Bee checked the street. From their vantage point, the town of Brighton spread north along the fashionable Steyne, past the Lanes filled with tiny shops and the Prince Regent's sprawling Pavilion to their aunt's grand home on the edge of town. "She's gone. We're safe."
"I hid my face, but she's wise, your sister."
Don't I know. Marjorie was one year younger than Bee. With secrets as disreputable if not as dangerous as mine.
"I wish you wouldn't come 'ere, Miss. Captain Demerest wouldn't like you coming to the sea."
Bee had made the mistake to tell her of Alastair's request she not come here. A maid in Bee's parents' home since she'd been ten, Mary had known Alastair Demerest nearly as many years as Bee. "He was always very protective."
"Aye. Oh, but 'e's dead, ain't he? I know you won't say it, but—”
"No." They'd seen his name on one casualty list in the London Gazette July 3, but since then not a word. If his commanding officer had sent a notice to a distant relative of his that he was declared dead, they’d heard nothing of it. Only this void. This hole of despair. "He's alive." I know he is. "Come along, Mary. I'll hail a chair. Hurry. It's cold."
Finding all the sedan chairmen fully employed along the Steyne, Bee led the way toward her aunt's fashionable mansion. Only once had she imagined her tall, blond, dashing, ever-earnest Alastair Demerest bleeding, mangled, dying on a blood-stained battlefield and calling her name. She'd run for the chamber pot. That day, she'd vowed to never envision such again. But for months, she'd heard his voice, his appeals to wait for him. Wait. Though as months wore on, with no confirmation of his passing nor his name on revised casualty lists, Bee had only instinct to tell her he might have survived.
"He was so kind, so handsome." Mary brought up the subject once more. "His mother loved him so."
Bee choked on the memories. Lady Dorothy Demerest had been like a mother to Bee, her two sisters and brother George since the passing of their own mother twelve years ago. A neighbor, whose home was on the opposite bank of the Thames, the Viscountess Lowell had visited almost daily and brought her two sons with her to play with the Craymores. If she were still alive, that dear lady would cry her eyes out that not only her oldest William was gone, killed at Toulouse alongside George, but also that her youngest Alastair might have given his life for king and country.
But he didn't. He's alive.
"Even James is gone," said the maid, tears filling her words.
Mary had held a tendre for one of the footmen who'd left their Aunt Gertrude's service last winter to join the Army and fight Bonaparte. Killed on the Belgian field, he'd not returned to them and Mary mourned him every day.
"We've lost too many we loved," Bee said, and put a comforting hand to the maid's. Bee choked up at the list of family and friends lost in these wars. "Let's not speak of the dead again."
"But Blue Hawker? For fair, we can hope he's dead."
"Dead, yes." The smuggler of French goods whom Bee had discovered running goods aground upon the Brighton shore on winter mornings had disappeared. His fancy friend too. She'd told Alastair about them both when he'd been home to settle his older brother's affairs. Alastair had introduced her to the Navy captain in Brighton whose responsibility it was to work with the Customs officers to keep the coast clear of such criminals. Days later, Alastair had told her that revenuers had caught two shipments that had drifted upon the shore. Crates of opium and twenty-two tubs of French cognac was the catch. Sadly, Blue Hawker had escaped the trap and hadn't returned with any contraband since then.
"Means he won't be looking for us," Mary said with relief as she ambled along beside Bee. "Or any o' his men."
She tried to smile at her pretty maid. "They're probably caught."
Mary frowned. "And transported. Because if they come back, they won't live long."
"Oh? Why do you say?"
Mary put her gaze on Bee's deep coat pocket. "You'd shoot them."
A chill shivered up Bee's spine, but she put a gay smile to her lie. "I promised I'd only carry it, not use it."
Mary let her brows rise high to denote her skepticism. "You've carried that pistol of your father's for years. Why give up now when you got yourself a smuggler?"
"Men!" announced Aunt Gertrude, clutching a letter to her generous bosom and staring at Bee as she entered the Yellow Salon. "Glorious men."
Bee smoothed the loose tendrils of her hair and examined the lady dear to her heart. "I'm sorry, Aunt. I'm late and—”
"Come in, my girl! Just there. Do sit."
