by Regina Scott
Mortimer arrived to take her up a good hour before the party was to begin, even though Lady Badgerly lived less than a mile away in more fashionable Mayfair. Millicent was to accompany them as chaperon. As Anne came down the stairs, she noticed that Mortimer had taken great pains in his dressing.
A tall, somewhat gawky youth, he had straw-colored hair that always seemed to be sticking out in all directions, giving him something of the look of a scarecrow. Tonight, he had obviously damped it to keep it in place. His black evening clothes were well cut and well padded to add some breadth to his lanky figure. His white silk cravat was tied in a perfect Mathematical.
“And are you as calm as you look?” Anne asked him as she stepped down into the entry hall to wait for her aunt.
He had been regarding himself critically in the hall mirror, much to the obvious amusement of Henry, who stood sentinel nearby. Now Mortimer jumped at the sound of Anne’s voice and spun to face her. A sheath of papers tucked carefully under his arm broke free, and sheets of vellum scattered across the black and white marble tiles. He hurriedly bent to retrieve them even as Anne and Henry knelt to help.
“I have them, I have them,” he panted. Henry helped Anne back to her feet. She hid a smile.
“I see you have answered my question, Mr. Dent. Are you sure you wish my presence this evening? Perhaps I will be too much of a distraction.”
“No, no. I’m fine,” he muttered, flustered. “You may as well come along.” Anne couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed. She realized this evening was important to him, but somehow she felt he should be including her in it. She could imagine how Chas Prestwick might have reacted to her attempt at wit. He would have probably said something like ‘And a delightful distraction at that.’
He would also have noticed that she had taken great pains in dressing as well. It was a simple gown of lavender silk, the bodice and the deep flounce on the hem overlain with French lace, but she knew it complimented her grey eyes. With her Aunt Agatha’s amethysts at her throat, she fancied she looked first rate. It would have been nice if someone else had noticed.
As Mortimer turned to greet her aunt, who was also well dressed, her ample figure swathed in purple with a matching feathered turban on her head, Anne chided herself on once more comparing mere mortals to a nonpareil like Chas Prestwick.
It took Mortimer’s driver a good half hour to maneuver his carriage to the door of the Badgerly town house. By that time, Anne’s nerves were quite on edge. Her Aunt Millicent was chattering on about the excellence of Lord Badgerly’s whist game to no one in particular, and Mortimer kept shuffling the pages of his poetry, which he could hardly have seen in the dark anyway. The fact that the Badgerly’s party was obviously not the ‘intimate gathering’ Mortimer had been led to believe didn’t help. As she alighted from the carriage on the coachman’s arm, Anne pasted a cheerful smile on her face, hoping only that she would be successful in keeping it there until the ordeal was over.
Lord and Lady Badgerly, she saw, had a town house that could only be called palatial. It had a pedimented, two-story entry, and wings that took up one whole end of the square. The size and grandeur only made Anne feel smaller. On Mortimer’s arm, she followed her Aunt Millicent up the stone steps to the brightly lit entry hall.
She felt even worse as she was ushered into the main salon, a cavern of a room boasting two fireplaces, three chandeliers, and at least eight sofas. It was also crowded with an army of beautifully gowned and jeweled ladies, any one of which was dressed better than she was, and gentlemen in fine black evening dress. Her lavender stood out in sharp contrast to the bright satins and cool ivories around her. Her cheeks soon ached with her over bright smile.
“There you are!” Lady Badgerly declared, descending on the three of them. How very appropriate that the over-bright, elaborate house belonged to an imposing matron with silver hair and an ample bosom. “I breathed my first this evening when Lord Badgerly told me you had arrived. My dear boy, you will be the making of my little soiree!”
“Lady Badgerly,” Mortimer bowed stiffly, protecting his precious papers. “May I introduce Miss Anne Fairchild? I believe you already know her aunt, Mrs. Hatfield Fairchild.”
