by M. C. Beaton
But she gritted her teeth and summoned London’s leading dressmaker to Berkeley Square and ordered a new wardrobe. She applied for, and got, a box at the opera, not knowing that, had it not been for Rainbird’s timely gossip, she would have been turned down by the stern committee who kept the Italian Opera as exclusive as Almack’s Assembly Rooms.
Although she had reached the great age of twenty-six, put on caps, and resigned herself to a life as a spinster, Esther knew that she would be damned as eccentric if she made her appearance at the opera unescorted. In despair, she sent for Rainbird, the only person she knew who might be able to solve her problem.
As far as the children’s party was concerned, at least, all seemed set for success. The invitations had gone out, and had all been accepted.
While Esther worried about making her social début, Lord Guy had received a sharp setback to his own plans.
A middle-aged cousin he only vaguely remembered arrived on his doorstep, complete with luggage, carrying a letter from his father, the Earl of Cramworth. Her name was Miss Ruth Fipps. She was fat, pleasant and faded, and sure of her welcome.
“Your father will explain everything,” she said. “That nice housekeeper, Mrs. Middleton, suggests I should take the large bedroom next to the dining room while you and Mr. Roger share the bedrooms on the next floor.”
“She did, did she?” said Lord Guy pleasantly, although he was wishing Miss Fipps would disappear. He waited until Alice had served his cousin with tea and left the room, and then he opened the letter from his father.
The earl wrote that he had received Guy’s letter from Portugal giving his proposed address in London. He went on to give a great deal of rambling gossip about the estate, and ended, “I am sending you Miss Fipps, your cousin, and one of our poor relations. I have had her with me this age, and feel it is time you shared some of the responsibility of looking after the family incumbents. If you are still suffering from the effects of the fever, she can help to nurse you. I may also be sending you your Great Aunt Josephine. If, however, you have decided to please me by taking a wife—and I do not mean someone else’s wife—I shall send for Miss Fipps and spare you Great Aunt Josephine’s presence.”
Lord Guy put down the letter and smiled bleakly at Miss Fipps, who nodded vaguely and smiled back.
Rainbird entered the room. “May I beg a word with you in private, my lord?” he said.
Sure it was more news of his beloved, Lord Guy made his excuses to his cousin and drew Rainbird out into the hall.
“My lord,” said Rainbird in a low voice. “Miss Jones has once again asked my advice.”
“On what?”
“Miss Jones wishes to launch herself on society and is in need of a genteel female companion.” Rainbird looked meaningfully at the closed parlour door. “And you, my lord, have an unexpected visit from a cousin.”
“Have you heard of Machiavelli, Rainbird?”
“Yes, my lord. Some Italian, was he not?”
“Yes, he was. Wait here.”
Lord Guy pinned a winning smile on his face and went back into the parlour. “My dear Miss Fipps,” he said. “My very dear Miss Fipps. I wish you to perform a service for me which will enable you to earn a comfortable sum of money….”
Chapter
Six
They laugh, and are glad, and are terrible.
—HEBRIDEAN FOLK SONG
The day of Esther’s children’s party dawned cold and bright.
Rainbird, Angus, and Joseph were at Berkeley Square early in the morning to begin the preparations. As well as confections for the children, cakes, ratafia, champagne, and negus had to be set out for their mothers.
The party would take place in the downstairs saloon. The mothers were expected to retire and take refreshment in the upstairs drawing room. The party was to begin at two and end at four. Lord Guy was to stroll past the house at two-thirty precisely.
Miss Fipps, hired as companion to Esther, was not in on the plot. She had been told to conceal her relationship to Lord Guy. To enable her to remember this vital fact, Lord Guy had paid her a substantial sum of money. Esther, who normally would not have dreamt of engaging anyone without demanding and checking references thoroughly, was so anxious to begin her début and too grateful to Rainbird for having produced such a suitable lady at such short notice, that she had hired Miss Fipps after questioning her only for some ten minutes.
