“I shouldn’t take too much notice Izzy,” she said sagely, her eyes resting on the pages of the novel she held in her hand; “They say the strangest things about me sometimes too.”
Isabella cleared her throat uncomfortably, Lydia was fast proving to be her closest friend, but there was no denying that the girl was as odd as box of frogs. She perched herself at the edge of the couch and read the cover of the book that the other young woman was reading.
“Glenarvon?” she exclaimed in surprise when she saw. The notorious novel was by Lord Byron’s disgraced lover Caroline Lamb, and it had shocked and scandalized most of society upon its release- not least because of Miss Lamb’s thinly disguised caricatures of certain members of the ton.
“I like the way Caro Lamb writes,” Lydia replied defensively, snapping the book shut and hiding it under a cushion; “She is incredibly talented and incredibly misunderstood. We artistic types often are.” Lydia gave a martyred sniff.
“Er,” Isabella bit her lip, worried she had offended her friend; “Sorry Liddy - I just wasn’t expecting you to be reading something quite so risque this early in the morning.”
Indeed it was rather early for one to be engrossed in novels of a deviant nature. Social calls were usually paid between the hours of eleven and three, and most ladies that Isabella knew liked to assume an air of perfect, preened, innocence least someone was to find them doing something scandalous. The only thing worse than death for a young woman was scandal. Lydia was of course not like most ladies, in that she didn’t appear to fear scandal, or that she didn’t actually understand the behaviors that might get her into trouble.
“Well don’t worry, nobody calls on me,” she replied baldly; “Which is why you’re here. I’m happy to offer you sanctuary from all your besotted would-be-suitors Isabella, but pray don’t judge my reading materials.”
A grin erupted across Isabella’s face at the waif-like young woman’s surmising; it was true that Isabella had wanted to escape her sister’s London Residence and the suitors who plagued her there.
“I simply wished to call on you to bask in the sweetness of your company,” Isabella gently teased her frowning companion.
“Has Lady Lydia fallen and hit her head?” a deep, mocking voice called from the door; “That’s the only situation I can think of that might induce a person to call her sweet.”
Isabella turned to face the voice of the person who had spoken, catching a glimpse of Lydia’s annoyed expression as she did so.
“The Marquis of Sutherland.”
The voice of the butler, bent over and wheezing, followed the Marquis in the door.
“I tried to tell him you were not at home,” the elderly servant said to Lydia, knees quaking.
“Which is balderdash,” the Marquis said convivially, throwing himself into the armchair opposite the sofa where the two women sat, a mischievous smile on his handsome face as he looked at Lydia; “For here you are my Lady.”
“Isabella,” Lydia said through gritted teeth,her face a picture of pain ; “Allow me to introduce the Marquis of Sutherland.”
“Charmed,” Isabella choked out, for never had a man so obviously ignored Lydia’s thorny demeanor.
“Sutherland this is my great friend Miss Isabella Peregrine.”
To his credit the Marquis stood, and bent over Isabella’s hand, brushing a kiss on her gloved fingers.
“Lady Lydia and I share two mutual friends,” the Marquis whispered conspiratorially to Isabella as he sat back down.
“We share one mutual friend and that is Aurelia,” Lydia corrected him; “Sebastian is loathe to admit we are even related, so I doubt he considers himself my friend.”
“Sebastian?” Isabella’s questioned, quickly losing the trail.
“My half-cousin.”
“Blackmore’s bastard brother.”
Both Lydia and the Marquis spoke at the same time, causing Isabella’s head to spin as she absorbed what both had said. Michael had a half brother?
“Sebastian Black,” Lydia elaborated - the name sounding most familiar to Isabella’s ears.
“Oh the industrialist,” Isabella exclaimed as the penny finally dropped; Sebastian Black was probably richer than the Marquis of Sutherland and nearly as wealthy as his brother the Duke; “Goodness Michael never told me he had a half brother.”
