“A useful reputation to possess, if only in rumor, to give one’s enemies pause,” Adam commented drily, resisting the impulse to whirl round and look back. He could feel the eyes upon him now, the steady watching that seemed to bore into his back. “Might I ask the reason for your unusual interest, Uncle?”
“You have only to look at Miss Wilton to see why,” Lawrence said with a bittersweet smile. “I vow, the girl is almost the mirror of Adrienne in her earlier days. Though it is doubtless difficult to believe, her Mama was even lovelier, a vivid creature with an irresistible charm. All of us were mad about her, pressing our suits, even though we knew that Adrienne LeFey had been promised from the cradle to Peter Wilton, Lord Wodesby. The LeFeys and Wodesbys have long had connections, along with those other families that I mentioned. It was well known that most of their women came to their Season already promised.” He sighed in memory. “Adrienne never encouraged us, yet can a moth contain its longing to kiss the flame?”
“You were in love with her?” Adam asked in surprise as they stopped to wait for a crossing cart. But though he glanced back, there was no one who followed.
“‘Were’ has the connotation of the past,” Lawrence said quietly. “All of my life, I have measured every woman against Adrienne, but there has yet been none to match her. That is one of the few predictions that has not yet come to fruition. She promised that, in time, I would find the companion of my heart.”
Adam was silent. It was obvious now why his uncle could not be relied upon to be sensible when it came to the matter of the Wodesby women. Uncle Lawrie’s judgement was clouded by emotion. Yet, the marquess could not help but ask, “If the Wodesby custom is one of childhood betrothal, why is Miss Wilton not married?”
“I cannot say. I made it my business to be out of Town when I found that Lady Wodesby was to present her daughter. The thought of seeing Adrienne on Peter’s arm was too painful.” Lawrence inclined his head, pausing in thought before starting down the street toward his apartments. “I do know that Miss Wilton’s LeFey cousins made their curtsies in London already affianced. However, strangely enough, the girl did not seem to be spoken for. As you may have gathered from Hester the other day, Miranda’s Season was an unmitigated disaster. Every mishap that occurred among those on the hunt for a husband was attributed to the supernatural influences of the Wodesby girl or her Mama.”
No wonder that Miss Wilton sometimes seemed as skittish as a badly broken filly, Adam thought. Society could be cruel without benefit of excuse; however a Miss with purported magical powers would be an all-too-convenient target for blame. “I suspect that she may encounter the same difficulties again,” Adam said. “Especially since her Mama has made a public spectacle of herself. Now do not bristle at me, Uncle Lawrie, for you know it to be the truth. Miss Wilton has once again become the subject of speculation. At Mrs. Hoggsmyth’s yesterday, she received more than her share of stares and whispers.”
“She is a striking young lady,” his uncle said defensively.
“Yes, she is,” Adam admitted. “Nonetheless, even her looks cannot fully account for the way that the cats were sharpening their claws upon her. It is rather unbelievable the credit that people place in superstitious nonsense in this day and age.
“The poor child.” Lawrence’s brow furrowed with concern. “I would not like to see Adrienne’s daughter hurt, Adam. She is a sweet girl.”
“Not a girl,” Adam disagreed, resisting an impulse to glance behind him yet again. “Miss Wilton is no schoolroom miss, to allow herself to be intimidated. Although I think her beliefs misguided, I have never seen such a display of sang froid in the face of sarcasm. Every query about her Mama’s health, including the snide, was answered with amazing aplomb. Even Brummel did not shake her assurance, though for some reason, George was at his nastiest.”
“I think that I can explain that,” Lawrence said with a shake of his head. “Brummel insulted Adrienne’s sister, Tatiana Peregrine, just last season. Madame Peregrine served the Beau a rather shocking prediction. Knowing Brummel’s nasty nature, it would not surprise me if he were holding Titania’s words against Miranda.”
“And what did this ‘prophetess’ proclaim?” Adam asked in amusement.
“She predicted that the Beau would perish a pauper, alone and away from his native land,” Lawrence told him.
“How absurd! The man has never been higher in Prinny’s favor. George has become a virtual power unto himself,” Adam laughed. “Yet, by the end of Mrs. Hoggsmyth’s affair, even Brummel seemed impressed with Miss Wilton’s dignity. He even deigned to ask her if she intended to be at Pertwee’s tonight.”
