24th December 1815,
Saint Germaine’s Parfumerie,
High Street,
Mayfair.
The next day began better than the previous one. Miss Ryan encouraged Annette to experiment with her own receipts. She learned to favour cinnamon over other barks, and that bergamot mint was no substitute for spearmint oils. Herbs could be substituted for grasses to interesting affect, and were cheaper to procure. Annette was, however, no closer to creating a receipt of her own that encapsulated her cousin’s signature aroma. There were no scent samples that reminded her of moustaches, rounded waiscoats, or ‘wait and see’ waltzes.
“Perhaps your cousin does not inspire you,” Miss Ryan suggested when she inquired after Annette’s progress. “Scent does not suit everyone, you know.” She tapped a small pouch against her glass apparatus. “Your wages, my lady.”
“Wages?” Annette echoed, her mind blanking as she stared at the little pouch. “But I’m here to work off mama’s debt.”
“Your debt to Saint Germaine’s is covered by the end of this week, my lady. I trust you’ll not leave me light.” She pushed the pouch across the counter. “It won’t bite, you know.” She offered a smile so warm that Annette couldn’t help smiling back. “Take it, Lady Ryehurst, do. You’ve earned it all.”
Earned it…something about those words comforted Annette. She took up the pouch. It wasn’t terribly heavy. Indeed, another weight slid from her shoulders. The renewed lightness coursed through her like a miracle. Annette slipped her pouch into her dress pocket with an air of finality.
“You didn’t open it,” Miss Ryan noted.
“I wasn’t expecting it, Miss Ryan, so I thank you. You’ve been so kind.” She took a breath. “Will you call me Annette?”
“If you’ll call me Claire,” her companion replied. “The gratitude is mine, for I’ve other work to take me from these premises. It’s a great comfort to know the orders are filled in my absence. Even an Irishwoman cannot be in two places at once.”
“No, indeed, Miss Ryan – Claire. I thank you.” She curtsied. “I’m enjoying my time here with you very much. I should be happy to stay on all Christmas.”
“What an interesting idea, Annette. I shall certainly consider it.” Claire curtsied as a figure appeared at the door. “Your carriage awaits.”
“That’s not the vicar’s coachman,” Annette observed.
Claire peered through her shopfront. “Goodness! It’s not, either. It’s Mr Peterson, the jeweller from across the street. Let him in, dear, he may have a commission.”
Annette unlocked the door, curtsying to the gentleman’s bow. Claire showed their visitor her brightest smile.
“Good morning, Mr Peterson. How may we help you today?”
Before the jeweller had taken three steps beyond the threshold of Saint Germaine’s, he halted, speaking in a mysterious whisper.
“Actually, it’s Lady Ryehurst I’m here to see.”
Annette’s head shot up in surprise. “Indeed, sir?”
Peterson nodded. “I’ll ask you to step across the road, my lady. The matter is somewhat delicate.”
An awful sense of foreboding moved over Annette. This had something to do with her mother, she knew it. Her hand strayed automatically toward her cameo. Glancing quickly at her friend, she gathered her pelisse.
“Miss Ryan? Please be good enough to inform the vicar’s coachman as to my whereabouts.”
“Of course,” Miss Ryan replied, passing across a small flask. “Don’t forget this, my lady. It’s your own receipt.”
Lifting her chin a fraction, Annette wondered if this is how Lionel faced enemy ships in battle. She followed Mr Peterson across the road to his shop beside an abandoned confectioner’s. Once inside, she was struck by the fine workmanship of his gold and silver pieces. His tiaras reminded Annette of the one her mama had given for her coming out, long since sold.
The jeweller stood at the centre of his display, hands clasped as if in prayer.
“How may I assist you, sir?”
“I beg your pardon for burdening you so.” The poor man appeared truly distressed. “It’s on account of the countess that I wish to speak with you,” he continued. “She brought some jewels to sell, and they looked very fine. An earl’s widow, well, I didn’t question, and I—” He paused.
Annette seized the moment to reduce the pain for both of them. “My mother sold you paste gems?”
The man nodded.
“After telling you they were real?” she said clearly.
Another nod.
“I understand you, Mr Peterson, and I unreservedly beg your pardon. How much out of pocket are you, then?”
“Well, that’s just it, you see. I cannot sell the paste as genuine jewels, my lady. My reputation will be ruined forever, and it cannot be known I was duped so.”
“This is not good for either of us,” Annette agreed. “You ought not to bear the burden for the countess’s—”
“Error?” the jeweller suggested.
Annette’s cheeks flamed fire when she nodded. “You are too kind, sir.”
Her skin cooled the instant she realised what she needed to do. Closing her eyes lest her courage desert her, Annette reached her hands behind her neck. She unclasped her cameo. The simple movement leadened her heart, but it was the only item of value she had left. Her hand shook as she handed it across the counter.
“Will this suffice to cover you, Mr Peterson?” She licked her lips. “The banks are closed at present.” Not that this makes any difference.
The jeweller studied the pendant for some time through his loupe. Annette hardly blamed him for his caution, but Doctor Eversfield’s carriage stood outside a full ten minutes by the time Mr Peterson looked up.
“I thank you, my lady. This entirely settles the matter, though I must ask you to refrain from attending the countess to these—”
“Premises again.” Annette sighed. At this rate they’d be barred from all of Mayfair. “Understood, Mr Peterson. I shall do my best for you.” She curtsied, her gaze shifting to the black landaulet outside. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. I’ve an appointment this evening.”
