A Crime of Manners

by Rosemary Stevens

  Lady Fuddlesby’s pink skirts rustled as she opened the door to her bedchamber. She had been downstairs supervising the returning servants while they secured the broken window in the drawing room. Satisfied the house was prepared for the night, Lady Fuddlesby sought her bed.

  “There you are, my darling boy!” she exclaimed, observing Knight.

  In the manner of one completely exhausted, the cat sprawled out on his back across the bed’s pink coverlet. He opened one green eye in his black mask and looked at her.

  “I am so proud of my precious, dearest Knight!” she reached out a hand to rub his oversized belly affectionately. “It is a good thing Henrietta and I smuggled you home some ham earlier today so your strength was up to fight that awful man.”

  Giving the cat a last scratch behind his ears, Lady Fuddlesby moved away to sit at her toilet table. Deep in thought, she began removing her earbobs as the cat on the bed lazily licked a spot on his shoulder.

  “I hold myself responsible for what happened tonight, you know.” Lady Fuddlesby’s voice was low, and Knight ceased his ministrations to look at his mistress in surprise. “Now that Henrietta is with me, I stand in the place of her parents. It is my responsibility to see no harm comes to her. And only see how I have failed in my duty!” Tears gently fell down her ladyship’s plump cheeks.

  Knight crossed the room and jumped in her lap. He raised a tentative paw to her face, his whiskers twitching with concern.

  Lady Fuddlesby’s tears lessened and she hugged her pet close. A final pat seemed to reassure Knight she had control of herself. He left her lap to watch her from the floor.

  Her ladyship sat with her fingers pressed to her temples, pondering the problem of her niece’s Season. Events were not progressing quite as she would want. The Duke of Winterton and Henrietta were not betrothed, and if the duke was foolish enough to make Clorinda his duchess, Henrietta would have to settle for someone else. The girl needed an event that would show her in a good light. One where she might be the center of the admiring attention of many gentlemen.

  At last Lady Fuddlesby clapped her hands together and said, “I know the very thing, Knight. We shall give a ball in Henrietta’s honor! The poor dear looked moped to death tonight, and who could blame her? She needs something to look forward to, and every miss making her come-out should have her own ball.”

  Knight’s tail twitched, as though he understood. The cat hated having groups of people in the house, not taking well to strangers. He was fond of Henrietta, and was grudgingly tolerant of Colonel Colchester now that the gentleman paid him homage with gastronomic treats. But crowds, even when they included his favorite people, were sure to aggravate him.

  Oblivious to the cat’s soon-to-be displeasure, Lady Fuddlesby continued planning. “We shall have masses of hothouse flowers, in pink perhaps, and an orchestra and champagne and lobster patties....”

  Green eyes brightened at the word “lobster.”

  Lady Fuddlesby’s chatter stopped, and she sat with a suddenly troubled expression. “There is only one problem. I dare not ask the tradesmen for the large amount of credit I will need to do things properly. They have not pressed me before, but I cannot place myself in the position of being dunned.”

  She began removing the rest of her jewelry, and the difficulty perplexed her. Then she looked down at the pink tourmaline ring she was putting away in a small velvet box.

  “Of course! I shall agree to sell this ring to Lord Mawbly. He offered to pay me whatever sum I named.” A mental image of the odious Lady Mawbly wearing the ring caused Lady Fuddlesby to purse her lips. “I cannot like it, but it is the only thing that will answer. Henrietta must have her ball.”

  Lady Fuddlesby gazed at the ring fondly, not really seeing it, but instead seeing the Viscount Fuddlesby when he had given it to her all those years ago. Her eyes misted at the memory.

  Then another memory intruded. That of her old friend Lady Lushington. The lady and her husband had left England for the continent long ago. Lord Lushington had a penchant for drinking and gaming, and his combination of the two had resulted in their reaching point non plus. Lady Fuddlesby remembered how, before the couple were forced to

  flee their creditors, Lord Lushington had often sold his wife’s jewels, providing her with paste copies so she might still hold her head up amongst the ton.

  Lady Fuddlesby thought she would enjoy having a paste copy of the pink tourmaline ring. Not to wear in company. Merely to keep and bring out on occasion to remind her of her husband’s kindness.