“Yes, of course,” Lady Badgerly accorded them the briefest of nods. She linked arms with Mortimer, threatening to send his papers once more to the floor. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I spirit him away. So many people to meet, you know.”
“I hardly think . . .” Mortimer began, but she pulled him away before Anne could hear the rest.
“How very nice of Lady Badgerly to take such an interest in Mr. Dent,” Millicent said, beaming. “Just think, Anne, we may witness the birth of one of England’s great poets tonight.”
“Or the death of one,” Anne murmured, watching Mortimer turn whiter at each successive introduction. She wished she could think of a way to help him but could only offer him a smile from across the room as Lady Badgerly dragged him up before a royal duke.
“Agatha was quite right,” Millicent remarked beside her as they threaded their way through the crowd in hopes of finding someone they knew with whom to converse. “Lady Badgerly does seem to know all the best people. Although many of them seem to be going in that direction.” She nodded toward a set of double doors midway down the wall in the salon. As Anne watched, an elegantly clothed couple slipped through the doors.
“The card room, I suspect,” Millicent said at Anne’s frown. She heaved a martyred sigh. “Lord Badgerly does play a most wicked game of whist.”
“Would you like me to accompany you in that direction, Aunt Millicent?” Anne asked, hoping she didn’t sound as eager as she felt for escape.
Millicent patted her shoulder. “No, no, dear. Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from Mr. Dent’s debut. Besides, I promised Agatha I would keep an eye on you. Perhaps if we could find some place to sit down.”
Anne tried to look around without being too obvious. Whenever she happened to meet a gaze, it was abruptly withdrawn, making her feel even more out of place. Finally, in desperation, she located a ninth sofa, pushed up against the wall opposite the doors to the card room. She managed to lead Millicent there before anyone else noticed it.
“Well, that was nicely done, if I do say so myself,” Millicent declared, lowering herself gratefully onto the rich brocaded satin. “An excellent vantage point from which to spot our friends.”
“If we had some here,” Anne replied, then wished she’d kept her feelings to herself as Millicent swiveled to face her with a frown.
“But of course we have friends here, Anne. The Fairchild family is welcome everywhere. Ask Agatha. We are members of a great house.” She glanced about, obviously pleased with having allayed a concern. “And look, there goes dear Mr. Dent on Lady Badgerly’s arm. Such condescension. That, my dear, is the mark of a true lady. And . . .” she scanned about while Anne silently counted the seconds. “And there’s that girl that came out with you--Letitia Cremb.”
“Letitia Meadows,” Anne corrected her, following her aunt’s gaze to a nearby sofa where a dark-haired, sloe-eyed beauty held court. “She married that wealthy widower last Season.”
Millicent looked pensive. “Oh, yes, how silly of me. Agatha was quite put out that she managed to attach him when she was obviously less suitable than you were.”
“Obviously,” Anne quipped, watching Letitia bat her long lashes at two gentlemen to send them scurrying off on some errand for her. “I saw Mr. Meadows once, Aunt Millicent. I hope she is happy with him. I doubt I could be.”
“Yes, well, you’ll find someone even finer, I’m sure of it.” Millicent smiled at her, patting her hand. Anne returned the smile and wished she could believe as easily as her aunt.
Lady Badgerly’s strident voice rang out, causing all heads to turn in her direction. She had escorted Mortimer to a raised dais approximately in the center of the salon between the two fireplaces and seated him on a small stool there. Now she was calling
for attention. One by one her guests found seats on the sofas or chairs scattered about the room. Although the other sofas were rather crowded, Anne noticed that no one attempted to join her and her aunt.
“My dear friends,” Lady Badgerly trumpeted, her voice echoing down the vast salon. “It is with great pleasure that I give you one of the ton’s truly original poets, Mr. Mortimer Dent, who will be reciting from his own works. Mr. Dent?”
She took a seat in a large, straight-backed chair that suspiciously resembled a throne and waved her fan for him to begin. The crowd grew quiet, all faces turned to the dais where Mortimer now stood, still and pale, looking acutely uncomfortable. Anne held her breath, hoping against reason that his work would be well received. It would somehow make the evening bearable if he were a success.
