Shenanigans in Berkeley Square

by Vivian Roycroft

  A line of sunlight broke over the town houses ahead, cutting between two attic dormers and past a tall chimney. The last of the mist burned away, leaving the morning fresh and crisp and golden, the first wash of blue appearing in the sky. It was going to be a gorgeous day.

  * * * *

  “I don’t need the apothecary. No, nor the physician. It’s the merest scratch.”

  They mobbed him at the door, Hortense and Lucia, fluttering and jabbering like terrified hens. For a moment he couldn’t breathe for the handkerchiefs and smelling salts they wielded; they’d entirely anticipated his defeat. The acrid stench crowded the entry hall, searing its cheerful pastel green walls and veined marble to something as grey as the morning’s fog in Hyde Park.

  But he spoke no more than the truth. Cumberland had pressed a cloth to the injury until the bleeding had stopped, then wrapped bandages around Rainier’s shoulder and tied it off. Even that seemed excessive for a cut an inch deep and barely as long, and it hid beneath his tailcoat and greatcoat without so much as a disfiguring bump. If he’d depended upon a life-threatening gash and a footman racing to the physician to spread the duel’s message, he’d have been sadly undone.

  Fortunately the story would already have reached the coffee houses and he could instead depend upon the gossips to ensure it blanketed Mayfair before noon.

  “Bed, then.” Hortense’s voice quivered. Despite the set-down she’d received the previous night, some steel remained in her tone. “Douthit, run upstairs and turn back his bed, and Hill, bring—”

  “Douthit, don’t. Instead, send a messenger to number fifteen, Berkeley Square, and inform Miss Busche the duel is over.” As if she didn’t already know, but she had requested that he send to her. “And don’t be a fool, Hortense.” Rainier shrugged off his greatcoat. A sharp pain stabbed him again as he tugged off the left sleeve; he sucked in a breath, hissing it out as the butler eased the coat from his shoulders.

  Strangely enough, his gasp wiped the last blood from Hortense’s face, leaving her white and frozen with wide, staring eyes. Lucia pressed her hands to her mouth and hovered in the background as if afraid to be noticed and equally afraid to miss something vital. An odd moment, that. For years he’d barely been able to tolerate his sisters’ company, but their very real worry, their fear — it had to be for him, for his life — touched him at a much deeper level than he’d have thought. Hortense had stared just so when the vicar had brought the news of the wrecked coach, tumbled over the bridge’s parapet and into the Great Ouse, their parents both killed in the flooding river. She’d stared and fluttered and then stared again, just as she’d done since he’d returned home.

  “Well.” He relented. “The apothecary, then. But I don’t need any opium and I won’t drink anything foul—”

  “Willow bark.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, but it drooped again within a breath. “It does help.”

  Last night, when he’d routed her from the dining room, he’d have sworn she’d intended revenge. But with morning light streaming through the windows and across the brilliant green-veined marble, she seemed defeated and worn to a nub. She couldn’t possibly have slept well, considering the heavy shadows beneath her eyes, the dullness of her usually clear complexion. Had she watched him leave before dawn, boxed sabers beneath his arm and quivering determination in his soul? Had she been awake even earlier to witness his return from wooing Miss Busche, their exquisite balcony scene still glowing from his face?

  Had his risk, necessitated by her own actions, hurt her more than he’d guessed?

  “I suppose a draught of willow bark won’t kill me.”

  She flinched. The handkerchief she clutched fluttered, wafting a delicate scent of rosewater through the entry.

  Cruel word choice, and he should kick himself for it. But while their competition seemed to have shriveled, for the moment, at least, a void still stretched between them. Without doubt words existed that could breach that distance, but finding them, even if he’d wanted to, felt like too heavy a burden to lift until he’d recovered more fully.

  Did he even want to breach their void? She’d made his life a misery for so many years, ever since their parents’ deaths—

  And yet she stood motionless, coiling the handkerchief about her hands, still lost and uncertain. Leaving her thus suddenly felt like an even heavier burden. When they’d been children, she’d always been a pretty little sister, albeit bossy.

