The Incomparable Miss Compton

by Regina Scott

“I’m not sure why you trust him, Malcolm,” he said as the door creaked open and the bright-coated Barrington put in a pale face. Malcolm waved him in, and the fellow scurried to the screen in the corner to make use of the chamber pot provided there.

  Malcolm stood silently until the fellow had scurried out again. Then he sighed. “Young Wells deserves a chance that he likely won’t get unless I sponsor him. I knew his father. Thank God, Wells appears to be made of stronger stuff. He could have a brilliant career ahead of him if he’d learn to let his passions show more often.”

  “Ha!” Chas proclaimed. “This from a man who doesn’t consider love important in a marriage.”

  “You’re an idealist, Prestwick,” Malcolm replied with a sigh. “A well-meaning one, I’ll grant you, but an idealist none the less. My life is politics, and politics is compromise.”

  “Or perhaps learning what you’re willing to compromise and what you’re not,” Chas suggested. “Very well, then. I’ll tease you no more on the matter. I can’t make the same claim about Anne. She’ll be disappointed if you don’t find someone of worth after all this effort. Perhaps if you were to spend a bit more time with each lady, you might be able to form a more accurate assessment.”

  “I’ve never needed time to form an accurate assessment of character before,” Malcolm countered.

  “Perhaps you could try putting them at ease by dancing.”

  “If a woman is so timid she cannot speak until we dance, she can hardly be the woman I seek,” Malcolm pointed out. “Besides, I abhor these tedious country airs. God bless Sally Jersey for bringing home the waltz from Vienna. Almost makes me forgive her Tory tendencies.”

  “High praise indeed,” Chas acknowledged. “Well, Malcolm, I don’t know what to do for you. I only know that if we don’t return soon, Anne will likely sally in here to get us.”

  Malcolm sighed. “Very well. Let us not disappoint your unflappable bride. Lead on.”

  They exited the room and stepped back into the press of the ballroom. However, no one seemed to notice. Indeed, all eyes were turned toward the entrance to the room, where a young lady stood framed in the archway. Her golden curls tumbled back from a perfectly oval face of translucent cream. Her curves in the demure violet gown were willowy. She held herself with the command of a duchess. Malcolm raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

  Chas grinned. “Perfect. Here’s a lady for you, old man. Allow me to introduce you to the belle of the Season, the Incomparable Miss Persephone Compton.”

  Chapter Two

  Sarah Compton was halfway across the main salon at Almack’s when she realized her cousin Persephone wasn’t following. Keeping her head elegantly high and fully prepared to ride to the rescue as the stern-faced chaperone, she turned to see who was detaining the girl this time. Persy had gone on and on about this event ever since Lady Prestwick had sent them an invitation. Nothing Sarah had said could dissuade the girl from attending, even though gossip had it that the ball had been set up for the sole purpose of finding a bride for Viscount Breckonridge, the famous orator. Even Norrie agreed that Lord Breckonridge would surely want a more mature bride than the seventeen-year-old Persephone. Norrie had been Countess of Wenworth for over three years now and could be counted upon to know how things were done in the fashionable world.

  Even if she were somehow wrong, Sarah could not imagine what Persy would find to even say to a man like Lord Breckonridge. Yet her cousin had been determined. Sarah somehow doubted the girl would turn faint-hearted now.

  She need not have worried. It was plain to her that Persy was merely making the most of the moment, standing framed in the entryway to allow everyone to get a good look at her. Her cascading golden curls caught the light of the crystal chandeliers overhead. The simply cut silk ball gown, a violet that matched her almond-shaped eyes, flowed over the curves of her willowy body. Her rosebud lips were curled in a smile of welcome, as if she was pleased to see everyone in the room. She was a delight to behold for anyone looking.

  And they were looking. Ladies whispered behind their fans, casting her covetous glances. Gentlemen young and old raised their quizzing glasses or straightened their cravats. Several elbowed their way closer to the entrance, obviously hoping to be the first to make her acquaintance. Though she was used to the reaction her cousin caused, Sarah shook her head and walked back to the girl’s side.

