Enchanting Pleasures

  Gabby was still talking. “Given how difficult it is for Kasi to remember even simple things, you would not credit how well he is doing! Some letters do come out backward. I certainly hope that Mrs. Malabright has been able to keep up his studies.”

  Quill pulled himself together. “Who is Mrs. Malabright?”

  “Father thought at first to place Kasi in an establishment. But it was very difficult to arrange that from India, and it seemed fairly certain that representatives of the East India Company would trace the arrangement. So Kasi is under the care of a Mrs. Malabright, here in London. She is an Englishwoman who lived in India for twenty years. Since he knew her well, it was less of a shock for him to leave home.”

  “Has Kasi lived with you for his whole life?”

  “Oh, yes,” Gabby said sunnily. “Kasi came to live with us when he was only a few months old.”

  “Couldn’t he take his place on the Holkar throne?”

  “Certainly not,” Gabby said without hesitating for a second. “My father is convinced that the East India Company would turn him into a figurehead and then take over the Holkar region. Kasi, poor sweetheart, is not entirely all that he could be. My father says that his mother drank too much cherry brandy while enceinte.”

  “What did Kasi’s father think of his wife’s brandy consumption?” Quill asked.

  “They both enjoy cherry brandy,” Gabby said, turning her limpid eyes to Quill. “The last time I visited the palace, the Holkar was drinking his third bottle of the day, and his wife was thoroughly incapacitated as well. The kingdom is run by the Holkar’s favorite concubine, Tulasi Bai.”

  Quill scowled at her. “You shouldn’t be talking about concubines, Gabby. Lord, you shouldn’t ever have visited a palace full of drunkards.”

  Gabby twinkled at him. “It isn’t as if I have a preference myself for cherry brandy,” she observed. “And I do think that Tulasi’s son will make an excellent ruler of the Holkar region someday.”

  “I suppose you wished to visit Kasi when you asked for a carriage.”

  “Yes. Father instructed me not to reveal Kasi’s presence in London to anyone, not even to you or your father.” Gabby hesitated. “But now that you know about Kasi, will you accompany me to Mrs. Malabright’s house, Quill? I would be most glad of your company. I haven’t seen Kasi for several days now, and I miss him dreadfully. Father said I should ascertain whether Kasi is happy and then find another arrangement if necessary.”

  “Of course,” Quill said. “Lady Sylvia, would tomorrow morning be convenient for you?”

  “I believe I’ll let you escort the gel on her own,” Lady Sylvia replied. “Yer practically going on an errand of mercy, after all. I’m sure no one could quibble with that.”

  “I want to thank you for your performance before Colonel Hastings,” Gabby said. “It would have been a terrible thing if the East India Company found out where Kasi was living.”

  “I enjoyed it.” Lady Sylvia’s voice was a bit gruff. “You’re a good gel, Gabrielle. Like the way you’re looking out for the boy, even if he’s an Indian lad. Mind you, I won’t call you that heathen name, Gabby, although you are a bit of a prattlebox.”

  Gabby smiled at her. “I am a very grateful prattlebox,” she said. “I don’t think I could have managed Colonel Hastings half so well.”

  “Well! Time for bed!” And Lady Sylvia shooed Gabby and the dogs out the door.

  But Gabby had no wish for sleep. Colonel Hastings’ visit had given her a sick feeling in her stomach.

  She had to protect Kasi Rao. Clearly, the East India Company was far more interested in Kasi than her father had realized. And that meant that her father’s plan to conceal Kasi in London would ultimately fail. Either the company would search until they located him, or else they would set up a figurehead in his place and insist that they had found the prince.

  Months ago, back in India, she had thought up a scheme to stop the East India Company. Her father had curled his lip and dismissed it as nothing more than one of her impulsive, idiotic ideas. Gabby swallowed, thinking of Kasi’s trusting eyes. She could not allow him to be taken from Mrs. Malabright. It was horrible to imagine Kasi forced into a public role.

  She had nothing to lose by trying. The hounds were on Kasi’s trail, and her father was not here to say nay.

  With a decisive movement, Gabby stood up and walked over to the writing desk in the corner of her room. She drew forth a clean piece of foolscap, sharpened her quill, and began to write. By her calculation, the plan would entail four letters, all of which needed to reach India as soon as possible.

