by Amanda Scott
“No, but it says much for her resolution, and her intelligence as well, that she managed to remain in France afterward. Under the Directory, her influence brought Talleyrand to power. She has always opposed Napoleon, however, and he exiled her from France eleven years ago.”
“Where did she go?”
“Oh, she came here and settled in an émigré colony in Sussex, but she did not remain long. Instead, she went back, and Napoleon tolerated her presence until recently, but her last book was too much for him.”
“She writes books?” Mollie asked. She could not decide whether Hawk had an extraordinary interest in the woman or if he was merely intrigued by her history, but she was looking forward to making the acquaintance.
“She does, indeed, and De l’Allemagne, her latest, is filled with references to the evils of imperialism. Napoleon was not amused. The book was seized by his police, and Madame has been exiled again.”
“So she returns to England and is introduced to the ton by Lady Jersey. It seems as if her sponsor here ought more logically to be the Countess de Lieven. She sounds a most political sort of person,” Mollie said.
“Ah, but her motive this time is not a political one, I think,” Hawk said, chuckling. “You forget Albertine.”
“Her daughter?”
“Indeed, and a daughter of marriageable age at that. Madame has a wish to see young Albertine suitably established, and I think her preference is for a wealthy English lord.”
“Any lord in particular?”
“No, and I doubt if the title matters a great deal. Money does, however, as it does with most émigré families. I think they will interest you, my dear.”
“Well, I shall certainly make it a point to invite them to our soiree. It seems we are to enjoy a variety of company that evening,” she said pointedly. But Hawk didn’t take the hint, making no effort to explain why he had chosen the names he had for his list. And one of those names stirred Mollie’s curiosity more than the others, for by her husband’s own command she was expected to invite his highness, Prince Nicolai Stefanovich, to her soiree.
9
ON SUNDAY MORNING MOLLIE descended to the breakfast parlor, dressed to attend services at St. George’s Chapel near Hanover Square with Lady Bridget. There was no sign of Hawk or Lord Ramsay when she joined the old lady at the table. Mollie knew that Hawk was up and about, but she realized she had scarcely seen Ramsay for several days. She mentioned the fact to Lady Bridget.
“Yes, dear, and he looked rather peaked, I thought, too. I daresay he has been too much occupied with his own affairs to spare us a thought. ’Tis often the case with gentlemen, though Gavin is all that is most considerate. You are fortunate, my dear.”
“Oh, fortunate indeed,” Mollie replied, chuckling as she spread marmalade lavishly upon a muffin. “Every wife should be fortunate enough to be spared her husband’s presence for four years at the outset of their marriage.”
“Well, perhaps he ought not to have gone away,” Lady Bridget conceded, “but now he is back, no doubt enriched by his many experiences, so we may all be comfortable again,”
“Nothing more than a lengthy grand tour, in fact,” Mollie said teasingly.
Lady Bridget looked over her spectacles. “He was very young when he went away, my dear. He is a man now. I daresay it has all been for the best.”
She looked flustered but determined, and Mollie relented, reaching across the table to pat her hand. “I own, ma’am, that things have been a deal more comfortable with him home.”
“You like him, don’t you, dear?”
The question caught Mollie as she was taking a bite of her muffin, so she could not answer immediately, which was just as well, since she hadn’t actually considered the matter. An interruption occurred before she was forced to put her tangled thoughts into words.
“I say, Mollie, have you got a few shillings you might lend me?” Harry demanded, bounding into the breakfast parlor without ceremony. “My pockets are all to let, and Bates says he will take me up to the Tower to see the animals. I thought we might stop in to see Sir Ashton Lever’s science museum in Leicester Square as well. They’ve got drawings of Trevithick’s locomotive, you know, and a model of Puffing Billy. By Jupiter, don’t I wish Hedley would bring the real thing to London! Imagine a locomotive that runs on a smooth rail instead of cogs! Wouldn’t I give anything to see it.”
“Your pockets are not the only thing to let, young man,” Mollie said calmly but with a pointed look. “Your manners have gone begging as well.”
