Shenanigans in Berkeley Square

by Vivian Roycroft

  A glance about the parlor hadn’t located her. Nor had she removed to the card room. The shock had boiled into rage at Hortense’s spiteful manipulation, and then into self-anger. He’d never before let himself respond to Hortense’s prodding, so of course the first time he did, it would be in front of Miss Busche, and just as he’d realized the enormous depth of his awkward emotions. Not at the refreshment tables, nor among the sitting room’s conversational groupings. Anger faded to worry. Not in the study, and beyond stretched the darkened family rooms, not exactly closed to company but obviously not lit and welcoming, either. For a single moment, blinding panic had eaten him alive; her sensitive soul had seen beneath his striving. She’d realized he wasn’t the paragon of pure elegance she deserved.

  And she’d left.

  He’d lost her, literally and figuratively.

  The Maynards’ darkened hallway faded into memory and his library reformed around him. Boredom was impossible within this room, he’d claimed. If that were true, then surely one of his expensive books should speak to his soul in this, the most defining moment his soul had ever known. Dante, perhaps, with his broiling netherworldian circles. But when he reached out his hand, plucked a book at random from the closest shelf, the leather on its spine shone with an orange cast in the candle flames. He let it fall open in his hands. Not literature, but drama and poetry. Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, and a fearful wonder shook him at the coincidence.

  The balcony scene — and sudden understanding cut through the strangeness. It was the play he’d last been reading. His hand had automatically reached for that particular book and it had merely fallen open to the slip of ribbon marking his place. Nothing wondrous, strange, or fey about it, but perfectly ordinary.

  And yet his soul twisted. Even under such mundane circumstances, the play’s scene was horribly apropos. The most heartbreakingly elegant interweaving of undying love between two star-crossed lovers — and it fell into his hand the night his charade died.

  It seemed so clear to him now that he’d been pretending all those years. Pretending to be elegant, superior, discerning, a standard of taste and decorum.

  He was a fraud.

  Rainier crossed to the decanter. The flickering firelight cast dancing amber patterns across the cut glass’s facets, beautiful and usually mesmerizing. But not tonight. Tonight it seemed as cold, distant, uncaring as the rest of his pretended world.

  The brandy burned going down. But it didn’t soothe him. Instead it left his torn edges as raw and wounded as before.

  Because it didn’t matter how he felt nor how silent his study seemed. What mattered was Miss Busche — beautiful, naturally elegant, refined, sensitive Miss Busche. In his inexperience with handling happy, giddy emotions, he’d forgotten himself and allowed his anger at Hortense to show. Then he’d walked away, obviously to take his sister to task. He’d been rude. Worse, he’d been gauche.

  Just like Hortense and Lucia. He’d followed Hortense’s example, her influence. And he’d done it to the most important person he knew.

  His intended wife.

  And his intended wife was a human being, with desires and hopes and feelings of her own. Not an item to be collected. Not something inanimate that stood upon a shelf until he had need of her. But a person in her own right, deserving of consideration and his best manners.

  A William Dobson three-quarter portrait peered down at him from above the little table. Charles II, when Prince of Wales, and the young boy’s dark brown eyes, puffy and cynical, seemed twisted in the flickering light into a knowing leer. Oh, yes, you blackguard, you had a chance with a truly beautiful woman. And you blew it, as you’ve blown everything else of importance in your life.

  Cold words. But they only existed in his mind. The portrait didn’t speak to him. Nor did the white marble sculptures interspersed amongst the colorful books. They stared at him, indifferent, silent. He’d find no absorbing conversations there, no scintillating wit. Nor would they sing for him. Nor dance with him, a gentle pressure of fingers against his, touching then withdrawing, enticing and delicious.

  Perhaps this was mere loneliness, in which case it would pass. But that didn’t seem likely. Rainier swallowed more brandy. No, he grieved — for what might have been. For Miss Busche, her hurt feelings, their strained relationship. Was it unmendable? The silence folded more deeply around him, burying him in humiliation. There had to be some action he could take to repair the breach, recover her sparkling esteem for him.

  How had he fallen so deeply in love, so quickly, so painlessly? She was very unusual. Not at all like manipulative Hortense or cynical Lucia. Miss Busch was a woman with real, soul-level elegance and taste.

