by Beverly Adam
Beau Powers was one of those rare English eccentrics of the Golden Clover Circle, as the haute ton of Dublin were known as. She’d not mind serving him. Unlike most of these English, feast-swilling absentee landowners who were now in London dancing attendance upon the prince, Beau Powers was not one of those Cromwellian-spawned dandies squeezing all they could from their penniless Irish tenants. The English Beau Powers was an exception. A true gentleman of integrity, who loved his adopted country, Ireland.
“A dandy kind-hearted master you’ll find him to be, lad, if you be so fortunate as t’ find yourself serving him,” she said beaming. She remembered the way he’d heavily tipped her and the other servants the last time she’d worked a party he’d attended. The gentleman had given her a whole guinea for bringing him an extra bottle of claret to his private chambers. Didn’t even try and pinch her bottom, neither. Although she wouldn’t have minded much if he had, the handsome devil.
“But . . .” She frowned in hesitation, her chubby, round face pinching a little in disapproval at the smiling buxom maid who stood at the ready to take the gentleman’s traveling cloak. The young housemaid’s cheeks flamed under the dandy’s notice.
“I think it be best we lock them young country lasses we hired in their chambers tonight. Who knows which one of these pea-brained colleens will take it into her silly cap to try and slip into that gent’s well-made bed? For I’m telling you true, lad, there won’t be any bairns born on the wrong side of the blanket coming from this castle. Not while I’m in charge here.”
The Beau’s sister, Mistress Laeticia Powers, followed him from behind, daintily stepping down from the open carriage. Her young, curvaceous figure made her the portrait of a fully clothed Venus come to life. The striking dasher wore a blue traveling gown and sported a wide-brimmed hat bedecked with matching striped bows. She appeared to have just stepped out of the latest fashion gazette in her fine traveling coat. She gave a long, white-gloved hand to the gaping footman who helped her down.
The pocket Venus, upon meeting the new earl, enthusiastically threw her full white arms around him. Beneath her beribboned hat, blonde curls bounced on each side of her round, heart-shaped face as she kissed him on the cheeks in greeting.
“I’m so delighted for you, Captain James,” she gushed openly, holding onto him as if she had no intention of ever relinquishing him. Her dimples deepened into a cherubic smile as she gazed up at him adoringly. “So . . . so . . . terribly thrilled t’ hear of your good fortune.”
She batted her thick eyelashes up at him, her tightly corseted body in the empire style, which had been à la mode since the war’s beginning. It exposed to the elements her splendid bosom which brazenly bounced up and down against his starched white shirt with each excited breath. She left no doubts as to her intention of trying to snare his manly attention.
Laeticia knew a good catch when she met one. At the moment, the young earl was considered to be one of the best-titled ones on the marriage mart. And as her family held no peerage, as yet, she was determined to marry into a good family.
“Does she know the master well?” asked the lower footman, visibly swallowing at the sight of Mistress Powers’s exposed charms. “I, uh . . . was wondering if she mightn’t already have an understanding with His Grace. What I mean is—is she the one he’s chosen to be the new mistress ’ere?”
“Nay, lad. She’s just making His Grace’s acquaintance for the first time. Her brother there is the one who knows him best. They attended school together. The lass is trying to get her claws into him before them shy kittens over there give ’im a try,” said the cook. She nodded in the direction of a giggling group of prim debutantes.
The young ladies stood awkwardly by their relations and pale-faced female companions on the bottom steps of the front castle portal, looking like a group of white gardenias clustered around their more colorfully dressed guardians.
“Aye, Laeticia Powers is not the only young lady here eager to get herself attached to the earl. My bets, though, are not on that bold miss,” she whispered as Mistress Powers passed them, ascending the stairs, her backside swaying alluringly to and fro like a wide seagoing ship.
Lady Beatrice stood stiffly off to one side, watching the other lady smile in supreme confidence, as if she’d just laid siege to the castle and been proclaimed its rightful queen. Beatrice smiled coolly at the dasher and Laeticia made her obligatory curtsy before entering the castle walls.
