"Deuced sorry I didn't get by to see you last night, Livvy,” he said awkwardly, his eyes not quite meeting those of his fiancée. “A previous engagement, you know. I trust you had a pleasant trip?"
"Well enough, although a bit fatiguing. It seems Mr. Collier has much to say about the evils of the Metropolis,” she confessed with a mischievous gleam in her eye.
Sir Harry's awkwardness vanished, and he grinned back at her. “In other words, Georgie bored you cock-eyed! Depend upon it, she'll drop her Friday-faced airs the first time she sets foot in Almack's."
"Which may be sooner than you think,” replied Olivia with no small satisfaction. “We met Lady Sefton and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell yesterday at Lady Bainbridge's, and they have promised us vouchers."
Sir Harry, well aware of the capriciousness of Almack's patronesses in granting the coveted vouchers, was impressed. “You don't mean it!"
"I do! Although I confess it was a very near thing for a moment, when Georgina started to favor the patronesses with Mr. Collier's views on the waltz."
Sir Harry gave a shout of laughter. “About its being an instrument of the devil? That would have set the cat amongst the pigeons, wouldn't it?"
"I shudder to think of it!” replied Olivia, suiting the word to the deed. “But we have vouchers, and Mama says we may attend on Wednesday. Oh, Harry, would you escort us?"
Sir Harry looked askance at the wide blue eyes gazing eagerly up at him. The childhood friend had vanished, and in her place sat the future wife. He ran his finger inside a cravat which suddenly felt too tight.
"Er, I don't know, Livvy,” he stammered. “There's a prize fight at Tothill Fields, and I promised Felix—Mr. Wrexham, that is—that I'd go with him. Got a monkey on Molyneux, you know, so I—Hullo, I've got it! I'll meet you there! That's the ticket, Livvy,” he said, warming to this product of his own brain. “You go on to Almack's with your mama and Georgie, and I'll meet you there. Only promise to save me the first waltz!"
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Chapter Three
Faint heart ne'er won fair lady.
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES, Don Quixote de la Mancha
Selwyn St. George, fifth marquess of Mannerly, leaned against the wall at Almack's and studied the dancers with a bored mien. Certainly no one would have guessed by his saturnine countenance that his primary emotion was relief. He flicked open his enameled snuffbox, placed a small pinch of his signature blend on the inside of his wrist, and inhaled deeply. He had been foolish, he now realized, to imagine that one minor mishap with a greenhorn fresh from the wilds of Leicestershire would close Society's doors against one of its most eligible bachelors. If anyone recalled the circumstances surrounding his self-imposed exile from the Metropolis, they gave no outward sign.
But he remembered, and the bitter memory caused his black brows to draw together in a frown of such ferocity that one young lady, passing at that moment into his line of vision and supposing herself to be the object of his disapproval, fled to the safety of her mother's arms. He had not spent his entire adult life cultivating an air of jaded sophistication only to have it destroyed in an instant by an impudent young pup still wet behind the ears. Not, he considered, that the pup in question had intentionally emptied his wineglass over the marquess's head; in fact, he doubted the young man possessed that much bottom. No, young—what was his name? Harley? Hawley? Hawthorne? Whoever he was, he was merely trying to catch the eye of the beauteous Violetta, the same as every other male present at Covent Garden on that fateful evening. But far from deriving consolation from this knowledge, Lord Mannerly felt doubly humiliated. It was, after all, more enviable to be the object of a rival's jealousy than merely a hapless victim of circumstance. At any rate, there had been nothing the marquess could do, since to call the young cub out would only have lent him consequence. And so he had quit Covent Garden without further ado, his fashionable Titus crop raining Madeira down his hitherto immaculate shirtfront. He had then made haste to Paris, where he might stroke his wounded amour propre, and where shortly thereafter he had heard that the fair Violetta had bestowed her considerable favors upon the Duke of Islington.
"Why, Selwyn, I had no idea you had returned to town,” remarked a rather dashing young matron, playfully rapping the marquess's sleeve with her fan. “Have you come to inspect this year's hopefuls? But you do not dance! Shall I help you find a partner?"