  “That’s quite enough, Persy,” she murmured, linking arms with the girl and smiling charmingly. “Another minute and you’ll have them drooling.”

  Persy smiled in obvious satisfaction, and Sarah was able to lead her away from the door. “I am a bit of a sight, aren’t I?” the girl whispered with a gossamer giggle. “Do you see Lord Breckonridge? Does he look interested?”

  Sarah refused to make a further spectacle by glancing about for the gentleman Persy had come to impress. The safest thing she could do was to greet their hostess and find Norrie in all this crowd. Together they surely could keep an eye on Persephone before she incited a riot.

  “I have no idea whether he saw you,” she told her cousin, steering her expertly through the groups of gossiping gallants. “As I have only seen his caricature in The Times, I cannot be sure I’d recognize him if I did see him. Come along now, and pay your respects to Lady Prestwick.”

  Persy’s pretty mouth set into a petulant pout, and Sarah wondered whether she had been too forceful in her wording. One could never be certain how Persy would react to suggestions. Sometimes the girl seemed eager to please, sometimes she acquiesced graciously, and, more frequently of late, she stamped her foot and tossed her head, refusing to budge while her normally creamy complexion turned an unbecoming shade of red. Fortunately, as they drew near to where the ivory-gowned Lady Prestwick was standing with a regal older woman in deep green, Persephone’s lovely face broke into a charming smile.

  “Lady Prestwick,” she gushed when their hostess had offered a smile and the other woman had paused in her conversation to eye the girl and Sarah appraisingly. “I just had to thank you for inviting me. This is the most wonderful ball of the Season!”

  Sarah wasn’t sure how their hostess would take such effusions, but Anne, Countess of Prestwick, only smiled more deeply. No bigger than Persephone, the young countess had skin just as creamy, although her hair was a straight midnight black to Persy’s golden curls.

  “A very kind person,” Norrie had said when Sarah had asked about the woman. “Prestwick Park is not far from Wenworth Place. I am told that Lady Prestwick is so sweet as to have attained the status of angel in the eyes of her tenants and staff.“

  As Lady Prestwick turned to her, Sarah could well believe that. The lady’s gray eyes were somehow warm, her demeanor comfortingly capable. Despite the fact that Sarah knew she looked far less charming than her cousin in the navy silk gown that befitted a chaperone, Lady Prestwick’s smile was just as welcoming to her as it had been to Persephone.

  “How nice to see you as well, Miss Compton,” she said in her quiet voice. “The dancing has only just started. Shall I find you both a partner?”

  “No need for that,” a male voice intoned smoothly behind them. “I should be delighted to partner Miss Persephone for the next dance.”

  Sarah turned to look up at the chestnut-haired Duke of Reddington, who stood tall and splendid in his evening black. His gaze on her cousin was positively worshipful. Sarah hid her smile of triumph under a graceful curtsy, which Persy mimicked.

  “Your Grace is too kind,” Persephone murmured. Sarah rose in time to see the girl glide off on the duke’s muscular arm.

  Lady Prestwick sighed. “Well, I suppose Lord Breckonridge is doomed to disappointment where your cousin is concerned, Miss Compton. The duke appears to be quicker to act.”

  The older woman at her side sniffed through her long nose. Sarah realized she must be Anne’s recently remarried aunt, Lady Agatha Wincamp, whom Norrie had mentioned with a shudder.

  “He appears besotted,” the woman clipped in a sharp-edged voice
that could not fail to sound critical. “I thought your cousin was going to accept that count, Miss Compton.”

  “Count Rogan was called away suddenly,” Sarah replied, trying to block the memory of the count’s angered face when Persy had sent him packing for refusing to carry her parasol in the park. The girl had claimed she could not possibly marry a fellow so insufficiently devoted. Rogan had retired to the country to nurse his wounded pride.

  “What a shame. And how is your aunt?” Lady Prestwick asked pleasantly.

  “I understand she could not come up for her daughter’s ball,” Lady Wincamp put in, affixing Sarah with a glare that somehow implied Sarah was at fault in the matter. “She must have been looking forward to that since the chit was born.”

