by Amanda Scott
Brittany noted that her sister’s eyes were wide with anticipation of the delights to come. “It is not so grand a place as all that, Bella,” she said in a teasing undertone.
“Oh, I have heard all that can be said against it,” Arabella replied, “stale food, bland drinks—but it is something to be here at last, nonetheless. To think that Almack’s has opened its doors for a first night of the Season like this one every year since 1765. I wonder what Mr. Almack was like. I daresay he must be dead by now.”
“Then you haven’t heard all there is to hear, after all,” Brittany told her, grinning. “The man who began Almack’s was not called Almack at all. He was William MacCall, a Scotsman who had been in service to the Duke of Hamilton. It was the duke, in fact, who financed the building of these rooms, and because of the great English prejudice at that time against all Scotsmen, Mr. MacCall changed his name around when he named the building, just as he had done to name his gambling club the year before. MacCall was Mrs. Willis’ uncle, which is how the Willises came to own the place.”
A pair of footmen helped them doff their satin cloaks in the entry hall while Arabella continued to gaze about her critically, and Brittany found herself looking upon the white walls and gilded pilasters with some of the same appreciation she had felt on her own first night there. “The large ballroom is even better,” she confided to Arabella.
Indeed, the largest of the three ballrooms, one hundred feet in length by forty feet in width, was lit with gas in cut-glass lusters, and was chastely but elegantly decorated with gilt columns and pilasters, classic medallions, and tall shining mirrors. Besides the exclusive subscription balls, the rooms at Almack’s were also used for public balls, concerts, and lectures throughout the year, and Brittany had heard it said that the largest number of persons ever assembled in this room was one thousand, seven hundred. Nowhere near that number was present tonight.
“Dear me,” said the duchess as they entered, “so thin of company, but then, nobody likes it when the Season begins before Easter, you know. People think it is not fashionable.”
Cheriton, overhearing her comment, smiled down at her. “Such a magic, all-powerful word, is it not? Mama is forever making mock, I fear, of the fact that each member of the beau monde strives to be thought fashionable. Good evening, ma’am,” he added, bowing to Lady Sefton, eldest of the almighty patronesses. She stood next to the Princess Esterhazy, wife of the Austrian ambassador and, at twenty-five, the youngest member of Almack’s Ladies’ Committee. The contrast was not flattering to Lady Sefton, who had nearly fifty years in her dish and a face once described by a wag as resembling a week-old hasty pudding, but she was kind and amiable and the last person to envy the princess her youth and beauty. The duchess’s party stood for some moments exchanging pleasantries, then moved on to greet the other patronesses in attendance, all of whom were more or less of an age, in their mid-thirties. First there was Lady Jersey, who had made a name for herself over the years with a rudeness that betrayed her odd upbringing by a father who resented her existence and did his best to ignore her. At her side stood the Countess de Lieven and Mrs. Drummond Burrell.
“The two of them are said to be dreadfully high in the instep,” confided Arabella once they were out of earshot of the group, “but ’tis Lady Jersey who frightens me. One hears everywhere of persons who, having unknowingly offended her, practically disappear from society altogether.”
The duchess patted her arm comfortingly. “One fears that Sally is still trying to atone for the scandal of her parents’ marriage, my dear. Her mama eloped to Gretna Green with her papa, you know, and was never accepted in our circle afterward. She was Sarah Childs, of the banking family, and the Earl of Westmorland hoped to get the enormous Childs fortune by running off with her, but he never saw a penny of it, for Sally got the lot when old Childs died. Now she sets herself up as arbiter of propriety so that no one will remember her antecedents. You are far better born, my dear Bella. You certainly need not fear Sally Villiers.”
The orchestra chose that moment to begin to play for the promenade, and Brittany signed to Arabella that it was time to find their places. This was done according to social precedence, so Cheriton moved to accompany them before finding his own place, while the duchess joined her friends taking their seats in gilt chairs lined up against the wall.
