The Chocolate Debutante

by M C Beaton

  “Why? Pray tell me.”

  “Your title and your fortune.”

  “A sore wound, Miss Tremayne. You are supposed to say because of my striking looks.”

  She gave a little sigh. “It is a wicked and mercenary world we live in. Despite her beauty, little Susan would be hard put to find suitors if she lacked a dowry.”

  “She is so very beautiful, I think someone would want to marry her even if she had no fortune at all.”

  “If they can find her awake enough to propose.”

  “It would be a simple matter. A box of the very best chocolates and little Miss Susan would fall into anybody’s arms.”

  “Oh, dear. Perhaps you can tell me which gentlemen are to be at the Season that she should be protected against… apart from you yourself.”

  “Now, why should Miss Colville be protected from me?”

  “She is very young and… and… pure and you keep a mistress.”

  His face darkened. “The day becomes chilly,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  Harriet bit her lip, wondering what had possessed her to make such a disgraceful remark. If Susan were to be kept from all the men in London who kept mistresses or visited whores, then she would have very few to choose from.

  They drove in silence to Hyde Park toll, where they joined a queue of carriages. A smart little curricle lined with quilted white silk drew alongside. It was driven by a buxom brunette with dark, liquid eyes. She was dressed in the first stare of fashion.

  “Dangerfield,” she called. “Where have you been? I have not seen you this age.”

  He bowed and said, “I will call on you presently,” and then the carriages moved on.

  “You did not introduce me,” said Harriet in a small voice.

  “Naturally not,” he remarked in an icy voice.

  Harriet felt very low. She was sure the stylish lady was the earl’s mistress.

  Harriet found Bertha waiting for her in the drawing room. “What is this, you sly puss?” cried Bertha. “I have just heard from London’s greatest gossip that you were seen this day being driven by Dangerfield and that he seemed very happy in your company.”

  Sighing, and untying the strings of her bonnet, Harriet said wearily, “Lord Dangerfield is cultivating my company with a view to courting Susan.”

  “Oh, tish and fiddlesticks. He would have been so suitable for you. Is it not lowering when a man like Dangerfield waits this age to get married and then falls for some milk-and-water miss?”

  “Well, as you first pointed out to me, men of Dangerfield’s age are marriageable, women of my age are not.”

  “But you are so changed, so modish! Oh, it is all too bad.”

  “Does… does Dangerfield have a mistress? Did you not say so? When we were making that call on the Marchioness of Trowbridge, I believe she said something to that effect.”

  “He has a liaison with Mrs. Verity Palfrey. Do you know her?”

  Harriet looked startled. “Why should I know such a creature?”

  “She is very good ton. In fact, she was considered highly respectable at one time. Palfrey was considerably older than she. Very rich. He died of an apoplexy. Up till then, she had seemed such a quiet creature, but then she began to appear everywhere in rather shocking gowns—damped muslin, my dear—Roman sandals, and toenails stained with cochineal. Do you know Sir Thomas Jeynes?”

  “No.”

  “She had a passionate affair with him, and then two years ago she switched to Dangerfield. You have been out of the world for too long. ’Twas a monstrous scandal. Jeynes challenged Dangerfield to a duel, pistols in Hyde Park at dawn. Dangerfield is a first-class shot and merely winged him in the arm. The seconds said he could easily have killed him.”

  “Oh,” said Harriet in a little voice. She could never in her wildest fantasies imagine two men fighting over her.

  “So how goes the fair Susan?”

  “As usual. Which means I am increasingly worried about her. Young Courtney came to call with his mother, eminently suitable, and she was nowhere to be found. Then Dangerfield called and wagered me he could find her. Can you believe this, Bertha? Susan was fast asleep on a shelf of the press in her room with her thumb in her mouth. She had been eating chocolates again.”

  Bertha looked shrewdly at Harriet. “And what was the wager?”

  “That I would save the supper dance for him at the Trowbridge ball.”

  “And then he took you driving for all the world to see! Hardly the behavior of a man who is enamored of your niece.”

  “He told me,” said Harriet, “that he wanted to get into my good books with a view to courting Susan.”

  “And that’s exactly what he said?”

  “I cannot remember the exact words, but that is the sum and substance of them.”

  “And what do you feel about Dangerfield for your niece, now that you know him better?”

  “I do not think him at all suitable.”

  Bertha looked down and played with the sticks of her fan. “Now, why did I think you would say that?”

