by Joan Smith
Revel took his leave of the ladies. Tess began to gather up her gloves and reticule. “Wait a moment,” Lady Revel said. “James won’t stay long. He dislikes to be scolded. You may as well hear what Anthony has to say when he returns.”
Within ten minutes, both gentlemen returned to the saloon. Lord James did not look chastened. His manner toward Tess was a little friendlier than before, which she took for a sign of compliance.
“Miss Marchant. Don’t you look dashing this morning? A lovely bonnet,” he said, touching the pink feathers.
Drake was a sort of blurred copy of Lord Revel. He was a decade and a half older, with the accompanying signs of age and dissipation. His hair was touched with silver at the temples, his brow was creased, and his manner just a shade too oily to please the discerning. Decades of having to cater to his betters had left their indelible mark. His eyes, in particular, lacked that devilish luster of Revel’s. There was a sort of sly look in them, an insincerity.
“Thank you, Lord James. I just bought it this morning.”
“You ought to be paid to wear it. You are a splendid advertisement for the milliner.”
Lord Revel looked from James to Tess, to see how she reacted to this blatant flattery. She said, “Thank you,” in cool accents. What a cold wench she was. Butter would freeze solid in her mouth.
“How is your bellyache, James?” Lady Revel asked, to bring him down to earth. “The last time I saw you, you were suffering from cramps.”
“A slight and passing indisposition, cousin. How’s the toe?”
“Wretched.”
They chatted for ten minutes, at which time Tess began to make her adieux, as Revel could hardly say anything interesting in front of his cousin. “Not leaving so soon!” Lord James exclaimed.
“I have some letters to write,” she said.
“Oh, letters! I never write letters,” James said.
“You are being obtuse, cousin,” Revel said, tossing a smile at Tess. “When a lady claims she must write some letters, it is a polite way of saying she is tired of the company. May I accompany you home, Miss Marchant?” He expected to see a flash of triumph in those stormy gray eyes. Nothing.
“My carriage is waiting,” she said. “And I really do have to write letters. There was one from the bailiff.”
“Ah, yes,” Revel said, with a sapient glance at Lord James. “Northbay belongs to your mama, of course, until Henry takes control, so she will tell you what to write.” That won him a small smile of approval.
“Mama takes very little interest. And with Papa so busy, I usually handle the correspondence myself. I daresay the bailiff is just pestering us to tile the west pasture again.”
The gentlemen rose with Miss Marchant. Lord James said, “I wonder if I might impose on your kindness to give me a lift to Milsom Street, Miss Marchant? My rig is hors de combat. I tore a wheel loose in a race yesterday. These hills around Bath!”
“Did you win the race?” Revel asked.
“No, Anthony, I did not. I lost the wheel early in the game. But the betting was light.” He turned back to Tess. “Miss Marchant?”
“Certainly, I will be happy to give you a ride, Lord James,” she lied, and went out with him, her heart aflutter to be alone with her mama's beau.
In the saloon, Lady Revel said to her son, “What did you say to him?”
“Just what we discussed. He had no idea Northbay was entailed.”
“But he will stop seeing her? Those poor girls are kept home every night, Anthony. They cannot go to the assemblies without a chaperone, and you may be sure James does not take the mama there.”
“He says he has already made a few assignments with Mrs. Marchant. He will fulfill them—it would be rude to do otherwise—but he will cut the friendship off gently.”
“Good. Now call Figgs. And give me some money. I owe him a guinea. Best make it two. He always wins. I am quite certain he cheats.”
“I must show you how to palm the cards.” Revel dropped some coins into his mother’s outstretched palm and went to call Figgs.
In the Marchant’s carriage, Lord James was walking on eggs. Anthony’s announcement that Mrs. Marchant had a son was a sore blow. The boy had been at school when he met her, and she was not the sort of lady who harped on her children when she was with a gentleman. He thought Northbay was hers outright.
An estate entailed on a son was no good to him. Tess, on the other hand, had a dot of ten thousand clear. Dulcie had the same, and she was prettier, but a lady close to a third his own age was just a trifle absurd. He was absurd enough without that. Tess was not much less than half his age.
