by Jo Beverley
Con Somerford, Viscount Amleigh. Ex-military
Simon St. Bride, Viscount Austrey, heir to the Earl of Marlowe
Lord Roger Merryhew, army, deceased
Hermione paused there, surprised and touched to find her brother listed, but then sad because he seemed like a ghost in the midst of life. What would he be now if he’d survived?
Marquess of Carsheld, of course, and much higher on the list, for Lady Arden had listed the men by their official precedence.
There were four more names.
Sir Stephen Ball, baronet, reforming politician and lawyer.
Was he the sort to incite people to violent rebellion?
Allan Ingram, Royal Navy, deceased.
Did he have family? Had they been swept under the Rogues’ protection, whether they wanted to be or not? How prickly she was becoming.
Miles Cavanagh, heir to the Earl of Kilgoran, Irish horse breeder.
Major Hal Beaumont, ex-military.
The list did present a range of power and influence to draw on, though she’d have liked to see a physician among them. Then she noticed something else. The list was in order of precedence except that Nicholas Delaney was at the top even though the younger son of an earl should have been somewhere in the middle.
She refolded the paper and put it in her writing case. Lady Arden had said “Knowledge is power.” Perhaps that detail had been a discreet warning. Nicholas Delaney commanded all these powerful men?
That might be the case, but he didn’t command her.
Neither she nor Edgar would be a rogue’s plaything.
But then she remembered that Delaney had implied that his Rogues would feel an obligation to help Roger’s sister. Could that list of powerful men be used to keep Thayne safe? If he were a common thief, very likely, but she felt sure he wasn’t. All the same, she wouldn’t lose sight of the fact that she might have influence at her command. Perhaps tomorrow she would contact Sir George Hawkinville in hopes of letting Thayne know.
Chapter 32
Lady Arden was efficient. Within two hours Hermione and her party were traveling westward to Mayfair in a very fine carriage. The seats were upholstered for comfort and the springs dealt excellently with the cobbled streets. Hermione had noted the escutcheon on the door and small coronets at each corner of the roof. The coachman and two powdered footman were in livery. Ducal, but this was the state expected of a marquessate and she’d never experienced it before.
Edgar had cackled when he was carried out into it. “If only some of my rascally friends could see me now.”
Whatever came of all this, Edgar was better for the new adventure. He watched London passing by, commenting in a sprightly manner on the vast change in fifty years. Nolly, too, was taking everything in, like someone at a play or pantomime.
When the carriage traveled into Marlborough Square, Hermione herself couldn’t help being impressed. It was a particularly large square with a handsome garden in the center surrounded by railings. The houses on all four sides varied from terraced town houses to some mansions set apart from their neighbors. Some even had railed-off courtyards in the front in the style of a century ago. From terrace to mansion, all were grand.
They stopped in front of a mansion, though one without a courtyard. The gleaming black front door opened directly onto the street with a flight of steps. An army of liveried menservants and well-dressed maids emerged to sweep them into the house as a tide might sweep loose boats into harbor.
Lady Arden waited there to greet them and soon Hermione saw Edgar settled in a handsome room, which contained a comfortable chair and a chaise as well as a bed. Both chair and chaise were set to give a view of the square through long windows. Everything was ideal, including the adjoining dressing room, which held a bed for Peter and stairs down to the servants’ quarters in the basement. Edgar chose the chaise, so the journey hadn’t tired him too much. Hermione could leave him to go with Lady Arden to her own room, which was equally grand.
“You have a view of the garden,” Lady Arden said. “I hope that suits.”
Hermione looked down at trees, paths, and flowers and realized she’d missed greenery the past few days. “Perfectly.”
“There are ways into the garden from a ground-floor anteroom and the morning room nearby. I’m sure you’ll find them, but if not, there are servants to guide you. You, too, have a dressing room with a bed for your maid. There should be everything you need, but if not, don’t hesitate to request it. There are bellpulls. I’ll let you get settled and then we’ll inspect my wardrobes.”