As the two young ladies and Cheriton made their way toward the center of the room, Arabella, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped, stiffening noticeably, and Brittany, brought up short behind her, exclaimed, “For goodness’ sake, Bella, I nearly stepped on your hem. Our places must be farther along.”
“I see where our place is,” her sister muttered grimly, “and if you will but cast your glance six paces ahead, you also will see.”
Brittany peered over Arabella’s shoulder, gasping when her gaze came to light upon a familiar figure attired in a simple but very becoming gown of white muslin trimmed with lavender silk ribbons and love-knots. The same color ribbons had been woven through Alicia’s sleek hair, which was dressed in a simple braid twisted about the crown of her head.
“How on earth has she managed this?” Brittany demanded without thinking to lower her voice. Heads turned toward her, but she paid them no heed as she looked quickly over her shoulder to see if perchance the duchess had noticed her younger daughter’s presence. With an audible sigh of gratitude for small mercies, she noted that the duchess’s view was temporarily blocked by those persons moving to take their places for the promenade.
Cheriton spoke quietly near her right ear. “The prodigal daughter?”
“If that means Alicia, yes, it is she. Papa will flay her for this. How could she possibly think to get away with such an outrageous start?”
“She seems to have got away with it already,” Cheriton noted, chuckling.
She glared up at him to find that he was smiling broadly and found it impossible not to smile back at him. Nonetheless she said firmly, “Indeed, ’tis not a humorous situation, sir. I cannot think how she has brought this off. Who on earth would have given her a voucher without Mama’s knowing?”
“Aye, that’s a question I’d like the answer to, myself. When one thinks how many wellborn ladies have attempted to get vouchers and failed, to think that a sixteen-year-old chit can manage the task without assistance fairly takes one’s breath away,” Cheriton said, drawling his words.
“Well, for mercy’s sake, do not give her to understand she has done something marvelous,” said Brittany tartly, adding in more honeyed tones as their approach was noticed at last and without the slightest indication of dismay by Alicia herself, “How have you managed to precede us, Lissa dear?”
Alicia, clearly aware of the strain beneath her sister’s casual tone, lifted her chin a little. “Lady Arden was kind enough to insist that we arrive early so as to see everyone before the dancing began. Was that not thoughtful of her? She is utterly in alt that Mama has agreed to entrust me to her chaperonage, is she not, Pen?” She turned to the dark-haired damsel beside her, who nodded hastily, wide-eyed.
“I-I’ve got to find my place now,” Miss Waring muttered, turning as though to flee.
Brittany had no doubt that Penelope Waring was completely in her sister’s confidence, but she had no intention of creating a scene here of all places, so she merely nodded dismissal then smiled up at Cheriton. “You will wish to find your place as well, sir.”
“Indeed, ma’am,” he returned smoothly, “but may I hope to gain your hand for the first set of country dances?”
Feeling unexpectedly shy, she handed him her program, watching as he scrawled his name with the little gilt pencil. When, having glanced at her briefly, he scrawled it a second time, she smiled again, saying demurely, “Do you fear I shall lack partners, sir?”
“No, ma’am,” he responded quietly, bringing that penetrating gaze of his to meet hers, “I fear you will have too many.”
With that he turned away, and though she found that she was, for som
e reason, trembling a little, she was able to favor Alicia with a steady, narrow look. Arabella had remained silent beside her, but now that Cheriton had gone, Brittany could practically feel her sister’s anger. “Bella,” she warned quietly, “the music has begun.”
There was no more time for conversation, for the lines had formed, the gentlemen on the right, ladies on the left. Each subscription ball at Almack’s opened as that first one so many years before had done with the grand promenade around the room, followed by a series of minuets. There was no choice of partners, for everything was done by precedence until Mr. Willis, master of ceremonies and nephew by marriage to the late William MacCall, announced that the first set of country dances was about to commence.
