Page 71 of A Much Maligned Miss

“I rather like it when you are high-handed,” he mused.

“High-handed?” She turned her head to look at him. “When have I ever—?”

“That time at The King’s Head,” he reminded her. “When you scolded me in front of that servant.”

She gazed at him in consternation, her expression wavering. “You liked it?”

He gave a slow smile. “I did.”

“Gervaise?” she asked suddenly and her tone sounded rather suspicious. “What was your governess like?”

“My governess?” He was surprised by the change in topic.

“Yes. Was she young and…rather attractive?”

He gave a laugh. “Alas, I never had one. It was tutors all the way for young Lord Atherton.”

“Oh. Well, perhaps you are trying to make up for it now.”

“By casting you in the role?” he enquired with lazy amusement.

“Yes.” She scanned his face keenly. “Perhaps I should set you some lessons.”

He gave her a considering look. “Hmmm. Perhaps you should,” he agreed, drawing out his cigarette case.

They spent the afternoon wandering up and down Regent Street, weaving in and out of the many boutiques and fancy shops. He had to keep a keen eye out for any acquaintance he might have the misfortune to come across but he continued lucky in that respect. It was true, they had to duck into a confectioner’s emporium to avoid the honorable Percy Roth, and he made sure they crossed the road when he spotted a gaggle of ladies ahead that he knew were all friends of his cousin Louisa.

He should probably have taken Caroline to a less fashionable quarter, but the fact was she deserved the best, and he wanted to give it to her. The stores in Regent Street and Bond Street knew him of old, they were aware of his provenance and his expectations. They knew if he did not settle with them personally, they could send his bills to his uncle’s townhouse and they would eventually be paid. Good old Uncle George felt very strongly about any stain on the family name.

As for Gervaise, he had no compunction when it came to the purchasing of hats, hosiery, hair ornaments, and any flashy bits of dress jewelry that caught her eye. He did insist on two discreet items of silver to adorn her everyday wear, a silver nightingale on a decorative chain and a pair of simple pearl earrings which he had her put on straightaway, but the rest was either pocketed or marked for delivery to The Citadel.

He would have liked to have bought her a ring to put off any curious bystanders, but he could not buy her a gold one in all honesty, and he did not want to set anything inferior in its place. Instead, he bought her a marcasite necklace, a brooch set with citrines, and a bracelet of moonstones.

With every purchase, Caroline’s eyes shone as brightly as if he was buying her diamonds and that bothered him. She tried to drag him out of one jeweler’s before he was ready. “You have spent a small fortune on me already,” she protested as he directed the assistant to a lead crystal pendant suspended on a long guard chain.

“It is nothing but paste and glass, Caroline,” he pointed out. “Stop fretting.”

She gave the price tag another horrified glance. “It is so expensive though! Besides, I am hungry. You have not fed me in hours, and Mr. Bailey is due at The Citadel at two!”

That wretched artist. He frowned at the reminder. “Very well, we will go and take luncheon. Wrap it up,” he instructed the hovering assistant. “And the matching drop earrings too.”

28

Caroline was not sure how it was arranged, but Gervaise managed to insinuate himself into proceedings so thoroughly that by six o’clock, she had her feet, swathed once again in ugly woolen socks, resting on his lap while she read The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon clad in a toga, her warm woolen shawl wrapped about her and her hair loose.

As for Mr. Bailey, he seemed perfectly content to converse with Gervaise as he painted. The sketches had been discarded now he was past the early stages and he was working with a huge canvas and a mess of untidy oil paints. He and Gervaise passed through a wide range of subjects including, though not confined to, mythology, public schooling, horse racing, appreciation of the arts, and capital punishment.

“If you could turn your head a little more to the left, Ambros—I mean, Miss Pomeroy, I would be very appreciative.” At some point along the way, the artist had picked up on the fact Gervaise did not care for the pet name he had bestowed upon her, and he now tried and failed to address her more respectfully.

So far, she had been hailed as Miss Pumphrey, Miss Pomeroid, and Miss Murgatroyd in quick succession. Mr. Bailey, it seemed, really was extraordinarily bad at remembering people’s names. He did not even try to recall the cats’ names. He hailed them respectively as Spot and Stripe, while they, perhaps justifiably, ignored him, pouncing and rolling around on the floor together nearby.

Caroline lowered her book with a satisfied sigh. She had ploughed through two stories, “The Wife” a short and touching tale about a spouse improving the lot of her new husband, and then “Rip Van Winkle,” an extraordinary tale of a man sleeping for twenty years after consorting with ghosts.

“Enjoying your book?” Gervaise murmured.

“I am!” She proceeded to tell him about both tales in detail. “Oh, but you’ve read it,” she suddenly remembered, her face falling. “And I’ve been going on and on!”

“It was a long time ago. I enjoyed the refresher.”