Hermione had taken off her bonnet and gloves. “I could come now. I’ll admit to anticipation.”
Lady Arden’s smile could almost be a grin. “No matter how practical or high-minded we are, there’s something about new gowns that thrills, isn’t there?”
“I don’t think I’m high-minded at all,” Hermione said, “and I’m practical only by necessity.”
“And honest, which I value above all. Come, then.”
Hermione followed, indicating that Nolly should come, too.
“I’m a bluestocking,” Lady Arden said as they went along a corridor, “and a believer in the rights of women, which Arden finds damnably high-minded. Fitting into this world has required adjustment, but I’ve come to accept the pleasures involved.”
Hermione heard Nolly gasp at the curse. Belcraven House would add to the young maid’s education in all sorts of ways. How had a bluestocking of that sort ended up married to the heir to a dukedom? She feared it couldn’t be a comfortable match, but that was none of her business.
She’d visited grand houses and occasionally the more personal apartments of wealthy people, but the Marchioness of Arden’s suite of rooms caught her breath. The proportions were perfect, the art valuable, and the ceiling of her boudoir was painted with a trompe l’oiel of Olympus. “To remind us that we’re mere mortals?” Lady Arden suggested. “But one becomes accustomed. No gods and goddesses looking down as I bathe,” she added, leading Hermione and Nolly into a dressing room that was lined with armoires and chests of drawers and held a number of mirrors. True, the ceiling here was without deities, but it was beautifully painted with a night sky.
Three additional maids were summoned and soon Hermione was out of her plain gown, and then out of her light corset.
“Very comfortable, I’m sure,” Lady Arden said, “but for these gowns you’ll need a better form. I’m larger there than you, especially since having a baby. Do we have any of my old corsets?” she demanded of the room at large.
A low drawer was plundered and three were produced, all beautifully made and one without shoulder straps.
“The style is for exposed shoulders,” Lady Arden explained.
Hermione knew that, but she’d never actually worn such a style, as she’d not had a new evening gown for years. She remembered that bare shoulders had been in vogue back in 1811, when she’d attended that magical ball, but her mother had absolutely refused to allow her to display herself. Now she was laced into the strapless corset and then a gown of pale yellow silk was eased on over her head and fastened at the back.
“Just a little taking in at the sides, milady,” said a servant, already busy with pins. “The length’s good, which is a mercy, for we’d have to raise the whole lot. We’d not want to harm that embroidery.”
True. The gown was quite plain, but the lower part of the skirt consisted of rich embroidery of delicate white flowers set off by seed pearls. Hermione had never worn anything as lovely.
“It’s exquisite,” she said.
“Yes, but not a perfect color for you. Nor for me, either, which is why I haven’t worn it, despite its beauty. You’ll wear it, but we need a stronger shade for you to look your best.”
It was a general command and the maids set to, producing a deeper green, a bronze stripe, a riot of flowers,
and a pink.
Hermione couldn’t resist touching that one. “I had a gown of just that shade for my first ball.”
“Which brings pleasant memories, I see. Try it. I remember Madame d’Esterville persuading me to order it, but I’ve never cared for pink. Oh, yes,” she added as it was being fastened. “The color’s perfect on you.”
Hermione looked at herself in the mirror. In 1811 her gown had been demure, with a square neckline, puffed sleeves, and white rosebuds on the bodice, perhaps to remind the gentlemen that she was young and innocent. This gown only just covered her corset, and that rose only just above her nipples, and the sleeves were mere ruffles around her upper arms. The trimming was a complex arrangement of beads designed to draw the eye to her bosom.
“Perhaps a little bold for an unmarried lady,” Lady Arden said. “We could add some gauze or lace.”
She was probably right, but a wicked spirit had Hermione saying, “I’m hardly a miss in her first season. I like this.”