“Are you acquainted with my cousin?” Lydia asked, her eyes somewhat narrowed. Isabella had never mentioned that she knew the Duke most intimately; the mere thought of the Duke left Isabella feeling clamming with mortification and she had not felt brave enough to mention their acquaintance to Lydia.
“I- I,” Isabella stuttered - how could she confess to her new friend that not only was she acquainted with the Duke of Blackmore, but she had actually proposed marriage to him?
“I - I -”
“I think what Miss Peregrine is trying to say is yes, we are acquainted.”
Isabella closed her mouth with a snap, afraid to turn around to face that all too familiar voice.
“Blackmore old chum,” the Marquis stood and clapped his hands together with glee; “Well isn’t this a turn up for the books.”
A turn up for the books indeed - Isabella thought with a gulp.
Chapter Ten
The next week was the first week in March and with that the Assembly Rooms at Almack’s reopened. Isabella attended the first Wednesday night ball with her sister and Jack, who she quickly lost in the fashionable crowds. For the first half hour of the ball she stood, partly concealed behind a gilded column, surveying the crowd that had gathered and waiting for Lydia to arrive.
The crowd at Almack’s appeared to Isabella to be the same people that had been attending since her first season. Admission to the stuffy ball-room was at the discretion of its lady patronesses, and their taste in permissible guests ran only to the aristocracy and the landed gentry. As such there was little diversity, and the men that Isabella would dance with tonight, would no doubt all resemble each other in style, manners, and personality.
“I’d offer you a penny for your thoughts, but you look so fearsome I’m rather afraid of what it is that they are.”
The voice in Isabella’s ear was fruity, unctuous and belonging to an unfamiliar male. She jumped in shock, both at the closeness of this stranger and the words that he spoke. They were dangerous and teasing, urging her to mock the stuffiness of Almack’s.
“Not fearsome at all sir, I was just thinking upon the quality of the biscuits,” Isabella replied tartly, for the refreshments served at such an exclusive ball were notorious for being stale and bland. She turned to look at the owner of the impudent manners, and found her breath catching in her throat.
He was perfection. Her companion stood at well over six feet, his athletic physique shown off his fashionable attire. His hair was a sandy blonde, his eyes a wicked blue – and his face was so handsome and perfect it was as though an artist had carved it just for her.
He was the Viscount Courtnay – the most fashionable man in London now that Beau Brummell had been exiled to France. Isabella tried to stop herself from fidgeting nervously with her gloves; nobody this fashionable had ever paid any attention to her.
“I suppose it was too much to hope that the catch of the season was mutineering against the Lady Dragons who guard the gates here,” the Viscount replied with a wink, referring to the formidable ladies – whose numbers included the Duchess of Blackmore - who issued admittance vouchers to only those they approved of. Their censure meant social exclusion, and they were most generous in applying it; no one, not even the Prince Regent, was safe.
“I don’t think my Lord is quite right in describing me as the catch of the season,” Isabella replied delicately, not wishing to malign anyone’s character especially the Dowager Duchess, but flushing happily at the flattering description that he had painted of her.
“What else is a man to call the lady on whom wagers about which young buck will propose to her first are being placed in White�
��s?” the Viscount replied innocently; “The lady whom the papers are calling this season’s fiery temptress?”
Isabella blushed properly now, the nickname bestowed on her was no doubt on account of her flame red hair.
‘Oh don’t,” she protested, embarrassed.
“Men are always being told that we prefer blonds,” Courtnay continued mischievously; “When in fact in our secret soul, it is always the auburn-haired beauty that fills our dreams.”
Isabella opened her mouth to protest – both at his claims and his impropriety, but her speech was interrupted by the arrival of her sister.
“Oh there you are Isabella. Honestly how is anybody supposed to find you when you’re hiding in the corner?” Lavinia was annoyed, her brow creased in a frown, until she spotted the towering form of the Viscount.
“Lady Cowper herself introduced us just moments ago,” was Courtnay’s smooth lie. Isabella had to admire his boldness; Lady Cowper was the most formidable of all Almack’s patrons, no-one would ever cross her, and as such the likelihood of Lavinia asking her to confirm the introduction was nil.
