Authors: Suzanne Enoch
Sarala shook herself. “I think I’ll wear that one tonight,” she said to her maid, indicating the deep blue gown her maid held in her left hand. “With the silver barrettes.”
“But my lady, the marchioness told me specifically that you was only to wear the gowns made since you’ve been in London. She said the others were too outdated, and some of ’em not even in the English style. All those was to go to the rag and bone man.”
Sarala took a deep breath. Perhaps she’d encouraged the seamstresses in Delhi to stray a bit toward the native style, but she’d been raised to appreciate it, after all. Perhaps the blue gown had a snugger waist and lower neckline than the gowns she’d acquired in London, but there was nothing wrong with it. And it was not outdated. The red one she’d worn night before last had been of a similar style, and
that man
had seemed to appreciate it.
Of course that particular gentleman would probably never speak to her again. All she could hope for at this juncture was that he was too much of a gentleman to cut her in public. Just the idea that he could ruin her for besting him in a business venture was patently unfair; that he would actually do so, unthinkable.
Still, best be a little cautious tonight, just in case. With a grimace she flicked her fingers toward the pale peach gown her mother had particularly liked. “The blue one goes back in the wardrobe—not to the rag and bone man.”
Jenny curtsied. “Yes, my lady. And you’ll be splendid in the peach. I’ll go press it.”
Splendid and perfectly, properly British. Yes, she’d also been raised British, but the most fun she’d had in India had been when she’d managed to steal away from home for an outing with some of her native friends. Her mother made sense, insisting that she fit in here now, but Sarala didn’t particularly like being in this wretched, rainy place to begin with. If she needed an example to prove it, the thing she most looked forward to was another encounter with Lord Charlemagne Griffin, and that couldn’t possibly come out well.
He’d kissed her yesterday, and she’d let him. She never did anything like that during a business negotiation. Business was business. Of course it didn’t hurt that her opponent in this instance had high cheekbones, a sensuous, expressive mouth, and dark hair that brushed his collar—or that he had shoulders which filled out his coat, thighs which looked as though he spent as much time on horseback as on foot, and not an ounce of fat on his lean, muscular frame.
Sarala scowled. Yes, he was devilishly handsome, and powerful, and he knew it. He was arrogant enough to tell other people of his pending business dealings and then expect that they would do nothing about it. Well, yesterday he’d been taught a lesson. And she had acquired a fortune in silk—which, if nothing else, would help her father get out from under some of the debts Uncle Roger had left behind.
She sat in one of the overstuffed chairs beneath her window, picked up her discarded book on Roman history, and glanced outside. Thankfully her mother’s daily set of luncheon guests had begun departing—in another quarter of an hour the house would be free of the gossip brigade. That everyone had missed Lord Charlemagne’s visit yesterday had been a tremendous stroke of luck, but even the strategy she and her father had begun planning afterward for reselling the silks to a selection of high-class dress shops hadn’t distracted her from realizing how close a call she’d had. A lady didn’t conduct business, and she could only continue to do so if she, her father, and Charlemagne were the only ones who knew about it. India had been so much easier.
Sarala lifted the skirt of her dressing gown to her knee. On her left ankle the dainty henna tattoo her friend Nahi had given her as a farewell gift from India still showed, though it had begun to fade a little. Sarala smiled, lowering her skirt again. If her mother ever found out that she’d been tattooed, temporarily or not, she would have the devil to pay.
Jenny scratched at the door and opened it again. “My lady, the marchioness has asked to see you in the drawing room.”
Sarala nodded, unhappy if unsurprised, and reached for a green muslin day gown. Most of her mother’s friends were old acquaintances from more than two decades ago before she’d left London for India. The majority of them seemed to be hapless busybodies moaning over the current state of things and trying to marry off their daughters or sons to one another’s children. They were probably the reason Charlemagne had acquired such a low opinion of women and thought they had no head for business.
She certainly had no objection to marrying, but she wasn’t going to be bandied about and matched hither and thither to fit some mama’s matrimonial puzzle. She’d been a marquis’s daughter for less than a year, and she didn’t consider that the fact had increased or decreased her value. Other people did. Of course with the way the lot of them frowned at her hair and her tanned skin and what they whispered was her foreign accent, they probably wouldn’t want her joining their family, anyway.
Her mother sat before the fire in the large drawing room; despite her stated delight at being back in civilization, as she called it, the marchioness seemed to be having her own problems adjusting to the cooler weather. Sarala could already almost recite the coming conversation; a lecture on behavior or etiquette inevitably followed one of her mama’s luncheons. What surprised her, though, was the presence of her father, leaning against the mantel and looking distinctly as though he wished to be elsewhere.
“Yes, Mama?”
“My dear, your father and I have been discussing the way you’ve adapted to the family’s new position and residence.”
“What have I done wrong now?” Sarala asked flatly.
“Nothing. It’s more…something we’ve done to you.”
Sarala frowned. “Beg pardon?”
The marchioness cleared her throat, then motioned at her husband. “Your father has something to tell you.”
Howard Carlisle shook his head. “This is not my idea. I’m here under protest.”
