Captain Durant's Countess(9)

Maris wished she’d had a dozen hatpins to repel David Kelby five years ago. But they wouldn’t have been enough. The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to repel him, idiot that she was. “He does not live at Kelby Hall. But he does visit when he wants something, which is much too often. You’ll have to be on guard against him.” She turned away from a lacework butterfly with reluctance.

“Did he serve?”

“What? Oh, you mean in the army? Oh, heavens no. He’s much too in love with himself to get in harm’s way.” Maris tried to imagine David killing anyone with a weapon other than his vicious tongue and came up short. Henry believed his nephew was the cause of Jane’s death, but David would never bestir himself to actually put his hands around someone’s throat. He would somehow convince his enemies to strangle themselves.

Well, that wouldn’t work, would it? Once one was deprived of oxygen to the brain, one’s hands would drop and—

Oh, good grief. Where was her mind taking her? Captain Reynold Durant unsettled her even as he continued to steer her down the fashionable side street.

“Here we are. I told you it wasn’t far.” He opened the door, and a delicate bell above tinkled. The shop was empty, thank goodness, because the vexing man was still at her side. No gentleman accompanied a lady to a dress shop unless he was her protector or her husband. Surely he was aware of that.

“Thank you, Captain. You may leave us now.” Maris hoped the chill in her voice was clear enough.

“What, and deprive myself of all the fun? Come in, come in—what is your maid’s name, Lady Kelby?”

Maris was too shocked to speak.

“Betsy, sir,” her maid supplied unhelpfully. If she was worth a fraction of what Henry paid her, she’d push Captain Durant out the door to protect her mistress. But alas, Betsy had a moonstruck expression on her face as she took in the blackguard’s impressive physique and dashing smile.

“Don’t worry about indiscretion, ladies. Madame Bernard has a back room for her best patrons, which you are about to be. I’ll just tuck myself in a corner and offer some advice. Ah, Fleur, ma cher! Here you are. See whom I’ve brought. The Countess of Kelby who is in desperate—one might even say dire—need of you.”

The bell had summoned a large, forbidding Frenchwoman who looked like no one’s “cher,” or much of a flower, for that matter. Her hair and eyes were iron-gray and the rest of her resembled a battleship ready to launch a hundred deadly cannon balls. She glanced at Maris with disapproval.

“Pah. I do not believe this drab could be the Countess of Kelby. I do not dress your loose women on credit, Reyn, so turn about and try to charm another hapless modiste.”

“On my honor, Fleur. You must apologize at once.”

Maris started at Captain Durant’s blistering tone. He had been the epitome of lazy, careless charm since she bumped into him on the street, but he was suddenly rather frightening. Those black eyebrows!

Oh, what if her baby inherited those eyebrows? She’d have to get a special brush.

Fleur Bernard dropped to so deep a curtsey Maris worried if the older woman could rise up again. “Pardon, your ladyship. This coxcomb is ever one for playing tricks upon me. He and his army friends—well, I shall spare you the tales. You are a most respectable woman, yes? I am covered in shame. Please forgive me.”

Not having been born to the peerage, Maris had always felt uncomfortable when a fuss was made over her rank. She thought of herself as her husband’s secretary first and his countess much further down the list. “It’s . . . it’s all right. Please do get up.”

Reyn extended a hand and helped return Madame Bernard to her not inconsiderable height. She was exquisitely dressed. Her dress was black, but there was nothing funereal about it, trimmed as it was with thick lapis and silver braiding which shimmered in the shop lights. If Madame’s own clothes reflected what she could do for her customers, Maris was ready to forget her earlier rudeness and submit to her intense gray stare.

“Come into my private parlor, my lady. Yvonne! Some tea and biscuits for our special customers,” she called to her assistant.

Damn. That was another witness to her folly. But soon people at Kelby Hall would see her with Captain Durant. Maris would pray that if he was successful, her servants, and more important, David, couldn’t count.

“That’s not necessary, Madame Bernard. I’m not at all hungry.”

