The Other Harlow Girl

by Lynn Messina

  Much offended by the unjust accusation, Philip straightened his shoulders, lifted his head and declared with all due dignity that the glass had been empty. Then he presented two pristine elbows as proof. “Not such a clodpole I’d start rumors about my own cousin,” he muttered.

  “All right, cawker, you have my apologies,” the duke said without a trace of sincerity. “In future retellings I will distinguish between a full glass and an empty one. Now, if you will excuse us, I’ve come to claim my wife for the waltz.”

  His mother, who had visibly tensed upon hearing Philip use that deplorable nickname for Emma, gasped in horror at this announcement. That Trent had accompanied the statement with a fond look at his wife only made the transgression more appalling, and the dowager was properly dismayed that any son of hers would so blatantly flaunt his happiness in front of the ton.

  “You cannot dance with your wife at your own wedding party,” her grace said scandalized. “It’s beyond all things ramshackle.”

  “Actually,” Sarah interjected with a hint of a smile, “it might be the most respectable thing Emma has ever done.”

  “Don’t mean to contradict you, Mrs. Harlow,” said Philip, whose admiration for the Harlow Hoyden was still fervent despite recent indications that she might be losing her gumption, “but I should think saving England from a French invasion was the most respectable thing she’s ever done.”

  Emma smothered a smile while the dowager, frustrated by her family’s lack of respect for her efforts, glanced around to make sure nobody heard Philip’s outrageous claim. It might be true that Emma’s interference saved the lives of several dozen British spies and perhaps some of the guests there tonight, but it would never do for everybody to know that. Even her considerable consequence could not overcome the notoriety of having a heroine in the family.

  “I appreciate the tribute, Philip, but would rather hear more about the stiff-necked gardeners you mentioned,” Emma said, “for I suspect that’s the missing piece of information her grace was looking for.”

  The dowager did not instantly grasp the implication, but Sarah did and she stared at Emma in shock. “Vinnie?” she asked, unable to conceive of her sensible and reserved sister-in-law doing anything that would cause the gentlemen at Brooks’s to utter her name, let alone record it in the betting book.

  Philip nodded proudly. “She put herself up for membership to the British Horticultural Society like a regular Trojan. First female to try. Lord Hastings bet Mr. Irby one hundred guineas to ten that she’ll get in. I think she will, too. Don’t you, Trent? You’ll vote for her, won’t you?”

  Before Trent could answer in the affirmative or the negative—it was unclear from his expression which he intended—Emma said, “Of course he will,” just as the dowager said, “Absolutely not.”

  Both women were equally annoyed, and as they glared at each other with narrowed eyes, the dowager so forgot herself that she let out an irritated huff. It was an inelegant sound, quite unlike anything that had ever emanated from her refined person before, and Sarah glanced around to make sure the unusual noise hadn’t excited interest. To her dismay, she noticed several attentive bystanders looking their way—and no wonder, with the duke, his mother and the infamous Harlow Hoyden gathered so closely together. Anyone, even the least curious among them, would want to discover the topic under discussion.

  Trent realized the same thing and sought to defuse the situation by suggesting it was all a hum. “For I’m certain Vinnie would not do something like that without consulting me. Philip must have misunderstood. Wet elbows or not, he’s hardly the most reliable source of information.”

  “I say, cuz, cut line!” he demanded, his face pink with indignation. “I got it from Morgan Pearson, who, I’m sure you’ll agree, has never dipped his arm into Lady Villier’s glass.”

  As the state of Pearson’s clumsiness wasn’t the matter up for debate, nobody responded to this absurdity. Instead, the duke announced he would clear up the confusion with his friend immediately, Emma stated she would get the true story from Vinnie, and the dowager insisted that everyone remain exactly where they were so as not to arouse further suspicion in the group of onlookers now gathered around them.