“I want to apologize for my thoughtlessness, Miss Marchant,” he said humbly. “I assure you my only motive in seeing your mama was to give her whatever solace my presence provided at this cruel time.”
“Thank you, Lord James,” she said, and was suddenly seized with a shaft of pity for the man. It was a shabby way to have to live, running from pillar to post. “I made sure you would see common sense when you knew the whole.”
“I am such a selfish beast! I never gave a thought to you two girls, left alone night after night. My only thought was for your mama.”
“It is Dulcie’s debut next spring that is of particular concern, you see,” she explained. “She could not be presented if Mama was divorced.”
“And what of Miss Marchant’s debut?” he asked archly. “I do not recall having seen you in London, ma’am. I am sure I would have noticed.”
“I did not make my bows.”
“So you two ladies will be presented together? What a treat for the gentlemen!”
“No, indeed! I would stay at Northbay to look after things.”
“It is as I feared,” he said. “You have already made your choice.” Tess’s pity began to fade. The old fool was taking a run at her ten thousand.
“No, it is not that. Mama was ill when I should have made my bows. Now I am a little old to be making a debut.”
“Old! This is nonsense. You cannot be a day older than nineteen.” He scrutinized her face for signs of age.
“I am going on twenty-two, Lord James.”
Lord James garnered up all these details with great glee. A fair-looking spinster firmly glued to the shelf; she would not balk at his age and lack of funds. A pity he had become entangled with the mama, but he might turn that to advantage, if he played his cards wisely.
“What a beautiful day it is!” he exclaimed, peering through the window. “Must you really dash home and write letters?”
“I am afraid I must.” She had firmly decided she would not write those letters, but they provided an excuse to escape Lord James.
“Could we not take just a little spin into the countryside? I miss my poor old rig. Let me show you the route of the race I spoke of. It is not far. Just west of the Sydney Gardens. Have you seen the Sydney Gardens?”
“We more usually go to the Crescent Gardens, closer to home.”
“You must see the Sydney Gardens. They used to be called the Vauxhall of Bath. What gay revels we—my papa enjoyed there, in the last century. I should very much like to show them to you.”
Tess’s besetting fault was that she found it hard to say no. Before she knew what was happening, Lord James had pulled the check string and directed the groom to Sydney Gardens. He beguiled the trip with a deal of flirtatious nonsense that set her teeth on edge. She reminded him of that famous beauty, Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire; something about the way she spoke, and those killing eyes. Did she ride? Ah, she had not brought her mount, but he was sure a friend of his could provide one.
Eventually the carriage drove into the shady gardens, where more Bath chairs than pedestrians were to be seen at this haunt of the valetudinarian. Lord James’s power of invention was hard-pressed to find compliments on a winter garden bereft of blooms, but heavily littered with dank yews. They descended and strolled among the yews, until Tess said she found the wind chilly, and she really must be going.
“I have frozen you to the bone with my selfishness. You must let me give you a tea, Miss Marchant.”
“That is not necessary, Lord James. I can have tea at home.”
“But it is past teatime. There is a quaint little tea shop just south of the garden, on New Sydney Place. No argument. You would not make an old bachelor take his tea alone,” he said, making a long face.
She was rushed along to a tea shop that purveyed an indifferent tea of Bath cakes and Bath buns, both stale. “Now I really must be going home,” she said. The sun was already sinking low in these short winter days. “Mama will wonder what has happened to me.”
“Shall I go in and make your apologies?” he suggested.
“I wish you would not,” she said, her patience straining to remain civil. How could Mama stand the man?
Lord James would not hear of her dropping him off at his rooms, but sat in the carriage until she reached Bartlett Street. He did not insist on entering the house with her, however.
Tess was in a thoroughly cross mood by the time she got home. Crimshaw gave a shake of his bald head and said, “The mistress is waiting for you in the saloon, Miss Marchant. In a bit of a pelter,” he added, to warn her.
