smiled. “Thank you, Garraway. You’re a gentleman unlike any other.”
One pair of feet tramped up the stairs with an exultant beat; one pair of hands shoved open the door at the top of the stairs. In a blaze of victory, Daphne called, “Your parents are below.”
Bronwyn lifted her head from contemplation of the Gaelic manuscript that had once meant so much and now merited only a dull inspection. Her bright new world was disintegrating, and she didn’t understand why.
“Listen to me,” Daphne insisted. “Your parents are here.”
“My parents?” Daphne’s satisfaction caught Bronwyn’s attention, and she focused. “My parents?” Her breath gripped her throat, her hand clenched over her stomach. They didn’t know where she was. They couldn’t know where she was. Cautiously she asked, “What parents?”
“Rafferty Edana, earl of Gaynor, and his wife, Lady Nora.” Daphne smirked. “Sulking up here will not make them disappear, I tell you. Your father is threatening to take you away and beat you.”
“Is he? Da always blusters and roars. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but his threats will come to nothing.” Bronwyn rose and with desperate calm stacked together her sheets of translation. “Is Rachelle with them?” She worried about Rachelle. The Frenchwoman had grown distant, thoughtful. The crowd at the salon had thinned.
Daphne’s voice rose a notch at the mention of Rachelle. “Yes, she is with them, listening as your mother laments the loss of your reputation.”
“That sounds like Maman.”
“You are not the only one who is worried about Rachelle, you know,” Daphne burst out defiantly.
Not understanding, not really hearing, Bronwyn murmured, “Of course not.” She straightened the striped silk blouse, then tucked her scarf into her bosom. As Adam preferred, she used it to shield herself from masculine eyes.
Adam. God, Adam was worst of all. That one dreadful night, the mere mention of Henriette had driven him into a frenzy. She’d told him about the dying girl’s words, and he’d shouted at her. Since then, he listened and never heard her. He looked and never saw her. He slept in her room and never touched her.
At the mirror, she dabbed perspiration from her upper lip and her forehead. She picked up the pot of
color to apply it to her face. Before she touched her skin, she paused. Putting down the carmine, she nodded at her reflection with determination. “They’ll take me as I am.”
“They will lock you in your room with bread and water,” Daphne taunted, gathering fury as her gibes failed to prick Bronwyn’s composure.
“You’re such a spiteful little thing, Daphne.” Bronwyn smoothed the light, plain skirt. “Someday you’ll do someone real harm with your nosiness.”
Daphne paled, too young to disguise her dismay, and Bronwyn pounced. “Are you the one who informed my parents of my whereabouts?”
Hands clenched, elbows straight, Daphne answered, “Not I.”
“Oh, come now. You look so guilty.”
“I am sorry I did not think of it, but no.” Daphne smiled tightly. “I did not.”
Bronwyn didn’t know whether to believe the girl or not. Most likely she would have admitted it gladly had she done it, and what did it matter? The damage was done. After gathering her ivory fan, her patch box, and her purse, she walked to the door. Daphne began to descend, and Bronwyn snapped her fingers. “Go on down. I forgot my handkerchief.” She smiled pleasantly at Daphne’s impatience. “So I can cry my tears of repentance.” She waited as Daphne proceeded down a safe length of steps, then dashed back into her room. Leaning close to the mirror, she pinched her cheeks until they glowed.
Running down the stairs would improve her color, too, but she refused to exhibit such anxiety. Instead she walked, sedate and serene, remembering all the time that she was the flawless Cherie and not the plain Bronwyn. At the door of the salon she paused, as she had seen her mother do countless times. Her mother did it because it allowed the room to savor her beauty. Bronwyn did it because she needed the moment to gather her courage—but no one would ever know that, she vowed.
Inside the room, Lord Gaynor leaned against the wall, his hands in his coat pockets, clearly impatient. Lady Nora and Lady Holly sat on either side of Rachelle, identical bookends around one courageous lady, while Daphne hovered behind. The noblewomen sipped tea, creating civilized chatter as they waited.
