A Wild Pursuit

by Eloisa James

  “How marvelously industrious you are!” Esme gushed. She herself couldn’t seem to sew anything except under the direct supervision of the Circle itself, so she never participated in the weekly count of completed sheets.

  “You must have a great deal of time on your hands these days, Lady Rawlings.”

  Esme resisted the temptation to tell Mrs. Cable that having a houseful of dissolute guests made for rather a lot of work. “So one would think.”

  Luckily Slope opened the door. “Lady Winifred,” he announced, “and Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq.”

  “What a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq,” Esme exclaimed. “And here we thought you were enjoying yourself in London and we wouldn’t see you until the season ended!”

  “We are all assembled,” Mrs. Cable put in, “as when the good book says that the elders were assembled.”

  “I’d take it as a personal compliment if you’d not refer to me as an elder, Mrs. Cable,” Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq snapped. “Lucy and I have fled London for a week or so. The poor girl is quite, quite worn out by all the festivities. As am I,” she added, looking remarkably robust. “Sponsoring a debut is a quite exhausting business.” Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq’s sister had recently died, leaving her to administer her niece’s debut.

  “And by all accounts, Lucy is having a particularly exciting time,” Lady Winifred said with a good-natured chuckle. Lady Winifred had three grown daughters living in London; while she no longer traveled to the city for the season, she seemed to know of even the tiniest event.

  Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq leveled a glare at Lady Winifred, who was demurely threading a needle. “I expect that, as always, accounts of the incident have been grossly exaggerated.”

  Mrs. Cable’s eyes were bulging out with pure excitement. “Never tell me that something happened to sweet Miss Aiken! Your niece could not create a scandal. There must be some mistake!”

  Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq’s mouth twisted. She was a rather corpulent woman, whose body seemed to have focused itself in her bosom; it jutted below her chin like the white cliffs of Dover. Generally, she had an air of victory, but today she looked rather deflated.

  Esme put down her sheet. “What on earth has happened to Miss Aiken?” she asked. Lucy Aiken had always seemed a pallidly unimaginative girl and certainly not one to achieve notoriety.

  “It’s her father’s blood coming out,” Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq said heavily.

  Mrs. Cable gasped. “Never say so!”

  “I do say so! If my sister hadn’t married beneath her, none of this would have happened!”

  “It didn’t sound particularly outrageous to me,” Lady Winifred observed, turning the corner on her hem. “After all, many girls do foolish things in their first season. It’s almost expected. And it’s not as if she created some sort of true scandal!”

  Aha, Esme thought to herself. That would have been my role…in the old days. She was astounded that neither Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq nor Lady Winifred had mentioned her cap. Did they really think she was old enough, stodgy enough, widowed enough, to wear one of these? Even Arabella didn’t wear a cap!

  “My niece insulted the great Brummell himself,” Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq said heavily.

  “What on earth did Miss Aiken say to him?” Esme asked, fascinated despite herself. She’d often wanted to insult Brummell.

  “He did her the inestimable honor of complimenting her complexion, and then asked what preparation she used on her freckles.” Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq shuddered. “Lucy was rather tired, and apparently she did not entirely understand the breadth of Mr. Brummell’s importance in the ton. Or so she tells me.”

  “And?” Mrs. Cable said.

  “She snapped at the man,” Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq admitted. “She informed him that any preparations she chose to use on her complexion were her business, and no one else’s.”

  “The snare of vanity,” Mrs. Cable said darkly.

  “The vanity is all Mr. Brummell’s,” Esme pointed out. “The man takes a spiteful delight in pointing out the faults that one most wants to hide.”

  “She loathes her freckles,” Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq said. “I blame them on her father’s side of the family. We have nothing of the sort in our family, and so I have told Lucy, time out of mind.”

  “Vanity—,” Mrs. Cable put in.

  Everyone ignored her. “You were right to bring poor Lucy to the country for a week,” Lady Winifred said. “Everyone will have forgotten by next Monday.”

  “True enough. More importantly, has she met any gentlemen whom she finds acceptable?” Esme put in.

  Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq looked slightly more cheerful. “Several gentlemen have paid her marked attention. I am hopeful that they will overlook both her slip of the tongue and the freckles.”