“She is not the only one!” Tess said angrily, and handed Crimshaw her bonnet.
Chapter Four
Tess stopped to tidy her hair at the mirror before entering the saloon, she was confronted by the familiar expression of Saint Jerome. She adjusted her frown to a smile, for her new role of flirt. This incident must be handled carefully. She would not say Lord James had kidnapped her; that might very well incite Mama to competition for the eel. Lord James was not the issue; Revel would handle him. The idea Tess hoped to convey was that she had lost track of time while out with a fairly amusing gentleman. Surely that would nudge Mama into a fit of propriety.
“Mama, you’ll never guess what!” Tess said, entering the saloon with a smile. “I met your beau at Lady Revel’s, and we went for a drive.”
“Lord James!” Mrs. Marchant exclaimed. She was completely floored at this unexpected piece of news, and hardly knew what tack to take. “What the devil did he want with you? Where were you till such an hour? It is long past teatime.”
“We were here, there, and everywhere. We drove to Sydney Gardens and had tea at a little shop there. I had no idea he was so amusing.”
“I hope you did not think I have been stepping out with a flat. Of course he is amusing.”
“Amusing, but somewhat tiresome,” Tess said, stifling an imaginary yawn.
“What did he say about me?”
“We did not discuss you much,” Tess said, as if to try to remember a single speech. “He thinks I look like the Duchess of Devonshire.”
“Idiot! You look nothing whatsoever like the late duchess. I am the one who resembles Georgiana. Everyone says so. James himself has mentioned the likeness a dozen times. He was merely buttering you up to get on my good side.”
Tess gave a bored look and said, “Very likely. I noticed the lack of invention in his compliments.”
“You must have given him a fine opinion of your manners, missing tea without even letting your mother know. That is no way for a young lady to behave.”
“I daresay he knows you are not so particular as other mothers in where Dulcie and I go, and what we do.”
“I should think I could trust a lady your age to keep an eye on Dulcie!” she flashed back. “I was married with two children by the time I was your age. How did James come to be in our carriage? He has his own.”
“He lost a wheel in a race yesterday.”
“Nothing of the sort. It had four wheels last night.”
Tess did not have to feign surprise at this, but laughter was difficult to simulate. “The sly rascal. He just said so to get into my carriage.”
Tess’s behavior was so different from what Mrs. Marchant expected that she hardly knew what to say. “Don’t take it as a compliment to yourself, miss. He only did it to please me.”
“So you said, Mama. You must remember to thank him, if you happen to see him again.”
“I'll be seeing him this very evening. He is taking me to a card parlor he knows of, a private club.”
“A gaming hall, you mean?” Tess demanded in very much her old way.
“A private club,” Mrs. Marchant repeated.
“Perhaps you will meet Papa and Esmée there,” Dulcie said.
“Perhaps we shall.” Mrs. Marchant smiled.
Dulcie said, “You have not mentioned our new hairstyles, Tess. Are they not charming?”
“Very nice,” Tess said, with an air of indifference. The coiffures were in the latest jet, more flattering to Dulcie than her mother. Perhaps she would have her own hair styled. Goading Mama into propriety would require a few beaux, which meant greater attention to her toilette.
Tess went to her room to scheme, and to prepare for the evening. Envisaging an outing to the Lower Rooms, she dressed with care in a russet silk gown with green ribbons. She confided her secret meeting with Lady Revel to Dulcie. “I believe Lord James is only coming tonight to make his apologies to Mama and leave,” she explained. “He will not continue courting her. Lord Revel promised to take care of it, so perhaps Mama will take us to the assembly.”
“You found Lord Revel obliging then?” Dulcie asked.
“Actually it was Lady Revel who spoke to him.”
“Why are you blushing, Tess?” Dulcie asked, grinning.
“I am not blushing.”
“He’s very handsome.”
“Yes, he is good-looking. It is the eyes especially—” Tess drew herself back to attention. “Of course the man is a rake.”
“Yes, that is certainly part of his charm,” Dulcie said. “Do you think Mama will take us to the Assembly Rooms?”
