Page 65 of Scandalous

When the carriage stopped, Daphne looked up from her book, confused. She frowned when she saw the dressmaker’s shop. “Drat, I suppose we’d better go in. I shan’t have any peace until Rowena gets what she wants.”

Sarah enjoyed the next couple of hours greatly, even if her hostess did not. She was thrilled by the variety of fabrics and dress styles available. The women on Tenerife had said their shop was pitifully small and their designs outmoded, and now Sarah could see they’d spoken the truth.

Madam Saint Claire was a terrifying older woman who bullied Daphne and Sarah, but met her match in Rowena. The two women bickered endlessly over fabrics and styles. Sarah found their interaction amusing, but Daphne merely retired to a comfortable sofa and immersed herself in her book. As a result, Sarah became the battleground for the two women, her own preferences about color or style going completely unheeded.

After three-quarters of an hour of open warfare, Sarah found herself standing before a mirror in one of Madam’s “ready-made” creations while the tiny Frenchwoman pinned and tucked the gown for alterations. Apparently the dress had been part of a trousseau for a young woman who’d subsequently eloped with someone other than her fiancé. As a result, Madam had been left with dozens of dresses and undergarments she was most eager to sell. It was Sarah’s luck that the young woman had been almost as tall as she but somewhat larger. Sarah was speechless at the beauty of the garment.

The dress consisted of a crimson slip that was overlaid with beige lace. The effect was stunning. The red by itself would have been too garish, but the mere glimpse of it below the lace was subtle and elegant. The colors made Sarah’s skin glow and her hair look more golden than she’d believed possible.

There was a lovely full train that gathered at the middle of her back. The only embellishment was a broad beige velvet ribbon that ran beneath her bust and was caught up in the front by a lovely piece of jewelry that looked just like a cabochon-cut ruby set in antique gold.

“This can be ready tonight, mademoiselle,” Madam said, scrutinizing the gown in the mirror.

Sarah turned to Daphne, who was not paying attention. “My lady, will I need this tonight?”

Daphne’s eyes gradually focused on Sarah. “Oh, how lovely! Yes, that is perfect on you.”

Sarah flushed. “When do you think I will need this?”

“Take it for tonight. I’m sure Ramsay will come up with something. He never makes plans more than ten minutes in advance if he can help it,” she mumbled, returning to her book.

“I suppose I will take it tonight, if that is not too much trouble?”

“It will be done,” the Frenchwoman said. “Come, you must try on this ball gown. It was always too nice for that eloper,” she added, gesturing to the gauzy confection one of the shop girls was bringing forward.

“My goodness,” Sarah whispered. The beauty of the gown before her made the last dress look like a rag.

“Yes, my goodness, indeed,” Madam agreed, helping Sarah into yards and yards of chiffon the color of a summer sky.

As Sarah regarded her reflection in the mirror, she was ashamed to realize how desperately she wanted this gown. She knew she shouldn’t accept it from Lady Ramsay, but she could not help herself. It made her look beautiful. Or at least closer than anything else she had seen. She had to have it. The only thing she could think of as she stared at her reflection was the expression on Martín’s face when he saw her wearing it.

* * *

Martín was not surprised by the reception he received at the offices for the Secretary of War and the Colonies. As he listened to the extended obsequies Graaf and the haughty English lord exchanged, he imagined he could hear the sound of his purse strings being cut and his pockets being riffled.

There would be no compensation for the capture of the Blue Bird—that much was apparent. He hid his irritation and focused his attention on the endlessly maundering Graaf.

“And so, my lord, it is with the deepest gratitude that I thank Captain Bouchard. Without his assistance I would not be in England.” The Dutchman met Martín’s eyes. He knew better than anyone how annoying it must be for Martín to witness his feting.

“Ah, yes. Captain Bouchard.” Lord Bathurst looked at Martín as if he were a new type of beetle, one that he expected to classify in the dung category. “His Majesty is most grateful for your assistance as well as your discretion in the matter. The ship will be returned to his lordship’s father, who—I’m sure—will wish to make arrangements to compensate you for your efforts on his lordship’s behalf.”

Martín looked from Bathurst to the Dutch lordling. Graaf gave him an uncomfortable smile; the Dutchman already knew his father would not be forthcoming with compensation of any kind.

“Thank you, Lord Bathurst, for your generous offer. I believe my first officer is in the process of compiling a list of expenses that he can present to, er, his lordship.” Martín stood. He knew it was not his place to end the meeting, but he no longer cared.

“Er, yes, quite.” The older man rose slowly, his smile uncertain as he transferred Martín from the beetle category to that of unstable chemical requiring careful handling and disposal.

Good. Martín enjoyed the uncertainty of others. He turned to the Dutchman. “Tell me, will you be leaving directly for Amsterdam?” He’d hoped the meaning behind his question—when will you talk to your father about the money he owes me—was clear, but Graaf’s answer demonstrated Martín’s question was far too subtle.

“I believe I will stay for the duration of the Season. Perhaps I will see you at some of the entertainments?”

Martín merely raised his brows, the ludicrous suggestion not deserving of any response.

As he departed Whitehall, he couldn’t help being grateful Graaf was now off his hands and out of Ramsay’s house—and away from Sarah.

As to the matter of compensation? Martín snorted. He doubted he’d ever receive compensation for even the cost of Graaf’s journey back to England. Not that such a trifling amount was of any interest. And it would not cover even a fraction of his costs for this last journey, all of which would be on his shoulders.

He raised a hand, and a dilapidated hackney rattled to a stop in front of him.