by Jo Beverley
“That would be delightful, Sir Cedric.”
As soon as it was provided, he considered her with appreciation and a glint of something which could be friendly, teasing, or flirtatious. “Do you concern yourself only with looks then, young lady?”
Trapped in her act of silliness, Amy almost blurted out that she also concerned herself about money. What would this man want to hear? At his age he doubtless took life very seriously. “Indeed no, Sir Cedric,” she said, muting the simper a shade or two. “I do delight in a man of character and intelligence and I love to hear an erudite discussion.”
“How unfortunate then,” he said with a twinkle, “that the debating society at the Athenian Lyceum has ceased to meet. But we now have the Surrey Institution, where excellent lectures are given on a great many interesting subjects. If you would like, Miss de Lacy, I would be delighted to escort you and your aunt there one day soon. I know that Mrs. Claybury has little interest in such events.”
Amy wasn’t sure she did either but she expressed enthusiasm for the plan. He then discussed a bewildering range of intellectual diversions available in the capital until another young hopeful came to beg a dance.
Amy longed to be back on the floor but did not want to offend her potential Croesus.
“Please, Miss de Lacy,” he said, “if you are rested, go and prance with this young fellow. I rarely dance anymore but I would not deny you the pleasure. I will make all the arrangements with your aunt for our visit to the Surrey Institution.”
As she left the refreshment room, Amy felt as if she had acquired a tutor rather than a suitor, but having made such hopeful progress she abandoned herself to the joys of the dance until the early hours of the morning.
The three ladies were tired but content on the way home.
Aunt Lizzie had spent most of her time in the card room playing whist, a pleasure denied her since Sir Digby’s death, since only Beryl and Amy could play a decent game, and Amy found little pleasure in it. Together with the enjoyment, she had the satisfaction of ending the evening six shillings the richer.
Nell Claybury had enjoyed her wide circle of friends. “And I declare,” she said, “you danced every dance, Amy. You were a grand success. I expect my knocker to be constantly on the go now that you have been seen.”
Though she knew it was true, Amy demurred. “Many of the callers will be for you, Mrs. Claybury. Whenever I looked around you were on the floor, too.”
“I confess, I do love to dance,” said Nell with a twinkle, “and there are usually some gentlemen gallant enough to take pity on an old lady.”
Amy grinned at her. In her youthful pale green silk, Nell looked a good deal less than fifty. “I swear,” Amy said, “I don’t know how I am to catch a rich husband with you as competition.”
“Flummery. And I doubt I have the mind to marry again. Did you meet anyone who interests you, dear?”
Amy was hesitant to put her hopes into words, but she needed to know the extent of Sir Cedric’s wealth and so she named him.
“My dear!” declared Nell. “He is a regular Midas. Or is that who I mean? Forbes Bank, you know.”
Amy didn’t, but a bank sounded just what she needed.
“Of course he is rather old,” said Nell, “but still very handsome and so charming. He and my husband were good friends, but I haven’t seen much of him these past few years.”
“Is he a knight or a baronet?” asked Aunt Lizzie.
“Just a knight. For services to the realm,” Nell said, then winked. “Something to do with Prinny’s debts.”
Aunt Lizzie wrinkled her nose but said, “Still, it will not be intolerable to have you Lady Forbes, Amethyst. It will sound quite well at home. He spoke to me about an entertainment he plans. He did seem to be a man of sense and elegance. No doubt he will do.”
“Let us not go too fast,” protested Amy. “His interest may be no more than avuncular.”
Nell Claybury chuckled. “I doubt any man’s interest in you is merely avuncular, Miss de Lacy. I declare the temperature in those rooms rose five degrees as you passed. You must live an interesting life.”
Looking out the carriage window at the dark streets, Amy made no reply. She did not find her life interesting. Now that the excitement of the evening was behind her, and a victim was singled out, she realized her life was intolerably bleak.
