"But Ed," drawled his cousin, leaning as far forward as his girth would allow. "You are the reason I am in debt. It is only fair that you should assist me."
"I?" asked Wrotham in disbelief. What maggot had Myron in his head this time?
"Why, of course. Were I not your heir, the merchants would not be so eager to extend me credit, and I would not be so frequently tempted to oblige them by accepting it," responded Myron in a reasonable tone.
The Marquis snorted. "You do have the one virtue, Myron, of being amusing. Never fear, I shall rectify matters for you."
"Then you'll pay my creditors?" asked Myron complacently. "I knew I could count on you, Ed." He tossed off the rest of his brandy and began to heave himself to his feet to refill the glass when Wrotham's voice stopped him.
"No, Myron, that is not what I meant. Since you claim that being my heir is at the root of your financial irresponsibility, you will be extremely happy to know that I intend to wed before the year is out. That should remove you from temptation's way, I should think."
Myron collapsed back into his chair, his limbs arranged somewhat less elegantly than before. "Marry?" he choked out. "What start is this? Why have I heard nothing?" He made a valiant effort to recover his composure. "And who, pray, is the lucky lady?" he managed to ask with at least a semblance of his usual drawl.
"I have never felt it necessary to keep you apprised of my every action, Myron. You will discover the details along with the rest of the polite world, when they appear in the papers. I am willing to advance you one hundred pounds, which I expect you to repay next quarter, but that is to be the end of my charity. I recommend in the meantime that you endeavour to curtail your spendthrift ways against the day when credit will not be so readily extended." Lord Wrotham handed his cousin a note, then seated himself at his desk and began to go through some papers, indicating that the interview was at an end.
Holding the note in nerveless fingers, Myron silently opened and closed his mouth several times before slowly rising to go. He nearly accused the Marquis of taking this step to spite him, but stopped himself in time. Surely no man, especially one so averse to matrimony as Wrotham was known to be, would marry simply to cut off a kinsman's credit. The idea was absurd. Noticeably lacking the customary mince in his stride, Myron left the library in silence.
Lord Wrotham waited until the door had closed behind his cousin to suspend his activity at the desk.
He heaved a sigh, though not precisely one of relief. For Myron's unspoken suspicion, as it happened, was quite correct: the single reason behind his decision to marry was to replace Myron as his heir. And as yet he had no idea who the "lucky lady" might be.
It was perfectly true that Wrotham had no desire to marry. Until his younger brother's death two years ago in the Napoleonic campaigns, he had never thought it would be necessary. He had intended to remain some years in Italy, where he had made several close friends among the literary circles of that most civilized country, learning more of music, poetry and art. Justin would have made a fine heir.
Myron, however, was another matter entirely. He had shown over the past two years, beginning almost before Justin was cold in his grave, just how quickly he would manage to run through the family fortune were he free to do so. Wrotham had no intention of allowing him that freedom and had therefore determined to choose a bride from among this Season's crop of young hopefuls. He had returned from the Continent to England, and then to London, for that very purpose, but did not relish the task.
Rising, he crossed from the desk to the sideboard. Perhaps he could use a drop of brandy after all.
* * *
"Hmm. The silvery pink, I think," said Beata, critically surveying the choice of fabrics Madame Sophie's assistant spread before them. "And perhaps another in the powder blue. Yes, that one, with the white spangles." She turned to look back at Deirdre consideringly. "And a few lengths of ribbon to match, please, for her hair." The assistant scurried off to find the required items while Madame Sophie beamed in approval.
"With you and me to guide her, Mrs. Jameson, this one will be most beautiful, and most unusual, non? She will do my gowns as much credit as you yourself do, madame."
"More, I hope," replied Beata to the modiste. She had the greatest respect for Madame Sophie's taste, but knew better than to take her flattery to heart. "What think you of this silver reticule to go with the pink?"
