Kasey Michaels (23 page)

“M
onseigneur? A moment of your time,
s’il vous plaît
?”

Bramwell turned slowly, leading with his eyes, his head, as Reese struggled to complete folding His Grace’s neckcloth into the Waterfall. He blinked once, to be sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. He was. Sophie’s maid—Desiree, was it?—was standing in his private dressing room as Reese was making him ready for the day. Amazing. Truly amazing.

“Leave us, Reese, if you please,” he said, still eyeing the woman as he slid from the high stool he’d been half-reclining against as the valet fussed over him. She was fifty if she was a day—unnaturally blond, realistically plump, and rather matronly. But with eyes much older than a half century, as old as the oldest profession, and with an air to her that said she was no stranger to gentlemen’s dressing rooms, or the sight of those gentlemen in less than a complete state of dress. Amazing, yes. And interesting.

“But, Your Grace?” Reese snatched up Bramwell’s coat, holding it by the shoulders. “We are not done, Your Grace.”

“Reese, the day I can’t put my coat on by myself is the day I shoot myself,” Bramwell said, “not that I wouldn’t mind a little help with my boots. But later, Reese. For now, I have company.”

The valet bit his bottom lip as he looked from his employer to the female intruder. He whimpered a time or two as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, thrust the coat into Bramwell’s hands, then fled the room.

“So, he is the one,
monseigneur
? This Reese person? It was he who tipped your father and my dear Constance over the edge? Until Sophie told me the details last night, I had wondered precisely how it had happened. The balcony I already knew, the Reese I did not. Such a nervous little rabbit, to have caused so much trouble,
oui
? I could have him on a spit, you understand, should I wish it.”

“Yes, I can believe that. I’d thought of it a time or two myself, actually.”

Desiree’s shrug was one of eloquent dismissal as she relieved Bramwell of his coat, holding it out for him, effortlessly taking on the role of valet. “Ah,
monseigneur
, but as you and I know, this is all in the past. There is no sense now in weeping over spilt dukes,
oui
?”

Bramwell felt the corners of his mouth twitching in mild amusement at this expression of Gallic practicality as he turned his back and slid his arms into the coat sleeves. “Perhaps you also do boots, mademoiselle?” he suggested amicably as he smoothed down his collar and shot his cuffs, turning to face the maid once more. “I feel slightly at a disadvantage without my boots, you understand.”

Desiree made playful shooing motions with her hands, directing Bramwell to the chair in the corner of the room, where his freshly polished Hessians waited. He obediently sat down. She then knelt in front of him, her grin close to coquettish, giving him a glimpse of how she had been when young, and how much she had enjoyed being what she had been.

As if to confirm his suspicions, she said, “Ah, how long it is since I have helped a man on with his boots. Not as long since I have helped one
off
with them,
monseigneur
, if you take my meaning.”

“I do,” Bramwell told her as Desiree slid one boot after the other over his feet, then laid her weight behind pulling them on snugly, never making so much as a single smudge on the pristine leather. “And have you taught Sophie how to do this? Along with everything else you’ve taught her?”

Desiree levered herself to her feet, making companionable use of Bramwell’s knee when the effort nearly unbalanced her. “You are the true son of your father,
monseigneur
. In looks, in wit—in appetite. How long you will run from these truths is all that remains to be seen,
oui
?”

Bramwell got to his feet, walking over to the tall dressing table, unsurprised to see the tight white line around his mouth as he glared at his own reflection in the mirror, his father’s reflection. He pushed down the mirror, attached to the dressing-table top by a hinge, wood meeting wood with a sharp slam of anger. Damn it, they were discussing his father, Sophie’s mother. They were not, would not discuss him—his looks, his wit. Or his appetites.

“You knew all along, didn’t you? How my father died, that is, how Constance Winstead died. It was you who fed her the lie about a carriage accident. I can understand why you did it, at first, for she was still little more than a child three years ago. But when she started talking about a Season? In God’s name, woman, why didn’t you tell her the truth then?” he asked, wheeling to face the maid.

