by Lynn Morris
“Curious,” Lord Southam said. “But then you are a singular woman. It’s this way, I believe.” He led her around behind the circle of supper boxes to another wooded grove, with small side paths surrounded by privet hedges. In the center was a life-size statue of the composer.
“Why do you like this statue?” Lord Southam asked intently.
“It’s remarkable, because Roubiliac did it in 1738, at a time when life-sized statues were only done of royalty, or of great military leaders. Although he was a great composer, Handel was only a commoner.” She smiled up at Southam. “But in truth I like it because it’s whimsical. He’s in his dressing gown and slippers and nightcap. Handel’s music is so stately, so dignified, I like to think of him as having a quaint sense of humor.”
“Extraordinary,” Lord Southam said in a low voice.
“What is? That Handel should have a sense of humor?”
“No, that you’re actually interesting.”
“That’s very faint praise, sir.”
“Not from me.”
They went on to make their way toward the theatre, lingering at one of the ornate octagonal pavilions to watch the passersby, and saw and greeted several acquaintances. They strolled in a circle around the golden statue of Aurora, goddess of the dawn, joining Giles and Barbara, and then Josephine and Harry Smythe and Lewin. Together they went to the theatre and found Lord and Lady Camarden. The theatre was grand, with Roman columns and a lofty ceiling, but it had no seats. In the middle of the room was a great circle of torches, casting lurid, dramatic lighting on the acrobats. Ten men performed almost miraculously, tumbling and somersaulting and vaulting each other high through the air in balletic choreography. Not only were they superb athletes, they were as graceful as dancers.
Standing beside Barbara, Mirabella noticed her friend’s face. She was obviously captivated, her expression one of sheer childlike delight and wonder. Then, in the flickering torchlight, Mirabella noticed Giles watching Miss Smythe. He seemed amused, but he looked warm, as if the sight gave him pleasure. In some odd way it unsettled Mirabella. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it for long moments, but as she pondered it she realized that she had often seen that particular expression on Giles’s face—but only when he was looking at her. Great heavens, what’s wrong with me? It’s not as if Giles never looks at another woman. Barbara is so sweet, it does give pleasure to see her enjoying herself so much.
Mirabella dismissed the thoughts from her mind and turned her attention back to the acrobats. Their skills earned a very enthusiastic round of applause from the audience.
As it was almost nine o’clock, when supper would be served, the party returned to its box. It was full dusk, and the lanes were growing dark. As they neared the Grove, a loud shrill whistle sounded. Servants were stationed all over the gardens, holding slow matches. As one they lit the thousands of lanterns, and the gardens were suddenly brilliant.
“Oh, how thrilling!” Barbara breathed. “I’ve never seen a sight to compare!”
Affectionately Mirabella said, “You’re such a darling, Barbara. To see your delight has increased mine, I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated Vauxhall so much.”
Their table was set, and a waiter immediately served them when they sat down. Lord Southam said, “I took the liberty of ordering everything, for I like to sample it all. I mean no slight to your magnificent Monsieur Danton, Camarden, but sometimes I prefer plain English fare to Frenchified flummery.”
“As do I, although Monsieur Danton pays no more attention to my wishes than he does to my wife’s,” Lord Camarden rasped. “I’ve always thoroughly enjoyed all of Vauxhall’s offerings.”
The suppers were simple, but delicious. Cold roast chicken, lobsters, anchovies, and potted pigeon, and of course the famous ham, sliced “muslin thin” so that “one could read a newspaper through it,” were the entrees, with sides of salads, pickles, and relishes. Sweets included custards, pastries, and cheesecakes. The diners ate with satisfaction, with congenial conversation at the table, for almost two hours.
After they dined, the party left to wander the gardens again. Lord Southam said, “The fireworks are about to begin. It’s been my experience that the full effect is better seen if one gets away from the glare of the Grove, and moves closer to the fire tower. Shall we?”
Mirabella took his arm, and he placed his hand over hers and pressed close to her. They walked up one of the long shaded lanes, where side paths led to small arbors with stone benches. The side paths were called the “Dark Paths,” and had a reputation for hosting romantic liaisons, but no thought of caution entered Mirabella’s mind as they sat down, and he kept his hold on her hand.
