Felicity and the Damaged Reputation: A witty, sweet Regency Romance

by Alicia Cameron

  ‘It is a list,’ said Vivien with pride, ‘of all the eligible men in London.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Althea. ‘We thought it the practical approach. There may be, of course, some country gentlemen who only visit town occasionally, quite eligible. But Vivien and I have decided that a gentleman without a London abode is not for us.’

  ‘We shall be leaders of fashion!’ said Vivien, with almost mystical verve.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ said Felicity, she was looking through the list as the eyes seemed to prompt her to do. ‘Colonel Drake is rather old, is he not?’

  ‘Only forty,’ said Althea. ‘Still a man in his prime. However he does have those extraordinary wooden teeth, so we really should put a line through him.’

  Felicity saw another name she knew. ‘Viscount Durant!’ she said. ‘I do not think I know—‘

  ‘Oh, he is from town. He seldom attends balls, and dances rarely.’

  ‘He is quite the most handsome man I have seen, but his expression is often so dark, that I fear he unsettles me. I hardly spoke to him during my first waltz, it was as though I had no conversation at all. And that you know, is quite untrue!’

  ‘Yes I fear that being a viscountess, though a lofty ambition, would not be so easy, especially as he is spotted so little at social gatherings and can be very cutting to debutantes.’

  ‘It comes of being so sought after I suppose.’

  ‘And Mr Endicott,’ said Felicity, changing the subject, ‘who is he?’

  ‘The man who danced with Althea last night. The one in the gaudy cravat.’

  Felicity’s heart was beating faster. Somehow, she had never considered meeting Lord Durant, the Viscount as she now knew, in London. He was part of an account in her journal. A tale of a man with dark eyes that compelled obedience, who used her terribly, but who she had somehow liked a little. His cousin was no doubt a trial. Sometimes he appeared in her dreams, but that was all.

  ‘Good!’ said Lady Aurora smoothing her gloves — which her husband would have recognised as a gesture of decision. ‘Genevieve, if you have no objection, we shall retire to a coffee house for a little. It is of no use driving straight to Lady Ellingham’s at this hour. I suspected it would come to this, but I did not think so soon.’ There was silence for some minutes as Lady Sumner drove towards the park gates.

  ‘You shall have to tell me more, my dear Aurora. What has it come to?’

  ‘Felicity’s aunt will obviously not lift a finger to help her. What does it matter if she takes at balls if all gentlemen are forbidden to call, or to do anything else to further her acquaintance? No, she will have to come and live at Grosvenor Square with us. You being there will make it perfectly respectable.’

  ‘I’m very glad that my dullness adds some respectability to the endeavour, but I really did not expect to stay for the season. And what pretext could we give to the world to explain such a move?’

  ‘Leave that to me. Will you not stay for the season? Little Lord Sumner is having a splendid time, and staying is in the interest of female independence.’

  ‘The only form of such being marriage? You do not convince me.’

  ‘But such a marriage as we shall oversee, my dear Genevieve, with all our determination to steer her to a decent suitor.’

  ‘If only all the guardians of young girls had the same intent.’

  ‘Yes, but we do. Shall you be included in our scheme? Think of the alternative.’

  ‘I believe you are a bully, Aurora, under all your worldly charm. Very well.’

  When first the Viscount of Durant had met the young girl of inn yard, she had been nothing but a tool of his defeat over Tish’s wilfulness. The right age and height, and able to pass for his cousin. But along the drive he had seen how naive she was when she called his cousin a beauty, hardly knowing how completely charming she looked in the borrowed bonnet. He’d thought about the young girl a surprising amount since that time, even once wondering if she had mentioned the name of her household in Hans Place. Another time he found himself tooling his phaeton up that thoroughfare for no reason at all. He’d told himself it was simply a case of checking that she was settled. He knew that some households treated their governesses with a shocking lack of respect, and he wished to ensure that she was quite safe. He’d had an absurd desire to have his groom knock on doors to discover where she was, but that would have been unpardonable as well as unexplainable. He seldom had charitable inclinations, but the blooming young girl had aroused something of a — a parental concern in him, though at thirty he was hardly old enough to be her father. He worried that she was far too young and beautiful not to arouse jealousy in most matrons — for who but the most secure of mamas could let appear such a vision of loveliness in her drawing room, no doubt fielding compliments to the governess’s beauty from her guests.

