by Jo Beverley
“Oh, my dear,” said Lucetta seriously. “This is no way to choose your companion in life. Give it time.”
He shook his head. “Life can be chancy—look at Richard and Ian. I know my duty.” He twisted his gold signet ring. “Since Ian fell sick and recovery became unlikely, I’d even made moves to obtain a divorce, though I hate the thought of a public airing of Genie’s behavior. I know the distress it would cause her parents…”
“At least that is no longer necessary,” said Lucetta gently.
“True. And I’d be a fool to waste the last weeks of the Season. What better time to find a bride? If you won’t help, I will just have to pick one blindfolded.” He shrugged. “Marriage is a mere lottery anyway. If one doesn’t spend too long anguishing over the ticket, there’s less pain if it turns out a loser.”
Lucetta rested her hands on her frame and considered him with a frown. She could tell he was in earnest and would do this foolish thing. “Very well, then. If that is how it is, I think you should marry Deirdre.”
“Deirdre Stowe?” he said blankly.
“Lady Deirdre Stowe, daughter of the Earl of Harby. My young friend, whom you have met here now and again. That Deirdre.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” she asked briskly. “Is not one lottery ticket as good as another? She is wellborn and well-bred. Her portion is comfortable. She is composed, but not weak. She will be well able to run your households and raise your children. It does, however, seem highly unlikely that some man will try to filch her from you—men being shortsighted in these matters—and even less likely that she would dream of being filched. Furthermore,” she added tartly, “I have more concern for my comfort than you have for yours, and I like her.”
He shrugged. “The best argument of all. Consider it done.”
Her eyes flashed angrily. “Does it not occur to you, you wretch, that she might refuse you?”
He quirked a brow. “No. Will she?”
She glared at him but then sighed and shook her head. “It is unlikely, I fear. It would do you good to be refused for once. One reason I suggested Deirdre—and I am beginning to regret it—is that she is having a miserable time. She doesn’t speak of it, but I am sure she is a wallflower.”
“Men probably just don’t notice her,” Everdon pointed out. “She’s so thin and wishy-washy, I hardly notice her when she’s here in the room.” He looked around, in the pretense that the young lady might in fact be present.
Lucetta shook her head. “It will not do, will it? I will try to think of someone more suitable.”
“Nonsense. She is ideal. I believe the Ashbys are holding a soirée tonight. Will she be there?”
“It is likely. Her mother drags her everywhere, firmly convinced that one day a miracle will happen, and Deirdre will turn into a Toast before everyone’s eyes.”
He grinned. “And so she will. She is about to sweep Don Juan off his feet.”
Lucetta focused on him the full force of a maternal look. “Marco, I warn you: hurt Deirdre and you will pray for the fires of hell.”
That evening Lord Everdon commanded his valet to produce his dark evening clothes and kid slippers, a sure sign that he was intent on Polite Society and not debauchery. Joseph Bing’s conscience could for once be at ease as he used his considerable skills to turn his employer out to perfection.
Joseph’s conscience had frequently been troubled since he had been saved and become a follower of John Wesley.
He told his friends at the Chapel that he only kept his post with the earl because his employer indulgently allowed him plenty of free time to attend to Chapel business, and the whole of Sunday off. The truth was that he was very fond of Everdon, whom he’d served since his Cambridge days. He found professional satisfaction in valeting such a fine figure of a man, and he hoped to save him from perdition.
The perils Joseph feared were twofold. On the one hand, the earl was clearly given over to fornication of the most blatant kind. That placed him in risk of damnation. The far greater danger, however, was that he would have a sudden religious experience and follow his mother into the maw of papacy.
Joseph Bing was determined to prevent that fate, and to somehow wean the earl from his fondness for loose women. He could hardly hope Everdon would ever join the Wesleyan fraternity, but a virtuous lifestyle and a sober adherence to the Church of England would make Joseph a very happy man.
As Joseph finished shaving his master’s smooth, brown skin, the earl said, “Has the news somehow escaped, Joseph? I am a widower. You may felicitate me.”