  “Oh,” he added, “if there’s anything prepared, some breakfast would be marvelous.”

  The words came on their own. But as he realized their truth, her eyes brightened. The handkerchief stilled.

  “I’ll send Douthit with a tray. To your library?” She’d already turned away, ready to organize the household to her liking. Lucia joined her, ever the dutiful younger sister.

  “No, to my study, please.”

  She paused and glanced back. “Your study?”

  It had been several years since he’d even opened that door. A small room, tucked into the back of the house behind his bedroom and dressing room, with a desk and chair and little more, he’d avoided it and his lonely portfolio, bundled into its corner, since he’d given up drawing. His old oils, pigments, palettes, and half-daubed canvases languished there as well, probably beyond use with shriveling age. His charcoals, sharpening knife, what remained of the half-ream of thick paper he’d bought and hoarded and itched to cover with brilliant lines — he’d abandoned it all.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Her chin tilted and her brow furrowed with confusion. The row of curls across her forehead bunched together in a little bouquet, the most he’d seen them move since the time they’d been caught out in a thunderstorm, walking home from a shopping excursion. She didn’t seem to recognize him any more, either.

  The strange, uncomfortable silence between them would stretch into agony if he waited. Rainier nodded to his sisters and escaped, running up the stairs to the top and back of the town house. A pause on the landing, the carved door to his bedroom on the right, the plain one to his study on the left, and the brass knob was as bright as the last time he’d reached for it.

  He’d sworn not to be a dilettante. And so when he’d found his talents to be less than superb, he’d deprived himself of using them at all. Instead of a dilettante, he’d become a quitter. If only he’d continued practicing regardless, as Coralie had done with her singing; if only he’d let himself be himself, even if he wasn’t the best artist in London…

  Rainier twisted the knob and pushed open the study door.

  The curtains were drawn, the little room in shadow. He tugged the drapes aside. The bank of south-facing floor-to-ceiling windows flooded light over him, over the mahogany desk and rolling chair, the floor easel, the stacked canvases, the bureau of supplies. Not a speck of dust showed; no one could call Hortense a poor household manager.

  And there, its canvas propped on the easel precisely as he’d walked away from it — the wild, rocky promontory overlooking a storm-tossed sea. The menacing landscape, waves rushing to shore and spray flying up the cliff face, existed only in his mind and his internal image had proven inexact. His awkward oils hadn’t captured the outline he’d sought, that of sharp edges sculpted by the sea, and in frustration and disappointment he’d given up.

  He’d quit, and the understanding left a hollow void inside him, similar to the one he’d felt while trying to understand Hortense. He’d quit, for no acceptable reason. It wasn’t only Culver who hated competition. It seemed he hated it so much, he’d refused even to compete against himself and his own dreams.

  In truth, the painting wasn’t bad. No, he hadn’t captured the sharp outline, lit with phosphorescence and lightning, gleaming through the murk. But it hummed with untamed, raw, Romantic energy, the very Platonic ideal of a rocky crag. It surged on the canvas, spray flying, wet rocks implacable.

  In his insistence upon perfection, there had to be other things he’d lost, set aside, undervalu
ed.

  No longer. Besides, a few dabs of oil, here and here…

  * * * *

  Beside Coralie on the morning room’s sofa, Lissie sat nibbling the edge of a biscuit. The silver tea tray glittered atop the low table before them, and the dark yellow sofa and lighter pillows cradled Lissie’s determined slouch. She’d stuffed her cloak into the Egyptian urn in the corner, and her cerulean walking dress formed a too-cheerful contrast with the room’s colors for the sober moment.

  “Coralie, dearest, I cannot stop thinking about your most curious statement this morning.”

  If only Lissie would share her energy. Coralie yawned over her teacup. “Which one? Looking back now, it seems all I made this morning were curious statements.”

