Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt)

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Chapter 14

  A Scandal by any other Name

  The next morning Fiona sat with her aunt at the breakfast table. Of course it wasn’t really morning, the clock in the hallway chimed twelve times, marking the hour as noon. Nevertheless, they sat breakfasting together in companionable silence until the butler presented Honore with a silver salver stacked high with mail.

  “Oh, bother, what a pile.” Honore didn’t actually seem annoyed as she eagerly slit open the first missive. She was used to hostesses vying for her company at their evenings “at home.” A rout was sure to be a crushing success if word got around that the notorious Lady Alameda might attend.

  Honore pulled out the first invitation. Extending her arm, she held the card up, squinted, and adjusted the distance until she could read it clearly. Grunting, she flipped the petition onto the table, ripped open the next card, read it, and tossed it aside. Her brows pinched together and she frowned at Fiona.

  “What is it, Aunt? Is something amiss?”

  Honore’s forehead unpinched and her gaze floated up toward the ceiling. “Do you know, Fiona, I can see the ceiling with perfect clarity, but if I hold a letter closer than the end of my arm I can scarce make out the words.”

  “How troubling that must be. Would you like me to read your morning correspondence to you?”

  “Heavens no! I’m not as aged as that.”

  “Of course not. I merely thought it might be more convenient—”

  “Convenient? Convenient is being able to read the darned things m’self. It is my correspondence, after all.”

  She tore open another invitation, read it, and flicked it aside. She grabbed a handful of letters from the silver tray, turned them over, and perused the seals until she found one that interested her. Running her finger over the large blue wax seal, she broke open the invitation, perused it, smiled sardonically, and let the card fall out of her hand.

  “How perfectly extraordinary,” she said, contemplating Fiona with a frown.

  Fiona stuck a forkful of kippers into her mouth. She wasn’t going to ask.

  “It would seem, m’dear, you are no longer riding on my coattails.”

  Fiona wondered what she had done now. Obviously, her aunt was upset with her. The fish in her mouth suddenly tasted crusty, dry, and difficult to swallow. When she was finally able to clear her throat, she ventured, “I don’t grasp your meaning?”

  Honore pulled her breakfast plate back in place and primly lifted her fork. “No? You don’t understand?” She stabbed an orange and twirled it on the end of her fork. “Well then, let me explain. Society has crowned you her latest attraction. Judging from this stack of cards,” —with her left hand she flicked the envelopes sitting on the tray—“every hostess in town is hoping you will attend her next ball. Can you guess why, m’dear?”

  Fiona shook her head and carefully set her fork on her plate, no longer hungry.

  “I should think the answer is obvious. Come now, whatever other failings you might have, you’re not stupid. Can you not guess?”

  Fiona took a deep breath. “I should think if I am invited anywhere it is simply because I am connected to you. I cannot possibly fathom any other reason.”

  That answer seemed to mollify Honore slightly. Her tone became less sarcastic. “I thought the same thing until last night. Now, it seems you are the one in demand. Without a doubt, they are all hoping you will come and create one of your famous incidents at their party.”

  “No. That can’t be.” Fiona’s eyes opened wide. “You must be mistaken, Aunt. No one could wish a disaster on their own friends and family.”

  Honore snorted. “How little you know, my dear. Consider Lady Sefton’s ball last night, do you recall the most interesting thing that happened? You need not answer, because everybody knows it was when Marcus got himself thumped to the floor. It makes no difference that Wesmont did the thumping, Marcus was dancing with you. Coupled with the news of your mishap with Prinny, society appears to have concluded that you are the harbinger of interesting scenes.”

  Fiona clasped her hands together in her lap and gritted her teeth. It was nonsense, just more of her aunt’s insanity. It must be.

  Honore sliced open her orange. “Consider this, Fiona. If you go to Louise Haversburg’s rout and a catastrophe occurs, Louise can be confident that her gathering will be talked about for weeks.”

  Fiona frowned at her aunt. “This is ridiculous. I cannot believe anyone would be so callous as to want something to go wrong. Aside from the distress to one of their guests, what if someone is harmed, or worse yet, killed?”