  “Nothing would have pleased her more than to be here,” Sarah informed the woman. “Unfortunately, our family physician counseled otherwise.” That was only the truth. Aunt Belle had talked of little else than Persy’s come-out for months, even with the girl away for the last year at a fancy finishing school in London.

  “Your cousin does not seem distressed by the matter,” observed Lady Wincamp, pointing her nose toward the dancers. Sarah could not argue that fact either. Persy had barely registered a yawn when she was told her mother had to spend the spring and summer in bed. At the moment, the girl was capering through the steps of a lively country dance as if she hadn‘t a care in the world, which, Sarah reflected, she hadn’t. Even when the duke was forced to take the hands of the other pretty dark-haired lady in his set, he could not seem to keep from glancing at Persephone. The other fellow in the set was ogling her so intently that he forgot to accept his partner back from the duke and had to be nudged by the frustrated woman. He stammered an apology, but somehow it appeared as if he were apologizing to Persephone, and not his partner.

  “I’m sure your aunt’s mind was eased knowing you were here with Persephone,” Lady Prestwick said, bringing Sarah‘s attention back to the conversation at hand. Lady Prestwick’s obvious sincerity warmed Sarah’s heart, and she found herself smiling.

  “You seem devoted to the girl,” Lady Wincamp put in. “I imagine you won’t know what to do with yourself once she’s wed.”

  Sarah kept her smile in place from long practice. There was no reason for anyone to know that she was not the devoted older spinster everyone believed her to be. She was relieved when another couple presented themselves to Lady Prestwick and her formidable aunt and made her escape to search for Norrie.

  In truth, she reflected as she circled the dance floor, watchful for her friend, she had once doted on Persephone. Some people would doubt that. There was such a difference in their ages and circumstances. She had been twelve when her cousin had been born, shortly before Sarah’s parents had died in a carriage accident. Sarah had long ago walled off the pain that came with remembering that dark time. She had been plucked from a loving home and thrust into the guardianship of her mother’s younger sister, Persephone’s mother Bella. Aunt Belle had had little time for Sarah, unfortunately, for Persephone, her only child, was rather sickly. Before Sarah could even accustom herself to her loss, she had been sent to the Barnsley School for Young Ladies in far off Somerset. It wasn’t until Sarah’s disappointing come-out six years later that she had spent any time with her aunt.

  The dance continued, with some of the dancers showing signs of fatigue. The gentleman dancing next to the duke was fanning himself with one gloved hand and his partner’s dark curls were wilting down one side of her reddening cheek. Persy, however, looked as dewy and fresh as the moment she had entered the set, pausing to flutter her thick lashes up at the duke, who barely remembered it was time to turn.

  No, Sarah was nothing like her cousin. She had never mastered this art of pretending to give her heart.

  “So she‘s settled on the duke, has she?”

  Sarah turned to find her friend beside her. Eleanor, Countess of Wenworth, was a tall, elegant creature with silky light brown tresses and speaking deep blue eyes. Her Mexican blue gown was square cut across her slender bosom, draping in sweeping folds to the white satin underskirt peeking out near her slippered feet. The only child of a long-dead soldier, she had been the charity case of the Barnsley School, kept on by a scholarship from the Darby family, who held the Wenworth title. Against all odds, she had met and married the second son, Justinian Darby, becoming his countess when he ascended to the title. Although she was two years Sarah’s senior, Sarah was grateful that she had befriended her when Sarah had arrived at the school. They had been friends ever since.

  “Thank goodness you found me,“ she told Norrie now. “I was about to give up hope in this crowd.“

  Norrie smiled. “I feared I wouldn’t find you either, but then I remembered I merely had to find the largest knot of gentlemen, and there I would find Persephone. And where I find Persephone, I shortly find you.“

  “Only until she accepts the duke,“ Sarah promised her.

  “And then you will accept that position I have offered to lead our dame school?“ Norrie prompted.

