by Lynn Morris
She passed Elyse driving her high-perched phaeton with a small-built but magnificently liveried “tiger,” a small twelve-year-old boy in full livery, riding on the back, and they exchanged enthusiastic waves. Lord Sefton went by in his high flyer, and as she acknowledged him with a nod, Valeria saw with satisfaction that it was drawn by the pair of Maledon chestnuts she had told him about. Cordially he turned to her, touching the brim of his hat and grinning his game smile. The gesture made Valeria uneasy, as he was tearing along at a brisk pace, the gold-yellow-and-green phaeton seeming to fly above the ground. Galloping was forbidden in Hyde Park, and Lord Sefton was just barely below it. However, his momentary inattention to the team didn’t seem to affect them, as they pranced and danced straight on. Valeria admired his control. She sincerely doubted that she could keep such a team at the brink of a gallop without constant vigilance. Now I see why they call him Lord Dashalong, he certainly deserves it! she reflected.
Although this was not the vigorous ride that Valeria longed for, she still relished it thoroughly, and she had no inclination to talk to people she’d met, merely nodding politely to them. Some of the young men—including Mr. Mayhew, that lazy foppish young man who’d been in the disreputable party at Bellegarde—looked distinctly disappointed that she gave them no signal that she wished to speak to them. Contrary to the rules of the drawing room and ballroom, in Hyde Park ladies alone might initiate a conversation, but Valeria did not. She exchanged polite smiles and courteous nods all around but did not deviate from Tarquin’s brisk canter.
Just ahead she saw a figure riding toward her that she recognized easily: Daniel Everleigh. He was riding with another gentleman, and between them rode a woman in a daring crimson riding habit. As they neared each other, Valeria recognized Lord Kincannon; he had called on Lady Hylton three times, and had shown Valeria special attention. She found him a charming man, and she liked him, even though her stepfather had met his scandalous end at Lord Kincannon’s lodge, and Kincannon had a reputation as one of the most dissipated libertines of “Prinny’s set.”
But then Valeria’s blood froze. She recognized the woman riding with them. It was Lady Jex-Blake.
All thoughts, all speculations about Daniel Everleigh’s riding with a woman in the park, about how she should greet Lord Kincannon and the woman, fell away in a red haze. She fixed on Lady Jex-Blake’s face, her dark eyes glittering fiercely. When Valeria drew near, she saw the bright smile on Lady Jex-Blake’s face fade into a look of momentary uncertainty. But then her eyes narrowed, and she raised her chin with defiance.
As Valeria came abreast of them, she stared without blinking at the woman. Then, slowly, with great deliberation, she shifted her gaze away from Lady Jex-Blake’s face and focused straight ahead without so much as glancing at the two men.
To Valeria, even the cut—a rarely used and implacable form of denigrating an acquaintance—was not punishment enough for Lady Jex-Blake. Though it was the highest form of insult one could give, she still found it unsatisfying. She had a momentary vision of slapping the woman’s smirking face with her riding crop, and was somewhat shocked at the ferocity of her emotions. But she had not the least regret.
Heedless of the rules, she spurred Tarquin to an all-out gallop. They were at the far southern end of Rotten Row, and without hesitating she rode right out of the park onto Hyde Park Corner, and then onto Piccadilly. Timothy—whom she had forgotten—pulled up alongside her, and glanced at her with anguish on his face. That, and the dense traffic on the street, made Valeria pull Tarquin back to a sedate canter.
Now her thoughts descended into a heated tumult. How could that woman be here, in London, riding with two gentlemen of Quality in broad daylight in Hyde Park? Valeria knew the answer. Although Lady Jex-Blake had a reputation for being fast, because of some preference that the Prince of Wales had shown her, she had not quite fallen into the class known as the Demi-monde—the “half-world” of courtesans, women who were kept by wealthy men, none of whom were ever publicly acknowledged. Valeria didn’t care if the prince regent worshipped her; in Valeria’s eyes the woman was no better than a prostitute haunting the streets, and she had no place even on the fringes of Polite Society.
