Social standing is very important here in London. The rats who live in the stables won’t associate with the rats who live behind the dustbins. I met two of the latter, Lex and Drip, who advised me the major’s case was hopeless.
“You’ve got habeas corpus,” Lex pointed out. “That’s the party of the first part, the dead girl, Hermione. Then your party of the second part says nolo contendere. He does not refute the accusation in the modus vivendi or accepted manner, but goes ex patria. The prosecution rests. The verdict is guilty.”
I say, “Amor vincit omnia,” to which Lex replies, “De minimis non curat lex, the law takes no account of trifles.”
Lex forages behind a solicitor’s office at night.
Drip, so called because of his nose, sniffled and said, “’E ain’t never goin’ t’be accepted into ’er world”—snuffle—“never dance at Almack’s. Iffen ’e’s any kind a gent at all, ’e’ll never ask ’er to share ’is hu”—snort—“miliation. ’At’s like askin’ a moll rat to jump on th’ trap wi’ you.”
Despite their discouragement, I am determined to see the major take his proper place in society, Miss Sonia by his side. She is doing all she can, going to the park with him and the children so people can see he is not an ogre. She sings his praises every chance. Even Lady Atterbury has had him back to tea, with no untoward events. Master Hugh tells everyone what a capital fellow he is, and extols his friend’s acts of valor over every mug of ale. And Lady Blanche, making a foursome with the Randolphs and Conover, whispers to the other debutantes that Darius is the most romantically tragic figure she’s ever known. Like a hero in one of her novels, she sighs.
It is not enough, so I have to take action. After all, what could prove a man more worthy than the affection of a dog? I positively fawn over him in the park. I dog his footsteps. I pay him the supreme compliment of trusting him with my mistress. Everyone has to see and take note: I am by his side, therefore, he is a wonderful fellow. Dogs do not lie.
*
“Oh dear. I am so sorry, Major, I don’t know what’s gotten into Fitz these days. He never used to be so…so coming. I’m sure the footprints will wipe off your uniform.”
Sonia was even more embarrassed later that day when her dog seemed to miss the bush he was aiming at and dampened Baron Berke’s shiny Hessians instead. She’d apologized profusely to the baron for braining him with the vase: “An accident, I assure you. I merely meant to toss the water to get your attention.” And she tolerated the milksop’s company on occasion to keep peace with her grandmother.
Berke graciously forgave her the headache and still squired her about whenever she permitted. He needed a wealthy wife more than ever. The duns were on his tail, and even his sister wasn’t handing over the ready, most likely on Conare’s orders. Damn Preston’s black soul. Mostly, Berke just wanted Sonia Randolph because he’d be damned if he’d lose her to any loose-screw craven. Once she was his, he’d tame her madcap ways, beat them out of her if necessary, or send her off to some country place out of his way. The first thing he’d do was get rid of that unmanageable hairy beast she took everywhere with her.
“Think nothing of it, my dear,” he forgave again, as a toadeater must. “Dogs will be dogs.”
Sonia was careful to keep the two men apart, mainly because another confrontation could deal the major’s reclamation a setback. His reacceptance into the upper ten thousand was coming along by inches instead of miles, but it was coming. If strollers did not stop to chat when Miss Randolph and the major walked along the Serpentine while the children fed the ducks, at least they nodded and smiled at the pretty picture the little girls and the black dog made. If people passed them when Sonia and Darius, Blanche and Hugh, walked along Bond Street, no one crossed to the other side or looked through him. When Darius attended the theater with Hugh and called in Lady Atterbury’s box at intermission, only Rosellen Conare turned her back.
He was even receiving invitations, and not just from the military or old friends of his father’s. Most of the new requests for his company came from gentlemen for an evening of whist or a day at the races, but they were tentative offers of friendship all the same. If the hosts were men with no young daughters to worry about, well, he wasn’t interested in a bunch of whey-faced debs anyway. He accepted some of the invitations, preferring the company of his nieces and even the rattlepate Hugh and his young friends—when he couldn’t have Sonia’s company—to the heavy gambling and heavier drinking common among the leisure lords. For a man used to risking his life in battle, there was no thrill in the turn of a card.
