Letty fashioned a knot high on Jo’s head, then teased a few long curls to rest against her neck and face. Taking a hairpin from her reticule, she tucked one of the smaller camellias into Jo’s hair behind her ear. “You have beautiful hair.”
“There’s too much of it. It’s difficult to manage,” Jo admitted.
“Every woman should have such a problem.” Letty laughed. “It is your crowning glory, Jo.”
“That is what my father says,” she admitted.
“He is quite right. A good cut will make it more manageable. I can recommend my hairdresser. I’ll give you her address if you wish to use her.”
“I would appreciate it, thank you, Letty.”
Letty smiled. “Now, give me your opinion. Have I wrought magic?”
Jo rose to study herself in the mirror. Her gown was still unlike the other debutantes’, but it looked much better. Even the small flowers decorating the sleeves looked pretty. Jo turned a shoulder to better view her hair. She approved of the camellia.
Jo twirled. “I love it.” She grinned. “I can’t thank you enough, Letty.”
“I should like us to talk again,” Letty said. “But Cartwright and I always dance the waltz. The ton frown on a woman dancing with her husband, but I suspect they have grown used to us.”
The waltz was called as she and Letty returned to the ballroom. Letty said goodbye and joined a tall, dark-haired man who led her onto the dance floor. Mr. Cartwright was handsome. He smiled down at his wife with such affection, it sent a flood of longing through Jo’s chest. Would a man ever look at her that way?
Aunt Mary gasped when Jo returned to her chair. “What have you done to your beautiful gown?”
“Improved on it,” Jo said with an impish grin.
“Well, we mustn’t tell Mrs. Laverty,” her aunt said, after considering it. “But, I must admit the simpler style flatters you.”
Jo took a seat beside her aunt. She raised her chin at an appraising glance from a young debutante who had rudely stared at her earlier. “I shall tell Mrs. Laverty that I wore her gown and had a wonderful time at my first ball.”
Aunt Mary nodded in approval. “You are always kind-hearted, Jo.”
But at her next ball, Jo would wear the white muslin she’d requested from her new dressmaker.
Mrs. Millet introduced them to Mr. Baxter, a thin gentleman with gray streaks in his hair. He promptly asked her to dance the Roger de Coverley.
Jo rested her fingers on his arm while offering silent thanks to Letty. Mr. Baxter was too old for her to consider a suitor, but she was to dance, and as they joined the other dancers on the floor, decided the evening had taken a turn for the better.
As Mr. Baxter returned Jo to her chair, she saw a dark-haired gentleman with Letty and Mr. Cartwright. It was the man from the black coach who greeted her when they first entered the city. He and the Cartwrights seemed on good terms as they laughed together. Taller than Mr. Cartwright, with an athletic physique, he stood as if confident in his own skin. She struggled not to glance his way too often, curious to know if he recognized her. But he showed no sign of it.
Jo danced twice more with two different gentlemen. Mr. Baxter took her in to supper. He was a pleasant man, but he spoke almost exclusively about his young baby and recently deceased wife and seemed very sad. The ball ended in the early hours. Exhausted, her eyelids heavy, she climbed into their hired carriage, with her body still thrumming with excitement. The rest of the Season awaited them, and her lovely new wardrobe of gowns.
“Did you enjoy your first ball, Jo?” her father asked as they passed through shadowy streets, which appeared magical, lit by the gas lamps. “Yes, Papa. It was exciting.” Although no man she danced with interested her, and one had made disparaging remarks about her being a country lass.
Jo knew exactly what she wanted in a husband. He would be attractive, rather like the gentleman in the black coach, but more importantly, a caring companion with whom she could share life’s joys and toils.
“Mrs. Millet proves to be a remarkably efficient woman. She has been spreading the news of your handsome dowry,” Papa said. “But I shall assess any gentleman carefully.” He smiled at her. “It will be a very special man who deserves my daughter.”
“Oh, Papa.” Jo smiled and leaned against his shoulder, which smelled of pipe smoke. It was all very well to dream, but the thought of an actual flesh and blood suitor caused her stomach to flip. “I hope I don’t disappoint you.”
