by Emily Larkin
Mrs. Mexted thought for a moment, and then nodded.
Grace looked doubtful. “Are you saying I shouldn’t respect Miss Brook because of her nose?”
Arabella couldn’t help laughing. “No,” she said. “This has nothing to do with Miss Brook’s nose. What I’m saying is that if someone behaves in a manner that makes it impossible for you to respect them—such as gossiping, or passing on slander—then you should give no weight to their opinion of you.” She paused for a few seconds, holding Grace’s gaze. “So my question is, do you respect Miss Brook’s opinion?”
“But I don’t know her,” Grace protested.
“Precisely. You don’t know each other—and yet she’s talking about you.”
Grace flushed. She looked down at her lap and began to pleat folds of satin between her fingers.
“Do you hold Miss Brook in respect?” Arabella asked quietly.
“Not any more.”
“Then her opinion of you shouldn’t matter.”
Grace bit her lip. After a moment she said, “That’s easier said than done.”
“What is?”
Arabella glanced up. Adam St. Just, looking his most supercilious, stood before them.
“Ignoring people’s opinions,” Grace said, accepting the glass of orgeat he handed her. “Bella says that’s what she does.”
“Does she?” There was censure in St. Just’s voice. The glance he cast Arabella was chilly with disapproval. “Everyone’s opinion?”
“Oh, no,” Grace said, sipping from the glass. “Only those people one doesn’t respect.”
“And who might they be?” St. Just asked, still frowning.
“People who gossip and spread rumors,” Grace said. “Or who say nasty things about people they don’t know.”
Adam St. Just stopped frowning. He flushed faintly and raised a hand to straighten the folds of his neckcloth.
“Do you agree?” Grace asked.
“Er . . . yes,” he said.
Arabella’s lip curled slightly.
Grace nodded, and sipped her orgeat. Her expression was less miserable than it had been.
St. Just glanced at the dance floor, where a contredanse was drawing towards its conclusion. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m engaged for the next dance.”
Arabella watched him move off through the crowd. Despite his wealth, St. Just eschewed such adornments as fobs and seals and quizzing glasses. In his dress, he was very like Beau Brummell had been—elegant and understated, each garment cut perfectly to fit him. His build was athletic; neither his shoulders nor his calves required padding.
An attractive man—until one noticed the way he had of looking down his nose at the world.
Arabella turned to Grace. “Do you know Miss Harpenden?”
“Elizabeth Harpenden? Her sister Charlotte was at school with me in Bath.”
“Charlotte isn’t in London?”
Grace shook her head. “She’s still in Bath. Her parents won’t let her come out until Elizabeth has married.”
Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and considered this information. “And Miss Wootton?” she asked. “Do you know her?”
“No. She’s from Yorkshire, I believe.” Grace glanced to where Miss Wootton stood, attended by a number of admiring young gentlemen. “She looks like she’s enjoying herself.” Her voice was wistful and slightly envious.
“Yes.” Arabella scanned the ballroom, looking for Elizabeth Harpenden. The girl was being escorted from the dance floor by a heavy-set young man with pretensions to dandyism.
Arabella felt a moment’s sympathy for Miss Harpenden. Her face was almost pretty, her figure almost graceful. In a smaller and more restricted setting she might have had a chance to shine; in London she was practically invisible.
Of course, if this Season’s beauties were discredited, Elizabeth Harpenden would be more visible.
Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and watched as Mrs. Harpenden received her daughter. The woman’s manner was bullying. A mother who scolds, rather than praises.
“Are you engaged for the next d-d-dance, Miss St. Just?”
Arabella looked up to see Viscount Mayroyd make his bow to Grace.
“No,” Grace said, blushing prettily. “I’m not.”
“Then may I have the p-p-pleasure?” The young man’s eyes were as blue as Grace’s. He had a very engaging smile.
Grace nodded. She gave her glass to her aunt and stood.
“I like him,” Mrs. Mexted said, with a nod in the young viscount’s direction, once he was out of earshot.
“So do I.” Perhaps because of his stutter, young Mayroyd had a kind-heartedness that many of his peers lacked.
