“Charles!” cried the Beau, seeing the reflection of his friend in the glass. “Just the man I wanted to see. Have you heard what Charles Lamb is saying about Prinny? No. Then listen.”
Brummell waved away his valet and began to declaim:
“By his bulk and by his size,
By his oily qualities,
This (or else my eyesight fails)
This should be the Prince of Wales.”
“Poor Prinny,” said the marquess indifferently. “Lord Thanet is calling him ‘the Bourgeois Gentilhomme' after that fat vulgarian in Molière's play. I am sure he does not deserve such general unkindness.”
“Perhaps,” said Brummell. “You look worried, my friend.”
“I am,” remarked the marquess. “There is a certain Lady Margery Quennell who is about to turn up for yet another season. A drab girl in her twenties. This year, however, she has managed to enslave two of my friends in this one day, and the most unlikely two at that!” He told Brummell of the infatuation of the Honorable Toby and of Viscount Swanley.
“You amaze me!” said the Beau. “And you obviously think Lady Margery is deliberately trying to enslave your friends.”
“Exactly.”
The Beau thought for a minute and then said, “Swanley and Sanderson always follow the fashion. The first time I come across Lady Margery Quennell I shall make sure that she becomes downright unfashionable.”
“Do that, George,” said the marquess, remembering his own conversation with the infuriating Lady Margery. “The little minx needs a set-down.”
* * * *
Unaware of the plot that was being hatched for her downfall, Lady Margery was preparing for Mrs. Divine's musicale. The lady's maid, who had been hired that very day by Chuffley, was a grim Yorkshire woman whose name, Battersby, somehow seemed to suit her appearance.
Battersby had first shocked Lady Margery by announcing that my lady's hair must be cropped. She had then added insult to injury by insisting that my lady's sandy eyebrows and eyelashes should be darkened. Tired of arguing, Lady Margery had at last let her have her way, but warned her that if this transformation did not please, then she, Battersby, would be searching for other employment.
The stern warning left the maid unmoved and she immediately got to work. She then dressed her mistress in a rose-colored muslin gown and fastened the long row of tiny buttons at the back. “You may look now, my lady,” said Battersby, holding a branch of candles up beside a long pier glass.
The young, slim, dashing stranger stared back at Lady Margery. Her sandy hair had been cropped so that it rioted in feathery curls over her small head. The darkened eyelashes and eyebrows made her eyes seem enormous.
Margery took a deep breath. She knew the hand of a genius when she saw it.
“Battersby,” she said, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this transformation. It means more to me than you can possibly imagine.”
“Just so, my lady,” said Battersby impassively. After all, Battersby knew she was the best, but society ladies were inclined to favor those frivolous Frenchwomen, which was disgraceful when you considered the war was just over. Downright unpatriotic, that's what it was.
She draped a fine Norwich shawl over her mistress's shoulders, and Lady Margery went downstairs to join Amelia.
Amelia's delighted cry of “I declare, we shall succeed after all!” was all the reassurance Margery needed.
* * * *
The little society world, bounded by Grosvenor Square at one end and St. James's on the other, was a blaze of light from flambeaux flaring outside the houses of the rich. Beau Brummell was in town, and where the Beau went, society followed. Although the season had not yet begun, hostesses were already arranging all sorts of parties, hoping to attract the notice of the Beau.
Although the spring night was warm, Mrs. Divine's mansion retained all the chill of a town house suddenly opened up and not given enough time to air. Lady Margery huddled in her little gilt chair, waiting for the music to begin and regretting that she had surrendered her shawl. Her quarry, Mr. Freddie Jamieson, was sitting quite near. He was sucking the gold knob of his cane and gazing vacuously into space.
Lady Margery was beginning to wonder desperately how she could effect an introduction.
The musicale began. A heavy-set German was howling out what had been described as love songs but seemed to Lady Margery's ears to sound like a series of oaths. She shivered in the cold, occasionally leaning forward to see if she could catch Mr. Jamieson's eye. Her best tactic, she decided, was to claim acquaintanceship with him. After all, he did not seem to be the sort of young man to have any sort of a retentive memory.
