“A hit! A palpable hit!” Augusta grinned. “Magda, Elizabeth says that you are an old crone.”
“Don’t gloat, chérie.” Magda wrinkled her nose. “You are even older than I am.”
Augusta stopped smiling. “Then I, too, should also be able to do as I please.”
“Saint does not agree.” Magda linked her arm with Elizabeth’s. “I do believe that you will make him an excellent wife, petite.”
Elizabeth succumbed to temptation. “As you did not?”
Magda’s dimple danced. “Some women are not designed for marriage, mignonne, which is not to say that I would mind if some handsome rogue fell in love with me. It is above all things amusing, the game of hearts. And it is always good for a lady to have a gentleman or two dangling at her slipper strings. But as for anything of a more permanent nature, thank you, non.”
Elizabeth was so fascinated she stepped smack into a puddle. “You do not want a husband?”
Magda laughed. “I have had several husbands. After the death of poor Jules, I decided that to bid another spouse adieu would be too much even for me. Instead, I shall confine myself to amours.” She drew her companion out of the path of a sedan chair. “I do not mince words with you. The gentlemen are fine, if kept in their place. You are a married woman now, and you know where that place is.”
Elizabeth guessed that Magda referred to the bedchamber. No question but that Madame de Chavannes had quelled any number of gentlemanly fires, without guilt or regret. She was not the sort of female to be married for her fortune, or any other reason than her splendid self.
“I never had a fortune!” protested Magda, for Elizabeth had said this last aloud.
Elizabeth flushed. “Well, then, for duty’s sake.”
Magda patted her arm. “To wed for other than affection is the way of the world, petite. You would not like to be me, I think.”
Elizabeth didn’t think it would be a bad thing to be a woman of the world. Better that than a maiden still. Did she remain a maiden much longer, the duke could simply have his marriage annulled instead of going to the trouble of obtaining a divorce.
He wasn’t likely to do so. Was he? “I’m not so sure,” she said.
“Mais non!” protested Magda. “It requires a great deal of effort to be a successful flirt. One must never allow the gentlemen to become complacent, must in one moment sigh for their attention and in the next hold them at arm’s length.”
Madame de Chavannes still spoke in the plural, Elizabeth noticed. “In which category would you place bloodying a nose?”
Magda chuckled. “Du vrai, there have been stranger bedfellows than you and Saint. Now, where can Gus have gone? If she has found a game of cards, your husband will have both our heads.” Fortunately, this suspicion proved unfounded. Lady Augusta was discovered doing nothing more exceptional than browsing through the multifarious articles for sale in a bazaar.
The duchess next spotted a bookseller’s shop, where novels, plays, pamphlets, and newspapers might be perused for the small subscription of a guinea. The ladies swept inside. Magda’s attention was caught by a newly published collection of letters intercepted at sea during the Egyptian campaign; though French headquarters had ordered all dispatches to be thrown overboard when capture threatened, the hardy British soldiers jumped into the sea right after them. Lady Augusta scanned a newspaper article about the vast number of émigrés in England, and the government’s attempt to keep suspect agents in the country instead of letting them run free on the Continent. Elizabeth picked up Manners and Rules of Good Society and refrained from flinging it across the room.
After these exertions, the ladies repaired to the nearby Pump Room. Light from two banks of windows illuminated the interior of the large room, which was set round with three-quarter columns of the Corinthian order, crowned with an entablature, and over it a covering of some five feet. On each side of the room was a fireplace. In the center of the southern side stood the pump, from which the waters issued out of a marble vase. “I suspect the waters are said to be medicinal because they are nauseating,” Augusta said to Elizabeth. “Take my advice and drink tea instead.”
The room was crammed with people, young and old, healthy and infirm, come to exchange scandals and criticize their companions while they took drink the waters for which the resort was famed. All were talking at once, raising their voices to be heard over the musicians.
Not every voice was English. Augusta recalled the newspaper article. “Well, Magda, you have found some of your wretched émigrés.”
Who had found whom, Magda wondered? She preferred to be the hunter rather than the fox. “The émigrés are hardly to be blamed because the French Republic is eating Europe leaf by leaf, like the head of an artichoke.”