So Lord Guy’s cousin found herself in comfortable circumstances and with money in her reticule for the first time in her life. She was placid and undemanding, but she loved food in great quantities and had found the Earl of Cram worth’s table too stingy for her tastes. Being a poor relation, she was used to fitting quietly into different households. She was one of those ladies who have absolutely no taste whatsoever when it comes to dressing herself but have a sharp eye for what will best flatter someone else. Esther was persuaded to cancel several gowns because of what Miss Fipps described as “an unfortunate choice of colour.” She was highly flattered when Esther bowed before her superior wisdom and cancelled two pink gowns, one of dark purple, and another one in a depressing shade of mud-brown.
All seemed set fair for Rainbird’s campaign.
And then, just after the butler had left that morning, Lord Guy was summoned to Horse Guards.
“What do they want?” asked Mr. Roger.
“Might be out to try to get Wellington. These military men in Horse Guards always think they can run battles from London better than the commander on the spot,” said Lord Guy. “Or, of course, it could be that scandal of his brother’s.”
Wellington’s brother, Richard, Lord Wellesley, had caused a royal fuss when he had taken out to Spain, in great pomp and circumstance, in a separate ship hired for the purpose, a common whore called Sally Douglas.
“I only hope I am not kept kicking my heels,” said Lord Guy. “It is General Warren Thomson who has sent for me. He is an old man, and the old men still think Wellington a young hothead.”
When the two friends reached the military headquarters at Horse Guards, Lord Guy was told he must wait. After pacing up and down an ante-room for an hour, Lord Guy was eventually summoned through to the general’s office. Mr. Roger settled himself down to wait. His eyes were beginning to droop and his head to nod when he thought he saw Manuel standing with his ear pressed to the door.
He jerked bolt upright and opened his eyes wide. But Manuel was standing over by the window, moodily staring out.
Mr. Roger looked at the Spanish servant. Surely he could not have moved that quickly. He, Tommy Roger, must have been imagining things. But just to be sure …
“Hey, Manuel,” he said. “Run out and buy me some cheroots. Looks as if it’s going to be a long wait.”
Manuel stood quite still, his eyes blank. For one minute Mr. Roger thought he was going to refuse to go. Then, with a little shrug, he bowed and left.
Mr. Roger picked up his chair, carried it over to the general’s door, leaned it against it, and settled himself comfortably. He really must have a word with Guy about that Spaniard was his last thought before he fell asleep.
On Rainbird’s instructions, Esther had invited five ladies and their children. The children, ranging in age from three to fourteen, numbered twenty. Lady Partlett had five, Mrs. Havers-Dunese, six; the Countess of Resway, two; Mrs. Dunstable, four; and the Honourable Clara ffrench, three.
All five ladies were extremely modishly dressed, although brittle-voiced and evasive of eye. Their glances slid this way and that as they assessed the value of the furniture, the curtains, and Esther’s new gown—a becoming green crêpe. Esther’s hair had been dressed à la Grecque. With her great height and her beautiful, if somewhat stern, features, she looked more like the goddess of Lord Guy’s dreams than ever.
The children were herded into the downstairs saloon and told to behave themselves and enjoy the entertainment. Esther, who wanted to stay to watch Rainbird’s performance, found to her disappointment she was
expected to entertain the mothers in the drawing-room.
The five ladies exclaimed with many flattering coos of delight over the splendour of the delicacies prepared for them and the excellence of the champagne. Then they turned their attention to their hostess. They clustered around her like so many elegant and exotic birds of prey, particularly as feathers were in fashion that Season. The Countess of Resway, her scrawny neck rising like that of a vulture from a collar of white marabou, was the first to realise that Esther was socially ignorant of who was what and what was what in tonnish circles.
“My dear Miss Jones,” she said, demolishing seed cake with little pecking movements of her lips, “you must know dear George.”
“Dear George” was Mr. Brummell, that famous arbiter of fashion, but Esther, unused to this tactic of dropping the first names of famous people, looked blank.