“Sorry,” he replied, quickly and without any lessening of his good humor. “Good morning, Aunt Biddy. Good morning, Mollie. May I please have six shillings if you’ve got them to spare?”
“Six! You must have mistaken me for Golden Ball, sir. Whatever will you be up to with such a fortune?”
“No one could mistake you for Golden Ball,” Harry replied, twinkling irrepressibly. “I’ve seen him. However, three shillings will do if you’re at low tide. I asked for six because it has been my experience that if one begins by asking for twice the sum one wants, one is less likely to be disappointed in the end.”
“Is that a fact? And have you already tried this method on your brothers, my friend?”
The boy chuckled. “You are the most complete hand, Mollie. I did ask Ramsay, but he went all grim and testy, so I daresay it’s low water with him as well. And I didn’t ask Hawk because he has already said I must make do from Monday to Monday. He says he makes me an adequate allowance, but I can tell you, Mollie, though it might be more than adequate at Hawkstone, here in the city it simply disappears like so much smoke. And if you are thinking,” he added coaxingly, “that Hawk will not quite like it if you lend money to me, I can pay you back first thing tomorrow. Only today is when I need it.” He regarded her soulfully, an urchin with no other means of support who would starve if she refused to fund his needs.
Mollie laughed, casting a rueful glance at her ladyship. “What do you say, ma’am? Shall I assist this penniless waif?”
“Well, he isn’t penniless exactly,” observed Lady Bridget, always a stickler for facts. “His mother left him very well to pass and Thurston did not forget him. Moreover, I was unaware that Sir Ashton charged an entrance fee. Perhaps you would prefer, if that is truly the case, Harry, to visit the Academy, where they are exhibiting some very fine pictures by Mr. Joshua Reynolds.”
“No, thank you,” Harry responded, valiantly attempting to conceal his revulsion. “There is no fee, Mollie, but several of the exhibits can be made to operate by inserting a penny or a sixpence in a slot. A fellow wants to be prepared.”
“Very well, scamp. My reticule is there on the chair. Bring it to me and I’ll see if I can stand the nonsense and still have something to put in the plate later.”
“You’re a trump, Mollie,” he said as he took the shillings she pressed into his hand. With a grin he dashed off to inform Bates of the success of his mission, and Mollie smiled at Lady Bridget.
“I hope his lordship doesn’t disapprove. I daresay he’s right when he says we spoil Harry abominably.”
“There is no harm in the child,” Lady Bridget replied, “and Gavin is not so harsh a guardian as to deny him simple pleasures.”
As they prepared to depart for the chapel, Mollie remembered Harry’s casual remark about his brother’s finances, or lack thereof. She decided to talk to Ramsay, but no opportunity arose to do so before that afternoon, when she was expected to accompany Hawk and Lady Bridget to Lady Jersey’s reception for Madame de Staël and her daughter. In the coach, the subject crossed her mind again when Hawk mentioned that he had seen little of Lord Ramsay since the de Lievens’ rout.
“I have been taking your advice and giving him a long leash, Mollie, but I cannot help feeling he may be getting into low company as a result. Pierrepont said he saw him with a group of lads at old Seventy-seven last night.”
“Old Seventy-seven?”
“A gaming hell in St. Ja
mes’s Street.”
“Well, at least he was not down at the docks, sir,” Mollie said with an attempt at levity. She caught a reproachful look from Lady Bridget for her trouble, but privately she was beginning to wonder if Ramsay might be under the hatches as a result of his gaming. She determined to find out before Hawk did, if that was the case. It was all very well to agree to submit to her husband’s authority, but she was certain he would come down hard on Ramsay if her suspicions were correct, and Mollie preferred to avoid that.
There was no time to spend worrying, however, for they were already nearing Berkeley Square. Mollie’s thoughts turned to Lady Jersey, and some of her feeling must have shown in her face, for Hawk, seated across from the two ladies, lifted an eyebrow. “What is it, Mollie?” he asked gently.
Her smile was a little forced. “I always get like this before meeting Lady Jersey,” she confessed. “I never know if she likes me or not. She is always so theatrical.”
