Alice thought they ought to hold the billiards tournament without Claire, so someone else had a chance to win. Since she’d spent half her life in a gaming hell, Alice was confident of her skill, if the baby did not get in the way. Ruby was all for the archery contest. She’d been practicing.
Simone felt she had to discourage them. Holding either event would not be fair to Miss Hope. Everyone laughed to think of Claire and fairness in the same breath, even Lord Gorham at the head of the table.
He raised his glass to her, “A real lady.” Since she won, he said, she ought to decide the afternoon’s activity.
Simone wanted nothing more than to spend the time with Harry. She thought about getting lost in the famous maze with him, but knew the others had no desire to tromp through high hedges for no prize. Besides, Miss Susan Baylor announced that she had to practice her ballet routine, with Miss Hanson at the pianoforte. Maura Doyle giggled and said she was also going to dance that evening, an Irish jig, to her own singing. She supposed, she said with another giggle directed to her lover, Lord Caldwell, that she ought to practice.
If those two practiced the jig that afternoon, pigs would sprout wings. Simone ignored the smirks and titters and her own desire to be with Harry. “Does anyone play chess?”
That received more hoots of laughter. What did she think this was, a club for retired generals? Only Gorham and Harry and Captain Entwhistle were willing to play. Simone’s next suggestion was a drive to the nearby village. She’d heard it was market day, with farmers and peddlers bringing their wares to the little town. She wanted to speak to Harry first, but she finally had an idea for her performance and needed to make a few purchases. For the first time in her life, she had more than pennies to spend on herself without worrying about rent or food or Auggie’s education. In fact, she’d send him a pound note that very day, as an early birthday gift.
The women were happy at the chance to shop for fripperies. The goods could never match the quality of London shops, they all agreed, but they might as well look for a new ribbon or a bit of lace trimming, perhaps a bonnet if one of the local women was talented. Alice said she needed to start buying fabric for baby clothes, and Daisy offered to help with the sewing. Sandaree really needed a warmer cloak, so she asked Lord Gorham for some of her money that he was holding. She did not wish to get further in debt to Lord James Danforth. Miss Baylor decided she needed no practice; she needed a new feather for her costume more. Miss Hanson had already memorized the ballet piece, and thought she could get her banker to fund a new pair of gloves, at the least. Six pairs of eyes lit up in hope of finding a local jewelry store.
The gentlemen were not as enthusiastic about the proposed jaunt, once they heard the ladies’ eagerness to spend their blunt. Lord Gorham urged them on with hints of the excellence of the local pub’s ale, and the chance of prime horseflesh for sale.
Lord Gorham was going to stay behind to help Claire get over her headache—someone cleared his throat; Maura giggled—but he sent for carriages to carry his guests, and a wagon for their purchases.
Harry regretted that he had too much correspondence to deal with, so could not go along.
“Are you still angry at me?” Simone wanted to know. She’d thought they could speak about last night, the race, and her performance while walking through the village.
“Not at all,” he said, but his mouth was twisted in the way Simone recognized as evidence of his displeasure. “In fact, buy yourself something from me.” He reached into his pocket.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm and for a moment she could see the old Harry of her imagination, laughing and holding her hand. She hoped she had not lost that dream altogether with her daring, and her lie. “No, I am well to pass, remember. And you have done so much already. I shall buy you a present. Do you need anything?”
“Peppermint drops.”
“For your digestion?”
“For my sanity.”
Before she left, Simone handed him her spare reticule that was full of her winnings, minus what she thought she might need that afternoon. “Not that I do not trust the servants, but I cannot feel right leaving such a sum lying about.”
He took the heavy bag and watched her go, regretting not being at her side. He’d like to purchase her a new riding hat, a new necklace, a horse of her own, a pair of silk stockings he could ease down her shapely legs. The reticule fell to the floor.
“A lovely woman,” Gorham noted while Harry recovered the purse and his composure.
“Very.”
“A cut above your usual companion at Lydia Burton’s, eh?”