Deirdre was finding shopping with Beata a vastly different, and far more satisfying, experience than the same activity with her mother had been. Beata's choices never made her cringe; indeed, she showed an exquisite sense of colour and style that Deirdre could not help but revel in. And her own suggestions, rather than being ignored or ridiculed, were seriously considered and often acted upon. She felt that her growing wardrobe would likely be very becoming indeed.
"Mrs. Jagels will be coming to dress your hair tomorrow after tea," commented Beata as they left the shop. "She claims to have some clever styles to try."
"Mrs. Jagels? Is that not the same hairdresser that Mama has employed?" asked Deirdre in surprise.
"Yes. Marie made a point of telling me yesterday that the woman should have a chance to prove herself on your hair, so I thought we'd give her that chance— without Celeste about to monopolize her," she added so drily that Deirdre wondered what else Marie might have said.
"So," continued Beata briskly, allowing a footman to hand her into the waiting carriage, "your wardrobe is well under way and Mrs. Jagels will doubtless work some of her magic on your hair. Dancing must be the next step, I think."
"Oh, Mama already engaged a dancing master for Celeste and myself. We needn't worry about that," interposed Deirdre hastily. She had not enjoyed those lessons in the least and had no desire for more.
"And I'll wager that Celeste monopolized the dancing master in the same manner she did Mrs. Jagels. How much did you actually learn? Can you waltz, for instance?"
Deirdre hesitated. The dancing master, Mr. Riminoff, was an oily, leering Russian of middle age who repelled her more than a little. In truth, she had not begrudged Celeste the majority of the man's time and had gone to some lengths to avoid waltzing with him. "Not... not very well, I suppose," she answered finally.
"It may surprise you to hear it, but Mark is a superb dancer and will endeavour to instruct you, if that is acceptable. I spoke to him about it last night," Beata informed her with a knowing twinkle.
Deirdre smiled her relief. Mark Jameson was a pleasant man, totally devoted to Beata, and Deirdre felt completely comfortable in his presence. "Thank you," she said. "I will admit I could use some polish in that area."
"I suspected so. Now, have you been taught to use a fan properly?"
* * *
Between Beata and Mark, Deirdre was thoroughly instructed over the next few days in the arts of dancing, flirtation, conversation and even walking, All of the things she had always assumed her other sisters had been born knowing Deirdre was now mastering for herself and found it not nearly so unpleasant as she had feared it would be.
Mrs. Jagels proved herself a wizard indeed. She demonstrated, for Beata's and Deirdre's approval, no fewer than six enchanting styles especially suited to Deirdre's fine, flyaway hair. Deirdre's personal favourite was comprised of intricate braids interwoven with ribbons at the top of her head, with side tendrils pinned so that they fluffed charmingly about her face. And she had always thought only curls could be beautiful!
Beata had decided that the new Deirdre should make her debut on Wednesday at Almack's, to which she had now received a voucher. Lady Penrose and Celeste were to meet them there, and Deirdre would accompany them back to Penrose House afterwards.
"Wrotham will almost certainly not be present, of course," Beata told her during the drive to King Street. "To my knowledge he has never been to Almack's, though of course he has the entree. In fact, he is so rarely in Society, especially in the past year or two, that I have been able to discover less about him than I had hoped to. I
believe he has become something of a recluse of late."
Deirdre was more relieved than disappointed at this news. She thought she could do with some practice with her new look and skills in public before encountering him, though she did not say so to Beata for fear that her sister would think her faint-hearted.
When Deirdre mounted the steps to the celebrated Assembly Rooms on Wednesday night she was conscious that she looked her best, in her new ball gown of silver-pink tissue, her pale hair looped smoothly down and then up into a small knot tied with ribbons and flowers. It was an unusual but delightful sensation to one who had so rarely given any thought to her appearance.
Upon entering, Beata looked at once for her mother and Celeste and spied them on the far side of the large, rather plain ballroom, surrounded by the usual throng of gentlemen vying for Celeste's attention. Smiling in anticipation, she took Deirdre's arm and guided her round the edge of the room so that Lady Penrose would not see them until they were before her. Mr. Jameson, looking even more quietly elegant than usual in the knee-breeches and tails that were de rigueur at Almack's, followed.