Her father spotted her first. “Bronwyn?” Lord Gaynor straightened up. He gaped. With love and pride in his eyes, he cried, “Ah, Bronwyn, how beautiful ye are!”
“Da.” Bronwyn opened her arms, and they rushed together in a mighty hug. “Da! I didn’t realize how much I missed you.”
“Me lass. Me Bronwyn.” He held her face up so he could examine it. “What happened to ye here? The London air must agree with ye.”
Bronwyn laughed and gulped. “So it does.”
“Let her go, Rafferty, and let me look at her,” Lady Nora’s soft voice commanded.
Lord Gaynor held Bronwyn at arm’s length, twirled her around in one light dance step. “Can you see what someone has done to our brown little elf? She’s become a fairy.”
Lady Nora trained her educated eye on Bronwyn. Setting down her tea cup, she rose to circle her daughter while Bronwyn held her breath. Her finger on her lips, Lady Nora examined Bronwyn’s gown, her hair, her new-grown fingernails…and broke into a smile. “Quite marvelous. What a transformation.” She enfolded Bronwyn carefully into her arms and pressed a kiss on her forehead.
“I told you, Maman.” Holly leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “I barely recognized her myself.”
Lady Nora laughed indulgently. “I am her mother. I would recognize her regardless of her circumstances, but this is a splendid surprise.” To Bronwyn she said, “And you wondered if you were our daughter. Surely your visage proves it now.”
Blushing, Bronwyn glanced at Rachelle. “I couldn’t have done it without Rachelle.”
“A Frenchwoman’s touch,” Lady Nora agreed without a trace of malice. “I should have sent you to France years ago. No one knows more about accenting a woman’s beauty.” She shook her head. “When I think of all the years wasted…”
“Not wasted,” Rachelle said. “Our Cherie is intelligent enough to have done this for herself. She did not care enough.”
“Not care enough?” Lady Nora laughed a chiming laugh. “Of course she cared. Many a time I remember her unhappiness when the Sirens of Ireland lined up and she was so different.”
Rachelle corrected firmly, “She cared because you cared. She did not care for herself—at least, not enough. Not until she had a reason to care.”
Lady Nora whisked that away with a flutter of her well-manicured fingers. “Whatever the reason, it’s pleasure to welcome Bronwyn into the fold. And a relief, a real relief——she dabbed at an imminent tear—“to know she is safe.”
Bronwyn’s tears refused to be restricted as her mother’s were. She loved her parents, for all they were shallow and selfish. They were hers, and she adored them for their gaiety, their pleasure in living. “I’m so glad to see you again,” she sobbed.
Lord Gaynor replied promptly, “And glad I will be to take ye with us.”
Bronwyn jerked her head out of her handkerchief, tears drying on her hot cheeks. “No, Da, I won’t go.”
Looks were exchanged over her head; strategies were implemented on the moment. “How did you meet Madame Rachelle?” Lord Gaynor asked, suspicion tense in his every word.
Innocent as the dew on the rose, Bronwyn tapped his chest with her finger. “Remember, Da, when we were on our way to Lord Rawson’s and Olivia and I left the inn? We told you we came to Rachelle’s salon, and you didn’t believe us.”
Dumbfounded, Lord Gaynor rocked back on his heels. He checked with Rachelle, and Rachelle nodded without words. “Saints preserve us, ye really meant it!” He stared at Bronwyn, then burst into laughter. “Fooling me with the truth. Well, aren’t ye the sly one?”
Bronwyn grinned at him, and while she was unwary, he asked, “And just what kind of place is this salon? I can scarcely believe it’s respectable.”
“It is respectable, Da,” Bronwyn burst out. “Rachelle allows no hint of notoriety to taint her salon.”
“Not even these rumors of murder?” he insisted.
Her da had come better prepared than she suspected, Bronwyn thought glumly. “The rumors are a lie. I know that better than anyone.”