“And I was just requesting your sister mark my name on her card for the quadrille,” Courtnay continued.
Isabella felt herself deflate a little, the quadrille was such an energetic dance that one scarcely had a chance to converse with one’s partner.
“Oh, and the last waltz.”
The Viscount departed with a bow to both ladies as he left to mingle with the ever-increasing crowd.
“I had not heard that Courtnay was in the market for a wife,” Lavina whispered as the sisters watched him go. The older of the two linked her arm through Isabella’s, so that they could walk the perimeter of the ballroom together and speak without being overheard.
“Why do you assume he’s looking for a wife?” Isabella asked curiously, perhaps it was a secret sixth sense only married women had – the ability to tell when a man was ready to settle down.
‘Because he’s attending Almack’s,” Lavinia replied, rolling her eyes and gesturing to the room.
Isabella looked around the ballroom, where white dressed debutants of every shape and size, were being surreptitiously assessed by men ranging in age from twenty up to their dotage. Despite this seediness it was still glamorous; the many gilded mirrors which hung on the walls reflected the guests, who glittered under the gas-lit chandeliers, giving the impression that there were more people crowded into the room than there was. The orchestra was playing a tune in the balcony overhead, but they could scarce be heard over the din of chattering, posturing, and preening that the assembled guests were doing. It truly was the most affluent of marriage marts – and a man would only think to attend if he was in search of a wife. It was getting close to eleven o’clock, the hour after which no one else would be admitted through the doors, when the arrival of the final attendee was called.
“The Duke of Blackmore.”
The crowd stilled momentarily, as did Isabella, as for a moment they tried to discern if they had heard the correct name being announced.
The Duke of Blackmore?
At Almack’s?
Certainty not!
The silence turned into a hum of whispers, which quickly reached a crescendo, as the guests craned their neck to see if the reclusive Duke really had arrived.
“I heard he was seen in White’s last night, discussing the importance of the line,” Isabella heard an over-stuffed man in his fifties say to his companion.
“He’ll probably pick one that’s just out,” his companion replied, she was a skeletally thin woman in her fifties whose enormous green turban was obscuring Isabella’s view; “That’s all his type care about, the best fillies for breeding.”
Hearing that Blackmore was both in the market for a wife and a young one at that, in such a crass manner made Isabella flush with shame and embarrassment. What had she been thinking proposing to a man like the Duke of Blackmore? He might have said he never wanted to marry, but Isabella should have known that was just bluster – all men wanted to further their line, the Duke was no exception. And they wanted to further it with fresh-faced debutantes, not on the shelf wallflowers like Isabella. She had merely been a distraction while he was ensconced in the dreary countryside.
The Duke looked formidable, as first he greeted Lady Cowper who was the host of tonight’s ball, then moved to mingle with the crowd, his mother and Lydia walking in his wake. His broad shoulders were covered by a black coat, an immaculate white cravat at his neck. The black knee breeches he wore displayed his muscled thighs and Isabella noted that she was not the only woman appreciating the view; dozens of ladies followed the Duke’s progress through the room from behind their fans.
If Isabella had been thinking straight, she might have thought to return to her hiding place behind the gilded columns, as it was she was so flustered by the arrival of the towering, masculine Duke that she failed to understand he was heading straight for her, until he was there.
“Miss Peregrine,” Michael gave a curt bow.
“Your Grace,” Isabella replied, her voice a faint croak. She was well aware that every member of the crowd was trying very hard to make it look like they were not looking at the pair.
‘May I request a dance Miss Peregrine?” the Duke asked, his voice curt and clipped, his tone almost bored. The crowd stilled completely as they waited her reply.
A flush of anger spread across Isabella’s chest, and she could feel her face heating with emotion. How dare he? How dare this pompous, jumped up, snobbish Duke act like he could just waltz up to her after the humiliation he had caused and ask her to dance?