"Madam," said Beata at the Baroness's elbow, pulling Deirdre from behind her with a flourish and then stepping back, "I should like to present your daughter, Miss Deirdre Wheaton."
Lady Penrose turned with a smile which froze on her face when she beheld Deirdre. Stifling her desire to laugh at her mother's expression, Deirdre sank into a deep curtsy to hide her own smile. Celeste, flirting her fan at some compliment from Sir Malcolm, turned in time to catch the full effect of Deirdre rising from her curtsy— and promptly dropped her fan. As Sir Malcolm vied with two or three other gentlemen for the honour of retrieving it, she found her voice.
"Didi! Just look at you! I vow, Beata, you must be a sorceress to have wrought such a change!" Her delight appeared genuine as she stepped back to better view the transformation which had been worked on her sister.
"Lovely, my dear, perfectly lovely," chimed in Lady Penrose, finding her tongue at last. "You have met Lord Linley, I know, and Sir Malcolm. Let me introduce Mr. Edwards and Mr. Barclay. My daughter Deirdre." As the gentlemen scrambled forward to make the acquaintance of this new beauty, the very tiniest of frowns appeared briefly between Celeste's brows, though her smile never faltered.
The music began at that moment, and Mr. Barclay made haste to claim Deirdre for the first set while Sir Malcolm led Celeste onto the floor. Beata was about to join the dancers with her husband, but Lady Penrose detained her.
"Beata, I must agree with Celeste. However did you work such magic in only a week's time? Deirdre looks nigh as beautiful as her sisters."
"Are you only now noticing that, ma'am?" asked Beata archly before taking Mark's arm to proceed to the floor. Lady Penrose was left to ponder what truth there was to be found in Beata's words. Before she had pondered long, however, she was joined by Althea, who had but that moment arrived, Sir Bruce in tow.
"Good evening, Mama," she greeted the Baroness, lightly kissing her cheek. "I thought you said Didi was to attend tonight. Is she not yet here?" She glanced along the wall, where the dowagers sat with the debutantes who had not been fortunate enough to find partners for the first dance.
"Indeed she is," replied Lady Penrose, gesturing in the direction of the dance floor. She found Althea's expression, once she spotted her young sister, fully as comical as Deirdre had found her own not ten minutes earlier. "Surely you did not expect to see her sitting among the ape-leaders?"
"Good heavens!" Althea managed to say after a moment. "I dare swear I should have passed her on the street, she is so changed! Mama, we must start our match-making all over again, I fear. Mr. Flinder will never do for her now. Why, he has not even the entree here!" They fell into a comfortable discussion which of Celeste's cast-offs might be the most suitable mate for Deirdre while Sir Bruce wandered off in search of one of the low-stakes card-games available at Almack's.
* * *
Lord Wrotham glanced about the Assembly Rooms with poorly concealed distaste. He now remembered why he had never returned after his single visit some four years ago, in spite of frequent urging by various of his friends, to include Emily Cowper, one of the patronesses, and the man at his side.
"Come now, Ed, no need to look as though you've swallowed a bug," exclaimed Lord Ellerby, clapping him on the shoulder. "Not so bad as all that. Said you were looking to get leg-shackled, and this is the place for it, right enough."
Wrotham's pained expression intensified. "Need you announce it to the world, Charles? Try for some semblance of decorum, if that's not asking too much." Ellerby was his closest friend, but there was no denying that he could be a bit of a nodcock at unguarded moments.
Charles ran a hand through his already disordered sandy hair. "Sorry, old boy, you're perfectly right. Won't do to have word get about you're hanging out for a wife. The old tabbies would never give you a minute's peace."
"Precisely." Wrotham was gratified that Charles understood so readily. Of course, Ellerby himself had been on the receiving end of the machinations of his share of match-making mamas, so he spoke from experience.