“As if you could.” Her father placed an arm around her. “It was fortunate that Mrs. Millet not only recommended the dressmaker but forwarded your measurements to her on our behalf. Such a helpful lady.” Her father’s voice had grown warm. Jo glanced up at him, but in the dim interior of the carriage, she could not make out his expression. Was he growing fond of Mrs. Millet? Jo wasn’t sure what she thought of that.
“I met the nicest lady tonight,” she said, yawning behind her gloved hand. “Mrs. Letitia Cartwright. Letty was very helpful.” Her father had not noticed the changes to her dress.
“Making friends already. That’s my girl,” Papa said with a fond chuckle.
And there was a handsome gentleman with hair as black as coal, Jo thought sleepily. However, she didn’t say it aloud.
Earlier, Reade had watched Letty talking to the red-haired angel he’d seen a few days prior on his way into London.
“You appear acquainted with the lady in green,” Reade said when Letty joined him and Cartwright.
Letty narrowed her eyes at him, a smile curling her lips. “Only in passing. Not well enough to introduce you.”
“Your wife does not wish me to meet the lady,” Reade complained to her husband.
Brandon shrugged. “She considers you too disreputable, Reade.”
Reade laughed. “And so, I am. But what of it? Surely a dance with the pretty redhead is harmless enough?”
“Nothing about you is harmless, Reade,” Letty said, a smile teasing her lips. “You are so often in my husband’s company, I believe I have your measure.”
“Ho,” Reade said, enjoying himself. “I am merely putty in a lady’s hands.”
The laughter faded in Letty’s eyes. “Miss Dalrymple is fresh from the country and has yet to learn Society’s ways. I beg that you will be kind.”
He took umbrage at that. “I am never unkind to a lady.”
“But we are discussing innocent young maidens. They come to London to find a husband, not to have their heads turned by a…a…” She paused as Brandon’s murmured disapproval censured her.
“A rake?” Reade filled in the word for her. He frowned. “I am intensely unhappy you think me thus.”
Letty took his arm. “I do not think you a rake, Reade. I merely consider you unsuitable.”
“As indeed, I am. And while I bow to your better judgment in this matter, one dance will not compromise the young lady. If you’ll kindly introduce me.” Reade turned to where the young woman in green had been sitting. It appeared she and her family had left the ballroom. “Ah, I fear she has retired. Next time?”
Letty relented with a sigh. “If you wish. But you will unsettle her.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How should I?”
“She will unfairly compare you to the other gentleman seeking a bride this Season,” she said.
“And an insipid lot most of them are,” Brandon said as he placed his champagne glass on a footman’s tray.
“I am overwhelmed,” Reade said with a chuckle.
“It is something you and Cartwright both have. An aura. You fascinate women.”
“She is very loyal, my bride,” Cartwright said with a laugh. “Shall we concentrate on the reason we are here at this appalling affair?” he asked Reade.
“I thought as much.” Letty raised her eyebrows. “What is the reason we have come to this ball? I detest our host.”
“Nothing to concern yourself with, my love.” Brandon bowed. “If you will excuse us.”
Letty gave a slight b
ob. “I shall, my lord, as we can talk later.”
Her husband cocked a brow. “I might not have talk in mind, later, my love.”
“But I do,” Letty said with a sweet smile.
Reade chuckled. “I don’t know how you manage this all too clever wife of yours, Cartwright.”
“It takes some astute maneuvering,” Brandon said with a grin.
“It works well.” Letty gathered up her shawl, reticule, and fan. “Because I allow Brandon to believe it. Ah, there is Lady Sommerville, I promised to give her a recipe for gooseberry cheese.”
“Minx,” Brandon murmured, looking appreciative. Once his wife moved out of earshot, he turned to Reade and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I daresay Viscount Sidmouth is waiting.”
“I’m curious as to why the Home Office has involved us in a matter ordinarily left to Bow Street,” Reade said as they crossed the floor. “Has Sidmouth some interest in tonight’s host?”
“A bigger fish, methinks. But you may make a variety of guesses,” Brandon said as they walked to the library. “It’s my hope he is about to tell us, and quickly, so I might remove my lady to home and bed.”