  “This is how we will proceed,” she said, quickly devising a plan that would halt both gossip and the progress of any newly hatched chickens that tried to escape. “Trent, dear, in the tone of voice you use to scold your nephew and niece—that is, loud enough to be heard by those immediately surrounding us but not so booming as to disrupt our guests by the refreshment table—will tell the story about the time Brummell used your cravat to shine his Hessians. When he is finished, we will all trill delicately with amusement, including you, Philip. Then I will say, ‘How droll, dear,’ and suggest that Lord Darby, who is standing three feet to our left, would delight in that anecdote as well. A moment later, Emma will politely excuse herself to greet her friend Kate Kennington, an estimable young lady no doubt trapped in conversation with the overly solicitous Lady Fellingham to our right. Sarah will remain here with Philip and ask about his recent fishing expedition on the Thames. Philip will then relate an engrossing tale about hooking a large perch. I, of course, will continue to lull our guests into a state of complacency with fine champagne, as my lovely daughter-in-law so charmingly put it. We will all carry out our various tasks with broad smiles on our faces and without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. We will be natural and unaffected.”

  The dowager paused for a moment and silently lamented the fact that she had to enlist their help at all, for she knew the likelihood of success decreased as the number of participants increased. But there was nothing she could do about it, so she gave each one an admonishing look and asked if she’d made herself clear. Three heads bobbed up and down—Emma’s, the duke’s and Sarah’s—while Philip started to protest his assignment on the grounds that he had never caught a perch in the Thames, large or otherwise.

  “I once caught a trout in the Serpentine River in Surrey, but I would hardly describe it as large. It was more mediumish like a.…” He trailed off as he met his aunt’s impatient glare. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good,” she said firmly. “Now let’s implement the plan. Alex, you may start talking now and remember to inflect properly. A story is only as good as its telling.”

  Duly chastised, the Duke of Trent launched into the Brummell tale, the details of which were hazy to him several years later. Rather than risk his mother’s ire by appearing less than confident, he made up the specifics as he spoke and avoided his wife’s determined gaze, for he knew if he looked at her now, he would break into uncontrollable laughter and that unusual sight would invite more speculation than the dowager could withstand.

  Miss Lavinia Harlow had never been the most popular girl at the ball—her looks, though pretty and blond, were too anemic to hold interest, her countenance too withdrawn and pale—but she had never been a pariah like her sister. During the course of a typical evening, she would gossip with other young ladies, converse with inquisitive matrons and stand up with eligible partis. That she participated in these activities less frequently than her peers was understandable, as the majority of the young ladies and inquisitive matrons and eligible partis wanted to talk about the most recent exploits of the Harlow Hoyden, a topic naturally unappealing to Vinnie.

  Attending her first function as a woman in mourning, however, made her look on her previous unpopularity in a fresh light, for compared with her new social status, she had once been the belle of the ball.

  Her conduct, of course, was circumspect and complied with the dictates imposed by grief. She was properly attired in widow’s weeds: bombazine silk, subdued lilac, wide hem—all appropriately dull to lower a young woman’s spirits if the death of her beloved hadn’t sufficiently accomplished the task. She was correctly seated among the chaperones and wallflowers, who chose to partake of the festivities by not partaking. Her expression was suitably bland, her hands were decorously clasped in her l
ap, her toes were befittingly still. She hadn’t done a single thing that wouldn’t be found on a list of approved behaviors for young widows, and yet she could feel the disapproval all around her.

  The problem was the timing of the ball, which fell just three days after the end of her official six-month mourning period. The dowager had insisted the seventy-two hours provided a sufficient cushion for any stickler who might nip-cheese the dates, an argument to which Vinnie had reluctantly submitted because she didn’t want to miss the happy event. Instead of appeasing the zealously critical members of the ton, however, the three days incited their scorn by implying a cool-minded calculation that many guests found off-putting. To them, it signified an overeagerness to get out of mourning, which in turn indicated a disinclination to enter into it. Their gracious hostess was, of course, exonerated of all culpability because she had merely offered the invitation; the fault was her guest’s for accepting.

