The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (Burgundy Club)

by Miranda Neville

  “I’ll wear the green crepe and satin,” she told Diana’s maid who awaited her with hot water and the implements of the hairdresser.

  She half expected Chantal, with her very definite opinions on the proper attire for any occasion, to argue, to urge her to save the most elaborate of Diana’s altered gowns for the grand dinner party and ball planned for later in the week. But Chantal seemed distracted, though she arranged Celia’s hair and helped her into her stays, petticoats, and gown with her usual efficiency.

  Then she asked for permission to return to Wallop Hall for the night. “I am concerned for milady. Four days without me and she will look like une bohémienne. Lady Felicia’s maid will help you undress.”

  By no stretch could Celia imagine Diana resembling a Gypsy, but she gave her permission readily enough. It mattered little how she appeared when she went to bed, just as long as she looked acceptable now.

  Better than acceptable, she decided as she practiced an alluring smile in the looking glass. With a light step and a determined heart she descended from the guest wing, ready to show Tarquin Compton exactly how little she cared for him.

  He was one of the first people she encountered when she entered the rotunda, the customary pre-dinner meeting place. While not expecting him to appear bowled over by her beauty, she’d hoped for some reaction. Instead he seemed on edge, not quite the arrogant and overconfident dandy.

  “Miss Seaton,” he said. “Allow me to present you to my great-uncle Lord Hugo Hartley.”

  The old gentleman acknowledged her curtsey with a polite reserve that disappointed her. She hoped Tarquin might have spoken kindly of her to his uncle. Though come to think of it, why should he? Just because they’d enjoyed a period of amity and even rapport that afternoon, didn’t mean he’d forgiven her. For all she knew, he’d told Lord Hugo the whole shocking story.

  “I see our cousin, the Countess Czerny,” Lord Hugo said. “Please fetch her while I make Miss Seaton’s acquaintance. If, that is,” he said, giving Celia a glimpse of his charm, “she doesn’t mind keeping an old man company.”

  “Of course, Uncle,” Tarquin said. “Excuse me, Miss Seaton, allow me to remove this piece of fluff from your shoulder.” This gross insult to Chantal’s diligence was a mere excuse to whisper a quick warning. “Don’t tell him anything. He knows we arrived together but that’s all.” And left her alone with Lord Hugo, who examined her person with a keen eye.

  “Allow me to compliment you on your gown,” he said in a light baritone overlaid with decades of courtesy.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “The shade is most becoming to your coloring.”

  This drew a gratified smile and a brief curtsey. She could survive this.

  “I understand my nephew was able to render you a service.”

  “I am most grateful to him.”

  “Perhaps you could enlighten me as to the nature of his assistance.”

  Celia glanced up at the domed ceiling for inspiration. “I think it would be better,” she said carefully, “if he were to tell you himself. I wouldn’t wish to betray a confidence.”

  Lord Hugo’s response was very dry. “I rather thought he was loath to betray your confidence but I am mistaken. I so often am.”

  She searched wildly for Tarquin, or someone, to save her. All she saw were the full-sized statues of naked Greek men that filled niches at regular intervals in the walls of the oval chamber. For the first time it occurred to her they all had tiddly little pillocks, likely having emerged from cold baths. Her lips twitched at the impropriety of the thought in such august company. In any company.

  Lord Hugo looked amused. “They all look rather chilly, don’t they?” She made a choking noise. “Standing without a stitch of clothing, I mean.”

  “Of course we are enjoying a very hot summer,” she said. “In winter perhaps they are dressed for warmth.”

  Lord Hugo smiled. “Perhaps they are. Not in yellow trousers, I trust.”

  “Yellow trousers?”

  “A dozen years ago there was a most unfortunate rage among the younger set for baggy yellow trousers of a violent hue. Of course young men get these ideas and there’s no stopping them. But I was disappointed in Tarquin. I thought better of him.”

  “He must have been very young.”

  “You are quite right, Miss Seaton. Only fifteen years old and one must excuse the follies of youth. But this was beyond mere folly, it was a crime.”