The maid? Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. A talented courtesan. A woman who enjoyed men—knew how to use them, how to manipulate them, how to
dazzle
them, all while not respecting them any more than she would a dog bringing her a freshly killed pheasant. She was all of this. But never a maid. “How could you have let her come here,” he ended bitterly, “let her dream of a debut, a marriage?”

“You seem to have trouble saying her name, but we speak now of Sophie,
oui
? You speak of debuts, of marriage. She doesn’t deserve either? Is that what you’re saying,
monseigneur
, even as you agreed to sponsor her? I confess, I had hoped for more from you.”

“Hell and damnation.” Bramwell groaned, pushing his fingers through his hair, totally disrupting all of Reese’s good work. “Of course she deserves a Season. She wasn’t the one scandalizing all of England. But sometimes, regrettable and unjust as it is, the sins of the mother—”

“And the father,
monseigneur
?” Desiree interrupted archly.

“Yes, damn it all, the father,” Bramwell went on, then stopped, unable to finish whatever in blazes he had been trying to say. He was sure it had something to do with a quiet debut in Bath or somewhere, a small round of even smaller parties, a mere brush with the fringes of Society, and then a marriage, if possible, or a retreat back to Wimbledon and a future spent raising cats or some such nonsense.

But was that what he had done? No, it was not. He had marched straight into Society the moment the mandatory mourning period had expired, his title to protect him, his own consequence to buoy him, and dared anyone to snicker, to giggle behind a fan, to embarrass him with innuendo or snide jokes.

But he had a title. He was a man. He was not without defenses.

Sophie had nothing. Nothing but her innocence, her grand love of life, her dreams of a Season that had been fostered by her mother, encouraged by her maid. She had just that, and her sincere belief in her ability to dazzle.

And now, thanks to the threat of exposure by the
ton
gossips, she also had the whole truth, which had been nearly enough to crush him when he’d heard it.

“How is she?” Bramwell asked, subsiding once more against the high stool.

“Then you do care,
monseigneur
? At least, as much as any man can care? I had thought as much, hoped as much, which is why I am here.” Desiree sat down in the chair Bramwell had vacated, lifting one foot onto her other knee, rubbing at a sore instep.

“But, then,” she went on brightly, “how could you help it? She is a lovable scrap, my small Sophie. I raised her, you know. Oh, Constance loved her, loved her dearly. But, from the time she was a small child, it was I who raised her,
monseigneur
. Ah, but you asked how she is, how she feels after you told her what she needed to know. She wept, of course. Wept for nearly half the night, as if her tender heart would break, until she at last fell asleep in my arms. But she will weather this latest storm, as she has weathered all the others. However, as I saw it then, and as I see it now,
monseigneur,
it would be easier,
oui
, if she had help?”

“Meaning me, I imagine. Which, if I might hazard another guess, is
also
why you’re here now, scandalizing my valet,” Bramwell said, longing to kill anyone who could make the sunny, smiling Sophie cry, even himself. “You’ve been counting on me since the beginning, haven’t you? Since the thought of Sophie having a Season first occurred to you. Otherwise, you would never have allowed Sophie to come within ten miles of me, not if you could help it. Am I correct?”

Desiree’s smile was brilliant, turning her, for an instant, into the girl she had been. “Perhaps smarter than your father,
oui
? I do not much like men,
monseigneur
. I have enjoyed them, I’ll not lie and say I have not. You men are amusing, at least for a space. And women, too, have appetites. But I am no fool,
monseigneur
. Men use and discard. This I have always remembered. Ah, but Constance?
Mon Dieu
, how she could never see this, and how she did love them! How blind she was to their faults, their failings. Sophie is a little of both of us,
monseigneur
. A hard head, but still, alas, with the soft heart. And, for me, much too high an opinion of her fellow creatures. But you won’t hurt her, I begin to hope. I begin to hope for many things, which proves me a female with a foolish, wishful heart after all, no matter how hard I try to be like you men. That, perhaps, or I grow old and foolish. You said the
oncles
were coming today,
oui
?”