Arabella returned to her observation of Miss Wootton. The girl was clearly enjoying herself. But not for long, if Mrs. Harpenden has her way.
Did the woman deserve a visit from Tom?
She tapped the fan against her knee and resolved to wait a day or so before deciding.
* * *
ADAM WOKE RELUCTANTLY. He heard his valet, Perkins, draw back the curtains and closed his eyes more tightly, trying to burrow back into the dream, to recapture the pleasures of a soft mouth and fragrant skin, of dark ringlets gleaming in candlelight—
Dark ringlets?
Adam’s eyes snapped open. It was Mary, he told himself. But Mary had always been leisurely in bed; the woman in his dream had been eager and passionate—and as slender as Mary was voluptuous.
The last, sensual wisps of the dream vanished abruptly. Adam uttered a curse and pushed back his bedclothes.
A ride in the park on Goliath, under a sky heavy with clouds, did little to improve his mood. An hour spent sparring in Jackson’s Saloon was much more successful. Adam walked around to St. James’s Street whistling under his breath and took the steps up to White’s two at a time.
The ground floor parlor was pleasantly empty. Lord Alvanley sat at the bow window, where Brummell had liked to sit. He looked up from a newspaper. “Afternoon, St. Just.”
“Alvanley.” Adam strolled across to the bow window. “What’s new?”
His lordship folded the newspaper and put it aside. “Have you heard about the Wootton chit?”
Adam shook his head. He sat and reached for the newspaper. “A bottle of claret,” he said to the waiter.
“Madness in the family,” Alvanley declared, stretching out his legs.
Adam glanced at him. “What? The Wootton heiress?”
His lordship nodded. “It’s the latest on-dit.”
Adam grunted, and removed Miss Wootton from his list of possible brides.
Another newcomer entered the room, his step jaunty. “Afternoon, Alvanley,” he said cheerfully. “St. Just.”
Adam looked around. Jeremy Allen, Marquis of Revelstoke, trod towards the bow window, resplendent in a dark blue coat with extravagantly long tails, cream-colored pantaloons, and gold-tasseled hessians. The folds of his neckcloth were so intricate, the points of his collar so high, that he had no hope of turning his head. The most arresting aspect of his appearance was his waistcoat, an exotic garment featuring dazzling golden suns against a celestial blue background.
“Good God,” Alvanley said, involuntarily.
Adam uttered a laugh. He put the newspaper down and shaded his eyes with one hand. “Go away, Jeremy. You’re blinding me.”
His friend grinned and paid no attention to the request. He took the third chair in the alcove and sat, crossing his legs. His boots were polished to a mirror-like gleam. The scent of Steele’s lavender water wafted gently from him. His hair was curled in the Cherubin style, beneath which his eyes gleamed with mischief.
Alvanley lifted his quizzing glass and examined the glittering suns on Jeremy’s waistcoat. “Is that gold thread?”
“Of course,” Jeremy said. He produced a snuffbox in sky-blue enamel that matched his waistcoat and opened it with the elegant flick of a fingertip. “Snuff?”
“Have you heard about the
Wootton chit?” Lord Alvanley asked, taking a pinch.
“Mad as a hatter,” Jeremy said. “About to be committed to Bedlam.”
Adam raised his eyebrows. “Surely you jest!”
“Me?” Jeremy said, grinning, swinging one leg. “When do I jest?”
Adam, acquainted with Jeremy since their first day at Eton, chose to ignore that question. He picked up the newspaper again.
“Your name’s in the betting book,” Jeremy said, in an extremely innocent voice.
Adam didn’t look up from the newspaper. “No, it’s not.”
“Actually, it is,” Lord Alvanley said.
Adam glanced up sharply. Alvanley was grinning widely. Alongside him, Jeremy sat examining his nails, an expression of demure innocence on his face.
Adam was familiar with that expression. He eyed his friend with misgiving. After a moment he pushed up out of his chair and went in search of the betting book. Jeremy trailed after him.
“The devil,” Adam said, as he read the latest entry. Adam St. Just, to marry Miss Knightley before the end of the year, 500 guineas.
