Louise Allen - Tarnished Amongst the Ton

An hour later Sara was complaining, ‘So I have to be dragged around shops while you dither about shaving soap!’

‘You bought soap, too. Three sorts,’ Ashe pointed out, recalling just why he normally avoided shopping with females like the plague. ‘Look, there’s a fashionable milliner’s.’

He had no idea whether it was in the mode or not. Several years spent almost entirely in an Indian princely court was not good preparation for judging the ludicrous things English women put on their heads and he knew that anything seen in Calcutta was a good eighteen months out of date. But it certainly diverted Sara. She stood in front of the window and sighed over a confection of lace, feathers and satin ribbon supported on a straw base the size of a tea plate.

‘No, you may not go in,’ Ashe said firmly, tucking her arm under his and steering her across Duke Street. ‘I will not be responsible for explaining to Mata why you have come home wearing something suitable for a lightskirt.’

‘Doesn’t London smell strange?’ Sara remarked. ‘No spices, no flowers. Nothing dead, no food vendors on the street.’

‘Not around here,’ he agreed. ‘But this is the smart end of town. Even so, there are drains and horse manure if you are missing the rich aromas of street life. Now that’s a good piece.’ He stopped in front of a small shop, just two shallow bays on either side of a green-painted door. ‘See, that jade figure.’

‘There are all kinds of lovely things.’ Sara peered into the depths of the window display. Small carvings and jewels were set out on a swirl of fabrics, miniature paintings rubbed shoulders with what he suspected were Russian icons, ancient terracotta idols sat next to Japanese china.

Ashe stepped back to read the sign over the door. ‘ The Cabinet of Curiosity . An apt name. Look at that moonstone pendant—it is just the colour of your eyes. Shall we go in and look at it?’

She gave his arm an excited squeeze and whisked into the shop as he opened the door. Above their head a bell tinkled and the curtain at the back of the shop parted.

‘Good morning, monsieur, madame .’ The shopkeeper, it seemed, was a Frenchwoman. She hesitated as though she was surprised to see them, then came forwards.

Medium height, hair hidden beneath a neat cap, tinted spectacles perched on the end of her nose. Perfectly packaged in her plain, high-necked brown gown. Very French , he thought.

‘May I assist you?’ she asked and pushed the spectacles more firmly up her nose.

‘We would like to look at the moonstone pendant, if you would be so good.’

‘ Certainement. Madame would care to sit?’ She gestured to a chair as she came out from behind the counter, lifting an ornate chatelaine to select a key before opening the cabinet and laying the jewel on a velvet pad in front of Sara.

Ashe watched his sister examine the pendant with the care their mother had taught her. She was as discriminating about gemstones as he was and, however pretty the trinket, she would not want it if it was flawed.

His attention drifted, caught by the edge of awareness that he had always assumed was a hunter’s instinct. Something was wrong… no, out of place. He shifted, scanning the small space of the shop. No one was watching from behind the curtain, he was certain there were only the three of them there.

The vendeuse , he realised, was watching him. Not the pendant for safekeeping, not Sara to assess a potential customer’s reactions, but, covertly, him. Interesting . He shifted until he could see her in the mirrored surface of a Venetian cabinet. Younger than he had first thought, he concluded, seeing smooth, unlined skin, high cheekbones, eyes shadowed behind those tinted spectacles, a pointed little chin. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and moved her hands as though to stop herself clenching them. There was something very familiar about her.

‘How much is this?’ Sara asked and the woman turned and bent towards her. Something in the way she moved registered in his head. Surely not?

Ashe strolled across and stood at her shoulder as though interested in her answer. She shifted, apparently made uncomfortable by his nearness, but she did not look at him.

She named a price, Sara automatically clicked her tongue in rejection, ready to negotiate. He leaned closer and felt the Frenchwoman stiffen like a wary animal. She had brown hair, from what he could see of the little wisps escaping from that ghastly cap. They created an enticing veil over the vulnerable, biteable, nape of her neck.

‘I would want the chain included for that,’ Sara said.

He inhaled deeply. Warm, tense woman and… ‘Jasmine,’ Ashe murmured, close to the vendeuse ’s ear. She went very still. Oh, yes, this was just like hunting and he had found game. ‘You get around, madame .’

‘My varied stock, you mean, monsieur ?’ She spoke firmly, without a tremor. Her nerves must be excellent. ‘Indeed, it comes from all over the world. And, yes, the pendant suits your wife so well that I can include the chain in that price.’

‘But—’ Sara began.

‘You want it, my dear?’ Ashe interrupted her. ‘Then we will take it.’ Interesting, and subtly insulting, that his acquaintance from the quayside assumed he was married. Perversely he saw no reason to enlighten her immediately, and certainly not to pursue this further with Sara sitting there.

What sort of man did she think he was, to kiss and flirt with chance-met women if he had a wife at home? Ashe knew himself to be no saint, but he had been brought up with the example of marital fidelity before him daily and he had no time for men who were unfaithful to their wives.

Which was why he intended to choose with extreme care. This was England, not India, and flouting society’s rules would not be excused here. The family were different enough as it was, with their mixed blood, his maternal grandfather’s links to trade and his paternal grandfather’s reputation for dissipation.

Ashe had a duty to marry, to provide the next heir, to enrich the family name and title with the right connections and the estate with lands and money. He glanced down at his sister, reminded yet again that her own hopes of a suitable, good marriage depended on respectability. But he would be tied to the woman who brought those connections and that dowry with her. There had to be mutual respect or it would be intolerable. Love he did not expect.

‘This is your own shop?’ he asked as he peeled off his gloves in order to take banknotes from the roll Perrott had provided. He calculated currency conversions in his head, valuing the stock he could see. Even at Indian prices there was a considerable investment represented on the shelves around him.

‘Yes, monsieur .’ She was doggedly sticking to her French pretence. Used to negotiating with hostile Frenchmen in India, he could admire her accent.

‘Impressive. I was surprised that the name is the Cabinet of Curiosity, not Curiosities .’ Without the conflicting stinks of the river and the alleyway the subtle odour of jasmine on her warm skin was filling his senses. His body began to send him unmistakable signals of interest.

‘My intention is to provide stimulation to the intellect,’ she said, returning him his change. Her bare fingers touched the palm of his hand and he curled his fist closed, trapping her.

‘As well as of the senses?’ he suggested. She went very still. Her fingers were warm, slender. Under his thumb he felt her pulse hammering. He was not alone in this reaction. Stimulation to the senses, indeed .

‘To find the treasures here one needs curiosity,’ she finished, her voice suddenly breathless. Her accent had slipped a trifle.