He was even more cruel than she first thought if he was seeking to revel in her embarrassment like this.
“My card is full your Grace.”
As one the crowd inhaled a breath of disbelief.
Had Miss Peregrine truly cut the Duke of Blackmore so publicly?
As though to confirm what had just happened, Isabella turned on her heel and walked away, her nose high in the air.
“Don’t trip, don’t trip,” she intoned to herself; knowing her luck she would go sprawling in her ballroom slippers and land flat on her behind. But for once the stars aligned in her favor, instead of disaster the dashing figure of Viscount Courtnay appeared at her side, bowing with a flourish and adding to the drama, much to the crowds delight.
“I believe this dance is mine Miss Peregrine,” Lord Courtnay said with a bow.
The orchestra struck up the first notes of the waltz as the Viscount took her hand to lead her to the floor, and Isabella felt her heart soar - perhaps, just for tonight, she was the catch of the season.
A few hours later Michael sat looking out the famous Bow window of White’s, onto the street below, where inebriated men of the gentry were too-ing a fro-ing between their clubs. Behind the grand, white facades of the St. James’ Street buildings, lay some of London’s most exclusive clubs.
Michael, naturally, was welcome at them all.
Tonight he fancied White’s for he could stare out the window whilst drinking deeply on his brandy, his back to the room to convey that he did not wish to speak to anyone.
His idea of romantically sweeping Isabella off her feet had fallen flat at the first hurdle. He had been so overawed by her beauty and so overwhelmed by the curious crowd eavesdropping on them, that when he went to speak the familiar lump had begun to form in his throat. When he had asked her to dance his request had come out as romantically as an order given to a brigadier.
“Idiot,” he grumbled to himself, throwing back his whiskey - which was a rather smooth Scotch blend - and motioning for the attendant to fetch him another.
He deserved the cut absolute, he knew that - but watching Isabella in the arms of the florid, dandy Damian Courtnay had angered him to the point of violence. Though rather than brawling in the middle of Almack’s, he had decided to retreat to the safety of his club, where he could sulk in the smoke filled room and nurse his disappointment.<
br />
“I say Blackmore,” it was the Marquis of Sutherland, a grin on his face; “I heard you got shafted by Miss Peregrine.”
Sutherland gave a whistle of admiration, as he threw himself on the leather lined, mahogany chair opposite Michael, for all intents and purposes not noticing the dour, unwelcoming look on the Duke’s face.
“Seems her little stunt has upset the odds on who she’ll wed - there’s been fellows in all night laying hundreds of pounds on Courtnay.”
“That dandified nitwit?” Micheal responded sullenly, taking another sip of his drink, and grunting to convey his displeasure.
“For two men who have barely spent a day together, you and your brother sometimes sound exactly alike,” Sutherland commented wryly, standing to leave. He stretched so vigorously that his shirt rode up his stomach, revealing remarkably toned abdominal muscles for a man who liked to affect the air of a louche.
“Night night Blackmore,” Sutherland called over his shoulder as he left - possibly for Boodles or Brook’s, leaving the Duke to ruminate on his words about his rival.
So Sebastian viewed the Viscount Courtnay in the same light as he did? His half brother - whom he had dragged from the slums of St. Gile’s at aged twelve and deposited in Eaton - had a hand in nearly every type of financial venture that went on the city. From the docks where he owned a fleet of ships, to Pickering Place just around the corner where he ran a gaming hell, Sebastian Black knew what went on with every man and rogue in London town. If he thought that Viscount Courtnay was a nit-wit, there might be a sordid reason why.
Michael stood and set his empty glass down on the table - it was time to pay his half-brother a social call.
Chapter Eleven
The Theatre Royal faced onto Catherine Street in Covent Garden and was one of London’s most regal venues, housing not one but two Royal boxes. Huge crowds converged nightly to see performances, and tonight - the opening of the opera The King's Proxy, was no different.
“They let anyone into the stalls,” Viscount Courtnay sniffed in displeasure, looking down at the crowds taking their seats below.
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