Augusta had a queer vision of herself as a bug on an artichoke leaf. “The newspapers have Bonaparte in Egypt.”
“And you assume he will stay there, fighting Mamelukes and Turks? By whatever means, the Corsican intends in time to encompass both the ruin of the present French government and the British Empire. He is an ambitious man.”
The room was warm, and redolent with the scent of many bodies. Magda unfastened her cloak, thereby attracting the attention of several male passersby. “How do you know all this?” asked Elizabeth.
“I keep my eyes and ears open. Pardon, I must speak with someone.” Magda fluttered her eyelashes at two gentlemen who had stopped to admire her plunging neckline; stepped gracefully around them to vanish in the crowd.
“Keeps her ears and eyes open indeed,” muttered Lady Augusta, as she followed Elizabeth toward a window, out of the way of the promenade. “She’s probably an enemy agent herself.”
Elizabeth was tall enough to peer over the heads of the crowd nearby. Magda stood some distance away, in animated conversation with a group of gentlemen. “You cannot believe that.”
Maybe Augusta believed it, maybe she did not. If Magda was an agent, would her loyalty be to England or to France? “If you look out the window, you will see the King’s bath.”
Elizabeth gazed through the glass. Down below them was a huge cistern where patients of all shapes and sizes wallowed, packed close together, in water that was steaming hot. On one side a covering, supported by a handsome colonnade, shaded the bathers from any inclemency of weather if not from curious spectators.
Augusta moved closer to the widow. She gestured toward Elizabeth’s hand. “That ring belonged to Justin’s mother. It is the traditional wedding ring of the Duchesses of Charnwood. Magda preferred a simple golden band. Justin picked hers out himself.”
Elizabeth put her hand behind her back. “You have known Magda for some time?”
“We grew up on adjoining estates, my brother and I with Saint’s parents, and Nigel’s family nearby. Magda’s father owned a holding in the neighborhood. All that property now belongs to Charnwood. It would suit Justin’s consequence to own most of England, I vow.” Augusta paused, and studied her. “If I may presume to offer you a word of advice? You will have noticed that my cousin tends to be dictatorial. Magda was able to manage him, once. In time, you may also be able to do so. But until that day arrives, you will not want to offend.”
Magda had managed the duke so well that he had divorced her. Elizabeth wondered if St. Clair’s cousin would like to see him divorced a second time. “And so I should conduct myself accordingly. Allow myself to be guided by you, in other words.”
Augusta ignored the ironic note in that polite voice. “That will be as you wish. I certainly do not mean to say that you should take Magda as your guide. Justin did divorce her, though he was ridiculously besotted at one time. I have always believed she quite broke his heart.”
Elizabeth eyed her tormentor. “Fustian! You must read the same romantic twaddle as my maid.”
Augusta opened her mouth to deliver a blistering set-down, then realized she dared not. Fortunately, Magda returned just then, a gentleman strolling by her side. A gentleman so handsome that even Gus
stared.
It was difficult to say what precisely made him so appealing. If he was tall and broad and muscular, so were many other gentlemen. And if combined with that enviable physique he had a swarthy complexion, and unruly black hair that tumbled over his forehead, and strong white teeth that flashed when he smiled—
One thing was certain. No man could be trusted who had such amused dark eyes.
Amused dark eyes that were fixed on her. Augusta turned away.
Magda was performing introductions. “Elizabeth, allow me to present Conor Melchers. You must beware of him, because his intentions are of a dishonorable nature, and he has no conscience whatsoever in matters of the heart. Conor, make your bow to Saint’s duchess.”
The amused dark eyes rested on Elizabeth. He bowed. “Your Grace.”
Before Mr. Melchers could say more, as inevitably he would have done, and something most provocative at that, an interruption occurred. The crowd parted to allow passage to an elegant woman wrapped about in sapphire blue, on her golden curls a village hat made of straw, twist and leghorn. Her delicate features were perfection, her eyes the brightest blue. Trailing after her was a weary-looking maid. “One does meet all one’s acquaintances in the Pump Room,” murmured Augusta. “Lady Ysabella. What a surprise.”