  Sarah nodded. “With great relief. I would have left Suffolk sooner if I hadn’t been worried for Aunt Belle. But the physician says she will be up and about by fall. Besides, I know you will understand me, Norrie, when I say I’m heartily sick of having to be grateful for everything I own. Gratitude is a lovely thing when you know the gift is given in love. But when it’s given out of pity or a sense of duty, I cannot abide it. It becomes a weight, a burden. I have far too many burdens right now.“

  Norrie reached out a gloved hand to squeeze hers. “I understand completely. You will remember how Miss Martingale was wont to remind me, and anyone else who would listen, that we must remember our places. I have come to believe that we must each find what that place is, and not let others dictate it to us. But I must disagree with you that you have had to receive too many gifts of duty. Surely your aunt owed you more than that one aborted Season years ago.”

  Sarah shook her head, watching as the dance ended and the duke requested another. Persephone hesitated only a moment, glancing back over her shoulder as if to find Sarah. More likely she wanted to see who else was in line to partner her. Accept, accept, Sarah willed in her mind. To her relief, her cousin shrugged a slender shoulder and laid her hand on the duke’s arm. Sarah took a deep breath as the music started again.

  “I think Aunt Belle did me more of a favor than she knew,“ she confided to Norrie, continuing to watch her cousin. “I hated the Season back then. It is only bearable now because I am firmly on the shelf at nearly thirty. London and all its pleasures seemed huge and terrifying at eighteen. The people I met were far more intelligent and polished than I could ever hope to be. I was fumble-footed and tongue-tied, and the gentlemen fled from me in disgust.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,“ Norrie replied. “I would rather believe that your aunt pressured you to leave. I’m sure she missed Persephone. From your letters, I take it she feared for the girl’s very life. To this day she cannot remember that your cousin is safely grown.”

  “You didn’t know Persy when she was little,” Sarah reminded her. “My cousin was tiny and fragile, like a fairy child with her huge violet eyes and blond hair. She seemed fated to catch every chill. She could not even look at a field of hay without convulsing in a fit of sneezing. Her first attempt to mount a pony, and a very small spiritless one at that, resulted in a broken arm. A single bite of strawberry raised angry red welts. Uncle Harold had no idea how to respond to her, and Aunt Belle was constantly having hysterics from worrying.”

  “And so Sarah came to the rescue,“ Norrie guessed. “I know your tender heart, Sarah, for all you try to hide it from the world. Besides, you are far sturdier than your cousin, both in body and in spirit. You tried not to brag in your letters, but it was clear to me that you were the one managing the household. You were the one who took the night watch when Persy lay with a fever. You administered the vile-tasting medicine when Persy refused it from all others. You e
ntertained her when she was once again confined to her bed for days. And you were the one to convince your aunt that the girl should receive tutoring so that she could learn to be a proper young lady.”

  “I was so pleased when Aunt Belle agreed to send her to London to school,” Sarah mused with a smile. “She missed so much, Norrie, not being with her peers. I knew it was the right thing to do.”

  “And now she shall have her day,” Norrie replied, turning her gaze to the dance. “And you shall have yours, Sarah. You cannot tell me you didn’t enjoy this last year when you could do more than be Persy’s shadow.”

  Sarah felt her smile deepen. “Yes, I enjoyed working at the Dame School in our parish. I know I enjoyed being with Persy when she was young, but I find I like children in general. They have such inquisitive minds. And they ask the most fascinating questions. They make me think beyond myself.”

  “You should have children of your own,” Norrie told her sternly. “I warn you, Sarah. Should you take that position at our school, I will be merciless in bringing forth gentlemen to petition for your hand.”

  Sarah shuddered theatrically. “And they will likely all be old, fat, lecherous widowers with a dozen children at their feet. No, thank you. I do not give my heart so easily. Besides, if I am to spend my life caring for other people’s children, I’d rather have my independence.”

  Norrie shook her head. “I have much better taste, I assure you, than to try to pair you with some flatulent farmer. But you will soon find that if you allow me to spirit you away to Wenworth Place.”

  “If only Persy could be settled,” Sarah replied with a sigh. “No one would dispute she is the reigning belle of the ton, as I predicted. You should see the mountain of cards we receive daily, inviting her to ride, to dance, to attend the opera, play, or musicale. Lovelorn swains crowd our sitting room; flowers from admirers choke the entryway. She is infamous.“

  “And becoming more so,“ Norrie remarked. “How many offers has she refused now?“