June Calvin

by The Jilting of Baron Pelham

  “Too bad I am not in the habit of carrying a quizzing glass. This would be one occasion on which it might have some useful function.” Curzon pantomimed a dandy, imaginary glass held to his twinkling eyes.

  Davida grinned at the notion of tall, dignified Harrison Curzon with a quizzing glass. For all of his elegance, there was nothing of the affected about him. Her respect for him deepened as he guided her through the large collection of Old Masters which the Academy had accumulated, enriching her appreciation of them with his knowledgeable comments.

  “They are invaluable as a source of study and inspiration for neophyte artists, many of whom do not have entrée into the great houses as you and I do, to see the paintings of the masters.”

  “I should like to see some of your paintings, Mr. Curzon.” Davida asked hesitantly, knowing this was tricky ground. If she truly admired his work there would be no problem. But if she did not, then what? She was not practiced in the art of insincere flattery, yet she did not want to hurt the man’s feelings.

  “You already have.” He smiled triumphantly. “In fact, you admired one.”

  “I did? When? Which one?”

  “I have three in the current exhibition. They are unsigned and not for sale, of course. You liked the one of the young maids trying on their mistress’s bonnets.”

  “That one! Oh, yes, it is wonderful!” Davida was relieved to be able to be completely honest. “But why do you enter them anonymously?”

  With a soft, regretful sigh, Curzon explained. “I wish them to be praised or damned on their own merit, not on the basis of my name. And, of course, to sell them would be déclassé.”

  “I suppose so, but it seems a pity not to sign them.”

  “Perhaps you will understand why I almost wish they were for sale?”

  At her quizzical look he spread his arms resignedly. “If they were sold at a good price, I should have a better sense of my artistic abilities. If something is truly valued, people will pay for it. But I am afraid I am damned to give my works as gifts and always fear they are taken out of hiding and hung just in time for my visits.” He tried for an amused, ironic tone, but Davida sensed his vulnerability on this point and had never liked him half so well before.

  “I believe I do know how you feel. Whenever I sing in a musicale, and people, particularly young men, praise me to the skies, I never know if their enthusiasm is for my singing, my appearance, or the fact that at last it is over and they can get some refreshments.” Curzon chuckled at this, and she smiled wistfully at him. “I have occasionally daydreamed of appearing, disguised of course, in an opera at King’s Theatre. Then, if I did not attract oranges, I would know my voice is worthy of praise.”

  “I assure you I would toss you flowers, not oranges.”

  “But then, you have never heard me sing, Mr. Curzon.”

  “And speaking of refreshments . . .”

  “Oh, were we?” Her eyes quizzed him merrily.

  “If not, perhaps we should. What would you say to sharing some ices with me at Gunther’s?”

  Davida agreed, but insisted that he point out his other two paintings to her as they left. She was able quite honestly to admire them. Truly Harrison Curzon was a talented artist.

  When Davida returned from this outing with Curzon she was quietly but deeply thrilled. She felt she had glimpsed a little of the soul of the man, and she found it compatible with her own.

  Also, she was flattered that Curzon had conversed with her in such a manner as indicated he thought she was intelligent, instead of treating her as a child or a lackwit, as so many young men did.

  She shared her pleasure with her parents. Her father was enthusiastic, her mother more reserved on learning that Davida had begun to seriously consider Harrison Curzon for a husband.

  Montgomery Derwent Villars, fourth Baron Pelham, was perturbed. He ran his hands though his dark auburn curls, destroying what little was left of his valet’s efforts to style his hair à la Brutus.

  Against the soft murmurs and clinks of glassware of White’s at the dinner hour, his oath was explosive, and caused his companion to start and exclaim, “Steady on, old boy. Do you want an audience?” Pelham’s dinner partner was a tall, elegantly thin man with very fine brown hair beginning to thin on his forehead. He had a fashionable appearance of world-weariness.

  “No, but hang it all, Stanley, I’m tired of being tied in knots by that woman.”

  Lord Stanley Bede-Holmes, Earl of Carrothers, waved his long, thin hand dismissively. “Then give her up. Lucky for you she cried off.”

  The thought apparently hadn’t entered Pelham’s head. He stared, astonished, at his friend. “Give her up? I can’t. I love her.”