“Yes, they are. And this worries you? Why?” Bramwell looked at Desiree closely, trying to penetrate the woman’s speech, see into her mind. The more he learned about Desiree, he felt sure, the more he would understand Sophie. “Are you thinking they might try to hurt her?”

“Think,
monseigneur
. Men use and discard. It has always been so. And they don’t like looking behind them, to see if their discards still follow, if you take my meaning. Upchurch? He is simple enough, a fool of a man. The other two worry me,
monseigneur.
If you care at all for my Sophie, and I begin to think you do, they should perhaps worry you a little as well.”

She stood, walked to the door, then turned to him, one hand resting on the latch. “So this,
monseigneur
, is why I came to visit today. To warn you of the
oncles
,
oui
. For that, and to see for myself this gentleman who has made my Sophie so happy, so sad. You are a formidable enemy to all of my teachings, I believe. I have told Sophie no man knows how to love, but only how to want. It would please me very much,
monseigneur
, if you were to prove me wrong.
Bon jour
. You may call the rabbit back now, for I am gone.”

But Bramwell didn’t call Reese back into the dressing room. Instead, he sat on the chair in the corner for a long time, thinking, wrestling with his thoughts.

The French mentor-cum-maid, Bramwell decided a few hours later, had been worrying for nothing. Watching Sophie with her
oncles
was rather like watching a farce in which only one of the characters knew her lines, with the others forced to look hopefully to each other for clues as to what to do, what to say next.

They had come bearing presents, as all good uncles should, and Sophie, showing no outward signs of her unhappy night, had responded with
oohs
and
aahs
, tearing into each package like a favorite niece on Christmas morning. She held up ivory-sticked fans and silver-filigree nosegay holders and lace-edged handkerchiefs, then bestowed kisses on each of her uncles’ cheeks—all while keeping up a running monologue on how handsome the uncles were, how well she remembered them, how none of them had changed a bit. Not a bit.

Giuseppe had been paraded front and center, tipping his hat, then reaching into Lord Upchurch’s waistcoat pocket to find the sugary treat waiting for him there, just as if it hadn’t been a few more than a half dozen years since last the two had met. “He remembers me!” His Lordship had shouted, beaming, and then frowned in almost comical apprehension. “You don’t take him into society, do you, Sophie, child? I don’t think that would be good, you know.”

Ignatius had also been presented, the paisley shawl lifted from the cage so that the bird blinked itself awake, protested at being disturbed, then surveyed the company. When the parrot’s eyes lit on Sir Tyler, it said, in a near-perfect imitation of the man’s voice: “Demned coachie!
Squawk!
Quick! My flask! Secrets to tell!
Squawk! Squawk!
Demned coachie! Secrets to sell! Quick, my flask!
Squawk!
”

“Now that’s funny. Sounds just like you, you know,” Lord Upchurch commented, looking to Sir Tyler.

“Demned bird!” Sir Tyler had returned quickly, hotly, nearly squawking himself before he manfully calmed himself, laughed. “As if Constance would ever tell anyone about us. What say you, Buxley? Would our Constance ever do that?”

Lord Buxley vehemently shook his head. “Sell our secrets? Not Connie. Had more than enough money to go on with. Some of it ours, too. A good bit of it ours, now that I think on it. Money, land, trinkets. But all of it given freely,” he ended, looking to Bramwell.

“I’m sure it was,” Bramwell answered, wondering how much of the Selbourne fortune now resided in Constance Winstead’s daughter’s pockets, and finding that he didn’t begrudge her a penny of it.

And then Sophie was off again, gently teasing her uncles with remembered stories of their visits to Wimbledon and the fun they’d all had in their turn, leaving Bramwell to consider what he’d heard. Sir Tyler hadn’t looked pleased to hear the parrot mimicking him. Lord Buxley had perhaps protested too much about the unimportance of the money that had changed hands with the woman who had also changed important, prominent bed partners so many times.