Especially if I indulge in dreams of encountering Thayne when wearing it.
It didn’t seem likely, for even when freed from shady duties, he’d never attend a ton event, but a lady may dream.
She was soon in possession of gowns for all occasions along with spencers and pelisses and two fine shawls. Hermione could just fit into Lady Arden’s slippers, so appropriate ones were added. For outdoor wear her sturdy half boots would have to do. If only she’d ordered those cambric ones.
“Now,” Lady Arden said, “I think we deserve some tea in my boudoir.” She sent a maid off with that order.
Hermione realized that Nolly had been standing by, in awe and silence, not knowing what to do. Her simple dress, plain apron and mobcap, and well-worn boots were no match for the clothes of the other maids. What to do?
“Nolly, please return to my room and be ready to assist with putting these clothes away. You know the way?”
Nolly bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, milady,” and escaped.
Hermione thought she heard a titter. She addressed the maids. “Nolly Forshaw was a housemaid in a small house before I asked her to accompany me on my journey to London. I needed a maid for propriety’s sake, so she obliged, and she’s proved to be hardworking, honest, and clever. But no, she’s not trained to be a lady’s maid or accustomed to a grand house. I’m sure I can rely on you all to be kind to her and help her enjoy her time here.”
One maid blushed. They all bobbed curtsies. “Yes, milady.”
When they were in the boudoir, Lady Arden said, “That was well done.”
“I hope so. I don’t want her to be miserable here. She’s been enjoying this adventure so far.”
The tea tray arrived, and Lady Arden unlocked her tea caddy and mixed leaves. “Now, can you satisfy my curiosity and tell me more about your quest for a cure?”
Hermione did, breaking off only to take her cup of tea when it was ready. However, she left out all the incidents involving Thayne. She’d love to share them, but they would raise other, complex questions. She’d simply love to talk about him, as lovers always do. Lovers.
“Is something the matter?” Lady Arden asked.
Hermione realized she’d fallen silent. She couldn’t resist. “Something reminded me of a gentleman I know.”
“A pink dress, perhaps?” Lady Arden said with a twinkle in her eye. “If we’re to talk gentlemen, we should be less formal. My name is Beth. Will you use it?”
“With pleasure,” Hermione said. “It’s a delight to have another woman to talk to. I’ve had my sister, of course, but she’s so busy with her children and her home, and she flies into alt at the slightest thing.”
“I won’t do that, I promise. So, the gentleman?”
A part of Hermione was shrieking a warning—that she should keep everything to do with Mark Thayne locked away, but perhaps it was already too late. The longer she went without seeing him, the worse the yearning seemed to be.
“I met him at my first ball,” she said, aware of blushing. “Wearing a gown of that shade of pink. But much more demure. We danced twice, and he tried to steal a kiss on the terrace. I fell in love a little.”
“Only a little?”
She could chuckle at that. “I was seventeen. Seventeen falls in love so easily, and out of it as well. He was going off to war and I was plunging into an abundance of assemblies, balls, and parties. I remembered him, but I didn’t burn candles at an altar for him over five years.” The lie came so easily. It was what any sensible lady would say.
“So you’re not a romantic.”
“I don’t think so, but my sister accused me of being one because I enjoy novels and stories of adventures.”
“We’ll ignore your sister for now. What of the gentleman? I assume you’ve met him again?”
Hermione sipped her tea, knowing she should lie again, but she could tell part of the truth. “On the journey. In Warrington. Briefly. Then again a few times.” Another sip of tea. “That was when I realized I still felt warmly toward him.”
“That you’re still in love with him,” Beth Arden said.
“You’re blunt.”
“It’s often best, but don’t answer if you don’t want to.”
“Perhaps, then.”
Beth raised her brows.
“How does one know?” Hermione protested.
“Do you know how he feels about you?”