"Ever the matchmaker, eh, Emily?” he replied, raising Lady Cowper's gloved hand to his lips with practiced grace. “An exercise in futility, as you surely must know by now. Nevertheless, in order to remain in your good graces, I will do my duty. You may introduce me to—” he paused, raising his quizzing glass to inspect the rainbow of pastel-clad young ladies whirling about the room. At length his sweeping gaze settled on a dark-haired damsel in a gown of purest white shot with silver threads. “—That one.” He pointed his glass at the fortunate chosen.
"Miss Darby? She is something out of the common way, is she not? But,” added Lady Cowper, dimpling up at him, “I think it only fair to warn you not to entertain any matrimonial hopes where she is concerned. Miss Darby is already betrothed to Sir Harry Hawthorne."
Lord Mannerly's quizzing glass checked ever so briefly before he let it fall. Sir Harry Hawthorne? This, surely, was the intended bride of the young cub who had precipitated his abrupt departure from London. For the first time in many weeks, the marquess's spirits lifted, then soared. How absurd, to think he had spent the better part of a year pouting over a blow to his pride! Selwyn St. George, fifth marquess of Mannerly, sulking over the loss of a bit of muslin who was no better than she should be! His Mannerly forebears must have been setting the family crypt awhirl! But no more. He was a Mannerly, and Mannerlys did not get embarrassed; they got even. As he eyed the dark-haired beauty in white, a plan began to form in his mind—a cunning, clever, brilliant plan. By God, he would teach the impudent young pup to make a fool of the marquess of Mannerly! He would have his revenge, and this nubile nymph was the key. Turning back to Lady Cowper, he flashed his most charming smile.
"Having done your duty by delivering this caveat, my lady,” he said, offering her his arm, “lead on!"
* * * *
"What time is it, Mama?” asked Olivia, fidgeting in the elegant but uncomfortable chair situated along the wall.
"Ten fifty-two,” replied her parent placidly, consulting the ormolu clock concealed from her daughter's view by her own plumed turban. “Precisely two minutes later than it was the last time you asked."
"He's not coming, is he?” Olivia asked miserably. “Harry isn't coming."
"Well, if he is, he'd best be quick about it,” said Mrs. Darby matter-of-factly. “The doors are locked precisely at eleven, and no one—not even the hero of Waterloo, Wellington himself—is admitted after that hour."
"I suppose I should have known,” conceded Olivia with a sigh.
"Indeed, I should think you would, my dear,” replied her mama briskly. “After all, why should a young man be expected to dance attendance on his fiancée, with so many other amusements to distract him? Men are all alike, my dear. Predictable, but necessary. They loathe Almack's to a man. But you mustn't take it personally, Olivia. Never mind losing an occasional battle when you have already won the war.” Having delivered herself of this sage advice, she bent a frown upon her unhappy daughter. “In my opinion, you were a bit rash in refusing to dance with young Eversley—excellent ton, and a sizable fortune, especially for a younger son. Perhaps we might have steered him in Georgina's direction,” she added, sotto voce, casting a furtive glance at the primrose-clad damsel seated on her other side, who observed the waltz in progress with a marked air of disapproval.
"I thought it only fitting to save my first dance for Harry—indeed, I promised him as much,” she confessed. “Unfortunately, it appears that he—"
But Mrs. Darby, eyes widening in anticipation, had lost interest in her daughter's absentee suitor. “Only look, Olivia! Lady Cowper is h
eaded this way, and see the fine gentleman she is bringing with her! If he asks you to dance, my dear, you are to accept. We cannot have you and Georgina labeled as wallflowers."
The next instant saw the Hawthorne party introduced to Lady Cowper's distinguished companion, and although he was scrupulously polite to all three ladies, it was clearly Olivia's presence which had led him thither.
"Lord Mannerly, may I present Mrs. Darby, Miss Darby, and Miss Hawthorne? Lord Mannerly, I believe, is an intimate acquaintance of your fiancé, Miss Darby,” added the patroness, darting a mischievous glance at the marquess.
Georgina, seated demurely beside her chaperone, watched as the most striking man she had ever seen bowed over Olivia's hand. She could not in all honesty call him handsome, for his swarthy countenance possessed a magnetism which transcended mere beauty. His hair was the glossy black of a raven's wing, and his dark eyes glittered as if at some private amusement. Georgina was struck with the notion that he would be a dangerous man to cross. She was immediately ashamed of the direction her wayward thoughts had taken. If her brother considered this gentleman a friend, why should she think of him as an enemy?
