by Allison Lane
Lord Rufton called as promised, bringing with him another of Thomas’s close friends, Jeremy Caristoke. The three had formed an inseparable trio since first descending upon Eton. Rufton was a stocky redhead of medium height whose most noticeable features were piercing blue eyes. It took but a few minutes to confirm her initial impression of his character. And Caristoke was much the same, though physically different – tall and slender with warm brown eyes set in an expressive face beneath a cap of brown curls. Both were interesting and witty conversationalists.
“So he bought some of Graylock’s mares?” queried Caristoke when she had concluded a brief explanation of Thomas’s plans.
“Four, as well as several from others.”
“I quite long to see what the result will be from breeding them to that black stallion of his.”
“Patience,” urged Rufton with a laugh. “That must wait years.”
“And perhaps longer if the Abbemarle curse passed to us.” Caroline’s giggle betrayed her teasing. “Oh, dear. I was going to tell this so seriously.”
“What curse could plague so recent a construction?” wondered Caristoke.
“Actually, Crawley is a replacement manor, the medieval monstrosity that preceded it having burned to the ground in 1710. We found old estate records that date back to the Plantagenets. And I believe a painting I discovered in an attic depicts the original dwelling. It would provide a perfect setting for a Radcliffe novel, all gothic battlements, turrets, blank walls, and cold stone.”
“But what of the curse?”
“Why, Lord Rufton! Are you interested in ghostly phenomena?” she exclaimed.
“Oh, do call me George,” he urged.
“And I am Jeremy.”
“I am honored, gentlemen. As to the curse, the contemporary account of the fire suggests that an ancient curse was responsible, but we have been unable to find an account of what it might be. Did it attach to the land, the house, or the original family? Thomas’s great-grandfather acquired the estate from the Abbemarles after the present manor was built.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Let me know if you uncover any information,” George said with a chuckle. “My father’s estate has half a dozen supposed ghosts, but I never encountered a real curse.”
“Nor I,” admitted Jeremy. “But what a dismal topic for a Mayfair drawing room.”
“Thomas mentioned that you were well-read,” commented George to change the subject.
“Yes, you have discovered my darkest secret. I admit to being a fearful bluestocking.”
“You and Thomas must be well-suited indeed, Caroline,” Jeremy observed. “He is exceedingly bright, though he always tried to hide the extent of his intelligence at school. But he absorbs a prodigious number of books.”
“I have studied his library,” she admitted.
They chatted about literature and laughed over memories of Oxford tutorials until it was time for the gentlemen to leave. Their visit provided a glimpse of yet another side of Thomas’s character, she reflected as she changed for the promised ride in the park with her cousin. Anyone who could attract and hold the friendship of two such worthwhile men deserved her respect. Her husband was proving to be a complex character – witty, sensual, capable, intelligent, and protective of his friends. In fact, her only complaint was his continued obsession with Alicia that had so negative an effect on their relationship. If only they could return to the easy camaraderie of the early days.
But such a wish would prove impossible any time soon. Please let the future be better. Even indifference would be preferable to cold fury.
Lord Wroxleigh called to take her up a few minutes later.
“Ah, your ravishing beauty would brighten the most dismal day,” he exclaimed passionately as Caroline entered the drawing room clad in a peach muslin carriage dress and green pelisse. A chip bonnet trimmed in matching green was tied jauntily beneath one ear and sparked green highlights in her brown eyes.
“Fustian!” she snorted, eyeing his elegant blue coat, dove pantaloons, and mirror-finish Hessians with approval. “If you insist on Spanish coin every time we meet, I will be forced to avoid you, else I will become puffed with conceit.”
“You are the hardest person to flirt with.” He pouted as he escorted her to the door.
“You must not confuse flirtation with fantasy if you wish to retain your credibility,” she chided him, shaking her head.
