"Oh, just put the overflow on the dining-room table," said Celeste blithely. "A leaf or two can always be added if it becomes necessary. Later, I shall select two or three of my favourites for my bedchamber, and Didi may have some for hers, as well," she added generously, with a smile for her sister.
It did not occur to Deirdre to be offended. "I was certain you would be a great success, Celeste," she said warmly, returning the smile. "I just hope you will take the time to acquaint yourself with these gentlemen and not be swept away by the first one to make you an offer. Pray don't settle for a man who is merely wealthy or handsome, whom you cannot love."
Celeste giggled. "La, Didi, I have no mind to accept anyone yet, nor even in the next few weeks. I wish to thoroughly enjoy my first Season before tying myself to any one man!"
Deirdre had to content herself with that. She suspected that their mother might not be so patient, however, were one of the gentlemen at the top of her fictitious "list" to request Celeste's hand.
Lord Linley was the first of their callers, with Sir Malcolm Digby and Lord Naseby close on his heels. Deirdre soon lost track of the names and titles, though Celeste seemed to have no such trouble. In fact, Deirdre could only admire her sister's skill in somehow flirting simultaneously with all of them without raising either her mother's eyebrows or any particular admirer's hopes. She was smiling at her image of Celeste manipulating marionette strings attached to said suitors, when Mr. Flinder was announced.
"My dear Miss Wheaton," he exclaimed, coming to sit next to Deirdre with scarcely a glance at her lovely sister. "Dare I hope you have been longing as I have for a resumption of our sublime communion of last night?"
Celeste smiled briefly in his direction before turning her attention back to Mr. Gellings, who was relating a bit of gossip from the Little Season last autumn. She could not begrudge her sister Mr. Flinder's attention, as he was neither handsome enough nor rich enough to interest her, and did not even possess a title.
"Good morning, Mr. Flinder," responded Deirdre readily. "I, too, enjoyed our discussion of the poets."
"Please, Miss Wheaton, could you not find it in your heart to call me Jonas? I feel we have become great friends already, almost as though our minds are linked."
Deirdre smiled uncertainly, glancing over to where Lady Penrose sat discussing politics with Sir Malcolm, but her mother had obviously not heard. Deciding that it would be foolish to stand on ceremony with a fellow poet, however, she said after only the slightest hesitation, "Certainly, Jonas, and you must call me Didi, as my family does."
Jonas beamed upon her and launched immediately into what sounded suspiciously like a prepared speech. "Miss Wheaton, Didi, I could not help but notice last night that you seemed on very good terms with Mr. Southey, Mr. Scott and Mr. Peacock. I realize that a lady of Quality like yourself cannot take a serious interest in a literary career, but it is my highest aspiration to make my living as a poet; sleeping, eating and breathing in the heady aroma of the Muse's inspiration." He paused, regarding her hopefully, as if gauging her reaction thus far.
Deirdre saw no point in contradicting his assumptions about her interests— indeed, her thoughts had already wandered to Lord Wrotham, as they had with alarming frequency since last night, so that she scarcely knew what Jonas had said. She motioned for him to continue.
"To be perfectly honest, I have been trying for the past two years to become a part of the circle to which you, as a lady and sister to the eminent Lady Thumble, were so readily admitted last night. You have already called me your friend, Didi. As such, you could be of great help to me."
"How?" she asked curiously, her attention caught for the moment.
Jonas leaned forward, smiling, evidently taking her response as an agreement. "Read my poetry," he said eagerly, "and mention it to those exalted gentlemen at your next opportunity. They seemed last night to respect your opinions. Once they have an intimation of my promise as a poet, surely one of them will be willing to give me the patronage, the notice, that my career requires just now."
He reached down and lifted a packet of papers, very like the one Deirdre had sent off to Mr. Hunt, only rather thicker. She was struck immediately by the parallel and nearly blurted out where her work had been sent, but something held her back. If Mr. Flinder— Jonas— knew of that, might he not ask that she do likewise with his poetry? Deirdre had no intention of committing herself to such a course until she had opportunity to judge his work for herself.
"I...I'll do what I can, of course, Jonas. As a friend."