“Well?” Jeremy said, sly humor in his voice. “Am I right?”
“What you are,” Adam said, closing the book with more violence than was necessary, “is a cod’s head!”
“I say,” Jeremy protested, half-laughing, following Adam as he strode back to the bow window. “That’s not very nice.”
“If you think I’m going to marry Miss Knightley, then you are a cod’s head!” Adam said severely. His claret had arrived. He poured himself a glass and swallowed half of it in one gulp.
“You danced with her last night,” Jeremy said, sitting.
“If I married every woman I danced with, I’d be a bigamist a hundred times over,” Adam said, refilling his glass. “You may as well pay Charlton that money now, for you’ve lost it.”
Jeremy swung one leg and smiled, his expression as cherubic as his curls. “I believe I’ll wait.”
Adam, aware of Alvanley sitting, grinning, alongside them, retreated into a dignified silence. He reached for the newspaper again and opened it with a crackle of pages.
* * *
THAT NIGHT, THE ton arrived en masse at the Pinkhursts’ dress ball. The first person Adam saw, as he entered the ballroom, was Arabella Knightley in a dress of ivory-white tiffany silk shot through with gold thread and a golden fillet in her dark hair. God, she’s lovely, was his involuntary thought. He hastily averted his gaze.
The second person he saw was Jeremy Allen, magnificent in a long-tailed coat of peacock blue, a luxuriantly embroidered waistcoat, black satin knee breeches, and silk stockings. Jewels glittered in the folds of Jeremy’s neckcloth and on each of his long fingers. His hair was brushed into the careful dishevelment of the Brutus.
Adam escorted Grace and his Aunt Seraphina to seats, and strolled across to greet his friend. “Jeremy,” he said. “You look prettier than any of the ladies here.”
Jeremy was unoffended. He laughed. He raised his quizzing glass and observed Adam through it. “And you look very plain.”
Adam grinned.
“I see that the delectable Miss Knightley is here,” Jeremy said in a tone of sly innocence.
“Dance with her yourself, if you like her that much.” A servant in livery and a powdered wig proffered a tray. Adam took a glass of champagne.
Jeremy lowered the quizzing glass with a sigh. “It’s much more entertaining when you rise to the bait.”
Adam smiled, and sipped the champagne.
“I believe I shall,” Jeremy declared.
“Shall what?”
“Ask her to dance. Excellent dancer, Miss Knightley.” He wandered off in the direction of Arabella Knightley.
Adam thrust Miss Knightley from his thoughts and concentrated on his task for the night: interviewing potential brides. He danced with each of the young ladies on his short list, asked a number of questions, and listened carefully to the answers.
The hour advanced past midnight. The air was heavy with the scents of perfume, pomade, and perspiration. Ladies with flushed cheeks waved their fans, starched collar-points drooped in the heat, and even the candles in the chandeliers seemed to wilt.
Adam found an empty alcove and a glass of chilled champagne and mentally reviewed his list of brides. He removed Miss Swindon from it entirely, and placed Miss fforbes-Brown at the top.
His gaze strayed to Miss Knightley. She looked very French as she waited for her turn in the quadrille, slender and dark-eyed, dark-haired.
He felt a stir of attraction and wrenched his gaze from her. He drained the champagne glass. When the quadrille was over, he headed purposefully for Miss fforbes-Brown and solicited her hand for the next waltz. It was a most agreeable dance; there was none of the discomfort of waltzing with Arabella Knightley, the barbed comments, the frisson of desire. He was so pleased with Miss fforbes-Brown’s plump prettiness, her common sense and cheerfulness, her enthusiasm for children, that he resolved to seek an interview with her father.
He relinquished Miss fforbes-Brown to her next partner, a Sir Humphrey Holbrook, and retreated to the alcove again. Grace was sitting out the cotillion. Adam watched her from across the ballroom, conscious of a sharp pang of regret. Grace’s début should have been a triumph; instead it was close to being a disaster.
He glanced at Miss Wootton. Like Grace, she wasn’t dancing. No crowd of young men clustered around the heiress tonight, competing for her attention. She sat out the cotillion, wearing an expression of miserable bewilderment. Her mother, seated beside her, had a tight-lipped smile on her face.