Reade chuckled. He would not be averse to marriage if he could find a lady like Letitia Cartwright. Dashed if he wouldn’t. But then, that would mean upending a way of life that served him well. And what could he offer a wife? A drafty estate in the north, filled with such painful memories that he hardly ever visited? He would not fool himself into believing he could make a woman happy. It would not be fair to the lady.
The library was empty. “It appears Sidmouth has got caught up somewhere,” Brandon said resignedly.
Reade stretched his length out from a padded chair and watched the flames lick into the wood. “Nice of them to light us a fire, though, pass the brandy decanter, there’s a good fellow.”
Chapter Three
The next morning, the two gentlemen who partnered Jo at the ball, and Mr. Baxter sent their cards. They called promptly at two o’clock in the afternoon. Mr. Baxter silently drank his tea while he eyed the other gentlemen with an expression of grave censure. Although Jo would never consider Mr. Baxter for a husband, she agreed with him. She distrusted the way the other two fawned on her. They effusively agreed with everything she said as if she was an oracle or a renowned beauty.
“Well, you are beautiful, Jo,” her father said when she moaned to him later. “But I believe they have learned of our improved financial circumstances.”
She disliked being judged by her father’s wealth and the size of her dowry. To suddenly become a person of consequence sat awkwardly on her shoulders. If it meant people treated her differently, she wouldn’t care for it. Back in Wiltshire, she was on good terms with everyone, except those up at the manor, to whom she remained virtually invisible.
“It is the way of the world, Jo,” her father said.
“Well, I don’t care for it.”
“Nor I. Even though my circumstances have changed, I will never judge a man by his fortune,” he said. “Unlike your mother’s family, who cast your mother and your aunt out because of me.”
It always made Jo mad. Her father was the best of fellows.
The order at Madame Moreau’s salon was all but finished. The dressmaker was as English as Jo was, for her French accent slipped on occasion to become something less refined, but Madame knew what clothes a debutante needed, and Jo’s confidence in her grew. A room full of needlewomen finished several outfits to a very high standard. A cape of gold cloth trimmed with soft sable, an elegant green and white satin carriage dress, and a striped sarsenet promenade dress with Vandyke edging. The white silk evening gown decorated with gold braid made Jo catch her breath. She would purchase gold slippers to wear with it.
Madame’s recommendations sent Jo and Aunt Mary to the best establishments to purchase hats and accessories. Jo bought a fetching leghorn bonnet ornamented with a plume of down feathers and another bonnet of white velvet trimmed with satin, several pairs of white gloves, and a pair of primrose leather, and a frilly white parasol. Aunt Mary chose a lovely India shawl, a white crepe fan embroidered with silver, and a lace cap with a broad satin bow.
At five o’clock the following day, she and her aunt promenaded in Hyde Park among the fashionable ladies and gentlemen. Jo watched the riders trot down Rotten Row while searching fruitlessly for a large dark-haired gentleman.
That evening they listened to the wail of bagpipes in Astley’s Amphitheater and watched tumblers, clowns, and bareback riders stand atop galloping horses in an awe-inspiring display. A loud collective gasp rose from the crowd as a rider dived through a ring of fire and landed back on the horse. Aunt Mary squealed and put her hands to her face when a tight-rope walker high on a rope above the ring appeared about to tumble to his death but caught the rope just in time. It was all part of the act. Silence fell as a beautiful white horse danced to a tune played by a fiddler. And then it was over.
As they left in the crowd, Aunt Mary grabbed Jo’s arm. “I believe I saw Mrs. Millet.”
“Mrs. Millet is here?” Her father turned to look. “Where?”
Aunt Mary searched the jostling crowd. “I cannot find her now. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
“I’m sure you were, Mary,” he said. “I told Mrs. Millet of our plans. She would join us, I’m sure.”
“It is Mrs. Millet,” Jo said. She departed the arena with a tall, thin man with white hair. He glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment, his gray eyes met Jo’s. She shivered. They were the coldest eyes she had ever seen.
“I suppose she couldn’t find us in this crowd,” her father said.
Jo smiled and took his arm, but it left her perturbed.