  Vinnie, who had overheard enough snippets to know what people thought of her (as they had intended, of course), found the situation excruciating. To be in mourning for a man whom one did not mourn—indeed, for whom one actually shot dead—was onerous enough, but to then be accused of not wanting to mourn for him when, in fact, one had not, was unbearable. She realized all they wanted was some outward display of grief, such as a forlorn tear down her cheek or a wince at the sight of happy couples, but she refused to pander to their vanity by trying to convince them that her insincere mourning, which, for the record, had faithfully followed Countess de Boufflers’s Maxims and Rules for the Conduct of Women, was in actuality sincere. They would simply have to accept her stiff upper lip as proof of her anguish or dismiss her entirely.

  Her pride, however, was only part of the difficulty. More to the point was her complete inability to dissemble. Yes, she was more schooled in the ways of polite society than her sister, who could never bestir herself to feign interest in a dull conversation, but in the whole of her life, Vinnie had never pretended to be anything other than what she was. In this, she and Emma were in perfect accord.

  It was little wonder, then, that people were talking about her. Vinnie told herself she didn’t mind, which wasn’t completely true. Naturally, she minded being the subject of ugly rumors, for who save her sister wouldn’t mind, but it was better that they supposed her to be ruthlessly on the prowl for a new husband than suspect the truth. She would gladly suffer any amount of gossip to avoid being branded a murderess.

  These thoughts kept Vinnie happily occupied for some time. Well, she conceded silently, happily might be overstating the case, but she appreciated having something to think about while she waited for dinner to be announced. Dancing was off-limits, as was smiling, laughing or any display of merriment, but eating made the list of approved activities. Indeed, it was encouraged, for one must keep up one’s strength during these difficult times.

  Vinnie was calculating just how many minutes remained before the dinner announcement when the Marquess of Huntly appeared suddenly before her.

  “Miss Harlow, we must speak,” he said firmly.

  Although she knew it was absurd, Vinnie swore she could hear the room around her hush as several dozen interested heads turned her way. Inside, she withered from the attention, but she kept her face impassive as she stood up to greet Lord Huntly with polite indifference. She was not feeling entirely indifferent, of course. Ever since their exchange at Hatchard’s, she had been anticipating their next meeting with unusual eagerness. It wasn’t because she liked him any better than when she’d first met him but because she was interested to see if he would respond to her critique of his writing. As almost a week had passed, he’d surely gotten her note with her comments on his other articles. No doubt he’d figured out that her tepid compliments had been pointed insults and wanted some small revenge.

  Vinnie stood up to greet him and spoke loudly and clearly for the edification of her audience, for to speak any lower would be to excite more interest. “Good evening, my lord. It’s a pleasure to see you. I trust you are enjoying yourself.”

  “Splendid affair,” he said, his tone as clipped as his nod. Then, mindful of the crowd around them, he added softly. “There is a matter I would like to discuss.”

  Mindful as well, Vinnie paid no heed to his request for a tête-à-tête. She might not know how to mourn to the ton’s satisfaction, but she certainly knew how to conduct a respectable conversation. “It is indeed splendid. Why, even Prinny has given his stamp of approval.”

  Huntly leaned closer to Vinnie and said directly into her ear. “We must talk.”

  The inexplicable urgency in Huntly’s voice intrigued Vinnie, but she refused to indulge it and took an extra-large step back to double the distance between them. The movement was exaggerated, like a performer in a pantomime, and she feared that it made her look ridiculous.

  Perhaps this indelicate attempt at a private conversation was Lord Huntly’s revenge.

  “I believe Prinny’s gone now, but he stayed for a good number of minutes and even offered his compliments to my sister,” she said, wondering what inane topic she could prattle on about once she had exhausted the subject of the regent’s visit. “I’m sure the dowager was quite pleased.”

  Huntly’s frustration was apparent in the way he pressed his lips together, but before he could issue his request for an astonishing fourth time, the orchestra played the opening notes of a waltz. His expression immediately lightened, and, relieved, Vinnie assumed he would excuse himself to claim the lady to whom he was promised for the dance.