“I am afraid I know hardly anyone,” said Esther meekly.
Their eyes shone with delight. With many “oh-my-dear-but-you-musts” they set about the delicious task of making Esther feel like a provincial dowd. So great was her mortification that it was some time before she began to hear the tremendous screams and yells and bumps coming from downstairs.
She was about to rise and go to see what was happening, when vague Miss Fipps cleared her throat and unexpectedly rose to Esther’s defence. Esther could not believe it. She had regarded Miss Fipps as a necessary appendage but had never thought of her in the role of champion.
She would have been startled and touched could she have known that Miss Fipps never before had entered the lists, but that the middle-aged spinster had rapidly become very fond of her indeed.
“Miss Jones does not know anyone as yet,” said Miss Fipps. “The reason for this is because Miss Jones is the richest woman in England and has to fight shy of toad-eaters, counter-jumpers, and impoverished members of the ton. She sets very high standards of behaviour for herself and others. She does not need the approval of society. But society is on trial today in her eyes, ladies. It is up to you whether she forms a good opinion of the ton or not.”
Esther forced herself to look calm and stately. The ladies at first bridled at the idea of anyone putting them on trial. But the magic words that they had half put down to exaggerated servants’ gossip rang in their ears like a siren’s song—“the richest woman in England.”
They all did a quick about-turn and began to promise invitations, to praise Esther’s gown, her manner, her hair, and her home until she felt every bit as uncomfortable as she had done when they were being thoroughly nasty.
Then the door of the drawing-room swung open, and Peter stood there, bespattered with cake.
“Come quickly, Esther,” he cried. “They are breaking up our home. They are savages!”
“Hair!” said Lord Guy savagely as he and Mr. Roger drove furiously in the direction of Berkeley Square. “Hair! That’s all the old fool wanted to talk about. He went on for hours. Why had Wellington got rid of the famous British army pigtail? It was demoralising the forces. It was giving power to Napoleon. I said it was simply a matter of hygiene. Each man now has to have his head cropped close, and it has to be sponged every day. He said all this washing was insane. What was all this fuss about a few little grey gentlemen—by which he meant lice. Had them himself, said the dirty old … general, producing a scratcher and stirring them about on his head right in front of me.”
“Well, at least Manuel couldn’t have heard any military secrets,” said Mr. Roger.
“What do you mean?”
“Swear I nearly caught the chap with his ear at the door, but I might be mistaken. Anyway, I sent him out for cheroots and blocked the door myself.”
“Don’t start suspecting Manuel of being a spy. According to everyone in London, every foreigner is a spy. They set on some poor old French emigré yesterday at King’s Cross and half killed him.”
“All the same,” began Mr. Roger with a worried frown.
“Never mind,” interrupted Lord Guy. “Here we are, and fifteen minutes late.”
From the house in Berkeley Square came the sounds of screaming women and breaking glass.
Once more, Lord Guy opened the door and strode in uninvited. He walked straight into the battlefield in the saloon.
Children were shouting and crying and throwing jellies. Esther was holding a kicking, screaming child of six under one arm while the child’s diminutive mother—Mrs. Havers-Dunese—jumped up and down, calling her a murderess, trying to snatch her child back with one hand and scratch Esther’s face with the other.
The Countess of Resway was in a faint, and her lady’s maid was trying to holding burning feathers under her nose while an angel-faced moppet stuffed a cream cake into the brim of the distracted maid’s hat.
The table-cloth on the long table at one end of the room which had held the food had been half dragged off. Three tots were sitting amongst the wreckage, howling like banshees, while the older children whooped about the room like Red Indians on the warpath.
Esther saw Lord Guy Carlton. It was too much, she thought. She was about to scream to him to get out when she realised an uncanny silence had fallen on the room. Yet he did nothing. He simply stood there, in all the elegance of Weston’s tailoring, in all the starched whiteness of fine linen, in all the glory of embroidered waistcoat, leather breeches, and top-boots like black glass, and surveyed the appalling scene through his quizzing glass.