Bee hurried to take a seat on the gold damask chair her aunt indicated. "Of course. What did you—?"
"Where have you been?"
"Out to the greengrocers."
"I wish you would leave that to the kitchen staff, sweet." Her aunt held aloft a parchment letter. "No matter. I have news. Glorious. A party."
"Wonderful." Bee nodded at her aunt's letter. "Whose?"
"The post. And we have this, too!" The lady raised sheets of the local newspaper. "The balls at the Castle Rooms."
Festivities at the public rooms had resumed months ago. Brighton society attended. Local belles graced the rooms, so said the Sussex Advertiser, and Aunt Gertrude, who lived for dining, dancing and gossip, had insisted that Bee and her two sisters start to attend. Their mourning period for their brother and father was over and their maternal aunt had set her very own modiste to the task of sewing wardrobes befitting their station and her generous pocketbook.
"'Lady Winterbotham sponsors an intimate dinner,'" her aunt read with glee, one finger aloft. "'Lord and Lady Gort host a waltzing party.'"
"Grand." Bee loved to see her aunt so enthused. A dreary Gertrude was a misery to contend with. "And you are invited?"
The lady grinned and strode to the window that overlooked the street. The sun shone down on the passersby who hunched into the brisk breeze that blew up the Steyne from the coast. She whirled to face Bee. "Yes, yes. You too. Without your pistol in your pocket."
"Oh, Aunt." The lady loved to tease Bee about her agility with her weapon.
"What's more, we will host a celebration."
"We will? A dinner party?"
"Not merely dinner! I think…a shooting party. Though I will ask you to allow the gentlemen to bag a few birds."
Bee cast her eyes heavenward. December was not prime hunting season. But her aunt didn't care about rules of the calendar. "I promise I'll allow the men to excel."
"And you'll not kill anyone."
"I promise." Could no one forget this? On one of her solitary rides at dawn, Bee had mistaken one of Aunt Bee's tenants for a poacher and fired off. Part of his ear gone, he was shaken. Bee was happy—he was too—that she'd not murdered him.
"Do, my chick. We want husbands, live ones. Rich ones. We shall sing and dance."
"Dancing?" Bee didn't want to dine or dance. Not with anyone except Alastair. "At a hunt?"
In the hall, Simms the butler was greeting someone. Bee cocked an ear and prayed it was a caller. Someone to distract her aunt from this idea.
"A breakfast! Luncheon!" Aunt Gertrude clasped her chubby hands together, a look of ecstasy upon her face. "I shall have my maid clean my diamonds."
Bee was lost. "Do your diamonds go well with hunting apparel?"
"Absolutely." Aunt Gertrude might be flamboyant, a bit outré, but she was a pillar of Brighton society, the Countess of Marsden who was renowned for her dinner parties and musicales. She followed every shred of society's gossip. Recounted it like gospel. Wished for companionship and society. Pined for frivolity since the scandal of Bee’s father’s ruin and later, his death had cut them all from most engagements. As of last month, they were out of mourning officially and her aunt had ordered not only a thorough cleaning of Marsden Hall, but also supplies of victuals, whiskey and champagne. Stocking the house along with her order of new formal gowns for the three sisters had heralded her aunt's impending freedom. "We must return to our rightful places."
&n
bsp; Bee gave a painful smile. She wanted to share her aunt's enthusiasm for life. But Bee and her sisters no longer had 'rightful places' in society. Their father's reckless behavior had ended that. He'd been a viscount, fourth of his line, possessed of home, land, and a few priceless works of art, but he'd lost all to his penchants for horses, cards and gin. Notoriously, even the London Times which normally listed mostly those among the merchant or laboring classes who’d lost all, had named him among the 'Bankrupts'. Bee suspected other local papers had reprinted the hideous news.
The infamy still burned Bee to the quick. Life could be unjust. "What is it that persuades you, Aunt?"
"Griffith." The lady spun, a grin on her lips, her parchment aloft in her hand.
So. Her step-son, the earl of Marsden, attached to the Duke of Wellington's general staff in Paris, had written the letter.
Why did Griffith's letter indicate a party was in order? "Does he return home for the Christmas Season?"
"He hopes to receive permission. He'll bring a friend or more. Those men need gaiety in their lives. I do hope those he brings will be bachelors. Isn't that wonderful news?"
