White Tigress (24 page)

"No," the woman sniffed. "You can't." Then she frowned at Lydia. "Though I don't know that my dresses will do you any good. You're much smaller than I am."

Lydia couldn't disagree with that. Even before leaving England, she'd never been well endowed. Certainly not as much as this woman. And since coming to Shanghai, she guessed she'd lost about a stone.

"Well," she said soothingly, "I'm sure Maxwell will reimburse you for the cost of the dress." Then she straightened to her full height—still a good two inches below the redhead—and extended her hand. "I'm Lydia, by the way. Maxwell's fiancé."

The woman nodded, deigning to extend her fingertips to brush fleetingly against Lydia's palm. "My name's Esmerelda White. Max's personal assistant."

Lydia nodded slowly. "Personal assistant?"

"I help him with his private things—his laundry, his meals, sometimes even his cleaning. Though not often, as you can tell." She released a soft trill of laughter as she waved at Maxwell's unswept and dusty rooms.

Lydia pushed past the woman, making sure to keep her voice firm as she tried for a light tone. "Yes, Max is rather fussy about his things," she answered. "Fortunately, though, you won't be plagued with him any longer." She turned to look over her shoulder, her eyes slightly narrowed. "We are to be married today," she stated firmly. "And as his wife, I shall of course take care of those things for him."

She smiled as warmly as she could manage. "But I thank you for your help while I was still in England," she lied. She already had a good idea exactly what part of Max's personal business this Esmerelda had attended to, and she would be damned if she let any of that continue.

And how could Max send this creature to her anyway? The very thought of wearing this woman's gowns revolted her. But then, beggars couldn't be choosers, so Lydia turned back to the settee, seeing a plain, misshapen brown gown lying there.

It was a travel dress, stained and oversized. But it had ties in the back and would at least cover her decently. Esmerelda had also thought to bring underclothing, stockings, and shoes that were too large, not to mention a bonnet more suited to a different season. All the necessities were there, and Lydia smiled as graciously as she could manage.

"Thank you for your help."

"Ooh, but we ain't done yet. Maxie said I was to take you to buy things. All the clothing that a woman would need. Not too much, mind you, but enough to get you by for a while. Told me to take all day," she added with a bit of a sneer. "That he won't be back until late today. So I guess that means there won't be no wedding today."

Lydia clenched her jaw, keeping her thoughts inside. Whatever was Maxwell thinking, asking her to gad about town with this creature? And no wedding? Where was she supposed to sleep tonight if not here? They had to be married today.

"Well," she finally managed. "Let us go shopping, then, shall we? And then we can meet Maxwell for luncheon and discuss the rest of the day."

"Ooh, he won't like that, ducks. He's working."

"Well, he'll have to adjust. After all, a man can't be expected to work on his wedding day, can he?" She knew the address of his office. She would storm the building, if need be, and drag him out by his ear. They would be wed by the end of the day.

But first she needed appropriate attire. With a tart nod to her companion, Lydia gathered up the clothing and stepped into the bedroom, firmly closing it in Esmerelda's face. The woman had meant to follow, but she would get dressed on her own, by God. The last thing Lydia needed was for that woman to realize she had shaved in places that no Englishwoman ever had.

Finally, the shopping excursion began. Lydia could bargain, and knowing some Shanghainese helped enormously. Not at first, of course, since all of the shops' owners Esmerelda chose were Caucasian. It was Lydia who spotted the cheaper goods in the side streets with Chinese vendors. And it was Lydia who insisted that she need not have French lace when Chinese cotton would do. Lydia also kept strict track of every penny spent, despite her companion's belief that it wasn't necessary. She intended to give a full accounting to Max so that he could not accuse her of being a wastrel no matter what his personal assistant might say.

She was completely outfitted by two in the afternoon. And though she had not found a gown appropriate to a wedding, she had at least found one of serviceable blue cotton that was both respectable and flattering. She was, in fact, wearing it now, as well as new underthings, allowing her to remove Esmerelda's clothing at the earliest opportunity.