“C’est rien. Choosing clothes is hard work, Lady Kelby. One must be fortified. Captain Durant, will tea be sufficient, or shall I have Yvonne fetch some brandy?” The dressmaker pronounced his name in the French manner. Maris imagined from his dark coloring he had Norman or Celtic blood. Henry had both. Was that why Durant had been chosen? Or had none of the men Henry interviewed been desperate enough to undertake this particular mission?

No, that wasn’t right. Henry had not explained the nature of his need to the other two. He told her he’d been taken with Captain Reynold Durant from the instant he spied him riding up the drive.

“You do think ill of me to offer me brandy at this hour, Madame. It’s not yet dusk. In fact the sun is shining.”

“It is dusk somewhere, Captain, and you are not known to follow the conventions.”

Captain Durant gave a husky laugh, which to Maris’s ears seemed quite wicked. “No, I am not. But I’m giving up my ramshackle ways. The countess’s husband has consented to employ me for a few months, and I’m on my best behavior.”

“If that is the case,” Madame Bernard said archly, “then I invite you to leave my shop at once. Thank you for bringing her to me, but you will not wish to compromise the lady’s reputation and anger her husband. You might lose this desirable position.”

Maris suppressed her grin at Captain Durant’s obvious dismay. He had been most effectively routed. He was not her lover—yet—and had no right to sit and watch her shimmy into dresses.

“But of course. What was I thinking? Ah! I never think things through, Madame. Lady Kelby, forgive me for being so presumptuous. Betsy, I commend the countess’s care into your capable hands. Oh! And just one more thing. You will be pleased to know, Lady Kelby, that the appointment you arranged for me was a smashing success. I visited with the gentleman just this morning. There will be no impediments whatsoever to my performing successfully in my new occupation. I am clean as a whistle. What can that mean, anyway? One would think whistles would be most unhygienic. All that spittle. A bientot.” He tipped an imaginary hat and left.

Some of the air in the room went with him. Maris put a gloved hand on a display case to steady herself. The captain’s casual confession that he was not syphilitic was welcome, of course, but to announce it in such a way was preposterous.

He was so very improper. Impulsive. Indiscreet. Maris had never met anyone like him.

“Good riddance, oui? Right this way, my lady. The captain, he is full of so boyish charm. Très charmant. One could forgive a woman for losing her virtue to him. You must forgive me for coming to an entirely incorrect conclusion earlier. I should have recognized at once that you are not his type at all.”

The pendulum had swung in an equally insulting direction. First, Madame Bernard had thought her a lightskirt; now she was too unattractive to capture the captain’s attention as his lover.

Maris regretted she had ever sought to improve her wardrobe. She was tempted to leave in a justifiable huff, but somehow was swept into the private room and seated in a plush velvet chair.

“Now tell me what you have in mind, my lady.”

“I don’t really have time for all this,” Maris said, waving her arm at the squares of fabric and pattern books that were artfully stacked on a large drum table. “I was hoping to find something ready-made. My husband is expecting me home tomorrow. And I don’t like to . . . to fuss over my clothing. I like simple things.”

“Ah. I see you are a practical woman, but you do have a lovely figure.” Madame Bernard stepped back in contemplation, a finger on her chin. “I may have one or two dresses in the back that might suit you. But you would be much happier—and more à la mode—if I took some measurements and made a new wardrobe just for you.”

“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary.” Maris didn’t need an entire new wardrobe, just a few things so she wouldn’t be such a dowd. Not that she cared one jot what Captain Durant thought of her. He would soon be taking those dresses off her, anyhow.

There was a knock on the door, and Yvonne entered with refreshments.

“Very well. But humor me, my lady. Allow me to send you one special dress. You will trust me to select the fabric and the color, yes? Think of it as a sample of what I can do to show you to advantage. When you come back to London and have the time, we can sit down with fashion plates. It will take Yvonne no time at all to get her tape. She is very efficient. Please make yourself comfortable. I shall return with the dresses I have on hand, and Yvonne can measure you after you try them on.”