Livvy inhaled Sir William’s characteristic odor of combined bandoline and perfume and heroically withheld comment. “Would you not like to meet the Prince, Primrose?” inquired her would-be seducer. “To mingle with the ton and rub shoulders with royalty?”
It was doubtful that Sir William’s patronage would gain anyone entrée to the haunts of the Upper Ten Thousand, but Livvy adopted a thrilled expression. “Oh, sir! Such a thing is hardly possible.”
“Nonsense! I am not without influence, my dear.” An unpleasant thought presented itself to Sir William, and he frowned. “No matter what Brummel may say.”
“Brummel?” Livvy briefly forgot her mission. “What does he say?”
Sir William again wore a look of gloom. “Nothing to me, curse the man. He does not dare! To others, he not only remarked that I am as plump as a dumpling, but went on to insult my coat.”
Livvy choked back laughter. “Surely you place too much importance on Mr. Brummell’s words. Do you forget that he is merely the grandson of a valet? It is your grief over your wife’s sad death, no doubt, that makes you so sensitive.”
This time it was Sir William who grasped the brandy bottle. Livvy hastily moved her glass out of reach. “Poor Arabella. That was my fault, I fear.”
“Your fault?” At last! “How can you say so?”
“I wouldn’t listen to her.” Sir William’s eyes filled with easy tears. “I thought it was just another of her tales, that she was merely trying to get around me.” The damp eyes focused on Livvy. “Arabella had no notion of money, you see. She thought she had only to hold out her pretty hand and whatever she wanted would appear.” He touched his false side-whiskers. “Madame told me how it would be, but I wouldn’t listen. Now look what it’s come to! Arabella dead.”
“You have had much to bear.” Livvy nudged the second bottle into view. Sir William opened it.
“Hah! You don’t know the half of it. I shall again be forced to visit Jew King in Clarges Street—a moneylender, you know.” The mournful gaze brightened. “You don’t care if a man’s pockets are to let, eh, Primrose? I knew from the moment I clapped eyes on you that we’d suit right down to the ground.”
“You are too kind,” Livvy replied, with what she hoped was every evidence of flattered gratitude. She marvelled at the man’s lack of discrimination; with her hair brushed ruthlessly severe, and wire-rimmed spectacles affixed to the bridge of her nose, Livvy appeared, if not exactly plain, extremely spinsterish.
“Nothing of the sort.” Sir William slid his chair closer. “You’re not averse to plain speaking, are you, Primrose? No reason to be missish, after all.”
“You will have Lady Arabella’s jewels,” Livvy said quickly. “Surely they will be swiftly recovered and returned to you.”
“Arabella’s jewels! That’s a good one. I’m to be saved from debtor’s prison by my wife’s jewels, and I didn’t give her one of them!”
“They were presented to her by her first husband, then?”
Sir William looked confused. “Her first husband? Oh, you mean the Duke. One thing I’ll say for the old goat, he was generous.” He gazed appreciatively upon his companion. “Damn me, Primrose, if you don’t have lovely hair!”
And Sir William was showing the effects of all the brandy that he’d drunk. “I understand,” Livvy persevered, “that you have suffered various thefts.”
Sir William’s face fell. “My manuscript,” he mourned. “My memoirs. They were to restore our fortunes, and now they’re gone.” One fat hand found Livvy’s knee. “You’d have found them interesting.”
Livvy, her spine rigid, managed not to recoil. “Perhaps the manuscript was stolen at the same time as Lady Arabella’s jewels. Could someone have learned of its value?”
“No one even knew of its existence.” Distracted, Sir William leaned back into his chair. “Poor Arabella! Snuffed out like a candle in the prime of life. She was sorely burdened, and I did nothing to ease her load.”
“You must not blame yourself. I am sure Lady Arabella understood.”
“That,” retorted Sir William, “she did not! Arabella came to me with a cock and bull story about being blackmailed and expected me to fix it up all right and tight. Well! Any man would be suspicious, and so I told her.” His face had turned alarmingly florid. “Understand! Never have I seen anyone kick up such a dust.”
“Calm yourself, sir.” Ruthlessly, Livvy poured more brandy. One thing could be said of this repulsive man: his capacity for liquor was stupendous. “Who threatened your wife, and why?”
“She wouldn’t say.” Sir William shook off unpleasant memories. “Let us talk of happier things. Primrose. Such as you and me.”