  “Poor Lucy just didn’t understand that we fairly beg Mr. Brummell to be discourteous to us,” Esme said. “He’s a horrid little beast, and so I shall tell Lucy when I see her.”

  “Lady Rawlings!” Mrs. Cable said with a gasp. “Mr. Brummell is a leader of the ton! It would never do for Miss Aiken to insult him yet again.”

  Esme bit her lip before she retorted that she too was a leader of the ton, and knew better than Mrs. Cable what a song and dance one was supposed to make before the great Brummell. Or the penniless Brummell, as was rumored.

  At that moment the door opened, and Arabella swept in. “Ah, this must be my niece’s group of virtuous laborers,” she said, laughing. “I thought I’d join you and bring a little frivolity to lighten your exertions!”

  “How kind of you,” Esme said, giving Arabella a pointed look. If she undermined Esme’s new respectability, Esme would have to flay her, relative or no. She had sewn too many sheets to give up her place in the Circle now. “Ladies, may I present my aunt, the Dowager Viscountess Withers? Aunt, this is Mrs. Cable, Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq, and—”

  “Winifred!” Arabella crowed. “How are you, dear girl?”

  Esme watched, rather stupefied, as Lady Winifred came to her feet with a great creaking of stays and Arabella bounded into her embrace. Lady Winifred was a florid woman with a bewildering range of acquaintances. Still, Esme wouldn’t have put her aunt among them, given that Lady Winifred spent a great deal of her time impugning the reputations of women with far fewer sins than had Arabella. Perhaps Lady Winifred was losing her memory.

  “I haven’t seen you in an age!” Lady Winifred boomed. “It’s all my fault, of course. I’ve grown as large as a horse, and as lazy as one too. Nowadays I loathe London.”

  “I know just what you mean,” Arabella said, patting her hand. “There are days when I feel every bone in my aged body and I can’t think of a single activity that might please me.”

  Esme just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Arabella was wearing an utterly charming and provocative morning gown made of a cotton so light it floated on the breeze. If she didn’t look precisely youthful, she did appear to have a good twenty years before she’d feel even a touch of rheumatism.

  The look on Mrs. Cable’s face made it clear that she, at least, was having no trouble remembering the kind of activities for which Arabella was famed. “How unusual to find such a distinguished personage in Limpley-Stoke,” she said with a titter. “I’m afraid that you’ll find our little village quite drab!”

  Esme suddenly saw Mrs. Cable through her aunt’s eyes. Mrs. Cable’s small, dark eyes were glistening with dislike. Her mouth was thinned with contempt. The worst thing of all, from Arabella’s point of view, would be the fact that Mrs. Cable was wearing a dress of pomona green poplin, just the color to emphasize the sallow color of her cheeks.

  “No place that contained my niece could be tedious!” Arabella replied, whisking herself into a chair. “I do believe I would even travel to America to see her. And that’s a profound compliment, as I’m sure you all know how sea air can ruin one’s complexion.”

  “I am honored,” Esme said, pouring Arabella a cup of tea. “Thank goodness you needn’t go to such lengths, dear aunt. A
t your age,” she added.

  Arabella narrowed her eyes at her. “I see you’ve taken up wearing a cap, dearest niece. At your age.”

  Lady Winifred had settled herself back with a length of cotton. “I won’t offer you a piece of this, Arabella,” she said with a booming laugh. “I don’t think of you as a needle-mistress!”

  “But of course, you’re right,” Arabella agreed. “I can’t sew to save my life.”

  “Sometimes these sheets are all that come between the poor and the cold floor,” Mrs. Cable said pointedly. “Whoso stoppeth his ear at the cry of the poor, she also shall cry herself and not be heard.”

  Rag-mannered, Esme thought to herself. Could Miles truly have wished her to spend time with the likes of Mrs. Cable?

  Apparently Lady Winifred agreed with Esme’s assessment. “I have been meaning to mention to you, Mrs. Cable, that there is something just slightly vulgar about quoting the Bible, unless, of course, it is the vicar himself who ventures to recite.”