Jonas pressed her hand in gratitude. "Thank you, Didi. I am equally willing to look over any verses you may have written, if you wish."
"Perhaps later. But I wanted to ask if you have read the sonnet 'O Solitude' which appeared last month in the Examiner. It is the work of a new poet on the scene, John Keats, and I thought it showed promise of great talent." She hoped that, by keeping her thoughts on poetry, she could banish the disturbing feelings which continued to assail her.
After his requisite quarter of an hour had passed, Jonas took his leave, very pleased with the progress he had made with Miss Wheaton. It had occurred to him during the visit that if she could be of assistance to him as a friend, she might be of even more use as a wife. He would make discreet enquiries as to the size of her dowry. She was not especially ornamental, he had to admit, but intelligence and an appreciation for poetry— particularly his poetry— might well compensate for a lack of beauty. And there was always Drusilla over in Seven Dials, as lovely as she was stupid, to attend to his more carnal needs.
* * *
Sitting over needlework for the remainder of the morning as Celeste's callers came and went, Deirdre attempted to compose but found that she could not. Lord Wrotham's face kept haunting her, and she began to suspect that her first impression of what had befallen her was correct. She was in love, and with a man whose first name she did not even know—a man who had no inkling of her existence.
She tried to consider her position dispassionately. A romantic practically from birth, Deirdre had always believed in love at first sight and had, in fact, rather hoped that she might one day be privileged to witness it in action. She had been thinking, however, of observing it in Celeste or some other of her sisters, not of having it happen to herself! Now she found that the experience, rather than being sublime and wonderful, as she had always supposed, was in fact rather uncomfortable, even painful.
Deirdre thought over the countless love poems she had committed to memory, trying to draw, from the wisdom of the bards, information she could use for herself. Silently reciting verse after verse, she realized that those who spoke of happiness in love were the same who advocated pursuing it wholeheartedly. She also was reminded of something she already knew from her studies, but now feared she might discover from experience: that unrequited love inspired the most tragic poetry of all.
Dropping her needlework into her lap, Deirdre stared into space, having come to an abrupt decision. She would be a fool to suffer tamely, without ever giving the full glory of love a chance. Clearly, she must make a valiant attempt to storm the citadel of Lord Wrotham's heart. Should that fail, as seemed likely, she would then nobly resign herself to writing the most brilliant and tragic poetry of her life.
She nodded firmly, oblivious to the curious looks she received, and picked up her embroidery only to drop it again. For where would she begin? True, she knew the language of love, chapter and verse, but of the practicalities she knew absolutely nothing. Virtually all of the poetry on the subject dealt with men— gallant knights, for example, battling for the heart of a fair beloved. Of course, that was simply because all of the poets she had memorized were men, she told herself. But the fact remained that she had no idea how to go about capturing a gentleman's heart in the real world of London. She would require assistance. But whose?
The answer to that question was provided a short time later during a nuncheon far superior to the meals served during their first days in
residence, proving Marie's selection of a cook to be as sound as her choice of a hairdresser. The butler, a starched-up individual by the name of Smathers, delivered a note to Lady Penrose during the meal. Scanning it quickly, she looked up with a smile.
"Beata is in Town, girls," she announced. "She arrived last night with Mark and little Geoffrey and asks us to come for tea this afternoon. Oh!" Her face suddenly fell. "I nearly forgot that we are already engaged to go to Mrs. Drummond-Burrell's today, Celeste. She most particularly asked last night that I bring you. We dare not risk offending her by crying off, for she is one of the patronesses of Almack's."
"Can we not go see Beata afterwards, Mama, or tomorrow?" asked Celeste. She and Beata had never been particularly close, though she had expressed impatience to see her little nephew.
"Mama," Deirdre broke in suddenly, a plan already forming, "did Mrs. Drummond-Burrell invite me as well?"
Lady Penrose squirmed uncomfortably. "To tell you the truth, Didi, I... I don't believe your name came up. Oh, dear! I suppose you could come along, though it would not be quite the thing." She was obviously torn between protocol and duty to her fourth daughter.
