by M C Beaton
It had been like a dream come true. Penelope had said shyly that it was because of the kindness of the Earl of Hestleton, but Miss Augusta Harvey had put it down to her own new genteel image and, of course, the wily Miss Stride had encouraged her in that idea.
Penelope sat silently on her favorite corner of the window seat, content to watch Mr. Liwoski at work. A day or so ago he had completed a series of quick thumbnail sketches and was now starting on his canvas, laying down the ground surface of thin wash, a “brown sauce” he called it. He then occasionally wiped it with a rag to bring out the masses of light on the brow and the cheekbone, carefully checking the likeness from time to time. He had told the fascinated Penelope that a difference of quarter of an inch in the brushstroke, say on the lips, could make a mouth sinister or cruel if one were not very careful.
He was a thin, threadbare young man, who perpetually looked in need of a good meal which was, in fact, often the case.
Penelope watched his deft expert movements and dreamed of the evening at Almack’s to come.
She had taken dancing lessons in the art of performing the quadrille and the waltz. That very evening she would walk through the doors of Almack’s. She wondered if the Earl would be there. Try as she would, she could not forget that kiss. She should not have responded to it. But then the Earl should not have kissed her in the first place. Maybe he knew his advances would not be rejected, thought poor Penelope with scarlet cheeks.
His brother, Charles, had already engaged her for the first dance. He was vastly different from his austere brother, reflected Penelope. He was a frequent caller and always seemed to treat Aunt Augusta with a mixture of flattery and fear.
It was indeed very strange. But the behavior of so many people in London seemed strange. The famous dandies were not the elegant gentlemen that Penelope had been led to believe. She had already seen many of them as they sauntered down Piccadilly and Bond Street. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about them but their insolence. Generally middleaged, with rude, ill-bred manners, they were neither good looking, nor clever, nor agreeable. They swore a good deal, never laughed, and had their own particular brand of slang. The sportsmen, the Corinthians, seemed just as bad. Where the dandies minced, they swaggered and although their oaths were the same, they were pronounced in louder voices.
The young men, like Charles, who tried to ape the dandy set unfortunately copied their bad manners and their ridiculously exaggerated dress. The Earl, decided Penelope, could not be a dandy. He was too well-dressed. He could turn his head in the high confines of his cravat, and his coats were not tailored so that his collars bunched halfway up the back of his head.
Penelope became aware that Mr. Liwoski was packing up his materials. “After I have completed your portrait, madam,” he said to Miss Harvey, “I would be grateful if you would commission me to paint your lovely niece’s portrait.”
“Humph! We’ll see,” was all Augusta would say. She looked at Penelope and cast a meaning look at the clock. Penelope rose obediently to her feet. It would take the rest of the day to prepare for the all-important evening ahead.
To the Earl’s world-weary eyes Almack’s may have seemed dull, but to Penelope’s it appeared the epitome of high fashion. She felt like Cinderella arriving at the ball. Jewels flashed their myriad lights under the sparkling prisms of the crystal chandeliers. The air was heavy with scent worn by the guests, male and female alike, beeswax polish, oil lamps, and flowers. The dancers were whirling energetically in a Scottish reel, long tails flying, feathers bouncing as they weaved their way through the patterns of the figure eight.
The music stopped and Penelope found the Viscount at her side. He was correctly dressed in black and white. His cravat was snowy perfection and his knee breeches and stockings clung to his coltish legs without a wrinkle. He led her towards a set for a country dance that was just being made up and whispered in her ear, “I say, Miss Vesey. You look stunning. Take all the shine out of the others. By Jove, indeed you do!”
Penelope laughed at his gallantry, well aware that she could not possibly compete with any of the dark beauties with their intricate masses of brown or black hair and their flashing jewels. She did not know that the Viscount had spoken only the truth.