Darius was careful not to attend any dinners or sporting events where his cousin Preston or Ansel Berke was likely to appear, not from fear of an encounter, but from fear of distressing Sonia. Part of the major’s dawning acknowledgment was due to his title, part to his uniform. A good part of his acceptance, he knew, was due to Miss Randolph. Sonia was the pet of the ton within a fortnight of her come-out. She delighted the old ladies, thrilled the old men, captivated the young gentlemen, and made friends with their sisters. She listened, she laughed, she enjoyed everyone’s company, even the worst bores and the most muse-struck mooncalfs. She still made time for three orphaned children. Half a dozen hostesses vied for her presence every evening; seven sprigs fought for her every dance. The least they could do was be civil to the soldier she insisted was a friend. They weren’t ready to introduce Conover to their sisters or daughters, but a smile, a nod, a half bow or curtsy, couldn’t harm anybody. Perhaps when he used the title…
No, Darius wouldn’t disappoint his “friend” by creating any more scenes. And he wouldn’t push Sonia for more than friendship until he could meet her as an equal, someone she needn’t be ashamed of being seen with, or who was invited to the balls and routs she attended. Even though her companionship was more than he ever dreamed of having, he knew—and he thought she knew—how much more than friendship he wanted from her. How could she not, when his heart beat like a drumroll in her presence?
The major’s heart may have tattooed Charge, but his head was sounding Retreat. Don’t rush her, he kept telling himself, don’t try to monopolize her and ruin her chances of finding a more eligible parti. Don’t let her be cursed for your past. So he waited and was polite when people offered him the crumbs of hospitality for, suddenly, being recognized as a member of society mattered to him. He rested, he gained back the lost weight, and he didn’t harass the surgeons about declaring his left leg fit for duty. The waiting was the hardest part.
*
“Why does it take these stupid people so long?” Sonia fretted to Blanche one morning as they tried on bonnets at a fashionable millinery establishment. She made a face in the mirror at a cottage bonnet with artificial cherries on the brim. “Can’t they see what an honorable man he is?”
“Can’t see such a thing, Sunny,” Blanche answered, not even needing to ask who the he was. “Handsome and broad-shouldered, assuredly, but honorable?”
“Well, he is! And kind and smart and interesting and fun. Have you ever seen him really smile, Blanche? It’s like…like…” She dropped the lavender cloche.
“Like Count Minestrono’s in Araminta and the Arab Sheik” Blanche breathed. “‘When the brooding ends and the soul’s inner beauty is revealed.’”
Sonia frowned. “I don’t think so.”
Blanche wasn’t sure if Sunny referred to the ruched satin bonnet or the quote. “Well, they can’t decide, not when his own cousin looks down on him. Conare and Rosellen have a lot of influence.”
“I’ve seen how Rosellen looks at him, like a hungry spider looks at a fly. Then she turns away.”
“Society will accept him in time, no doubt. Maybe not the highest sticklers, but opinions are swaying in his favor. If he used the title, they’d sway faster.”
“He is honoring his calling and his comrades, and I respect him for that.”
“So much that you’d follow the drum?” Blanche asked. “Your grandmother would have spas
ms for sure.”
Sonia looked uncertainly at her reflection in the mirror, a hussar-style hat in her hand. “I always thought of a house in the country, with children and dogs. What about you? Should you like to travel with the army?”
“Above all things! Why, it would be like Melissandra on the March. Only more dusty and dirty, I expect. But think of the excitement!”
Sonia did not want to think of Major Conover or Hugh going off to war and danger. The thought wasn’t exciting at all; it was frightening and upsetting. “I think Grandmama may be right. You do read too many lurid novels. Here, try this bonnet. The wide brim should set off your high cheekbones.”
Blanche rushed to the mirror to see if she really did have high cheekbones. To cheer her friend, she said, “Don’t worry, in a month or so everyone will have forgotten any unpleasantness in the past and he’ll be invited everywhere.”