The fireworks began, and they were, as always, spectacular. Mirabella’s face was upturned with pleasure, lit at intervals by greenish, then blue, then reddish, then bright yellow-white flashes, accompanied by distant booms. “I love fireworks,” Mirabella said dreamily.
“Then you shall have them every day, if you wish,” Lord Southam said quietly.
“I beg your pardon?” Mirabella asked, bemused.
He stared at her intently, and always after, Mirabella recalled the scene as somewhat surreal, with the unearthly flashes lighting his face, accompanied by the rhythmic thunder.
He pressed her hand. “I have come to have a great regard for you, Mirabella, and I believe you feel the same for me. We do very well together, and will do. Why shouldn’t we make our announcement?”
Mirabella was stunned. “You mean—you can’t mean—you’re making a proposal of marriage? Now?”
“Of course, why not? We’re adults, and both of us know what we want. Isn’t that true?” He slid his arm around her waist, pulled her close, and pressed his lips to hers. Mirabella was so astonished that she was paralyzed for long moments. Then she jerked her face to the side, and pushed against his chest. But it was like pushing on a stone wall, and still he held her close. “Sir, what are you doing? Let me go, this instant!”
He seemed frozen, baffled. He muttered, “I never thought you would have such missish vapors, it never occurred to me. I thought this was what you wanted.”
Mirabella pushed hard, and this time he released her. She jumped to her feet, stiff with indignation. “You are sadly mistaken! I’ve given you no signs to take such license with me!”
He frowned. “I hate to contradict a lady, but it’s known that you are, at last, ready to marry, Mirabella. You’ve shown a definite preference for me. Can you deny it?”
“I—I—no, I can’t deny that,” she admitted with confusion. “But still, I never intended to invite—intimacies.”
Evenly he said, “You intend to marry, but not to invite intimacies? I don’t think it’s possible you’re that naïve. I assume that this sudden prudish fastidiousness is your view of how young ladies behave when they become engaged. I assure you that you’re wrong. Besides, it was just a kiss, it’s not as if I assaulted you.”
Mirabella pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “You’re confusing me. We barely know each other, it’s much too soon! It’s an affront to me, sir, that you believe you can take such impudent liberties with me. You can’t possibly tell me that my behavior in any way encouraged it.”
“But I can,” he said, standing up to face her. Now he was gentle, however, and took her hand. “The way you look at me, and the way you smile at me has told me. We’re an eminently suitable match, Mirabella. I know that I could never do any better than to marry you. I think, I hope you have thought the same.”
His words made her cheeks flush, and she took a deep indrawn breath. Haven’t I been thinking exactly the same thing? But it sounds so—cold, so calculating when he says it. Of course Mirabella had thought, and said, exactly the same thing in the same manner; but she was in too much turmoil to realize it.
Now she looked up at him and said coolly, “Lord Southam, it seems that each of us has misjudged the other. I have no intention of having a passionate interlude with you, and I never gave
you any indication that I desired it. And on my part, I was gravely mistaken because I thought that you were more of a gentleman.”
His face hardened and his eyes narrowed. Frigidly he said, “I see. Well, I’m not so much of a cad that I won’t apologize to a lady. Please accept my sincerest regrets, Lady Mirabella, for the affront. I can assure you I won’t offend you any further with any importunities.”
Mirabella was suddenly exhausted. Wearily she said, “I accept your apology with the best will, sir. Perhaps we may return to our party now?”
“Certainly, madam.” Stiffly he offered her his arm; he walked a full six inches away from her, staring straight ahead.
As dictated by the rules of Polite Society, they had both regained their composure by the time they returned to the Grove. The fireworks display ended, and the party grouped together again in the supper box for refreshments. Lord Southam was courteous, but he took particular care to engage Lewin, Giles, Harry Smythe, and Lord Camarden in conversation. Mirabella, her mother, Josephine, and Barbara talked about the delights of the acrobats, and the fireworks. Neither Mirabella nor Lord Southam showed the least bit of uneasiness. Mirabella was upset, but she thought she was successful in hiding it, as she smiled and talked with her usual vivacity.
