Shenanigans in Berkeley Square
by Vivian Roycroft
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
SHENANIGANS IN BERKELEY SQUARE
Copyright © 2014 VIVIAN ROYCROFT
ISBN 978-1-62135-336-2
Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGNS STUDIO
To the usual suspects. You know who you are.
Yeah, you. Now smile.
Other Regencies by Vivian Roycroft from Astraea Press
A Different Sort of Perfect
.
The Scoundrel of Mayfair series:
Scandal on Half Moon Street
Mischief on Albemarle
Chapter One
Thursday, October 14, 1813
Strong sunlight poured between the pretentious columns fronting the Olympic Pavilion. Beneath the portico moved shadows not cast by the neoclassical architecture, shadows of completely the wrong shapes and sizes; and, when His Grace approached to a sufficient proximity, shadows creating noises both indiscreet and inappropriate for a public street. A flash of copper curls and a clashing maroon sleeve caught his eye, and surely only one couple in all of Mayfair would dare sport such an unfortunate combination of colors. Deliberately he clumped on the pavement, announcing his presence. The shadows whipped behind their sheltering column and the salacious noises ceased.
But as he passed, a calculated glance back proved his theory correct. Mrs. Beryl Fitzwilliam, née Wentworth, stood on her tiptoes and peered over her new husband’s shoulder. The Duke of Cumberland, His Grace, Ernst Anton Oldenburg, gave her a victorious grin; her bewitching green eyes lit with glee and she wrinkled her nose at him. Satisfied, he resumed his more usual manner of walking and continued on his way, permitting them to resume — well. Perhaps better not to pursue that thought.
Enchanting Beryl’s adventure was complete, her dreams now reality.
Leaving him free to acquire a new target.
Who unknowingly awaited his tender attentions within Trent’s coffee house, beyond the Temple Bar on Fleet Street, where he’d first laid siege to delicious Anne Kirkhoven, now Mrs. Frederick Shaw, a woman delighted with her husband’s literary success and essaying upon a few attempts of her own.
As His Grace crossed the coffee house’s threshold into its shadowy, happy clutter, a hush descended upon the crowded patrons, heads swiveling in tribute to his entrance. He’d long ago become accustomed to such moments and let his lips curl into a rogue’s smile in greeting, doffing his beaver, tucking it beneath his elbow, and tugging off his gloves.
There they sat, at a table near the yellow-curtained casement windows, three elegant gentlemen of the ton staring at his entrance. They all wore similar expressions of eyebrow-arching recognition, although George Anson’s little smile seemed tinged with a certain amount of relief, as well. Whatever topic they had under discussion, perhaps it was more beyond his reach than usual. Not that Anson was stupid, not at all; merely limited in his understanding of deeper subjects, such as anything beyond Goodwood, sporting life, and Gentleman Jackson’s saloon on Bond Street.
But his manners remained impeccable. “Well met, your grace. Won’t you join us?”
“It would be entirely my pleasure, Mr. Anson. Thank you.”
Surprise joined Anson’s relief. Well, if the subject was that deep, the invitation might be his first contribution to the discussion since sitting down.
They made room for him, Henry Culver and Kenneth Rainier scooting their chairs to the sides. Round-faced Trent brought a steaming pot and matching cup — his best, the ivory with blue and white flowers — sans any cream or sugar; only lesser mortals doctored Trent’s invigorating brew. Preparations complete, His Grace leaned back, cradling the cup, and inhaled the coffee’s essence. The aroma alone was sufficient to wake half the ton at dawn and keep them that way for days.
Deliberately, and with malice aforethought, His Grace stared even more pointedly than normal at Miss Coralie Busche, who hid in the shadows beside the dark paneling.
