by Lynn Messina
Unsure of the marquess’s purpose in making such an extraordinary suggestion, Mr. Berry did not let his mortification show and instead took a practical approach to the problem. “Yes, indeed. There is the matter of the application. According to the bylaws, in order for a candidate to be eligible for consideration, he—or, um, she—must publish a paper on an appropriate topic and present it to the society.”
“I have it from the candidate herself that she recently published a pamphlet on drainage systems,” Huntly said.
For a moment, Mr. Berry looked quite taken aback by this information, then his expression turned disgruntled. “She did indeed, my lord. It was actually published by the society,” he admitted, his tone suddenly faint as he recalled the pamphlet that he himself had commissioned at the behest of the Duke of Trent.
The Marquess of Huntly was not a cruel man and he found it unseemly to take one’s enjoyment at the expense of others, but he couldn’t help being amused at the predicament this confession created for Mr. Berry. The gentleman seemed at once affronted and aggrieved, as if he had blindly fallen into a trap not visible to the unaided eye.
“I have it right here,” Mr. Berry admitted with great reluctance as he retrieved the offending pamphlet from the stack of papers on his desk. It was so easily accessible because he had been perusing it earlier, for it contained information that pertained directly to a problem he was having with his own garden on Upper Seymour Street. The clerk knew it wouldn’t do to admit such a thing, but he felt compelled to say, either out of sense of fair play or respect for the lady, who had impressed him with her rationality and clear thinking, that he thought the pamphlet had a few useful ideas. He paused, seemingly done with the thought, then added as if by compulsion, “It is written very well.”
Huntly accepted the pamphlet, which was called “A Horticulturalist’s Rudimentary Guide to the Implementation of Drainage Systems” and ran an even fifty pages. “Good. Then there can be no objection to her application.”
“Oh, there is,” insisted the clerk, his efficient mind quickly sifting through all the information he had to arrive at yet another concern. He did not devote himself to the task so fully because he was an ardent horticulturalist. Rather, Mr. Reginald Berry was a zealous British Horticultural Society-ist and he knew—could not bear—the may game the Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Knowledge would surely make of them when the truth became known. “She is in mourning, my lord, and as such could not attend the social event that her presentation would be.”
At once, the marquess straightened his shoulders and leaned forward in his chair, for this was information that was entirely unknown to him and for some reason, it didn’t sit right. Miss Harlow was an unbalanced creature, to be sure, but she did not seem unbalanced by grief. Her sense of humor was far too well intact for a widow wearing the weeds. “For whom is she in mourning?” he asked.
“Her fiancé, Sir Waldo Windbourne, a baronet from Derbyshire with political aspirations,” Mr. Berry said. “He died six months ago in a wardrobe-related mishap, and Miss Harlow has been in black gloves ever since.”
In the whole of his entire adult life—and that summation included two years at sea with several dozen fascinating men—Huntly had never heard any description as intriguing as wardrobe-related mishap. He could tell that his companion was eager to elaborate, and rather than appear unduly interested in the private matters of people not intimately known to him, he simply waited the necessary few seconds for Mr. Berry to burst with impatience.
“It was his stays, my lord. He pulled them so tight he suffocated himself,” he said, striving for what he hoped was a tone that implied only academic interest. Despite his efforts, however, an unseemly, high-pitched giggle escaped him. Quickly he added, so as to cover up the undignified sound, “It was ruled death by misadventure, although there was some talk of charging his valet with murder. I believe the Duke of Trent interceded on the young man’s behalf.”
The story was incredible, and indeed the marquess could not believe it. He had heard of women fainting from corsets that were too snug but never an instance in which a life was lost, and he very much doubted it could happen. He assumed the true story was considerably more mundane—the baronet had choked on a haddock—and had grown increasingly fantastical with each retelling until the fish bone was a whalebone and the victim done in by grotesque vanity. The next time he saw Trent, he would get the truth.