  No, she defined taste. Just as she’d defined the fashion in ladies’ gowns for the winter. She embodied true elegance, more than he ever would.

  Yes. There had to be something he could do.

  Rainier turned his back on his collected books and art, their cold silent stares and empty promises. He settled into a chair beneath the candlelight, beside the fire, the half-empty glass of brandy on the table beside him and the book open on his lap. The balcony scene. Surely in a tale so poignant, he’d find a few pointers.

  * * * *

  The near wheel horse stamped and blew, tossing his head, as if impatient for his bedded stall and hay. In the carriage’s shadow, parked in the lantern-lit circle of Berkeley Square, His Grace shrugged off the footman’s livery coat and tossed it through the door onto the seat. When he considered the lovers’ little tempest, anger still chafed at him, rather like the ill-fitting coat had bound his shoulders. Such an occurrence, no calamity but merely an annoyance, should have been expected.

  But no, it had come as an unhappy surprise, and His Grace had only himself to blame. He’d been distracted by worries of the war, thoughts of home and of her, aroused into the forefront of his mind by those strange, seen-but-unseen glimpses of who-knew-what, and he’d not given his entire concentration to the game at hand. If he’d paid attention, if he’d more properly prepared sweet Coralie, as he’d prepared delicious Anne Kirkhoven…

  He sighed. He hadn’t, hadn’t emphasized the rôle of good breeding in understanding, tolerating, smoothing over the imperfections of others, a task that required both giving and receiving. Hadn’t even prepared her for the possibility of imperfection in Rainier, the focus of her interest. Of course she’d been startled and disconcerted when her supposed paragon’s cover had cracked and she’d seen his snarl. And of course Rainier was no paragon, barely an example of reasonable taste and studied manners, and he imperfectly understood the importance of the good breeding he sought to display.

  Fog swirled through Berkeley Square, between the blocks of town houses, drifting across the common central green and combing like spectral fingers through the looming trees’ few remaining leaves. A wet night, heavy and gloomy; perfect for his state of mind. All it needed was a ghost watching him from the mist—

  And there she stood.

  He blinked. She didn’t move. Ursula stared at him from across Berkeley Square. The hood of her old worn cape hid her face and the hemline dragged on the grass, curling around her feet. But his soul could not mistake the graceful stance, the soft line of her jaw peeking beneath the hood, the leaping, visceral tug that tried to haul him heart-first across the square.

  She’s here.

  He blinked again. She was gone.

  Ernst hauled in a deep breath, another. Something within him shook and his pulse pounded as if he’d run for miles.

  And reality returned. Ursula could not possibly have stood there. The woman he loved was in Saxony and she lived there, weathering an occupying army, surviving — his heart demanded it — Napoleon’s atrocities in safety. She could not be in London.

  Unless he’d seen her ghost.

  Which was ridiculous, of course. Such superstitions had no place in the mind of an educated, scientific, modern man. He wasn’t a peasant, dreading the approach of All Hallow’s Eve and shaki
ng in the Brocken’s shadow. He worshipped rationally in his parish church — which still seemed a shabby way to refer to such a breathtaking structure as St. James’s, Piccadilly — and there was nothing nonsensical about him.

  But still… his skin prickled. He’d seen something. No, he’d seen someone. And if it hadn’t been Ursula, if his heart truly could be fooled in such a dismaying manner, then it had been her doppelgänger.

  Or her ghost.

  A chill traced up his spine, those spectral fingers reaching from beyond the grave and through his linen shirt — maybe he should have left on the livery coat — no, not that. He’d have burst the shoulder seams if he’d worn it much longer.

  The humorous thought broke the spell. It had to have been his imagination, fevered, perhaps; warm mulled wine seemed in order, when he returned to St. James’s Square. Worries over Ursula, her family, his family, had tortured him until his twisted thoughts conjured her beloved form from the mists.

  It was not her ghost.

  It couldn’t have been.

  No, Coralie had been correct. The only one he truly wanted. The one he couldn’t have. He’d consider the event no further.

