Louise Allen - Those Scandalous Ravenhursts Volume Two

‘But how did you go from your rescue—for which we must be profoundly grateful—to this?’ Lady Dereham was looking understandably puzzled. You did not know Gareth before, did you?’

‘Like all the men of your family, Bel dear, Gareth is nothing if not ingenious.’ Lady Sebastian’s smile was one of pleasurable reminiscence. Jessica remembered the circumstances of the Grand Duchess’s unconventional romance. ‘I presume Miss Gifford is unknown in London, is presently unemployed and, being a young lady of intelligence and integrity, is a much safer partner in this deception than one of her frailer sisters.’

Jessica nodded. ‘You are quite right, Lady Sebastian. Gareth, er…Lord—’

‘Call him Gareth,’ Lady Dereham interjected. ‘And I am Bel and this is Eva. We are all going to become very good friends before this is out, I should imagine.’

Jessica cast a dubious glance at the Grand Duchess, who smiled her wicked smile again. ‘Eva,’ she confirmed. ‘Now, you were saying, Jessica?’

‘Gareth is concerned that Lady Maude is not implicated in this, in case it goes wrong, and he was also anxious not to involve anyone who might be less than discreet.’

‘And what is to become of you when this is all over?’ Bel enquired. ‘I imagine that reverting to being a governess again—unless in the Scottish Highlands—might be somewhat dangerous.’

‘I receive a cottage and a pension.’ Jessica braced herself for some critical comment about such largesse, but none came.

‘Very reasonable,’ was all Bel said. ‘You will enjoy that better than being at the beck and call of some demanding employer and their obnoxious brats, I dare say.’

‘Not all brats are obnoxious,’ Eva remarked. ‘My son, naturally, is an angel.’ Somehow, if he took after his mother, Jessica doubted it. ‘As will yours be, I am sure,’ she added with a sly sideways and downwards glance at Lady Dereham’s waistline.

‘Eva! How did you know?’ Bel laid one hand protectively over her flat stomach.

‘When I saw Reynard last night he was looking stunned—I recognise the symptoms of a man coming to terms with incipient fatherhood—and you are looking a trifle pale.’ Eva smiled, ‘However, I suspect mine will be born first.’

‘You, too? Eva, how wonderful!’ The two embraced while Jessica sat in tactful silence through a confusing exchange about what Freddie would make of it, how insufferably smug Jack was, dates and something about sea air that made Bel blush.

‘Jessica, I am sorry.’ Eva turned to her, her cheeks flushed, her expression apologetic. ‘We are neglecting you.’

‘Not at all. May I offer my congratulations to you both?’

‘Thank you. Oh, look, we’re here. Borrow this and use the veil.’ Eva whipped off her bonnet and placed it on Jessica’s head.

The door was opened, the steps let down and Jessica found herself in a wide hallway, confronting a man whom she supposed from his clothing must be the butler. With his brawny frame and broken nose he appeared to have been recruited from the prize-fighting ring. Perhaps the Grand Duchess employed him as a bodyguard as well.

‘Grimstone, is his lordship at home?’

‘No, my lady. I understand Lord Sebastian is at his club.’

‘Excellent. This is Miss Gifford, Grimstone. You have not set eyes on her, nor have you ever heard of her.’

The butler gazed at a point somewhere over Jessica’s head without a flicker of expression. ‘Monsieur Antoine is in your dressing room, my lady.’

Jessica regarded the room and its occupants with some trepidation. A large dressing table draped in net supported a wide mirror and an elaborate silver-mounted vanity set. Next to it was a wash stand with ewer and basin and, standing waiting before it, was a slender, intense-looking man in a black suit, a languid-looking youth and a woman she guessed was Lady Sebastian’s dresser.

She tried not to stare about her at the array of gowns draped over chairs or hanging from the blue brocade screen in the corner. Hat boxes teetered in a pile and gloves spilled out of their packaging. Bel was not so reticent.

‘Eva, you must have bought out every shop in town!’ She picked up a gauze scarf and ran it through her fingers.

The Grand Duchess laughed, shedding her furs and gloves into the hands of her silent dresser. ‘Thank you, Veronique. But of course I have been shopping—I haven’t been to Paris yet this year. One must dress, my dear! Ah, Monsieur Antoine.’

‘Your Serene Highness.’ Eva did not correct him and from the elaborate flourish of his bow Jessica guessed he would have been mortified if he been unable to extract every drop of enjoyment from his contact with royalty. ‘In what way may I serve you?’

‘This lady, who as you see has naturally a most modest and elegant style…’ Elegant? ‘…has, for reasons which I cannot reveal, to appear in society in quite another guise. Naturally, this matter requires the utmost discretion. I trust I may rely upon you?’

‘A matter of state!’ Eva did not disabuse the coiffeur of this useful notion. ‘Our lips are sealed, your Serene Highness. May I enquire in what way madame should be transformed?’

‘Into a lady of some…experience. A lady who will be invited to the very best parties, naturally, but one who will be popular with the gentlemen, shall we say?’

‘I comprehend entirely, ma’am. Dashing, a little dangerous, perhaps? A lady of powerful attraction.’

‘Precisely,’ Bel said, perching on a stool and untying her bonnet. ‘Dangerous.’

The hairdresser advanced upon Jessica with finicking small steps, his head on first one side, then the other. She tried to look experienced, dashing and dangerous and knew she was failing comprehensively to look anything but a governess out of her depth. It was an effort of will not to shift from one foot to the other under the intensity of his stare.

‘If madame will kindly shed her pelisse and bonnet and sit here.’ He gestured to a stool set before the dressing table. The dresser darted forward, removing the items and taking Jessica’s gloves. Feeling as though she was going to the dentist, Jessica sat.

‘Remove the pins!’ The acolyte darted forward and began to deconstruct the tight, careful coiffure pin by pin, then combed out the braids. Her hair, blonde, waving and long enough to reach to her elbows, fell about her shoulders. ‘Hmm.’ Monsieur Antoine picked up a strand, rubbed it between his fingers, peered closely at it, then dropped it dismissively. ‘A natural, most English blonde.’ That did not appear to be a recommendation. Jessica seemed to recall hearing somewhere that blondes were out of fashion.

‘It is a very pretty colour,’ Bel said supportively.

‘But not dangerous,’ Monsieur Antoine pointed out incontrovertibly, beginning to prowl again. ‘Not dashing.’ He came close and stared into Jessica’s eyes as she blinked back. ‘Gold, that is what is needed, with just a hint of red.’

‘Won’t that be a touch brassy?’ Anxious, Jessica frowned into the mirror at her pale skin and long—but blonde—lashes. What would she look like with brassy hair?

‘Brassy? Brassy? Madame, remember, I am an artiste! We speak here of guineas, of glow, of subtle excitement. Of élan , panache!’ He scowled, perhaps daunted by the reality in front of him, then made a recover. ‘And curls. This demands curls. The scissors, Albert .’

‘You are not going to cut it?’ Jessica grabbed handfuls defensively.

‘But of course; as it is it is impossible—the hair of a governess.’ He stood poised, the scissors in hand, having delivered what was apparently the ultimate insult. ‘I assume madame has come from the Continent…’