  She was none of his business, and he almost wished he hadn’t met her at all, and now was spared the wondering what had happened to her. He looked up at a small window under the eaves of one of the houses in Hans Place. What was most likely was that she, at this moment, was reading from a primer to some children in a room such as that. But he should have seen her safely disposed, and it bothered him.

  Chapter 5

  Anne Clarence

  It had been three weeks since Anne Clarence had seen Durant, and true to form, he had not written to her in the interim. And so, when her mother had died, one week after he had left to return to town, Anne had not written either. He would no doubt have thought it seemly to attend her in her grief, but Anne’s grief had been such a long drawn out affair, losing another part of her mother regularly over these four years, that she did not wish him to come right now. No one knew of their engagement after all, so there would be no one to judge his behaviour, or hers. And for the moment Anne needed to think.

  Occasionally these thoughts strayed into what it would be like to be Durant’s wife, Viscountess Durant, to live in town during the season, as she had longed to do, visiting Almacks and the theatre, and have all those diversions that made part of her sister’s life. Preside over his home, his estates, be his friend, and his love. Somehow she could not picture the last part.

  Her sister and husband had come for the quiet funeral, of course, and Susan, unaware of her engagement, had begged her to return to London. There was the other anxiety about her having no chaperon, but the housekeeper was a respectable woman who might be considered so, until some relative or other suitable person could be found. This was, of course, the height of folly in Anne’s particular case. Whilst her mother lived, Anne had been said to live under her protection — while any actual protection was impossible from a woman of poor health and scattered wits. During her long captivity in this house she had thought, if ever relieved of her duty to a mother who latterly did not even recognise her, she would bolt to the city. Even if all that was possible, in her mourning months, would be trips to the museum, or to dinner with her sister’s friends, it would surely be more exciting than her life in the country. But as it was, she preferred to stay here after all. The small company of the countryside paid her visits, and were unabashed if she were denied by the butler on her more difficult days. The curate rode over every day, to provide spiritual comfort, she supposed, but really to laugh her out of the sullens by pretending to be giving her godly advice.

  ‘My dear Miss Clarence,’ Mr Joyce began on this occasion, once they had reached the stone bench which measured the break in their customary garden walk. He had thrust out his chest, put his hands in his waistcoat and adopted in the portentous tones of his superior, the Reverend Mr Bigelow, ‘Your youth may have withered under the harsh sun of servitude, but remember duty has its reward in heaven.’

  She grinned. She replied in a faint voice, ‘You comfort me, Mr Joyce. I suppose that, withered as I am, my reward may not be long in coming.’

  ‘I fear not.’ He said, in the same tone.

  ‘You need not tell me I looked hagged to death,’ Anne said, reverting back to her real voi
ce, blushing just a little. ‘I know it!’

  He joined her on the bench. ‘Yes, you told me so yesterday,’ he replied in his normal tone. ‘And, of all the most absurd things—’

  ‘Remember, sir, that I have a looking glass in my chamber. And curates should be above telling untruths.’

  ‘I’m afraid that the occasional untruth is part of the duty of compassion. “No, Mistress Penn, I do not fancy the ham at all, but might you spare some of that bread and butter?” We curates speak compassionate lies all day.’

  ‘Just think of all the genteel old ladies that you could condemn to bread and butter for supper.’

  ‘The Misses Coleridge believe I am averse to meat.’

  ‘When you are nobly saving them their poor supper.’

  ‘Their compassion and pride must offer me their only meat of the day, the good creatures. But never mind. Whenever I’m invited here, I do not scruple to eat enough for twelve suppers from your beneficence.’

  ‘It has been remarked,’ she said wryly. ‘But you fool the ladies of the parish just as you have attempted to fool me now.’