Which brought up her next flurry of speculation: how could Daniel Everleigh keep company with that woman? Surely he knew of Lady Jex-Blake’s connection with her stepfather, and of the rumors of other men who “courted” her for her favors. Then it occurred to Valeria that Everleigh might very well be one of those men, and at that moment she hated him. She thought that she would never speak to him again.
Rousing herself from her black reverie, she looked about. She recognized Hatchards, the bookstore where she had bought a new novel that was all the rage, Sense and Sensibility, “by a Lady.” Now Valeria knew that she was on Piccadilly. With a sinking heart she realized that she shouldn’t be here without a chaperon. Then she wondered about Timothy: if he was considered an adequate chaperon in Hyde Park, surely it would be acceptable for her to shop with him? Vaguely Valeria recalled some special stricture her godmother had taught her about Piccadilly, although she couldn’t recall the exact details. In any case, what was she to do? She couldn’t possibly return to the town house yet and face her mother, not in the extremely disturbed state of mind she was in at the moment. She must, she must, collect herself and calm down.
Then an inspiration came to her; she knew that Piccadilly bisected New Bond Street some blocks north. Valeria had seen a stationer’s on the far end of New Bond Street that had displayed some artists’ supplies in its window. She was determined to purchase some oil paints and try her hand, but the stationer’s had been closed when Valeria and Regina reached it after their long session at Madame Tournai’s. Now Valeria thought that if footmen were considered adequate chaperonage for Bond Street, a groom would serve as well. A tiny voice in her head reminded her that when Ned and Royce had accompanied them, Valeria had been with her mother, but Valeria chose to ignore this. Timothy would do.
She had been obliged to slow Tarquin down to a walk due to the heavy traffic. Timothy pressed close to her, casting anxious questioning glances her way, but she ignored him. She was certain that Bond Street was just ahead.
And there it was; at least, Valeria thought it was, as she tried to picture the streets in her mind. Her notions were cloudy, to say the least, but she thought that if she made the right turn on the next street ahead, she would be on the end of Bond Street—New Bond Street.
She encouraged Tarquin to a confident half-trot, recalling that the stationer’s was at the very end of the street. But after passing a couple of buildings she slowed down and looked more closely around her. She was passing buildings that she didn’t recognize, great gracious buildings, unmarked by vulgar signs, that fronted directly onto the street, without the wide walking pavement for which Bond Street was so famous. Reining in Tarquin to a slow walk, she stared around, bemused. She saw Timothy, now riding directly beside her. His face was appalled, even horrified. Valeria understood—they were, quite clearly, lost.
* * *
Alastair Hylton sat at his regular table at White’s, the best one that faced out of the bow window. He was in a deep brooding brown study because he was thinking of Valeria Segrave, for she was the topic of the conversation.
“—and then she said, ‘I should set the entire pack a-howling!’” Lord Stephen Tryon was saying with relish. “Admiral Dinkins’s dogs!”
Across from him George “Beau” Brummel’s dark eyes lit up with amusement. “Do you mean to tell me that such a clever comment came from a well-bred young lady in her first Season? Without fail I have found the creatures to be vapid, banal, and commonplace regardless of their breeding. She doesn’t sound like such an insufferable bore.”
At this time Beau Brummel was the unquestioned sartorial arbiter elegantiarum of the prince regent, and therefore of the whole of male Polite Society. Brummel had banished, single-handedly, the horrid frilly, furbelowed, beribboned, be-ringed, pow
dered fashions of the previous century. Rather, Brummel had decreed that men should dress exquisitely, yes; but with the elegance of simplicity. Muted colors for a coat, always—black, brown, bottle green, dark blue. Waistcoats in less somber colors were allowed, but Brummel also had strict rules about precisely how bright they might be, and concerning patterns that were not too glaring. Long gone were the violently striped gold and crimson or purple paisley. Above all Brummel insisted on two things: perfect tailoring and scrupulous cleanliness. Any man now seen with a dusting of snuff on his neckcloth or a smudge on his cuff was liable to be strictly censured. Alastair, recalling his father’s bright violet coats and puce waistcoats and endless yards of lace and trim, was exceedingly glad that Brummel had made such a sea change in men’s attire.