“If she succeeded in soothing an angry Brummel, then she may well be a witch,” Lawrence said.
“Oh no,” Adam said with a chortle, “she emphatically denies any skill in that sphere.”
“Perhaps that is why . . .” Lawrence began, then stopped short, his expression growing thunderous as he stared into the window of number 24 St. James.
Adam let loose an astonished oath. The usual assortments of prints and travesties adorned the front window of Mrs. Humphrey’s print shop. Prinny and various prominent personages were portrayed in their various frailties and foibles. In the center prominently displayed upon its own easel was a wicked caricature by Gillray.
Lady Wodesby had been made into a fleshy crone and a wart adorned a voluptuous Miranda’s pert nose as the two of them, naked as Eve in Eden, stirred a cauldron labeled “Society.” But that was just the half of it. A bewigged magistrate wearing Adam’s face leered at them from the bench as Brummel raised his quizzing glass and uttered “Thou shalt not suffer a witch.” Apparently, Brummel’s feud with Miss Wilton’s family was known to the caricaturist.
Lawrence stared aghast. “How dare they!” he said, pulling his purse from his pocket.
“What are you going to do, Uncle Lawrie,” Adam asked, catching him by the arm.
“Buy every one of those prints and then give that Gillray fellow a piece of my mind!” Lawrence sputtered.
“They will only print more,” Adam warned him. “And then put out word of your actions which will only cause more prints to be sold.”
“I’ll pay them not to print anymore,” Lawrence declared.
“Even if you could buy off Gillray, which I doubt, what of Thomas Rowlandson or George Cruikshank or any of the others who dine on ridicule?” Adam asked softly, dropping his restraining hand as understanding dawned on his uncle’s face. “You cannot still all of their pens.”
“Poor Adrienne,” Lawrence said.
“Lady Wodesby brought this upon herself,” Adam said harshly. “‘Tis not her, so much as her daughter who will truly suffer once this gets abroad.” He turned away and walked quickly onward. His uncle followed reluctantly.
“I would not be so quick to place blame on anyone other than Gillray. This is tragic,” Lawrence said, shaking his head as he drew abreast with his nephew. “If Adrienne hoped to see her daughter married, this could well ruin her chances.”
“I thought that the Wodesbys only married within their own weird sphere?” Adam asked.
“You will doubtless sneer if I present my speculations,” Lawrence said, his lips pursing.
Adam raised a hand solemnly. “No sneers, my pledge upon it.”
“You mentioned that she denies any magical gifts,” Lawrence began with a frown. “And we have just witnessed why her chances on the marriage mart are none to nil. What if no one among the usual families wishes to wed her, Adam, precisely because she is not a witch? And what if Society disdains her because they believe that she is?”
“That is ludicrous,” Adam declared, the smell of oaken casks, wine and spirits assaulting them as they strolled past the shop of Berry Brothers and Rudd. “She is lovely, charming, witty and from what Lady Enderby is declaring to all and sundry, well-dowered to boot.”
“But not a witch,” Lawrence said emphatically. “Adrienne made me no answer when I asked if her daught
er shared her talent. She seemed rather sad, so I guided the conversation elsewhere.”
I am not a witch. All at once Adam recalled Miss Wilton’s assertion, whispered as if in shame. She had turned away. Could she truly be lambasting herself for not having powers that existed only in the imagination? “That is absolutely ridiculous,” Adam said. The hairs on his neck began to niggle at him. “Uncle Lawrie, a quick about face, now.”
Obediently, the older man whirled on his heels. “Not a soul behind us,” he said. “Only a cat.”
“What color cat?” Adam asked.
“What does it matter?” Lawrence asked in puzzlement. “Black, I think.”
“Twice yesterday, I saw a marmalade cat, much the color of Lady Wodesby’s tom,” Adam said.
“And you bandy about the words ‘ridiculous’ and ‘absurd.”’ Lawrence gave a derisive snort. “The animal seemed to be fond of you, but do you honestly think that Adrienne’s cat is trailing you about Mayfair?”