  “All right then, out with it. What has she done this time to put you in such a pucker?” Lord Carrothers was seven years Pelham’s senior and often stood in the place of an older brother to him. Pelham had been at University with Stanley’s younger brother, Edwin, who had been killed at Waterloo.

  “She’s so starchy and proper. I mean, it was just a kiss. I wasn’t going to ravish her. We are going to be married, after all. And hang it, she looked so demmed desirable in that gauzy, candy-striped dress.”

  “So you pulled her into a dark corner at Vauxhall and kissed her. Entirely understandable. Myself, I have never been able to figure out what females expect, when they make themselves so tempting.” Carrothers’ deep-set brown eyes gave no hint of any intention of irony.

  “Exactly!” Pelham lifted his head from his hands. “She stiffened up and pushed me away, and then slapped me. Slapped me, if you can believe it! And not gently, neither. Accused me of treating her like Haymarket ware. And when I told her it was all right, as we were going to be married, she said, ‘I shouldn’t count on it’!”

  Carrothers considered the rare roast of beef steaming on the table before them. “Here, have something to eat. You’re going to get bosky if you just drink.”

  “Feel like getting bosky,” Pelham mumbled crossly.

  “Well, don’t. You can’t handle your liquor well, and you know it. Be sick as a dog tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is that blasted picnic. I wonder if she’ll still let me drive her?”

  “Oh, yes, the famous picnic. Curzon’s do, isn’t it, to show off the spectacular grounds of Elmwood?”

  “Yes, and that’s another thing. Curzon and Davida.”

  Carrothers arched an expressive eyebrow as he forked a succulent bite of roast. “What’s wrong? Afraid he’ll give your little protégée a slip on the shoulder?”

  “He’d damned well better not.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t worry. I think he means to fix his interest there. Heard he’d given his latest bit of muslin, La Desmarest, her congé. Told her he was getting married.”

  Pelham frowned and looked up at the ceiling. “I can’t like it.”

  “Why not?” Stanley’s usual imperturbability slipped a bit in astonishment. “Good match for her. Before you took her up she was unknown to the ton, and now she’s about to land one of the biggest prizes on the marriage mart.”

  “Is it a good match? Somehow I just don’t feel he’s right for her. She needs a light hand on the reins. I’ve known Curzon to treat his women rather roughly.”

  Stanley’s brow arched in surprise. “His lightskirts, hmmm? But not his wife, surely?”

  “Perhaps not. But I’d hate to see Davida made unhappy. She’s a merry little sprite.” Pelham smiled, a warm look in his eyes.

  “Umm hmmm? Perhaps you should give up on Lady Elspeth and pursue Miss Gresham. She’s a taking little thing, that I’ll vouch for.” Pelham had introduced Davida to Lord Carrothers at the Stanhope ball, and his friend had been warm in praise of her.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We’re friends, that’s all. She would be astonished if I began to court her. And besides, I love Elspeth.”

  Carrothers did not challenge this pronouncement. “Then eat some roast beef and recruit your strength for your outing tomorr
ow. And put that brandy decanter away.”

  “Softly, Stanley. You aren’t my nursemaid.”

  “No, just your friend.”

  His steady brown-eyed gaze caused Pelham to drop his eyes to his plate. “Damn it all, do you always have to be right?” Then an idea occurred to him. “Stanley, you liked Davida, didn’t you?”

  “Told you so. Pleasant and pretty, proper but spirited. Make someone a capital wife.”

  “That’s why I was wondering whether you . . .”

  “Someone. Not me. I don’t intend to step into the parson’s mousetrap for a good many years yet. There are too many lovely cyprians out there, too many lonely wives and widows, to limit my attentions to one woman. Although . . .” A musing tone entered Carrothers’ voice as he gazed off in the distance. “Nothing to say a man can’t enjoy the muslin company after he gets leg-shackled.”

  “Forget I hinted. Davida deserves a husband who’ll keep his marriage vows.”

  “Why must you rush into harness, Monty? You’re only twenty-five. And don’t tell me you need an heir. Your cousin Herbert has two fine boys coming up, and . . .”