Joseph gave thanks he had put down the razor before that disconcerting announcement. “Congratulations, my lord,” he said, though it hardly seemed proper. He remembered sadly the beautiful, willful Iphegenia, and the brief fury of youthful passion that had been that ill-fated marriage. In the aftermath he had feared for the young earl’s sanity. It was a miracle really that it had merely turned him to vice…
“You needn’t sound so squeamish,” said Everdon as he stood and shrugged off the cloth that protected his shirt. “Genie died six months ago.” He deftly tied a cravat, then allowed Joseph to ease on his brocade waistcoat and plain, elegant jacket. “I merely forewarn you of possible changes. I intend to marry again.”
“That is good news, milord,” said Joseph as he smoothed the cloth over broad shoulders. His joy was honest. That’s what the earl needed—the love of a good woman.
But would he choose one?
“I’m glad you think so. Time will tell.” Everdon surveyed himself in the mirror. “The pearl, I think.” When the valet brought the pearl pin, Everdon said, “And how are matters at the Chapel?”
Joseph had thought at one time that his master mocked him when he said such things, but it appeared not to be the case. “Very well, thank you, milord. Your support for our school is much appreciated.”
Everdon deftly adjusted his cravat and fixed the pin. “Have you ever thought of providing a refuge for unfortunate women?”
Joseph glanced at his employer. What lay behind this? He cleared his throat. “You would perhaps mean streetwalkers, my lord?”
“And others too unsavory to be helped by the tight-lipped brigade. There must be many women who make unfortunate choices and come to regret them. What becomes of them?”
Joseph foresaw trouble with some of the Chapel members, but he was a true seeker after good. “I believe our Savior would want us to help such women, as He helped Mary Magdalene.”
“So do I. I will be most generous in my support of such a project.” Everdon swung on his cloak. “I dislike seeing any woman in distress.”
It was said in his usual flippant manner, but Joseph detected some deeper meaning behind it. Did Lord Everdon have a particular woman in mind? Well, if housing one of the earl’s old loves was the price of helping hundreds, it was a small price to pay.
Everdon took his hat and gloves from Joseph. “The news of my widowing is not to be made public just yet, Joseph. I prefer not to create a stir. To be more precise,” he added with a flickering smile, “I do not want to alert the hunt. Now I go to pick a lottery ticket. Wish me luck, but don’t wait up.”
As Joseph tidied the room, he muttered, “The nonsense he do talk. Now, why would he want a lottery ticket, rich as he is?”
The Ashby soirée was being hosted by Lord and Lady Randal Ashby, dashing leaders of Society, in the mansion of Lord Randal’s father, the Duke of Tyne. Everdon had learned from his invitation that it was in honor of Randal’s cousin, Harry Crisp, and his promised bride, Miss Amy de Lacy. He knew Harry slightly, but not the girl; he was not in the habit of attending the more formal social affairs.
The event was well under way when Everdon arrived, and he had to search out his host and hostess.
“Lord Everdon, we’re honored,” said Sophie Ashby, affecting satirical amazement, but she smiled warmly as he kissed her hand. They were well acquainted, for Randal did not hesitate to bring his wife to more racy entertainme
nts.
She was a vivacious young woman with something of a gamine appearance, but a sweetly curved figure. Everdon had a taste for curves in his women. He thought of thin Deirdre Stowe, and suffered a pang of doubt.
He gave Sophie a genuinely admiring smile. “I thought I’d see how the polite world went along.”
“Being more familiar with the impolite?” she queried with a twinkle of humor.
He laughed. He also admired a woman who could bandy words. “They christened me Don Juan in my school days, and my fate was sealed.”
Lord Randal remarked, “I earned the nickname of the Bright Angel. I managed to outgrow it, Don.”
“Did you indeed? Yet I detect a glitter still, and the touch of the wicked that was behind the name.”
“How true,” said Sophie with a teasing look at her handsome blond husband. Randal’s response was a glance of heated yet discreet intimacy.