Hermione felt positively red-faced, and laughed a little. “He’s not indifferent, but there wasn’t time. . . .” Not true. In the drawing room in Riverview House they’d stolen forbidden time to lie in each other’s arms and talk, as they so easily talked of all manner of things. They’d stolen time to do all kinds of things they shouldn’t, and even more if their consciences and good sense had allowed. Time enough to confess their love, and to accept that it was impossible. Then, at least.
She pulled herself together and tried to find truth to share. “He’s in no position to wed. He has no money, and my portion is very small. I don’t even know where he is now. He was traveling to London, but I have no address for him.”
“Did he know you were to travel to London?”
“Yes.”
“Then he should find you. If he cares, he will.”
“Isn’t that romantical?” Hermione said. “It sounds like one of those ancient challenges. To win the fair lady, find the magic chalice and slay the dragon. And then, of course, the stableboy is revealed to be a prince.”
Beth chuckled. “Which is too romantical by far, and if you met your gentleman at a ball, he’s no stable lad.” She topped up their teacups. “There might have been something to those traditional tales, you know. It’s good for men to be put on their mettle. Otherwise, they don’t always value the prize.”
“Life presents challenges enough,” Hermione said.
“So it does,” Beth said, sobering. “Sometimes, in this gilded palace, I forget. But you must enjoy the glitter while you’re here. We have a dance party planned for tomorrow, which will be an excellent beginning. Now, if you’ve finished your tea, may I take you to see my son? In my eyes, of course, he is the handsomest child in creation.”
Hermione was introduced to little Long Longridge, who was certainly a handsome toddler, with bright blond curls and big blue eyes, who ran to his mother with delighted “ma-ma-ma-ma” sounds.
She swept him up into a hug. “Good afternoon to you, too, my darling. Here’s a new friend, Hermione.”
The blue eyes studied Hermione for a moment; then the lad turned behind with most of his body, almost twisting out of Beth’s hold. When she put him down, he ran over to a pile of small leather balls and grabbed two to shake them. They seemed to have bells inside, each with a different tone. It was clearly a favorite toy, and mother and son sat on the floor to roll and throw the balls, making music. Hermione slipped away and returned to her
room, indulging in dreams of a dark-haired child running to her with such joy.
Perhaps that was more than a dream now. On top of the Company of Rogues, she had Beth Arden as a friend and was ensconced in a center of power. In the grandeur of Belcraven House, anything within the human sphere seemed possible.
She was still afraid of doing something that would trigger disaster, so she wouldn’t take the risk of writing to Sir George Hawkinville, about whom she knew nothing. She considered telling the whole story to Nicholas Delaney and taking his advice. He’d irritated her, but he’d been efficient and Beth’s attitude to him and his Company of Rogues had been unspoken endorsement. Her instinct said she could trust Beth Arden’s judgment.
She wasn’t carrying her burdens alone anymore. The relief was so great she had to sit down. She’d keep up her guard, but she didn’t have to handle all the problems alone.
Chapter 33
That evening Hermione dined with Edgar, despite his protests that he didn’t need her playing nursemaid. She wanted to be sure he was eating properly, but also she was somewhat overwhelmed by the large house and the number of servants hovering to fill her every need. All very well to feel grateful for powerful support, but that didn’t mean it was comfortable.
She hadn’t dared to venture down into the kitchens, so she’d sent a note to the cook asking for spicy dishes, but not curries. The result was a rather fierce soup that she put aside but Edgar seemed to enjoy, and a dish of lamb with spices that she found delicious.
“I taste cinnamon and nutmeg,” she said, “and who knows what else?”
“Aye, they’re lavish with spices in some parts. Could use more hot pepper. Often used to get a hot sauce to dip food into.”
“I’ll suggest it to the cook.”
He looked at her, chewing some of the tender lamb. “You’re good to me, Hermione. Why?”
“Why not?”
“I’m a sick, cantankerous old man.”
“Yes, but I like you anyway. It’s also my duty, as the representative of your family.”