"I should be honored,” Lord Mannerly was saying, “if you would stand up with me for the waltz, Miss Darby."
Olivia, having been warned by her mama not to waltz until being granted permission to do so, glanced at Lady Cowper and, seeing the patroness nodding her approval, took the marquess's proffered hand. “I am sure any friend of Harry's must be a friend of mine,” she said as they took their places.
"I have a confession to make,” replied Lord Mannerly with a notable lack of repentance. “I fear you were misled. Although I am acquainted with Sir Harry, I cannot in good conscience call any man friend who steals a march on me so unsportingly. Tell me, Miss Darby, how came you to cast your lot with Sir Harry without giving the rest of us poor blighters a chance to win your affections?"
"We are near neighbors, my lord, and it has always been our families’ dearest wish that we should wed,” explained Olivia.
"Then it is an arranged marriage?"
"Yes—not that we ourselves are reluctant for the match,” she added perhaps a bit too quickly.
"My dear Miss Darby, how could any man be reluctant to unite himself to such beauty?” replied Lord Mannerly, guiding her easily through the movements of the dance.
Olivia, having been sadly neglected by her prospective bridegroom, was no match for Lord Mannerly's flowery compliments. Acutely aware of the admiration in his black eyes and the warm pressure of his hand upon her waist, she responded to his flattery much as a flower responds to the sun. Mannerly, observing her shining eyes and heightened color, found himself rearranging his plans. His first thought was to court Miss Darby until she gave young Hawthorne the mitten, thus avenging his own humiliation by seeing his foe publicly jilted. But now, seeing the rise and fall of her white bosom above the décolletage of her gown, he revised his plans along more effective—and far more pleasant—lines. He would seduce the love-starved Miss Darby and, since the soiled bride would then undoubtedly hurry her cuckolded swain to the altar as quickly as possible, he would have his revenge on the happy couple's wedding night, when Sir Harry Hawthorne discovered too late that he had been beaten, as it were, to the post. Lord Mannerly's one regret was that his very public humiliation must be satisfied with a very private revenge; but that, he supposed, was the price of genius.
* * * *
The prospective bridegroom, entering Almack's precisely at ten fifty-seven, paused for a moment inside those hallowed portals, raising his quizzing glass to search for his chosen bride. There was her mama, seated beside Georgie along the wall. Lord Mannerly, he observed with a grimace, was back in Town, and had naturally staked his claim on the most beautiful woman present, a dark-haired enchantress in white. The quizzing glass lingered on this vision briefly before passing on, then returned with a jerk. Livvy! His Livvy, in a diaphanous cloud of white sarcenet with a low-cut corsage that exposed far too much rounded bosom for his peace of mind. And Lord Mannerly, he observed with displeasure, was taking full advantage of the view. A long-dormant demon of jealousy stirred in Sir Harry's hitherto complacent breast. Mannerly had no business looking at Livvy that way! Dash it all, he had no business looking at her that way, and he was all but married to the girl!
As the violins scraped to a halt, Sir Harry charted a direct course for his future mama-in-law, and reached that good lady just as Lord Mannerly returned his fair partner to her mother's side.
"Why, Harry!” exclaimed Olivia, still flushed and breathless from the exertions of the dance. “I had quite given you up."
"So I see,” he remarked, glaring at the marquess. “But it appears you have not lacked for partners in my absence. Shall we?” Without waiting for a reply, he seized her gloved hand and all but dragged her back onto the floor, acknowledging Lord Mannerly's presence with naught but a curt nod.
Olivia's first thought upon seeing her betrothed was how splendid he looked in form-fitting knee-breeches and a dark cutaway coat over a watered silk waistcoat, his sandy locks brushed into the fashionable Brutus style. His odd behavior, however, quickly drove sartorial concerns from her mind.
"Why, Harry!” she exclaimed, following him onto the floor. “Whatever is the matter?"
"I might well ask you the same question! Do you have any idea with whom you were dancing?"
"Only your friend, Lord Mannerly,” she replied, all at sea.
As the movement of the dance brought them near to the wall, Sir Harry swept his partner out of the mass of dancers and through a brocade curtain into a secluded alcove.