  THE ADDRESS THAT GABBY GAVE the Dewland coachman the next morning was in Sackville Street. After a brief drive from St. James’s Square, they reached an area of small houses, neatly painted and kept up, but very modest.

  “My goodness,” Gabby said uncertainly to Quill, “this is very different from what Kasi is used to.”

  “Do you live in a great mansion, then?”

  “Oh, yes, in a palace,” Gabby explained with an utter lack of self-consciousness. “Father has a distinct love of luxury, you see. It’s one of the things that made his missionary endeavors so trying for him.”

  “I can imagine,” Quill replied dryly.

  Mrs. Malabright turned out to be a bustling, kindly Englishwoman who weighed at least nine stone more than Kasi.

  Quill saw immediately why Gabby and her father were determined to protect the prince from taking his place on the Holkar throne. He was a very small, sweet-eyed Indian lad, who looked more like seven than ten. He drifted into the room sideways, like a wary deer entering an open pasture, and his eyes lit uncertainly on each face, darting off to the corners of the room.

  Until he saw Gabby. Then he rushed to her side and clutched a bit of her gown. “Tell me a story, Gabby!” He spoke as if he had last seen her that very morning.

  Gabby cupped his face in her hands. “Of course I’ll tell you a story, sweetheart. But manners first.”

  Kasi grinned, a shy, heartbreaking grin. “Namasthe, Gabby.” He brought his palms together and bowed slightly.

  “No, no,” Mrs. Malabright broke in. “We are in England now.”

  Kasi started again. “How do you do, Gabby? I am pleased to meet you.”

  “That’s for strangers, dear. You know Miss Jerningham,” Mrs. Malabright prompted.

  He looked confused. Then he backed up and bowed yet again.

  “How do you do, Miss Stranger? I am—I am—I am …” He trailed off.

  Gabby nodded gravely in response and curtsied. “Thank you very much, Mr. Kasi Rao. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Kasi’s face brightened. The formula had been played through. “Now tell me a story, Gabby. Please, please.”

  Gabby looked apologetically at Mrs. Malabright and Quill. “Would you mind terribly if I told Kasi a brief story?”

  Mrs. Malabright beamed. “He’s told me all about your stories, miss. He does powerfully love them.”

  Gabby and Kasi snuggled onto the couch, and Quill heard Gabby begin: “Once upon a time, there was a very small mouse. His name was Joosi, and he lived in the time of the ancient emperors of China, so long ago that neither you, nor your grandfather, nor your great-great-great-grandfather, could have shared a piece of cheese with him.”

  Quill’s mouth quirked and he relaxed for the first time all day. But Mrs. Malabright could not allow her visitor to merely listen to a child’s story.

  “Kasi adores, absolutely adores, stewed prunes,” she said importantly. “I’ve been making them every day. And he has very much enjoyed apples from my back garden as well.”

  “Have you taken him around London?” Quill asked idly. If the truth be told, he was straining his ears to hear fragments of the tale of Joosi, who was wandering into dangerous territory as he climbed the leg of the emperor’s great throne.

  “Goodness, no,” Mrs. Malabright said firmly. “Kasi does not enjoy being around strangers. Why, I have to push him into th
e backyard once a day, even though we have high walls. He’s that nervous.”

  “Perhaps he would like to visit a pantomime?”

  “No, he would not, and that’s a fact.” Mrs. Malabright looked like a great bear protecting her spindly cub. “Kasi is happy here in the house, and there’s no call to make him terrified by taking him outside. There is no life outside for Kasi.”

  Joosi the mouse was performing incredible feats of daring, such as swinging from the feathers adorning the empress’s best hat.

  “Is he learning to write?”

  “His letters are improving,” Mrs. Malabright said. “Only the J‘s are backward now.” And she trotted off to fetch a sample of Kasi’s handwriting, returning just as Joosi’s story came to a triumphant conclusion.

  “And from that day forward,” Gabby said, “Joosi the mouse was the emperor’s very best friend. The emperor had a special bed made for Joosi, wrought from gold and adorned with pearls. During the day Joosi always stayed on the emperor’s shoulder, ready to advise him should yet another foolish counselor suggest that China go to war. And since Joosi knew that war was a terrible thing, the reign of the emperor was long remembered in China as the happiest and most peaceful of all.”