“I don’t know why you should be surprised,” Nigel’s Aunt Syb responded. “Since we’re both in Bath, we were bound to meet. You shouldn’t be here, Gus. Were you mine, I’d slap you black and blue.”
Augusta tightened her lips against an imprudent comeback. Elizabeth hid a smile. Lady Ysabella was neither so old as Mr. Slyte had painted her, nor half so ill. And Lady Augusta was like to become sick herself, from the swallowing of spleen.
In point of fact, Lady Ysabella was no more than fifteen years older than her nephew and also, but only when it suited her, in the best of health. She was also as irrepressible as a force of nature, and had been known to flatten anyone so unwise as to try and bar her path, including the Prince of Wales and several senior statesmen.
Madame de Chavannes stood in her pathway at the moment. Said Lady Syb, “I’faith, Mouse. I never thought you had more hair than sense.”
Magda dropped a pretty curtsy. “Bonjour! I am happy to see you, too, Lady Ysabella. I trust I find you well?”
“Who said anything about being happy? If you don’t cover up your chest, you’ll be the one drinking tar water for an inflammation of the lungs. ‘The sight of a beautiful bosom is as dangerous as that of a basilisk.’ Abbe Boilleau. 1673.”
Elizabeth was amused to see Magda fasten her cloak. Her amusement faded as Lady Ysabella’s blue eyes fixed on her. “You’ll be Saint’s little wife. Or not so little, are you? Since these two peahens between them haven’t the wit to introduce us, I’ll do it myself. Lady Ysabella Ravensdale. I was a countess last time I looked. Have you seen my nephew? He is avoiding me. Hello, Conor. You should not be clasping Saint’s bride like that. You will all join me at the Assembly Rooms this evening. Nigel wall escort me there. Come along, Throckmorton. We have much to do.” The maidservant trailed after her mistress through the crowd.
Elizabeth had quite forgotten that Mr. Melchers still held her hand. Hastily, she reclaimed it. “Nigel,” commented Gus, “is probably hiding under his bed.”
“Et alors? She will drag him out, you’ll see! And now we are to go to the Assembly Rooms.” Magda twinkled up at Conor Melchers. “You will join us. Lady Syb has said so.”
Mr. Melchers smiled lazily. “Sweeting, did you ask me, I would accompany you to the gates of Hell itself.”
Magda dimpled. “And it amused you, perhaps. Else you would fling me to the wolves. At any rate, it will not be so bad as all that.”
Conor raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And if it turns out to be?”
Magda twinkled at him. “I shall owe you a forfeit, mon cher.”
“Then I shall eagerly anticipate to this evening when I may collect my winnings. Until then, ladies.” Mr. Melchers bowed and strolled away.
If this was the sort of gentleman Magda kept dangling at her slipper strings, Elizabeth must hold her in awe. “I don’t dance,” she protested.
Magda clapped her hands together. “Let me guess: Maman did not approve. Come along, Gus! Lady Syb is not alone in having many things to do.”
Chapter 12
“A very fulfilling union can be formed by a man and a woman who enjoy each other’s company, and can provide comfort and support through both the happy and difficult times in life.”—Lady Ratchett
The Duke of Charnwood returned to his home in a somber frame of mind, as well as perhaps a little bit under the influence of the grape, for the gentlemen had imbibed copious refreshment during their conversation, which had left His Grace more puzzled than ever, and not at all convinced that he wasn’t a coxcomb. He was not so cup-shot, however, that he failed to realize the absurdity of applying to Mr. Slyte for advice that did not involve the drape of a jacket or the tying of a cravat.
Better he had spoken with Lady Syb. Now there was a sobering thought.
Chislett opened the front door. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Justin eyed his solemn butler. “You are distressed, Chislett. Has some other disaster struck? I hope you do not mean to tell me that we have another houseguest.”
The butler’s thin lips quivered. “I was not aware that you were expecting additional visitors, Your Grace.”
“I’m not.” Justin allowed himself to be divested of hat and coat. “However, neither was I expecting the ones I already have. Nor am I particularly grateful for them. Is that piano music I hear?”