  “Perhaps there’s something in that.” Lissie nodded, popped the rest of the biscuit into her mouth, and popped her eyebrows. “However, I refer to your comment regarding what the Duke of Cumberland might have meant by his own curious statement at Lady Forester’s ball.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m still trying to decide if that man was sent to help me or vex me.” Good as Cook’s butter biscuits were, Coralie hadn’t yet been able to force one down her throat. But she’d managed to crumble one to powder on her saucer. “What conclusions have you drawn?” Please say you’ve drawn some. Please say it.

  “Keeping in mind that I didn’t hear his original statement and therefore am relying upon your memory’s exactness—”

  “Yes, yes; don’t quibble.”

  “—then I must say I agree with your opinion. I believe he did indeed attempt to guide your thoughts beyond the usual Romantic interpretation and toward a different definition of love — one in which love is shown more by what a person does than by what she feels.”

  Her heart sank. “Which is precisely why I feel so awful.”

  Lissie’s questioning glance couldn’t be misinterpreted.

  Coralie crumbled the rest of the biscuit, and the tiny mountain of greasy dust on her saucer eased higher. “Don’t you see? When Mr. Rainier showed me his purely human side, his natural face rather than his public manners, I became confused. I feared how little I knew him and wondered if I’d grow to regret showing him such interest — for no one could doubt the level of interest I did show?” Without permission her voice inserted a rising note, transforming the comment into a question. Perhaps she hadn’t compromised herself too horribly.

  Lissie shrugged and thrust an entire biscuit into her mouth, chewing with great industry. Well, that’s one method of not answering an awkward question.

  A deep breath. But it didn’t calm her thoughts. “By fighting this duel for my honor, Mr. Rainier has shown the height of his regard for me to all of Mayfair. You know this will be talked about in all the broadsheets’ next editions, in every coffee house in town. But when I should have waited for him and requested an explanation for his surprising behavior — I ran away.”

  * * * *

  His linseed oil and many of his pigments remained usable, and although Rainier’s grip on the palette tugged the occasional sharp pain from his injured shoulder, the old absorption entranced him with its familiar strangeness. A touch of white here, grey there, a sparkling brooding brown along the cliff face, and there was the vivid edge he’d sought. Touches of white oxide brought out even more energy from the storm’s spray; strokes of azurite blue turned the lackluster cloud wrack luminous. Perhaps a single red flower, huddled in the lee of the crag—

  A knock startled him erect. The door swung open and Hortense entered, of course without waiting for his response, and the usual surge of annoyance left Rainier feeling suddenly empty, as if he’d shot his creative bolt by thinking negative thoughts. But then she turned and held the door wide, and behind her Douthit entered, carrying a silver tray. The savory smell of bacon cut through the sharp chemical edge of the oils. He’d forgotten all about requesting breakfast, but with the first breath his appetite drove out every other sensibility. Rainier set the palette and brush aside, capped his pigments, and wiped his hands on a cloth.

  “Someday very soon,” he said to Hortense, “you are going to become some man’s most excellent wife.”

  Her eyes flew open to an enormous size. Wonder tinged her expression and a touch of pink invaded her cheeks, odd and lovely in the wash of golden sunlight splashing through the windows. “Something about you has changed, brother.”

  Rainier shook his head. “Not something. Everything.” There was no other possible way to describe it.

  Hortense’s brow crinkled again. She crossed her arms, and Rainier realized it was the first natural movement he’d seen her make in years.

  * * * *

  “You know, if we accept His Grace’s logic, then we must examine your conclusions a bit more deeply.” Lissie pushed aside the biscuits and drew her teacup closer. “No, dearest, hear me out. I’m not trying merely to soothe your nerves, but also to demonstrate my own education in logic. I refuse to believe that a man — any man — might be more conversant with emotions than a woman.” She stopped for a deep breath and a sip, her brows arching and eyes closing for a luxurious oolong moment. “If love is what a person does, then does it not stand to reason that the actions measured must be a person’s ongoing behavior rather than those of a single evening, no matter how eventful?”