  Kasi sighed happily. “I wish Joosi was my best friend, Gabby.” He looked around the room. “Do you know where my friend went? She doesn’t live in this house.”

  Gabby looked blank for a moment. “Do you mean Phoebe?”

  Kasi nodded. “Phoebe.” There was a world of satisfaction in his voice.

  “Phoebe asked about you as well,” Gabby said. “I am going to bring her for a visit in a few days, if it would be quite all right with Mrs. Malabright.”

  “Could Phoebe bring Joosi the mouse with her?” Kasi asked.

  Gabby was clearly used to Kasi’s leaps in logic. “Perhaps Mrs. Malabright will allow you to have a pet mouse,” she suggested.

  Just then Mrs. Malabright bustled up with samples of Kasi’s handwriting. So they stayed another half hour, and ate some of Mrs. Malabright’s best spicy gingerbread, and finally left.

  Quill had spent quite a bit of time considering why Lady Sylvia did not accompany them to Mrs. Malabright’s house. If Lady Sylvia had intended that Quill indulge himself by kissing Gabby, Quill was not willing to satisfy her. Gabby was Peter’s betrothed, and Peter’s betrothed she would remain.

  Not that Gabby showed any inclination to kiss him anyway. She chattered all the way home about Kasi and Mrs. Malabright, and she obviously had no idea that Quill could only think about how soft she felt in his arms, the way she trembled against him, the way her lips opened with a little gasp, the way…the way she made something inside him ache to hold her again.

  IT HAD TAKEN Lucien Boch two weeks of concerted effort to achieve his current success: luncheon with Phoebe Pensington, her adoptive mother, Mrs. Ewing, and her aunt, Louise. He was seated at a small table, Phoebe to his right and Emily to his left. And he was well aware that the ladies didn’t want him there and that, in fact, he was a thoroughly unwelcome guest. And yet, gentleman though he was, Lucien had ignored all the obvious signals and stayed for the meal anyway.

  At the first, Lucien had accompanied Phoebe to her house with no thought other than to satisfy a mild curiosity he had about the child’s important new mama. But when he found himself in front of a slender, exhausted-looking Mrs. Ewing, his feelings had undergone a rapid and inexplicable change.

  He had bowed his most charming bow and kissed her hand. And then he had embarrassed himself by mentioning the fact that he was a marquis before he left France. Why did he do that? He had terrible scorn for the émigrés who traveled to England and clung to their dead titles.

  It wasn’t that she was so beautiful. Well, she was beautiful. Moreover, she was exquisitely dressed and wearing one of the most modish little caps that Lucien had ever seen. But it was something about her blue-gray eyes that had made him visit the house the next day, and the day after. And finally, when he had deliberately appeared on their doorstep at an unforgivably unfashionable time of day, Mrs. Ewing had extended a reluctant invitation to join them for luncheon. She was wary, the beautiful Mrs. Ewing. She didn’t like him very much, he could tell, and her fingers invariably had ink stains on them. She was entirely too thin. And she fascinated him.

  So there he was, eating a vegetable pie dished out by an incompetent maid.

  “Miss Phoebe informs me that you are a writer, Mrs. Ewing,” Lucien said. She had washed the ink off her fingers before eating. They were beautiful hands—slender, with very, very long fingers.

  Emily looked at her uninvited guest. What on earth was the man doing here? He was far too handsome to be a bachelor. Not that a bachelor would have any reason to visit the scandalous Thorpe sisters. She shrugged mentally. Well, if he was too much of a snob to associate with them, he wouldn’t be eating with them. “I write for a fashion magazine for ladies,” she said.

  “La Belle Assemblée?” Lucien asked.

  So there was the reason for Mr. Lucien Boch’s appearance at her table, Emily thought. He must be the owner of a rival magazine. She’d heard a rumor of a new magazine in the press. And the owner of a German fashion magazine had tried to lure her to his journal last year. Well, that explained it. There could be no other reason for a member of the French aristocracy to be seated at her table. She was aware of an odd twinge in her heart. It would have been nice if Mr. Boch’s admiring gaze was meant for her, not for her writing.

  “I do write for La Belle Assemblée,” she said brusquely. “And I do not intend to write for anyone else in the near future.”

  “Oh…of course,” Lucien murmured.