* * *
ADAM STOOD UP for a quadrille next. He was waiting for his turn in the figure when he noticed that Sir Humphrey Holbrook was dancing with Miss fforbes-Brown for a second time. This discovery so disconcerted him that he almost missed his cue for the glissade. He concentrated carefully on his steps and then watched the baronet escort Miss fforbes-Brown from the dance floor. Had Sir Humphrey also realized that she’d make a good wife?
Adam frowned, and resolved to keep a closer eye on Humphrey Holbrook. He went in search of a glass of champagne and then strolled across to where his Aunt Seraphina sat. His footsteps faltered when he saw his aunt’s companion. The familiar sensations swept through him—shame and guilt, the stir of attraction—and he almost turned and headed in the opposite direction.
Craven, he chided himself, and stepped forward. “Good evening, Miss Knightley.” He bowed, and turned to his aunt. “Where’s Grace?”
“Talking to Miss Wootton.”
Adam swung on his heel and looked across the ballroom. His sister sat alongside Miss Wootton. Grace was talking, her expression animated; Miss Wootton listened intently.
Adam turned to Miss Knightley. “Your doing?”
She shook her head. The golden ribbon threaded through her dark hair glinted in the candlelight. “Grace felt sorry for her. She’s a very kind-hearted girl.”
“In this instance her kindness is misplaced. If Miss Wootton has some . . . instability, then I’d prefer that Grace didn’t become friends with—”
“Miss Wootton is no more unstable than you or I!” Miss Knightley said tartly. “It’s a rumor set about to discredit her.”
Adam frowned. “Rumor? Are you certain?”
“Yes.” Her nod was emphatic. “I overheard it being started yesterday.”
“You did?” Adam put up his brows. “By whom?”
“By a mother with a daughter to marry off.”
Adam sipped his champagne thoughtfully, digesting this fact. “Does this mother have any connection with the seminary Grace attended in Bath?”
Miss Knightley glanced at him. Her eyes were almost black in the candlelight. “Yes.”
“Do you think she’s responsible for the rumors about Grace?”
“I think it very likely.” Arabella Knightley lifted her shoulders in an expressive, Gallic shrug. “But since I wasn’t present when those particular rumors
started, I have no way of knowing.”
Adam’s fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. “Who is this woman?”
Miss Knightley’s eyebrows arched. “Mr. St. Just, surely you don’t expect me to tell you that?”
“The devil I don’t—”
“Adam,” his aunt reproved.
Adam clenched his jaw and glared at Miss Knightley. She seemed unoffended by his language. A dimple appeared in her cheek, as if she was trying not to laugh, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.
“You refuse to tell me?”
“Of course,” she said. “There’s absolutely no proof that this woman spread any rumors about Grace—”
“But you think she did—”
“Precisely, Mr. St. Just. I think; I don’t know. They’re two very different things.”
Adam gripped his glass tightly. “I should like to speak with this woman.”
“I’m certain you would,” Miss Knightley said. “But in all conscience, I can’t name her. Think how remiss it would be of me if you upbraided her for something she didn’t do!”
“I shouldn’t upbraid her,” he said with stiff dignity.
Her eyebrows rose again. Disbelief was eloquent on her face.
Adam flushed.
“Mr. St. Just, if I were to pass on information that I don’t know to be true, I should be as worthy of blame as any scandalmonger.”
Aunt Seraphina nodded. “Miss Knightley is correct.”
He knew she was, but being told that didn’t improve his temper. Adam glared at his aunt.
She smiled placidly and patted the chair alongside her. “Do sit down, dear. It’s very fatiguing to have you towering over one.”
He swung his glare back to Miss Knightley. Laughter glimmered in her dark eyes. “Mr. St. Just, I fear you’re about to break that glass.”
Adam hurriedly unclenched his hand.
Miss Knightley looked past him. Her smile became warmer.
Adam turned his head. “Grace.”
Grace sat beside Aunt Seraphina in a soft flurry of satin and gauze. “I told Hetty what Mr. Brummell said to Bella. And she’s going to do it, too!”