  Chapter Four

  Harriet waited uneasily in the drawing room for Susan to make an appearance. They were about to set off for the Trowbridge ball. Harriet was wearing a dark green silk gown of a modish cut. She felt uneasily that the neckline was a trifle too low, but the dressmaker had said it was the latest fashion. On her head was the new diamond tiara and she had a fine diamond necklace about her neck. Her gloves were of lighter green kid, as were her little dancing slippers. She had fretted over the great question of whether to paint or not to paint. How many times had she and her friends jeered at society women who smeared their faces like savages. But the realization that her cheeks were a trifle pale had made her apply a little rouge, although with a guilty feeling that she was betraying some important cause. She worried, too, that she had wasted too much time, effort, and money on bedecking herself. All eyes would be on Susan and she would have to content herself with sitting with the other chaperones and mothers against the wall. But Lord Dangerfield had said he would take her up for the supper dance.

  When Susan walked into the room followed by Harriet’s lady’s maid, Harriet thought that once the gentlemen in the room saw Susan, her own existence would be forgotten.

  Susan was wearing a thin white muslin gown with little puffed sleeves, a low neckline, and flounces of muslin that frothed around her ankles like white foam. A coronet of silver roses ornamented her hair, and she wore a white overdress of silver-spangled gauze. Her only ornament was a thin string of seed pearls about her neck. Her wide blue eyes shone and her complexion, despite a constant diet of sweetmeats, was flawless.

  Mr. Charles Courtney was to escort them, and when he entered the room shortly after Susan and Harriet saw the way he gazed adoringly at the girl, she felt a surge of triumph. With any luck, young Courtney would propose quite soon, and then all her worries would be over.

  So this, then, thought Harriet, would be her own first London ball. For the very first time she felt a little nagging pang that she was so old. Her very fear of marriage had made her miss a lot of fun, she thought wistfully.

  But what was the alternative? The chattel of some man and years and years of childbearing.

  As she walked up the red Turkey carpeted stairs to the ballroom at the Marchioness of Trowbridge’s Grosvenor Square home, Harriet glanced at Susan beside her and felt a rush of sheer pride. The girl was exquisite.

  There were many in the crowded ballroom who had heard of Susan but not yet seen her. Everyone simply stared, quite openly, many fumbling for their quizzing glasses to get a better look.

  Charles Courtney led Susan into the first dance and Harriet found a seat behind some potted palms. Through the leaves she could catch glimpses of Susan and yet be partially screened and not feel obliged to make conversation. She was very surprised to find a young captain, therefore, bowing before her and asking her to dance. Feeling slightly startled, she accepted and joined a set for the quadrille j
ust as the dance started. Harriet had been taught by an excellent dancing master but at first was frightened she might have forgotten the steps. However, she performed very well and found she was enjoying herself. The captain, when they were promenading after the dance, introduced himself as Captain Preston and, to Harriet’s surprise, escorted her back to her chair and went to fetch her a glass of lemonade. He had returned with it and one for himself and was drawing forward a chair to sit down next to Harriet, when Lord Dangerfield walked into the ballroom.

  His eyes rested curiously on Harriet and her young gallant, and then he was lost to her view.

  “You are the aunt of Miss Colville, London’s latest beauty, are you not?” asked the captain.

  “Yes,” said Harriet with a sympathetic smile. She felt perfectly sure this captain was cultivating her company with a view to getting to know Susan. “I am very proud of her. She looks very well.”

  Captain Preston’s eyes rested on Harriet’s face. “Such dazzlers make me feel uncomfortable. I would rather sit here with you and drink a toast to your beautiful emerald eyes.”

  “Sir, you flatter me.”

  “I tell only the truth. But I am not going to enjoy your company for very much longer. Here comes Lord Moulton.”

  To Harriet’s increasing bewilderment, she was led off to dance the waltz by Lord Moulton, who she judged to be also much younger than herself. He was a tall, gangly young man, quite shy, who blushed furiously when he put his hand at her waist, and so Harriet, who had never danced the waltz with anyone but her dancing master, felt suddenly happy and confident. She could not believe she was actually dancing and having fun. She wondered who Susan’s current partner was. He was a dark-haired, swarthy man with wolfish good looks and he seemed to be keeping Susan well amused.

  “Who is that man dancing with Miss Colville, my niece?” she asked Lord Moulton.

  “Miss Colville is the beauty?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is Sir Thomas Jeynes.”

  Dangerfield’s rival for the charms of Mrs. Palfrey!

  “Is Mrs. Palfrey here?”

  “You heard that old scandal? No. Mrs. Palfrey is invited some places but not here, for the Trowbridges are very high sticklers.”

  At the end of the dance Lord Moulton asked if he might have the honor of the supper dance. Harriet hesitated a little. Perhaps Lord Dangerfield might have forgotten his invitation. But then she said, “No, I regret I cannot. I have already promised that dance to Lord Dangerfield.”

  He bowed. “Perhaps we shall have another dance? And may I call on you?”

  “Gladly,” said Harriet. He must be interested in Susan, of course. No sooner had he left than a middle-aged colonel solicited her hand for the next dance. Harriet was gratified but bewildered. With the exception of that supper dance, she had not expected to dance at all.

