Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  “My brother and the Marquis have returned to Oxford,” Gwendolyn answered. “And Lady Helen’s at home, a little under the weather.”

  “Nothing serious, j’espère? Lamenting, perhaps, the loss of her so-lively companions?”

  Gwendolyn looked at de Montmorency a little fixedly, as if suspecting him of irony.

  Rupert said, “Will she be at Lady Jersey’s tonight? Thought I might have a go at her, you know.”

  Christopher watched as Gwendolyn gave Rupert that same fixed look. Coolly she said, “I don’t know if she’s going or not.”

  “Do have her come, won’t you?”

  “Lady Helen will do as she likes.”

  “Strong-willed, is she? Well, I do enjoy a challenge.”

  “Do you?” murmured Étienne de Montmorency, very softly. “I wish you luck, mon jeune ami.”

  Christopher’s eye was abruptly drawn to the nearby grove, where a beautiful gray horse was tossing its head back and forth, and shifting so restlessly, so uncomfortably, on its hooves that it nearly unseated its rider, a well-dressed, middle-aged man with a distinctively large head and whose expression, he noted, was one of complete bafflement.

  He couldn’t stop himself, of course, and he slid off his horse. “Gwennie, can you hold the reins for me?” His own horse was so well-behaved he had no fears that she couldn’t safely do so.

  “Of course,” she said, and took them into her gloved hands. “What’s wrong?”

  He jerked his head toward the gray horse, and had taken a few steps toward it when the Earl said, rather sharply:

  “Mr. Beck—wait—you really oughtn’t—”

  He paused. “Why not?”

  “Don’t you know who that is?”

  “I couldn’t care less,” said Christopher, and went swiftly to where the man was struggling to keep his seat. The other riders—the man’s companions—were looking worriedly at the gray horse but seemed hesitant to do anything, and so Christopher went between them and to the horse where he saw at once that the bearing rein was forcing its head too high, causing considerable strain to its neck.

  He took hold of the rein, saying to the rider, “If you’ll permit me, sir,” then quickly he unbuckled the strap which had been holding the rein too tightly.

  The horse immediately calmed, lowered its head, shook it, as if happy to have free movement again, and gave Christopher a rough but friendly nudge with its great head.

  “There, that’s better, isn’t it,” Christopher said to the horse, running a hand along its muzzle, and rebuckled the strap, but this time with appropriate looseness. He looked up at the man who now sat much more comfortably in the saddle and was smiling broadly at him.

  “Thank you, young man! Nearly came a cropper just now. Didn’t know why she was so gingery today.”

  “It was the bearing rein, sir. Too tight.”

  “I’ll tell that groom of mine.”

  “Do, sir. Horses don’t like it.”

  “Well, well, I daresay I’d dislike it if my head was confined. Could hardly look about, could I?”

  “Just so.”

  The man leaned down a little to say in a confidential tone, “Never been much of a rider, you know. I’m best on the deck of a ship. Sea-legs! But speaking of heads, you’ve got a good one on your shoulders, young man. What’s your name?”

  “Christopher Beck.”

  The man held out his hand and Christopher shook it.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Beck. Come by Bushy House sometime and take a little pot-luck with us. The place is overrun with children, but you won’t mind that, will you?”

  “Not at all,” said Christopher politely, mystified. “Good day.”

  “Good day, good day. Nice to know there are still some promising young men about. Most of ’em are rotters, like that Durant fellow over there, or that damned Frenchman next to him. Although he’s hardly a young man, hey? A great favorite of m’brother. Can’t abide him myself.” He nodded pleasantly at Christopher and rode on, his companions nodding with equal courtesy (and, perhaps, more than a little surprise) before they too went on their way.

  Christopher went back to his own horse, took the reins from Gwendolyn with a word of thanks, and brought himself up into the saddle again. He noticed that the Earl and Rupert were staring at him goggle-eyed, and that de Montmorency had on his face a faint, amused smile.

  Gwendolyn said, “You do have a knack with animals, don’t you, Christopher? Bravo!”

  “Indeed, tout à fait le magicien,” murmured de Montmorency.

  “Hardly a magician,” said Christopher. “Shall we ride on?”