That experience, in fact, was why Wrotham had chosen to share his plan with the Earl, apart from their close friendship. Never having seriously considered courting a woman of his own class before, he realized that he hadn't the least idea how to go about it and would need an advisor. He glanced sidelong at Charles, hoping that he had chosen wisely.
"Now," said Wrotham in an undertone intended to inspire Ellerby to be equally soft-spoken, "what can you tell me about this Season's crop of Incomparables?"
Charles took the hint, whispering his reply. "Not all Incomparables, of course, Ed, but I can see that you might want to limit your choice to the best lookers. Let me see." He surveyed the room critically, though without the use of a quizzing glass, an affectation both he and Wrotham despised. "There's Miss Millington, Glenstoke's daughter, making her come-out this Season. A real little beauty, if a bit on the plump side. Then there's Maty Jeffcoat, here for her second try. Can't think why she didn't take last year, unless it's that she hasn't a brain in her head. Still, who looks for wit in a wife? Then there's—"
"I may as well tell you at once, Charles," interrupted the Marquis, "that beauty is only one, and by no means the chief, attribute I shall look for in a wife. I, for one, could not bear to be bound for life to some lovely peagoose."
Charles nodded, though his expression was quizzical. "Looking for a bluestocking, then, Ed? I'd forgotten you were such a scholar. Let me see..."
"No, no, I didn't say that! It's simply... oh, never mind. Who else is here?"
"Well, I heard Lady Thumble is bringing out a younger sister this year. Haven't seen the chit yet, as I wasn't in Town in time for her card-party last week, but if she bears a family resemblance she should be quite tolerable. Ah! There is Althea now!" Before Wrotham could stop him, Ellerby waved at Lady Thumble, who stood nearby with her mother, and advanced towards her. The Marquis had no choice but to follow.
Lord Wrotham remembered all too vividly Lady Thumble's pursuit of him when she had made her debut three years earlier. She had been beautiful, of course, but her empty chatter had soon palled. Her sister, now a Mrs. Jameson, he recalled, had evinced more intelligence, but had shown no interest in himself, and he had not taken the trouble to scrape an acquaintance with her, especially since it would have meant spending more time in Althea's presence.
He had regretted his decision to attend Lady Thumble's card-party last week almost as soon as he arrived, and had received the distinct impression that this Season's Miss Wheaton was to be thrown at him by Lady Penrose as vigorously as her eldest daughter had been before. Both in looks and character, he had found Miss Celeste Wheaton depressingly similar to her sister.
"So happy to see you again, Lord Wrotham," Lady Thumble was saying, echoed by her mother. "You have met my sister Celeste, who I believe is engaged on the dance floor. But let me present you to Didi— rather,
I should say, to Miss Deirdre Wheaton, my next youngest sister, who is also in London for the Season." She beckoned to the aforementioned sister, who was at that moment returning on Mr. Barclay's arm from the minuet just concluded.
Miss Deirdre Wheaton was certainly attractive, Wrotham observed as she approached. Nor did she particularly resemble Lady Thumble, being both fairer and built on less generous lines. Though her colour increased slightly as Lady Thumble introduced her, he was pleased to note that Miss Wheaton did not simper as she dropped a perfect curtsey to him.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord." Her voice was as light and pleasing as her form.
"Charmed, Miss Wheaton," murmured Wrotham to the vision in rose and silver before him. "Would you care to dance?"
* * *
CHAPTER 6
When Deirdre had seen the Marquis standing by her sister, regarding her with those remarkably piercing dark eyes, her heart had immediately begun to pound, but she remembered Beata's training in time and strove to allow no trace of her disquiet to show in her expression. Even when he asked her to dance, she managed to accept calmly and coolly, despite her riotous thoughts.
But when the strains of a waltz began, she wondered frantically whether her careful control could withstand that test. Such was the combined influence of Lady Thumble, Mrs. Jameson and Lady Penrose that Deirdre had the permission of the patronesses to dance it, but she trembled none the less. This would be her first public waltz, circumstance enough for nervousness without taking her partner into consideration. Would he notice her inexperience?
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