"You have been misinformed,” he said bluntly, safe within the privacy of this antechamber. “Mannerly is no friend of mine, and he is not at all a proper person for you to know."
Olivia's blue eyes opened wide with surprise. “But I thought him charming!"
"Oh, he is charming, I'll grant you that,” said Sir Harry darkly. “Nevertheless, you will oblige me by having nothing more to do with him."
The meek Miss Darby who had arrived in London the previous week would have denied him nothing; however, the casual neglect of one gentleman, contrasted with the frank admiration of another, had taken its predictable toll. Olivia drew herself up to her full height, her chin thrust obstinately forward.
"You forget yourself, Harry,” she replied with remarkable composure. “I have taken no vows to honor and obey you yet, and until that day, I will choose my friends to please myself. If you object to my dancing with Lord Mannerly, I must point out that, if you had torn yourself away from your prize fight earlier, you might have circumvented that undesirable occurrence by the simple expedient of dancing with me yourself."
"Dash it all, Livvy, I'll not—"
But before Sir Harry could voice his objections, the heavy brocade curtain was swept aside, and none other than Lord Mannerly himself raised his quizzing glass to examine the betrothed couple.
"I beg pardon,” he drawled lazily. “I seem to have interrupted a lovers’ tête-à-tête."
"What do you want, Mannerly?” growled Sir Harry.
"Why, only to ask Miss Darby for the pleasure of another dance,” he replied, sweeping a bow in her direction.
Olivia threw a darkling glance at her bridegroom, then bestowed a brilliant smile on the marquess. “I should like it of all things, my lord."
"A charming young lady, Hawthorne,” said Mannerly, taking Olivia's hand and drawing it through his arm. “I congratulate you on having won such a prize!"
And, bearing away said prize, he exited the small chamber, leaving Sir Harry to grind his teeth in impotent rage.
He knew, too late, that he had handled it badly, but he could think of no way to explain his dislike of Lord Mannerly without involving Violetta of Covent Garden fame. Further complicating matters was the shock of discovering that Livvy had turned into a diamond of the first water. Equally surprising was her unprecedented display of temper; he had alwa
ys found her so gentle and eager to please. Without knowing exactly why, he had the sudden and certain feeling that tonight's ill-advised display of jealousy was one he would soon live to regret. Certainly she would never listen to him now, at least not where Mannerly was concerned. Perhaps if another woman were to warn her of the marquess's reputation as a rakehell, were to keep a watchful eye on her, she might pay heed. But Mrs. Darby was unlikely to take his part against her own daughter, and Georgie still needed a keeper herself. If only his mother were out of mourning, or his grandmother were not cloistered in Bath!
At the thought of his grandmother, Sir Harry's expression grew pensive. He had laid eyes on his paternal grandmother exactly twice in his life: once when he was ten years old, and again last spring, when he had made the journey to Bath shortly after his father's death. His impression on the first meeting had been of a fierce dragon of a woman; on the second, a black-draped crow. However, a more impartial miniature in the gallery at Hawthorne Grange, painted some half a century earlier, revealed a feminine version of himself, with a mass of sandy hair, a pair of hazel eyes, and a square, determined jaw.
His thoughts flew back to Covent Garden and the beauteous Violetta, playing Shakespeare's heroine in doublet and hose. He stroked his chin thoughtfully as a plan began to form in his brain. If a woman could disguise herself as a man, he reasoned, why should not a man disguise himself as a woman?
This idea, having taken up residence in his brain, refused to be dislodged. He exchanged social pleasantries with Mrs. Darby, stood up for a country dance with his sister and a very chilly cotillion with Olivia, but all the while his mind was working feverishly. By the time he escorted his ladies home and returned to his rooms in Stratton Street, he was ready to put his plan into action.
"Good evening, sir,” said his valet, Higgins, coming forward to remove his master's coat. “I trust you had a pleasant evening?"
"Very,” replied Sir Harry, although his tight lips and flashing eyes gave the lie to this statement. He allowed his man to divest him of coat, waistcoat, and cravat, then began to issue the instructions that would put his plan in motion. “Upon the morrow, Higgins, I shall require you to carry out a few errands. I need a wardrobe suitable for a lady of, say, seventy years."
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