He laughed and led her outside. His equipage proved to be a perch phaeton painted dark blue with the wheels picked out in gold, pulled by a restive pair of matched bays. It took only a minute for her to relax in the knowledge that he drove nearly as well as Thomas.
“Is this your first trip to Hyde Park?” he asked as they drove through the gates.
“Yes. I’ve been in town less than a week, and you know what the weather has been like, cousin.”
“Call me Drew, sweet Caroline,” he murmured. “‘Cousin’ is so respectable.”
“Very well, Drew,” she agreed. “Unless you need a reminder.”
“You are being cruel,” he accused playfully.
“Don’t come the rogue with me or I shall be forced to forego your company,” she warned, a note of steel underlying the words.
He remained silent for a full minute before turning a charming grin in her direction. “Agreed. I have an unaccountable urge to know you better, cousin. How can I wish to spend time with an unseducible lady?”
Caroline laughed. “Boredom?” she suggested. “Perhaps your life has become too predictable.”
“Possibly. But I had best introduce you around lest people get the wrong idea.” He hailed a passing curricle. “Ashton! Good day to you. Gerald, may I present my cousin, Caroline Mannering? She is Thomas Mannering’s wife and just arrived for the Season. Caroline, this is Viscount Ashton.”
“My lord.” Caroline smiled. The viscount wore an enormous emerald on one hand that sparkled in the sunlight every time he moved.
“Is Mannering back then?” he inquired.
“In a few days.”
By the time Ashton moved forward, Drew’s phaeton was mobbed by others eager to meet her. Her head soon swirled with names, finally giving up on the task of attaching them to faces. Only three were of sufficient import to stay in her memory: dark-haired Sally Jersey, one of the feared Almack’s patronesses; Beau Brummell, whose position as the ultimate arbiter of fashion was yet unchallenged – Robert might lead the most flamboyant of fops, but the Beau’s quiet elegance had a greater following and was far more pleasing to her eye; and Lady Beatrice, an elderly, purple-robed dowager who was the most feared gossip in Mayfair, knowing everything that occurred, most of it before the rest of the ton. With Drew’s assistance, Caroline managed to navigate the conversational shoals without mishap and acquitted herself very well.
“Thank you.” They headed back to Berkeley Square. “I would never have believed I could manage, but you make it easy.”
“There is really nothing to park conversation,” he disclaimed. “It is all hello and good-bye and repeating the latest gossip you learned from your servants and morning calls.”
“I suspect I need to recognize faces and relationships first. Can you imagine repeating naughty on-dits to the wrong parties?”
Drew laughed. “Ah, yes. I had not considered that trap. But within a week I warrant you will have acquired enough town bronze to discard your fears. It has been delightful, my dear,” he concluded, pulling his bays to a halt at Marchgate House. “I trust we will meet again soon.”
“Undoubtedly,” agreed Caroline as he handed her down, retaining her hand a moment too long. “But watch your step. One rake in my life is enough.”
He sighed and turned back to his horses.
* * * *
In the days that followed Caroline found herself caught up in the social life of the ton. Emily coached her on town conventions and accompanied her to several routs, a musicale, and a ball. Lady Marchgate and Eleanor sought her company
for other events. She furthered her friendships with George, Jeremy, and Drew, and developed even closer relationships with Emily, Cissy, and Helena Potherby. She shopped, viewed the Elgin Marbles with Jeremy and the British Museum with George, drove again in the park with Drew, and danced with them and with others. Helena and Cissy accompanied her to two lectures and a literary evening. Uncle William and Drew introduced her to other cousins. Her acquaintances multiplied as she accompanied Lady Marchgate on her daily round of visits or remained at home when the countess received callers.
Thomas’s mother had warmed perceptibly, no longer adopting her icy hauteur. And each morning Caroline shared breakfast and conversation with the earl, exploring any and all subjects as had been her wont with the squire. Their talks gave her a deeper understanding of Thomas, for he and the earl were much alike. If her friendship with her husband had not been nipped in the bud, they would now enjoy just this relaxed camaraderie.