The butler inclined his head. “It is, Your Grace.” Again that strange quiver of the lips. “The ladies are in the drawing room.”
The ladies were up to something, judging from Chislett’s odd behavior. Justin mounted the stairs. Piano music issued from the drawing room, accompanied by parrot squawks. He paused unseen on the threshold.
Gus sat at the pianoforte, her fingers on the ivory keys. Birdie fluttered on her perch. Elizabeth and Thornaby stood facing each other on the Moorfield carpet. The duchess wore a determined expression. Thornaby looked as if he longed to be elsewhere. Magda was pacing back and forth in front of the instrument, in her hands a small book.
“Retardante, Gus! A slower tempo, s’il vous plaît. We are not teaching Elizabeth a country dance.” She applied to the book. “ ‘The motion of the arms if af effential, at leaft, as that of the legs, for an expreffive attitude; and both receive their juftnifs from the nature of the paffions they are meant to exprefs.’ ”
So enthralled was Lady Augusta that she stopped playing. “ ‘The paffions’?” she echoed.
“The paffions.” Magda brandished the book. “Mr. Gallini says so. ‘The paffions are the fprings which muft actuate the machine, while a clofe observation of nature furnifhs the art of giving to thofe motions the grace of eafe and expertnefs. Anything that has the air of being forced, or improper, cannot fail of having a bad effect. A frivolous affected turn of the wrift is surely no grace.’ ”
“My machine isn’t being actuated,” remarked the duchess. “What has all this to do with the minuet?”
“We are coming to that.” Magda paged through the treatise. “ ‘It should alfo be recommended to the dancers of the minuet ever to have an expreffion of the fort of gaiety and cheerfulness in the countenance, which will give it an amiable and even a noble franknefs.’ You must not look too forward or pensife. ‘Twould be displeafing. And you must avoid that bathfulnefs which arises from low breeding, wrong breeding, or no breeding at all.’ ”
Gus played a sprightly arpeggio. “You would know about that.”
“This is all well and good,” interrupted Elizabeth. “But while I am being gay and cheerful and not bashful, what am I to be doing with my feet?”
“We shall get to that, ma petite. The dance is not about your feet, but your attitude, expression, the graceful motion of your arms.” Gracefully, Madame de Chav
annes moved hers. “One measure of determining a gentleman is by his ability to dance with confidence, stand well, enter a room gracefully, move easily without calling attention to himself. Yes, Thornaby, we know you are not a gentleman, but you are the best we have right now, and it is incumbent upon us all to make sacrifices for the general good. Elizabeth, you are expected to have on hand a repertoire of light conversation, with which to pass the time while you stand and watch. The minuet is a dance for one couple at a time.”
“I have the standing part of it down pat, I think,” said the duchess. “Why must I dance?”
The duke had stood easily for several moments without calling attention to himself. Now he demonstrated the gentlemanly quality of his spirit by strolling gracefully into the room. “Excellent question. Why must Elizabeth dance, pray?”
Augusta switched to a lively march. “Because Lady Syb says so. We are required to attend her at the Assembly Rooms. Along with Conor Melchers. I am surprised that you encourage him, Magda. Melchers is a rakehell. Justin will not approve.”
Magda fanned herself with the little book. “Then it is fortunate I do not answer to Saint.”
Elizabeth was tired of Lady Augusta’s constant trouble-making, and shy of her husband, toward whom she had been acting with not the slightest modicum of dignity and grace. “You know so much about rakehells, do you, Lady Augusta?”
Augusta struck a discord. Magda laughed. “Children! Play nicely together. Conor will debauch no one in the Assembly Rooms.”
Justin’s own brief amusement had fled at the mention of Conor Melchers. His cousin had been correct when she said he’d not approve. So much did he disapprove that he had briefly lost his powers of speech. He was also now entirely sober. “Melchers? Good God, Magda. The man is—”
“My oldest friend, other than yourself,” Magda informed him. “You must not fear that Conor will make a scandal. At least not a scandal of the sort you so dislike.”
Love Match Page 9