“You are right to raise the concern,” Huntly said, “and I understand why you do so, but I happen to know that the young woman will be at her sister’s wedding ball in a week’s time. If she can attend that after the first sixth months of mourning have passed, then I’m sure she can attend one of our little presentations, which could hardly be raised to the felicitous level of social function, let alone event.”
If Mr. Berry wanted to press his point further, he certainly would not do so while the marquess was present. He would wait until he left before giving voice to a variety of very reasonable and well-articulated arguments. “Right you are, my lord. I shall add her name to the list, then, shall I?” He phrased the statement as a question in one last hope that the marquess would see the folly of his ways and recant.
“You are completely obliging, Mr. Berry, and I appreciate it. I trust you will send the invitation immediately?” Huntly asked.
The little clerk blanched but kept his horror firmly in check with a subdued nod. “There is, of course, paperwork to be done first, a file to be started and various other sundry protocols to be followed, but as soon as all that is complete, I will send the invitation immediately,” he explained, grateful to have an excuse to delay the inevitable. Thankfully, the process for acquiring new members was an involved one, regardless of gender.
Satisfied with this answer, Huntly said, “Good. Now on to my other business.”
“Other business?” he squeaked, unable to imagine what else there could be to discuss. They had already covered the marquess’s travels and the possible destruction of their beloved institution. Was that not enough for one afternoon?
“I need to hire an assistant to help me put the notes from my travels in order,” the marquess explained. “I have hundreds of drawings and almost a dozen journals that need to be catalogued and organized for the compendium I mean to write. Do you know anyone with the proper knowledge who might be in want of a position?”
Much relieved to be on familiar territory once again, Mr. Berry brightened and said he knew just the person for the job. “Actually, several persons who are very well educated and should be suited to the task. I will gather the names and recommendations and forward them on to your secretary.”
“I have yet to engage a secretary, so you can address the information to me,” Huntly said, standing.
Mr. Berry hopped to his feet as well. “Very good, my lord. If I may be so presumptuous, I will also included a few persons who I believe would serve well as factotums.”
“You’re a regular mop fair, Mr. Berry.”
Pleased with the compliment, the clerk looked down at his fingers and assured the marquess that he was happy to do what he could.
Retrieving his hat, Huntly again expressed his appreciation, for he didn’t doubt that the efficient clerk would send along several excellent applicants and that the task of organizing his book would soon be under way. As much as he’d resented the minutes lost to the unplanned visit (47 and counting), he had to concede now that it was time well spent. Not only had he engaged Mr. Berry’s help in arranging sundry business affairs, but he’d come up with a way to tweak Miss Harlow’s ego in a similar way that she’d tweaked his. He didn’t mean her any harm in standing her for membership, and he couldn’t imagine anything ill coming of it. In all likelihood, she would get the invitation to join, realize he was having a bit of fun at her expense and send a polite but strongly worded letter declining the honor.
He found, to his surprise, that was he looking forward to receiving the letter, which would no doubt be
strewn with the same sugarcoated insults as her praise. He couldn’t say why such a prospect appealed to him, except that from the remove of a few hours—and the keen satisfaction of a cleverly executed revenge plot—he could appreciate the skill with which she had taunted him. He still thought she was a nonsensical woman given to odd starts and mad fits, but now he could now see there was a method to her madness.
The Marquess of Huntly took his leave of Mr. Berry and climbed into his curricle, determined to salvage something of the day. It was still plenty early—only a little after one—and when he arrived at home, he would request a light meal to be served to him in the study, so that he could eat while discussing the estates with Mr. Hardwicke. He knew there was much to get through, but he felt confident that he and the steward could dispense with many of the more pressing issues before Mr. Graney from the bank arrived at four. It was merely a matter of devoting all his attention to the issue at hand—putting his nose to the grindstone, as he had charmingly heard it put more than once on the ship—and not letting minor things distract them. It was easy enough to accomplish.
And yet twenty minutes later, his curricle was still parked in front of the British Horticultural Society as he read just one more page—and then just one more page—of Miss Lavinia Harlow’s oddly fascinating text on how to implement a drainage system.