It was a tribute to Brummel’s influence that the young men surrounding him were dressed much like him, although of course they differed in the colors of their coats and waistcoats and the styles of their cravats. Alastair, Lord Stephen, Paul Northbrooke, and Charles Ponsonby all wore dark coats, discreet waistcoats, tight-fitting buff trousers, and either top boots or Hessians. Reggie Lydgate was wearing buckskins and riding boots, for he had intended to accompany Elyse on her ride in Hyde Park—only he had forgotten the time, as the men, particularly Brummel, were making such amusing caustic comments on the passersby outside. They had, in fact, seen Admiral Dinkins plod slowly by in his barouche, with a spotted hound hanging out the window, which had brought the anecdote to the gentlemen’s minds.
Reggie said, “Elyse told me that while we were having port and walnuts they were talking about their court presentation dresses, and Miss Segrave remarked that with their fripperies—you know, those wide bell things they wear under their dresses—they all looked like corks stuck in big fat bottles!”
This time Brummel laughed out loud, which he rarely did. “How true, and how devilish of her to say so—did you tell me that Lady Sefton was there? She’s perhaps the only patroness who would allow a young lady to get away with such a scurrilous pronouncement. And I say, a toast to Admiral Dinkins’s dogs, corks in fat bottles, and Miss Valeria Segrave!”
The men all raised their glasses—Alastair reluctantly—and drank. Evenly he said, “You’re in the right of it, Brummel, Miss Segrave is definitely not a bore. But she is dancing on a very fine line, and I doubt that Lady Maledon would approve of Miss Segrave’s sallies’ being bandied about by every rake in all the clubs in London.”
“Nonsense,” Brummel said briskly. “Every woman—old, young, mother, daughter—craves to be the Toast of St. James’s, although they are too coy to admit it. I for one am looking forward to making Miss Segrave’s acquaintance. She sounds like excellent company.”
Lord Stephen Tryon suddenly straightened in his chair, his eyebrows shot up, and he glanced cautiously at Alastair Hylton. Then a sardonic look came over his handsome face, and he said, “Y’know, Brummel, we’ve seen that the ladies fall all over themselves to please you. But I’ve never known one to be so quick and timely.”
Alastair followed his gaze, started up out of his chair, and stared. His face darkened ominously. Then he flung away from the table, knocking his heavy chair sprawling, and ran toward the door.
“Ah, so that is the lady, is it?” Brummel said with undisguised delight. “Riding down St. James’s with her groom. She keeps a good seat, I must say. Handsome too. Hylton seems quite out of countenance, however.”
“That ain’t the word for it,” Reggie sighed, rising more ceremoniously. “I s’pose I’d better go do my chaperoning duty and help Hylton get her righted, but I’ve been caught between those two before and I’m not looking forward to it.”
Alastair half-ran out of the club onto the street. Every man passing by was staring at Valeria with varying expressions of curiosity, horror, or leers. He noted that Valeria had a most unusual look of bewilderment, and something else—not fear, but extreme uneasiness—on her face. It didn’t assuage Alastair’s anger, however. With hard quick strides he stepped right in front of Tarquin and grabbed his reins, bringing him to a sudden stop. Valeria looked down at him. For an instant it seemed that some gladness came into her eyes, but then her face hardened.
“What are you doing?” Alastair demanded.
“I’m riding, as I assume you can see. May I ask what business it is of yours, sir?”
“It is my business,” Alastair snapped. “Because my mother, my sister, and my brother-in-law are supposed to be responsible for you, and if you are determined to be the scandal of the Season I’m not going to allow you to tarnish their reputations along with your own. Don’t you have any idea where you are?”
Her jaw tightened, and her eyes blazed. “No, Lord Hylton, I truly have no idea where I am. But I am assuming that it’s somewhere that I’m not supposed to be.”
“Your assumption is correct. This is St. James’s. No women, not even disreputable women, are allowed on this street. And yet here you are.”
“Yes, here I am. But I assure you it’s just an honest mistake. I thought I was—that is, I was trying to get to Bond Street.”
“Trying to get to Bond Street. In a riding costume. With a groom. That is hardly much better. Weren’t you supposed to be riding in the park?”