"No, no, Mama, what I was thinking was that I could go to see Beata this afternoon if I needn't go with you."
The Baroness gave a gusty sigh. "Why, certainly you may! You may take the barouche, and don't forget to take Marie along for propriety's sake. I will mention you to Mrs. Drummond-Burrell this afternoon, to be certain that you receive a voucher when Celeste does. I'm sure you will have ever so much gayer a time than we!" She was chattering in her relief, clearly pleased to have the matter so neatly taken care of.
* * *
A little before four, Deirdre presented herself on Beata's doorstep. She was impatient to see her sister again, completely apart from the favour she intended to ask of her. Beata had been the only one of her sisters (except Faith, of course) who seemed to understand her need to write poetry, and who shared the sensitivity to beauty which accompanied that need.
When Beata had married the Honourable Mark Jameson, second son of Earl Dulton, three years ago, she and Deirdre had promised to write regularly —and had, for a while. Deirdre's absent-mindedness and the demands of motherhood on Beata, however, had caused the correspondence to become more sporadic during the past year or so. Therefore, Deirdre had not had news of her sister for some months; she wondered whether she had changed much.
Beata's first words demonstrated that she had not. "Didi, I missed you so! I must admit, when I got Mama's note saying that only you would be coming I was more pleased than disappointed. I expect I'll see more than enough of Mama— and Celeste and Althea, too, for that matter— before the Season is over."
"Bee!" exclaimed Deirdre, choking on a laugh. "I see you are as outspoken as ever. I'm glad, for I admit I am finding the conventions of Town rather, er, constricting." She thought with regret of her daily solitary walks in the country.
"Already?" asked Beata with ready sympathy. "I fear it will get worse. But tell me how everything is with you. How goes the poetry?"
Outwardly, as well, Beata was much the same as Deirdre remembered, her hair a rich honey colour instead of the bright guinea-gold Althea and Celeste possessed. Her figure was still nearly as slender as Deirdre's and she had obviously made good use of her husband's money to enhance her innate sense of style. All in all, Mrs. Jameson was a lovely and extremely elegant woman.
Deirdre told her about sending her collection to Mr. Hunt, startled to realize that she had not even thought about it since last night. "Of course, he has only agreed to look at it, so I daresay I should not get my hopes up."
"I may not be as outspoken in my praise as Faith, but I always thought your poetry quite good," said Beata encouragingly. "I'll not be surprised to see it in print. But never tell me Mama approved of this course?"
"I saw no point in mentioning it to her just yet," replied Deirdre evasively, and was relieved to see Beata nod in agreement.
"Nor will I see fit to mention it," she assured her. Then her deep blue eyes became more piercing, reminding Deirdre that Beata had always seemed to know what she was thinking. "But I don't imagine that's what is bothering you right now, and it is perfectly obvious that something is. Out with it, Didi! Is Celeste becoming puffed up with her success?" She chuckled at Deirdre's expression. "Oh, yes, I've already heard about Althea's 'little' do last night. I haven't let so many connections slip as Mama supposes."
Deirdre shook her head ruefully. "You always did know everything practically before it happened. But no, Celeste is not the problem." Haltingly, she attempted to describe her feelings the night before at the sight of Lord Wrotham. Though she omitted the gentleman's name, she still found great relief in unburdening herself to her most understanding sister. "I know it sounds absurd," she finished. "I mean, I haven't even spoken to the man, and he has no idea that I so much as exist."
But Beata was nodding again. "It was much the same with Mark and myself. Did I never tell you? I went about engaging his notice quite systematically, once I had selected him from the crowd. I'm not the romantic you are, Didi. I have always felt that Fate does best with a helping hand."
Deirdre laughed again. "You were ever the realist in the family, Bee. And I had thought Mark did the courting!"
"Oh, he did!" Beata hastened to assure her. "He simply needed some encouragement to begin. After that, things went along famously, though he was so shy I believe he nearly drove Mama to distraction. I, however, never doubted how things would turn out." Her eyes twinkled as she smiled smugly. "We'll simply have to do the same for the gentleman you've selected, Didi. But first, you must tell me his name, if you managed to find it out."
