Sea Scoundrel

  * * *

  Though they were dressed in their absolute best, they, all of them, Patience had to admit, looked like country misses come to the big city, especially in contrast to the fine materials on display. But they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t need new things.

  Madame Lambert had been waiting on a customer when they arrived. At once, the girls went to the bolts of silks, satins and laces chattering about evening gowns and carriage dresses. Their shock at the prices were expressed too loudly, their American accents coarse, rather than charming. When they took to tittering over designs for undergarments, Patience wanted to strangle them.

  The proprietress gazed askance. They were making a bad impression, Patience knew, but she didn’t know how to stop them. She asked them to keep their voices down and discuss something less shocking than undergarments.

  They discussed Horatio then laughed and cried in turns.

  Patience mentally threw her hands in the air. There was no use. Instead, she worried and waited, and waited to be served, striving for that illusive virtue, patience, though she failed miserably.

  She glanced at the Ormolu clock with regularity.

  Madame had said good-bye to her last customer more than a half hour before.

  The bell above the door tinkled as a new customer entered.

  Madame appeared instantly, becoming a paragon of servility and sweetness.

  “Madame Lambert,” Patience said stepping forward. “We have been waiting an age.” Patience looked at the new arrival wearing a lime- and turquoise-feathered hat, and smiled. She looked like an overdressed peacock. “Pardon, My Lady, but we were here first.”

  The peacock peered through her lorgnette, examined Patience then her girls. “Indeed.” She waved her hand as if shooing an insect. “As I was saying, Madame—”

  “My girls and I need dresses,” Patience said. “Ball gowns and such. We should be served next.”

  With a satisfied, condescending smirk the peacock intoned, “Your girls? You are not old enough to have four grown daughters? In what way, pray, are they . . .your girls?”

  “They’re not my daughters.”

  “Your wards then?”

  “Not exactly my wards.”

  Grant had been watching and knew that something was terribly wrong. Patience’s raised chin and ready stance said she was already stepping on society’s toes. If the customer she argued with wasn’t titled, he’d . . .appear at a bloody damned ball.

  He entered Madame Lambert’s silently through the side door, noting the antagonistic set to the faces of the customer and the modiste.

  “Madame Lambert does not serve women of your sort,” the customer said. “She caters to refined women of society!”

  “Sort?” Patience snapped, her chin so high, her mouth so set, she reminded him of when he’d thought she was a child.

  Rose charged forward. “Why you narrow-minded old—”

  Grant stepped forward. “Lady Patience!” He bowed. “So nice to see you again.” As much as he’d wanted to cheer Rose on, Patience could not afford to tweak an aristocrat’s nose first day out, not any more than she already had. He would, however, remember to tell Shane how much he liked his future sister-in-law.

  The color in Patience’s cheeks bore testament to her agitation, but her relieved smile was enough to clear London’s fog. “Captain.”

  He kissed her hand. “My Lady.”

  He turned to the proprietress and the customer. “I see you have met Lady Patience Kendall, most recently returned to London from travels abroad, and her charges, daughters of some of the wealthiest men in the world.” He let his statement hang in the silence.

  The customer’s showy plumes bobbed in counterpart to the color rising in her face.

  Madame Lambert stood pale and mute.

  The haughty matron’s eyebrows knit as a series of emotions, passed over her countenance, embarrassment, shock, and finally . . .elation? “Not Constance Kendall’s daughter?”

  He saw the same emotions flit across Patience’s face. “Yes, Constance was my mother. Did you know her?” Patience displayed a new set of emotions, recognition, surprise, and then cunning. “Wait, I know you. You’re Lady Caroline Crowley-Smythe, Mama’s dearest and loveliest friend, are you not? I should have recognized you immediately, except you are even younger-looking than you were the last time I saw you.”

  “You remember me?” The peacock’s plumes fanned and shivered.

  “I remember when you would come to tea. I thought you the most beautiful woman I had ever seen—like a fairy princess. Oh, excuse my manners, Lady Caroline, this is Captain St. Benedict.”

  Grant was glad for the opportunity to kiss the Lady’s hand. It gave him a chance to get his laughter under control.

  The woman tittered like a schoolgirl.

  Patience introduced her girls in a manner that gave him hope for her success in society.

  Lady Caroline Crowley-Smyth, without ever actually saying she was sorry for being so rude, became very condescending and solicitous. She left after dispatching hugs and kisses to all the girls, with an extra for Patience, and promising vouchers for Almacs and invitations to the events of the season. “After all, I must take it upon myself to see that dear Constance’s daughter and her very lovely charges are not set adrift. Now if you need anything, anything at all, feel free to call on me.” She handed Patience her card and kiss-kissed the air by her cheek before she departed as if a score of ladies-in-waiting followed.

  The modiste became all supercilious smiles. “Now, My Lady, let us get down to the business of garment selection.”