“Wednesday night is Almack’s night,” Chart chortled as he entered the handsome rooms he and Harry had taken in Chapel Street. With a man and wife to take care of domestic matters and Quincy and Gerrard to turn the young men out smart, they were very comfortable indeed. Or would be, he reflected, if Harry were his normal, lighthearted self.
Certainly Harry was acting the part tolerably well. He laughed at jokes and even told one now and then. He took interest in games of chance, pugilistic exploits, and salacious gossip. But there was a bitter edge to him that Chart had never seen before, and he was drinking too much.
Damn Amethyst de Lacy.
“Oh God,” groaned Harry from where he sat slumped in a chair, cradling a glass of claret. “There’ll be more than enough Wednesdays in the Season. I can’t face it tonight.”
“There are not that many Wednesdays in a Season,” countered Chart firmly, “and when I talked my mother into getting us vouchers, I promised we’d be there tonight in case Clyta needs a partner.”
Harry sighed and pushed up out of his chair. “Oh well, if it’s for the lovely Clytemnestra.”
“And for you,” said Chart. “The sooner you settle on a bride the better.”
“I’ve been doing the pretty at receptions and soirées for weeks, haven’t I? Nothing but frightened sparrows and brazen hussies.”
Chart restrained the urge to plant him a facer and knock some sense into him. “And which of those is my sister?”
Harry smiled, and looked for a moment like his old self. “Either a frightened hussy or a brazen sparrow. Has she decided quite what style she wants to develop?”
“No,” said Chart with a sigh. “She’s bold one moment and stammers the next. I hold it’s the mixed influence of my eldest sister, Cassandra, who has herself wrapped up so tight I’m surprised she can walk, and a lingering adoration of my scandalous sister, Chloe. At least with you there and Randal—for he’s promised to attend—she won’t be a wallflower.”
“She won’t anyway,” said Harry. “She’s a handsome specimen. Tell you what, Chart. Why don’t I offer for Clyta? Solve all our problems.”
“Over my dead body.” Chart was as startled by his own words as Harry was.
The two friends looked at each other.
“May I ask why?” Harry asked coolly.
“Gads, I’m sorry,” Chart said. “I didn’t mean it like that. If you develop a fondness for her, nothing would please me more. But,” he added firmly, “I don’t want Clyta in a marriage of convenience. I’m sure they turn out damned inconvenient in the end.”
9
HARRY DANCED WITH CLYTEMNESTRA ASHBY TWICE and tried to induce by force a feeling of connubial warmth. It would be wonderfully convenient, but it didn’t work.
She was a shapely young woman of average height and was blessed by a mass of dark curls, very fine blue eyes, and an excellent figure that could almost be called lush. She had looked womanly since she was fourteen, and now, with a coating of bronze, she could pass for a matron, which, in Harry’s opinion was unfortunate. Inside this glittering shell she was clearly still the young, rather gauche girl he had so often encountered at Chart’s home.
Her behavior, as predicted, wavered between over-fulfilling the promise of her appearance or lapsing into a hot-cheeked awkwardness more suited to a school-room. Harry could understand Chart’s protective concern. It would be easy for a man to get the wrong idea about Clytemnestra Ashby.
Harry felt the same concern, but it was all brotherly. He could not imagine taking Clyta to wife.
As he held hands with her and danced down the line, he remembered how hard i
t had been to pretend to merely brotherly fondness with Amy de Lacy, the excitement he had felt at merely being in the same room as her. Would he ever feel that way about anyone else? Then he cursed himself for this weakness.
“What?” asked Clyta, missing a step. Her eyes were wide with alarm. “Did I do something wrong?”
He’d sworn aloud. “No, of course not,” Harry said with a reassuring smile. “I…er…I just remembered something I’ve forgotten to do.”
She looked at him dubiously as they settled to their places at the end of the line.
“Truly,” he said across the gap.
She was reassured and smiled as they stepped together and joined hands. It turned into something twistedly seductive. “Not very flattering,” drawled Clyta with a sultry look worthy of the demimonde. “Your thoughts should all be of me, sir.”
