Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(27)

“I have some free time in the next few days,” Rand remarked, helping her to slide her arms through the long sleeves of the pelisse. “I thought we might-pay a visit to an old acquaintance of mine.” As he pulled free a straying curl that was caught under the pelisse, he smiled down at her with blinding charm.

“Oh?” Rosalie had difficulty in focusing on what he was saying, so enmeshed was she in the sense of wellbeing that began to wash over her. Rand, she was beginning to discover, could be very nice when he wanted to. “Who?”

“Some call him the King of Calais.” “Who is that?”

“Beau Brummell, of course.”

Rosalie doubted that much of what Rand told her of Beau Brummell was true. She quizzed him the next two days during the coach ride to Calais, her expression full of delight and incredulity as Rand regaled her with colorful stories that seemed to have been spun by an active mind and fertile imagination. She began to suspect the gleam in Rand’s eyes that belied his perfect ly grave countenance, but he assured her repeatedly that everything he had said comprised merely the bare facts of Brummell’s existence. There were some things Rosalie could not dispute: the fact that Brummell had fled London amid scandal and a tremendous debt was well-known, for his Sevres porcelain, his library of fine books, furniture, wine collection, and works of art had all been auctioned off by Christie in a very public manner. His friendship with George IV, the prince regent, was also famous, for his highness and the most elegant members of the beau monde had often visited Brummell at number four Chesterfield Street, begging for his opinion as to their apparel and their style. Brummell, or the Beau, as he was most well-known, had a legendary way with a cravat, having invented the method of starching the neckcloth in order to make it gleaming and immaculately shaped.

“It is rumored,” Rand told her, “that he has three people make his gloves, one for the thumb, one for the fingers, one for the palm—”

“I don’t believe it!” Rosalie exclaimed, and she leaned a fraction closer, her eyes fixed on his. “Did you meet him often?” she inquired. It was all Rand could do not to plant a kiss on her soft mouth. He smiled, his dark brown lashes lowering slightly as his gaze flickered unnoticeably to her mouth.

“A few times. He would not deign to walk anywhere with me, however. He said that it was obvious by my stride that I would undoubtedly splash his boots.”

Rosalie grinned.

“He didn’t want to get his boots dirty?”

“He had the soles of them polished, as well as the tops and sides.”

“Such a man must have a very inflated opinion of himself.”

“For eighteen years he’s been the Prince of England, much more so than the fourth George. I imagine his fall from grace has had a humbling effect on him. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it hasn’t.”

“Are you certain he’ll welcome visitors?” “You don’t think he moved to Calais for no reason, do you? He has strategically located himself to receive all the English visitors to the Continent as they cross the Strait of Dover. Anyone coming to or from Paris practically trips over his doorstep.”

The Beau lived near the Hotel de Ville, the center of town, at the home of a French printer named Leleux. As was proper etiquette, Rand had previously sent a messenger with a calling card to inform Brummell of the visit. To express the greatest amount of consideration and attention to the nicety, it was customary to write E.P. (en personne) at the bottom of the card.

It had not occurred to Rosalie until near the end of their journey that there existed no proper or acceptable explanation for her relationship with Rand. Brummell would conclude that she was Rand’s mistress, since she was obviously not his wife or his sister, and the lack of a chaperon indicated that she was not of a respectable family. Many would regard her as a creature of weak morals, without respect for the sensibilities of decent people. It did not matter that those who condemned her hid equal if not worse vices behind the privacy of their doors, in the concealment of impressive titles and polished reputations. Appearance was all that mattered, and if casting stones was in order, she stood in plain view of those hypocritical eyes. She worried silently about the situation, hoping that Brummell would not hold such a thing against her.

She need not have worried. Rosalie would never again meet someone with manners as exquisite as Brummell’s. He ushered them into his apartment as soon as they arrived, as if there was not a moment to lose in making them comfortable. His present home consisted of three perfectly decorated rooms, one for conversation, one for dining, one for sleeping, furnished in a manner that was not at all what Rosalie had expected from a man heavily in debt. As Rand explained later, the Beau was an expert at borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. He procured almost limitless credit by employing his bountiful charm. A valet named Selegue was his only servant, a quiet little man who bustled about unobtrusively as Brummell welcomed them in.

“I am rejoiced that you have made it here!” he exclaimed, his eyes on Rand. “My apartment is humble, nothing like what I’m accustomed to, but in such a crude setting one must shine all the brighter, eh?”

Rosalie stared at him in fascination, having never seen a man more carefully attired. She could well believe that it took him two hours each day to tie his cravat, for each blinding white fold, each tiny crease, was a detail that bespoke care and consideration. He wore a blue coat with a velvet collar and a buff waistcoat, black trousers and matching black shoes that were polished until they reflected his stock. Brummell was thirty-eight, exactly ten years older than Rand, yet he looked so much older and so different that it was impossible to compare the two.