  Patience donned her gloves. “Madame, it is late. I find myself exhausted from the wait. I would rather return home for tea and look to purchasing new wardrobes for the five of us on the morrow. Perhaps we shall find a shop that is not so busy. Come along girls.”

  Bravo, Grant thought, and hid his smile with a cough. “Perhaps that would be best, Lady Patience,” he said.

  The dressmaker looked ill. “I am so sorry for the delay, Lady Patience. Please, if you will accept my most humble apology.” She encompassed the girls in her contrite look. “Clotilde,” she clapped her hands. “Tea and cakes for our guests and lock the doors. We will give Lady Patience and her wards our complete attention. Captain St. Benedict, may we have the honor of your presence for tea?”

  Grant bowed, his prospect for the day brightening. “I would be delighted, Madame.”

  Patience’s eyebrows rose at his gallant display. When the over-perfumed modiste went into the back room, he touched Patience’s cheek. Lord, he’d missed her. Had it only been two days?

  Patience stepped back. “What are you doing here? Surely you didn’t miss us?”

  “Yes. No. I was walking by when I saw you and noted your distress. Would you rather I had not—”

  “No. Please. Please accept my thanks for coming to our rescue.”

  “Again,” he said.

  “Again,” she admitted.

  Grant remained after tea to take part in choosing fabrics and patterns, approving colors and styles for each girl. Fortunately the current mode of high-waisted gown suited all. Still Sophie wanted robes over hers, Rose preferred tunics. Grace’s tunic must be long, Angel’s short to expose more underskirt. And they must discuss which tunics must have pointed, scalloped or straight cut edges, blonde lace or ruching? Such a tizzy. As different as the girls, fabrics, color and sizes varied.

  Mrs. Lambert clapped her hands once more. “Come ladies, we must choose undergarments, stays, drawers, chemises—”

  “I think that I shall take my leave, ladies,” Grant said bowing. Madame Lambert returned to her work room while good-byes were said.

  “Again, thank you Captain,” Patience whispered. “For this afternoon. It was just that we had waited so long and I was so, so—”

  “Impatient?” Grant said, brow raised, a knowing gleam in his eye.

  “Aggravating man.”

  “Vixe
n, there is nothing so endearing as a woman named Patience, who is totally lacking in said virtue. I consider it part of your peculiar charm.”

  “Peculiar?”

  “Unique.” He kissed her hand once more before letting it go.

  “You have quite redeemed yourself.”

  “Lady Patience,” Madame Lambert called from the back. “I have the solution for the draping of your dresses. If we use the stays to push up the breasts, add bosom inserts, and a small padded bustle—” She came to the front of the shop. “My beautiful gowns will hang properly on your boyish—” She stopped, pink with embarrassment. “Captain St. Benedict, I thought you had left.”

  The modiste looked as if she might swoon, while the crinkle lines about the Captain’s eyes became prominent. Boyish figure, indeed! Patience turned her back on the dratted woman and dragged the smiling idiot outside, letting the door slam behind her.

  “Sweetheart, don’t be angry,” the idiot said. “You have a beautiful body. The woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Will you be quiet! Do you want everyone to know that you do know what you’re talking about? Never mind. Until this moment, I was happy you were here. Now, I could throttle that woman, and you along with her.”

  Patience hated herself for warming to his chuckle.

  “Patience, at the risk of getting into trouble here, I think you should order several sets of bosom inserts. You’ll need them, love. Get some of those new drawers also. They sound wickedly exciting.”

  “I will not buy wicked undergarments for your depraved enjoyment. I can’t believe I was so happy to see you. Odious man. I don’t need your help anyway. I don’t need anyone. Go back to sea where the flying fish and boobies like and understand you.” She turned her back on him to enter the shop. When she had to pound on the door to be re-admitted, she knew she’d turned brick red, she was so hot with mortification.

  She could still hear the snake’s laughter even after she was back inside. If only the sound wasn’t like music to her ears.

  Early the following afternoon, they were sitting in the salon discussing hair styles when a servant delivered a stunning array of beribboned boxes with a note.

  “What does it say?” Sophie begged, consumed with curiosity.

  “Tell, tell,” Angel added.

  Patience split the seal, and smiled. “It’s from the Captain. ‘My dear Lady Patience, and friends, please accept my good wishes on your forthcoming venture. I took it upon myself yesterday, after leaving you, to purchase a few tokens of my thanks for your help aboard the Knave’s Secret. As ever, G. St. B.’“

  “Gifts should be opened one by one so we may all enjoy each,” Grace told them.

  Patience laughed wondering if this was a hidden facet of her personality or if Angel had influenced the no-longer quiet miss. “Who will be first?” she asked.

  “I will, I can’t wait,” Sophie said. From her package, she drew two hair combs of French jet shaped like a fan. Before the gilt-edged mirror above the curio, she arranged them in her blond curls.

  “What a perfect foil the jet is against your blonde hair, Sophie,” Patience said. “That man has hidden depths.”