  Honore sucked the orange slice on her fork. She licked the juice off her lips. “That doesn’t appear to have troubled anyone in the least. See here”—she gestured to the large invitation with the blue seal—“the Countess Lieven is most insistent that you appear at her ball. The deuced thing is more than a month away.” She lifted the gilt card and considered it for a moment. “Now that I think about it, Fiona dear, she must have written this card out the moment she returned home from Lady Sefton’s.”

  Honore thumbed through the pile on the silver tray. “They all must have done so. How perfectly odd. Didn’t they think it could wait until morning?”

  “They may as well have gone to bed and saved their ink and paper.” Fiona lifted her chin. “I shan’t go! I refuse to be fodder for society’s perverse amusement.”

  “Stuff and nonsense. Why not?” Honore scoffed at her. “Miss Phoebe Ritwater is invited everywhere simply because she is beautiful, is she not? Yes. It’s certainly not for her conversation. The moment the chit opens her mouth she becomes a dead bore, a lisping dead bore at that. But she gets invited everywhere because she is a lovely ornament for guests to gawk at, not unlike a walking flower arrangement.”

  Fiona shook her head at her aunt’s wild ramblings. “I thought it was because she was well connected.”

  “Heavens no, child. Do you know how many well-connected gels sit home with less than a handful of invitations for the entire Season?”

  Honore picked up a small brass bell and jangled it. Her butler appeared. “Send a footman to collect Monsieur Renellé. I want him here without delay. Tell him I am not pleased with the hair color he has inflicted upon me. I look older than the Queen Mother herself. Silver, indeed. Does he think I am blind? It’s gray. I want something youthful. Youthful, I tell you, more in keeping with my age.”

  The butler’s mouth quivered almost imperceptibly, but his voice remained steady. “Very good, my lady.”

  Honore brushed the rest of her post out of the way with a disgusted snort, and spread open the newspaper. Fiona ate the remainder of her breakfast in silence.

  That afternoon, Maria Haversburg came to call and sat fidgeting on Lady Alameda’s sofa. Her mama rapped her smartly on the leg. “Sit still,” she said under her breath. Lady Haversburg looked anxiously at the mantel clock. “Lady Alameda must be unavoidably detained. Perhaps, we ought to take our leave.”

  Fiona earnestly shook her head. “Oh no, I’m certain my aunt will appear at any moment. You know how unhappy she’ll be if she misses your visit.” She extended a plate of Mattie’s shortbread. “More biscuits, Lady Haversburg?”

  “Well, just one more. They are tasty. I often remark, Honore is most fortunate in her Scottish cook.”

  Lady Haversburg plucked a large biscuit from the plate. Maria looked hopefully at the plate, but her mother pushed it away from her daughter, shaking her finger from side to side. She sputtered crumbs, as she said, “Maria has had quite enough, thank you.”

  Fiona smiled sympathetically at her friend and looked up at the clock as it pinged four times for the hour.

  “Miss Hawthorn, were you not engaged to go driving with Lord Wesmont this afternoon?” Maria said, and the odor of musk and fetid teeth wafted toward Fiona.

  “I’m not certain.” She smiled and shrugged as if it were of little or no consequence.

  “But I distinctly heard him say he
would call for you at four o’clock.”

  “Did he? Lord Wesmont jests so often, one never knows if he is sincere or simply bamming.” Fiona bit the corner of her lip, hoping her lie was not evident.

  “Odd,” said Maria. “Lord Wesmont seemed such a serious gentleman. I wouldn’t have thought he was jesting.”

  “I daresay, Maria is right.” Her mama fanned at the air to dispel her daughter’s dental aroma. “Did you see the beastly scowl he wore all night? Enough to give anyone the impression he is naught but an ill-tempered grudgen.”

  The butler stood in the open doorway and cleared his throat. “Lord Wesmont.” The butler bowed, presenting the guest in the doorway.

  Maria gasped. The ill-tempered grudgen stood before them, dressed in a perfect-fitting blue cutaway and buff form-fitting unmentionables.

  “Although, one could do worse,” muttered Lady Haversburg, nudging her daughter up, completely unabashed about the disparaging comment she had just made.

  Lord Wesmont’s thick eyebrows were not set in his famous furrowed scowl. His eyes were shuttered halfway in an unreadable expression. Although, Fiona wondered if the corners of his mouth weren’t twitching ever so slightly.

  She rose, struggling to control her breath and pulse. “Lord Wesmont, such a surprise.”