Something about her, or about Rachelle, or a simple disbelief that anyone could kill her own child, convinced Lord and Lady Gaynor.
Attacking from a different angle, Lady Nora said, “Your reputation will be in ruins.”
“How? Holly hardly recognized me when she first entered the salon. My dear sister Holly”—Bronwyn glared—“who vowed not to tell Maman and Da where I was.”
The front door slammed, and footsteps echoed in the entry. The new footman spoke. A deep, resonant voice replied, and Bronwyn cringed as she recognized it.
Holly leaned forward and grasped the arms of her chair in earnest goodwill. “I wasn’t going to, but when Da told me—”
Lord Gaynor waved her to silence as he stared toward the entrance, and Bronwyn was very much afraid he, too, recognized the masculine voice. The footsteps moved toward the study. Bronwyn tensed.
Trying to divert the pending explosion, Rachelle said, “Lord and Lady Gaynor, my home is most respectable. No one has ever taken advantage of one of the girls while they lived under my room. All are chaste.”
With an eerie sense of doom, Bronwyn saw Adam framed in the door. His brooding eyes took in the whole seen, and her heart plunged when Daphne pronounced trumphantly, “Lord Rawson is living here.”
Rachelle turned on her young boarder. “Betrayal is ugly, Daphne, and unforgivable.”
The color washed from Daphne’s cheeks, and she shrank back. Extending her hands, she pleaded silently for understanding, but Rachelle turned from her.
“He’s living here?” Lord Gaynor asked with a dangerous calm.
No one spoke.
It was up to her, Bronwyn realized. Adam wouldn’t disgrace her by declaring she was his paramour, and she dared not tell her da. He looked dangerous, with narrowed eyes that examined Adam and found him want
ing. Bronwyn cleared her throat and lied, “It’s not what you think.”
Lord Gaynor turned his head and looked at her. “What do I think?”
He sounded genial, but she wasn’t fooled. He was as furious as only a father could be—a father whose favorite daughter had come to disgrace. She lifted her hand. “He lives in this house, but—”
With a roar like a cannon, Lord Gaynor turned on Adam. “I hold ye responsible. Ye have ruined me daughter, me babe. To think I admired ye, thought ye the best of my sons-in-law, and ye’ve brought the Edana family low.”
Adam held up his hands. “I’ll make amends as you require.”
“Ye’ll marry her!” Lord Gaynor bellowed. “Never think ye’ll get off without giving her reputation back on one of those golden platters your servants wave about.”
“Lord Gaynor, I’d be glad to marry—”
“Da, you can’t make me marry—”
Lady Nora’s chiming voice ordered, “Quiet!” She spoke so emphatically, all obeyed. All eyes turned to her as she sat straight on her chair. “Lord Rawson can’t marry Bronwyn.”
Lord Gaynor turned a distinct shade of mauve. “What?”
“What do you mean?” Bronwyn asked.
“Oh, hush, Maman,” Holly begged.
“Lord Rawson can’t marry Bronwyn,” Lady Nora insisted. “He’s betrothed to marry Olivia.”
Bronwyn hadn’t heard correctly. She knew she hadn’t heard correctly. Adam would never do such a thing. With her gaze, she sought her mother’s face. This must be humor from a singularly humorless lady.
Yet Lady Nora was gazing earnestly at Lord Gaynor and saying, “We can’t have this kind of scandal. First we announce Lord Rawson is marrying our daughter Bronwyn, then that there’s been a mistake and he’s marrying our daughter Olivia. He’s been betrothed to Olivia ever since Bronwyn ran away. Can you imagine the talk if we said we were wrong once more?”
Adam would never become betrothed to Olivia. Bronwyn knew it. Her da revenged himself on her for her defection, nothing more. She turned to Da, expecting him to be watching her with a sly twinkle in his eye.
He was not. He answered, “Don’t ye think our consequence is large enough that we could pretend we’d never made the second announcement?”