The chair she adorned angled away from the gentlemen, her shoulder half-turned and her attention supposedly reserved for her amiably mature and still lovely companion, the widowed Mrs. Lacey, who sat across from her at their little table. A plain bone china tea set cluttered the tabletop between them, stray sunbeams flashing through the windows and glancing off the highly polished white surfaces as if from a looking glass. Her beautiful hair glowed amber where it peeked from beneath her rose-bedecked bonnet, and the light touched her smooth cheek and jaw line, setting her off against the dark paneling like a portrait from a background. If indeed their likeness were taken, elegant Coralie and dear Mrs. Lacey, the completed picture would be one of grace and beauty. Most definitely beauty.
“Maybe your grace will support my poor argument here.” Rainier poured the last tea into his cup and pushed the pot to the table’s center. Of the three gentlemen, only he seemed relaxed, as if enjoying the discussion. Thick brown hair waved extravagantly around his temples, his narrow chin forming the rounded bottom point of an upside-down triangle, and his grey-blue eyes lit with intensity. The green swallowtail coat fit him perfectly, a tribute to his tailor. “Romeo and Juliet—”
Culver shook his head hard and cut in. “—were young and silly. Love at first sight is manifestly impossible, love on short acquaintance hardly less so, and both bloodshed and self-murder are ridiculous responses to a momentary attraction.” In contrast to Rainier’s relaxation, Culver’s shoulders were hunched and tense. Not a discussion, then, but a debate, and Culver’s distaste for all forms of competition was well known.
“—is one of the greatest poetic and dramatic works ever composed.” Rainier amiably awaited his opponent’s pause for breath before continuing as if he’d not been interrupted. “The irrationality of their behavior is beside the point, if irrationality it can honestly be called. How can one impose time constraints upon affection? And what could be greater than dying for love?”
As if you really understood the glorious sentiments you spout. His Grace managed to suppress an eye roll. Over the last four months he’d conversed repeatedly with Rainier, observed him from a surreptitious distance, and gained a strong sense of the young man’s perspective on life. Those blithe words didn’t reflect Rainier’s honest thoughts, but rather a typical diatribe from an adherent of the Romantic philosophy, young and idealistic intellectuals who refused to follow the sensible but bland Rationalism of their parents. Instead of commonsensical answers to life’s difficult questions, Romantics preferred to give free rein to their feelings and desires — dramatic blasted heaths instead of peaceful and productive farmland, so to speak. Unfortunately, too many Romantics, perhaps not yet mature enough to appreciate the necessity of balance, locked away their rationality to such a degree that they said things they neither understood nor truly believed.
And clearly the two arguing gentlemen had been at the topic for a while and their partisan positions were cast. A typical day at the coffee house, then.
His Grace gave them a thin smile. “Mr. Culver, you are no Romantic. Sir Walter Scott would be profoundly disappointed with you.” Not that I would be. And he settled back with his
coffee as Rainier, smiling and satisfied as if he’d gained the point, resumed his arguments.
After a further moment’s indiscreet observation, it became clear that the word beautiful didn’t do credit to Coralie Busche. When she angled her face toward the window’s sunlight, her smoldering dark eyes glowed like the flame on a candle, flared like the blaze of a torch. Blond tendrils curled beside her jaw line, stunning against her rosy cheek, and drifted across her demure white pelisse’s shoulders, over the collar of her primrose yellow gown. Even sitting, even with her shoulder half-turned, her alluring feminine curves could not be missed and should be enough to turn any gentleman’s blood into fire. Classical gentility and natural elegance radiated from her posture and movements as she settled her cup in its saucer and leaned forward, reaching for the teapot.
Not a motion, not a flicker betrayed any concern on her part for the gentlemen at the next table, even as their debate continued. But within her very stillness lay the evidence giving her away. A gentle tension radiating from her hands as she fiddled with her cup, the lack of focus in her dreamy gaze as she sipped, all testified to her blatant and subtle eavesdropping.
How those young men carried on. And not one of them even noticed the flame sitting close enough to scorch.
“One would never expect us to wear the peacock colors and brocades of our grandfathers—” While His Grace had been distracted, Rainier’s part of the argument had twisted and followed an interesting fork in the verbal road. The poor star-crossed lovers, it seemed, had been left behind.