Brittany’s partner for the minuets very properly escorted her toward the duchess. As they drew near, she realized that her mother had seen Alicia, for the duchess was paper-white and sat twisting the fan she carried between nervous fingers. Arabella and Brittany arrived at her side first, but Alicia was not far behind, her head held high, her blue eyes sparkling in triumph.
“Alicia, how could you?” murmured the plump little duchess, clearly in such distress that she had forgotten Lady Arden’s presence at her side.
Thinking quickly, Brittany quelled Alicia with a frown and said, “Do not think to defend yourself, my dear, not when Mama has told you repeatedly that the only acceptable jewelry for a young woman in her first Season is a simple string of pearls.”
Alicia’s hand flew to the amethyst necklace at her throat. “Oh, dear, I quite forgot. I shall remember next time, Mama, I promise.”
“Next time?” repeated the duchess weakly.
“Oh, pray, your grace,” twittered the heavyset woman beside her, her several chins vibrating like a songbird’s throat, “you must not scold the poor dear, for I know you must agree with me that young women today are too hemmed about by our foolish rules. I thought that necklace quite pretty and so I told her, so I do hope you will not take me to task as well and say I ought to have told her to take it off.”
As the duchess turned a bewildered look upon Lady Arden, Brittany was grateful to hear Cheriton’s deep voice behind her. “Our dance, I believe, Lady Brittany.”
She turned toward him, smiling. “You must let me make you known to Lady Arden, sir, and to my sister Alicia as well. Alicia, this is the Marquess of Cheriton. He is a friend of Faringdon’s and of Ravenwood’s, too.”
Alicia looked the marquess over appraisingly. “Were you one of the Inseparables, sir?”
He smiled. “Does it show so clearly?”
“Well, you all of you have a certain look. With Gil and Tony Faringdon, it’s a kind of cheerful laziness. With David Lynsted it’s more an alertness of manner under a cheerful exterior. I don’t know Mr. Carrisbrooke or Sir Reginald Blakeney very well, but I know they can be impudent. Mr. Wensley-Drew is different, of course, so solemn and sad, as though he has seen more than he wishes to remember.”
“And Toby Welshpool?” Cheriton was clearly enjoying this exchange.
“Oh, Lord Toby is another matter entirely. We’ve known him forever, and one simply cannot imagine him on a battlefield, let alone chasing thieves, as Cicely assures me he has done.”
“In a plush carriage,” murmured Arabella.
But although Alicia grinned, there was no more time for conversation. Her hand was claimed for the country dance immediately, as was Arabella’s. Brittany shot a sympathetic glance toward her mother before placing her hand on Cheriton’s arm. But before he led her to their set, he leaned down and spoke softly to the duchess, his words bringing a look of decided relief to her face.
“What on earth did you say to her?” Brittany demanded as they made their way through the increasing numbers of people to their set.
“Merely that everything will sort itself out and that the best course for the moment is one of casual acceptance. My mama has pointed out more than once that one often flies into a miff over something only to realize once one has a moment to reflect that the matter is not so dire, after all. I told your mother nothing more than she knew already, of course, for she knows as well as you seem to that if she behaves as though there is nothing out of the way about Alicia’s presence here, the whole business will pass off without scandal.”
Brittany regarded him for a moment in deep appreciation. It was not so much the words he had chosen that impressed her as the fact that he had caused the duchess to heed them. Perhaps they would be able to brush through the evening without a scandal. But immediately upon the heels of that thought came another, less welcome one.
“Good gracious, sir, we forgot Tony. He will not let this escapade pass casually, I assure you. He is out searching for Alicia this very minute, and if he manages to get in before they close the doors at half-past eleven, he will be livid to discover that she has been here at Almack’s all along.”
“I’ll handle Faringdon,” the marquess said. “Here we are. Watch your steps, ma’am. There is no need to concern yourself over aught else.”
Looking up into the dark-gray eyes, Brittany saw no reason to disbelieve him. Indeed, she felt somehow as though all the evening’s problems were well in hand.
