An Evening at Almack's

by Sally Britton

  “I wonder what he must be about? Is she some sort of relation or his latest flirt?”

  “She must be a relation. He would not bother with a country provincial like her.”

  Putting on her best smile as though she had not heard, she tied her bonnet beneath her chin.

  “It will be slightly crowded in my phaeton, ladies, but if you do not mind, then I am sure I do not.” Lord Deverell looked dashing, Rua had to admit, in his buff pantaloons and Hessians, topped with a dark blue coat and high-crowned beaver hat.

  “Phaeton?” Caro asked as they stepped outside to view the offensive vehicle which stood about five feet high. “I am afraid I must decline the honour, Lord Deverell. I cannot abide the height. I will see if my brother will take me.” She curtsied and left Rua standing on the pavement feeling abandoned.

  “Traitor,” Rua muttered as Lord Deverell promptly assisted her into the high seat, and she at once wished herself otherwhere. Seconds later, Lord Deverell was sitting right beside her, and it was nothing like being seated in close proximity to one of her brothers. They never caused her to feel self-conscious. They never caused her stomach to flutter or her cheeks to flush.

  “That is a bang-up pair of greys you have there, my lord!” She could not resist a mite of impish fun as he sent the matched horses on their way with a slight flick of his wrist and proceeded to negotiate the traffic very handsomely.

  “Do you appreciate horseflesh, Miss Postlethwaite?”

  “I have brothers, two of whom were in the cavalry, Lord Deverell. I was put in the saddle before I could walk.”

  “Do you see your remaining brothers often?”

  This was beginning to feel like an inquisition. “Unfortunately, no.” Should she play the silly country girl or try to draw from him his proposed scheme? She was unusually conflicted. However, his eyes were keen, and she knew she could not play him for a fool for very long. “May I ask, sir, why you are payin’ me such marked attention? Clearly, I am not in your usual style, and I ’ave no prospects.”

  “Frank speaking,” he said with an appreciative gleam. “My usual style was becoming a bore.”

  They had arrived at the entrance to the park, and having negotiated the vehicle through the crowded gates, he steered the horses away from the people and towards the reservoir where they could speak more freely.

  “You handled Countess Lieven well.”

  “Like a ’orse?” she quipped without thinking. “I did not know she needed to be ’andled,” she added with an innocent air.

  “Some of the patronesses can be particular. You mentioned your mother’s family. Are you unacquainted with them?”

  “They would ’ave nowt to do with my parents after their marriage, so I ’ave never met any of them.”

  “Nothing and have. Remember your aitches, Miss Postlethwaite,” he corrected with a swift glance, revealing a gleam in his eye and a slight quirk of his lips, before he returned his gaze to the horses. “Tell me more about life in Yorkshire,” he suggested.

  “Have you ever been there, my lord?” she asked, emphasizing the pronunciation of the aitch.

  “I have only journeyed through the county, I fear, though I would have stopped had I known of its delights.”

  She suspected he was quizzing her, so she emphatically ignored his flirtatious remark. Enjoying the cloudless afternoon, the tangy breeze from the Serpentine and the full-leafed birches, maples and willows, she was quite content to remain in the park. However, they had tooled back towards the crowds of fashionables, some in their landaus or atop fine mounts, some on foot, but all in their Sunday best, as they said in Bagsby, and Rua noticed they were beginning to draw some curious stares. Quite impervious to this scrutiny and the fact that this was to be the on dit of the Season, Rua continued to watch the show about her with almost equal fascination to that she had shown at Astley’s.

  “Who is that?” Rua asked as they passed a dandy tricked out in a garish costume of bright yellow pantaloons and an equally bright tangerine coat embroidered with flowers and fruits. He pranced along in high-heeled pumps, pulling a toy poodle behind him.

  “A mere Tulip peacocking about. No one worth your notice,” he drawled. She rather agreed, though it was hard not to notice.

  They passed Sutherland and Lady Caroline travelling in the other direction, and Rua took one more opportunity to be gauche. She feared this game would soon be done. Sutherland was dashing in his own right, not unlike Deverell in many ways, and yet, strangely, Sutherland had little effect on her insides.