Beyond Rainier’s oblivious shoulder, Coralie’s chin dipped in a nod.
George Anson sniffed. “One would hope not.”
Give Anson credit: within his limited boundaries, he at least knew how to dress well. His studious air and crinkled brow gave every indication of fascination with the debate, but his glassy stare betrayed him. Not that anyone conversant with his company would have believed Anson was actually following the two gentlemen’s convoluted verbal path, although quite possibly he could. For his part, His Grace had never been convinced of Anson’s hopelessness.
The tension within Coralie’s shoulders tightened; the soft line of her jaw hardened, visible beyond the delicate blond wisps caressing her cheek. She’d become aware of His Grace’s attention and liked it not. Yet no maidenly blush touched her face, nor did her natural rosy hue fade to alabaster. No confusion or fear from Miss Coralie Busche at the all-too-direct approach of a degenerate rake. Merely irritation, and perhaps that was all his alter ego deserved.
Perhaps.
Rainier nodded, conceding Anson’s point. “But dressing according to our always-changing fashions is no more than an outward manifestation of good taste — evidence of its presence, if you will. The virtue of good taste, the substance of it, doesn’t alter or change, any more than Shakespeare’s ideal of love and its timelessness. Good taste merely is.”
Parry and riposte; their arguments whirled unabated. His Grace allowed their words to flow around him as he concentrated on Coralie. Her tension hadn’t eased during his moment of distraction. Indeed, she’d shifted in her seat, presenting him with a better view of her shoulder and the spray of yellow roses decorating her bonnet. Quite lovely, both of them, and excellent examples of the virtuous good fashion Rainier argued.
Perhaps someday they’d return to Romeo and Juliet.
Not once since His Grace had entered the coffee house had Coralie even glanced at Kenneth Rainier. But she’d positioned herself just so at every event the three of them had attended for the previous four months. It seemed that, if she couldn’t hold Rainier’s attention herself, she’d be content with merely hearing his words; or as if his words, his conversation, his spoken thoughts, were more important than his visual presentation.
As if she were utterly fascinated by him. Him — his understanding, his tastes, manners, behaviors, beliefs. By the elements that made up the man, apart from the physical.
If Coralie had been hanging on Rainier’s words for four months, and if nothing he’d yet said had caused her to disregard him or cease her indirect pursuit, then the dear young lady was well and truly smitten. Unfortunately, that meant she understood the difficult practicalities of love no more than Rainier. If love were to be more than a fancy or a feeling, if it would become that immortal truth of which the poet spoke, then both of these hapless Romantics needed lessons in reality.
And may the angels rain mercy upon her soul.
For all his engagement in the debate, it was Culver whose expression first sharpened, who first turned and traced His Grace’s stare to its subject. After a moment Culver turned back around with a smile.
No. Not accurate. With a smirk. For ages Culver had longed to be perceived as a rake. Fortunately, he lacked the fortitude for the rôle. Otherwise, he’d make rakes as a class look sad.
Anson, despite his lack of involvement, or perhaps because of it, was the second of the young gentlemen to turn in Coralie’s direction. Rainier was last. But finally, after the most déclassé display of unmannerly attention of which His Grace was capable — and that was saying something — finally, Kenneth Rainier glanced aside and took notice of the glorious beauty hiding in his shadow.
And the game was on.
* * * *
Coralie angled her teacup, the simple, undecorated white one she preferred. If shifted properly to the light, it showed the next table’s occupants in miniature below the rim, adding a visual element to the overheard discourse. At this afternoon hour the window’s sunlight didn’t stretch as far as the dark paneling, leaving the little cup and its miniature reflected stage the natural subject for her attention. She could only be grateful the gentlemen at the next table had never figured it out.