"I say! Good afternoon to you both." Delphine stood in the parlor doorway, her cheeks bright pink, her platinum blonde hair wild from the wind. "What is wonderful news, Aunt?"
"A house party. We'll host one. I do wish you'd tidy yourself, dearest Delphine, before you join us. How do you expect to gain the attentions of a beau if you are so careless with your toilette?"
"Oh Aunt, I'll worry about that when I find a man I favor."
Bee mashed her lips together. Delphine favored any man she met.
"Oh, look! Cook's scones!" Changing the subject, Del gave a giggle, then dutifully tucked her errant curls behind her ears. Of course, that did nothing for the stray strands that fell down her neck minus their pins. Wild hair, no matter the color, was a Craymore trait. Del took a seat on the settee and waited for her aunt to offer her tea and refreshments. "I am ravenous."
“Do eat up, my dear.” Their aunt was nothing if not indulgent, especially when it came to feeding herself and others. As a result, Delphine had taken to enjoying her food with glee and she filled out her corset in generous proportions. "Come, tell us how your brood is today? It's a miracle you can teach them anything at all."
"They're poor, Aunt. But bright." Delphine slid a sideways glance at Bee as their aunt returned to her chair, leaned over and selected with her silver tongs a few tiny sandwiches and a scone from the tea tray, all for Delphine. "Thank you, ma'am. Do tell me what is the wonderful news you discussed."
"I've the inspiration to host a house party. Seven exciting nights.” Her aunt hoped to be once more a doyenne of Brighton social circles. "I've itched to hostess a party since that monkey Bonaparte departed for Elba. A joyous occasion, that. We thought we were rid of the creature."
"He was a bad dream," said Delphine, accepting her cup of tea. "But up he popped again."
"He's done for now, don’t you think? I do. I do," pronounced their aunt as if the gypsy mesmerist in the Lanes had enchanted her. "And we shall have a ball to celebrate."
Delphine paused, her scone mid-way to her mouth. "Oh, a ball, too?"
"A must for any proper house party, my dear."
"But—” Delphine stared at their aunt in shock. "Can we dance?"
"Of course you can," their aunt said with certainty. "You don't have feet of bricks."
"No. I meant, should we?"
Aunt Gertrude skewered Del with beady eyes. "You've been keeping company with those Methodists too often.”
Bee cleared her throat, suppressing a chuckle.
"They’re wonderful, Aunt, and I—”
"I’m certain they are but they don't like gin and they don't like to dance. What are we about if one cannot drink or dance, I ask you?"
Del acknowledged that with a bark of laughter. "We'll just ask Bee not to fire her pistol."
"Oh, now, that is unfair," Bee objected crossing her arms.
Del couldn't control herself. "You shooting old Mersdale gave everyone a laugh. Even him."
"Poor man," Bee said, ashamed she had nothing to compensate the man with except her personal mediocre medical care. "It was an accident."
"You are too diligent, Bee. A poacher, indeed! Whom else have you discovered?"
Hmmm. Words like that put Bee on guard that Del knew about Blue Hawker, just as Marjorie might.
"Do not torment your sister, Delphine." Aunt Gertrude was waving her handkerchief. "All of you and I as well, are out of mourning for your father. The time has long since past for your brother George too. More than a year and a half. God rest his soul."
Bee considered her tea cup. Their grief for their brother George had been wilder, deeper than for that of their father. George had been a scholar at Eton and Cambridge, a wit, a caring older brother. He hadn’t had to join the army, but had marched off suddenly four years ago with his best friend William, Alastair’s older brother. When George had died at Toulouse, they’d been shocked and deeply grieved. On the contrary, their father’s death left them cold. Never able to cope with the loss of their mother and her steadying influence, he'd let gin take him to ever lower depths until he'd gambled all away and cast the three girls upon the charity of his sister-in-law, their Aunt Gertrude.
"We’ll forget our recent troubles," the lady said and rose to summon a servant with a yank at the tapestry pull. “We’ll have a Christmas enchantment.”
"I'm afraid, Aunt, that I would not be cheerful company," Bee said, with a sharp glance at Del to prompt her to support her.
But Del shook her head.