“I am beginning to think Miss Noma Royale is a cut above everyone’s companion, Miss Hope excepted, of course.”
“Too bad she’s damaged goods,” Gorham said, speaking more to himself than to Harry, thinking more of Claire than Simone. “She’d make a deuced good wife.”
“Ah, but would I make her, that is, any woman, a good husband? I doubt it. Nor do I consider Miss Royale in any way imperfect.”
“No gentleman would marry her.”
Harry set the reticule on a table. Gorham was blunt, but correct; no gentleman would wed Miss Royale. Scores of them would leap at the chance to marry Miss Simone Ryland, now that she was bringing a modest dowry with her. Money-grubbing maggots, all of them. Damn their eyes…and their married mothers.
He must have made some kind of angry noise, because Gorham said, “Love is a headache, isn’t it?”
Harry fixed the older man in his sharp gaze. “Were we speaking of love?”
“Of course not.” Gorham looked away and changed the subject. “I say, my staff tells me a flurry of messengers arrived for you during the race.”
“A bit of business I need to tend to. Otherwise I would have gone into the village and helped the ladies spend their money.”
“I thought you mentioned a sick relative.”
“I believe my relation will recover.” Daniel might come back from London with a rash, but he’d get the job done.
“The butler said one of the messengers looking for you was in uniform.”
Harry toyed with the strings on Simone’s bag. “Perhaps he meant the fellow was wearing Royce livery.”
“No, he specifically said it was a military uniform.”
“One of Rex’s friends might have carried a note from him, I suppose.” Rex might have known the lieutenant so that was not entirely a lie. “Viscount Rexford was with the army not too long ago, you know.” Harry did not wish to be rude to his host, but neither did he want to pursue that avenue of conversation. Gorham was too curious, too suspicious for Harry’s comfort. Until Daniel got back, telling who Madame Lecroix named as co-conspirators, Harry could not rule out anyone.
“I did write to the earl concerning that piece of property you are interested in,” he said now, distracting Gorham. “But I have not heard yet. Perhaps his answer is in one of the posts.” He patted his inside pocket, where papers rustled.
“Good, good. Be sure to let me know. Nice acreage, near my country seat. If nothing comes of that, however, I still need a manager for my Jamaica estate. Or I’ll sell it to the right man, on good terms. To be honest, I could use the money.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. He saw no sign of financial difficulties here, not in the number of servants, the quantity and quality of the food, the immaculate grounds and well-filled stables.
Gorham understood Harry’s skepticism. “My wife’s money pays for everything, don’t you know. That other property would be all mine, to give away if I wish. I will not leave Claire empty-handed. Nor can I bear the idea of her living so far away in Cornwall, if she could afford it now that the contest is not going as planned. She has…responsibilities of her own.”
Harry wondered how much Gorham knew about Claire’s daughter. “Does she have a family to support like Miss Royale? Noma has a brother in school.”
Gorham stared at a painting on the wall, one of Claire’s watercolors of Griffin Manor on a
stormy day. “I am not quite sure. Women like to keep their secrets, you know.”
So did spies, and far more important than Claire’s right now. “Is there a place I could go to be private with my messages? More might be coming and I would not wish to disturb your household.”
Gorham recommended the sewing room. Claire never used the small parlor, but it was comfortable and quiet.
“Thank you, that will be perfect. In the meantime, do you think I could put this purse”—Simone’s money—“in your safe? I cannot very well walk around with a lady’s reticule, can I? And it is too large to stuff in my coat. My valet would give notice if I did. The dog is straining Metlock’s patience enough as is.”
Gorham sympathized with Harry at the demands of old retainers. “Of course. A lot of the chaps have put things there, the females too. Their jewels and such. With so many strangers and their servants in the halls, no one can be too careful.”
Harry followed Gorham into his library, then watched as the marquis pushed on a wall of books. He politely turned his back as the other man opened the safe. He put Simone’s winnings in, and a smaller velvet pouch from his own pocket.