Deirdre hesitated, then nodded. "I... I don't know his given name, but he is Lord Wrotham."
Beata sat back abruptly among the satin cushions of the divan and stared at her sister, momentarily speechless. "Wrotham?" she finally gasped. "You've developed a tendre for Lord Wrotham?" Then she began to chuckle. "I always did love a challenge, Didi. This Season may be quite interesting, after all."
"Then you'll help me, Bee?" Deirdre's clear grey eyes were pleading.
"Oh, I wouldn't miss it! It's a good thing, you know, that you didn't mention this to Althea. She quite set her cap at him three years back and only accepted poor Bruce when it was perfectly obvious Wrotham wouldn't bite. Obvious to her, that is. I could have told her two months earlier the man wasn't interested, but she's always been a great one for seeing things as she wishes them to be. I hope Mama hasn't turned Celeste's head in his direction yet. She's no more his type than Althea is, as they're practically cut from the same pattern."
"Celeste hasn't seemed particularly interested in him," Deirdre was able to say truthfully, though she knew it was not for want of effort on Lady Penrose's part.
"Good! Now this is what I think we ought to do...."
* * *
When Celeste and the baroness arrived an hour later, just as little Geoffrey was brought down from his nap, Beata had a plan to put forth. "Suppose you allow Didi to stay with me for a week or so?" she suggested as her mother bounced her first-born grandson, whom she had never met until that moment, on her knee. Lady Penrose had always adored small children, and did not allow her dignity to interfere with her enjoyment of them.
Startled, Lady Penrose looked from Beata to Deirdre. "With you? Why, whatever for? Though I suppose there would be no harm in it." Actually, the idea appealed so much to her that she wondered why she had not thought of it before. Beata had always seemed to understand Didi so much better than she did herself.
"Of course there would be no harm. I imagine you have your hands amply full with Celeste's come-out, Mama. We wouldn't want Didi neglected." Beata had clearly noticed the contrast between Celeste's attire and Deirdre's.
This admonition struck uncomfortably near home, but Lady Penrose ignored it with a smile. "If Didi would like to stay here, I have no fault to find. You two were ever close, and no d
oubt will deal famously together. What's that, my little angel?" she cooed, turning her attention back to Geoffrey, considering the matter settled.
When Lady Penrose and her two daughters left a short time later, Beata told Deirdre to be at her house by ten the next morning, bag and baggage. "For we have work to do!" she whispered with a wink.
* * *
CHAPTER 5
Edison Gates, fourth Marquis of Wrotham, set aside the volume of Milton he was perusing with a sigh. "Yes, Bigby? My cousin, I presume?" he asked before his butler could speak.
"Yes, milord," replied Bigby impassively. "Shall I deny you?"
"No, no. I might as well have it out with him sooner rather than later. Show him in." Lord Wrotham rose from his favourite reading chair by the fire and crossed the library to stand behind his desk. It seemed inappropriate for him to be physically at ease during an interview which promised to be most uncomfortable.
A moment later, Bigby reopened the door to admit a portly young man of medium height whose dress proclaimed him an aspirer to the dandy set. His mincing step seemed at odds with his bulk, but when he stopped to put up a quizzing glass to regard the Marquis, the motion was one of controlled grace. Having apparently satisfied himself that the man awaiting him was indeed his cousin, Myron Gates lowered the glass and proceeded to arrange himself elegantly in a chair facing the desk.
"You've come for money again, I make no doubt," stated Wrotham when his cousin remained silently smirking.
"What, no pleasantries?" asked Myron, his voice as affected as his gait. "Can we not at least share a glass of brandy before coming to the mercenary purpose of my visit?"
"You're welcome to a glass," replied the Marquis, nodding at a collection of decanters on the sideboard. "I don't care for it this early in the day, myself." He waited until Myron had availed himself of a generous helping of brandy and repositioned himself in his chair before continuing. "That out of the way, perhaps you can enlighten me as to the reason I should be expected to continue to settle your debts. You have been of age some months now, and might be expected to manage your own affairs. I am no longer responsible for you, morally or financially."
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