Her blond hair was dressed high on her head in a mass of soft curls with one thick ringlet falling onto her shoulder. Her dress was of the finest white Indian muslin, threaded under the breast with gold ribbons. The neckline was fashionably low and was framed by a stiffened lace collar, pointed in the Elizabethan manner. Her only ornaments were the modest string of pearls at her throat and a thin pearl and gold circlet set among her curls.
When the figure of the dance briefly brought Penelope and her partner together, the Viscount suddenly whispered to her, “Have a care! You are too young and innocent to have an aunt like that!”
Penelope flushed with anger and, when their steps brought them together again, she said, “If you dislike my aunt so much, why do you keep calling on us?”
“Because of you, my dear,” said Charles with one of the falsest smiles Penelope thought she had ever seen.
Penelope bit her lip as she gracefully twisted and turned in the steps of the dance. She could not see the Earl anywhere. Almack’s was not such a splendid place, after all!
The dance ended. Then the quadrille was announced, and Penelope found herself without a partner.
From her vantage point beside Miss Harvey’s great bulk, Miss Stride noted the fact and whispered to her companion, “It is generally known that your niece has no money.”
“So,” said Augusta. “What are you trying to say? Stop mumbling and get to the point.” Augusta did not waste any of her newfound airs and graces on Miss Stride.
“Well, if a girl is portionless, she is apt to lack dancing partners. Even rich men fight shy of a dowerless girl. You should let me put it about that you will leave Penelope your fortune when you die and then you will see the men flutter about her.”
“I ain’t leaving her a penny,” snapped Augusta.
“Really!” replied Miss Stride acidly. “What were you going to do with your money when you died. Take it with you?”
Augusta had not once thought of death. That was something that happened to other people. But it would do no harm to say she was leaving the girl her money. “Oh, very well,” she said sourly, “though I must say I’m surprised that these society gents should be so mercenary.”
“Gentlemen,” corrected Miss Stride automatically and wondered why Augusta, so mercenary herself, should be so surprised to discover other people to be the same. But then one always intensely dislikes the faults in other people that one has oneself.
Miss Stride rose to her feet and began to drift from group to group, whispering and chattering, her feathered headdress bobbing and nodding. She looked for all the world like an elderly chicken scratching for again.
Penelope was watching the quadrille since she had never seen it performed except by her dancing master. One lady was performing her steps with marvellous expertise. She learned later that the expert was none other than the beautiful Lady Harriet Butler who had received dancing lessons from the celebrated Vestris. She was making the most beautiful entrechats, leaping from the floor and beating her little feet in the air to the amazement and admiration of a watching audience. She was partnered by the fat and elderly Lord Graves who was so overcome by his fair partner’s entrechats that he attempted to do the same. He leaped up in the air and then fell heavily on the floor. Poor Lord Graves staggered to his feet and performed the rest of the dance as best he could.
When the quadrille finished, Lord Graves and Lady Harriet were just passing Penelope, when Lord Graves was waylaid by Sir John Burke, who said in a very sarcastic voice, “What induced you at your age and in your state to make so great a fool of yourself as to attempt an entrechat?”
Lord Graves faced Sir John, his large face empurpled with fury. “If you think I am too old to dance,” he snapped, “I conside
r myself not too old to blow your brains out for your impertinence. So the sooner you find a second the better.”
Penelope held her breath. Was this going to result in a duel? But Lord Sefton had heard the discussion and came quickly to the rescue. He put a slim hand on the enraged Lord Graves’s arm. “Tut, tut, tut, man,” he said soothingly, “the sooner you shake hands the better, for the fact is, the world will condemn you both if you fight on such slight grounds. And you, Graves, won’t have a leg to stand on.”
Lord Graves and Sir John burst out laughing and shook hands, and Penelope, turning round, saw that she was being surrounded by men, begging for the next dance. Miss Stride had done her work well. No one wanted Miss Harvey with her seventy-five thousand pounds. But the beautiful Penelope with that amount of money was a different matter.
And so that was how the Earl of Hestleton saw her when he entered the ballroom at Almack’s. She was laughing and blushing, her large blue eyes sparkling with delight, surrounded by her court of admirers.