“Dark shot though she be, ’tis to my thinking that Lady Beatrice would make the finest mistress of this castle,” said the cook with haughty finality. “She has backbone instead of wishbone, that lady does. Not like some of these simpering, pale moths standing over there.”
Tom stared at the tall lady in incredulous amazement. He’d heard strange talk concerning the aloof heiress’s game-of-the-hen ways at the local inn, the Boar’s Teeth. The tales of her escapades with her various greedy suitors were renowned throughout the tiny parish. They were frequently retold with wicked ribald humor to newcomers with unrestrained glee.
Eyeing the unsmiling lady, he could not find anything desirable in his master shackling himself with such an odd bluestocking. Even if, as they say, she be richer than Croesus himself.
“If I were the earl, I’d be after asking Mistress Powers,” he said dreamily watching the back of the stylish Dublin lady disappear indoors.
“Aye, to be sure ye would, untried youth that you be. But the master will be needing a lady with brains and grout. And as Lady O’Brien has plenty of both, ’tis she I be thinking who’d be the best choice . . . but mind, lad, the master best be quick about his business of doing the asking. There be others who are chasing after ’er.” She nodded knowingly in the direction of the young, colorful gentlemen assembled around the chattering debutantes.
“Plain spoken and all that dear lady be. Those giddy city chicks and their ne’er-do-well brothers are also in force among the guests. And those spendthrifts are terribly eager to tie themselves to her golden purse strings. Aye, twill be a most fortunate man who nabs her ladyship for his own.”
The gentlemen stood about uncomfortably, their mothers having dragged them away from the unprofitable gaming dens they habitually frequented. This in exchange for more profitable introductions and dancing partners for their marriageable daughters.
“Not that I don’t think your sister doesn’t stand a chance with the earl,” one dowager was overheard saying to her heir. She eyed with pleasure her pretty, but slightly bucktoothed daughter, as they waited their turn to greet their host and hostess. “But the word being bandied about, Reginald, is that His Grace is looking for a wealthy bride. As you know, our finances are rather badly scorched. I’m afraid your dear sister cannot compete for that gentleman’s august attention,” she murmured regretfully.
“However,” and at this the mother’s eyes lit up with Machiavellian expectations laced with old-fashioned guilt. “If we were to stop paying off your gambling debts, we just might be able to scrape together a splendid enough dowry for one of those other lords over there to take an interest in Felicity.”
She leaned into her son with a, ‘Listen, this is for your own good,’ look upon her full face. She whispered, “Now, if you were to marry a bride with unlimited wealth at her disposal, such as Lady O’Brien, why then it’d be your rich wife’s duty to pay off your debts. Wouldn’t it, my dear boy? And then we could arrange a proper marriage for our dear Felicity.” She gave him an encouraging nod in the wealthy spinster’s direction, hoping her son had at last understood the family’s position concerning his duty to marry well above his present impoverished means.
“Yes, ma’am,” the young gentleman murmured uncomfortably, reaching up to his stiff cravat where a stranglehold on his carefree bachelor days was making it most difficult to breathe. “If you and Felicity will kindly excuse me, Mother. I do believe my man is signaling to me.”
“Of course. Do go your merry way. Enjoy yourself, Reginald, dear. But first,”
the mother added with steely determination, “take this opportunity to ask Lady O’Brien if you mightn’t take her out riding on the morrow. Although I hear tell her father, Lord O’Brien, has given the Earl of Drennan permission to court her.” A worried frown crinkled the smooth forehead of the matron. “But that announcement carries little weight. And as they are not yet formally betrothed, there is still a chance of her making a match of it elsewhere, isn’t there?”
“Yes, Mama,” her heir replied blandly, and reluctantly headed in the direction of their hostess.
Many pleasant diversions were planned for the fête. Along with the usual hunt, there would be picnics, music recitals, boating on Kilkarney’s lake, and a fireworks display had been planned to coincide with the letter of recognition arriving from Prinney. It was expected he would congratulate the newly named Earl of Drennan on his title and peerage. The earl, shortly thereafter, would be invited to visit the English court where he would present himself formally for the final nod of recognition from the Prince Regent. A moment, which would undoubtedly serve as his public acceptance into the haute ton and the uppermost echelon of English society.