  He took her hand and spoke softly enough that only she could hear. “So you thought I was merely jesting?”

  She ignored his dig and introduced him to Lady Haversburg and her daughter. He bowed politely over each lady’s hand. When he bowed over Maria’s hand, he did not recoil from the blast of fetid air that surely must have assaulted him when the girl smiled. It pleased Fiona that he took pains to be kind. He remained composed and gracious even when Maria spoke to him and revealed more of her unfortunate teeth.

  Honore burst into the room startling everyone.

  Fiona’s mouth dropped open. Her aunt’s hair was yellow, not ordinary blonde, but the color of a great yellow cheese, almost orange. Shocking, as that was, her vivid new coiffure was eclipsed by her scandalous gown. Although artfully designed, the neckline exposed far more than it concealed. The only thing covering Honore’s bosom was a diaphanous layer of mint green muslin leaves emerging from a line of dark green silk which extended from floor to midriff, curving around the sides of each breast and up over her shoulders. The muslin bodice was cut in the shape of leaves waving and fluttered like wispy feathers over Honore’s nakedness.

  Lady Haversburg stood to greet her hostess. Maria dropped back down onto the sofa, too astonished by Honore’s apparel to stand until her Lady Haversburg’s foot connected with her daughter’s ankle, and the poor girl sprang to her feet.

  Honore bustled forward, clasped Lady Haversburg’s shoulders, kissed her cheeks, and lisped as if she were an infant. “Louise, what a delightful surprise. I had no notion you were waiting for me.” She turned on her niece. “For shame, Fiona, you should have informed me that I had guests.”

  Fiona blinked. Hadn’t she sent word several times that her ladyship had company? Yes, and Lady Haversburg had seen her do it.

  “Ah! And here is our naughty Lord Wesmont.” Honore wagged her finger and lisped coyly, moving toward him with mincing steps. She stopped directly beneath his gaze and lifted her hand up to him. “How good of you to call.”

  Fiona flushed livid pink as Tyrell bent over her aunt’s hand. Surely, from that position he had a full view of Honore’s bosoms.

  Fiona’s cheeks flushed with scorching heat. She spoke with a sharp authoritative tone that she hardly recognized as her own. “It is cool today, Aunt. I’ll fetch your shawl, so that you do not catch a chill.”

  “Nonsense.” Honore continued to stand flirtatiously close to Tyrell. “It’s a very warm day. Is it not, my lord?”

  “Quite warm.” He answered evenly.

  Honore threw back her head and laughed.

  Lady Haversburg reached out as if she intended to clamp her hands over her daughter’s ears, but then caught herself just in time. She cleared her throat. “Honore, dearest, I had hoped to stay and solicit your opinions about Maria’s upcoming ball. But, oh heavens! Just look at the time. We’ve been here upwards of an hour, most unseemly of us. How time passes. We have so many calls to make. Must take our leave. I daresay you know how it is.”

  “I daresay,” Honore said, waving them away while still smiling seductively at Tyrell.

  “Come Maria.” Lady Haversburg yanked her daughter by the arm and whisked her out of the room. Fiona tried to accompany them to the drawing room door, but they were too quick for her. As they bustled down the stairs Fiona overheard Lady Haversburg mumbling and Maria innocently ask, “Did you say something, Mama?”

  “Nothing. Nothing, at all. Oh, do come along Maria.”

  Fiona folded her arms sternly across her chest. Her aunt was out of control and someone needed to do something.

  Honore pointed to a parcel under Wesmont’s arm, and clapped her hands together. “What’s this? Have you brought us a present?”

  “Of sorts.” He glanced at Fiona who remained standing by the door.

  “Delightful!” Honore pressed a finger against her cheek. “Let me guess. It must be a book.”

  “No, Lady Alameda, not a book.”

  She arched her eyebrow at him. “How mysterious. Whatever can it be? Surely it's not chocolates wrapped in plain brown paper.”

  “Nothing so amiable.”

  “No?” she said. “Then, I cannot guess. You mustn’t keep teasing me like this. I am quite overcome with curiosity.” Her hand fluttered seductively to her breast and then rested on his arm. “Come Wesmont, I insist you indulge me.”

  Fiona wanted to indulge Honore by throwing a blanket over her ladyship’s nakedness and tossing her down the stairs headfirst. Fortunately, she contained her murderous desires and glared at Tyrell as he led her lascivious aunt to a chair.