  “Mr. Beck,” the Earl said, “don’t you want to know who that was?”

  Christopher looked at him. “Feel free to enlighten me, sir.”

  “It’s the Duke of Clarence.”

  “Ah.”

  Rupert put in: “That’s all you can say? ‘Ah’? You just barged over, without so much as a by-your-leave, and spoke to the Duke of Clarence. Royalty. Royalty! The Prince Regent’s brother, and very probably the heir to the throne.”

  “That’s why I attempted to dissuade you, Mr. Beck,” the Earl said, “from making a terrible gaffe.”

  They were both so serious, so earnest, that Christopher wanted to laugh. But he only said, “What is Bushy House, and why is it overrun with children?”

  “It’s his home, and where he lives with the ten children from his—ah—” The Earl glanced cautiously at Gwendolyn. “His—ah—shall we say, previous affiliation—”

  “With the beauteous Mrs. Jordan,” said Rupert. “An actress, don’t you know.”

  The Earl frowned at him, and Gwendolyn remarked:

  “Ten children! Just like your family, Julian.”

  “It’s not at all the same, my dear. One involves the sanctity of marriage, and the other, well—”

  “Oh, are we going to talk about morality again? Do let’s do that. Such a fascinating topic.”

  Her tone was a little pointed, and Christopher saw the sudden glitter in her eyes. He also saw that the Earl was looking rather taken aback. There was a silence, abrupt and awkward, and then de Montmorency intervened in his soft voice:

  “Mes amies, we are blocking the path. Mr. Beck is quite right to suggest we ride on.”

  They all began to walk their horses, and Gwendolyn brought her mare alongside Christopher’s. She said:

  “I wish I’d gone over to say hullo to the Duke. Hugo and Katherine met him several years ago, at the Queen’s Drawing-room. Katherine says they had an interesting conversation about his happy years in the Royal Navy. He has a nice face, I thought.”

  Christopher nodded. “Why is he considered the probable heir to the throne?”

  “Well, as the Prince Regent is unlikely to have any more children with Princess Caroline, given that she’s living abroad, it means that when the Regent eventually becomes King, all his brothers become his heirs. And the Duke of Clarence—according to the reports in the newspapers—is healthier than his older brothers, suggesting that the odds are in his favor. But if the newspapers are correct, all the brothers are scrambling to produce their own heirs and so solidify their claims.”

  “Sounds like an unholy mess to me.”

  “Doesn’t it? It makes me glad for my insignificant little life.”

  “Not insignificant,” he said quietly.

  She flashed a grateful look at him. “Thank you for that! Christopher, I—”

  “So, about tonight.” Rupert brought his horse jostling up against Gwendolyn’s and very quickly Christopher reached for a strap of the bay’s bridle, to urge it toward him; a single side-step brought Gwendolyn away from Rupert’s horse and out of danger.

  “Watch where you’re going, Mr. Durant.” He didn’t bother to soften his tone, and coolly he watched as Rupert sat up straight in his saddle, bristling.

  “I say, what cheek!”

  “You nearly crushed Miss Penhallow’s legs.”

  “Well�
�what?—surely not—it’s this damned horse of mine, anyway, a stupid disobedient creature—”

  “It’s not your horse’s fault, and you know it.”

  Rupert’s handsome face was very red. “The devil it is! And you’re not to talk to me like that.”

  “What, as one man to another?” Christopher said, very cool.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re not an honorable, are you? You’re not descended from an ancient lineage! You’re nothing but a—a jumped-up commoner!”

  Rupert ferociously hurled these words with the air of one uttering the most devastating barb possible. In response Christopher gave him a very slight, mocking bow. “Too true. Are you sure you ought to be seen speaking to me, sir?”

  “How dare you! You—you varlet!” Rupert hissed. He dug his heels into his horse’s sides and cantered angrily ahead of them, to where the Earl rode with de Montmorency.

  Christopher, watching him go, laughed. “Varlet.” He looked at Gwendolyn, whose expression was grave. “Do laugh, signorina. It’s very funny, you know.”

  “Well, I would, Christopher, but I must say I didn’t like how—how hateful he was to you.”

  “Don’t let it bother you. It certainly doesn’t bother me. Come now, admit it—have you ever heard anyone outside a theater actually say the word ‘varlet’ before?”