  Instead, he seized her elbow and said, “Our dance, Miss Harlow,” with authority and conviction. Surprise propelled her forward a few steps, and by the time her senses returned, she realized it was too late. She was well on her way to the dance floor, with dozens of censorious eyes watching her, and to stop now and tug her arm from his grasp would not only raise eyebrows even higher but make her look absurd as well. Dancing the waltz just three days out of mourning was scandalous, but being dragged by a marquess across a ballroom was scandalous and mortifying, which was just a little more than Vinnie could bear.

  Furious at the situation and powerless to alter it, Vinnie placed her hand on Huntly’s shoulder and resolved to get through the experience without further humiliation. She would dance gracefully and silently until the music ended, then return to her chair amid the wallflowers and sit down with a woeful grimace. If she could manage it, she would squeeze out a tear or two to suggest that dancing with a man who wasn’t her dearly departed was too painful to be contained. Perhaps she could even convince her bottom lip to quiver.

  “I realize my behavior was unorthodox, but it’s imperative that we speak,” Huntly explained masterfully.

  Vinnie, who refused to dignify his shabby treatment of her with a response, kept her attention firmly focused on her feet. She had danced the waltz several times before—once unmemorably with Sir Windbourne—and knew the steps, but the careful study gave her a reason to avoid his eyes.

  Huntly, his shoulders tense despite the graceful way he twirled her around the floor, said, “I must explain before this goes any farther.”

  Unable to withstand the provocation, Vinnie lifted her angry eyes to his. “I don’t think there is any danger of that, my lord. I’m fairly certain you have taken my ruination as far as it can go,” she announced.

  The marquess winced. “I am sincerely sorry for the harm I have done you. In my defense, however, I would like to point out that I could not have foreseen the scandal it would create.”

  “You could not have foreseen the scandal?” she repeated scathingly, the scorn in her tone contrasting strongly with her graceful movements. She would not admit it to anyone, of course, but the marquess made an elegant and agile dance partner. “The customs involving mourning in our society are well established and known to all so I fail to understand how you could not have foreseen the scandal your making me dance the waltz when I’m not a full week out of black gloves would create.”
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br />   “It was a private conversation between Mr. Berry and myself, and I did not—” He broke off suddenly as he digested her words and looked at her with a puzzled expression. “What are you talking about?”

  Lavinia was equally confused by the mention of a Mr. Berry, the only one of whom she knew was employed by the horticultural society. “What are you talking about?”

  “The one-hundred-guinea bet Lord Hastings placed that you would be accepted into the British Horticultural Society as a member,” Huntly explained, his brows drawn.

  The idea of her acceptance into the society was so unexpected and extraordinary that Vinnie broke out into peals of delighted laughter. The organization, which graciously deigned to let women participate in its annual exhibition at Temple Gardens, would never countenance a female member, a fact so well established she could not conceive of how the wager originated. It had to be a hoax by a bored nobleman who could not think of an outcome more outrageous than a woman gaining admittance to those sacred halls.

  Vinnie knew she should be offended that she was singled out, for clearly the reason was her excessive unsuitability. There was no more improbable candidate than the somewhat reserved and retiring older sister of the notorious Harlow Hoyden. There were plenty of other ladies who regularly exhibited at the show who could have been selected for the prank—none high fliers, of course, though a few were fashionable leaders of the ton.

  But in truth, Vinnie wasn’t the tiniest bit offended. Rather, she was so amused by the absurdity, she could not contain her delight. It was, she decided, a fine thing—a truly, genuinely, very fine thing—for her to be the scandalous Miss Harlow at her sister’s wedding party. Emma would be shown to advantage, which would no doubt please the dowager.

  “You must stop laughing,” Huntly commanded softly. “People are looking.”

  He was right, of course, but Vinnie found she couldn’t rouse herself to care. People were always looking, or, as in this case, glaring with disapproval. From the moment she had arrived at the ball in the company of her brother and sister-in-law, her eyes turned down, her pale skin pallid against the lilac silk of her dress, she had been the target of censure and reproach, and now she was giggling as one of London’s most ardently hunted quarry—an eligible bachelor with no prior attachments—twirled her around the dance floor. There was nothing for it but for her to admit the truth: She was a failure as a widow.