By the time Thomas arrived, she had carved a comfortable niche for herself in town and was welcomed everywhere with enthusiasm. But she had also learned more than she cared to about her husband’s past.
It was at the Debenham ball. Her escorts this evening were Emily and Wembley. The viscount was an interesting conversationalist, applauding her efforts to employ veterans and describing a bill he was working on to provide pensions. But once in the ballroom, he switched to light social chatter and humorous commentary lest her reputation be besmirched.
She enjoyed the dancing immensely, still surprised at the number of men willing to stand up with her. Robert led her out for the second set, his conversation even shallower than Wembley’s social chatter and she began to better understand Emily’s critique of the ton.
“Lady Sheridan should never wear primrothe,” he lisped as they came together in the country dance. “She lookth like a lemon with that thick waist and apple green ribbons in her yellow hair. Delicious.” He finished with an affected giggle.
Caroline smiled, unwilling to disagree. The lady did look rather sallow. And her gown in no way disguised a love of rich food in abundant quantities.
“I must say you look exquisite, Caroline,” he continued, casting a connoisseur’s eye over her embroidered ivory gauze atop a deep green slip, with slashed puff sleeves and green ribbon trim. The combination brought color to her cheeks and added green glints to her brown eyes. Dawson had threaded seed pearls through her hair, complementing the countess’s pearl necklace.
“As do you,” she murmured. His sky blue coat fit like a second skin. This waistcoat was embroidered in even brighter colors than the one he had worn to dinner, and his cravat appeared more elaborate.
A stir drew their attention to the entrance. Lady Darnley had paused, gathering all eyes before descending to the ballroom. A dozen dandies already jostled for position at the foot of the stairs.
“Like butterflies around a passion flower.” Robert giggled. “Silly boys. The lady will eat them alive. Heartless.”
“Would that everyone could see that,” she murmured to herself.
“Don’t tell me Thomas still pines!” He sounded shocked.
“We shall see when he arrives.”
“I cannot believe it. He would never behave so dishonorably. He would die first.”
Caroline allowed the subject to drop, not wanting to either admit Thomas’s obsession or contradict Robert’s assessment. She danced sets with George, Jeremy, Uncle William, Drew, and several other gentlemen. Unused to attracting so much attention – her older sisters had always been the local beauties – she finally decided that her popularity arose from curiosity over Thomas’s new wife.
Drew escorted her to dinner and kept her laughing with his droll wit and light flirtation. Emily introduced her to several ladies, mostly matrons in their twenties with young families.
An open set provided an opportunity to slip away to the retiring room to pin up a small tear in her hem. She paid no attention to the other occupants of the room until she caught Alicia’s name.
“Why couldn’t Lady Darnley stay home with her husband?” complained a pretty young miss. “With her around, the gentlemen look at no one else.”
“Hush, Clara,” admonished another. “Those mobbing her are rakes, which is only fitting. She has undoubtedly bestowed her favors on most of them.”
“Celia!” Caroline could not decide whether Clara’s tone denoted shock or titillation.
“Don’t pretend shock,” chided Celia. “She’s no better than she should be. Just pray she refrains from sinking her claws into decent gentlemen. She destroyed Mannering last year. And I had such hopes for him.” She sighed.
“How? I had not heard that tale.”
“She encouraged him to sit in her pocket most of the Season, allowing him to run tame in her house, waltzing three times with him at Almack’s, even disappearing into Lady Debenham’s garden for two whole sets. Everyone expected a betrothal. Then she up and accepted Darnley the next day. Mannering was devastated. Took to unrestrained debauchery. No one saw him sober for months. Squandered a fortune and blackened his reputation until few would receive him. Marchgate finally banished him to the country and married him off so he couldn’t ruin his sister’s come-out.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Clara. “But it sounds like you had a narrow escape. What if he hadn’t been distracted?”