There was a short interval, in which they were urged to remain seated, as the celebrated singer would soon be finishing his splendid performance to rush off to another engagement.
Lady Margery leaned forward again. Between her and Mr. Jamieson sat two enormous dowagers. They had loud, opinionated voices, and every time Lady Margery leaned forward they would both cease talking and turn and stare at her rudely from the top of her curly head to the bottom of her little kid slippers. Lady Margery began to develop a positive hatred for them both.
One was now declaiming to another in a loud voice. “I declare, it's George Brummell this and George Brummell that. Why, the man is nothing more than a popinjay.”
The nervous strain of the day was beginning to tell on Lady Margery. She had never been introduced to the famous Brummell but had admired him from afar, liking his well-bred manner and mischievous smile and the way he had introduced the virtues of cleanliness and loyalty to one's friends into a society which had been supremely deficient in both. She fixed the nearest dowager with a hard stare. She said: “Mr. Brummell is an asset to society. His manners are unfailingly well-bred and he does not make cruel, ugly, or stupid remarks about people he has never met.”
“Well, really,” said the dowagers.
“Well done, ma'am,” said a light, amused voice behind her.
Lady Margery turned round and looked up into the brown eyes of the famous Mr. Brummell.
There was no time to say anything. The singer was coughing and gargling as a sign that the second half of the programme was about to begin. Mr. Jamieson had fallen asleep and had begun to snore, but nobody seemed to mind, since it added a fitting counterpoint to the guttural songs roaring from the rostrum.
British society always applauds rapturously any form of culture they cannot understand and cannot possibly enjoy. Agonizing boredom is a sure sign that one is hearing something “damned deep.” This evening was no exception. Margery had been so busy keeping her eye on Mr. Jamieson that she had actually forgotten the presence of the famous Beau, who had stationed himself behind her.
She rose to follow the others to the supper room, planning to fortify herself for the attack on Mr. Jamieson's sensibilities, when her hand was taken in a warm clasp.
“I am Mr. George Brummell,” said the Beau. “May I know the name of the lady who has so gallantly defended me?”
“Quennell. Lady Margery.”
“Ah, of course,” said the Beau, much amused. “I was speaking to one of your admirers today, the Marquess of Edgecombe.”
“The marquess is no admirer of mine,” said Lady Margery sharply. “I doubt if he has forgiven me for an injudicious impertinent remark I made last season. It is a pity,” she added wistfully. “A friendship with the marquess could have brought me into fashion, and I would so like to be fashionable just for one season. I have had so many failures, you know.”
“But you are in fashion,” said the Beau, smiling. “I am taking you into supper, am I not? And that, dear lady, is enough for anyone.”
Lady Margery realized with delight that she was the center of a certain amount of envious attention.
“I must,” went on the Beau smoothly, “do my best to help my champion. Dear me. After all, just look at the dragons you slew for me.” He raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the outraged do
wagers insolently from head to foot.
Lady Margery gave an infectious gurgle of laughter, and the Beau looked down at her tiny figure in surprise. Why! The girl was enchanting. She really must have said something outrageous to Charles, Marquess of Edgecombe, to disturb that aristocratic gentleman's usual languor.
“Since I am engaged to help you socially,” remarked Mr. Brummell when an unappetizing cold supper had been demolished, “is there anyone present you would care to meet that you have not met already?”
“Mr. Freddie Jamieson.”
The Beau looked in an amazed way to where Freddie was sneering dismally over a glass of negus and obviously praying to Bacchus for something stronger. “Are you by any chance, Lady Margery, making a collection of originals?"
“Yes,” said Margery feebly, knowing that if she told the Beau she thought that Mr. Jamieson was a devastatingly handsome man, she would not be believed.
“Very well,” said her escort. “But I will leave you after I introduce you. One second of Freddie's wit is enough for me.”
It was an inauspicious beginning. Lord Freddie stared at Margery with gloomy disinterest, obviously categorizing her as just one other part of a curst dull evening.
