Three. Noelle Mack

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СКАЧАТЬ assumed that it was still clutched to its mistress’s bosom. No doubt it wanted to get down, if only to preserve a few shreds of doggy dignity.

      “There, there, my poor Beastie,” Harriet trilled. “I have you safe and sound. But you ought not to wheeze. You are not the one who has been climbing these damned stairs.” She stopped outside the door and knocked. “Fiona? Are you decent?”

      “Yes, Harriet.” Fiona flung open the door with a welcoming smile. “How delightful to see you and Beastie!”

      The spaniel let its tongue loll out and gave Fiona a pop-eyed stare while it wriggled in its mistress’s arms. Harriet held onto it, as well as a bulging reticule that was emitting a mysterious soft chime.

      “What is that noise, Harriet?”

      “Oh, that is my latest present—or presents, I should say, from Ned. Really quite amusing. I brought a set to give you, but all in good time. Good morning, Fiona!” She bustled in.

      “Will you join me for breakfast? There are scones.”

      “Oh, Beastie hates scones. Have you any bacon?”

      “No.”

      Harriet kissed the spaniel on its moist black nose. “Alas. No bacon, my love. But you will survive.” She set Beastie down, and he waddled over to an ottoman and squeezed himself underneath it, panting rapidly.

      “I daresay he will,” Fiona said, putting her arm through her cousin’s and drawing her into the room and toward a capacious armchair. “Would you like tea, Harriet?”

      “Oh, yes. I find I am extremely thirsty. Your house has far too many stairs. And too many rooms. How you must rattle about here now that you are a widow. Don’t you get lonely, Fiona?”

      A leading question if ever Fiona had heard one. She smiled politely. “Not at all.”

      “Then perhaps you have recovered from the shock of dear Bertie’s untimely death.”

      “Bertrand drank himself into an early grave,” Fiona said matter-of-factly. “The doctor said his liver was as hard as rock. He had turned a most unattractive shade of yellow towards the end and the lowest whore would not touch him. You know as well as I do that he got his hand up every skirt that he could. I do not miss him.”

      Harriet nodded. “He was not a saint, certainly.” She settled herself into the armchair with a sigh and investigated the tea tray, lifting up the napkin and poking at the still warm scones. She broke off a piece just as Fiona had done, put twice as much butter and jam on it, and ate it daintily. Then she poured out tea for both of them.

      Fiona helped herself to another scone, sitting on the edge of her bed and devouring it with greedy pleasure. Never mind the crumbs. Eating in bed was yet another good thing about not having a man around the house to quibble over such things. Harriet handed Fiona a cup of tea and drank her own, her bright blue eyes sparkling as she looked over the thin rim, sipping through pouted lips.

      The word for Harriet, Fiona thought absently, was…succulent. Her round body was not the height of fashion but there seemed to be no shortage of lust-crazed gentlemen ready to bury themselves in her sweet flesh when her husband was at sea.

      Fiona finished her tea and glanced discreetly at the clock. Five minutes had passed between the setting down of Beastie and the taking of nourishment. Refreshed and strengthened, Harriet was sure to launch into a tale of her latest conquest within seconds. And Fiona was curious as to what was in the bag that her cousin had set upon the floor.

      The clock ticked softly in the quiet room. The spaniel wheezed and then snored. Harriet set down her empty cup and swept the crumbs from her lap, looking at Fiona’s attire. “What a magnificent robe. The material is Chinese, is it not? The embroidery is very fine—wherever did you get it?”

      “I believe it is an Oriental design. The robe itself is my dressmaker’s handiwork.”

      “Dear Fiona, I assumed as much. One cannot simply buy such things in shops. It is splendid. You look like…an empress.”

      “I am not sure that is a compliment.”

      “Oh, but it is. The color suits you, my dear cousin. Or do you have a new love? Who’s put that lovely pink in your cheeks, eh?” Harriet laughed heartily.

      Fiona swung a leg back and forth rather impatiently and made no answer to that question.

      “I quite approve,” Harriet continued. “You must not mourn forever. You are young and may marry again.”

      Fiona raised an eyebrow. Marriage? Fie. Perish the thought. She still dressed mostly in black, of course, because she looked good in it. She had mourned her late husband for exactly the period of time that society prescribed, and not a minute longer.

      Harriet did not seem to notice that her cousin wasn’t saying a word. “So you sleep in pearls, do you? You are a lazy cat, Fiona.” She squinted at the triple strand, which Fiona had forgotten that she still wore. “Or perhaps a sentimental one. Were they a gift?”

      “Yes.” Not that Fiona would confess who the giver was. She reached up and turned them around so the clasp was in the back again.

      Harriet cleared her throat. “Hmm,” she said slyly. “I think I recognize the clasp. From Coburn’s Jewellery, is it not? All the married gentlemen shop there. But not with their wives. And not for their wives. Not that I am one to talk,” she giggled. “Dear Ned never asks what I am up to while he is gone.”

      “And you don’t know what he’s up to, either. He probably has a wench of every color in every port.”

      “No doubt,” Harriet said affably. “In any case, those pearls are very pretty, Fiona. Now, do tell me who gave them to you.”

      Fiona drew the flat lapels of her robe high up around her neck. “No. There is no reason for you to know.”

      Harriet looked hurt. “But we share every confidence, my dear cousin. I tell you everything. I know that I may speak to you with perfect frankness, on every subject under the sun and that you will never judge me or tittle–tattle.”

      Fiona knew that the best thing to do was distract Harriet, which was never difficult. “I am glad that you think so. Now, what do you have in that bag?”

      Harriet looked down at the bulging reticule she had set on the floor and gave it a little kick with a silk–shod foot. Whatever was inside chimed softly once more.

      “They are Celestial Spheres—have you not heard of them?”

      Fiona shook her head. Harriet reached down and picked up the bag, drawing apart the strings that closed it and taking out two smooth balls of ivory, as big as eggs but perfectly round. She rolled them back and forth in her palm, making their cleverly hidden mechanism chime as they struck each other. Fiona looked more closely. She could see no seam in the ivory where the halves of each sphere had been fitted together.

      “Ned said that the Chinese give these toys to their women, as it is impossible to keep all of their wives and concubines sexually satisfied.”

      “Ah.”

      Harriet nodded and let the balls roll in her cupped palm again. СКАЧАТЬ