  “Hallo! Lady Caro!” she called with a wild wave of her arm. Caro gave a brief lift of her hand and Sutherland tipped his hat, but Rua could see them trying not to laugh and felt satisfied with her efforts.

  “You remembered your aitches! Well done!” Deverell congratulated her with a faint, contemptuous smile. “Has anyone ever told you how enchanting your eyes are?”

  Unmoved by his attempts to offer blandishments, she reminded herself to guard her sensibilities and pronounced blithely: “All anyone speaks on these days is a pair of fine eyes.”

  Dev did not want the drive to end, but knew he must remove them from the park before Miss Postlethwaite did something unforgivably outlandish beneath the gaze of the haut ton. His credit would only gain her so much leeway.

  “Would you like to stop at Gunter’s for an ice?”

  “Would that be proper without a chaperone?” she asked, as though she suddenly had a thought for appearances.

  Dev could have sworn he saw a slight twitch of her lips, but if so, she quickly repressed them back into order.

  “I assure you, Miss Postlethwaite, that there will be no question of impropriety about procuring an ice. In fact, you will not have to leave the conveyance to do so.” That there would be plenty of talk otherwise, he had little doubt.

  Dev had already left the park and driven to Berkley Square, pulling his phaeton into the line before Gunter’s. It was a warm spring day, so there were all sorts of persons to be found there, seeking the cool pleasure of an ice: nurses with their charges, more dandies prancing in their latest costumes, and mamas showing off their silly daughters. It was almost more crowded than the park. He looked sideways, expecting to see Miss Postlethwaite taking it all in, but instead she was pulling faces at a young child whose nurse was more interested in a handsome footman.

  The little boy rubbed one shoe up the back of his other stocking and pretended to hide behind his nursemaid’s skirts.

  “Peek-a-boo!” he cried, giggling, springing into view again.

  Miss Postlethwaite opened and closed her mouth in imitation of a fish, and he giggled some more, which caught his nurse’s attention. Giving his hand an admonitory tug, she bobbed a curtsy at the occupants of the carriage.

  “Thomas, do not importune the lady. Make your bow, please.”

  “May I serve you, my lord?” As Thomas obliged, a waiter from the confectioners appeared beside the carriage, ready to fetch their desserts and thus claiming their notice.

  “What is your pleasure, Miss Postlethwaite?” Dev enquired, glad to have averted another scene.

  She looked around to see what others were partaking of and frowned. “I have never had such a thing, sir.”

  “There are flavours to suit almost any fancy. From sour to sweet or creamy to sorbet—like frozen juice.”

  “What is your favourite?”

  “I prefer the Parmesan or Gruyère, but most ladies seem to prefer the lighter bergamot or muscadine.”

  “Surprise me, sir, for I have no notion of how any of them should taste.”

  Dev nodded to the waiter, and he rushed back across the street, dodging traffic, to fulfil their order.

  When the waiter returned with their desserts in fine porcelain dishes with tiny spoons, she looked at Dev, and he nodded his encouragement. She piled as much of the purple ice as she could on the little spoon, and it was all he could do not to roar with laughter.

  When she at last took a bite, she
closed her eyes with undisguised pleasure and groaned with delight. “Ohhhh.”

  “You approve, I take it?”

  “Approve? I do believe this is what Heaven will taste of. Is this the muscadine? It tastes a little like the elder wine our cook makes.”

  “I cannot say I have ever considered that Heaven will have a taste.”

  “Oh, I think so,” she said emphatically. “One of God’s greatest gifts to us is our senses. I should like to think of Heaven with ices,” she said as she took obvious pleasure in another indelicate bite.

  “I should like to think of it graced by red-headed beauties with violet eyes,” he commented with his usual air of indifference, while watching her from beneath hooded lids.

  “What nonsense you speak, sir!” she declared, though her eyes were twinkling.

  Dev had used some of his best lines on the chit, and she was reprimanding him! “A word of advice, Miss Postlethwaite: you must play the game a little.”