Everdon realized with a pang that he’d shared something similar once with Genie, who hadn’t really loved him, and was dead…
“So,” Randal was asking, “why are you here, Don? I assure you, this evening ain’t about to become exciting. All the ancient family connections are here, for a start.”
“I merely thought to see how the ton is enduring the dying days of this summer of excitement.”
“We cannot always have visiting kings and emperors to amuse us,” Sophie pointed out.
“I’d have thought everyone would be relieved to have a little peace and quiet after endless parades and displays.”
“Do I detect a jaded tone?” asked Lord Randal. “You have to confess, Don, it was a livelier Season than we’ve seen in years. And as a bonus, we are now permitted to dance the waltz without censure.”
Everdon grinned. “That doubtless takes all the thrill out of it.”
“I fear you are right,” said Sophie, “though I have a marked partiality for the dance, wicked or no. And you,” she said to Everdon, “are very skilled at it.”
“That,” pointed out her husband, “if you didn’t recognize it, was a hint.”
“I’m positively bruised by the force of it. Do I gather you won’t dance with your wife, Randal?”
“Of course he will,” said Sophie, “but as hosts, we have to attend to the needs of our guests. We are to have three waltzes, and he can’t dance every one with me.”
Everdon kissed her hand and held it to his heart. “If you were mine, enchanting one, I would dance every waltz with you, host or no.”
Sophie gurgled with laughter. “Are you trying to seduce me under Randal’s very nose?”
Everdon smiled into her eyes. “Only if you are willing, querida.”
Sophie looked rather startled. “But you never entangle yourself with happily married women.”
“Perhaps I am just more discreet with them…”
Randal removed his wife from Everdon’s grasp. “How is it no one has shot you, Don?”
Everdon took time for a pinch of snuff. “Perhaps because I’m a crack shot, old boy.”
Randal smiled, but there was an edge on it. “I’m better.”
Everdon laughed and dropped his pose. “Don’t raise your hackles. I’m a charitable foundation, don’t you know? I only interest myself with unhappy women, and Sophie appears to be entirely happy, alas.”
“Yes, I am,” said Sophie with a playful flutter of her fan. “What a shame…”
Her husband groaned. “I’m sure there are a great number of unhappy women in this room, Sophie. Why not steer the charitable foundation in their direction.”
Sophie looked at Everdon. “Well, my lord?”
He bowed, hand on heart. “’Tis my very purpose in coming. I am corrupted by my mother’s Romish beliefs and fear for my immortal soul. I am here to do reparation for my many sins. Lead me to the most deserving cases!”
Sophie chuckled but said, “I warn you, I am taking you at your word, Don. Come along.”
She led him toward the room set aside for dancing. En route she pointed out the guests of honor—a tawny-haired young man and a breathtakingly beautiful young blonde.
“Now, how did she escape my notice?” Everdon murmured.
Sophie’s lips twitched. “She hid herself in Chelsea. But she was strictly interested in marriage anyway, so would have had no time for you, Don.”
Everdon kept his smile to himself. “Are there many unclaimed hopefuls this year?”
“The usual number, I suppose. I find it rather depressing. Now, let me find you a suitable hair shirt…”
Everdon quickly said, “Not Maud Tiverton. Please.”
Sophie grinned. “She would wipe away any number of sins, but she is not here.”
A set was already in progress, and so the wallflowers were obvious. Most were chattering to friends or chaperons, trying to pretend that this conversation was what they had come for. A few did not hesitate to look bored. One of these was Lady Deirdre Stowe. She sat by her mother, hands in lap, a vacant expression on her plain face.
Everdon had encountered Lady Deirdre any number of times in his mother’s rooms, for the two women’s interest in embroidery spanned the difference in age, but she had made little impression on him. On his way here he had tried to summon up a picture of her. He knew she was of medium height, and thin. He rather thought her hair was brown. He knew her voice neither appealed nor offended.