  Mrs. Cable thrust back her head, rather like a rooster preparing to battle an impudent hen, and said, “I fear not, but testify unto every man.”

  Arabella raised one eyebrow and said pleasantly, “My goodness, you do seem to have the Bible at your fingertips. I do congratulate you. It is such an unusual skill to find among the gently bred.”

  Mrs. Cable turned a deepish puce color. Arabella turned to Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq with her charming smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met. But as it happens, I did meet your delightful ward, Miss Aiken, just two weeks ago, at Almack’s. Sally Jersey introduced me. We both thought her manners were remarkably engaging, with very little of that strident awkwardness that seems rampant this season, and I certainly applauded Sally’s decision to give her a voucher to Almack’s.”

  Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq had silently watched the skirmish between Arabella and Mrs. Cable to this point, but she was instantly wooed and won.

  “That is tremendously kind of you, Lady Withers,” she said, putting her sewing to the side, “and I must ask you a question. I have been longing to know the truth behind the Countess of Castignan’s extraordinary marriage, and I expect you know all about it.”

  Arabella laughed. “Well, as to that, Petronella is one of my dearest friends….”

  Esme risked a look at Mrs. Cable. She was sitting like a dour crow, stitching so quickly that her needle was a blur. Even for the sake of Miles, her departed—if not terribly dear—husband, could she contemplate a lifetime in Mrs. Cable’s company?

  9

  Prudishness…That Coveted Quality

  Bea woke in the morning feeling rather ashamed of herself. Of course, there was nothing new in that sensation. Her father had often bellowed his amazement that he’d never managed to teach her a single thing, but she secretly thought he had had no difficulty imparting shame. She’d simply refused to reveal it, to his everlasting fury.

  But she should never have kissed Stephen Fairfax-Lacy in the goat pasture. Never. He was singled out for Helene, and if there was one thing that Bea did not do, it was steal men from other women.

  I’ll dress in such a way as to make it absolutely clear to Mr. Puritan that he’s not to kiss me again, Bea thought. Then she remembered that the Puritan didn’t want to kiss her, now he knew of her experience. If that pang in the region of her stomach was shame, Bea refused to acknowledge it.

  “I’ll wear the new morning gown,” she told her maid, Sylvie. “The one with blonde lace.”

  “But, my lady, I thought you had decided that gown was entirely too prudish,” Sylvie lisped in her French accent.

  “It is rather prudish, isn’t it? Wonderful. I’m in a Puritanical mood.”

  “If you say so,” Sylvie said resignedly. She was rather hoping that her mistress had taken a permanent dislike to the gown and would hand it on to her.

  Sometime later Bea looked at herself in the glass with some satisfaction. She looked—as her grandmother might have said—as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. The dress was made of the finest jaconet muslin in a pale amber, trimmed with deep layers of pointed blonde lace. It had long sleeves, and while the bodice clung to every inch of her bosom (and several inches that weren’t hers at all), it was so high-necked that it practically touched her ears.

  “No Spanish papers,” Sylvie suggested, as Bea sat herself at the dressing table. Once she’d gotten over the disappointment of having her mistress actually wear the coveted gown, she’d started enjoying the dressing, as always. Truly, she was lucky. Her mistress was lovely, invariably cheerful, and, most importantly, took clothing very, very seriously.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Bea said, nodding at her in the mirror. “The papers are far too red. My cheeks should be just the palest pink. Didn’t I buy something called Maiden’s Blush at that shop in Bedford Square?”

  Sylvie was rummaging through a smallish trunk that stood open to the right of Bea’s dressing table. “Here it is!” she said, holding up a small bottle. “Although you may wish to consider the Royal Tincture of Peach,” she added, handing over another bottle as well.

  Bea tipped both colors onto a bit of cotton and considered them carefully. “Maiden’s Blush, I think,” she decided. “The Peach is lovely, though. Perhaps I’ll use it on my lips.”

  “Don’t you think it will be rather pale?” Sylvie asked doubtfully.

  “No, no,” Bea said, deftly applying a translucent layer of rouge. “I’m nothing more than a seedling today. Utterly missish.” She ignored the little voice in the back of her mind that kept insisting on the contradictory nature of her actions. Why shouldn’t such an experienced trollop as herself dress any way that she pleased? Illogical or no.