She noticed, however, that Giles’s gaze often rested on her face. He was thoughtful.
He knows, she thought with a start.
He always knows.
Chapter Thirteen
Three young bucks strutted down Bond Street, stepping gallantly aside to allow the ladies and their maids to pass. The street was not at all crowded, however, as it was the unearthly early hour of nine o’clock in the morning.
Sir Giles Knyvet was nattily dressed in a well-cut dark blue tailcoat, fawn-colored breeches and top boots. Lewin was, as always, dressed in his manly regimentals. Harry Smythe was as finely tailored as Giles, with an olive-green coat, tight pantaloons, and Hessian boots. Both Lewin and Harry carried small portmanteaux. “Gentleman” John Jackson, whose nickname suited him in all ways, had decreed that any man who boxed in his saloon would wear knee breeches, stockings, and plain soft cotton pumps. “I’ll not have fool dandies stamping around the ring in buckskins and boots, like a backstreet brawl,” he had said.
Harry said, “I’m feeling vigorous this morning in spite of a late night at the Daffy Club. Would anyone care to make a small wager on our bout?”
Lewin said, “Giles never gambles because he thinks it’s a weakness, and I never gamble because I have good sense and no money. Sorry, old fellow.”
“No matter,” Harry said cheerfully. “I’m going to enjoy my victory all the same.”
“Swaggering young pup, ain’t he?” Giles observed to Lewin.
Gentleman Jackson’s saloon was strictly a sportsman’s domain, but it had a spare elegance. One long, low room was designated for training pugilists, a second room was for fencing and the ancient art of stick fighting, which young dandies gleefully did with their walking sticks. Both rooms had highly polished oak floors, kept scrupulously clean. The walls were decorated with prints of famous bouts, portraits of well-known pugilists, and diagrams explaining the science of boxing.
Since his long-ago rough-and-tumble days with Lewin, Giles had never cared for boxing, although he was actually a formidable opponent, for when he did indulge, he hit hard and accurately and was very quick. But over the years he had come to much prefer fencing. However, he did admire Jackson, who had almost single-handedly elevated pugilism not only to an exacting science, but to an art. Giles had frequented the saloon often this Season, partly because Lewin was such an enthusiastic competitor, but also because Giles had come to enjoy exercising with the weights that were standard training equipment for Jackson’s students.
They came into the boxing room and were surprised to see a large crowd already gathered and sitting in the chairs that the saloon provided for observers. Normally two or three gentlemen might be sparring with partners, with other gentlemen exercising. Today, however, only two men were boxing on the floor: Lord Southam and Gentleman John Jackson himself. Jackson was not as tall as Lord Southam, but he was fully as muscular. Always, when Jackson sparred, the other men left the floor entirely to him in order to observe his genius.
Giles, Lewin, and Harry took seats in the back row of chairs, as that was all that was available. The crowd of men was quite rowdy; in particular three men in the front row were catcalling and whistling, which was not at all unusual during an exciting sparring match. One young man, his top hat absurdly tipped far back on his head, bellowed out, “Oho, Southam, you’re blundering about like a hippopotamus. Too much brandy last night, eh? Eh?”
It was obvious that Southam was not in his usual precise, collected form. His hair was plastered to his head, his face and massive chest streamed with sweat. His face was dark. His footwork was heavy and ponderous.
Harry said quietly to Lewin and Giles, “Southam was with that loud fellow at the Daffy last night, along with those other two. Are you acquainted with them, Sir Giles?”
Giles grimly answered, “I’m sorry to say that I am acquainted with the one with the loud mouth. He’s George Whitmer, son of the banker Lord Whitmer. He’s not at all a congenial companion. Aside from being crass, he’s an idiot. I think the only reason Jackson’s allowed him membership is because Lord Whitmer is his banker, and has dealt generously with him. Smythe, did you speak to Southam last night?”
“No, he came in late, and Lord Southam was surrounded by his party and some—er—ladies that accompanied them. I was just leaving, in fact, and I don’t think Southam even saw me.”
Southam misstepped and almost tripped. Whitmer shouted, “My sister could beat you down today, Southam! Jackson, pulling punches for the old man, are we?”