  “I thought we were playin’ a game! Forgive me, ’ave I bruised your feelings by not returnin’ your compliment?” she asked, eyes dancing with merriment. She was laughing at him!

  “Served my just desserts,” he retorted and shoved his own spoon, full of ice, into his mouth. Miss Postlethwaite gurgled with laughter, which was the most pleasant sound he could recall. Perhaps Heaven would sound like her laughter.

  It was at that moment that an unfortunate visitor chose to walk up to the phaeton.

  “Deverell.” The newcomer inclined his head but watched Miss Postlethwaite with undisguised appreciation.

  “Campbell.” Dev returned the greeting, though he kept his voice cool. He felt the lady tense and sit up straighter. An awkward pause ensued, and Dev realized they were wholly unknown to one another. From his demeanour, Campbell clearly expected him to rectify that oversight, committed by the man’s own family. Dev was in half a mind to drive on when the lady cleared her throat.

  “Mr. Archibald Campbell, may I introduce you to your cousin, Miss Postlethwaite?” he conceded at last, not troubling to hide his reluctance.

  “So it is true,” the man said, brows lifted—half in curiosity, half in admiration—as he walked around the equipage to greet her properly. Dev watched as the well-dressed man with dark blond hair and blue eyes smiled and bowed over her hand, feeling a strange urge to box Campbell’s ears. Dev could not blame the poor fellow for his reaction, but this was hardly the place for a family reunion. “Charmed, dear cousin. I dearly hope you will allow your family to become suitably acquainted.”

  “She is staying with Lady Sutherland, if you should like to rectify the situation in a proper fashion, Campbell,” Dev hinted, if not subtly.

  The man’s eyes narrowed momentarily before he stood up tall and looked back at Dev.

  “Perhaps I may have a word?”

  Dev grumbled but handed his reins to his tiger.

  “We will only be a moment, cousin,” Campbell reassured Miss Postlethwaite. As soon as they were out of earshot, Campbell wasted no time venting his misgivings. “What are you about, Dev? There are bets all over the books about you and my cousin, and none of them reputable. As a male relative, I must look out for her best interests.”

  “Doing it too brown, methinks, Archie,” Dev replied severely. “Since I made the introduction, I hardly think it is your place to suddenly claim kinship when she is a grown woman.”

  Campbell glared. “Are your intentions toward her honourable?”

  As much as Dev was inclined to teach this impudent pup about duty, he did not wish to further jeopardize Miss Postlethwaite’s reputation by duelling over her. Their conversation was already attracting notice. Those who did not know of her connections to the lofty House of Argyll before today would do so by the morrow. He saw Willoughby Greaves, the most notorious gossip, slipping away through the crowd, and sighed inwardly.

  “I mean her no harm,” he temporized. “My word as a gentleman.” He willed his dark brown eyes to betray no emotion.

  Campbell released the visible tension in his face and shoulders and backed away a step. “Very well. My grandmother was taking a pet that you meant to set her up as your mistress.”

  Dev looked over to where he had left the young lady, but she was no longer in the phaeton. He flicked his gaze back and forth, searching for her in the crowded square.

  “You insult me, sir, I think,” he said. At that moment, he caught sight of the person he sought. Skirts held indecorously above her shapely calves, she was chasing a ball across the lawn in the centre of the square. He heard high-pitched laughter, and turning slightly, saw the little boy, Thomas, whom she had been making faces at earlier. As Dev watched, mesmerized, she threw the ball to her new friend, whereupon he kicked it again and the game continued.

  “I forget there are still such innocents in the country,” Campbell mused as they watched her with mutual fascination, completely heedless of what others thought of her behaviour. She was not doing anything vulgar, yet she was hardly comporting herself as a young woman of twenty years ought while in London, amongst the beau monde. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Perhaps I should ask what your family means to do by your cousin, having ignored her for twenty years.”

  “I did not know of her existence until yesterday!” Campbell stammered. “I had met her brother before, by chance, but he did not mention he had a sister. We received word her parents had died last year, and Grandmama was quite distraught about it! She dispatched me to find the girl as soon as Lady Cowper sent word.”