  “Ahh,” Sylvie said. She loved a challenge. “In that case, I shall change your hair, my lady. Perhaps if I twisted a simple bandeau through it? These beads are entirely too knowing.”

  “You are a blessing,” Bea told her with satisfaction. “What on earth would I do without you?” A few moments later, she grinned at herself in the mirror. Her hair had the simplicity of a fourteen-year-old. She looked utterly milk-and-water. A mere infant!

  She refused to think about the perverse impulse that was driving her to demonstrate to Stephen Fairfax-Lacy that she was not as experienced as—well, as she was. For a moment she almost deflated. Why on earth was she pretending to a virtue she didn’t possess and had never before aspired to, either?

  There was a knock on the door, and Sylvie trotted away. Bea delicately applied kohl to her lashes. Not even for the sake of innocence would she emerge from her room without coloring her lashes.

  “May Lady Rawlings visit for a moment?” Sylvie called from the door.

  Bea hopped up, slipping her feet into delicate white kid slippers. “Esme! Do come in, please!”

  Sylvie opened the door, but Esme just stood there for a moment, blinking. “Bea?” she said weakly, “is that you?”

  “Do you like it?” Bea said, laughing.

  Esme dropped her considerable girth into a chair by the fireplace. “You look like a green girl, which I gather must be your aspiration.”

  “Precisely,” Bea replied triumphantly.

  “I do like the color you’re wearing on your lips, although I could never wear something so pale myself. Where did you buy it?”

  “It was the perfumer on St. James Street, wasn’t it, Sylvie?” Bea said.

  “Indeed it was, my lady,” Sylvie replied.

  “I haven’t been to London in over six months,” Esme said, wiggling her toes in front of the fire. “I hardly remember what the inside of a perfumer looks like!”

  “How appalling,” Bea said, tucking herself into the chair opposite. “I suppose that carrying a child does limit one’s activities.” She felt very pleased at the idea that she herself would never be banned from London for that many months. Being unmarried had definite advantages.

  “Actually, it’s this respectability business,” Esme answered.

  “Lady Godwin did menti
on that you are—” Bea stopped, unable to find a tactful way to phrase Esme’s ambitions.

  “Aspiring to be above reproach,” Esme said.

  “We all aspire to something, I suppose,” Bea said, rather doubtfully.

  “Did you buy those slippers from Mrs. Bell?” Esme inquired. “I adore the daisy clocks on the ankle.”

  “Mrs. Bell tried to convince me to buy a shawl with the same daisy pattern. But I thought that might be too kittenish.”

  “You’re risking kittenish now, if you don’t mind my saying so, but you somehow manage to look delightful instead. At any rate,” Esme said with a sigh, “I came to warn you that although my Sewing Circle has finally departed, I was maneuvered into asking them to return for a late luncheon. So please, feel free to eat in your chambers unless you wish to be showered in Bible verses.”

  “Sewing Circle?” Bea repeated rather blankly.

  “Did Arabella forget to tell you?” Esme said, standing up and shaking out her skirts. “I’ve joined a local Sewing Circle. We meet every week, at my house, due to my delicate condition. Arabella joined us this morning, which caused great excitement and led to the luncheon invitation.”

  “Never tell me that Arabella is able to sew!” Bea said with fascination.

  “Absolutely not. But her tales of the Countess of Castignan certainly kept everyone awake. The problem is that the most repellent of the seamstresses, Mrs. Cable, and my aunt have taken a fervent dislike to each other. So there is more than a slim possibility that lunch will be a demonstration of gently bred fury.”

  Esme paused at the door. “I have been trying to come up with a seating arrangement that will keep my aunt and Mrs. Cable apart, and I have decided to scatter small tables in the Rose Salon.” She gave Bea an alluring smile. “If you feel sufficiently brave, I would love to put you at a table with Mrs. Cable. She has a marked tendency to punctuate her conversation with ill-chosen Bible verses. Given your current appearance, she will deem you among the saved and be cordial.”