Lady Margery waited until the Beau had moved out of earshot and then began her plan of attack. “I see,” she remarked in a brisker voice than she had used on her other two targets, “that you are obliged to drink negus. I confess I do not like my wine adulterated with hot water!”
A faint look of animation crept into Freddie's fishlike eye. “You're right,” he said gloomily. “Dashed poisonous stuff.”
“I think I shall serve myself a glass of burgundy,” pursued Lady Margery.
Now she had Freddie's full attention. “By George, Lady M ... M...”
“Margery,” she prompted gently.
“Lady Margery. Do you mean to say you have found a vein of gold among this dross?”
“Exactly.”
Freddie eyed her suspiciously. Was she going to take him straight to the stuff or was she going to start babbling about music?
He underrated his companion. “Follow me,” she said in a firm voice, and Freddie followed, his eyes burning with an unaccustomed fire. Any girl who could wring a decent bottle out of his aunt's establishment was not in the common way.
Margery led him to the far corner of the room where there was a little table screened by some tired and dessicated palms. She rapped her fan across the back of her hand three times, her signal to Mrs. Divine's heavily bribed butler to conjure up a bottle of the best. To Freddie, it seemed to appear on the table in front of him, complete with two glasses, as if by magic.
Margery had hoped that her arrangement with the butler would not have been necessary. But after one look at Mr. Jamieson's singularly lackluster stare, she had been glad of her scheme to fall back on.
Freddie demolished two glasses in a twinkling and then looked across at his companion with something approaching benevolence. “I say, Lady Margery, that's a ‘ceedingly fine wine. Thought all you gels preferred negus or ratafia.”
“I don't normally drink much wine,” said Margery with a friendly, open look, “but I do know that a gentleman detests ladies’ drinks.”
“You're a right one, ‘pon rep if you ain't,” said Freddie cheerfully, downing another quick glass. “I must say this stuff simply rolls off the palate.”
“Whoooshes over it, more like,” thought Lady Margery. “He swallows it as quickly as if it were medicine.”
Freddie began to relax. He had never felt so warmly towards a girl before. Girls, in his experience, were apt to lead him firmly away from the bottle rather than directly to it. His companion, he noticed, had an engaging conspiratorial grin. With her cropped curly hair, she reminded him vaguely of a chap in his form at Eton. And when a girl reminds a young man vaguely of the chap he knew at school, then it is a sure sign that the shy young Englishman is well on the way to falling in love.
Freddie was nearing the end of the bottle and already looking hopefully round for more, but Margery did not want him to forget one iota of this important meeting.
She moved into the attack. “I have often found, Mr. Jamieson, that gentlemen who appreciate good wine are often good dancers.”
“Quite so,” said Freddie, who was in fact an excellent dancer. “I don't wish to seem vain, ma'am, but even the Prince Regent himself commented that Freddie Jamieson could shake a nifty leg. His ‘zact words, ma'am. Shake a nifty leg.”
“Shall you be at the opening ball at Almack's?"
“I wasn't planning to go,” said Freddie. “They've got nothing there stronger than orgeat and lemonade."
“It seems a shame that ladies such as myself should be deprived of a good partner,” commented Margery, looking directly into Freddie's eyes.
He began to feel slightly hunted. Then he remembered that, were it not for this little girl, he would still be standing over a glass of negus. And Brummell had introduced her, which meant she must be all the crack.
Freddie made a great decision. “Tell you what, Lady Margery, I'll come to Almack's just for the pleasure of standing up with you. There!”
Lady Margery looked suitably gratified. To Freddie's surprise, she opened her reticule and took out a small piece of paper and a pencil. “Write it down,” she said.
Freddie's mouth fell open and his chin rested on the starched folds of his cravat.
“Eh?”
For a minute, Lady Margery reminded him less of his old school chum and more of his former schoolmaster.
“Please write it down,” pleaded Margery prettily. “Now, I know a gentleman like you, Mr. Jamieson, will have lots and lots of ladies trying to get you to dance with them. I must make sure you remember your promise.”