“Howar—Fine. Fine.” Sending a scowl at her husband, the marchioness sat forward. “You know that your father and I settled in India with the idea of staying there, and that his position with the East India Company…benefited from his ability to gain the trust of the local citizenry.”
“I know all that,” Sarala replied. “I certainly have no regrets about growing up in Delhi, if that’s what’s troubling you.”
“It is.
I
—we—have regrets about the way we raised you in Delhi. As I was saying, we never expected to return to England, and so when your father insisted that we give you a native name, I didn’t object too strongly. Now, however, we
are
here, and you are an English marquis’s daughter. It’s not Indians whose trust and cooperation we need to cultivate any longer.”
Deep worry burrowed into Sarala’s chest. This sounded more serious than the what-to-wear talk, or the how-to-be-demure lecture. “Yes?” she prompted after a moment.
“We—that is, your father and I—have decided that in order to ease your path into proper London Society, you should be known by and referred to as Sarah, rather than Sarala.”
Sarala’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?” she stammered, while her father pretended to be elsewhere.
“Sarah is an English name. It will serve you well, and you’ll have an easier time making friends and meeting eligible young gentlem—”
“You’re changing my
name
?”
“As I said, it’s better for y—”
“This was the idea of those gossiping friends of yours, wasn’t it?”
The marchioness put out a hand. “Please do not insult my friends. Think of it as everyone else does, Sarah. What’s the f—”
“Sarala,” Sarala broke in.
“Sarah,” her mother countered in an equally firm voice. “What’s the first thing everyone says when you’ve been introduced?”
“Here? They comment on what a pretty and unusual name I have.”
The marchioness gazed at her. “And then what? Why have you only danced a half-dozen times since we arrived here? Why haven’t you been invited out to tea or to go walking? Why don’t you have any friends in London?”
“Mama, that’s not fair. We’ve been here less than a fortnight. Both you and Papa have friends from before you left London. I don’t.”
“And you won’t, if the first impression everyone has of you is that you’re odd. It’s bad enough that your skin is so dark—I always said you should wear a bonnet and carry a parasol, and you never listened to me.”
Obviously her mother had made up
her
mind. Sarala turned to her father. “Papa, you can’t be seriously considering this. It’s absurd. You named me Sarala.”
The marquis shifted. “Consider that we’re only shortening your name. Sarah can be your pet name, except that it’s how everyone will know you. I know it’s a difficult thing, but in this instance I do think your mother has the right of it.”
Sarala backed to the doorway, feeling as though someone had drugged her and spun her into some outlandish nightmare. “I like my name. I’ve had it for two-and-twenty years. I’m not giving it back.”
“You’re going to have to, Sarah. We haven’t made this decision lightly. You will have to, unless you want to be miserable here in England. And there must be other changes, as well. I’ve already discussed your wardrobe with your maid, and don’t think your father and I didn’t notice that paint on your face night before last.”
“It’s fashionable in Delhi.”
“For the last time, Sarah, we are not in Delhi any longer! And we never will be again, unless you marry some peer who wants to make his living there. When you return, then you may change your name back, but not until then.”
“I cannot believe you would do this.” Growling, Sarala stormed out of the drawing room and back up to her bedchamber. Her parents could call her whatever they liked; she certainly couldn’t stop them. As for herself, she’d grown up as Sarala, and that was who she would remain.
If she went by Sarah in her own mind and in her own heart, the next thing she knew, she would become one of those English ladies who didn’t conduct business. A blink after that, she would be selling the blasted silks to Charlemagne Griffin for a shilling. And that was
not
going to happen. Ever.
“It’s not an economic argument. Those give me a headache. It’s a statement about how much I don’t care about whatever it is you and Melbourne are arguing over.”
“Twit.”
Melbourne’s daughter, Penelope, lowered her glass of lemonade. “Papa, Uncle Shay said ‘twit.’”
“Yes, I heard him, Peep. Thank you very much. Mind your tongue, Charlemagne.”
“That’s right,” Peep continued. “There are ladies present.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Lady Caroline, Zachary’s auburn-haired bride, said with a chuckle.
“Me, neither.” Eleanor, Lady Deverill, handed the salt down the long table to her brother. “In fact, I’d have to say that I agree with Shay’s assessment. You are a twit, Zachary.”
“Thank you, Nell,” Charlemagne returned, “both for the salt and the agreement.”
Pasting an affronted expression on his face, Zachary leaned forward to gaze at their brother-in-law, Deverill, the only one who hadn’t contributed to the conversation. “And what do you say, Valentine?”
“You’re a twit.” The marquis returned to his pudding.
“Oh, thank you very m—”
“Papa, now everybody’s saying it!”
“Yes, everyone has appalling manners,” the duke agreed. “Desist. Valentine, do you know of anything that might persuade Morgan to change his vote in Parliament tomorrow?”
“I presume you mean blackmail,” the Marquis of Deverill replied. “I’ve heard that he finds ladies’ night rails very comfortable.”
Peep giggled, wide-eyed. “He wears ladies’ clothes?”