3
ONCE THE SETS FOR the country dances were assembled, the lead couple in the set nearest the orchestra had the privilege of “calling” the first dance—that is, they declared the music to be played as well as the figures to be executed. If either selection brought complaint from the company to the master of ceremonies, that worthy might then ask the couple to call an acceptable substitute, but only the master of ceremonies was allowed to communicate with the musicians. As Mr. Willis moved to relay the first choice, Brittany said to Cheriton, “I have heard it said that if the musicians do not know the requested tune, they will simply play something else, and often the callers have not the slightest notion that they have been duped.”
“I confess, I should not know one tune from another, though I might recognize a waltz if it were played in place of a minuet.”
“Well, I should certainly know, and so would Arabella. Goodness, after so many years of studying the pianoforte, I should hope we might tell the difference between a tune we had requested by title and some other selection.”
The musicians having played the selection once through, the dancing began. Since there were eight couples in each set, eight tunes would be called—for the master of ceremonies rarely went beyond the first set for choices—so it was not particularly surprising to Brittany, who had been keeping a sharp eye turned toward the ballroom’s entrance, that the country dances were little more than half over when her betrothed arrived.
Faringdon paused in the doorway, and as luck would have it, since Alicia was in the set nearest the entrance, he saw her at once, a fact Brittany recognized from the sudden angry set of his square jaw. She caught her breath, causing Cheriton to glance sharply back over his shoulder.
“Damn the man,” he muttered, then quickly added, “Put a hand to your head, ma’am. You are ill.”
Following this lead as easily as she had followed him through four country dances, Brittany allowed herself a theatrical little moan as she raised a limp hand to her brow and looked pathetically up into his face.
Cheriton removed her from the set with practiced dexterity, creating as little disturbance as possible. Though his pace was rapid as he guided her to the side of the room, then along the row of chairs toward the doorway where Faringdon still stood as though rooted, the marquess moved smoothly, with a nearly casual air and without appearing to notice anything but his partner’s apparent faintness. Only as they neared the bristling earl did Cheriton’s air become more noticeably alert. Brittany was not even startled therefore when he reached out to snatch through the milling throng at a nearby sleeve of blue superfine.
“Here, Toby, just the man I want.”
Lord Toby Welshpool turned and raised his gold quizzing glass to his right eye in a smooth, much-practiced maneuver, his round cherub’s
face lighting with pleasure. “As I live and breathe, the lost marquess. Thought you was fixed for good at Cheriton, playing the gentleman farmer. Indeed, one would never expect to discover you lending your august presence to the Marriage Mart. You, my dear fellow, have always insisted you detested the place.”
“The company here has improved in three years,” retorted Cheriton, glancing at Brittany, then allowing his stern gaze to move disapprovingly from Lord Toby’s extremely high, stiff shirt points and intricately tied, heavily starched neckcloth, over his gaily embroidered silver satin waistcoat to his pale-pink knee breeches and lavender clocked stockings before adding, “I must say, however, that despite Brummell’s departure the place still seems overlittered with members of the dandy set. Good God, Toby, at least the Beau in his heyday had an excellent sense of style. How did you get those outrageous breeches past their ladyships’ long noses without censure?”
“They’re knee breeches, ain’t they? Rule says knee breeches. Don’t specify color.” He preened himself. “Think they’ll set quite a stir myself.”
Cheriton shook his head sadly. “I’d stay to debate the matter, but I must ask you to escort the Lady Brittany into the tea room if you will be so kind. She’s come over a bit faint and wants refreshment.”
Lord Toby frowned. “Not like you to pass along your responsibilities, Cherry.”
Cheriton was paying him no heed at the moment, for although Faringdon had seemed at first to recognize the difficulties inherent in interrupting the moving set of dancers containing the Lady Alicia Leighton, his face now took on a rigid look of purpose, and he stepped forward.
“Beg pardon,” Cheriton said curtly, moving swiftly toward his target as he snapped over his shoulder, “Look after her ladyship.”