I have indeed helped Miss Penelope well on the road to matrimony, thought the Earl wryly. He was irked to discover that Penelope was so sought after. He realised that he had believed the vulgarity of her aunt and her own lack of fortune would have prevented such popularity. He had envisaged her sitting quietly on her rout chair at Almack’s, perhaps dancing with Charles, but certainly awaiting his arrival anxiously. With a feeling of pique he realised she had not even noticed him entering the room.
He leaned against a pillar under the musicians gallery and, as Neil Gow and his orchestra sawed away enthusiastically at yet another Scottish reel, he was able to observe the grace and elegance with which Miss Vesey performed her steps.
“I’m paying her too much attention,” he thought and turned his gaze elsewhere. His pale eyes narrowed as he saw his brother entering the cardroom on the far side with the Comte de Chernier. He detached himself from the pillar and made his way round the ballroom in pursuit of them, unaware that Penelope was watching him go and wondering why she felt so flat.
The Comte de Chernier and Charles were standing in a corner of the cardroom, talking quietly. The Comte was dressed in the finest elegance. His hair was powdered and his evening dress sparkled with jewels. He had a thin yellowish face and black eyes which did not seem to register any emotion at all. As the Earl watched, Charles cautiously drew some papers out of his pocket and slipped them to the Comte.
The Earl strode across the room and towered over them. His thin, strong hand clasped the Comte’s ruffled wrist. “Have you been gambling, Charles?” he demanded. Both Charles and the Comte were staring down at the Earl’s hand as if mesmerised. Then the Comte gave a light laugh and said, “I see I have been found out. These are unfortunately some love letters of mine. Charles was my messenger of love and took them to the lady but… alas…” His shoulders rose and fell in a Gallic shrug, “she returned them, as you see.”
“And what the hell has it got to do with you, Roger?” gritted Charles, his pallor highlighting the marks of dissipation on his young face. “Were you not my brother, I would call you out!”
The Earl released the Comte’s wrist, but his eyes still seemed to bore into the package of papers. “Please accept my apologies, Monsieur le Comte. I am… er… overprotective where my brother is concerned.”
“Very commendable,” drawled the Comte, shaking out his ruffles. “I gather you thought Charles was giving me his note of hand.”
“Precisely,” said the Earl. “You see it has happened before. But you have given me your word, Charles, that you have ceased gambling and it is monstróus of me not to take you at your word. Come, little brother, shake hands with me and say you forgive me.”
Charles glared at him and then felt the Comte prod him urgently in the back. “Oh, very well,” he said ungraciously. “But mind you don’t do it again. You ain’t my father, you know.”
“No,” said the Earl with a sigh, “I’m not—although I sometimes think it would be easier an’ I were.”
The Earl bowed to the Comte, nodded to his brother, and turned on his heel and walked back into the ballroom. A frown of worry creased his brow. Charles had been lying, of that he was sure.
Charles drew a breath of relief and then turned to his companion. “Look, de Chernier,” he said. “I can’t stand much more of this. I snitched these papers from Horseguards when I was visiting old Colonel Witherspoon. And I’ve been thinking. You can’t expose me without exposing yourself. What if I tell Roger everything?”
“Then you will hang,” said the Comte, “and so will I. But think, dear boy, my work here is nearly finished. Two more months and then you shall be free.”
“I can’t go on,” said Charles, his thin face working with emotion. “I’m a traitor to my country. Do you know what that means, damn you!”
“Keep your voice down,” said the Comte smoothly. He produced a roll of bank notes from his pocket and held them up in front of Charles who stared at the money as if hypnotised. “Payment for services rendered,” said the Comte softly.
“I won’t take it,” said Charles wildly. “At least you will no longer be able to say I took the money.”
“At Watier’s this evening,” said the Comte, still holding the money in front of Charles’s face, “there is a game of hazard. Golden Ball is playing.” “Ball” Hughes was reputed to be the richest man in London.
“No,” gasped Charles. “I won’t.” But already the gambling fever was burning in his eyes.