Quickly, Livvy rose. “I fear your mother will be calling me. It has been a pleasure to talk with you, sir; I hope we may do so again.”
She was not to escape so easily. Sir William clasped her arm in a grip that was surprisingly strong. “ You can be sure we shall! I have not yet dismissed you, Primrose.”
“Sir William, you go too far!” Livvy struggled to free herself from an ardent embrace. Her spectacles went flying across the room. “Release me at once.”
“Don’t play coy,” said her admirer, delighted at this game. “By Gad, you’re a damned good looking woman! Why didn’t I notice it before?” With a most unladylike oath, Livvy wrenched free and darted to the door. Behind her came a resounding crash as Sir William, in hot pursuit, collided with the library steps. Cautiously, Livvy approached the prostrate body, but he did not stir.
Livvy was not a timid soul, but even she was not sufficiently stouthearted to stoically await developments that would likely involve an embarrassing visit to Bow Street. Without a second moment’s thought, she exited Arbuthnot House in a manner as furtive and hasty as that of the most cowardly criminal. Through congested streets she scurried, taking notice of neither mettlesome horses nor startled pedestrians, oblivious to the clattersome danger of iron hoofs and wheels. With a sigh of vast relief she spied the Bligh mansion. Slipping in through the servants’ entrance, Livvy made her way upstairs. Casanova, looking unusually disgruntled, climbed out of an umbrella stand to accompany her.
Lady Bligh’s bedchamber also showed the Baron’s perverse influence. Commonly known as The Seraglio, the spacious room boasted stained glass windows that depicted scenes from the Decameron of Boccaccio. The Baroness stood before a remarkably fine wardrobe with matched oval panels of beautifully figured mahogany veneer outfitted with bands of herringbone inlay, rummaging through an extensive array of evening attire. “Lavender,” she remarked, unsurprised, as her companion burst into the room. “Welcome home. You’ve just missed Dickon; he left not five moments past.”
Livvy, panting, sought to catch her breath. “Sir William,” she gasped, “is a candidate for Bedlam! He has the soul of a baboon, the body of a hippopotamus, and the wit of a wooden spoon!” Lady Bligh’s tinkling laughter pealed. Livvy pressed cold hands to her hot cheeks and, for some inexplicable reason, burst into tears.
Making soothing noises, Dulcie led her companion to an alcove that was fitted up with cushions, in the form of a Turkish sofa, with a drapery curtain in front. Firmly installed in the midst of this Sybaritic luxury, Livvy abandoned herself to melancholy, while the Baroness murmured comfortingly.
At last the storm subsided. Feeling extremely foolish, Livvy opened her eyes and found herself the subject of an intense scrutiny. A brilliant blue bird, on a perch as thick as a broomstick, was craning its neck at her in a distinctly vulture-like manner. “Dinna fash yerself!” advised the parrot, sidling to the extreme edge of the perch and fixing its eye on Livvy.
“Dulcie,” said Livvy weakly, staring at the wicked curved beak, “what is that?” Casanova approached warily.
“A Hyacinth Macaw,” the Baroness replied. “The largest and most beautiful of the parrot family. Alexander the Great had pet parrots three hundred years before the birth of Christ.” She bestowed a caress upon the huge bird. Casanova, e
nvisioning gastronomic delights, leaped into Livvy’s lap.
“Frigging landlubber!” screamed the bird, in tones so harsh and strident that Casanova leaped straight up into the air, resembling a startled acrobatic porcupine, and beat an ignoble retreat.
“I suspect,” Dulcie commented, “that Casanova has met his match.” The parrot bestowed upon her a velvety look.
“That bird,” gasped Livvy, cautiously removing her hands from her ears, “certainly has an extensive vocabulary! How did you come by it?”
“Not it, him. Bluebeard is very sensitive. A grubby urchin brought him, with no explanation other than the wish that Bluebeard would help atone for our sad loss.” Dulcie settled herself more comfortably among the pillows.
“You’re holding out on me.” Livvy gazed upon the bird’s large head, and the wings that must have measured at least forty inches tip to tip. “Confess, Dulcie, you know where that bird came from.” Bluebeard cocked his bright head to observe them inquisitively.