Simms appeared like a genie in the doorway to the kitchens. Tall, black-haired with sharp silver eyes and a deep cleft in his handsome chin, the young man was a new recruit to the household staff. A rarity to be so young—thirty perhaps?—and yet familiar with the intricacies of running a household. He was dry, droll and dapper. What more could one wish in a butler?
"My lady?" he asked his mistress.
"Writing implements, Simms. Pen. Ink."
"Ma'am?"
"Invitations."
He thought a moment. "How many?"
"One ball. Eight days."
"I see." He tried, handsome befuddled creature that he was, to understand that, then said, "Pens?"
"Yes, quickly." He turned on his heel.
"Wait. No need. Simply remember, Simms, will you?"
The man stopped short. "Certainly, ma'am. Enumerate for me."
"House party. Eight days. A ball Christmas night. Twenty here in the house. Not counting we four. His lordship may come home and he’ll bring with him one or two fellow officers. Sixty...." She counted on her fingers, over and over. "Sixty-six for the total guest list. Tell Cook. And Mrs Patton. Remember all that, can you, Simms?"
He lifted one long dark brow as if in insult. "Yes, my lady."
"Good. And the Prince Regent, too," the lady announced. "You'll tell your friend, Prinny's head butler, won't you, Simms?"
The man had made it known to his new employer that he was on a first-name basis with every servant in the Regent's household. "As you wish, ma'am."
"Marvelous." She clasped her hands together. “Prinny’s butler.”
"Prinny's butler?" Bee's younger sister Marjorie waltzed into the room. “For what?”
“A party,” said Bee.
“Here,” said Del with twinkling eyes.
Marjorie frowned at her, then at Simms. “Wales’s butler will come here to a party?”
"No, no. You're late, my girl," scolded Aunt Gertrude with a wide smile on her rouged lips.
"I do apologize." She flounced into the room dressed in her favorite afternoon at-home gown of pink and white cotton and sank into the nearest chair.
"You look lovely," said their aunt. "Every hair in place. Your sisters should emulate you."
"Thank you, Aunt." She patted her honey blonde tresses in recognition of her aunt's praise, then pushed her spec
tacles up her nose.
"I do however wish you didn't wear those glasses, dear girl. They hide you."
She removed them and slipped them in her pocket. "I cannot read or write without them. I apologize."
"No need," their aunt said. "What were you doing that you're late?"
"Letters I had to attend to. I am so behind in my correspondence."
Lately Marjorie had occupied herself writing quite a few letters. To whom, was a mystery. On what subject, was the bigger one. Bee had been asking. Marjorie was not confiding. Her letters and her friendship with the Earl of Leith's daughter, a pretty girl too wise for her own good, had aroused Bee's suspicions that her sister was back to her old card tricks. Or rather, a pack of new ones.
But she asked, “What’s this about Prinny’s butler?”
"Not his butler,” said Bee, knowing Marjorie was trying to change the subject.
“We're to host a house party," Del told her. "Eight days. One ball. With the Prince of Wales invited too. Do you think he’ll come, Simms?"
“Ah, well—” the butler began.
“I do hope so.” Marjorie sat up in her chair, the greedy twinkle in her violet eyes a sight that shot alarm through Bee. "That would be superb."
No, it would not. "He might be quite busy hosting his own parties at the Pavilion."
"Oh, but he likes to go about town." Marjorie looked like a well-fed cat, licking her lips at the prospect of the prince to entertain...or fleece.
"He's attended my soirees before." Their aunt reached for a plate to pile high items for Marjorie. "I know he'll find you charming, Marjorie."
Bee bit her lip. She hoped the Prince didn't find her sister so charming that he was tricked into betting against her. Every man initially judged Marjorie to be studious, a bluestocking, off-putting because of those spectacles. Little did they suspect that beneath that crown of honeyed hair lay an eagle-eyed card sharp.
"The Prince will delight in each one of you," added their aunt. "He'll certainly aid us in the search for proper young men to entertain."
Bee stifled the urge to groan. Marjorie wanted no particular man, but as many men as might find her talents intriguing. Delphine, however, wanted to charm any man in her path. And as for me? I want the man I've always cared for and never had the right to claim.
The Duke’s Impetuous Darling: Christmas Belles, Book 3 Page 2