“All this talk about witches, familiars and spells, I suppose,” Adam said with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. “Will I see you at Pertwee’s tonight?” he asked, as they stopped at the entrance to Lawrence’s dwelling.
“I am dining with a friend this evening,” Lawrence replied.
“Ah, I envy you,” Adam said, choosing to ignore the slight flush above his uncle’s necklinen. “I’d much rather enjoy a tete a tete with intelligent company than endure the crush at Pertwee’s tonight.”
“Then why attend at all?” Lawrence asked, as he rapped the knocker.
“It may seem somewhat quixotic, but I think that Miss Wilton may need me. She may have endured the slings and arrows of her Mama’s outrageous fortune-telling tendencies thus far, but yesterday will be a mere skirmish in comparison to the onslaught that she will meet in Lady Pertwee’s ballroom.”
“Those drawings.” Lawrence agreed with a sigh. “They will be all over town by tonight.”
. . .
The Pertwee Ball was usually among the earliest entertainments of the Season. Nonetheless, despite its premature place upon the ton’s calendar, the huge ballroom in the house on Grosvenor Square was as tightly packed as John Bull’s Sunday shoes. Many a match had been made between the dance floor and the supper room and the fate of the nation was oft decided over cigars and port in Lord Pertwee’s library. Therefore, it was not surprising that the annual crush attracted everyone with a claim of breeding or anyone who aspired to scale social heights.
From their roost among the matrons, the Princess de Lieven and Lady Drummond-Burrel surveyed the newest crop of debutantes, sentencing them to exile from the sacred halls of Almack’s by dint of a curtsy too shallow or a smile too forward. In the corner opposite the entry, George Brummel had set up a figurative bow window. The usual crowd of acolytes surrounded the master of mode, waiting avidly for the Beau’s comments upon the crowd as observed through the warped glass of his acid wit. To their delight, this evening promised to be more entertaining than most. Due to Gillray’s wicked caricature, Brummel was at his most biting and the Marquess of Brand had been unlucky enough to wander into the Beau’s orbit.
“It was weird beyond words,” Brummel commented smoothly, pausing for a sip of wine. “Alvanley and I had just paused in front of Mrs. Humphrey’s shop to inspect Gillray’s newest print. Have you seen it?”
Adam kept his face expressionless, knowing well enough that George was out to ruffle his feathers. “I have. Unfortunately, the man has passed the boundaries of satire. One can well believe the rumors that Gillray is going insane. No one who pretends to taste could abide so nasty a portrayal of two helpless women who have done no harm.”
“Actually I was referring to his latest tasteless lampoon of Prinny and myself. As for his jape at the Wodesby women, I find myself surprised at your defense of their honor.” Brummel jibed. “Have you not told me numerous times that all fortune tellers are a blot upon society?”
“Miss Wilton makes no pretense of such powers,” Adam said stiffly, refusing to be baited. “As a gentleman, George, you know that one must be fair.”
“True enough,” agreed Brummel, softening slightly at the appeal to good breeding. “The child will have a rough go of it.”
“Hesitate to characterize the Wodesbys as helpless, I would” Lord Alvanley chimed in. “Not after what happened to poor Gillray.”
“A bolt of lightning from on high?” Adam asked.
“I think that the artist might have found a strike from heavens to be a kinder punishment,” Brummel said.
“Precisely what did occur?” Adam asked, trying to feign nonchalance as he sipped at his glass.
“As I said, the two of us were looking at the print, when Gillray himself walked out of the shop. I was about to tell him what I thought of his sophomoric scratchings, when all of a sudden, he was set upon by this spitting, screeching fury of a feline,” Brummel began.
“Lucky man, Gillray,” Adam commented, lifting his drink in an implied salute. “Far better to be attacked by a cat than an angry Brummel.”
“Never seen the like of it,” Alvanley asserted. “The creature must have been mad, for it sprang upon Gillray and set him to staggering. Luckily, he did not fall, else I shudder to think what might have happened to his face. As it was, the beast proceeded to claw the man’s legs to shreds. ‘pon my soul, I was so stunned I did not act immediately, but when I attempted to help Gillray, I got this for my pains.” He held up a bandaged hand. “Scratched me, it did, the filthy animal.”