“A necklace,” he told Gorham. “I am saving it to give Noma for the ball.”
“Lud, that means I better find something spectacular for Claire.” They both laughed, then the marquis said, “Dash it, it’s obvious you are fond of the chit. You really ought to think of making your arrangement more permanent. Miss Royale is beautiful and smart and kind. And great with horses and dogs. What more do you want? It’s not like she’d have to produce the next earl.”
“That job belongs to Rexford’s lady wife, and Amanda has succeeded with admirable speed.”
“Dash it, you know what I am saying. Don’t let such a rare opportunity pass you by. I know what I’m talking about. You’re not getting any younger, and happiness is far more elusive than the next card game or horse race.”
If Gorham could speak so personally, so could Harry. “Yet you are ready to give up Claire.”
“No, I will never be ready. It is my wife who demands her gone. I married Harriet for money, you know, and for her family’s bloodlines. I owe her some respect. My sons are at school, but they are old enough to understand now, old enough to hear the gossip. If Claire could wait a few years at that cottage of Lord Royce’s until they are older still, then Harriet might not care.”
“Why don’t you simply find her a place in Town so you can still see her? It’s no more adulterous than having her here for twelve years, or tucked away in the country.”
“Harriet says she’ll have her father ruin me. Like a fool I invested Harriet’s dowry with the old skint, what he didn’t keep in trust. My estate is in poor condition due to my ancestors’ gambling, so my own income does not meet my expenses.”
“You should speak with Lord Royce’s man of business. He has helped make me a comfortable living.”
“Maybe I will, Maybe I will.”
Before Gorham closed the safe, Harry noticed a stack of letters and papers tied with a string.
“Love letters?”
“I have no idea. On the first night of the house party, everyone asked to put their valuables here. I can only suppose they did not trust each other.”
“The letters are not yours?”
“No. Claire and I have seldom been apart long enough. And I wouldn’t keep anything Harriet wrote except a check.”
“Then whose letters are they?”
Gorham shrugged. “I suppose I should have kept a list. If I were better at these details, I mightn’t find myself in such a tight corner.”
“I’ll give you the name of my solicitor before I leave.”
*
Simone found just what she needed in the village and at the market square. The apothecary was her first stop, for Harry’s sweets. After that, she left the other women at the emporium poring over trimmings and yard goods while she went on to the stalls of produce and handcrafts. She wished she’d had time to consult with Harry about her plan for her performance, in case he hated it, but she had no other ideas. And now she had an excuse to shop.
One peddler had the colorful fringed scarves she needed, and a tinsmith had a whole tray of inexpensive trinkets. She found a booth of pieced quilts, another of embroidered blouses. Her favorite purchase was a bright red petticoat a farm wife was selling. She’d never worn a red garment in her life, not with her hair, but the petticoat delighted her so much that she bought another for Sarah. What pleased Simone most was that she could afford to buy whatever she fancied.
She purchased a carved wood chess set for Auguste, a china teapot painted with flowers for Mrs. Judd, a set of sable paint brushes for Claire, and a length of braided leather for a dog collar. The last wagon in the market square displayed soft homespun wool dyed in pastel colors that would be perfect for baby blankets and a shawl for Sandaree.
Her arms were full and the string wrappings were digging through her fingers, but she still hadn’t found the right gift for Harry. The gloves were not supple enough, the watch fobs too tawdry. She did not know if he smoked a pipe, or what cologne he preferred. She had only a few minutes before she had to meet the others at the inn for the return to the manor house, so she went back to the apothecary. Now her shopping was complete.
She couldn’t find Harry when they arrived at the house, but a great flood of news awaited them. The London papers had been delivered, with stories of Madame Lecroix’s arrest. Claire was appalled, the servants were agog, the courtesans were stunned. Spies and traitors in their midst? Zounds, they hadn’t had this much excitement since Katherine Bottswick castrated her unfaithful lover at the Cyprian’s Ball.