  But how did one go about these things? Surely she would be too embarrassed to make such a request of Rundell and Bridge, even if they did that sort of work, which she was not at all sure they did. Weren’t these things handled by disreputable, smarmy sorts?

  Lady Fuddlesby’s imagination conjured a picture of an odious, greasy man behind a counter in a dingy establishment. He was probably French.

  Her ladyship’s eyes opened wide. French! Felice! Felice would know how to go about having a paste copy made. Tomorrow she would charge the maid with the task. It was the least the woman could do after sleeping through the attack on Henrietta!

  A scratch on the door signaled the arrival of a housemaid to help her ladyship into her nightdress. The girl made up the fire before leaving with instructions for Felice to present herself in her mistress’s bedchamber the very moment her ladyship rang in the morning.

  Lady Fuddlesby went to bed satisfied with her scheme.

  With a cavernous yawn, Knight joined her, drifting off to sleep immediately to dream of lobster patties.

  * * * *

  The next morning when the plan was put to her, a guilt-ridden Felice was only too happy to comply with her ladyship’s request. She knew the very man who could do the work and would go to him without delay.

  Lady Fuddlesby decided not to tell Henrietta her plans for the ball until after she had secured the paste ring, sold the genuine to Lord Mawbly, and received the money.

  She almost changed her mind when she entered the small dining room for breakfast and saw a downcast Henrietta absently crumbling a piece of toast in her hand while staring out the window.

  “Good morning, my dear,” Lady Fuddlesby began cheerfully. “It looks perfectly lovely outside, does it not?”

  Henrietta straightened in her chair and brushed the crumbs from her fingers over her plate. “Yes, my lady. I was just thinking that if I were in the country, I would go for a long walk.”

  Just the thing to encourage her to brood, thought Lady Fuddlesby. “Thank goodness London provides us with better amusements! You must change your gown and come with me this afternoon. Last night at the opera I told Lady Chatterton we would call on her today.”

  Henrietta sighed but made no comment, and her aunt talked lightly of what gown she should choose, the latest on dits, and what she and the colonel had partaken of at Grillons.

  That afternoon the warm breeze ruffled the skirts of Henrietta’s soft yellow muslin gown when she stepped out of the carriage in front of Lady Chatterton’s house in Curzon Street. She and her aunt, who was clad in a vibrant pink, were ushered into the gloomy drawing room by an ancient butler.

  Sitting amongst the dark, massive furniture was tiny Lady Chatterton. Dressed in a gown of burnt orange, she clashed violently with the heavy deep

  purple draperies drawn against the sunlight. The effect of these colors against Lady Chatterton’s corpselike skin was most alarming, but Henrietta noted her aunt seemed to find nothing amiss.

  “Nelda, how are you today, dear? Is it not glorious outside?” Lady Fuddlesby asked blithely in spite of her hostess’s obvious aversion to sunny weather. “You know my dear niece Henrietta, of course.”

  Lady Chatterton, who had witnessed her friend’s charge’s unbecoming behavior at the Denbys’ ball and Almack’s, but liked the girl nonetheless, greeted Henrietta warmly.

  Turning back to Lady Fuddlesby, Lady Chatter-ton spoke in her rapid whispery voice, “Clara,
I have a surprise for you. My nephew is here from the country. May I present Mr. Edmund Shire? Edmund, this is Lady Fuddlesby and her niece, Miss Lanford.”

  Henrietta observed the large man with the kind face bowing before them. He was tall and barrel-chested with a long Roman nose. He wore an olive-green coat, which looked more serviceable than fashionable, over dun-colored breeches. His hair was a nondescript brown and cut shorter than the current fashion.

  The company sat around the tea tray and Lady Chatterton poured.

  “I say, Miss Lanford,” Mr. Shire said with interest, “you wouldn’t happen to be related to Squire Lanford of Hamilton Cross, would you?”

  “Why, yes, sir, he is my father,” Henrietta answered, accepting a cup from Lady Chatterton.

  “By George!” Mr. Shire responded, striking his knee with the palm of his hand and letting out a loud guffaw. “Your papa breeds the best Thoroughbreds in all England! I had the pleasure of visiting his stables once. Found myself amazed at the gentleman’s knowledge of horses, a subject dear to my own heart.”