Chapter Six
If anyone were to lay odds in the betting book at Brooks’s which Harlow sister would appear in the betting book at Brooks’s, the clever money—indeed, all the money—would have been on Miss Emma Harlow. That she had managed to avoid such a distinction in all of her twenty-four-plus hoydenish years surprised everyone who knew her, from her aggrieved mother to the scullery maid at Crescent House, who regularly found the impertinent young miss with her fingers in the larder at three in the morning.
The Dowager Duchess of Trent was not only astonished by this accomplishment but grateful for it because it meant one fewer direction in which she had to extend her credit—although, to be fair, she didn’t doubt for a moment that her consequence could easily bring such a scandal to heel.
On the night of her ball to celebrate her son’s wedding, the betting book at Brooks’s—or even White’s or Boodles—was the farthest thing from her grace’s mind. During the last frantic week of planning, she’d thought about the menu and the decorations and the musicians and the placement of the ice sculpture of two intricately carved swans. She’d debated the merits of rosettes and swags for her blue silk gown (perhaps a little too youthful) and the wisdom of doubling the layers in the freestanding trifle (a marvel to behold but architecturally compromised). She had worked tirelessly to pull off the grandest event London had seen in a decade with the sole intent of intimidating the ton with excess—to, in effect, cower Emma’s critics with caviar—and putting to rest once and for all any discussion of her new daughter-in-law’s scandalous past.
Now that the evening had arrived—the wine was flowing, the guests were dancing, Prinny was offering compliments on her son’s choice of brides—she thought it very likely she had succeeded beyond her own considerable expectations. She knew better, of course, than to count her chickens before they hatched, but she felt the deep fissures in the eggshells indicated a certain inevitability on which, if one couldn’t exactly count, one could take comfort.
Then, not ten minutes after Prinny had taken his leave, Lady Dalyell punctured her grace’s sanguinity when she was overheard informing Mr. Crispin Joseph of a “delicious on dit” involving a wager, one hundred guineas, Lord Hastings and “that Harlow chit.” The exact nature of the business the dowager could not discern, for at that moment, the famously indiscrete Lady Dalyell chose to cultivate discretion and lowered her voice several notches. Her grace tilted her head to the left to ascertain more information but was thwarted by the unprecedented dulcet tones of her ladyship.
Unable to decide if she was more angry or irritated at being exposed to a new scandal at an affair calculated to squelch an old one—a development that further angered or irritated her—the dowager sought out her daughter-in-law to collect all the facts before settling on a suitable course of action. (Forcefully removing Lady Dalyell from the party, though a very satisfying response, was not a viable option.) She found Emma near the ice sculpture talking to her sister-in-law Sarah, a sensible woman with little patience for the Harlow Hoyden’s high jinx and even less aptitude to rein them in.
Emma, dazzling in a red silk gown trimmed with pearls and lace, her hair gathered in a classic chignon, her eyes glinting with irrepressible humor, greeted her grace with a delighted smile. “You’ll be relieved to hear, ma’am, that Sarah was just rhapsodizing over the champagne and saying that this is quite the loveliest ball she’s ever been to. She has no idea she’s being lulled into a state of complacency about my many sins. One more glass and she will congratulate you on your excellent good luck in acquiring me as your daughter-in-law.”
The dowager, whose chief method for handling Emma’s nonsense was to ignore it, took this statement in stride, but Sarah immediately turned pink and began to stutter an apology for her former charge’s rudeness. Unconcerned, the duchess waved off the other woman’s distress with a flick of the wrist and turned to Emma, who stared back at her with a look of appealing curiosity. Impertinent baggage!
“You wretched girl, what have you done now?” she demanded curtly, her face a mask of polite good humor, which revealed not a hint of her aggravation to any interested guests who might happen to glance their way.