“Of course I do.” Lady Bligh assumed a yoga position. “But Mr. Crump would be dreadfully embarrassed if I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, so I shall say, not a word.”
Livvy’s thoughts were proceeding in an extremely disorderly manner. “What sad news?” She was afraid she knew.
“Alas, poor Calypso.” Dulcie sniffed the air. “Lavender! Do I smell spirits on your breath?”
Livvy hiccoughed, only too easily imagining the little canary’s fate. “You do. You must give me thirty-five pounds beside.”
“Bribing the servants. Lavender?” inquired Lady Bligh. “I do not know where you come by these shocking habits.”
“It was that,” Livvy sniffed, “or enter into a life of sin. I didn’t think you would wish me to go that far.”
“No?” The Baroness considered. “It is for a good purpose, after all. Darling Lavender, you have put up with a great deal for my sake, and it is not kind of me to tease you.”
“No, it isn’t. Especially when I suspect I am quite shockingly drunk.” Livvy stared down the length of her reddened nose and her eyes filled again with tears. “Dulcie, I have left the spectacles behind!”
“Blow me down!” cried Bluebeard. Having engaged the ladies’ attention, he executed a neat somersault. Livvy subsided into watery giggles.
“Don’t fret, you silly girl, you shall need those spectacles no more.” Chuckling, the Baroness took her sodden companion into her arms. “Tonight you make your debut as Dickon’s bride-to-be.”
So far was this promised treat from cheering poor Livvy that she buried her head in Dulcie’s shoulder and sobbed heartily. Life had suddenly turned from a placid and peaceful affair into a maddening and frightening game of chance. Livvy was not foolish enough to dream that she might win the coveted prize.
* * * *
Lights flared at the entrance to the Royal Patent Theatre at Covent Garden, casting eerie shadows across crowded pavements. Fashion had long ago deserted the area, leaving the great houses around the Piazza to either rot away or become home to every imaginable viciousness. Heavily painted ladies of the evening lurked at alley corners and in the theatre’s entryway. Bursts of laughter escaped from opened doors on the side streets. Child prostitutes dodged after prospective clients, mouthing lewd suggestions, plucking at rich sleeves; and raddled matrons conducted a brisk trade in virgins, earning profits of £100 and more, pandering to the belief that deflowering a virgin was the one infallible cure for venereal disease.
Beyond the Doric portico, the theatre was crowded with every possible example of humankind. Courtesans paraded side by side with glittering aristocracy in passages and saloons, displayed themselves advantageously on the grand staircase that led nowhere, lounged seductively in the greenroom.
Inside the auditorium, where three thousand people might be seated in varying degrees of comfort, notorious demireps took front-line seats, at £200 a season, as shop windows for their charms. This evening, however, immorality decked out in silk took second place in interest to the mysterious Mrs. Lytton, who had so mysteriously snared London’s most elusive, and most unpredictable, unmarried gentleman. More than one lady, Cyprian and Duchess alike, gazed upon the Earl’s dissolute, detached countenance, and speculated mightily upon how the thing had been done.
Even those high-sticklers who had raised eyebrows at Mrs. Lytton’s appearance or delivered her a snub stared curiously at Lord Dorset’s betrothed, who was dressed in a dashing gown of clinging lavender silk with an extremely low neckline, adorned with Lady Bligh’s magnificent matched pearls. Hubert gazed with approval upon her dark hair, combed à la Titus with a center part in the disheveled curls. “You are beautiful,” he murmured. “How can you waste yourself on an unappreciative clod like my cousin?”
Livvy’s serenity was not ruffled by Hubert’s audacity. “I’ve a notion to become a Countess,” she explained. “You are talking fustian, you know. Your cousin is well enough.” In an opposite box, Gwyneth, abandoned, seethed with ill-tempered annoyance.
“Such lukewarm tones,” mused Hubert, “yet you are quick enough to defend Dickon.” He cast a cautious eye at his aunt, deep in conversation with Sir John. Lady Bligh, in contrast with her companion, looked almost severe in a high-necked, long-sleeved gown of rust-colored velvet. “I ask myself, why.”
“I wish you would not.” Livvy bestowed upon her interrogator an impish smile. “It is none of your concern.”
“I suspect that you are up to your pretty ears in intrigue. No doubt of my aunt’s devising. How lowering to reflect that I have underestimated Dulcie for so many years.”