Harry suppressed a groan. “Do stop that, Clyta. Just be yourself.”
She flushed again. “But I am.” They danced around each other. As they separated, she added anxiously, “I think.”
Harry gave thanks he didn’t have to steer Clyta through her first Season.
Other than Chart’s sister, Harry followed his usual policy and worked his way methodically through the most eligible young women. He was determined to meet as many as possible so as to give himself the greatest chance of encountering a tolerable one. Amy de Lacy couldn’t be the only charmer capable of stirring his blood. He had no fixed criteria and tried whatever presented—pretty or plain, witty or shy, tall or short. But he tried the rich ones first. Might as well marry a fortune as not.
There was not a one he felt any desire to share his life with. When he danced with the pretty Miss Frogmorton, who was quite an heiress to boot, he found himself wondering what this pattern card of perfection would do if caught in a deluge. It was impossible to imagine.
And why the hell was Amy de Lacy fixed in his mind like a family ghost?
It was all so depressing that when Randal’s wife boldly asked him for a dance, he agreed.
“Are you so short of partners, Sophie?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she replied. “I merely thought you deserved one dance of pleasure.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
She gave him a saucy look. “You know perfectly well. If you want my advice—and you don’t, of course—you’ll stop looking so hard.”
“If I just ignore the problem, my future bride will appear one day like a genie from a bottle?”
Sophie laughed. “What a lovely thought!”
He couldn’t help but laugh with her. It was a great relief to be with someone simply for the pleasure of it. “For some reason I doubt that a bride from a bottle would be suited to life at Hey Park.”
This time he could dance without ulterior motives, and by the time the set was over he was feeling relaxed and more like himself than he had in weeks. As they strolled over to join Randal, Sophie asked, “What of Amy de Lacy? Do you still think of her?”
It was like a dash of icy water. “No,” Harry said sharply. “Why would I?”
“Merely to rejoice in such a lucky escape,” said Sophie lightly. “After all, I doubt there’s a lady in this room who would reject your suit, never mind slap you for it.”
Harry handed her over to her husband and stalked off without a word.
Randal looked down at his wife and raised a brow. “Distinctly frosty,” he said. “Why do I have the feeling you’ve been meddling again, minx?”
She dimpled. “Because you know me so well? Harry’s never going make a good choice of bride until he clears. Amy de Lacy from his head.”
“And you intend to help him with his spring-cleaning? Sophie, from whence do you get this lamentable tendency to interfere?”
“I don’t know,” she said unrepentantly. “But I’m very good at it. Did I or did I not bring about the happy union of Ver and Emily?”
“I think they would have managed well enough on their own.”
“Ha! There speaks the man who would have let me marry Trenholme out of a misguided sense of nobility.”
He laughed. “Perhaps. I would probably have snatched you away at the altar like Lochinvar.”
“Would you?” asked Sophie, much taken. “Then I wish I had accepted him.”
He shook his head. “You’re incorrigible. But at least in this case there’s little mischief you can do, with Harry here and Amy de Lacy in Lincolnshire.”
“No?” queried Sophie sweetly. “But this very morning I received a letter from Emily. They are on their way to Hampshire, but apparently as they left, gossip said that the beautiful Miss de Lacy has come to London for the Season. We could meet her anywhere.” With a naughty grin at her alarmed husband, she swept off on the arm of another partner.
Amy and Aunt Lizzie were escorted by Sir Cedric to the lecture at the Surrey Institution. It proved to be on the plants of the Amazon. It was stupefyingly boring but afterward Amy eagerly accepted an invitation to attend another one the next week on the principles of steam locomotion. Sir Cedric was clearly interested in her, and he was exactly what she had come to London to find. She was not surprised, however, when Aunt Lizzie declined the treat, saying Amy hardly needed a chaperon to such an event.
Her aunt was pleased enough in the meantime to accompany Amy and her admirer to the Royal Academy, and to the British Museum to see the Egyptian antiquities. In her visions of a London Season, Amy had never imagined it to be quite so educational.