  A deep breath, and Ernst slid the practiced mask of His Grace back into place. He’d kept the horses standing and the coachman out in the wet, his own behavior leaving no room for him to criticize anyone else’s. He climbed into Lady Gower’s carriage, called to the coachman, and closed the door on the evening’s bedeviling fog.

  If only he could shut out his muddled thoughts as easily.

  If only he could calm his frantic, sorrowing heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday, October 29, 1813

  “Coralie.”

  The music stopped and fell away, and Coralie released her breath in a controlled sigh. Franklin’s presence invaded the music room, interrupting her practice again, just as he’d done a week ago. But this time, his voice forced a sharpness into her unadorned name, something hard and preemptive, that didn’t foretell happy joshing, and a prickly foreboding filled her.

  Mrs. Lacey’s fumbling hands tried to still the harp strings, the liquid notes stuttering to humming then silence, and Coralie shook off the music’s spell. Franklin stood in the doorway, weak morning sunlight spilling across the carpet to his shoes and leaving his face in gloom. His fisted hand held something at his side in a crumpled ball, an unlovely mixture of cream and grey. Newspapers?

  He leaned toward her, accusation and anger in his stance, and her heart began beating faster. She tried to swallow an attack of nerves, but they refused to vanish. “Good morning, Franklin. Is something wrong?”

  “Is it true?”

  She swallowed again. She had no reason to be afraid, and yet she was. “Is what true?”

  “Is it true?” His voice cracked like a coach whip.

  One whispered note jarred the hush, off-key and trembling. Behind the harp, Mrs. Lacey pressed her hands against the strings, stilling them. But her hands continued to shake, drawing another forlorn note, and she released the strings, kneading her fingers in her lap instead.

  A thread of anger drove out Coralie’s irrational fear. Mrs. Lacey was her companion and her responsibility. “Franklin, do please moderate your voice. You’re frightening the servants and I do not have the pleasure of understanding you. You’ll have to explain your curious question.”

  “It’s all over town.” He strode into the light and loomed over her, his brows drawn together into a tangle and his eyes narrowed to furious, worried slits. His fist tightened around the broadsheets — gossip sheets, not respectable papers — and he shook them beneath her nose. “It’s in all the sheets — well, not in that confounded preachy one. But all the others swear you were seen coming home early last night in Lady Gower’s carriage, and the figure in the carriage with you was not Lady Gower’s. They say you left the Maynards’ rout with Cumberland—”

  “And you believe this?” Fury pounded through her. Blasted nosey cats couldn’t even get their own slander straight. There’d been no one in the carriage with her; His Grace had ridden tiger on the footman’s perch behind. But even furious, she’d not blurt out that little fact. Somewhat counterproductive, it would be. “Do you believe that of me, Franklin?”

  He paused, his eyes widening until the worry seemed to drive out his own anger. “I don’t know what to think. Please, enlighten me.”

  What to say? She’d already decided not to mention the duke’s presence, neither on the carriage nor in it. Sucking in a deep breath, she said, “I have done nothing wrong.”

  The fire relit in his eyes. “Did you or did you not leave the Maynards’ with Cumberland?”

  Evasion clearly wouldn’t help, and as she paused, Franklin’s lips rolled together into a thin line. “By— Coralie, you know his reputation. You know he’s ruined entire seasons full of débutantes. How could you put yourself in his power—”

  A gasp from the corner, away from their verbal boxing match. Mrs. Lacey huddled over her lap, her lifted hands trembling to the sides as if she reached for comfort, support, something solid to hold onto. Coralie turned back to the fight and glared at Franklin until he lowered the fistful of crumpled broadsheets.

  “I have done nothing wrong, nothing for which I need feel shame.”

  He crumpled, like the broadsheets, where he stood. “It’s not your shame that concerns me.”

  Enough, and with her fury broiling, she was in no condition to assist Mrs. Lacey. Coralie whirled and stalked from the music room. “Mary! Mary! My pelisse and bonnet, please, then see to Mrs. Lacey. Bring her a cup of tea and stay with her until I return.”