“Every inch of that feline was full of soot.” Brummel sniffed. “As if it had rolled itself in a coal bin. Luckily, I stepped back immediately so not a spot of soot touched me. Alvanley and Gillray looked like a pair of chimney sweeps by the time the melee was over.”
“Odd, because cats are usually the most fastidious of creatures,” Alvanley observed. “Think that this one was a marmalade tom beneath the dust. But, in any case, by the time I managed to pull the cat away, Gillray's legs had been pretty well mangled, not a square inch of his trousers was left whole.”
Thorpe deserved nothing less than a salmon, Adam thought, then shook himself mentally for the preposterous direction of his reflections. Cats did not disguise themselves. Cats could not conceive the meanings of drawings, much less identify their creators. Cats were incapable of fidelity or vengeance.
“Same as happened to ‘Hobbling’ Hatfill,” Alvanley said solemnly. “He told us all it was a tussle with a rosebush at the time, but we knew different. Wonder if that cat was marmalade too? Ought to ask him.”
“Or the Wilton Witch!” Another Brummel disciple commented.
“Really, Alvanley,” Adam said with a laugh and a scornful look that made the other offender skulk off into the crowd. “That occurred years ago. If a man were to make such inquiries of me, I would have serious doubts as to his intelligence.”
Alvanley frowned. “Hadn’t thought of that. Hatfill’s cat would be a toothless old tom, by now, wouldn’t it? Have to fly, promised for a dance y’know.”
The two men watched as Alvanley crossed the room to make his bows to his partner. As if he were seated in the famous window of White’s, Brummel banished his other sycophants with a raised brow signifying dismissal. Once the last of them had reluctantly departed earshot, Brummel indicating a vacated chair beside him. “Well, you may have nullified Alvanley, Adam,” Brummel began. “But I suspect that he will not be the only one to draw a parallel between Gillray and Hatfill, once the story gets round.”
“There is no shortage of fools,” Adam said.
“Especially in Mayfair,” Brummel agreed, slowly twirling the stem of his empty glass between his fingers. “I put no more credence in the tales about the Wodesby witches than I do in the stories that my old nanny spun by the fireside. But there are many here who are less than sanguine on the subject. Pity that the chit will be the one to suffer for her peculiar family.”
“Unless you put a good face on it,” Adam began.
<
br /> “Why should I?” Brummel asked, his expression growing childishly petulant. “Neither the Wodesbys or their kin have been particularly friendly to me.”
“That does not signify, George,” Adam said, with an assumed air of nonchalance. “However, if you condemn her, you will do naught but promote Gillray’s sales. It would seem to me that you would be wise to back Miss Wilton, if only for your own sake. To do otherwise would cause you to appear mean- spirited. Moreover, a cut might imply that you place some credit in witchery and its prognostications.”
Brummel gave him a shrewd look. “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? Very well, I shall shower my praises upon her, because I rather like her and because you request it, Adam. But ‘tis doubtful that even my consequence can pull her from this pit.”
There was an audible stir as Lady Enderby and Miss Wilton were announced. Once more, Lady Wodesby’s daughter was attired in green, the color of a newly unfurled leaf. To Adam, she seemed the embodiment of spring. Her hair was piled high upon her head, the wheaten tresses held in place by glittering emerald combs. Matching emeralds hung from her ears and the emerald pendant that she always wore was suspended in the hollow of her throat
What in the world could her mother have been thinking? Adam wondered. To allow her daughter to appear thus in public! Every male eye in the room was fixed upon Miss Wilton.
“Her modiste has outdone herself,” Brummel said.
“Outrageous,” Adam murmured, abandoning any hope that Miss Wilton might somehow pass unnoticed.
“Why would you say so?” Brummel noted archly. “Modesty is fully observed. The décolletage is demure enough for a miss fresh from the schoolroom. The fabric is not damped and not the least bit transparent.”
“Yet that gown appears as if it is defying the laws of gravity,” Adam said.
“And seems about to succumb to the earth’s pull at the slightest movement,” Brummel agreed, observing Lord Brand with growing amusement. “You look as if you have gone a round with Gentleman Jackson. Shall we take a closer look, dear boy and begin our effort at rescue while their mouths are still agape with envy and lust?”
The Would-Be Witch Page 11