“I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re talking about.” Livvy watched with interest as, in a neighboring box, a languishing barque of frailty was introduced to an admiring gentleman. “Would you care to explain?”
“I think not.” Hubert rose as Lord Dorset, who had departed in search of refreshment that he vowed was necessary for the maintenance of his equanimity, reappeared. His foppish air had gone, leaving him unexpectedly sincere. “You are involved in a deadly game. Should you find yourself in difficulty, I beg you will come to me. Strange as it may seem to you, Livvy, I will be happy to stand your friend.” With a slight nod to his cousin, Hubert left them, leaving Livvy staring after him with the liveliest curiosity.
“Why such astonishment?” inquired Lord Dorset. Clad in deepest blue, he was a diabolically handsome man. He was also in the devil of a temper, as Livvy well knew, having been the recipient of his scathing opinions of the theatre’s devotees, players, and program of entertainment. “What has Humbug been saying to you?”
“Well you may ask.” Livvy wondered at this possessive attitude. Then she decided that the Earl disliked his supposed betrothed to display marked favor for another man, particularly one whom he held in such enmity. “Hubert speaks in riddles, like the Sphinx.”
Lady Bligh turned her golden head. “Humbug,” she commented, “knows a great deal more than he will tell.” She smiled, with great effect, upon the Chief Magistrate. “You might bear that in mind.”
“You are a schemer, Dulcie.” Sir John was uncertain how, against both his will and common sense, the Baroness had persuaded him to join her party. “What devious ploys have you in mind?”
Dulcie turned to him, thus dispelling her air of prim propriety, for the velvet gown molded itself superbly to a body unfettered by either artifice or age. “Dear John, do you fear to compromise yourself by being here with us? It is very dull of you.” Carelessly, she touched his hand, and Sir John discovered that the theatre had grown uncomfortably warm. “The world is more likely to think that you are here to keep Dickon under close surveillance than to believe you are biased in his favor.”
“I hope you are correct.” Immune to the allure of candle-lit drama, the Chief Magistrate gazed about him. He had not visited Convent Garden since the Old Price diversions several years before, when some of the more ingenious members of the opposition contrived to introduce live porkers int
o the theatre, then pinched their ears at intervals when a variation of the disharmony of protest was required.
“When am I not?” inquired the Baroness, with a toss of her topaz-colored head. “You are a great deal too serious, John. Can you not forget your wretched Bow Street just this one night?”
“Apparently not.” Despite his uncompromising tone, the Chief Magistrate was sufficiently abstracted to wonder how far Dulcie would go to insure his compliance with her nefarious schemes. She sat entirely too near for his peace of mind, her sweet perfume invading his nostrils and wreaking absolute havoc with his processes of thought. “I cannot so easily put aside the puzzle of Lady Arabella’s murder.”
“It is perplexing, is it not?” Dulcie leaned even closer, inspiring Sir John with a strong desire to take her in his arms, to the edification of the entire Covent Garden audience and the detriment of his career. “John!” As if she read his intention, the Baroness blushed like a schoolgirl. “Keep your mind on the matter at hand, if you please.”
“I do not please,” retorted the Chief Magistrate. “You are no less a vixen than you were thirty years ago.”
“Shocking, is it not?” inquired the Baroness. “Especially in a great-aunt!” In imperious tones, she called her nephew to attention. “Dickon! I strongly recommend that you bring Austin to town.”
Lord Dorset’s affability vanished. “So that he may see his mother? Austin is far better off where he is.”
Lady Bligh wore a thoughtful expression. “I have the oddest feeling, Dickon, that you are mistaken.” The Earl’s countenance darkened. “However, I shall not quarrel with you tonight. We will discuss the matter at some other time.”
Livvy inhaled the mingled scents of oranges, sawdust, and humanity. It was her first visit to the theatre, and she had sat rapt through Shakespearean tragedy, renderings by a popular vocalist, and conjuring tricks; and had thoroughly enjoyed The Gamester, heedlessly clutching Lord Dorset’s sleeve when Mrs. Beverly threw herself, in hysterical despair, into her husband’s arms. The Earl had proven remarkably patient, even suffering in stoic silence this assault upon his immaculate person. “Pray remove that atrocious scowl,” Livvy murmured. “All eyes are upon us, remember? I do not wish to be accused of provoking a lovers’ quarrel.”
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