“She hates to stay at home. There will be some vulgar gossip, but her appearing without Papa will not look so bad when she is not with Lord James. Many ladies chaperone their daughters without their husbands tagging along,”
“I am glad I had my hair done,” Dulcie said, and ran along to her room to prepare her toilette. When Mrs. Marchant was going out, Henshaw had no time to spare for youngsters.
The ladies deceitfully wished their mama a pleasant evening when she took her leave of them after dinner, then waited in expectation of her stormy return. They were sorely disappointed. When they rushed belowstairs at the sound of the closing door, they were told by Crimshaw that the mistress had gone out.
“With Lord James?” Tess demanded.
“Yes, Miss Marchant. She told me not to wait up for her—she had her key-—but I am to leave a light burning downstairs.”
“The deceiver!” Tess exclaimed, and strode into the saloon.
Dulcie was in a fit of the sulks. She asked Crimshaw to send a pot of cocoa to her room. “I shall be in bed, reading The Castle of Otranto,” she announced dolefully, as if she were going to the stake.
Tess poured herself a glass of sherry and stared at the Bath stove, where a weak blaze flickered desultorily. What had gone wrong? Lord Revel was supposed to have showed his cousin the error of his ways. Mama should have been feeling guilty by now, but no. She had told Crimshaw not to wait up for her, which meant she would be out till all hours. Obviously stronger medicine was called for. For half an hour Tess remained in the saloon, alternately sitting and pacing, trying to invent a new plan.
When the door knocker sounded she stopped pacing and listened to hear who had come to call. Papa was always the first caller who flew into all their heads when the knocker sounded. She listened, half frightened. That arrogant voice was not Papa’s. It sounded like Lord Revel. Impossible!
“Lord Revel,” Crimshaw announced.
Hard on his heels came Revel himself, elegantly attired in black evening clothes of exquisite cut, smiling politely and saying he hoped he was not interrupting her. His blue eyes examined her with some interest.
That russet gown set off her i
vory skin and ebony hair. Her hairstyle was simple, enlivened with a pearl clasp. The gown was cut rather plainly, but the severe lines showed off her figure. Tess had the best figure of all the Marchants, in his opinion. His preference was for tall ladies. He knew a saint when he saw one, however, and had not come to flirt. In fact, he was somewhat in awe of Tess. As flirtation was his normal mode of behavior with any lady younger than forty, he hardly knew how to behave.
“What is there to interrupt?” Tess replied, with a rebukeful stare. “Mama is out again—with your cousin. They are going to a gaming hell, if you please.”
“Shall we sit down?” he suggested, as Tess had not taken a seat. “What do you want?” she asked bluntly. “You must have some reason for calling. I hope Lady Revel is not unwell?”
He remained standing. “She is fine, barring her sore toes. I came to report on my conversation with James. And also to enquire how you enjoyed the Sydney Gardens,” he added, with a tentative smile.
“How the devil did you know about that!”
“I thought it a wise precaution to follow you when James invented that plumper about a broken wheel. Figgs told me he had driven his own carriage.”
“Then Mama was right,” she said frowning, and thoughtlessly sat on the edge of the sofa. Revel took it for permission to be seated and occupied a chair. “She said his carriage was not broken last night. Why on earth would he lie about it?”
“Because he wanted an excuse into your carriage. Perhaps he hopes to transfer his affections from mother to daughter,” he suggested. Brave James, he added to himself.
A laugh of disbelief escaped Tess’s lips. “Don’t be absurd! Mama is much prettier. Besides, Lord James is as old as the hills.”
“But not so green. When I disabused him of the notion that your mama owned Northbay outright, he enquired how the daughters were fixed. Like a fool, I told him your dowry.”
“And you think he has designs on it? You cannot be serious. Oh, no, you are surely mistaken, or why is he out with Mama again?”
“The date was made earlier; he would not wish to antagonize her by breaking it. They may have one or two other outings lined up, but I have his word he will not make any more assignations.”