Now he studied her more closely. Some effort had been made to pretty her up for the evening, but if anything, it had made matters worse. A fussy pink dress overwhelmed her without disguising her thinness. A confection of curls pulled the hair from her face, emphasizing its angular length and pallor and an unfortunately heavy nose. That hair could not really be called brown, being more the color of weak milky tea.
She was plain, and close to being ugly.
He wasn’t repulsed. He experienced instead a spurt of pity, and rejoiced that he was going to brighten her life. He would surely be rewarded by gratitude at the very least.
“It seems a shame to disturb one of those interesting conversations,” he said. “Isn’t that Lady Deirdre Stowe over there? She’s a friend of my mother’s. Why not present me to her as a partner.”
Sophie Ashby, no fool, gave him a shrewd look. “I remind myself that you have never been known to toy with vulnerable hearts…Certainly. Lady Deirdre deserves a few more dances.”
Lady Harby looked up hopefully as they approached. A flicker of disappointment crossed her plumply amiable face when she saw that Lady Randal had a married man in tow, but then she smiled. When Everdon was presented to her daughter as a partner for the next set, she made no objection.
He took a seat next to Deirdre until the new dance started. Lady Deirdre looked faintly surprised at the turn of events, but not excited. He wondered if she was capable of excitement. He reminded himself that it didn’t matter. He intended that she stay quietly in the country, setting stitches and rearing children, while he sought excitement elsewhere.
He addressed a few conventional remarks to her—about the weather, and the recent excitement of the victory celebrations. She replied, but without animation.
He tried a new tack.
“I have seen the work my mother has in hand, Lady Deirdre. It is remarkable. I understand you are encouraging her to see her skills as art. I think you are correct.”
At last there was a spark of interest in her gray-blue eyes. “Thank you. I do believe people can be artists with the needle as well as with the brush.”
“Needle-painting, is it not called? I have seen the needlework renderings of Old Masters by Mrs. Knowles and Mrs. Linwood. They are very cleverly executed. Is this the kind of work you do, Lady Deirdre?”
Her animation faded. “No, not really.”
He was intrigued. “What, then, do you do?”
She looked down self-consciously, and her voice was muffled as she replied, “I create original designs, my lord. Most people do not admire my efforts.”
“Why not?” Everdon
recognized with resignation that the usual was happening. As soon as he met a sad woman, he felt a compulsion to make her happier in some way. He was distracted by wondering whether the urge would have taken him with Maud Tiverton, a woman whose nature was as ugly as her form.
His companion had said something. “I beg your pardon. The music drowned your words.”
She looked dubious, for where they sat, the music was not particularly loud, but she repeated, “I use my needle to create pictures of things other than flowers.”
“Surely that is not so unusual. Tapestries have formed scenes of landscapes, people, architecture…”
His interest had broken her reserve a little. “My work is not exactly tapestry. I use a variety of stitches.” She hesitated, then added, “I am experimenting with the style of Mr. Turner.”
Everdon had to admit he had difficulty envisioning embroidery in that sweeping, messy style. He was not an admirer of Mr. Turner’s paintings. He made the polite response. “I hope to see an example of your work one day, Lady Deirdre.”
Again a dubious look, but she replied conventionally. “I would be honored by your opinion, my lord. I understand you are a patron of the arts.”
“I buy what I like, particularly if it is by a young artist. I like to surround myself with beauty, and I hope I occasionally support a struggling new artist who will one day become someone great. See, Lady Deirdre, the set is over. Why don’t we walk as we wait for the next one to form?”
She rose without complaint, and he thought she must be glad to leave her station. He wondered if there were any men here he could encourage to dance with her. He had no intention of making her remarkable by dancing with her more than once, but had no desire to see her back in her tedium.
He saw the young Duke of Rowanford talking to another of Randal’s cousins, Chart Ashby, and a striking, dark-haired young woman. What a remarkable number of handsome ladies there were in Society when one stopped to look. He steered their way. The men were known to him, and handsome and highborn enough to be flattering dancing partners.
Rowanford raised his brows in surprise. “Hello, Don. Don’t often see you at these affairs.”