  And then finally the supper dance was announced. For a few dreadful moments she thought the earl had forgotten, but suddenly he was at her side, smiling down at her and saying, “I claim my wager, Miss Tremayne.”

  After they had performed the cotillion, he led her into the supper room. Susan, Harriet noticed, was being partnered by Charles Courtney. Nothing to worry about there.

  “I believe,” said Lord Dangerfield, pulling out a chair for her, “that you truly did not expect to be a success yourself.”

  “Most of my partners have been quite young,” said Harriet. “They all want to call, no doubt, to get to know Susan better.”

  “Can you really underrate yourself so much? Did you not notice that few of your partners solicited Miss Colville for a dance?”

  “Yes, but that is because they cannot get near her. I notice you yourself have not managed to secure a dance with her.”

  “I did not even try,” he said, his eyes dancing. “I prefer to admire Griselda from afar.”

  “When did Griselda, your Griselda, die?”

  “What on earth gave you the idea she was dead?”

  “When I pointed out to you that you were pining over a dead girl, you did not correct me.”

  “Ah, that is because she is dead to me.”

  “But she is not dead?”

  “No, she married a worthy squire and has ten children.”

  “Ten!”

  “It is not unusual.”

  “And has all this childbearing marred her looks?”

  “Sadly. She is very fat and quite weatherbeaten.”

  “Why weatherbeaten?”

  “She lives on the Yorkshire moors. Everyone who lives on the Yorkshire moors becomes weatherbeaten.”

  “My lord, I have a sudden feeling that you are lying to me, that this Griselda is a figment of your imagination.”

  He drew a small miniature out of his pocket. “Cruel Miss Tremayne! There is my Griselda.”

  Harriet studied the miniature. A beautiful girl, very like Susan, and wearing a blue gown, smiled up at her.

  “Why did she turn you down in favor of a mere squire?”

  “Alas, I was sent to the wars with my regiment, and when I returned, she was already married.”

  “And Susan reminds you of her?” asked Harriet nervously.

  “To a certain extent. But my Griselda did not have Miss Colville’s amazing capacity for chocolates. But enough of my love life. What of yours?”

  “Mine? My lord, I am a lady of independent means who has foresworn that side of life.”

  “That I cannot believe.” His gaze fell to the whiteness of her breasts exposed by the low neckline of her gown. “That stylish gown of yours is the envy of every lady, particularly the poor debutantes who are forced to wear white.”

  “Ah, but it was designed for me by the dressmaker with the help of Lady Dancer.”

  “But you wear your new clothes with ease. Confess, unbend a little, you are enjoying frivolous society.”

  Harriet gave a reluctant laugh. “Yes, I am.”

  “And you will enjoy it even more if you eat something.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments.

  Then Harriet said, “I note that Sir Thomas Jeynes danced with Susan.”

  “You have been listening to scandal.”

  “And when we were at Hyde Park toll yesterday, was that…?”

  “Miss Tremayne, I would much rather talk about us.”

  “But what is there to talk about?”

  He sighed sentimentally and put his hand on his heart with a theatrical gesture. “We have built up memories, you and I. There is the meal we shared at the inn, the books we read, tea in the garden in Chelsea. Do you not feel us drawing closer together?”

  “My lord,” said Harriet, her color high, “I am unaccustomed to flirtation, and you are embarrassing me.”

  “I am not flirting. I tell only the truth, and concentrate on me and stop peering down the table at Miss Colville. She is safe with Courtney.”

  Susan had eaten a hearty meal and was enjoying a floating island pudding. But her beautiful eyes were fixed on a centerpiece. It was made of toffee, marzipan, and spun sugar. It was King Arthur’s castle, complete with the knights of the round table and Queen Guinevere. The candlelight shone on the purity of the sugar. Susan’s mouth watered. “When do they serve that?” she said, and it was as well that Harriet’s attention was being engaged by Lord Dangerfield, for Susan rudely pointed at the centerpiece with her fork.

  Charles Courtney laughed. “I have never known the Trowbridges to serve any of their famous centerpieces. It is my belief that they do not like to ruin it. It is there only for show.”

  Susan pouted. “I want some.”

  Charles blushed. He signaled to a footman and whispered, “The young lady wishes some of the centerpiece.”

  The footman bowed and moved away. Susan gave Charles such a radiant smile that he felt he could die for her. But when the footman returned and murmured that the centerpiece was only for show, Charles felt miserable. “I am afraid that’s that,” he said to Susan. “I am so sorry.”

&n
bsp; “I think it’s silly,” said Susan moodily. “It’s all made of sweet things, and what’s the point of it if it cannot be eaten? Why does she not just have it made of plaster of Paris?”

  “I do not know,” said Charles miserably, wishing he had the courage to stand up, walk over to the creation, and cut a piece of it. And just a moment before, he had been sure he could die for her, and yet he could not stand up to his hostess over a confection.