Valeria cringed slightly at the hard-set, implacable lines of his face. “I was riding in the park. But—I—” She swallowed hard. “I was riding in the park, yes. But I decided to make a quick call on a stationer’s in Bond Street, to see if I might purchase some oil paints. Obviously I took a wrong turn somewhere.”
“You certainly did, both in direction and in decision. Whatever possessed you to think that you are allowed to go shopping accompanied only by a groom? What made you think that you’re allowed to wander the streets of London, guided only by your whim? However did you come to believe that—”
“Sir!” Valeria interrupted, drawing herself up to her full height and looking down at him imperiously. “Really, you are beyond incivility! Just direct me to Bond Street, and I’ll be on my way.”
“No, I won’t do that,” Alastair growled. “You must be turned round right now and go back home. And I swear that you don’t need a chaperon, you need a jailer.”
Valeria sniffed. “Of course you would think that. You would make an excellent turnkey.”
More heated words were averted as Reggie Lydgate joined them. “Hullo, Miss Segrave. Riding, are you? Fine outfit, that.”
“Here you are, Lydgate,” Alastair grunted. “I can’t do a thing with her. She thinks she’s going to go shopping on Bond Street. Tell her she’s wrong about that.”
Reggie looked up at Valeria and said in a kindly voice, “Really, Miss Segrave, it really won’t do. Why don’t we go back home, and Elyse and I will bring you to Bond Street later this afternoon?”
“Very well,” Valeria said evenly.
Alastair was still glaring up at her, and she met his gaze with a most rebellious one of her own. Without turning he said in a low voice to Reggie, “If this gets out, she’s ruined.”
“Mm,” Reggie murmured, “none of us would carry the tale to anyone that mattered…but what about Brummel? He can be quite catty, you know.”
“I’ll go talk to him, threaten him with spilling Bordeaux on his breeches at Carlton House,” Alastair said. “That should be enough of a deterrent. Good day, Miss Segrave.”
“Now, young sir,” Reggie said to Timothy, “I’m going to escort Miss Segrave home, so I’ll need your horse. Don’t worry, we’ll take it at a very slow walk so you can follow.”
“Yes, sir,” Timothy said with vast relief.
* * *
As they made their way home, Valeria’s thoughts were in even more of a whirlwind than when she’d recognized Lady Jex-Blake.
How dare he treat me so shabbily, speak to me with such cold cruelty? He’s really the most disagreeable man, it was just a mistake, an honest mistake! How can it be that every single time we’re close enough to speak, we end up fighting and sparr
ing? Because he’s insufferable, that’s why!
But Valeria knew that that wasn’t really the answer—at least, not the entire answer. She had acted very wrongly, and with apprehension she thought that she might have to pay for it, if the story got around. She glanced at Reggie, riding silently beside her, thoughtful for once. “I—I truly did simply make a mistake, Lord Lydgate,” she said in a small voice. “Do you—do you think that I shall be known as a fast, loose woman now?”
“I don’t think so,” Reggie replied reassuringly. “With your family, your social standing, and of course the support of your friends”—here he gave her one of his sweet smiles—“I doubt very seriously it will be a real stain upon your virtue. At worst, if it does get around, it will simply be seen that you made a foolish mistake.”
“So I shall be known as a great ninny,” Valeria grumbled. “At least that’s not quite as bad.”
It didn’t occur to her until much, much later that, in spite of Alastair Hylton’s harshness toward her, he had indicated that he was going to be one of those “friends” who supported her, for she had fully overheard Alastair’s remarks to Reggie. For a moment she again felt resentment; it was so typical of Alastair to speak of her as if she weren’t right there.
But then, as she lay in her warm bed, the corners of her mouth turned up as she thought of Lord Hylton fumbling around at Carlton House and spilling wine on Beau Brummel’s white satin court breeches. An unlikely picture, she thought; but it gave her a surprising measure of comfort, just the same.
Chapter Nineteen
BY THE TIME VALERIA ARRIVED back home, it was too late for Lord and Lady Lydgate to take her to Bond Street. The next day, after morning calls (which actually were made in the early afternoon), Elyse and Valeria set out by themselves, Reggie having begged off. Valeria was relieved. She rarely got to talk to Elyse alone these busy days.