  She would almost think that he was innocent. Except …

  Except Lucien couldn’t think what to say next, so he queried further. “And what would cause you to write for someone else, madame? I mean, for some other magazine?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Emily rejoined sharply.

  That seemed to end that train of conversation. Lucien sought about desperately for another topic. “Miss Thorpe, do you write for La Belle Assemblée as well?”

  “No,” Phoebe’s aunt replied, cheerfully biting into a large apple. “I’m the reprobate in the family. I write for Etherege’s Portents, the men’s literary magazine, so called. I write all the fashion copy. If you don’t mind my saying so, Monsieur Boch, I am very partial to olive-green frock coats. And you are wearing a beautiful example.”

  Lucien stared down at his coat in some bewilderment. “Thank you. You write for Etherege’s Portents?”

  Louise chuckled. “Do you read my column? It is entitled ‘General Observations on Fashion.’ I sign it Edward Etherege,” she added kindly when Lucien looked blank.

  “I’m afraid that I have not had the pleasure.”

  Louise rolled her eyes. “Well, you may be overestimating my writing skills by referring to pleasure. Emily has a true eye for fashion, but I simply make up rubbish and print it up for any chuckleheads who care to read it.”

  “You are severe,” Emily observed, crumbling a roll in her hands. Lucien noticed that she had hardly tasted her vegetable pie. “Louise writes extremely humorous prose,” she said, turning to Lucien.

  “It’s just that everyone thinks I’m serious!” said the obviously irrepressible Louise.

  “I’m quite certain that your prose are…are impeccable,” Lucien said lamely. He didn’t dare look at Emily again. Every time he did so he found her frowning at him as if he were a thief, come to steal their silver. Or her virtue. Lucien shifted uneasily in his seat. He hadn’t felt so attracted to a woman in years. In fact, since his wife’s death. And why was that? This skinny, fierce Emily was nothing like his sweetly plump wife. He pulled himself together with a start.

  Louise had pulled a stack of foolscap off the sideboard and was regaling Emily and Phoebe with her newest column, bound for Mr. Etherege’s magazine.

  “Fashion, tasteful yet fantastic, merciless yet idolized, seat
s herself in the weathercock throne on the dome of elevated Pleasure,” she announced in a stately, imposing tone, waving her right hand in the air.

  “She dictates her unappealable injunctions to the votaries of the enchantress within, the goddess who governs our lives and our waistcoats, the divinity who dictates the drape of our neckcloths, the idol who—”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, Louise!”

  “Don’t stop me now, Emily,” Louise implored. “I’m just getting started. I have some lovely bits coming up, about how the Spirit of Fashion distinguishes the design of one neckcloth from another. Wait!” She shuffled her papers.

  Emily sighed. “I’m afraid you will have to excuse me, Mr. Boch, Phoebe. I have quite a lot of work to complete this afternoon.”

  “Oh, no, Mama, you shall miss the custard. I beat the eggs, five of them, all by myself!” Phoebe exclaimed.

  “I am not very hungry, child.” Emily bent and gave Phoebe a kiss. “I will hear your lessons later, shall I?”

  Then, with a final brief smile, she left.

  Lucien gave himself yet another silent lecture. It was not up to him to run after Emily Ewing and kiss her until the strain disappeared from those beautiful blue-gray eyes.

  The maid brought in a plate with a sagging custard.

  “Drat,” Louise said gloomily. “There’s Emily gone off without eating a thing, and the custard has not been cooked long enough.”

  Phoebe was already eating the portion slopped on her plate. “I think the custard is lovely,” she said.

  “Well, the eggs were perfectly beaten, I can tell that with a glance,” Louise said, ruffling Phoebe’s hair.

  “If I may,” Lucien asked, “is your sister under a time constraint? She appears to be very pressed.”

  “We’re toward the end of the month, and her copy will be due soon,” Louise replied. “Her prose are greatly in demand, you know. She writes most of the copy in La Belle Assemblée each month, which is difficult because Emily doesn’t go into society herself. She has to read long reports of what such-and-such person wore the night before and then distill them. We have subscriptions to around fourteen newspapers, I think. And every time a really pivotal engagement approaches, Emily gets more and more nervous. At the moment I believe she’s fretting over Lady Fester’s ball. The ball is important as it is generally the first of the Little Season. And Lady Fester maintains a very select list.”