by Laura London
Refusing the marquis’s proffered arm, I brought my chin right up and marched back toward the house, now much steadier on my feet. The funny thing was that my overconsumption of wine didn’t ruin my evening in the least. I was to enjoy three more hours of dancing before I tumbled into bed and slept like a baby until the outrageous hour of nine o’clock in the morning.
Chapter Eleven
I woke the next morning with my mattress swaying under me like the lurchings of a small craft on a rough ocean. With effort I opened my eyes and blurrily beheld one large violet eye, not two inches above my face.
“All right, Christa, you can stop bouncing. She’s awake,” instructed the eye. Groaning, I thrust my head under a goose-down pillow only to have it wrenched mercilessly from me.
“Go away, you Furies.” I rubbed my tender temples. “Christa, stop bumping the bed! If you two had lived during the Spanish Inquisition, they would have given you jobs straight away, torturing Protestants.”
“Listen to her, Caro. I’ll tell you why she’s so out-of-reason cross this morning. Last night she must have got herself glorious oiled,” Christa pronounced knowledgeably while propping the pillows into an inviting heap behind me.
“Glorious oiled?” I repeated hazily. “Wherever did you learn that expression?” I sat up and leaned back against the soft mound of pillows.
“From Andy. He’s Lord Dearborne’s second junior footman, and full of gig too. There’s hundreds of servants here. Well, perhaps not precisely hundreds but many, many.” Caro came to sit on the other side of me and began to drag a hairbrush firmly through my tangled curls. “If you’d had any sense, you would have brushed this mop last night before going to sleep, then it wouldn’t be so hard to comb out now. Have you forgotten that Christopher is going to take us to the Tower of London today?” Caro’s eyes met mine reproachfully.
“Er, no, no. Tower of London? What fun.” I tried to infuse my voice with enthusiasm. “And isn’t that friend of Lady Anne’s with daughters your age to come over later this afternoon? Lady Anne is very kind, isn’t she?”
“Yes. And yesterday she told us that we were almost family, because Lord Dearborne is Christopher’s guardian and he’s ours too—so that makes us like sisters to Kit and so to Lady Anne. What do you think of that?”
“I think that’s tossing genealogy out with a vengeance,” I laughed. “Who was that plump little lady that you went walking with yesterday? I saw you go out with her after we came back from Lord Elgin’s, when I was supposed to be resting up for the ball.”
“So. You were gazing out the window instead of resting,” noted Caro, shrewdly. “That was Mrs. Jameson, who is Lady Anne’s dresser. Do you know that all she does is look after Lady Anne’s clothes and fix her hair? And she gets paid a monstrous fat salary for it, too. Anyway, she took a liking to us and guided us on a walk through Hyde Park. It was at five o’clock, which is the most fashionable hour, and the park was simply crawling with The Elegant. Do you know that we saw Beau Brummell and Lord Petersham! And guess who was riding with them?” Caro’s voice was pregnant with mystery.
“Um, let me see. Napoleon Bonaparte? No? Was it William Shakes—oww! Caro, that’s quite a brisk touch on the hairbrush.”
“Stop making such foolish jokes then.”
“Beg pardon. Who was riding with Beau Brummell and Lord Petersham?”
“Lord Dearborne! And he reined in when he saw us and came over to ask if Caro had recovered from her poison weed attack. What do you think of that? Everyone about was staring at us in envy, Mrs. Jameson says, because we were talking to such sought-after gentlemen. Oh, and Lord Dearborne introduced us to his companions. I almost fainted when I met Beau Brummell—he is so censorious, they say. I was sure that my bonnet was perched askew or that I had soot on my nose.” Christa put one hand up to rub the tip of her nose reminiscently. “Mrs. Jameson assured us later that we looked very well, quite à la jeune fille. Did you know that it was Lady Anne herself that bought our clothes and sent them to Barfrestly for us? Mrs. Jameson went with her to help pick them out. Mrs. Jameson said that there was the drollest note from Mrs. Goodbody in with the marquis’s letter when he asked her to choose clothes for us. Mrs. Goodbody wrote down our ‘specifics’ and our coloring—she said that we had ‘yaller-white hare and pink eyes’!”