Beyond Mr. Rainier’s splendid profile, the Duke of Cumberland’s stare bored into her and refused to shift. Coralie fought to maintain her relaxed composure. Surely no tell-tale emotion or passing thought had shown in her stance or behavior and given her absorption away. Could he even see her face? Surely not.
“The Platonic ideals, yes.” The miniature of Mr. Culver replaced his cup in its saucer and pushed both aside. “But what purpose does good taste serve?”
Mr. Rainier flicked his fingers, an economical and dismissive gesture, elegant brevity in motion and a standard to be copied. “What purpose does a rocky promontory serve? It is, and that’s sufficient. However, if one must assign a purpose to all things, then taste, a proper understanding of fashion and poetry and all the other trappings of a cultured life — taste can be used in the same way as manners, as a measurement for breeding. Because one cannot find good taste without also finding good breeding, nor vice versâ.”
Even in miniature, it was impossible to miss the way the duke’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Rainier, your argument seems to equate the appearance of good breeding with its actual being.”
“Naturally.” Mr. Rainier’s smile could only be described as serene, and with her shoulder more fully turned away from their view, Coralie permitted herself an answering smile. “Is the existence of good taste more important than its usage? In this instance, can there be a difference between appearance and reality?”
Coralie pursed her lips. It was an interesting thought. Could a person without inherent elegance put on fashionable attire, behave in a cultured manner, and change himself?
The duke set down his cup. “Ancient Athenian gentlemen smile upon your reasoning no longer, Mr. Rainier.”
A handsome man, the Duke of Cumberland, even reduced to a tiny image on the side of her teacup. And splendidly dressed, his claret-colored cutaway coat emphasizing his athletic shoulders and trim waist. But perhaps he didn’t know as much as her excellent Mr. Rainier regarding breeding and taste—
That duke.
He was staring at her again, as if she were someone important, someone mesmerizing. Someone for whom he could cheerfully ignore the entire discussion, even whilst taking part in it.
While she’d prefer to ignore him and liste
n.
She shifted her cup away as Mr. Culver twisted again in his seat. Their gazes met in the teacup’s reflection. Coralie glanced aside — and ran into Mr. Anson’s stare as he turned, too. Drat them all. There didn’t seem to be anywhere she could look without meeting someone’s gaze. Even sweet Mrs. Lacey, sipping her white tea with a gentle, knowing smile, watched Coralie with silently lifted eyebrows.
Vexing man, that duke, for interfering with her enjoyment. Inelegant, despite his attire, which perhaps gave the lie to Mr. Rainier’s argument. Perhaps the duke’s quite impressive standard of dress didn’t testify to manners or breeding; perhaps the evidence didn’t hold, in the case of a rake.
For rake he surely must be. Staring at her in such a forward and indelicate manner — how could he dare? And vexing didn’t begin to describe his interference. She’d managed to keep her stealthy observations unnoticed for months. But finally it was coming to an end.
For Mr. Rainier, her excellent Mr. Rainier, turned once again and looked in her direction.
Coralie couldn’t help it. Without her permission, her gaze left the white teacup’s looking glass, strayed over her shoulder, and meshed with Mr. Rainier’s distracted glance her way. His eyes were dark grey-blue, the color of the sky beneath storm clouds; his hair, the hue of old supple leather, waved about his face in crisp, fluid lines. Heavy eyelids lent a sultry edge to his face, and his lips were surprisingly lush, surprisingly attractive. The face of a dramatist, sensitive and strong, as he poured forth words on the state of the human heart; the face of a Romantic artist as he stared into a mirror, sketching a self-portrait.
The face she’d see in her dreams for the rest of her life.
It was the first time Coralie had ever held his gaze, the first time he’d ever noticed her, and so the first time she’d ever experienced the full power of his focused intensity. The heat in her face, already uncomfortable since the duke had fastened his attention upon her, redoubled until she thought she’d burst into flames. Her blood rushed through her at breakheart speed. Mr. Rainier’s passionate glance, almost a physical force of nature, stroked across her skin.
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