  “On this subject we never have agreed, Stanley. Don’t care for the ‘muslin company’ business. Never have. My one venture in that direction was disastrous, as you’ll recall.”

  “Monty, Monty, wives can die in childbirth, too.”

  “But not in shame and fear for their immortal soul. No, after Catherine’s death I swore I’d never put another creature in such a situation. She was so frightened, Stanley. Not of dying, but of damnation. But it was me who felt damned, by what I had done to her.”

  Stanley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There are ways to prevent . . .”

  “But none are sure. Besides, I want something more from life than these shallow, brief, and tawdry liaisons.”

  Dryly Stanley intoned, “You and Lady Elspeth are well suited, then, both as proper as parsons. Come, eat up. I want to be at the theater before the last curtain falls. I have my eye on a little opera dancer, mustn’t let anyone else snag her first.”

  Pelham rolled his eyes. “You and your opera dancers. It’s disgusting. A man of your years should be thinking of finding a comfort and helpmeet for his old age.”

  Brown eyes glinted. “Not quite in my dotage yet. But if I were, assure you I’d find someone older than these eighteen-year-old chits you are agonizing over.”

  Since Pelham was well aware that Carrothers’ seemingly shallow attitudes toward females were to some extent a smoke screen to cover a long-standing and very serious love affair with an older married woman, he discreetly decided to let the subject drop. Instead, he worried his roast while considering what tone to take with Elspeth on the morrow, providing she would condescend to receive him.

  Chapter Eight

  The day of the picnic dawned as fair as anyone could have wished. The air was a bit brisk, so Davida wore a dark blue pelisse over a light wool carriage dress in her favorite shade of sky blue. To shield her face from the sun she wore a poke bonnet which matched the pelisse, as did the half boots that peeped from beneath her skirt. Gilbert tucked a lap robe around her, his vivid red hair tossed by the wind.

  “Hope you shan’t be too cold. Mother is one of the chaperons. She’s following in the landau if you’d prefer to ride inside.”

  “Not at all. I’m enjoying the sunshine. And it will doubtless warm up.”

  At the same time that this scene was taking place, Pelham was tucking a cool, condescending Elspeth into his curricle. He was relieved that she had decided to ride with him, but a little put off by her cold manner. Still, he made her comfortable and whipped up his team.

  Davida’s prediction of warmer temperatures was justified. By the time the dozen or so carriages and curricles converged on the Curzon family’s estate an hour’s drive from London, the sun had done its work. She surrendered her pelisse to a footman before joining the group gathering on the steps of the Curzons’ stately home.

  Her heart did a little flutter dance at the sight of Harrison, looking impossibly handsome in his chocolate brown morning coat and buff inexpressibles. He greeted Davida warmly, his full lips pressing her fingers firmly through her glove. She lowered her eyes in confusion at her unexpectedly strong reaction to him. Was she perhaps falling in love?

  “I need to steal your lovely passenger for a moment, Gil. Know you won’t mind.” Without waiting for a response, Curzon led Davida away from the little knot of guests standing on the broad marble steps.

  “Miss Gresham, I want to introduce you to my grandmother. She’s the only one of my family in residence today.”

  “Oh!” It was so particular, so distinguishing an action that she began to feel rather panicky. She was beginning to have a tendre for him, perhaps, but she wasn’t ready to consider a declaration. Introducing her to his family seemed ominously close to proposing.

  “Do you think we should? I mean, it’s not quite fair to your other guests, and besides, I didn’t come prepared to . . . I’m rather casually dressed for . . .”

  He grinned down at her. “You are adorable when you are flustered. You couldn’t look more fetching, and my grandmama is not in the least intimidating. Please come?”

  “Very well.” She succumbed with good grace, and allowed herself to be led into the vast, elegant entry way of the Curzon mansion. Their steps echoed as he steered her into a formal drawing room dominated by an enormous Adam fireplace carved of white marble. A fire crackled in it in spite of the increasing warmth of the day. In front of it, with a firescreen to protect her, huddled an elderly woman, quite bent with age.

  “Grandmama, I would like to make Miss Davida Gresham known to you.”