  Her lovely smile dawned, and he was glad to see the humor leap into her eyes. “I haven’t! It’s quite medieval of Rupert, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “Or Shakespearean,” Gwendolyn added, warming to the topic. “In fact, there’s a scene in King Lear where Kent calls Oswald a ‘brazen-faced varlet.’”

  He laughed again. “Much more insulting.”

  “I agree! Shakespeare’s very good with insults, isn’t he? When I was traveling with the Marksons I learned that Mr. Markson—he’s a Shakespeare enthusiast—knows quite a few of them. His favorite is ‘More of your conversation would infect my brain.’ It’s from Coriolanus.”

  “That’s a good one. You should make a list and give it to the Honorable Rupert. So that he could study it, and make reference to it as needed.”

  Gwendolyn giggled. “He could keep it in a pocket of his waistcoat.”

  “Because you never know, in these parlous times, when you might need to dampen someone else’s pretentions.”

  She giggled again, and as they continued walking their horses side by side, she regaled him with some more choice Shakespearean insults; together they ultimately decided that “Thou art a boil, a plague-sore” was one of the most delightfully withering, along with “Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon” and “There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.”

  They were still laughing when they came to the bottom of Rotten Row.

  “Oh, Christopher, I enjoyed this so much! Thank you. But I’m afraid I must go now.”

  “Yes, it’s getting late. Are you going to Lady Jersey’s evening-party?”

  She hesitated, and he added:

  “I was invited too.”

  She brightened right away. “You were? I’m so glad. I didn’t want to talk about it, in case you hadn’t been. Will you go?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Oh, good!” Then she hesitated again. “Shall I—shall I make sure Helen knows you’re going?”

  He remembered Percy saying about Lady Helen, that first night at the Egremont townhouse: She’s a good fellow, but rather awkward at parties. Doesn’t know how to talk to people. Well, if he could help Helen along a little, he wouldn’t mind that. What he did mind was how Gwendolyn had lost her brightness again. It puzzled him—worried him.

  “If you like,” he answered, wondering at the sudden reluctance he felt, especially when she nodded with what looked like a kind of—

  It looked like a kind of resignation.

  Why would that be? he wondered.

  Their little party broke apart, the Earl and Rupert (who merely dipped his head coldly at him in parting) to accompany Gwendolyn, with her groom in tow, back to Grosvenor Square, and de Montmorency, who gave him a surprisingly civil bow, going off to talk to some acquaintances in a dashing high-perch phaeton.

  Thoughtfully, Christopher made his own way back to the Albany. When he got there, he looked for a long time at the parcels he’d set on a side-table.

  Do what brings you the most peace.

  He was sure, now, about his decision. He just wished it wasn’t so damned hard.

  The party at Lady Jersey’s was crowded and lively, filled with a great press of people milling about, standing in groups, leaving and arriving. Lady Jersey hailed him as Purkoy’s savior, and had a footman bring him into the drawing-room so that he could meet his benefactor again. Christopher crouched down to greet Purkoy properly, and when he rose again to his feet he saw one of the Duke of Clarence’s companions from Rotten Row approaching, a tall, balding, affable-looking man, whom Lady Jersey introduced as Admiral Sir Charles Poole. He complimented Christopher on his deft handling of the Duke’s gray, and they fell into easy conversation which produced the remarkable discovery that Sir Charles had known Christopher’s uncle, the late Dan Allum, quite well.

  “Never knew anyone who kept the fleet as well-fed and well-supplied with armament,” said Sir Charles. “Dan could find gunpowder when nobody else could. And lemons! He made us take lemons long before it was a widely accepted practice. Our mortality rates dropped like—well, like an anchor into deep sea.”

  “I’m happy to hear this, sir. I never knew him myself. Apparently, he was thought by my mother’s family to have been rather an odd fellow.”

  Sir Charles laughed. “He was that. He kept a pet mouse in his jacket pocket, and stopped shaving when he was twenty—had the most tremendous beard you ever saw. Never ate meat. Never married. And he could do the most complicated sums in his head like a mathematician. Didn’t need pencil and paper. Yes, quite an unusual fellow.”