Mortimer cleared his throat noisily and offered Lady Badgerly a wane smile. “Your ladyship is too kind.” His voice squeaked on the last word, and he cleared his throat again, adjusting his cravat, which was looking less like a Mathematical every second. “I should like to begin with a piece I composed especially for her ladyship.”
Lady Badgerly beamed. Anne crossed her fingers.
“It is called, ‘Ode to One Most Necessary.’“ He struck a dramatic pose, one foot up on the stool, opposite hand behind his back.
“Were I to loose my most pertinent goods
Or allow the taking of my organs
For those stuffs of which cannibals make foods
Or yet have the bailiff cut off my hands
Or pluck mine eyeballs from out of my skull
I’d not have lost something so dear to me
As my brave hunting dog, which you know full.
Her limpid brown eyes that spy out the trees,
Her chestnut curls, so damp with sweat and mud,
The delicate padding of her four paws,
Her muzzle splattered with pheasants’ rich blood,
Her tail, and her tongue quite fill me with awe.
Can any man be as lucky as me
To have so great a companion as she?”
Anne watched in desperation as Lady Badgerly slowly paled, and a number of her guests exchanged looks of bafflement or disgust.
Beside her, Millicent looked glassy eyed. “Did he say a hunting dog?” she managed.
Anne quickly began applauding, and a polite echo rang from others in the chamber. Mortimer took this as a sign of appreciation and stood straighter, sketching an elaborate bow. Lady Badgerly began making strangling noises.
“Well done, sir!” a voice called from the door to the card room. Anne stiffened, sure she had to be mistaken. Craning her neck, she was just able to see over some of the taller guests. Chas Prestwick lounged in the doorway, grinning.
He had to know that all eyes were on him as he strolled into the room. Anne’s heart leaped at the sight of him, then fell as she realized that he would never see her in the crowd.
Beside her, Millicent was straining to see as well. “Who is it?” she hissed to Anne.
Chas spoke before Anne could answer. “Lady Badgerly, you are to be congratulated! Truly an original poet. His impassioned reading has moved me to declaim as well. I wonder, would you mind if I were to recite?”
Lady Badgerly, who had obviously been seeing her stature as a hostess dwindle to nothing, eagerly seized his offer. “Please, sir!”
“Who is it?” Millicent hissed even louder.
Anne attempted to hush her, even as she craned her neck again to see what he was doing. Another gentleman had entered the room just behind him and was slipping quietly around the other guests, a friendly smile on his face. He had been with Chas the day of the race--Leslie something, she seemed to remember.
“Mr. Dent?” Chas was politely asking in turn. “My reading can’t be compared to yours as it won’t be my own work. Would you be mind sharing your moment with an amateur?”
Anne swallowed, afraid that Mortimer would either be too tongue tied or too caught up in the moment to respond well.
He looked flustered, but pleased. “Not at all, sir. Please join in. The purpose of poetry is to inspire.”
“How very true. A moment while I find my inspiration.”
“Who is it!” Millicent demanded, causing a white-haired matron at a nearby sofa to glare at her through her quizzing glass.
Anne ignored them as Chas stepped up onto the dais, standing resplendent in a black cutaway evening coat, green satin waistcoat that matched his emerald eyes, and skin-tight white knee breeches. Mortimer graciously bowed aside to give him center stage. Chas favored him with a conspiratorial grin and then faced the room, where everyone sat as if holding their breaths. The only movement Anne noticed was the rapid fluttering of Letitia Meadows’ fan.
With a huff, Millicent stood, shaking out her skirts, and peered up at the dais. “Why, if it isn’t little Chas Prestwick!” she declared, beaming, before Anne could stop her. “Anne, look, it’s Chas Prestwick.”
Heads swiveled as people tried to see who had interrupted. The dark-haired Leslie started in recognition. Anne kept a determined smile on her face, daring them all to say the least thing to dear Millicent. Chas bowed to her aunt from the dais. His eyes widened as he spotted Anne.