Emma’s smile did not waver at this accusation. Indeed, the dimples in her cheeks deepened as she launched into a list of recent peccadillos. “An hour ago, I stepped on the Earl of Montagu’s toes, which was his fault, for he inserted his foot under my shoe in a rush to get away from Miss Crossdon. As I was sympathetic to his plight, I did not hold his complicity against him and apologized so prettily that even Sarah would have been pleased. Then, about fifteen minutes ago, I dropped an olive into Lady Keppel’s ratafia. It was an accident, of course, but I didn’t think she would believe the ridiculous series of events that culminated in an olive in her wine, so I promptly hid behind Mr. Ashley-Cooper, who is as good as a column for providing cover. Despite my cowardly retreat, I was sensible of my responsibility and kept an eye on the good woman to make sure the olive did her no lasting harm, which, I’m happy to report, it did not. I believe that’s it. No, wait, I also told Lady Jersey that she didn’t strike me as quite the chatterbox her nickname implied.” At Sarah’s gasp of horror, she rushed to explain. “I only said it because she had observed that I didn’t strike her as the hoyden my reputation suggested and I wanted to assure her that the label was well earned. Of course, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized they didn’t sound quite like the compliment I had intended and I rushed to apologize. It was touch and go for a moment, and I thought for sure I would be barred entry to Almack’s for the rest of my life, but then she smiled and said we must have a coze later. And that, ma’am, is a complete catalog of what have I done now.”
The dowager listened to Emma’s absurd speech, uncertain if her new daughter-in-law was jesting with her, for now, as always, her cornflower blue eyes blinked with innocent frankness. “I’m referring to the wager Lord Hastings laid that involves you,” she explained calmly. “What outrageous claim have you recently made? That you can beat your own record to Newmarket?”
“I have said on several occasions that I could improve upon my racing time from London to Newmarket,” Emma said mildly, “but I wouldn’t call that an outrageous claim, as it’s entirely true.”
Her grace’s smile grew brittle, and Sarah said her sister-in-law’s name in the same warning tone she used with her children. The Harlow Hoyden, who had never failed to own her sins regardless of how disgraceful they were, rushed to assure the dowager of her innocence. “I swear to you, ma’am, I have done nothing to warrant a wager to be placed. Truly. I know how important this evening is to you and would never do anythi
ng to undermine its success.”
The sincerity in Emma’s voice was undeniable, and the dowager had no choice but to believe her, for though her new daughter might be a minx and a scapegrace, she was a brutally honest one. Indeed, it was her stubborn refusal to comply with the superficial dictates of polite society that most frequently got her into trouble. The Duchess of Trent could respect it, even if she couldn’t understand or admire it.
“Perhaps the cause of the bet isn’t entirely Emma’s fault,” Sarah offered.
Emma, who was used to this sort of abuse from her sister-in-law, laughed. “I’m humbled by your faith in me and not the least bit put out by your cautious use of the word entirely. No doubt we shall discover that I’m responsible to some extent, no matter how blameless I actually turn out to be. Shall we investigate? We will cover more ground if we split up. Your grace, you take the south portion of the room. Sarah, you go north. I’ll start along the east wall and work my way west.”
Although the dowager could not imagine what an investigation by the Harlow Hoyden would entail, she knew for certain she didn’t want one in her ballroom. Before she could utter a single word of protest, however, her nephew Philip, a lively young man from Yorkshire who had yet to cultivate town bronze despite nine months in the metropolis, came over to express his disappointment at Emma’s poor spiritedness. “Such a bang-up lark, bearding those stiff-necked gardeners in their hallowed den! Worthy of the Harlow Hoyden. But I suppose now that you’re married to Trent, you will have to settle down and adopt the matronly airs of a proper duchess,” he conceded with surprising graciousness. “Trent’s a right ’un and deserves a bit of peace, even if he did just call me a nodcock.”
“I believe the term I used was clodpole,” the duke said as he appeared at his wife’s side, his handsome countenance enhanced by a broad smile. “And it’s a fitting description of anyone who puts his elbow into Lady Villier’s wine.”