  Angel unwrapped a set of ivory combs carved with a thistle design and Patience marveled at how striking the cream combs in Angel’s brown hair shown. She expected he’d sent each of them a set of hair combs. How considerate.

  “I can hardly credit that the snarly Captain could be so thoughtful or select such delicate gifts,” Angel said.

  Rose stepped closer. “It’s your turn Grace.”

  Grace’s eyes glowed, despite her spectacles. “Oh, my.” She displayed a mother-of-pearl spectacle case, covered with floral inlays and lined in blue watered silk. “I have never owned anything so beautiful.” She traced the design with her finger.

  Patience swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “Yours is the largest of all, Rose,” Sophie said.

  Rose smiled, and she was beautiful, Patience thought, but one was hard-pressed to remember it with her sad demeanor. The rare times she smiled, she put them all to the pale. She removed a beaded purse with a chain and a center clip to hang over a belt at her waist. From inside, she took a fine linen handkerchief and had tears in her eyes.

  “For pity’s sake, Rose. If you cry when you’re happy as well as when you’re sad, you’ll flood the house,” Angel snapped.

  Rose burst into laughter. “Your turn, Patience.”

  “What could he possibly have sent for me?” she wondered aloud as she examined two boxes with her name on them. She chose to open the tiniest first.

  “Hurry,” Sophie urged.

  The flat, silver, filigree box fit in the palm of Patience’s hand. A tiny clasp at the side revealed an interior of spun gold and a stack of ivory calling cards proclaiming her to be, ‘Lady Patience Ann Kendall’ with her new London address. “It’s a card case,” Patience said. She looked at the girls. “People here in England present their card when they visit. When someone is not at home, they leave their card,” she explained. Then she found a note peeking out one of the small compartments. It was from Grant. ‘I pronounce you a ‘Lady of Society,’’ he’d written.

  “What does it say?” Sophie asked.

  “He says we’re ready to enter society.”

  “But what’s in the other box?” Sophie added. “Lord, I don’t know how you can be so calm with two gifts to open.”

  Patience untied the ribbon on the second box laughing at Sophie. The girls stepped closer. She lifted the lid and slammed it down again. Bosom inserts! She gathered her gifts and stood. “Come along, we have much to do today. Well begun is nearly done, you know.”

  The girls followed her up the stairs and all the way to her room, begging for a look, but Patience denied them even a peek, closing off their protests when her door was firmly shut.

  She tossed the offending gift on the bed. She was going to throttle the scoundrel.

  The next morning, their first invitations arrived. By afternoon, boxes of hats and shoes were delivered. Patience accepted an invitation to a ball being given by the Duke and Duchess of Dorset and sent a note round to Madame Lambert requesting a set of ball gowns for Friday next.

  The modiste’s return note read, “It will be extremely difficult to finish five gowns in so short a time, but for you, I will hire extra seamstresses and have them ready.” Patience gave an unladylike snort. It was the least the woman could do.

  The following day, Lady Caroline Crowley-Smyth paid a morning call with Mrs. Trahern, a bosom friend, who brought her son, Oliver, along. Though he had an eye for Sophie, Patience could see he was obviously tied very tightly to mama’s leading strings. Oliver led the girls to say the most outrageous things. Patience was beside herself and only breathed a sigh of relief when they left.

  After that, Patience’s drawing room saw no less than a dozen or so male callers each morning, Oliver Trahern always among them. Oliver said the girls were all the rage. Others who called did so for show, and for Grant’s sake. Friends of his like Marcus Fitzalan, a second son but well thought of in society, and Justin Devereux, Duke of Ainsley, both scoundrels and knaves of the club, both darlings of society. The only knave who did not call, Grant said, was Gabriel Kendrick, the one they called a Holy Scoundrel. “No matter,” Grant once commented. “Gabriel would not improve their standing in society. He would lower it.”

  The following evening, ensconced in a large leather chair before the fire at White’s, cigar smoke curling about his head, Grant sipped his brandy and read his paper, his attention caught by an article decrying appalling working conditions in England’s mills.

  “A hundred pounds for Grace,” he heard, andGrant chafed at the enthusiastic betting, though it was quite routine. He shifted and concentrated on his article.

  “Double to form a dalliance with Sophie.”

  Child labor. Poor working conditions. Not in his mill.

  “Rose is the beauty.”
>
  By God, they were a noisy lot— Grant raised his gaze. Rose, Sophie? He shot from his chair. “Damnation!”

  Men moved aside as Grant made for the betting book direct. Oh, they’d attract men all right, but the wrong kind and for the wrong reasons.

  He read down the list of bets searching for one particular name. And there it was. The man who could get Lady Patience Kendall to don britches and ride astride through Hyde Park at five p.m. would win two thousand pounds. Patience had liked to ride astride through the Arundel countryside; she told him so. And she must have told the girls. “Bloody hell!”

  He grabbed cane, hat and gloves and left without a word.