by Joan Smith
The Beau was no longer welcome at the Regent’s residence, which made it very necessary for him to read all reports of happenings there. He read with mixed emotions that Miss Ingleside and Mrs. Pealing had been amongst the guests and sat down to compose a few remarks worthy of the young Incognita when next they came to cuffs. That she was to marry St. Felix was also read and digested, and when finally he confronted her at Lord St. Felix’s ball, to which he had been invited at the express wish of the young lady, he was ready for her.
“I am delighted to see you are back amongst us. London was desolate without you.”
“I haven’t been away. In fact, I was at a party at Carlton House this week.”
He knew it well and had his reply ready. “That is as good—or as bad—as being out of the city. I no longer go there, you see.”
“You could hardly do so without an invitation.”
“I have let His Highness know the futility of sending invitations to me. You don’t want to become too close to him—bad ton. But you have made a much better alliance, I hear, with the Duke of St. Felix.”
“A grand enough match that I took the risk of inviting you to our ball, Mr. Brummell.”
“And I took the risk of accepting, for the pleasure of your conversation. One must live a little precariously.” His insolence, delivered in drawling accents with a half-smile on his face, did not goad her into anger any longer. He was really rather pitiful.
“Don’t live too precariously, Mr. Brummell. I would miss you if I should wake up one morning and find the King of Absurdity had been dethroned.”
“You are too kind, but I fear the King is more likely to be decapitated than dethroned. St. Felix is looking daggers at me. The fellow is a fiend of jealousy, you know. I must drop you a word of warning.”
“When you undertake to counsel me on how to deal with my husband, you are really overstepping the bounds, Mr. Brummell.”
“It is commonly said my impertinence knows no bounds, Ma’am. But my discretion does, and I shall take my leave before he comes. Good evening. I look forward to meeting you again, very soon.”
He scraped a leg and left, with a warm smile on his petulant lips, to have a word with Lady Melbourne and plan new mischief.
“Setting up a flirtation with the Beau?” St. Felix asked. “I wondered at your eagerness to have him here.”
“I owe him a few debts but find them devilish hard to pay off. What a tongue the man has.”
“That must recommend him to you, no doubt, but I have someone else who wishes for your acquaintance. My Uncle, the Archbishop of Canterbury,” he explained, and led her to make the acquaintance.
The honour granted, Daphne asked, “Did you actually present Aunt Effie to the Archbishop?”
“It was not in the least necessary. He used to be one of her court twenty-odd years ago, when he was only an archdeacon. I notice Standington is keeping a sharp eye on him. Quite an infamous lady, that aunt of yours. It is as well she is to be taken to Ireland.”
“There isn’t room in London for two of us black ewes.”
“I mean to do a much better job of keeping you in line than old Standington did with your aunt,” he informed her sternly.
“I am used to dealing with you tyrants. Papa was just such another, and you will recall my trick to get him to let me come to London.”
“You are welcome to come to London whenever you please, so long as I come with you, or so long as you behave yourself.”
“How dull—to come with my husband and to behave myself. I might as well stay locked up with the flowers in Kent.”
“I didn’t say you must do both—you may misbehave yourself as much as you like, so long as you do it with me. Shall we slip out the door for a little misbehaviour now? There is a nice private morning parlour just around the corner in the hall that might have been made for the purpose.”
“It likely was, if your ancestors were anything like yourself.”
“We know what a model of propriety Papa was. The room I am speaking of is right here.” He took her elbow and walked to an elegant little parlour hung in blue velvet draperies with a blue carpet.
“This looks as if Effie might have had a hand in decorating it,” she said, and felt very much at home in the room. “Or some lady with a fondness for blue, in any case,” she added with a pert smile.
“Who knows? Father may have had it done to please your aunt. It is clear, I think, that the room has not been redecorated recently, and not, I assure you, by any friend of mine. Papa tried to give Effie a blue ring once, you know.”
“It is reassuring to know such a wide streak of fidelity runs in the family I am about to join.”
“Faithful to the very marrow of the bones. Papa’s mistake was in marrying before he met Effie, I suppose. I have been more fortunate. What a man should do is marry the woman he would want to make his mistress. It gets rid of a lot of problems."
“That rather depends on his taste in mistresses. I foresee a few difficulties if certain gentlemen were to marry their present flirts.”
“We are talking about you. I foresee no difficulties."
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“If you choose to take it as one. It is a roundabout way of saying I won’t make my father's mistakes. You are the only woman I want, or have ever wanted.”
“Amy will be sorry, and surprised, I wager, to hear it,” she said with a lift of her brows.
“She was not surprised—was not, you notice. I have cleared up all the loose ends.”
“How thorough of you!” she congratulated him with a breath of relief.
“I believe in doing things thoroughly,” he replied, and, drawing her into his arms, he kissed her very thoroughly, indeed.
Copyright © 1979 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest Books
Electronically published in 2003 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.