Lord Southam threw a wild right punch. With lightning speed Jackson blocked it, held his fist, grabbed Southam’s left fist, and shouted, “Hold!” Lord Southam immediately dropped his hands and stood still, breathing heavily.
Jackson turned to Whitmer, and his face was grave. As always, his voice was well modulated and mannerly. “Mr. Whitmer, I would hate to think that you’ve offered me an insult. If that is the case, then I must surely demand satisfaction.”
George Whitmer had large, prominent eyes, a long sharp nose, and a weak chin. Stark fear crossed his face, and his eyes bulged. “No, no—no, sir, Mr. Jackson, I meant no offense, no offense at all. I was merely ribbing Lord Southam. Please accept my sincerest apology.”
“Accepted,” Jackson said evenly. “Mr. Whitmer, calling out to fighters, whistling, shouting encouragement, and even catcalling is acceptable behavior in the excitement of a match. Belittling a man, taunting him, is not gentlemanly, particularly if you’re not willing to defend your words.”
“Yes, sir,” Whitmer said meekly. “I apologize, sir.”
“To Lord Southam,” Jackson said calmly.
“Sorry, Southam, no harm done, eh?” he said tentatively. “Me mouth takes over me brain sometimes, eh? Eh?”
“It’s Lord Southam,” he said heavily, “and you will do well to remember it.”
Jackson turned back to Lord Southam and said, “My lord, you are much out of form today, the first time I’ve ever seen you so inept. The art of pugilism demands that you concentrate, that you keep a single-minded focus, and above all, that you think. Think, plan, strategize, act, and instantly react. Your physical prowess and skill are exactly the same as they were yesterday, but today you have lost your mental agility. Remember, you are not in hand-to-hand combat with a French cuirassier and his horse. Shall we continue?”
“Yes, sir, and I thank you,” Southam said.
The sparring continued, and Lord Southam seemed to recover. Whitmer and his companions were reduced to muttering among themselves and to some of the men sitting behind them. Once the glare of Jackson and Southam’s ire was off him, Whitmer looked petulant and cross. Turning to a short, weasel-faced man behind him, he spoke in a mock whisper, j
ust loud enough for the men seated in the chairs, but not the boxers, to hear.
“Old Southam’s just out of sorts because he was deep in his cups last night and let it slip that a lady had jilted him,” he said maliciously. “I hear that she’s quite a fancy bit o’ muslin, too. Lady Mirabella Tirel, don’t you know, hoity-toity. Admitted he tried to steal a kiss, and she fair roasted him. Heh, heh, Southam’s going to be a famous fool now, that kiss cost him thirty thousand!” The men surrounding him laughed coarsely.
Lewin muttered to himself, “Idiot is too fine a word for him, he’s a chattering imbecile. If Lord Southam—” He broke off at the sight of Giles. His face was white, his eyes sparking blue fire. His jaws were clenched so tightly that his high cheekbones jutted out like a skull’s.
Before Lewin could think of something placating to say to Giles, Whitmer prattled on, “This Lady Mirabella, she’s the catch of the world, you know, rich and fair easy on the eyes to boot. Seems that she should have been easy pickings for Southam, but it’s said she’s cold as a fish, eh? She looks down her fine little haughty nose at every man that’s ever—”
Giles jumped out of his chair, and it overturned with a crash. He walked to stand in front of Whitmer, reached down, grabbed his cravat in a stranglehold, and yanked him to his feet. Whitmer’s hat fell off, and his wooden chair overturned, bashing into the men behind him, which caused such a commotion that the fighters stopped boxing and turned to see what was happening. The room grew completely silent.
“Do you know who I am?” Giles said between gritted teeth.
In a choked voice, Whitmer answered, “Y-yes, sir, you’re Sir Giles Knyvet, we’ve met, sir, haven’t we?”
After a bone-crunching shake, Giles let go of Whitmer’s cravat, but stepped to stand dangerously close to him. “We have, to my deepest regret. You’ve insulted the lady, and I resent it.”
Whitmer’s eyes again protruded with alarm. “But—but, Sir Giles, I didn’t know, that is, you aren’t akin to Lady—”