  “Unfortunately, my gift is not calculated to please. My lady, you may want to be seated first.”

  Honore dropped unceremoniously into the chair. The petals on her bodice fluttered, revealing her dark nipples and covering them up again as the fabric settled back into place. “Very well.” She patted her hands against her lap. “Give it to me. I am prepared to be displeased.”

  He handed her the package. Honore pulled off the string and folded back the brown paper to reveal a stack of cartoons. She lifted the first one from the pile, muttering under her breath as she struggled to bring it into focus.

  “Aha! It is a lampoon drawn by that fellow Cruikshank! What a wit he is.” She sounded delighted.

  Tyrell frowned at her. “Yes, I suppose he is. Look closer, my lady. Observe the identity of the characters.”

  She squinted into focus a drawing of herself kicking Lord Maverly in the eye for trying to peek under her skirt. There was a hilarious rendition of Marcus catching Fiona, and Prince George flipping through the air like a pinwheel. Honore’s mouth quivered. She sputtered, snorted, and then broke out in loud high-pitched laughter. She guffawed so violently, tears ran down her cheeks. Her laughter escalated until it became a howl echoing through the house.

  Mattie bolted into the room. Her apron was covered with bloodstains and flour, and she waved a butcher knife in front of her as if wielding a broad sword. Whipping her gaze around the room, she squinted suspiciously at Honore, who was doubled over in the chair, laughing hysterically, tears running from her eyes, and stamping her slippered feet against the floor.

  Mattie charged forward, her red hair flying about her like a madwoman. She stopped in front of Lord Wesmont and shook the knife in his face. “Hie ye rascal! What ha’ ye done to m’ babby?”

  Lord Wesmont lifted both hands, surrendering to the Scottish demon. “Nothing, madam, I assure you. Lady Alameda, please call off your she-bear.”

  “Yes. Yes. Oh, Mattie do come away from Lord Wesmont.”

  Honore sputtered and giggled as she waved away her protector. Wiping at the tears running down her cheeks she
said, “Only just look at this.” Laughing again, she handed a cartoon to her bristling nanny/cook.

  Mattie glared suspiciously at each occupant of the room before she accepted the paper. Then she bent her head and studied the cartoon. “Och! What’s this then? This ‘ere is disgusting, that’s what this is. Ye cannot stand for it, me girl. Ye must have whoever drew this filth horsewhipped.”

  Honore’s lips pinched into a thin line and she snatched the cartoon out of Mattie’s hands. “Nonsense! It’s merely a bit of fun.”

  Lord Alameda strolled into the drawing room wearing little more than a dressing gown and breeches. Lord Wesmont stiffened as the rogue stopped next to Fiona, took her by the elbows, and kissed her cheek proprietarily. “Good morning, cousin dearest.” He glanced casually around the room. “What’s all the commotion?”

  Fiona answered him curtly. “Good afternoon, Marcus. I haven’t a clue what the commotion is about. Lord Wesmont appears to be entertaining my half-naked aunt with a bawdy lampoon. And she—well, observe the lady for yourself.” Fiona waved her hand in disgust at her wayward guardian.

  Honore grinned up at Tyrell. “My dear, Lord Wesmont, not only did you fail to displease me, you have entertained me famously. A most diverting etching. Marcus, you simply must see it. You are in it. There’s Fiona, and that’s me.” She pointed at the drawing.

  With the barest acknowledgement of Lord Wesmont’s presence, Marcus went to Honore’s side and took the print. He pulled a quizzing glass from his pocket and surveyed the caricature.

  He chuckled and dropped his eyeglass. “Delightful. Might I have one?”

  “No.” Tyrell pulled it out of Marcus’s hands.

  Honore chuckled again. “Oh, but it is vastly amusing, Lord Wesmont. Wherever did you find it?”

  “Displayed in the window at Laurie and Whittle’s on Fleet Street,” he answered sharply. “I doubt the rest of the ton will take it in as favorable a light as you do. It makes Miss Hawthorn into a figure of ridicule, and casts dispersion on both of your virtues. As a precaution, I purchased all of the remaining cartoons. Mr. Whittle promised to break the plate. We may hope that a scandal is averted, but at least, a dozen of the caricatures were purchased prior to my arrival at his shop.”