She absolutely refused to be married in anything that woman owned.

And after meeting and discussing an appropriate service with a missionary at a nearby chapel, all that remained was to collect the groom.

Except, knowing where Maxwell's offices were and actually finding Max were two entirely different matters. Upon entering the hallowed halls of Fortnum & Mason—Suppliers of English Foodstuffs—she was flatly informed by a red-faced clerk that her fiancé was not there. He was at the docks, checking on a shipment of wine. And then, before the young man disappeared, he bowed slightly to her and mumbled something about being sorry for her "unfortunate accident."

Lydia's eyes widened at that, horror only beginning to slip through her polite smile. If a junior clerk knew of her "unfortunate accident," that meant every foreigner in Shanghai knew, and soon everyone in England as well. She had no doubt news of her misfortune was even now going out in the day's post. Soon all of London would know as well.

Which meant she and Maxwell had best get married with all speed or she was completely without options.

She rushed outside, taking a rickshaw to the docks, for Maxwell had neglected to leave her and Esmerelda use of his phaeton. Except that rickshaws were rather slow-moving vehicles compared to horse-drawn carriages, and that gave Lydia much too much time to sit and stew.

Whatever could Maxwell be thinking, telling the world what had happened to her? He must know that his friends could never keep silent when the gossip was so good. He might as well have posted the news on broadsides.

Esmerelda, of course, enjoyed every moment of Lydia's discomfort, and was gleefully chatting on about how difficult it must be to have everyone know that she had appeared at Max's door without pants. Lydia didn't bother correcting her, but sat staring out at the shops along the street.

Which is when she saw Fu De.

At least she thought it was Fu De. It had to be. And he was ducking into a clothier's. A Chinese clothier's with the family character
Cheng
carved boldly in the wood near the door.

It had to be Ru Shan's family shop. It had to.

Lydia was climbing out of her seat before she even knew she'd stopped the rickshaw. And as Esmerelda squealed in alarm, demanding to know exactly what was going on, Lydia was already pushing into the rather large, two-story shop.

Some part of her mind trembled with fear. Some part of her worried that Ru Shan would lock her away again and she'd never be free. But the rest of her was in English clothing again with an Englishwoman at her side, giving her confidence as she boldly walked through the shop.

And then she saw him, in a gray silk tunic with embroidered cliffs rising from the bottom hem all the way through the shoulders. It gave him the subtle appearance of a mountain—solid, imposing, and amazingly stoic as she confronted him.

She felt no fear. In truth, she had never felt physically threatened around Ru Shan. But she did feel the weight of his stare, of his every movement, as if the mountains on his clothing pressed down upon him as well as her.

Neither of them spoke. Lydia felt too much emotion—too much anger and pain and confusion—to give voice to any one thought. And into this silence broke Esmerelda's grating tones.

"Lydia! What are we doing in here?" The woman came to her side. "This is a terrible shop," she whispered in an undertone.

"A terrible shop?" Lydia echoed, her attention finally diverted away from Ru Shan. "Why?"

"Well, can't you see? Look, even his own people won't supply him."

And at Esmerelda's gesture, Lydia did see. For a clothier's, Ru Shan definitely had very little fabric. Indeed, he appeared to be down to only a few bolts of coarse cotton.

"Why do you suppose that is?" Lydia asked, her voice purposely loud, purposely casual.

As expected, Esmerelda wasted no time in reporting the gossip. "They say he is evil," she answered in a low whisper that could nonetheless be heard. "That he worships some heathen god with strange, lascivious rites."

Lydia frowned. "But surely that would not keep the Chinese people away. It is, after all, their religion—isn't it?"

Esmerelda smiled, her expression practically gleeful. "That's just it. His religion is bizarre for even them! And there's something worse..." She let her voice drop for dramatic effect.