  Coralie froze. She’d not been expecting it. But Lissie’s simple words punctured her self-inflicted agony with ease and left her breathless.

  “Perhaps it’s true that you ran away at love’s first challenge,” Lissie continued. “But did not Mr. Rainier retreat across an astonishing amount of Hyde Park’s turf when first the duel began? If he fought for your honor, then he opened at a loss. Only by finding something new, something stronger and purer within himself — only then did he stand his ground.”

  Another pause, another of Lissie’s indulgent sips, rather like an invitation to comment. Instead, Coralie grabbed the closest biscuit and stuffed it whole into her mouth. The buttery taste melted across her tongue, suddenly sweet and delightful instead of the dry dust it had seemed before. If she weren’t careful, she’d lick those crumbs from her saucer. Come to think of it, she might yet.

  “You cannot fault yourself unless you also fault Mr. Rainier, and you cannot praise him without also praising yourself. The question is not what have you done for your love in the past, but what are you willing to do for him in the future and for the rest of your lives.” A tilt of her head, and Lissie set her cup on the tray. The saucer’s reflection started small, enlarged, then vanished as the fine china settled on the silver. “So tell me the truth. Who was the second person in Lady Gower’s carriage?”

  Coralie choked on the biscuit and slugged a mouthful of tea. “You could at least have waited until I’d finished chewing.”

  “Perhaps I could have.” But no sympathy softened Lissie’s face nor voice. “Well?”

  It took two more swallows of cooling tea to clear her throat. “Sorry to disappoint you, but there was no one in the carriage with me.”

  “No one?” Lissie fiddled with her teacup, turning it on the saucer. “Where was the duke?”

  “Riding behind.”

  “Riding tiger? In the rain?”

  “His clothing was completely soaked.”

  “That is remarkably odd.” She abandoned the saucer, grabbed the cup, and took a serene sip. “I’ve been telling everyone it was me in the carriage.”

  Again Coralie fell speechless. Perhaps another biscuit as an alibi? No, Lissie had shown she knew how to handle such conniving. Well, then, she’d lick the crumbs from her saucer and just let the pause stretch.

  And again Lissie set down her teacup. “So we come by degrees to the most perplexing part of this entire episode.”

  Here Coralie knew precisely what to say. “You speak of the duke’s motivation, of course?”

  She was totally unprepared for Lissie’s pitying glance. “He’s a kind man and seems to find sport in matchmaking, the way other men find sport in hunting or
boxing. This is the second time I’ve observed his shenanigans, remember.” Lissie paused. Her eyes lost focus, as if she replayed remembered events in her thoughts, then she shook her head and her usual sharp expression returned. “No, through his actions, he brought you to Mr. Rainier’s attention, and then he courted you just enough to keep the pressure on. A man with Mr. Rainier’s ardent and Romantic nature could not let such a challenge pass. No, the duke’s motivations are clear. What I can’t understand is why a rake who had you at his utter mercy rode behind the carriage in the rain.”

  Coralie paused, cup to her lips. She’d trusted the duke so, that thought had never crossed her mind. A shudder shook her spine from head to waist, but she gave him the defense he was due. “In all the times I’ve been in his presence, including that one, I’ve never felt threatened.”

  A purse of her lips, a considering shrug, and Lissie set aside her empty cup. “Or, if we instead believe the evidence of his actions, why such a well-bred gentleman went so far out of his way as to court the appearance and undeserved reputation of a rake.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday, October 30, 1813 (continued)

  His Grace had long ago decided the rear sitting room, overlooking the inner courtyard, was his favorite place for quiet reading and contemplation, mainly because it was one of the plainest rooms in the massive house he’d purchased in St. James’s Square. Yes, the decorated white marble chimneypiece had been carved, but with mindless images of acanthus and pineapples and laurel wreaths, rather than the Greek gods and satyrs and full-length statue of Inigo Jones elsewhere in the house. The paneling rose only to chair-rails, the panels uncarved, and even the architraves were simple bead molding.