  “Then you may reassure the Dowager Duchess that she will come to no harm from me. I hope she will be recognized. Lady Sutherland has taken her in—a stranger!”

  Campbell looked properly abashed, so Dev ceased his attack.

  “I must not keep her waiting. Your servant!” He clicked his heels, nodded and strode briskly across the lawn to fetch Miss Postlethwaite from her playmate.

  ***

  Word of Lord Deverell’s attentions to the new, unknown country girl spread like fire on old timber. Rua was not comfortable with the attention, for she knew it to be false and she quite feared she was in over her head, playing the proper lady for one audience and the ignorant, innocent country lass for the other.

  Having had no word from the other branch of her family her whole life, she thought very little of her meeting with her cousin, other than he seemed to think highly of himself. She deemed anyone who could ignore relations due to reduced circumstances unworthy of her affection or attention, so she quite put the meeting out of her mind.

  However, her life soon took on a new whirl: she was suddenly receiving invitations, flowers and callers to whom she had never been introduced. She suspected it was to gawk at Deverell’s latest curiosity.

  A few gowns arrived from Madame Therese, and that arresting event was enough to draw Lady Sutherland’s attention. While Caro and Rua were admiring the new creations from the seamstress, Lady Sutherland joined them, caution and concern written all over her face.

  She sat quietly, and Rua waited, knowing she had something to say.

  “These gowns are quite lovely. It was so kind of your friend to give you those silks.”

  “Yes indeed,” Rua agreed. “I am certain I have never owned anything so fine.” She fingered the exquisite cream fabric and its sheer golden overdress with something akin to awe.

  “I did not expect them for at least another week, with this being the busiest time for a modiste,” Lady Sutherland said slowly.

  “I must credit your good name for that,” Rua said frankly.

  “Perhaps, but I suspect it has as much to do with Lord Deverell’s attentions to you.”

  Rua and Caro both stopped and looked at the lady. She continued cautiously, “It is a credit to be noticed by one such as he, but I feel I would be doing you a disservice if I did not warn you against losing your heart. He is a renowned flirt, but he never has marriage in mind.”

  “My heart is in no danger, I assure you, ma�
��am! I know I am nothing more than a diversion to him.” She must keep reminding both herself and her heart.

  The good lady’s face relaxed; she was clearly not enjoying the burden of speaking of anything so delicate. However, she frowned again. “What I do not understand, is why he has singled out you, a young country nobody, to play with this Season. Never before has he bothered with anyone eligible!”

  Rua overlooked the slight—which the lady did not even realize she had given—and said amiably: “I do believe I am the object of some sort of wager, ma’am. You can rest assured that I am fully aware he has no true interest in one such as I! Nonetheless, it would be foolish of me to refuse the advantage he has given me by bringing me into fashion. Perhaps someone who can overlook my status as a poor vicar’s daughter will take notice.”

  “Oh, indeed! You are such a good girl, is she not, Caro?” the lady said, quite missing the sarcasm, and evidently satisfied she would have to bestir herself no further.

  “Yes, Mama,” Caro agreed cautiously.

  Lady Sutherland stood up, having discharged her duty without any unpleasantness, and seemed quite pleased. “I almost forgot! Emily sent over vouchers to Almack’s for both of you.”

  Caro and Rua looked at each other, exchanging sceptical expressions.

  “We have Lord Deverell to thank for that as well, I surmise. I was not expecting such a singular honour!” Rua tried to hide the cynicism she felt.

  “Not at all! Emily had already agreed before he arrived. It certainly did not hurt your estimation with the other patronesses, it is true, but she is on good terms with your Campbell relations as well as myself and was happy to oblige.”

  Once Lady Sutherland had left them, Caro and Rua stared at each other for a moment before bursting out laughing. “You must forgive Mama,” Caro said.

  “No offence taken. I was well informed of my social status before I left Yorkshire. But what do we do now?”

  “Well, I did find out from my brother that your suspicions were correct. I overheard him speaking with my mother, and he was upset when he saw the vouchers!”