“True. He has not demonstrated any steadiness of character. But oh, those green eyes!” She sighed and returned to the ballroom.
Caroline remained for some minutes. Thomas’s debauch sounded far worse than she had suspected. He had never hinted at ostracism. Would that still hold true? Alicia’s conduct was easier to understand. Accepting and encouraging the attentions of a handsome rake would flatter her overweening vanity, but such a selfish chit would never marry without a title. He must be deeply smitten indeed to have ignored that. And please let his oath that gaming and drinking are behind him be true. Nor was she surprised that two young girls knew of Alicia’s notoriety. Tales of her bedroom exploits were rife, eclipsing even those of Lady Shelby. That Thomas seemed ignorant of them was further proof of his blind obsession.
Would he ever recover? Or was obsession a Mannering family trait? There was Uncle Bertram, who had shut himself away in Crawley for forty years, reportedly conversing daily with his dead wife. And a cousin had fled the country to escape the consequences of obsessive gaming.
* * * *
Several days later, Caroline accompanied Eleanor to an evening of routs, the countess remaining at home with a migraine. Routs were the least enjoyable of the season’s social events. Invariably crowded, one spent half an hour in a coach trying to reach the door, another half hour in a line to greet the hostess, and a third fighting a way through the crush from one over-heated room to the next, greeting friends and exchanging on-dits before pushing a way out to continue to the next rout. No refreshments were served, nor was there music or dancing. They were an enormous waste of time.
Eleanor agreed.
“Why must we go to these?” the girl groused as they sat through yet another traffic tie-up near their third stop of a planned four. “I would much rather be at the Richardson’s soiree this evening.”
“You know your mother would never countenance that,” she reminded her. “The Richardsons are too fast for your first Season. You cannot take chances with your reputation. As to your first question, you know the answer better than I. If you do not appear at the events of important hostesses, your credit will suffer.”
“Then why can you skip the most boring parties?”
“Because I’m married. That gives me more freedom. I am not restricted to the marriage mart. But I still must appear at social events. And even at Almack’s on occasion. Now, straighten your shawl. We are at the door at last. I only hope it is not too hot this time. Did you see Lady Stafford at the Seftons? I swear she was on the verge of a swoon.”
“I noticed. And Lady Castleton at the Delaneys. There must have been four vinaigrettes waving u
nder her nose.” She giggled and allowed the groom to assist her from the coach.
Surprisingly, they bumped into Drew in one of the rooms.
“What on earth are you doing here?” asked an amazed Caroline.
“God knows. I hate these things,” he complained. “But Lady Fotheringay is related to my mother.”
“It could be worse. This is our third stop tonight.”
Drew laughed. “My poor Caro.” They chatted several minutes until he suddenly broke off in midsentence. “Trouble’s brewing,” he warned quietly. “Hurry.”
Eleanor had quickly tired of listening to their conversation and turned to a group of young ladies nearby. One of these was Miss Gumpley, also making her bows, but cursed with an acid tongue and lack of humor. She had not taken, in part because she couldn’t keep her criticisms to herself. And the more unpopular she felt, the more she found to criticize. This time she attacked Caroline’s association with a rake and Eleanor’s acceptance of it. Too young to laugh off the words, Eleanor defended herself and her family in increasingly strident tones.
“Eleanor, we must pay our respects to Lady Seaton,” Caroline interrupted, grateful that Drew had spotted the altercation before most were aware of it.
“Miss Gumpley, how charmingly you look tonight,” murmured Drew seductively, raising her hand briefly to his lips and turning the full force of his eyes onto her. She froze in surprise, giving Caroline a chance to draw an unwilling Eleanor away.
“Watch your manners,” she chided softly.
“But she said the most dreadful things,” protested Eleanor. “How could I let such slander pass unchallenged?”
“Think of what your mama would say. By creating a public scene you lend credence to her words. Consider the source. With her reputation for catty untruths, her comments carry no weight. Now smile. Here is Lady Seaton.”