“Pink eyes, indeed!” I exclaimed, laughing. “How I will roast her for that one. Speaking of Mrs. Goodbody, have either of you noticed that—”
“She smells of April and here it is ‘most June?” interrupted Christa. “ ’Course we’ve noticed. I think her and the marquis’s valet mean to make a match of it. Roger is a capital fellow—perhaps he’s almost good enough for her. Don’t worry about Mrs. Goodbody’s amours, Lizzie, we know that you’ve other things to tease you. You can depend on the offices of Caro and me to further that romance.”
With that alarming promise, Christa took her twin by the arm, tossed the hairbrush upon my marble-topped dressing table, and left me with the dire warning that if I wasn’t ready shortly they’d take me to the Tower in my nightdress.
The next days passed in a whirlwind of sociability. Lady Anne had certainly meant it when she said that she intended to cram four months of “civilized life” into two weeks. Every moment was organized into a social gathering of some kind. Balls, routs, picnics, assemblies, soirées, receptions, and card parties came head upon heel at an alarming rate. I was initiated into the mysteries of hazard and whist by Christopher, who supplemented his instruction with a rule book that advised one (rather shockingly) to sneak glimpses of the opponent’s cards to improve one’s chances. Lady Anne gave me some very to-the-point counsel concerning the more esoteric conduct required by the beau monde—such as a lady may not dance more than two times with one gentleman in a single evening and don’t gallop your horse in Hyde Park. I was more than able to reassure her on that head; for all the time and patience Christopher had expended trying to teach me to ride, I was still a losing proposition in the saddle. I wouldn’t have nerve enough to walk a horse in the milling, winding traffic in the park, much less gallop on one.
And whenever we were not out or getting ready to go out, we were either receiving visitors or preparing to receive them. One morning, several days later, was particularly trying. We must have had upward of thirty people pay us morning calls. After the first three coachloads, Christopher had suddenly recalled an engagement to ride in the park with his friends, basely deserting his sister and me to the rigors of polite society. Not that Lady Anne minded it. I had swiftly come to realize that she was an indefatigable socializer. Finally we bade farewell to the last of our visitors and walked arm in arm to the dining room for lunch. Lord Dearborne was already there; I had seen him return from his morning’s briefing with the P.M. about a quarter hour earlier. We exchanged greetings and I tottered to a Chinese-blue flowered wing chair.
“That was harder than chopping wood! I’ve never in my life had to be so civil to so many people in so short a time. Lady Anne, that Sir Egbert Mysner must be the greatest friend of yours. He’s been here every morning this week.”
Lady Anne raised her eyebrows. “And I suppose you think Lesley Peterby, Godfrey Woodman, and half a dozen others that I can’t name off the top of my head are great friends of mine, too. Elizabeth, you must drive your admirers demented with your denseness. A good proportion of the company today was here for the sole purpose of paying suit to you.”
My mouth fell open. “You don’t say?”
“Yes, I do say. Furthermore, I do wish that you’d endeavor to rid yourself of your horrid habit of calling me Lady Anne. I swear you make me feel sixty.”
I balanced my elbows on my knees, and rested my chin on the backs of my fists. “Do you know, Lad—I mean, Anne, this is the first time that I’ve ever had suitors. I mean, I’ve had seducers before, but that’s not precisely the same, is it?” I heard a gasp from behind Lord Dearborne’s linen napkin.
“Nicky, stop laughing. How can you be so
callous? Poor Elizabeth, I can see that you’ve been subject to the most shameful persecution. But pray, never repeat what you just said in company, or people will get the oddest notions, I assure you.”
Christopher strolled in, deep in thought. “Lord, there have been some strange characters haunting the house of late. Was that Egbert Mysner shambling out of the front just now?”
I answered his question with alacrity. “Yes, it was. And Anne says that he’s my suitor.” I spoke with pardonable pride.
“What!” said Christopher with a grimace. “That odious little lizard had the nerve to come here making up to you? My God, I hope that you sent him about his business with no further ado!”
“Well, not exactly. I mean I didn’t want to be uncivil. Don’t you like him, Christopher?” I inquired cautiously.
