Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(67)

“I… I have brought you a small gift, sir.” Rosalie handed him a simply wrapped package that Mira knew contained a dozen Indian silk handkerchiefs.

“How thoughtful of you, my dear,” Brummell replied, appearing to relax as he found himself on more familiar ground. He had no experience at conversing with his daughter, but he had much experience at receiving presents and took great delight in them. “There was no need, I assure you.”

“I am never certain… what is available to you.” “My life has become quite desultory,” Brummell responded sadly. “I enjoy none of the small pleasures that I had come to take for granted in England. But I have faith that all of that will change after this visit.” “I hope so.” Rosalie paused and then added with uncharacteristic timidity, “Mr. Brummell, you know that I have many means at my disposal to help you, and if you ever need—”

“No, no… please,” he interrupted, his eyes widening with alarm. “I would not ask anything of you, save the privilege of seeing you when it is possible.” He hesitated for a few seconds, and gave her a shy smile. “How is… your son?”

“Christian is very bright and sweet. I am told often that he is an uncommonly handsome little boy.” “He must resemble you.”

“Actually, he is more like his father, blond and charming—and very willful.”

“I am not surprised. The Berkeley strain is very strong.”

“But there is Brummell in him too,” Rosalie said. She exchanged a smile with her father, and then there was long silence, so long that Mira felt an almost palpable awkwardness surround all of them. Throwing Lord Alvanley a quick glance, she silently implored him to do something to break the tension. He stepped forward to touch the Beau’s elbow.

“Brummell, there is much business we should be about tonight. I regret that we have so little time… but we should be off to Threadneedle Street now. Our business must be undertaken and concluded in only a matter of hours. Before we leave, however, I would like to present Miss Mireille Germain… a guest of Lady Berkeley’s—who will be the toast of London this Season.”

Mira flushed, shaking her head. “Lord Alvanley, you are very kind, but I doubt—““If Alvanley says you will be the toast of London,” Brummell said, taking her hand and bowing over it gallantly, “have no doubt, you will be. His approval is all that is required.”

“I would not think of contradicting anything y have to say, sir,” Mira said in a respectful tone, and Brummell chuckled in a pleased manner.

“You are quite charming, my dear… you will indeed go far.” He looked at her quizzically, missing no detail of her small face. As a breeze blew in a cool gust, a long black-brown lock of hair escaped from the hood of Mira’s cape and curled gently over her shoulder. Brummell spoke to Rosalie in the manner of a man long accustomed to giving advice. “She is not a typical young miss… that will serve her in good stead. Make certain that when the Season opens you take her to a masquerade… dress her in something exotic. Simple, but exotic.”

“I will,” Rosalie promised. Her blue eyes glistened as she looked at him. “I am glad to have met with you again. The next time, I will come to France.”

“I would prefer you didn’t until my circumstances are better,” Brummell said, almost whispering. “Then I will have you to tea and we will have a long conversation.”

‘Yes. I would like that,” Rosalie replied with a tremor in her voice as he clasped her hand and pressed it lightly.

“Good.” Brummell let go of Rosalie’s hand and gave Mira a cordial nod before turning away to straighten his gloves and coat.

“My private carriage is waiting nearby,” Alvanley said to Brummell. Quickly he whispered to Rosalie, “Have your husband speak to Canning in the Foreign Office about finding Brummell a post. Perhaps that of consul in Calais. He needs it badly.”

Rosalie nodded, her eyes darting to the Beau, who was so busily engaged in neatening his appearance that he had not heard a word. Then the two men walked away slowly.

“Rosalie… ?” Mira asked when the pair had disappeared, resting a small hand on the other woman’s fine-boned shoulder in a protective gesture.

“I’m not certain what I wanted him to say.” Rosalie’s eyes gleamed with tears of frustration. “But whatever it was, he didn’t say it. We’ll never be more than strangers to each other. He looks at me with such regret in his eyes… regret that he doesn’t know me? Or regret that I was ever born?”

Mira noticed as she accompanied her friend back to the phaeton that they seemed to have switched roles temporarily. For once, she was soothing Rosalie, instead of the other way around. “0f course he is very glad that you were born—how could he help but be proud of a daughter like you? He just doesn’t know what to say—you yourself told me that he is frightened of confrontations and emotional scenes.”

“I know.” Rosalie fished around in her reticule for a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

Intuitively Mira sensed Rosalie’s need to talk about her feelings with someone far better acquainted with the situation than herself. “Your mother will understand… you’ll be able to talk to her about it soon.”

“I wish Rand were here,” Rosalie said in the midst of her watery sighs. “No one could understand like he would. But I can’t tell him because he would be so angry that I came here in the first place.” Her face crinkled as a fresh wave of emotion overcame her, and at the same time she chuckled tearfully at the pitiful picture she must have presented. It was one of Rosalie’s most endearing qualities, the ability to laugh at herself.