  Sir Charles introduced him to some of his friends, and after that Christopher talked with some acquaintances he had made at the Duchess of Egremont’s party, parting from them with a smile and a bow when he saw Gwendolyn coming into the drawing-room, accompanied by the Duchess and Lady Almira.

  Gwendolyn wore a simple, elegant white gown that swirled about her ankles as she walked, and had her bright gold hair in an unfussy coil high at the back of her head. He could never imagine Gwendolyn swathed in ruffles and bows, draped all over in ribbons and flounces and bunches of lace—styles, he had observed, favored by so many other women. She was, he now thought, uniquely herself. He looked hard at her, committing to his memory this dazzling image of her: all white and gold, shining blue eyes and tender smiling mouth, grace and intelligence personified . . .

  “Good evening, Mr. Beck, how lovely to see you again,” said Lady Almira warmly, and sneezed. “Oh, do excuse me!” She searched in her reticule and triumphantly pulled from it a handkerchief as one might, with a flourish, produce a rabbit from a hat. “Voilà! Oh my goodness, Mr. Beck, this is your handkerchief. Shall I give it back to you?”

  “Keep it, ma’am. Really.”

  He had only a brief opportunity to talk privately with Gwendolyn, when the Duchess and Lady Almira had turned away to greet some new arrivals. She said:

  “Why were you staring at me when I came in, Christopher? Is something wrong? Did you spot a ghastly rent in my gown, or a spider in my hair?”

  He smiled a little. “No.” He wanted to tell her why he was emblazoning in his memory the image of her, but now wasn’t the time or place. Most likely it would never be.

  “Well, that’s a relief. I do take a quick look in the mirror before going out, but I don’t study myself. Christopher, I’m very sorry, but Helen refused to come with us.”

  “That’s bad news for Rupert, isn’t it.”

  She didn’t reply, and he saw that she was looking at him as if confused by his answer. He went on, “Gwennie, may I come by tomorrow, unfashionably early? Perhaps aroun
d breakfast?”

  She paused. Drew in her breath. Nodded. “Of course. I’ll—I’ll make sure Helen is up.”

  Damn it, he wanted to talk with Gwendolyn alone, but he supposed it would be rude, and possibly hurtful, to exclude Helen. He gave a mental shrug. He’d just have to make the best of things. Then he heard familiar voices from behind Gwendolyn and saw the Westenbury party coming into the drawing-room—heard, too, the admiring whispers:

  “Oh, isn’t the Earl the handsomest man in London.”

  “The handsomest man in England, I think.”

  “Lucky, lucky Miss Penhallow.”

  Christopher could barely bring himself to look at the Countess, but he did his best as she swept near, resplendent in a gown of striped silver and white gauze, with its shimmering silver-edged hem drawn up to the knee, revealing the white satin slip beneath it and festooned with a big cluster of artificial flowers. On her head was a gauzy silk headdress, wreathed with sparkling brilliants, and from her low bodice dangled a knotted bunch of wide silver ribbons. She wore long ruby ear-bobs and several jangling bracelets over her white satin gloves.

  Next to him he heard Gwendolyn murmuring, “Oh my, that gown,” and then the Westenburys were upon them. The Countess had completely forgotten him—despite having spent three excruciatingly long hours sitting across from him at Vauxhall—and the Honorable Rupert looked as if he’d like to pretend he’d never met Christopher either. The Earl, after a civil greeting, had eyes only for Gwendolyn, and despite the sardonic promptings of Christopher’s evil genius to prolong this extremely awkward encounter with the Westenbury clan, he knew it would only distress Gwendolyn; and so, with a polite general bow—and a last quick look at her—he withdrew, only to be swiftly drawn into Lady Jersey’s circle where he passed a pleasant half hour and then excused himself, glancing around the crowded room.

  He saw Gwendolyn with the Earl. Next to him was the Countess, nodding and smiling, and next to her stood Rupert, looking very sulky indeed. Somehow he reminded Christopher of a tethered animal, and he found it within himself, despite his dislike, to feel a kind of pity for Rupert Durant. Then he realized, suddenly, that Gwendolyn was looking at him, and he made himself smile at her before turning away; and not long after that he left, already dreading tomorrow.