  Henrietta smiled at Mr. Shire’s unchecked enthusiasms. “He would be happy to hear such compliments, sir, having devoted his life’s work to perfecting the racehorse.”

  Mr. Shire looked over Henrietta’s becoming appearance with obvious approval and beamed. He seemed much struck. “I say, Miss Lanford, I’d be vastly pleased to take you up behind my matched grays. Not the type of horseflesh you’re used to, I fear, but a deuced fine team.”

  Henrietta’s mind flashed a picture of a fine pair of gray eyes, but she quickly banished the vision.

  With a torrent of words, Lady Chatterton jumped into this break in the conversation, saying proudly, “My nephew is a fine driver, Miss Lanford. You will not have to be afraid of overturning with him holding the ribbons. Why, if Edmund had a mind to, he could cut a dash in the Four in Hand Club! But he spends all his time finding ways to improve his lands.”

  “Is that so, Mr. Shire?” Henrietta asked with what she hoped was an appropriate show of interest.

  Mr. Shire’s complexion turned an uncomplementary shade of red. Clearing his throat, he said, “A man must know what’s important in life, and keeping one’s land in good heart is of primary concern to me. Can’t abide these Town bucks spending their days in pursuit of one pleasure after another.”

  Lady Fuddlesby thought the easy-natured Mr. Shire was just what her niece needed at the moment to bring her out of the doldrums. Lady Chatterton had quickly whispered an aside that her nephew had torn himself away from his estate in order to find a wife.

  Unmoved from her determination to have the Duke of Winterton as a husband for her niece, Lady Fuddlesby reasoned it would do the duke no harm to see Henrietta on the arm of another. And if the duke did prove impossible, Mr. Shire was a country gentleman and rich. “Henrietta, I am persuaded some fresh air would be beneficial to you. Do accept Mr. Shire’s kind offer. Lady Chatterton and I will wait here for you while you take a turn around the park.”

  Henrietta stole a glance at the clock on the mantel. She saw it was well before the fashionable hour and was gratified. Encountering the Duke of Winterton would be unlikely.

  Then guilt at these wayward thoughts made her smile brightly at Mr. Shire. “I should like it above all things, sir.”

  Throughout the ride in the park, Mr. Shire proved himself to be considerate and undemanding company. Never did he treat her to an excess of civility or flowery compliments as Lord Baddick had. Nor was his manner puffed up with his own consequence as the duke’s was. He was a levelheaded man; trickery or arrogance seemed foreign to his nature. Henrietta judged him an altogether suitable gentleman. She told herself he was not boring. It was only her persistent, unfair comparison of him to the Duke of Winterton that made him seem so.

  When Mr. Shire returned her to Lady Fuddlesby and asked if he might call on her the next day, Henrietta smiled her acceptance with a determined cheerfulness.

  Throughout the following days, Mr. Shire could frequently be seen at Lady Fuddlesby’s town house in Grosvenor Square. He escorted the ladies to the playhouse, where he sat uncomfortably out of place while Henrietta watched the actors with enraptured concentration.

  As the weather was sunny and warm, Mr. Shire took Henrietta for drives in his open carriage and for ices at Gunter’s, where he sat awkwardly in his chair trying to enjoy the frivolous confection.

  In between these outings, Henrietta would often curl up in the window seat of the morning room with an improving book. No more novels for her.

  Even so, her mind would frequently drift off to memories of the Duke of Winterton’s never-to-be-forgotten kiss. Her eyes closed, and once again she could feel the touch of his lips on hers. The strength of his strong shoulders underneath her hands. The clean, masculine smell of him.

  She had not seen him save for a glimpse of him and Lady Clorinda in the park. No notice of their engagement appeared in the papers, and Henrietta wondered at it. A little voice in her head insisted there might still be hope, but Henrietta stamped down these thoughts. While Colonel Colchester continued to call on Lady Fuddlesby, the duke had remained absent.

  * * * *

  In Park Lane, for his part the duke was becoming increasingly irritated with himself. He spent his days working out his frustrations at Gentleman Jackson’s and dining with his godfather. He noted, a trifle guiltily, Colonel Colchester frequently wore a disapproving frown. The older man had tried to

  glean Giles’s feelings regarding Miss Lanford and had been snapped at for his trouble.