“A tragedy queen,” he agreed. “It has been said that she attempts the sublime and only succeeds in making herself ridiculous.” They were approaching the tall, elegant Jersey town house. Hawk glanced briefly out the window before continuing calmly, “If she looks down her nose, it is merely because you outrank her, sweetheart.” The coach had come to a halt, and a flunky approached. “Her ladyship is inconceivably rude and her manner is often ill-bred. One of the few times I ever found myself in complete agreement with my father is when he said George Villiers ought to have beaten her soundly once a week until his lady learned how to behave as a countess should.”
“Gavin!” protested Lady Bridget, scandalized. She glanced pointedly at the flunky, now opening the door and letting down the steps. But once safely on the flagway with the boy giving directions to the coachman, she said in an undertone, “You should not say such things, my dear. Frances Villiers is one of the foremost leaders of the ton. Moreover, though I am sure you never knew him, George Villiers was a foppish macaroni, scarcely the sort of man to beat his wife. And he is dead,” she added, as though that ought to clinch the matter.
Taking her elbow and following Mollie up the wide, steep steps to the front door, Hawk said, “Lady Jersey fancies herself a leader only because she thinks her erstwhile relationship with the Regent entitles her to certain privileges.”
“Oh, Gavin,” said Lady Bridget, diverted, “do you remember what a furor there was—No, of course you don’t, for it was years ago. Only think, she insisted upon sitting next to the Princess of Wales instead of opposite her in the royal coach!”
“She lost that round, as I hear the tale. Even Prinny could scarcely insist that his mistress he accorded the same treatment as his wife.”
“I think,” Mollie put in over her shoulder, “that it was outside of enough for him to make his mistress Lady of the Bedchamber.”
The front door opened just then. Various minions stood ready to take their wraps and usher them into her ladyship’s presence, so their conversation came to an end, but as a result of it, Mollie was able to greet her hostess less apprehensively.
In her sixtieth year Lady Jersey was very well preserved, if a trifle plump. She always dressed according to the height of fashion and received her guests now with her figure stiffly corseted beneath a gown of richly embroidered rose mousseline. Her greeting was cordial, though she did indeed look down her nose at Mollie. The effect was not what she might have hoped for, however. With Hawk’s words still echoing in her ears, Mollie smiled and was forced to repress a chuckle. She contrived to retain her poise, however, and politely inquired after the guests of honor.
“Oh, Germaine is conversing with his highness yonder,” replied Lady Jersey with a casual gesture. “I declare they have been monopolizing each other for quite three-quarters of an hour.” She did not seem in the least distressed by the fact. “And dearest Albertine is there with that Russian prince of Dasha’s.”
Mollie glanced in the direction indicated and immediately perceived Prince Nicolai Stefanovich in conversation with a plain but elegantly garbed young woman with about sixteen summers in her dish. The prince looked up just then and, catching her glance, smiled as warmly as though her appearance had made his day complete.
“Who is that rude young man?” Lady Bridget asked in an undertone. “He should not look at you so, my dear. Not here, in any case.” She glanced back at Lady Jersey, still in conversation with Hawk. “She is not known as Silence because of any ability to keep a still tongue in her head, you know.”
“Why, you sound as if you think I am having an affair with that gentleman,” Mollie said teasingly, though she, too, cast a glance over her shoulder to see if by some mischance her husband had caught the prince’s look. Hawk showed no interest in anything beyond Lady Jersey’s conversation, however, so Mollie was able to reply lightly when Lady Bridget protested a sound belief in her virtue. Nevertheless, the older lady seemed taken aback to learn the prince’s identity and even, once she had noted Lady Andrew Colporter among the guests, decidedly uncomfortable.
Hawk touched Mollie’s elbow. “His highness is preparing to take his departure. Shall we make ourselves known to Madame de Staël?”
“I declare, Gavin, I shan’t know what to say to her,” Lady Bridget said, not for the first time that day. “I have been given to understand that she is quite a bluestocking, you know, and although I do read books and quite enjoyed the new one by that young gentlewoman who wrote Sense and Sensibility two years ago—such charming stories, both of them—well, I simply do not read such stuff as Madame de Staël writes.”