“Think,” went on the Comte, leaning his thin face close to the Viscount. “If you pay me back, all I have given you, then I shall return you the papers and you will be free.”
“You swear it,” gasped Charles.
“My word as a de Chernier,” said the Comte with a smile.
“I’ll take it, God damn your rotten soul,” said Charles. “I know I shall be lucky tonight.” He tore the money from the Comte’s hand and almost ran from the room.
The Comte brushed his fingers lightly and turned to enter the ballroom. He found his way was blocked by a large lady with a smile like an alligator.
“’Scuse me, dear Comte,” said this apparition, “being so forward and all. But I am a friend of the Hestletons. Miss Augusta Harvey is my name. Feel free to call on me anytime you wish. I know….”
But the Comte rudely pushed past her without a word, and Augusta watched him go with an unlovely smile on her face which changed to one of real delight. Penelope was waltzing with the Earl.
Penelope had danced every dance except the waltz since she had not been given permission by the Patronesses to dance it and none of her partners had been enterprising enough to request that permission. It was the Earl who had prevailed on Lady Cowper to allow Penelope to stand up with him.
He now held her in his arms and looked down at her flushed and happy face. “You look so beautiful, Miss Vesey, he whispered, “that I am sorely tempted to kiss you again.”
“Oh, how can you,” cried Penelope with flaming cheeks.
“Quite easily,” he teased. “But not at Almack’s. I should never live it down.”
“I-I d-do not want y-you to think I l-let gentlemen kiss me,” stammered Penelope. “I had never been kissed before.”
“Let me assure you,” replied the Earl earnestly, “that you do it very well.”
“Oooooh!” breathed Penelope. “How infuriating you are! You obviously think I am not a lady.”
“On the contrary,” he said in a husky voice, “I find you adorable.”
Penelope glanced swiftly up into his eyes, and the warmth and intensity of his gaze nearly stopped her heart.
The dance came to an end, and Penelope’s next partner immediately appeared. She stared back at the Earl with an almost pleading look on her face, and he gave her a reassuring smile.
The Earl had tumbled suddenly and irrevocably into love. When he had held her in his arms during the first bars of the waltz, he had realised with a shock of alarm that he never wanted to
let go of her again. He thought wildly of what he owed his ancient name, he thought of Augusta Harvey—and all in vain. He wanted Penelope Vesey as his wife.
Chapter Six
Despite the Earl’s social power, not all of polite society rushed to leave cards at the house in Brook Street. But a few did arrive, and that was a beginning as far as Augusta Harvey was concerned.
Her daily lessons from Miss Stride continued and did much to modify her dress and manner although she could only sustain the latter improvement for very short periods indeed.
Mr. Liwoski worked diligently on Augusta’s portrait, and Penelope sat on the window seat and alternately watched him and dreamed of the Earl.
She had not seen him since that ball at Almack’s. Three long days had passed and still he did not call. She tried to put him down in her mind as an accomplished flirt and then remembered the warm expression in his eyes and was slightly comforted.
The Prince Regent had held a tremendous dinner at Clarence House in honor of the visiting French royal family the day before. Neither Augusta nor her niece had been invited. That was aiming too high, too soon, Miss Stride had informed them with a superior air.
Clarence House and its grounds had been thrown open that day to the curious public, and Augusta had had to be almost forcibly restrained from going. Only the common people would be there, Miss Stride had assured her.
Charles had not called either. Rumors were flying about London that he had won a vast amount at Waiter’s. Penelope, who had guessed that Charles suffered from the Fatal Curse, wondered if concern for his young brother had kept the Earl away.
The Earl had in fact been called away to his estates on urgent business and had therefore not heard of his brother’s gambling success.
Charles at that moment was triumphantly rapping on the Courtlands’ knocker. He had gone to settle his debt with the Comte. Yes, the Comte de Chernier was at home and would be pleased to see him, he was informed, and Charles took a deep breath of relief. The nightmare would soon be over.