  Davida curtsied, and lifted her head to see a pair of shrewd old eyes of the same ice blue as Harrison’s. “So! You bring a young girl to meet me at last. Blue eyes, porcelain complexion, rosy cheeks. A feast for your artist’s eyes, I quite agree. But is there more to her than beauty, I wonder?”

  “Much more, Grandmama, as you shall soon have occasion to learn. Unfortunately I have other guests to greet, so we cannot linger.”

  Davida blushed furiously. She felt like a prime bit of cattle being paraded and discussed before purchase. Still, she murmured a greeting, smiled prettily, and let herself be led away quite as if she had been more honored than annoyed by this encounter.

  When all of his guests had arrived, Curzon began to steer them through the formal gardens. “We’re going to walk to the picnic site. It is through the woods and on the edge of that lake you can glimpse beyond the trees.”

  Though some of the young ladies complained about walking, it suited Davida very well. She wanted the opportunity to enjoy the landscaping genius of Capability Brown. She strode out eagerly with Gilbert on one side and Harrison on the other. “You promised us archery, Mr. Curzon. I brought my heavy gloves.” She held up her reticule, her sparkling blue eyes challenging him.

  “Indeed, my lovely Diana, the targets are already set up.”

  Just behind them, Elspeth, leaning on Pelham’s arm, wrinkled her nose. “I have never felt that archery was a truly ladylike activity myself. The next thing you know, women will begin shooting pistols!”

  “I’m afraid I will quite sink myself in your eyes, Lady Elspeth,” Davida tossed back over her shoulders, in no way embarrassed. “I dearly love target practice with pistols, though I don’t hunt. Papa taught me and says I’m an excellent marksman.”

  “Are you, indeed?” Curzon frowned. “I am afraid I agree with Lady Elspeth on this. ’Tis most unfeminine, a woman firing a pistol.”

  Davida tossed her head dismissively. Pelham laughed. “You’re only afraid she’d beat you, Curzon. Mean to say, everyone knows you can’t hit the target, much less the bulls-eye.”

  The shout of laughter from several members of the party caused Curzon to smile somewhat ruefully. “A palpable hit, Monty, but spoken by a man who handles a sword like a cricket bat!”

  Their banter c
ontinued until they reached the beautifully landscaped clearing, where an elaborate feast was set up and waiting for them. Tables, chairs, silver service, champagne, and gourmet delights by the dozens awaited their pallets, served by footmen in handsome livery.

  Afterward, a leisurely walk along the lakeshore was generally agreed to be the best assistance in digesting the large repast. Davida found herself walking with Pelham and Threlbourne, Elspeth having rather conspicuously made a bid for Curzon’s escort.

  As she walked along, Davida’s eye was caught by an unusually shaped white rock near the shoreline. She bent to pick it up, and turned its shape over in her hands with pleasure. “Look, Monty, Gil. A trilobite.”

  “A . . . what?” Gilbert wrinkled his brow in perplexity.

  “Why—so it is. But how did you know?” Pelham’s amazement was almost comical as he took the object from her and examined it closely.

  “Do you think females cannot know about fossils? I have quite a collection of them.” Davida retrieved the specimen and dusted it off before dropping it into her reticule.

  Since paleontology was one of Pelham’s passions, he was eager to hear more, but Elspeth and Curzon had come up behind them. “Fossils! I do not believe in them.” Elspeth’s voice was shrill. “It is just chance that the rock looks like a living thing. Of course living things can’t be turned into stones.”

  Not wishing to come to cuffs with Elspeth, Davida turned away. “Well, they’re interesting, anyway. What I wouldn’t give to see some of the truly amazing finds in America. Have you heard, Monty, of Mr. Benjamin Peale’s discovery of the bones of huge animals, larger than the largest elephants. Just imagine! Such beasts must have once walked the earth.”

  Pelham responded eagerly, “I saw one of the skeletons when he exhibited it here, when I was just a child. It awakened my interest in America’s amazing paleontology. Their discoveries have given our taxonomists quite a bit to think about. Are you familiar with Cuvier’s . . .”

  Curzon interrupted, frowning. “Are you two talking Greek?”

  “No!” Elspeth’s shrilly indignant voice startled them all. “They are talking heathen. It is sacrilegious and against all Scripture to think that giant animals that no longer exist once roamed the earth.”