Lydia did not disappoint her. "What?" she asked eagerly.

"They say he has a white lover!" Then she giggled. "Personally, I think that's perfectly natural—we are much more attractive—but his own people won't go near him because of it."

"But what if that lover wasn't a lover at all, but a purchased slave? A white slave that he bought for the sole purpose of using?" She couldn't keep the edge from her voice, the anger from infusing her words. Unfortunately, Esmerelda was completely oblivious to any undercurrents as her raucous laughter filled the room.

"Oh ducks, you are so provincial, aren't you? They wouldn't dare do such a thing. The government would be upon him in a moment for threatening a white woman. He would be locked in chains in moments. No dear, the sad fact is that there are plenty of white women around who will consent to that sort of depravity. After all, Chinese gold spends just as well as English, and a girl must eat."

Lydia felt her heart sink at those words, for right here was the answer to why she hadn't exposed Ru Shan the moment she escaped. No one would believe she had been kept a prisoner against her will for an entire month. They would all assume she was a different sort of woman altogether. And if she had any hope of marrying Maxwell—respectably—then she had to keep the last month quiet.

Of course, she thought with a secret smile, that didn't mean she couldn't have her own measure of revenge. After all, it looked as if the Cheng dressmakers were on their last legs. And though Lydia found Esmerelda's presence a burden at best, the woman did appear to have a fine eye for clothing. Which made her the perfect person for the next question. Assuming she found what she was looking for.

Lydia began wandering about the shop, noting various things. Though the shelves were bare, the wood furniture was sturdy and of the best quality. The dust only emphasized the emptiness of the place; and the building was in the best area of town. Technically inside the foreign concession, it was actually part of Old Shanghai. Therefore it was in the very rare few blocks frequented by both whites and Chinese.

Then she spotted it: her sketchbook, dropped casually among the tables.

"Why, look at this," she called to her companion as she opened the book. "What do you think of these designs?"

In truth, she had often toyed with the idea of setting up a dressmaking shop. She had been designing clothing all her life. Except, her set did not go into trade—and besides, she was going to be a wife and mother; there would be no time for a business. So she had contented herself with making her own clothing, helping her friends, and creating a trousseau.

Except, everything was different here in Shanghai, and the idea of becoming a dressmaker—in this exact location—definitely appealed. What a sweet revenge it would be on Ru Shan as well. The man who had bought her as a pet would be forced to sell his family business to her.

She was already smiling at the thought. Except that all depended upon whether anyone would buy her designs. And by all appearances, Esmerelda was an excellent judge of such things.

The woman sauntered over, peered curiously at the sketches, and Lydia felt her belly tighten with anticipation. To one side, Ru Shan also edged forward, his interest evident in the tense set to his shoulders. Lydia tried to glare him away, but he refused to be intimidated. He did, however, remain silent, apparently as interested in Esmerelda's opinion as Lydia.

Except Esmerelda wasn't saying anything. Indeed, for the first time all day, the woman was maddeningly silent.

"Well?" Lydia finally asked when her patience was exhausted. "What do you think?"

Esmerelda didn't answer at first, her frown expanding as she lifted her gaze to view Ru Shan's bare walls. "Interesting designs," she finally said. "Apparently the Chinese have learned something of dressmaking from us." But then she shook her head. "Except I don't believe they actually sew such outfits. Pretty pictures are one thing. Sewing is something else entirely."

Lydia stepped forward, her eagerness barely restrained. "But you like the
designs
?"

Her companion nodded. "Most intriguing. Yes, I like them." Then she sighed. "But they haven't any fabric."

Which is when Ru Shan stepped in, his bow deep and respectful. "Fabric can always be purchased," he said. "If madame is interested—"

"No," interrupted Lydia, "I agree with you, Esmerelda. They haven't the ability to sew such excellent designs." She was speaking more to Ru Shan than to Esmerelda, her anger at last turning into a kind of glee at his comeuppance.