Each evening, however, there was a soirée, a rout, or an assembly to attend and ample opportunity to dance. Amy received three proposals in the first week, but, though at least one was unexceptionable, none of the gentlemen was rich enough for her purpose. At least, she thought wryly, she had learned to be a little more gracious in her refusals.
All her hopes lay with Sir Cedric.
Their second trip to the Surrey Institution was the first time they had been out alone, and Amy was excited and yet nervous. If Sir Cedric suddenly became loverlike, what should she do?
“And are you enjoying your time in London, Miss de Lacy?”
“Very much, Sir Cedric. Everyone is most kind.”
“I must confess that I am a little surprised that you are not moving in the higher reaches of society to which you are entitled.”
Amy flicked a glance at him. Was he suspicious? She made a decision. “We can’t afford it,” she said bluntly.
He nodded slightly as if she had confirmed something he already knew. “But you would have no objection to attending fashionable events?”
“No,” she said. “I have no family or close friends to sponsor me, however.”
“If you accompany me, you would need no sponsor.” He smiled at her unguarded look of amazement. “The barriers of Society are flexible, Miss de Lacy, particularly before the pressure of wealth. I receive a great many invitations and attend what functions please me. I would like to see you shine in your appropriate setting.”
“I do not consider myself above my present company, sir.”
“And I admire you for it. But you are above it, Miss de Lacy. You could have all London at your feet.”
Amy was torn between a natural desire to enjoy the social pleasures she had been raised to expect, and a feeling that it would be most unwise. “Why do you wish to do this for me?” she asked.
He smiled slightly, almost ruefully. “I think it important, that is all. I have already received an invitation to Carlton House, to the fête for the victorious allies in July. If you are still in Town at the time I would like you to accompany me. And your aunt, of course.”
Amy felt a tremor of nervous anticipation. This must presage an offer, and yet that question mark—“if you are still in Town”—made it uncertain. Did he need encouragement?
He did not seem to be at all unsure of himself as he continued, “And the Russian Embassy is to hold a reception in two weeks. Will you accompany me to it, Miss de Lacy? The haute ton will be there in f
orce, and you did say you wished to see the tsar.”
It was no part of Amy’s plan to mix with the fashionable elite, but she suppressed her qualms. “I would be pleased to attend,” she said firmly.
This second lecture proved to be a little more interesting than the first, as there were a number of models which hissed and turned under the influence of steam. The lecturer was concerned with the use of steam in industry and transportation. He claimed steam could one day replace horses, but Amy found it difficult to imagine a teakettle trundling up the North Road.
The steam made her think of kitchens, though. How useful it would be if steam could turn a spit, or power a dolly-stick to pummel a load of washing. She remembered Meg Coneybear and her energy, and the amount of work she would have on her hands all her life.
Harry Crisp would be interested in things like this, she thought, remembering the automaton. She wondered if he ever designed machines.
The lecturer was detailing some physical principle, which Amy found boring. She took to studying the assortment of people packing the lecture hall.
She and Sir Cedric were sitting at the front of the first gallery. Below them, on the floor of the hall were nine rows of banked seats, giving everyone an excellent view of the stage. Her eyes wandered the audience, which included all types of people, from the ton to threadbare students, scribbling notes.
It was because she had been thinking about Harry Crisp that one man looked like him.
Very like him.
The same crisp, tawny curls. Straight, broad shoulders…
A tingling chill passed through her. It couldn’t be. It had to be her imagination. The gentleman was in the third row in the hall. She could really only see the back of his head and one ear.
But it was Harry Crisp. She knew it, and felt this urgent desire to leap to her feet and flee.
It was impossible, seated as they were in the middle of a row. Anyway, nothing would serve better to draw attention to her, especially as the lecturer had paused to set up his next demonstration. People were conversing with their neighbors and glancing around. Amy wished she could slide down and hide.