She’d rather head home directly and throttle her mother. Or indulge in a good, solid cry. She’d never felt less like dancing with Lord Grantley – or anyone, for that matter – in her life. Mr Peterson locked the necklace in a small compartment and attended her to the door.
Doctor Eversfield awaited. “Francis will deliver you to Cheapside, my dear. Then I’m afraid he must attend his employer. I shall see you at the ball.”
Mr Peterson locked the necklace in a small compartment and attended her to the door, where Doctor Eversfield waited. “Francis will deliver you to Cheapside, my dear. Then I’m afraid he must attend his employer. I shall see you at the ball.”
“Oh yes. My cousin, Lord Grantley, escorts us tonight.” Annette spoke quickly, staring curiously at the vicar. “Are you not the coachman’s employer, Doctor Eversfield?”
The old man shook his head with a laugh. “Oh no, dear. Francis works for Lionel, you know. My nephew is generous enough to offer him to me when I’m in town. Does the countess dine with us this evening?”
“If you do not have a full complement at your table tonight, sir, it will not be my fault.” Annette forced a smile as the vicar waved her off. She remained entirely still on the journey home, heart reeling from the idea that she sat in the carriage of the man she – what? What? She couldn’t answer. Lionel remained a person she very much missed. Lionel is the man I miss. That sounded far less frightening than she’d expected.
Annette drew up her collar. Her neck seemed oddly chilled with her cameo gone. Gone like Papa, and now she truly had nothing of her father left. Certainly I have no dowry. She sighed deeply as the heaviness in her breast dragged further. Gazing beside her, she beheld another rose. A glowing warmth seeped through her as she drew it in, breathing smiles. Unfolding the petals carefully, Annette studied Lionel’s looped scrawl:
Vis saltare mecum?
His question had her smiling in an instant. She found a pencil in her reticule and scribbled her response on her dance card. One line:
Ita, mi amice.
Tying it to the flask of cologne she’d created, Annette placed her offering on the seat, hoping against hope her old friend would realise how much she missed him, and how she wished to see him tonight at the Christmas ball.
* * *
Having left his paper rose for Uncle Richard to bestow, Lionel stood in the shadows, lest people see his face. Lest Annie be repulsed… For a time he merely watched through Peterson’s window, seeking the girl from the bowery. She was there in the way Annie held her head and the solemn attendance she gave, but there were other, more marked changes in his Annie. His? He shrugged, knowing this was truth. He waited a beat for the objections over his appearance to whisper through him: they didn’t.
He wondered if she still used her bow or whether that, too, had been given up to aid the countess…anger shot through him as he considered all this woman had endured – in patient, painstaking silence until his uncle made it his business to help her. It’s what clergymen do of course, but Annie Ryehurst had more than one friend. Lionel stared intently at the softly rounded shape of her, the grace of her movements as she slipped her hands up to her neck and – he caught his breath. Her papa’s cameo.
He nearly burst into the shop at the expression on her face – anger, fear, humiliation, and something that looked like hope flowing out of her as she handed the man her treasured decoration – on his chain. The one he’d sent her so proudly from the first place he’d made port. It was so long ago now…all Lionel recalled was his pride at being able to send the girl he most wished to kiss a gift she might value. Surprising Annie had always been one of his favourite things to do.
She appeared to be conducting a perfectly plain transaction, but Lionel knew his Annie better than this. The shiver of her shoulders meant she held back sobs. Rapid blinking of her unusually dark lashes forestalled her tears. A party moved past him on the street, and he flung himself back, leaning against the doorway. Why didn’t anyone tell me?
He knew the answer: they did tell him. Uncle Richard told him. Admiral Harlowe offered a hint. Even Francis the boy-coachman reported Annie’s delight in his paper roses. The daughter of an earl, delighting in such simple gifts? Lionel should have guessed how bad things had become. No, he amended immediately. He shouldn’t have guessed – he should have made it his business to find out. It’s what a friend would do. What a man in love, does.
Perhaps after all, Uncle Richard was right. The admiral, too. Lionel had been remiss not to seek this woman out the moment he’d set foot in the capital. He wondered whether Grantley knew how things stood – why had he not proposed to Annie at once, then? Why had he not endeavoured to protect his cousin? Annie Ryehurst was more than suitable: She was wonderful. The new earl is a fool. He’s not the only one.
As soon as his carriage was safely out of sight, Lionel wrapped his scarf about his face and entered the jeweller’s. Mr Peterson looked him up and down, no doubt appraising the quality of his cloth and its cut. A good merchant knew his wares well and his patrons better. Whatever his measure, Peterson’s deep bow assured Lionel he’d passed assessment.
“Good day to you, sir. How may I be of service?”
Lionel hoped his voice remained clear through the woollen cloth. “I saw Lady Ryehurst hand you a trinket, Peterson.”
The man sharpened his gaze. “It’s no trifle sir. A full cameo on a golden chain.” He drew out Annie’s necklace for inspection.
Lionel traced the delicate features of the woman he’d loved all his life, sighing as though he were with her at last. But he wasn’t. Not yet. He straightened his bearing. He’d not be a coward. This is Annie’s choice. He raised his head, fixing the confused jeweller with his most determined stare.
“Name your price and put it in a rosewood box.”
“It’s for a lady?”
“Oh yes.” Lionel nodded. “It’s for the lady.”