“But I want to dance with him now! He is not limping half so badly. What if he goes back to Spain in a month? Besides, I am tired of going to all these silly balls and dancing with every other man in London, from empty-headed boys to empty-pocketed rakes.”
“Give it time. The doors are starting to open.”
*
Before Sonia had one measly waltz with Darius, the doors slammed shut in his face. A few even closed to Miss Randolph.
“Well, missy, you’ve done it now. You may as well go on back to the country and raise roses and other people’s children. You’ll never make a match in London, that’s for certain. And I don’t need any harum-scarum companion either.”
“But why, Grandmama?”
“Why? Why are you the most willful chit I’ve ever known? Because that slowtop Elvin Randolph had the raising of you, and he never raised anything in his life right but sheep. I need my hartshorn.”
“No, Your Grace, why did Lady Blanche’s aunt suddenly decide I was not a good influence on Blanche?”
“It has nothing to do with influence. Philomena knew you did the girl good, got her out of those wretched novels and into prettier styles. It has everything to do with your pet. No, not that caper-witted dog, that rogue of an unacknowledged earl you’ve been trying to foist on the polite world. He was a wolf in wolf’s clothes, and you tried to convince ’em he was a lamb. Well, you didn’t pull the wool over their eyes for long, missy, and now they’re mad. The tame beast’s turned, and they’re turning on you for bringing him into their parlors. You’ll be lucky if they don’t rescind your vouchers to Almack’s.”
“What could he have done that was so awful? I refuse to believe he compromised another girl, because he’s never been anything but a perfect gentleman with me. Did he and Baron Berke have another go-round? Just what are they blaming him for this time?”
*
I’ve met a few fish in my day, but never a card-shark.
Chapter Fifteen
A cheat. Ivory tuner. Captain Sharp. I got that straight from one of the old carriage horses who used to take the last earl to White’s. Among the privileged class, cheating at cards was a worse crime than beating one’s wife. Then again, among the lower orders, stealing a loaf of bread was a worse crime than beating one’s wife. There was not even a law making the latter illegal.
A male dog will half die before turning on a bitch, no matter the provocation, yet men, who spout of honor, think nothing of harming persons smaller and weaker. This is all of a piece, I suppose, with their considering women chattel. Women are not allowed to vote, hold property, take part in government, or manage their own estates, because they are not deemed competent. Yet, and here is the part that truly muddles my mind, men let women raise their children!
Anyway, from what I could hear from gossip on the street, the pigeons who roost at Boodles’ at night, Major Conover has been accused of cheating at cards by—who else?—Ansel Berke. Lord Conare was in the game, held in a private room of Scully’s, a gambling hell in Half-Moon Street. Conare, predictably, seconded the charge of double dealing. Two other noblemen held hands in the fateful game, but they were so castaway, they could only recall seeing Conover enter the room. They were assured by both Conare and Berke that Conover had, indeed, won their blunt. They were suitably outraged to be shown the extra ace, found on the next deal, after Conover was gone.
The major had gone to Scully’s with Captain McKinnon of the Home Guard, the pigeons understood, but they separated after half an hour or so. McKinnon lost sight of Conover in the smoke and crowded rooms, he later said. The major took a few turns at hazard, played a couple of rounds of vingt-et-un, and held the faro bank for a short while. Then he wandered into some of the back parlors, according to Scully himself, looking for more interesting play. After that he went home to bed—and awoke to find himself branded a cheat.
I smelled Preston Conover’s hand in the plot: another vicious whispering campaign, with Berke doing the dirty work, more charges that couldn’t be disproved, Major Conover an outcast again. I could howl at the injustice of it. All my hard work! By St. Bernard’s beard, if I had that mangy Conare here, I’d tear him limb from limb, I’d shred him from guts to gizzard, I’d…be chained in the backyard.
If a man fuzzes the cards, loads the dice, or deals from the bottom, he mightn’t pay his debts either. No one will play with him. They won’t even talk to him. Men don’t seem to mind losing fortunes honestly; they only care when they think they’ve been diddled.