  He put an impulsive hand on her shoulder, his eyes candidly searching her face, and as briefly pulled it away. ‘You look a little pale, a little wan, as well you might,’ he said, more seriously. ‘However prepared you have always told me you were, death is always a shock. Otherwise you look as lo—,’ he hesitated, ‘You look as you ever were.’

  She screwed her eyes. ‘And that is—?’

  He considered his words, looking at her frankly with his warm grey eyes. ‘Intelligent, energetic, good-hearted.’

  Anne dropped her head for a moment, then stood, effectively ending their visit for today. ‘Thank you Mr Joyce. You always contrive to make me laugh.’

  ‘I fear it is sometimes at my expense, Miss Clarence.’

  ‘Not always!’ She held her hand out and he took it briefly, laughing.

  ‘Til tomorrow then,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, perhaps I shall ride with you.’

  ‘Good. It is time you swept the cobwebs away.’ He smiled down at her in the manner of a father or an uncle, which was undoubtedly how he saw himself. Then he turned and left.

  She was glad when he left. He saw her too well. Knew if she was troubled and if she was honest with him. He was a younger son of a fine family who might have been expected to provide him with some more comforts, and sometimes, because of his lack of religious platitudes, she’d thought that he was like a great many of his kind. Tied, like them, to the only occupation he could find, whether they were fitted for it or not. But there was something in him more genuinely good than in all the vicar’s religious piety. More useful in the parish. He was thin (lack of ham, she feared) and balding at the crown, and had no more in the way of resources than a church mouse. She had bethought herself of using her brother-in-law or Durant’s, influence to procure him his own living. But somehow she had not. With Durant an infrequent visitor, Mr Joyce was her most attentive friend, someone who had prayed with her when her mother died, who walked with her around the grounds, or sometimes rode his dusty old nag around with her fine mare. She was ashamed, at times, that she had kept him from preferment by her own need for a friend. But as the new Viscountess, she thought, she would use her influence and contacts to help his career. Possibly he could aim higher eventually, for he was educated and competent. But she knew he did not seek a Bishopric, he liked the humbler duties of the parish, just as Reverend Bigelow did not.

  She had told him many things from her heart, in their jesting way. The days when she used to want to throw her Mama’s soup over her, rather than hear her deluded accusatory ranting (a symptom of her wandering mind), any longer. It had been a relief to say it, and she wondered if he might judge her lack of compassion harshly. But he had merely wondered that if they were to have a soup throwing competition (for he had been sorely tempted to throw some at Mrs Petty in the village, he confided, after she had sought to use him as her unpaid footman yet again), which one of them would win? They agreed that while he might have the better arm, she had the better eye. He’d made her feel less like the ungrateful, unloving child she feared she was, and more like someone a little irritated by an ordinarily irritating situation.

  Yet, for all her openness with him, she had not yet told him about Durant’s offer. And why she had not, she did not wish to guess.

  In a very few days, to Miss Fleet’s dismay and sad looks from Beatty and Maria, Felicity was kissing her aunt’s cheek goodbye.

  ‘I shall visit, aunt.’

  ‘Do not put yourself to the trouble. Enjoy your fleeting season in London. Without a dowry, I fear it will be your last.’ Lady Ellingham drank a glass of vinegar, as sour as her face, the nod to health in her copious breakfast. ‘Unless as a governess of course. Several good families are in need of one: I shall mention your name.’

  Mrs Fenton, waiting in the room for the goodbyes to be finished, said rather acidly, ‘Very kind, your ladyship. But not quite yet. Let the season be finished before we find your niece a new situation.’

  ‘Oh, very well. You shall remind me, Fleet. It is fortunate, Felicity, that in view of my, um, malady, my friends Mrs Fenton and Lady Sumner are able to chaperon you.’

  Felicity bobbed a curtsy, repressing a joyful smile.