“Of course I don’t like him. He’s the most self-satisfied, prosy rat I ever met. When we were at Eton he was in the form ahead of me—and continuously stuffing himself with cranberry tarts that his mother sent him.” This was delivered with the air of one producing information that would forever rob poor Egbert of any shred of a reputation. “You ought to have more sense than to go encouraging a detestable grabtart like him!”
Much abashed by this severity, I could only reply meekly, “I wasn’t encouraging him.”
Christopher regarded me doubtfully. “I suppose that you didn’t mean to, but if you sit around peeping up at him through those long eyelashes of yours, I daresay we’ll never be rid of him,” Christopher sighed. “And watch that you don’t go playing off your tricks on Lesley Peterby. He’s a deuced fine horseman, but the very devil with women. I saw you about to traipse off to the balcony with him the other night at Lady Doran’s. If Uncle Nicky hadn’t intercepted you, you might have found yourself in the basket.”
That did it! “Oh, I would, would I?” I retorted. “I’ll tell you something, Christopher. I may not be quite up to snuff in your eyes, but I am not so wet behind the ears as to be incapable of taking care of myself. There is no reason that I can’t go anywhere, at any time and in any company I choose, without suffering the least ill effects.” If you discount several bad scares and a lump on the head. Christopher was too polite to say it, but I could tell what he was thinking. At that moment I would cheerfully have handed over my much-praised eyelashes for a chance to prove that I was competent to handle myself from bluff to bottomland. I’ll show you if it kills me, I thought recklessly. Of course, I had no idea then that it almost would.
At any rate, I was the victim of so much raillery from Christopher and the twins about my “admirers” that I began hiding in the closet whenever a fresh bouquet of flowers arrived. Caro delighted in thinking up horrible nicknames for every unmarried male under the age of sixty who entered the house. Sir Mysner became “Sir Egbert Eggplant,” Lord Peterby was dubbed “Lord Lesley the Loose,” and poor Godfrey Woodman was christened “the Chinless Wonder.”
After that, probably with the intention of diluting the influence of Egbert Mysner and Godfrey Woodman, Christopher spared no pains to introduce me to his own circle of friends. They formed a cheerful, playfully gallant court; they were always ready to crowd around me at parties, fetching me countless pieces of cake and oceans of lemonade; they argued good-naturedly over the “privilege” of standing up with me; and they took me up beside them at the park, to ride in their dashing high-perch phaetons. However much they might shine in a ballroom though, Christopher and his friends had their hearts in the boxing ring, the hunting fields, and the racetracks—the boys were sports-mad.
Lord Dearborne, I discovered, moved in quite a different set. His was the world of influence and prestige. His friends numbered among the most celebrated names in England, and his title opened all doors. He was gone from Lorne House often, spending much of his time with the Prince Regent, who doted on his presence both at work and at play. There were times when Lord Dearborne attended the same social functions as we did, though he often came or left with a party of his own. Even when we were home for dinner, which was not often, we rarely saw him—he usually dined out.
When he was around, I enjoyed his ironic view of his surroundings. I would be at a party, someone would make a preposterous remark, and I would find myself wishing for the marquis’s acid tongue and quick comeback. Now and then I found myself gazing through the crowd for him when I entered some social function.
Christopher told me that Lord Dearborne intended to attend the Ingrams’ garden ball; I had been there for at least an hour and hadn’t seen him though, perhaps because there was such a great crush of guests. Lord Ingram’s House (for it’s much too grand to be called a mere house) is situated on the outskirts of London, in an area still quite rural. The Ingrams’ extensive gardens are cut by well-kept terraces and charming promenades that were now strung with Japanese lanterns, in such proliferation that only the more inebriated guests stood in any danger of bumping into any of the pseudo-Roman statues or oversized urns that Lady Ingram thought (mistakenly, in my opinion) added refinement to her grounds.