Strange, no other creature but man gambles. Tippy says betting can be a disease, just like distemper and rabies. Sometimes men who cannot afford to lose gamble just as hard as those who can. They only need a stake and a little luck. Or just a marked deck.
*
“You can’t send a letter, Sunny, it ain’t proper.” Hugh was having breakfast at Atterbury House at his sister’s insistence, and not enjoying his gammon and eggs at all. A man didn’t like a bear garden jaw with his kippers. At least Lady Atterbury never left her chambers till noon.
“I didn’t send a letter, Hugh,” Sonia insisted. “I sent Fitz.” She was too distracted to sit still, which wasn’t doing much for Hugh’s digestion either.
“And?”
“And nothing! A footman brought Fitz home. He said there was no message, nothing. The young misses have already been sent to visit their mother’s people in Lyme. That’s all the footman knows, or would say.” She banged her cup down on the table. “I’ve got to see him, Hugh!”
Hugh spread jam on a piece of toast and pondered the matter. “Can’t see how you can if he don’t want you to. He’s got the right of it, too. Got to keep your name out of the bibble-babble. Best you stay out of the coil.”
Sonia snatched the toast out of her brother’s hand. “Hugh, you don’t mean to say you think he’s guilty?” she demanded before taking a bite of the bread.
“I never said I do, just that you should keep clear while he’s under such a cloud.”
“Then you do believe Darius would never, ever do something dishonorable?”
“Darius, eh? I thought the wind sat in that quarter. Too bad, sis, you’ll have to set your cap at some other poor sod. The governor will never hear of you marrying a dirty dish.” He held a hand up in defense. “Not that I think he ain’t honorable. Play cards with him m’self any time, if my pockets weren’t always to let.” He made sure she was eating while he buttered another slice. “And look who’s laying evidence against him. Everyone knows Conare wants the title and Berke wants you.”
“Me?” she squeaked, spitting out crumbs. “You mean this is all my fault?”
“Don’t be a ninny. The feud with Berke goes back years before you put your hair up and your skirts down. Be hard to prove they set the whole thing up, though, with the only witnesses admitting they were drunk as wheelbarrows. It’d be Berke’s word against Conover’s, if Berke said it outright. Instead it’s all lies and rumors.”
“Then what’s to be done?” Sonia wanted to know.
Hugh swallowed a large bite. “I told him to ship out. Nobody’d think the
worst of him, least of all the fellows who’ve fought by his side for years. He said he’s thinking on it.”
She pounded her fist on the table. “It would be just like him to think he could simply go off without saying good-bye. Well, he can’t.”
Hugh munched some more. “Yes, he can. Better that way. Can’t say I want m’sister in such a hugger-mugger mess.”
“Hugh.” He knew that tone from old. He left his toast and bolted for the door. “Hugh Randolph, you get that muttonhead of a major in Grosvenor Square Park at two o’clock this afternoon or else.”
“Or else what?” he asked from the door, sure he didn’t want to know, wishing his orders had come through yesterday.
“Or else I’ll go to Ware House myself, or I’ll inform Grandmama he compromised me, or I’ll just tell Blanche Carstairs you wet your bed till you were twelve.”
*
Sonia sat on the same bench where she’d first spoken to Darius just a few weeks ago. It seemed like forever, he was so much in her thoughts. Now he could be leaving England, and she might never see him again. She wouldn’t think of that. Instead she’d let her anger cover the pain, anger that he’d go away without a farewell, without leaving her one last memory to cherish. She sat rigid on her bench, her hands folded in her lap, a statue in a blue velvet pelisse. Even Fitz couldn’t tease her into playing.
Maisie sat on the neighboring bench with her knitting, and Ian was getting up a flirtation with two nannies pushing prams. A nearby clock struck the hour. He was late. He wasn’t coming.
Then he was there, looking more handsome than she’d ever seen him, now that his face was fuller and not so wearied. He bowed to her, but didn’t take her hand or sit next to her. He didn’t speak, either.
A Loyal Companion Page 12