The marquis lifted an eyebrow. “Only at night.”
Melbourne cleared his throat. “I was actually asking about political activities. But given our audience,” he continued, with a pointed glance at his seven-year-old daughter, “we can continue this later.”
Valentine nodded. “You started it. I’m perfectly happy to stay out of the Griffin dynastic struggle. I have your sister, and that is all I require.”
“God, you sound domestic,” Zachary chortled.
“At least I’m not obsessed with cows.”
Generally Charlemagne enjoyed these evenings, when the extended Griffin clan came together for dinner before a soiree or an evening at the theater. Tonight, however, his thoughts were already on the ball at Lady Mantz-Dillings’, and more specifically, on who else might be attending. He hadn’t seen the devious chit in a day, and only the devil knew what she might have done with his silks in that time.
“Yes, Shay, we do get first pick of your silks, don’t we?” his sister, Eleanor, was saying.
He shook himself. “Certainly. As soon as I get them sorted out, Nell, you and Caroline may select a bolt each.”
“Is the quality as fine as you’d hoped?”
Lady Caroline Griffin, the newest member of the family, thankfully had a wit and intelligence that more than equaled her husband Zachary’s, but she still showed a bit of reserve in Melbourne’s presence. Charlemagne couldn’t blame her for that; her claim to nobility lay in her great-grandfather, and she was a professional portraitist, of all things. And she knew that Melbourne had initially disliked the match. To his credit the duke had softened considerably, and that was probably in part because Caroline could definitely hold her own when push came to shove.
“They are the finest I’ve ever seen,” he returned. “I should make a tidy profit.” If he could wrest them back from a certain clever, stubborn, exotic chit. After a moment he realized that everyone still gazed at him. “What?”
“And you tease me over my obsession with cattle.” Zachary grinned at him. “I only asked if you were going to sell the lot of it up in Milford, or piecemeal here in London.”
“I’m not certain yet.” And if some of the silk began appearing in local dress shops, he wanted an excuse for it.
Melbourne eyed him. “I thought you had Tannen chomping at the bit for the entire lot.”
Damn. This was the last time he would count his chickens or his eggs before he had the ownership papers in hand. Neither, though, was he going to admit to having been outmaneuvered by a chit just off the boat from India. “I’m reassessing,” he improvised.
“They
must
be good quality, then.”
“You have no idea, Seb.”
As soon as he could manage it without appearing to be rushing, Charlemagne got everyone away from the dinner table and out to their waiting coaches. There. At least he’d been fairly smooth about it, and now he could determine whether Lady Sarala Carlisle was brave enough to face him on neutral ground, or whether she would only stand up to him in the safety of her own home.
“Why the hurry?” Zachary asked as he settled into the coach beside his wife.
Charlemagne opposite him, conjured a frown. “What hurry?”
“It’s barely half past nine, and Cook made strawberry cakes.”
“If we waited for you to finish eating, we’d never leave,” Charlemagne retorted.
Zachary looked thoughtful. “Can’t argue with that, I suppose.” He reached over and took his wife’s hand, twining his fingers with hers. “Did Caroline tell you that Prinny wants to sit for her next month? The finished portrait’s to go up in the main gallery at Carlton House.”
“If His Majesty approves of it,” his wife added, shaking her head at him.
“I’m not surprised,” Charlemagne said. “In fact, the only thing about you that continues to astonish me, Caroline, is that you agreed to marry Zachary.”
She snorted delicately, looking sideways at her husband. “He’s very persuasive, and much more artistically inclined than you give him credit for.”
For the moment Charlemagne settled for nodding. He liked Caroline, and he was glad that Zachary had been able to persuade her to marry him. They obviously loved each other—and while he wasn’t jealous, he certainly recognized the rarity of the phenomenon. “The rest of us give him credit. We just don’t like to let him know it. Swelled head and all that.”
“Why, thank you, Shay.”
Charlemagne shrugged. “Melbourne and I aren’t completely unobservant.”
“Neither am I. Who was the chit you were dancing with the other night?”
With some effort Charlemagne managed a puzzled look. “Eloisa Harding? You know her.”
“Not her. The glittering one with the black hair.”
“Oh, her. She’s Hanover’s niece. The new marquis’s daughter.”
“They’ve just come from India or something, haven’t they?”
“I believe so.”
“Hm. From her coloring and choice of wardrobe, apparently the chit’s gone native.”
“Apparently.” Charlemagne shifted. The less conversation about Sarala Carlisle, the better. At least until he’d reacquired his silks.
“Do you believe Valentine about Morgan?” Zach continued, thankfully changing the subject without having to be prompted to do so.
“He has a tendency to know odd things about people. It’s rather like having a professional spy in the family.”
“As long as he’s not gathering information about us.”
And amen to that. It would be bad enough if Melbourne was to discover how he’d managed to bungle what he’d boasted to be an easy deal; if London at large found out he’d been bested by a chit, he’d never live it down. And in the business circles he frequented, that could be fatal—to his reputation, anyway. The situation, therefore, needed to be corrected, and as quickly as possible.