The children were staring at him in open-mouthed silence. The Countess of Resway had snapped out of her faint, thrust her maid and feathers away, and had started to pat her hair. Mrs. Havers-Dunese was smiling coyly; Mrs. Dunstable was striking her best Attitude, that of Artemis, hand shading the brow and one foot lifted out behind her; the Honourable Clara ffrench had turned away and was surreptitiously poking loose tendrils of hair back up under her hat; and Lady Partlett was pouting archly and waving her hands in a deprecating way as if to indicate it all had nothing to do with her.
Lord Guy let his quizzing glass fall. He looked at the eldest child, Bartholomew Dunstable, a gawky fourteen-year-old, and crooked his finger.
Bartholomew meekly came to stand in front of him.
“I elect you the captain of this regiment,” said Lord Guy. “Miss Jones will summon her housemaids, who will give each child dustpans, brushes, cloths, and bowls of water. When this room is completely cleaned, you will inform Miss Jones of the fact. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bartholomew with a sycophantic smile.
“Rainbird,” said Lord Guy, “have I missed your performance?”
“No, my lord. I have not had a chance to get started.”
“I look forward to seeing it. I suggest you retire below-stairs with Joseph until such time as the room is cleared. Miss Jones, your arm. We will also retire.”
Esther blinked up at him. How odd, she thought, to be able actually to look up at a man.
She allowed him to lead her from the room after stopping to give her butler, Graves—who was found hiding in a corner of the hall—instructions for the maids.
The mothers trailed behind.
Back in the drawing-room, Esther waited until the ladies were seated and then asked, rather frostily, “To what do I owe the honour of your visit, my lord?”
“Will you not present me first?” asked Lord Guy, smiling down into her eyes.
“Oh!” Esther blushed and made the introduction: “Lord Guy Carlton—who is presently residing at Number Sixty-seven Clarges Street,” she added maliciously, hoping that the name of that house of ill repute would be enough to wipe the smiles off the faces of the ladies.
But all it did was to make them seem more charmed with him than ever. Slyly they teased him about the “goings-on” at that famous party—for the fame of the debauch had spread about the West End. Lord Guy made a moving speech about the bloodiness of war and how it made him behave like any common foot-soldier on leave. They sighed sympathetically and said it was perfectly understandable.
“Oh, my dear,” tittered the Countess of Resway, once more patronising, “when you become accustomed to tonnish ways, you will find everyone loves a rake!”
“Alas! They cannot love me,” said Lord Guy, “for Miss Jones has reformed me.”
“I ask you again,” said Esther, colouring, “the reason for your visit, my lord.”
“I had forgotten the time we were to go driving,” said Lord Guy, “and called to refresh my memory. But it was five, was it not?”
There was a little silence. Esther was about to say he was lying, she had never made such an arrangement, when she caught a look of naked, venomous jealousy in the countess’s eyes.
A very feminine impulse, immediately regretted, made her say, “Yes, it was five,” and then she avoided Lord Guy’s amused gaze.
Outside the house, Mr. Roger fidgeted impatiently.
“Your cheroots, sir,” said a voice from the pavement.
He looked down and saw Manuel. “How the deuce did you know where to find me?” he demanded.
“I saw milord’s carriage leaving just as I was coming back, and I run after it.”
Mr. Roger looked at him suspiciously. “Does it usually take you several hours to find cheroots, Manuel?”
“No, sir. But these are the best in London. I go to the City for them.”
Mr. Roger had an uneasy feeling that the Spaniard was laughing at him somewhere behind those expressionless eyes of his.
“Cut along home then,” he said sharply. “I’ll follow you. I think Lord Guy is going to be engaged for some time.”
Indoors, Esther was covertly studying Lord Guy as he sat, very much at his ease, talking to the ladies. She put down her glass of lemonade and poured herself a glass of champagne instead. She felt the need to fortify herself against the time when the party would be over and she would need to tell Lord Guy she had no intention of going driving with him.