  Soon she was in her own bedchamber in Mr Fenton’s house, next door to Lady Sumner’s. It was an elegant apartment, with a fire already lit to warm her as she and a maid unpacked, flowers to welcome her, and the softest bed she had ever known. She sat and bounced on it, amusing the maid who was to be her own. In one of the handsome armoires were dresses newly arrived from the dressmaker, neatly folded in tissue paper and lavender. Felicity wondered whether Lady Aurora had planned this all along. She and Mr Fenton were so utterly kind that it made her want to weep. What on earth had she ever done to deserve this? There was only time for a few tears, however, for Felicity was a young lady with a heavy social calendar.

  Before breakfast, she rode with Lady Sumner, taking pointers from her on every ride, so that she soon rode with almost the facility of her ladyship. To see Genevieve on a horse, with her wild hair escaping its pins, was to see her at her most natural and most joyous, and Felicity was drawn to her anew. When they were interrupted to be hailed by acquaintances, Lady Sumner was irritated, but covered it better than her aunt had. ‘To further your acquaintance with the world is our object, after all,’ she said. But the early hour made the interruptions few and both enjoyed a canter and their growing closeness.

  After breakfast there were morning callers. Mr Fenton was frequently present at these, giving certain gentlemen an acid remark or the loftiest of bows which was taken as every hint not to come back again. Felicity was a little thrown by this behaviour, venturing to ask Lady Aurora once why Mr Fenton did not appear to like Lord Stanford, a handsome young buck, with an easy line in compliments that did, in fact, make Felicity feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Mr Fenton is very knowledgeable about the world, my dear. You can be assured that the gentlemen he discourages are men whom he knows are not quite genteel in their character, or pure in their motives. My husband was once a rake himself, my dear,’ she added confidentially. Not really understanding this remark, Felicity nevertheless nodded sagely, quite happy to trust her host’s judgement. ‘It might be better if you refuse to dance with these gentlemen,’ added Lady Aurora. This Felicity did not feel she could do, not wishing to wound them, but settled with her ladyship that she should give them no more than a single dance, should they ask. ‘Which I do not think many will do. My husband has a ruthless reputation in dealing with his enemies.’

  Felicity was looking for her reticule at that moment, and as Lord Oswald Sumner had shown a distinct penchant for chewing on the cords, she lifted him up distractedly, holding him away from her and looking beneath him. ‘Ah hah!’ she said with satisfaction finding the little silk purse that had been concealed.

  ‘Felicity!’ Genevieve said in a mock complai
ning voice, ‘recollect that you are holding a peer of the realm.’

  Felicity looked at Lord Sumner, as though surprised she held him, ‘and a little thief!’ she said and pulled him to her, kissing him.

  ‘Do not let him dribble upon the new satin!’ shrieked Lady Aurora, referring to the stylish long scarf that trailed almost as long as her dress.

  Felicity took the scarf off, and gave his lordship another hug while he reached for her reticule once more with grasping hands. She put him down, saying, ‘I shall not encourage your lawlessness.’

  Lord Sumner, unhappy at being robbed of the reticule prepared his face to cry, but as Felicity offered him a spoon to chew, he deferred until another time. ‘Durdle-durdle-durdle-de,’ he informed her.

  Life in Grosvenor Square was altogether lovely. Felicity was becoming close to them all, so much so that she was taken to task by Lady Aurora for the way she had fallen into, of kissing Mr Fenton on the cheek before bedtime. Since this was said with her charming smile, and since she was given an extra kiss by Mr Fenton, she paid no heed, and continued her custom. Lady Sumner, who was always polite, but had seemed a little withdrawn after the enthusiasms and compliments of Lady Aurora, had reminded Felicity of the groom at her old home who had complained all the time about not having time to ‘deal with her starts,’ but who nevertheless threw her up on any horse she chose, and let her follow him around for hours. To see Genevieve with her child was to know her, and Felicity took her straight to her heart.

  There might be a drive out with her friends, visits to small afternoon parties, the play, Vauxhall Gardens, and any number of the season’s many amusements. And every evening there was a party or a dinner, large or small. Having met the terrifying Mrs Drummond-Burrell, one of the patronesses of Almacks Assembly Rooms, whose hallowed halls could only be entered by showing vouchers sanctioned by the powerful ladies in charge, Felicity was amazed to receive some. It seemed her aunt had been useful.