As the days passed, Jo gained confidence in finding her way around Mayfair and its environs with Sally, and they returned to the dressmaker’s rooms again. Jo’s ballgown was not the muslin she’d hoped for, but a beautiful pale blue sarsnet, worn over a white satin slip, cut low, with a sash of satin riband, fastened in a bow in front and ornamented with a deep trimming of net. It was quite the loveliest dress she’d ever seen. The rest of her wardrobe would be delivered later in the afternoon. After a last fitting, Jo had her hair cut by the hairdresser Letty recommended.
The woman set about the task, comb and scissors poised, while Jo sat nervously in the chair. Inches were lopped off and fell in piles on the floor. When she finished, Jo, unsure, glanced this way and that in the mirror. She felt light-headed as she came home with Sally. Calling for the tea tray and a special request for scones, she sank into a chair in the parlor.
A kitchen maid brought in the tea tray. She unstacked the tea things onto the table. “Oh, you’ve had your hair cut, Miss Dalrymple. It’s ever so smart with those shorter bits in front.”
Relieved, Jo smiled at the maid. Not that she was particularly vain about her hair, she just wanted to look right. “Thank you, Milly.” She was on good terms with all the servants, except the butler, who maintained his snobbish demeanor. “Mm, scones and lemon tarts, my favorites, please thank Cook.”
“I will, miss.” Milly bobbed and left the room.
Pleased with her day, Jo poured the tea from the rose painted teapot into porcelain cups for herself and her father, who had just wandered in. Aunt Mary had declared herself weary and asked to have a tray sent to her room.
She drank her tea, then left her father puffing on his pipe and reading the broadsheets to go to her bedchamber. Sally hovered over a pile of boxes and brown-paper packages. Her blue eyes danced, a pair of scissors already poised in her hand. “Ooh, Miss Jo, shall I cut the string?”
Jo hurried over to the bed. “Please do, Sally.”
Soon, the empty boxes sat discarded on the floor along with piles of tissue paper. The ball gown was perfect. She would look just the thing when at her next ball.
They received another invitation to a ball close by in Mayfair. Her father told her that Mrs. Millet was working tirelessly on their behalf. He had learned she’d
fallen on hard times since Mr. Millet died.
Sally, who was quickly learning her role of lady’s maid, curled Jo’s hair in papers. The evening of the ball, Jo sat before the mirror in her chemise and petticoats while Sally coaxed her curls into a modern style, lower on the forehead and partly braided with a half-wreath of spring flowers. A light application of powder and Jo slipped into the ballgown. She wore her mother’s pearl earrings and the gold heart-shaped locket her father had given her for her birthday. With the addition of a pretty shawl, shoes of white satin, and white gloves above the elbow, Jo was ready.
Unlike the Rivenstocks, Lady Montford proved to be a charming hostess. Pleased with her appearance, Jo was determined to enjoy herself. Either Mrs. Millet had done as she promised and zealously spread the news of Jo’s handsome dowry, or it was her beautiful ballgown that brought men to her to request an introduction.
Jo danced every dance. The ball was similar to the last, differing only in its superior décor. There were familiar faces among the guests and the evening progressed very much like the last.
Jo sat between dances, sipping lemonade when a girl in white muslin approached her with a friendly smile. She was unusually tall and slender, the feathers in the headdress adorning her fair hair stressing her height.
“Charlotte Graham, how do you do? I noticed you sitting alone, and as I have no one to talk to, I wondered if I might join you.”
Jo gestured to the seat beside her. “Please do, Miss Graham. Joanna Dalrymple.”
Charlotte took the spare seat beside Jo. “Call me Charlotte. Is this your first time in London? I haven’t seen you before. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”
“Call me, Jo, please. I am new to London. Are you?”
“Good heavens, no. This is my third Season.”
“Oh.” Jo didn’t know quite what to say to that. She never imagined some girls would come Season after Season without finding a husband.
“It happens. I haven’t taken.” Charlotte smiled good-naturedly. “My grandfather insists I come every year, even though he’s of the opinion that I’m too tall to attract a husband. My dowry isn’t particularly large, either.”
Introducing Miss Joanna Page 3