  * * * *

  “Girls these days know nothing of proper behavior.” Hortense marmaladed her toast with serene back and forth motions of the silver knife. Her lips hadn’t uncurled from their spiteful smile all morning. “Deportment is studied at fashionable schools for girls, rather like drawing and dancing, but without real understanding. They may as well study Egyptian hieroglyphics without a translation.”

  If only he could block his ears. Rainier hunched over the gossip sheet, trying to ignore Hortense. His skin quivered as if tiny electrical shocks danced over him; some of his innards had gone on holiday, leaving an empty, yawning hole inside him; and one would think the roaring in his ears would block out her catty purring.

  It couldn’t be true. The beautiful and proper Miss Coralie Busche, alone in Lady Gower’s carriage with Cumberland? True, the duke had been sniffing around her and she’d taken the opportunity to display her exceptional tolerance. But she’d never— He couldn’t imagine—

  Lucia tutted. She at least had the decency to restrain her delight at Miss Busche’s public fall from grace; indeed, her prolonged stare at her breakfast chop contained more sober concern than self-satisfied preening. Or was that worry? Stupid thought; what reason had Lucia for worry?

  Hortense’s oily voice hammered at him. “Just as you used to play with drawing, dear brother. But then you became a man and put away childish pretensions.”

  Childish pretensions, she called it. Dull anger stirred within him. He’d loved drawing, painting, charcoals, using whatever media came to hand to impress his imagination on paper. It had been a part of him, as close as the air in his lungs. But then he’d realized how little talent he possessed and he’d walked away from his enjoyment. Or had he let her talk him out of it? Was that too her fault?

  He’d not let her talk him out of Miss Busche, rich dowry or no.

  He’d stared at the cheap newsprint for so long, the words swirled together and faded to inky nothingness. If only his sisters would suffer the same fate.

  No, this was foolishness on his part. He was giving entirely too much credence to the gossip sheets and to Hortense. Why should he believe any of them? He’d go personally and ask—

  Rainier half-rose from the dining room chair before crushing reality hit him. Coming from him, asking Miss Busche to deny the story was as good as an accusation, and implied
he had some right to monitor her behavior. Of course this questionably believable incident wouldn’t change their relationship, strained though they’d left it; he still intended to make up for his indiscretion of the previous evening, woo her and win her. But these haunting whispers, these gossiping cats — there had to be a way to silence their tongues.

  Hortense stared at him over her butter knife, poised above another slice of toast. Her brows lifted into smug curves over her hooded eyes. “Going somewhere, Kenneth?”

  Yes, somewhere else. Anywhere else. But never again would he give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d stung him. Rainier finished rising, pushed back his chair, and stalked from the dining room toward the front hall. “Douthit! Douthit! My hat and coat, please, and clean up after my sisters as soon as they’re finished breakfasting.”

  * * * *

  A deep breath in the vestibule, Franklin’s voice hurling unheard words behind her, then Coralie stepped through the front door and hurried down the five steps to the sidewalk. With her name in the gossip sheets, it was very possibly the bravest action she’d ever taken, surely more so than singing in front of the most cynical gathering of society’s finest.

  Two fashionably dressed ladies strolled arm in arm beneath the plane trees, naked branches overhead not impeding the weak sunlight. Even across the central common, their faces seemed familiar, perhaps from a recent entertainment, and her stomach curled within her. They’d know her and there was no escaping the attention. Their steps paused, blue and yellow walking gowns flowing back around them. Coralie’s skin prickled as their heads turned, tracking her path across the browning lawn, and when she passed them by their heads leaned together. Doubtless for a good whispery gossip session.

  She swallowed and walked on, refusing to hesitate, her feet insisting upon moving faster as she neared the line of town homes on Berkeley Square’s far side. The scrutiny was public, unashamed, deliberate, and left her feeling as naked as the poor trees. All over London, others shared the broadsheets, nodded knowingly, and poked their forefingers at the horrid print: Miss B., whose interesting gown caused such a sensation at Lady F.’s most recent ball, reportedly was not alone in Lady G.’s carriage following her early retirement from Mrs. M’s soiree last night, and the figure huddling in the shadows with her certainly bore little resemblance to that of a prestigious dower of the best society. And why did the ever amiable Duke of C. vanish from the soiree at the same early hour? One can only wonder…