“I think I’ve found my muse,” he said with a smile. “Or should I say, angel?”
Anne’s breath caught in her throat as she met his eyes. His smile spread, lighting his eyes with emerald fire, then he seemed to recall why he was there and adopted a more solemn expression. The room fell quiet again, expectant. Even Millicent was still.
“Who will believe my verse in time to come, if it were filled with your most high desserts?” he began, gazing out at Anne.
She felt as if she were carved of stone, a statue that enclosed a wildly beating heart. She couldn’t have moved, couldn’t have looked away if she tried. The world seemed to have disappeared, and there was only herself and Chas Prestwick, his rich baritone reciting only for her.
“Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half you parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say ‘this poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.’“
Anne’s heart was beating alarmingly fast, and she felt as if her face were on fire with a blush.
“So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorn’d, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
And so this poet’s tongue shall feed on thee
Whose self defies description’s majesty.”
“Oh, my,” Millicent breathed beside her, breaking the spell.
Anne looked hurriedly away as applause rose like a wave from the sea of people, and dozens of heads swiveled in her direction, trying to see who had incited the infamous Chas Prestwick to recite. She kept her eyes glued resolutely on her toes peeking out from beneath the lace-edged hem of her gown, struggling to regain her composure.
It was a simple poem. She’d read it a dozen times before. He had only changed the ending. It was no more inspiring than Mortimer’s ode.
She almost giggled as she realized the absurdity of that thought. It was a beautiful love poem, and he had recited it for her. She would never forget the fire it had started in her heart. This was the romance she had craved.
So lost in reverie was she that she didn’t realize conversation had once more broken out around the salon. It wasn’t until she noticed her Aunt Millicent preening that she looked up to see Mortimer bearing down on her with Chas in tow.
“Well done, both of you,” Millicent crowed, including the room in her smile of matronly pride. “I hope you remember me, Mr. Prestwick. I was a very good friend of your mother.”
Anne stared at her in amazement as Chas bowed ov
er her hand. “Mrs. Fairchild, isn’t it? Mother speaks of you often.”
“She never does! Why, it must be close to twenty years since we last saw each other, the day of your father’s funeral.” Millicent’s face clouded, then she shook herself. “But where are my manners? This is my niece, Miss Anne Fairchild.”
Anne held out her hand in sudden trepidation, knowing that she would lose all if he gave her away.
He bowed over hand, a twinkle in his green eyes. “A pleasure to be introduced at last, Miss Fairchild. How very fortunate that we know some of the same people.”
Chapter Four
Chas whistled as he climbed the steps of the Prestwick town house across the square from the Badgerly’s. A rather nice night’s work, if he did say so himself. He had been trying to think of a proper way to meet the lady again, and spotting her in the crowd had been a bit of luck. And finding that she was one of those Fairchilds on which his mother doted had been an even greater one. Good thing he was still in Lady Badgerly’s good graces and ought to stay that way after his rescue of her interesting little party.
“‘Ode to One Most Necessary’ indeed,” he said with a chuckle as he let himself in.
Rames, his butler and valet, stood stiffly at the foot of the stairs, grimacing.
Chas tipped his top hat back from his forehead and frowned. “Rames, how many times have I told you not to wait up?” he demanded, tossing his evening cape across the hall table in annoyance. “You make me feel like a schoolboy trying to slip upstairs before his mother notices he’s been out after dark.”
Rames cleared his throat and jerked his head toward the open sitting room door on his right. “I’m afraid Mr. Prestwick isn’t home right now, sir,” he said loudly. “You’ll have to come back another time.”
“What the devil,” Chas began, peering at his man to see if he were drunk. Rames’ heavily jowled face twitched, and his three chins quivered. His bald pate glistened with sweat, and his usually immaculate black suit was rumpled, with his shirt and ample belly bulging out below his waistcoat. Something had definitely put the old boy in a pucker. There was only one person who could so fill Rames with fear.