* * *
Lady Beatrice found herself dancing in a country set comprising of herself and Beau Powers as the first couple. Young Lord Reginald Fortescue and his sister Lady Felicity were the second. The ball had just become very gay with dancing. A hired orchestra played above in the ballroom’s minstrel’s gallery and the newly cleaned chandeliers sparkled above the guests.
Beatrice was just about to pass under young Lord Reginald’s outstretched arm when she was interrupted in mid-step.
Tommy Flanders, the footman, bowed before her.
“A gentleman has arrived, my lady. He says he has no card, but he insists on speaking to you in private,” he said, frowning haughtily with disapproval. “He isn’t on the guest list, ma’am. Shall I send him away?”
“No, don’t. Perhaps it’s one of His Grace’s family who decided to make an unannounced appearance,” she said hopefully, thinking how wonderful it would be if at least one of His Grace’s relations had come. “We wouldn’t want to offend him if that is so. Best show the gentleman to the yellow study. Oh, and leave me to deal with the matter of where to place him for the night, Flanders. You may, however, inform His Grace of our guest’s arrival.”
She added to herself that if the dungeons weren’t already occupied with rat skeletons, she’d put the guest there. It was extremely rude to show up at the last minute and expect to be housed. Perhaps she could send him off to her father’s?
Frowning over the matter, she finished the country set. She made a final curtsy, and cordially excused herself from her partner’s presence.
The study was cool, despite the warmth of the lit peat fire on her right. She paused, uncertain if she ought to enter. For even with his back to her in the dimly lit study, she recognized him. The arrogant tilt of his head gave him away. When he turned, twirling a quizzing glass nonchalantly in one hand, leaning on the white and black marbled fireplace mantle with the other, she knew her first guess to be correct.
“Vi—Viscount Linley,” she said, astounded at the sight of the man she had once almost married.
“Lady Beatrice,” he said and gave an effusive bow. Taking up his quizzing glass once more, he surveyed her. Small, squinty, brown eyes covered by thick eyebrows stared at her. His youthful handsome face had changed, she noted. His once flawless skin was now full of large, pitted scars. The result, no doubt, of having caught some sort of sexual contagion from one of his favored soiled doves.
She felt his insolent scrutiny. It made her cringe. She felt as if she were some sort of loose woman of the streets he were about to consider purchasing for his personal pleasure, instead of an intelligent, highborn lady worthy of respect.
“Aren’t you the thing, old girl,” he drawled, his lips curling upwards in a slight haughty smile as he eyed the almost translucent blue pelisse of her Liberty silk. Its empire waist and silver slit underskirt outlined her feminine form.
“Not t’all the stiff, top-lofty spinster I left behind when I went to war, are you? Been having a good time, m’dear, whilst I was away fighting for our country?” He sneered openly. “Obviously, not given me another thought, eh?”
“You needn’t play the martyred soldier with me, Viscount Linley. Last I heard you were with the China Tenth Regiment,” she said coolly, referring to the regiment that was under the Prince Regent’s personal patronage, and thus far had seen no battle.
“’Tis well known that the young aristocrats which comprise your regiment, Lord Linley, parade about in sunny Brighton in their meticulously tailored uniforms singing at the top of their lungs, playfully flirting with the ladies. ’Tis disgraceful, especially when one thinks of all the other brave, young men in the Union risking their very lives fighting against the French.”
The viscount opened a box of snuff and lined some of the noxious substance on his sleeve. He sniffed it up his nose, delicately knocking the rest back into his box.
“All that may change very soon, m’dear. Indeed, I might smell gunpowder yet. There’s talk that we may be sent to reinforce Wellington’s troops in Spain. Dashed, if I can’t buy my way out. But the commander won’t release any of us to go home. Says we’re less than a bunch of cowards if we try. So, my dear, you may get your wish yet.”
