brief so could she.
His admiration for her grew with every exchange they had. ‘Ah, and you never did say how you met, or indeed how you ended up here, a friend of my sister.’ He raised one eyebrow in a gesture designed to invite confidence.
Belle smiled. She reminded him of the cat who got the cream. ‘Correct.’
He bowed. ‘Touché.’
Madame Belle smiled and her eyes lit up with mischief. ‘It is rare I see that, shall we say, vindictive side of Tippen. I think you should be thankful she wasn’t holding her cutting shears.’
Phillip’s hands automatically moved to cover his staff. ‘And deprive the ladies of my expertise?’
The look Madame Belle now gave him would have felled a giant. What on earth was he doing? Did he have a death wish? Even though, under her gimlet stare, his body was on high alert, his pego demanding attention and the rest of him willing it. Was it wise to let her assume he was insincere in his attentions to her?
‘If you think so.’ She sighed in the manner one would before chastising a recalcitrant child and dusted her hands together. ‘So, my lord, what can I help you with today? Another late mistress already?’
He bowed, kissed her hand again—it was fast becoming addictive—and grinned. ‘Even I’m not so cavalier. I came to see if you were all right.’ It sounded weak and silly even to his own ears. ‘However, I’ll make sure you know who is next and when.’ I’ll need to tread warily and not send her fleeing from me.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled and her face lit up with mischief. ‘For what reason?’
‘Well hopefully I might be able to swell your coffers without you putting a needle to a piece of material if things carry on as they started.’
Madame Belle laughed. ‘Think of my reputation, my lord—it would be sure to get out eventually. Be “Dressed by Belle” and lose your beau. Perhaps I’ll keep to my own status quo.’
To say nothing of the fact my pego would shrivel up from lack of use. Nevertheless he was determined they would keep in touch and she would learn to accept him in her life one small step by step. He had no certainty of a happy ending, but it would not be for want of trying.
‘That would be a pity,’ he said. ‘Now are you sure you are all right?’
She blinked. ‘Of course. Why should I not be?’
‘Rosemary is a vindictive woman.’ Surely Madame Belle knew that? ‘I wanted to reassure you there will be no comeback over your actions.’
She nodded. ‘So C…Lady Clarissa assured me.’
C…? ‘Do you know my sister well?’
‘Quite well, my lord. She has championed me from the first.’
Damn. ‘I see.’ He didn’t. ‘Therefore you know that our family mean what they say?’
‘Of course. Now may I offer you a drink before you leave?’
It was a wonder she didn’t hand him his hat and cane and push him out of the door. ‘Are you in so much of a hurry to see me go?’
Madame Belle flushed. ‘No, of course not, how rude that must have sounded. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to stay, however.’
‘I don’t,’ Phillip said gently. ‘As for a drink, yes a glass of brandy would go down a treat.’
Belle grinned and he saw a carefree side of her, hitherto hidden from him. Damn she does remind me of someone, but who? As much as he racked his brains the connection hovered just out of reach.
‘Not tea and scones?’
‘Not this time. Brandy and gingerbread perhaps?’ Phillip asked hopefully.
‘Gingerbread with brandy?’ she said incredulously. ‘What a mixture.’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? I like gingerbread and the building is redolent of the aroma.’ He’d scented the mouth-watering smell the minute he’d entered.
Belle rolled her eyes. ‘Mrs Lovett’s baking day. Of which she has several each week. If you pour yourself a glass of brandy, I’ll get you some gingerbread.’
‘No brandy for you?’
She shook her head and grimaced. ‘I hate the stuff. I believe there’s a fine Highland Park whisky from the distant Orkney Islands in that carafe behind you. I’ll have a tot of that, please. Half whisky and half water from that bottle over there.’ She pointed to a tall green glass bottle next to the golden liquid in a bevelled glass carafe.
‘You dilute it?’ All the whisky Phillip had drunk was pure spirit. Not his favourite drink, it had to be said. ‘Is that a woman’s preference?’
‘No, I have it on good authority it is the way it should be drunk. If you wish to try it feel free.’
He nodded, as she whisked out of the room. Tempting as it was to do a little spying he would not. Anything he found out about the mysterious Madame Belle would be information she gave him freely. Or information his sister gave accidentally. He didn’t count trying to wheedle information out of Clarissa as unethical, just sensible.
Phillip poured two glasses of what Madame Belle had called Highland Park, and sniffed it cautiously. Peat, smoke and honey hit his senses and he sniffed again in appreciation. Much richer and smoother than any whisky he’d tasted before. With a quick look around to ensure the room was still empty except for himself, and with a wry grin at his stealth, Phillip dipped his little finger into one glass and licked the liquid that gathered on the tip.
Smoky sweetness curled around his taste buds and he groaned with pleasure. It was perfection. He could easily change his mind about the spirit. Why add water? However, mindful of the way Madame Belle had been advised by those in the know about the proper way to appreciate the spirit, he carefully measured an equivalent amount of water into each glass. The colour paled but mysteriously seemed deeper and more complex. It was nothing like any whisky he’d met before and Phillip wondered if it was duty paid? The bottle was undistinguished and unlabelled. Not that he would quibble over that. He had no qualms about spirits from the gentlemen and never had. Sadly with peace declared, smuggling was on the wane, and duty was more often than not now paid on spirits and silks. Perhaps it was different in Orkney? The people from there were considered to be different.
Goblet in hand, he wandered over to the window and gazed into the tiny garden. Neat and tidy, it was obviously well tended and loved. Who was this woman? With everything he learned he became more intrigued. Phillip sipped his now diluted whisky and savoured the taste and scent of the aromatic liquid as it slid silkily down his throat. He would have to enquire where it came from and see if he could add a few bottles to his own cellar. Plus the water of course.
The noise of the door behind him opening alerted him, and Phillip turned around to see Belle enter carrying a large tray. He hastened to relieve her of it and put it down on the table she indicated. The aroma of warm gingerbread permeated the room, and he nigh on salivated. With a jolt, Phillip realised he’d missed lunch. Amongst many gentlemen of the ton, luncheon was considered effete. Not by Phillip—he had long decided his body needed frequent refuelling even if it was only a small meal. However, that day he’d been at Tattersalls to check out a horse one of his peers had recommended. By the time he’d purchased the animal and arranged for it to be delivered to his stables, it had been mid-afternoon, and he had made his way to Watier’s. It was almost without conscious thought he’d directed the hackney driver to take him to Bruton Street, and knocked on the door of Belle’s Salon.
Only a very discreet brass plate indicated who resided there, and what lay within the walls. Phillip approved. Classy.
‘I brought tea as well. Mrs Lovett insisted. Said it went with her baking and who am I to argue?’
‘Nor me. I’d drink three cups if it gave me access