  Occasionally the duke escorted the fair Clorinda for a drive, but he found her charms now seemed overblown. Nevertheless, being seen in her company kept other misses at bay, so he did not cease this small attention to her.

  At night, a fever gripped his body. A fever for the sweet taste of Miss Lanford’s innocent lips. The soft, soft feel of her skin.

  As these thoughts took over his mind, the duke tossed restlessly in his bed. Matters were not helped by Sir Polly Grey’s untimely utterance of a snippet of the old duke’s marriage lecture. “Hips good for breeding,” the parrot insisted.

  Deuce take it! Perhaps he should acquire a mistress. Then he scowled horribly when this plan produced no real spark of interest or anticipation.

  The duke had only seen Miss Lanford once in the park in the past week. A giant of a man had been driving her. Discreet inquiries gained Giles the knowledge Mr. Edmund Shire was a well-to-do landowner. Just the sort he had initially thought Miss Lanford would be lucky to attract when he met her at her parents’ estate.

  He decided he needed to see the girl again. Maybe this spell she had him under would disintegrate in the harsh face of reality. Lady Chatterton, Mr. Shire’s aunt, was holding a musicale in two days’ time. Giles was confident Miss Lanford would attend. Punching his pillow for the hundredth time that night before resting his tired head upon it, he decided he would go and see that Miss Lanford possessed no magical charm.

  * * *

  “Here it ees, madame. Jacques has made an identical paste copy of your pink tourmaline ring,” Felice stated, setting two small boxes side by side on the toilet table in Lady Fuddlesby’s bedchamber. Glancing down with a look of distaste at Knight, who was watching the proceedings, Felice opened each box and exclaimed, “Voila! No one can tell the deeference, but you know the genuine ees in the black velvet box and the fake ees in the blue satin.”

  Attired in a pink wrapper and prepared for bed, Lady Fuddlesby stared down at the identical-looking rings lying on their sides in the boxes. She picked up the paste copy and examined the stone set in the heavy, intricate setting carefully. “Oh, indeed, the rings appear just alike. I confess I feel quite clever having thought of this way of meeting my financial needs and satisfying my sentimental memories of dear Viscount Fuddlesby. This ring will serve its purpose admirably. I shall pretend to myself it is the original one.”

  Felice smiled at her mistress. “It ees noble of you, madame, to m
ake this sacrifice for the young lady.”

  “Nonsense!” Lady Fuddlesby replied mistily, placing the ring back in its box. She picked up a sealed letter. “Felice, I have written a note to Lord Mawbly telling him he may come around tomorrow and collect the ring. See that a footman delivers it this night.”

  Lady Fuddlesby handed the missive to her maid. “Now I will have the necessary funds and can put everything in motion regarding Henrietta’s ball. No expense shall be spared! I will tell the dear girl all about my plans tomorrow after Lord Mawbly leaves.”

  “She ees sure to be thrilled, madame,” Felice declared before leaving the room to find a footman.

  Lady Fuddlesby bent to scratch behind Knight’s ears. “Why, my darling boy, your fur is raised! Whatever is the matter? Goodness, you will do yourself a mischief!”

  Her ladyship continued to stroke her cat’s ruffled fur. He is probably upset because I am selling the ring to the Mawblys, Lady Fuddlesby thought. Knight is such a high stickler! I know he cannot have forgotten the atrocious insult Hester Mawbly uttered the other day in the park.

  Lady Fuddlesby’s mind ran over the events. She had taken the cat out for an airing on the warm spring day. He sat tall and proud on the seat beside her in the open carriage, green eyes in his black mask taking in the Mayfair sights. She noticed, with affection, his nose and whiskers twitched in obvious interest at the varied odors carried by the breeze.

  Lady Mawbly’s carriage had drawn up beside them during a pause in the drive. The ladies exchanged greetings, but then Lady Mawbly had pointed her fan at Knight with a screech, exclaiming, “I must drive on, Clara. I detest cats.”

  Now Lady Fuddlesby clucked her tongue remembering Knight’s outraged feline expression. She soothed, “Calm down, dear boy, and come to bed. It is late and I find generosity can be quite tiring. You must forget that ninnyhammer Hester Mawbly. She lacks good breeding.”

  Her ladyship climbed into bed and drew the pink coverlet up around her snugly. Knight settled down at the foot of the bed, a stubborn expression on his face.