I had been conscientiously executing a country dance with one of Lady Anne’s elderly great-uncles when it came time for the musicians to take their break. My octogenarian gallant escorted me back to the quiet moon-kissed corner in the garden where Lady Anne was chatting with two formidable matrons who patronized me briefly before returning to their interrupted coze. It was some time now since the last of the sun’s rays had vanished, and a testy little breeze came to lick at my bare arms and shoulders. Lady Anne, seated next to me on the wrought-iron settee, must have noticed me shiver, for she gave me a quick hug and said:
“Why, I believe that you’re chilly, aren’t you? One doesn’t notice the wind when one is dancing, but as soon as one sits down, it creeps up. Never mind, my dear, I’ll run up to the cloakroom and fetch your shawl.”
“No, no! I will get it myself, there’s not the least need for you to go,” I told her hastily, terrified by the prospect of being left to converse with Lady Anne’s haughty friends. I would almost rather chat with the executioner’s axe as these autocratic damsels. “I can find my way about easily. The gardens are laid out so logically and I’ll be back in a flash.” One of the ladies lifted her eyebrows in well-bred surprise, which informed me that “in a flash,” a tidbit gleaned from Christopher’s vocabulary, was a sadly vulgar phrase. The raised eyebrows and an absentminded pat from Lady Anne sped me on my way.
Walking down a white, crushed-rock path through the beautiful flower beds, I found myself with a delightfully free feeling of being let out of lessons. At the end of a path to my left I spied a row of foxgloves nodding invitingly. Why not? What danger could possibly befall me walking alone in the Ingrams’ garden? I was soon to find out.
At the curve of the walk was a modern statue of Cupid, one of those chubby cherub types. It’s terrible what sculptors have done to the dangerous Greek god of love. Out of impulse I placed a kiss on his plump lips, and pulled a pout back at him. At the other side of the small pathway was a red-brick wall and growing off into the darkness was a line of delicate yellow daffodils. Their coloring seemed to almost match the gown I was wearing and I held out my hem to a petal to compare the two more closely. A melody wafting through the trees informed me that the musicians had resumed their playing. Humming the tune, I swayed from side to side with the music, and curtseyed to the honey locust tree, saying aloud, “Won’t you share this dance with me?”
“I would be delighted!” said a deep male voice from the shadow of the tree. I screamed. A form stepped out of the shadow, and it was a moment before I recognized Lord Lesley Peterby.
“Thank heavens it’s you,” I said, gasping with relief. “You gave me such a fright. Why didn’t you declare yourself immediately when I entered this alcove?”
“I would have missed a charming little spectacle.” The moon glinted from his wavy dark hair, which was falling over one eye in its usual fashion. His eyes traced the neckline of my gown. He came over to stand too
close to me, and I backed away from him. The alcove suddenly became very dark and isolated, the music drifting down from the night sky an ethereal orchestra from the dark side of the moon.
“Well, Lady Anne will be expecting me,” I said with false brightness. Peterby stepped into the path. I attempted to sidestep him, and with a neat, imperceptible movement on his part, I walked right into his arms.
“You give your kisses freely to a stone Cupid,” he purred dangerously. “Why not bestow them where they will be appreciated?”
I disentangled myself and took three rapid steps back. “Lord Peterby, let me correct your evident misapprehension that I came to this alcove for any purpose other than to sniff the flowers and be by myself. Will you kindly step back from the path and allow me to be on my way?”
Now, according to every book I had ever read, that line should have crushed him into submission. Unfortunately, it appeared that Lord Peterby had not read the same books. He walked toward me, I continued to back away, until suddenly—to my dismay—I felt the roughness of the brick wall through the back of my gown. He placed a hand on either side of me, flat on the wall.
“Oh yes, I will let you be on your way, but not just yet, my angel.”
“I am not interested in whatever you have in mind,” I said tartly. “If you wish to accompany me back to the dance, that is fine. If not, allow me to pass.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of a real man? Or do you prefer the fumblings of inexpert schoolboys?”
“I don’t prefer anyone’s fumbling advances right now. If you had any decency, you would desist from your unwelcome attentions.”
“By God, when some lightskirt thinks she can lecture me about decency… Don’t put on a load of innocent airs for me, my beautiful Cyprian. I know Kit Warrington has you in keeping.”
I was stunned. “What do you mean, ‘in keeping’?” I asked him weakly, hoping I had misunderstood.