At dinner, Lord Gorham asked Harry if he knew anything about it. “You were speaking of sedition just yesterday.”
All the chatter around the table stopped while everyone listened, footmen as well as guests.
Harry set down his fork and said, “It appears that the government received Mr. Anthony’s suspicions before it was too late.” He raised his glass in a toast to the East India Company man and they all followed suit, asking Mr. Anthony what he knew and how he heard.
Simone was too shocked to listen. She looked at Harry, smiling and sipping his wine. She looked at everyone praising Mr. Anthony. Great gods, there really was a plot against England.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Simone needed to speak with Harry more than ever, but Claire herded them all back into the music room. No port and cigars for the men tonight; she knew they’d never cease speculating on what little facts they had. She had too much to accomplish this evening for them to dally over bothersome politics.
First came the night’s trio of entertainers. Claire introduced Miss Hanson, who curtsied prettily to the audience, smiled at her banker, then sat at the pianoforte and played Handel. She played far better than Simone could, although her performance was not as professional as Claire’s singing.
Claire was all smiles again, nearly overflowing the bodice of her green silk gown in her exuberance. A set of emeralds bounced on her lush bosom as she applauded. She was still the best, and everyone knew it.
Then Miss Hanson started into the overture of a popular new musical drama, “The Lament of the Phoenix.” Simone had heard of it, but she’d never seen it performed, the ballet being beyond her means in London, and her students too young to claim an educational outing. No matter, for Sir Chauncey Phipps staggered forward with a sheaf of papers in his hand and started to read the story, like a libretto. He had to lean on the pianoforte for balance, after trying to lean on Miss Hanson’s shoulder. She batted his hand away and he told her to play lower, so the audience could understand what he was saying. Of course he slurred his words, dropped a page, skipped lines, and ended: “Oh, hell. The damned bird dies of a broken heart, only to come alive again, no one says how or why, falls in love, gets rejected again. She’s a burning torch, for god’s sake, what did she expect? And farking dies again. Here’s my own true
love to dance for you, Miss, ah, Miss—”
Miss Hanson at the pianoforte hissed a name at him. “Of course, Miss Susan Baylor, of the Royal Ballet.”
Susan leaped onto the makeshift stage, where the rugs had been pulled back. She tossed a concealing cape away, directly at Sir Chauncey’s head, and pirouetted in a costume consisting of a tight, long-sleeved bodice that was entirely covered in red and gold feathers, a short, feather-strewn, red tulle tutu, glittering gold tights, and a headpiece that was cut to look like a flaming crown. The men were applauding already and she’d hardly begun to dance.
She was on her toes, doing grand jetés, spiral twirls, leaps, and dying. She did arabesques, plies, and more dying. She tossed a handful of red feathers in the air to simulate the fire, then she died again. This time she stayed in a graceful heap on the floor, while the audience leaped to its feet, cheering.
“Encore, encore.”
Sir Chauncey was pulling feathers out of his hair, but he did ask if Miss Butler could die once more. Claire pushed him aside. “That’s Baylor, you sot. And we do not have time for an encore.” Claire’s smile had slipped a bit. Her complexion was now as green as her gown and jewels. She introduced Maura Doyle, Lord Caldwell’s mistress.
Maura was laughing when she stepped to the front of the music room, wearing a short tartan gown that showed her knees. “How can a poor Irish lass compete with a flaming Bird of Paradise? Mimi was going to whistle for me, but since she’s gone—lud, I hope she’s not in jail like those others—I’ll be a-singing whilst I dance. But I’ll be asking you to clap to help me keep the beat. Come on, all you fine gents, hands together now.”
Maura danced a jig, clicking her heels together with her hands over her head, turning, then tapping her hand to her heel, spinning with her feet moving so fast she might have been on ice skates. Soon she was too out of breath to sing, but she kept to the beat of the clapping, the soles of her shoes tapping time on the wooden floor. Faster and faster, around and around. Her bosom was jigging, too.
The Scandalous Life of a True Lady Page 22