“I see,” she said, bristling with dislike at the manner in which he referred to her as “my dear.” She’d never been his “dear” anything. Not even when they were almost betrothed.
She eyed him cautiously. “And what brings you here to Drennan Castle, Viscount? Are you known to the earl? Old school chums? Perhaps comrades dating as far back as boyhood days?” She doubted the earl would have developed, even at such a tender age, a friendly alliance with this overbearing bore. He had better taste than that.
“The new earl and I are not acquainted,” Linley answered, moving as close to her as he could without actually touching her. He invaded her personal space, his eyes staring impudently down into the low neckline of her frilled bodice.
“Faith, you ought to be flattered, my dear,” he whispered into her ear, so close to her she could smell the foulness of his brandied breath.
She wrinkled her nose. He’d obviously taken the liberty of helping himself to the earl’s liquor decanter while he waited. His fake courage was evident in his overly familiar manners towards her.
“I came here expressly to see you, Lady Beatrice.”
She felt her skin crawl, dreading what he would reveal next.
“Indeed. How, uh, delightful,” she lied, flicking her fan open, using the silk screen as a barrier between them. The mantle clock ticked, the only sound in the semi-dark room as she waited for him to continue his revelations.
By the holy rood, she fumed inwardly. The viscount always did enjoy the dramatic. His cat and mouse games had always been one of his more vexing characteristics. One she had found utterly detestable. It was as if he took a certain joy in discomforting others.
She took a deep breath. All she needed was to be patient. Eventually, the pompous cad would tell her what had really brought him here. She waved her fan back and forth, an outlet for her nervous energy.
The mantle clock continued its rhythmic ticking till he at last complied.
“Mother wrote to me, urging me to pay you a visit. She says that you’ve changed,” he said, a boyish tone of devotion in his voice when he spoke of his mother.
“Did she now?” echoed Beatrice in mock surprise. “And I always thought your dear mama disliked me so. I do believe she once even called me a . . .” She changed her voice and manner to match that of the large, haughty countess. “‘A common, sheep-shearing shrew,’ among several other equally unflattering phrases.”
She stopped and shrugged. All of that horrid exchange was in her past. As far as she was concerned, it was never to be relived.
“But, Viscount, you didn’t come all the way to Ireland to tell me th
at your dear mama believes I’ve changed. I refuse to believe it if you did. She and I were always on the verge of scratching each other’s eyes out, as you well know.”
“Lady Beatrice, you misunderstand,” he said taking her hand into his own. His voice was firm with the high-handed manners of one born with a silver spoon in his tiny clenched fists.
“I’ve come back to fetch my bride. She who was deprived of me when I loyally enlisted in his Royal Highness’s guard. And here she is miraculously waiting for me, still unwed, and eager for my touch. Is that not so, my dear?”
“It most certainly is not,” she said, glaring at him with dislike, an angry smile on her lips. “Perhaps, Viscount, you’ve heard of the legend that tells of when Saint Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland and put a curse on all the other lowly reptiles here, as well.”
She eyed him meaningfully as if he were one of the unwanted low life that had unexpectedly crawled out from under a rock. “If I were you, I’d make haste and rejoin my regiment. Before you catch some terrible wasting sickness,” she advised with pointed loathing.
He waved a perfumed handkerchief languidly, as if to disregard the insult.
“I’m gratified to see that you’re not completely indifferent to me. Mayhap then I can hope we can come to some sort of understanding?” he asked, lightly grazing a finger along the line of her exposed shoulder blade.
She gritted her teeth at his touch. Why the devil did gentlemen always think they had the liberty to touch her? Couldn’t they use words to make their meaning known?
She shrugged his hand off, raising one dark eyebrow at him for his audacity. No one touched her unless she wished it. He knew it better than almost anyone. There had been numerous times in their previous acquaintance she had demonstrated that very well defined point.
“Long loneliness is better than bad company, Viscount,” she bit out. “And pray do not forget, sir, ’twas you who left and broke our engagement, not I.”