“Oh, since you put it that way,” said the much-gratified Freddie, “I will.”
He carefully printed a note to the effect that one dance was promised to Lady Margery Quennell and then tucked it in his pocket. “Keep it next to m'heart,” he said with great daring.
His companion did not let him down. She blushed rosily and hid her face behind her fan. “Oh, Mr. Jamieson,” she sighed.
By now, Freddie had forgotten to look for another bottle of wine. He felt no end of a splendid fellow. He leaned forward to make another dashing and witty remark and then stared in amazement. His companion had gone.
He looked moodily at the empty bottle and then peered into it as if to see if Lady Margery had been some sort of genie. Then he noticed she had left her fan.
* * * *
The Marquess of Edgecombe was strolling among the tables at Watier's, wondering whether to go home or whether to settle down to a mild rubber of piquet.
He stopped, amazed, at the unusual sight of his friend Mr. Jamieson, who was sitting in an armchair in one of the corners and fanning himself lazily with a little black lace fan with wrought-ivory sticks.
The marquess sank into the armchair opposite. “Joined the Macaronis, Freddie?”
“Eh, what!” said Freddie crossly, annoyed at having his splendid dream disturbed. “Oh, it's you Charles. Macaronis? Fiddlesticks! Do I look like a Macaroni? Do I wear blue-powdered hair? No. Clocks on my stockings? No. Lace handkerchief? No. Perfume? No. Stays—”
The marquess gently interrupted this catalogue with, “Do you carry a fan? Yes.”
Freddie blushed. “Oh, damme—er—this. Belongs to a charming little lady,” he said dreamily. “Know who she reminds me of? That little chap in our form—Sniffy—you know, chappie with the yaller hair.”
“You're in love,” teased the marquess, expecting a furious denial.
To his surprise, Freddie gave him a soulful look and said, “Yes. That's it. That's it in a nutshell. Haven't had a drink since that demned musicale of Auntie's, and I feel in top form. Must be love.”
Freddie joyfully waved the feminine little fan to and fro in the excitement of his discovery. A faint scent of gardenias escaped from it and drifted across the
smoke-laden masculine air of Watier's.
The marquess studied his friend with narrowed eyes. “The lady's name, by any chance, would not happen to be Quennell?”
“That's it!” said Freddie, delighted. “'Course you know all the beauties,” he added gloomily.
“And how did she bring about this introduction?” asked the marquess coldly. “Did she sprain her ankle or faint in your arms?”
“Neither,” said Freddie, surprised. “Brummell introduced us. The Beau was uncommonly taken with her himself.”
The marquess began to feel that there must definitely be a new Lady Margery on the social scene. This enchantress, who had not only bowled over three of his misogynist friends but had captivated the great Brummell himself, could not be the dowdily dressed little girl who had graced the walls of Almack's so many times.
“Remember last season, Freddie? Remember the last ball at Almack's, I asked you for the name of the girl who was sitting out with a plump lady and I subsequently asked her to dance? You told me then that that was Lady Margery Quennell, daughter of the Earl of Chelmswood.”
Freddie racked his feeble memory. “Can't be the same girl,” he said at last. “I would have noticed.”
“Whoever she is,” said the marquess smoothly. “Has it ever occured to you, Freddie, that you are a very wealthy young man and that she may be setting lures out to trap you into marriage?”
Freddie looked at him for a long minute while he digested this piece of information. He began to get angry. “Look here, Edgecombe,” snapped Freddie, “just because you fancy yourself as a bit of a ladies’ man, there's no reason to sneer at me. I liked the little lady, ‘pon my soul I did, and if you cast ... cast...”
“Aspersions.”
“Aspersions at her, I'll have to call you out.”
And, tucking the fan carefully into his waistcoat, Freddie stalked out, walking between the tables of Watier's without stumbling for the first time in his life.
The marquess sat for a long time lost in thought. He was very fond of his cheerful, innocent friends. They had all been in short coats at Eton together. He did not want to see them duped by an adventuress.
Lady Margery's Intrigues Page 4