“From what I know of her, Aunt Biddy, you needn’t bother your head searching for conversation. She will talk enough for the three of us.”
Mollie scarcely heeded his words, for she had been having all she could do not to stare at the woman seated upon a settee that looked too fragile to bear the massive weight of the Prince Regent beside her. Madame was no lightweight herself and was, moreover, quite the ugliest woman Mollie had ever seen. Her face was square and Germanic. Her hair and eyes were black, her mouth wide and disfigured by two very projecting upper teeth, and her complexion was swarthy. But although her figure was broad and heavy-bosomed, Mollie noted as they drew nearer that Madame’s arms were very fine beneath the tiny puffed sleeves of her green sarcenet gown. She noted, too, that the black eyes were alight with wit and intelligence. The Regent was lumbering to his feet. He nodded.
“Hawkstone and the beautiful Lady Hawk. Haven’t spoken to you, my lady, since the dinner I gave in honor of her majesty. Permit me to introduce Madame de Staël. A fine woman. Most entertaining. A pleasure, ma’am,” he added, his Cumberland corsets creaking as he turned back to the dark woman. “Damme if this hasn’t been the most pleasant hour of my day.”
Madame de Staël had also risen and her smile was ingratiating. “You converse like a sensible man, your Highness. A credit to your education. I have learned many things from you in the course of a fascinating conversation.”
The Regent nearly preened himself as he took his departure, and Mollie was hard-pressed again not to smile. She turned her attention firmly back to Madame, who was saying she had found his highness most kind. Since she went right on talking in a nonstop stream, even Lady Bridget was soon able to relax. It was a relief when Lady Sefton and Mrs. Drummond Burrell stepped up to claim Madame de Staël’s attention and the Colporters were able to excuse themselves and move away.
Sir James Smithers approached them immediately, grinning. “See you’ve met the guest of honor. Did she toady to you, my lord?”
Hawk’s eyes twinkled. “Since she said I must know more than anyone else in England about Wellington’s plans and strategies and was no doubt a hero besides, I’ll thank you to cast no aspersions my way when next you speak with her. Don’t you like her, Jamie?”
“Not in my style,” Smithers replied. “Dashed woman lays herself out for admiration any way she is able, purchasing any quantity of anybody at any price. She traffics in mutual flattery,
Hawk. I trust you paid your toll.”
“I did. She is recently come from France, Jamie. We cannot afford to snub her.”
Sir James’ round eyes took on a more intelligent expression than was their wont, and he nodded slowly. “Just so. The lady,” he added cryptically, “might well know where a body or two be buried. Well, in that case, you’d best keep an eye on Brummell, Alvanley, and that lot. They’re plotting mischief over yonder.”
Hawk glanced toward an alcove where the Bow Window set from White’s seemed to have taken up residence for the afternoon. Mollie, mystified by most of his conversation with Smithers, paid little heed when Lady Bridget’s attention was claimed by their hostess, and followed her husband when he began to move toward the dandies. Brummell, Lord Alvanley, Lord Breckin, Sir Henry Mildmay, Henry Pierrepont, and Tom Raikes were all seated together at their ease. It was Tom Raikes who greeted them.
“Welcome, Hawk! And welcome to your lady. I see your husband’s been making sheep’s eyes at Madame Bluestocking, Lady Hawk. Don’t fret, though. Alvanley means to cut him out.”
“Not so,” interjected Mr. Brummell with a lazy smile. “His lordship will be pursued by young Libertine. ’Tis a certainty.”
“No such thing,” said Breckin in his customary affected tones. “Alvanley prefers a woman with well-developed lungs, and while the younger de Staël is not ripened sufficiently, the old dame has a thoracic development worthy of a wet nurse.”
“Sirs,” protested Alvanley, lisping as always, “I’ve little wish to develop an acquaintanth with either one. They are more in his highneth’s style than mine.”
“You’ve little choice in the matter, my lord,” Brummell said softly. “I told that woman you enjoy an income of one hundred thousand pounds a year. And since her response to that bit of fiction was to tell me you’ve a pretty face, I’ll lay any odds you like that she puts young Libertine on to make a dead set at you.”