  Though not certain she had his approval, she warmed to old gentleman and his obvious affection for his nephew. No wonder Tarquin loved him. She smiled at his droll exaggeration, and the mental image of a youthful Tarquin in the silly fashion. It pleased her to think him a mere mortal, capable of sartorial error. “He must have looked absurd,” she said.

  “He never bought them. I took measures.”

  “Oh?”

  “I read him an astringent homily on the occasional necessity of distinguishing between high fashion and good taste.”

  “And that worked?”

  “I think so, but I left nothing to chance. I had Tarquin’s credit severed at all the best tailors in London until the craze for yellow pantaloons passed.”

  She chuckled again but he didn’t join her. He seemed to be regarding her with peculiar concentration, so she stopped and tilted her chin.

  “Are you interested in male clothing, Miss Seaton?” His voice turned grave and she understood this wasn’t the real question he asked.

  “It isn’t something I know much about, Lord Hugo.”

  “Would you improve your acquaintance with the subject if you had the chance?”

  “I wouldn’t aspire to such knowledge.”

  “Excellent, Miss Seaton. I can see you are a young lady of common sense. Pray feel free to call on me if I can serve you. As my nephew cannot, I mean. He is likely to be otherwise occupied.”

  She followed the line of his sight to find Tarquin and the countess exchanging bright chitchat with the Duchess of Hampton. Any illusion of adequacy about her appearance dissipated in the presence of the exotic beauty. There wasn’t a single point of comparison in which Celia came out the winner, not even in height. True, the countess only held an inch or so advantage over Celia, but her stature was enhanced by an excruciatingly modish coiffeur, gleaming curls entwined with a confection of velvet, satin, and diamonds.

  Together, the countess and Tarquin presented a picture of fashionable perfection that drove Celia’s spirits down into the soles of her shoes. She was not happy when this ideal couple made their way over to join her and Lord Hugo, who welcomed his dearest Julia with effusive affection.

  “Miss Seaton,” the lady said in a voice like a clarinet arpeggio. “I have been wishing to make your acquaintance.”

  “Thank you,” Celia said. The feeling is not mutual, she didn’t say.

  “I knew Mr. Twistleton and I was sorry to hear of his death. Pray accept my condolence.”

  “My late guardian? You knew him better than I did, perhaps. I only lived with him a short time.”

  “He was not, I recall, a man with a great deal of conversation. In fact he made rocks seem eloquent.”

  “Did you also know his wife, my mother’s sister?”

  “I didn’t have that pleasure. My acquaintance with your uncle was slight and confined to a matter of business concerning some jewelry.”

  Celia, who knew even less about her uncle’s business than she had of the man himself, murmured a polite nothing. The countess, however, appeared to be more interested in her than was warranted by the slender connection. A sudden thought increased her discomfort in the woman’s presence. If she knew Twistleton, perhaps she also knew about his disreputable brother-in-law. Then she recalled how her uncle had despised Algernon Seaton and warned Celia never to speak of him. Surely he wouldn’t have mentioned him to a mere acquaintance.

  “I understand you lived in India,” the countess said, with a friendly smile.

  “I understand you live
d in Austria,” Celia almost snarled.

  She found it impossible to contain her resentment. Probably due to the depressing fact that in the eyes of Tarquin’s uncle she was akin to a pair of yellow trousers.

  A stir at the entrance to the room saved her from having to hold on to a ragged semblance of good manners. A pair of furiously bowing footmen had opened both sides of the double doorway.

  Tarquin observed the exchange between the two women with apprehension, poised to intervene if things got difficult, when he, too, was distracted by the new arrival. “Good God and Zeus,” he exclaimed in deep disgust. “It’s my aunt.”

  The Duchess of Amesbury, though not unusually large, possessed too much consequence to enter through a single door. Brushing aside the greetings of people too sycophantic to treat her with the scorn she deserved, she marched through the assembly, straight for the group of people with the least desire for her company.

  “Hugo! Compton! What a delightful little family party! Cousin Julia, and Miss Seaton too!”

  Her eyes shone with malice and Tarquin guessed she was aware of his bruited engagement to Julia Czerny. Whether or not she knew about the end of his betrothal to Celia, the duchess was ripe for mischief and there was plenty to be made.

  As usual, Celia was the one she could hurt the most, the person with the most to lose.

  “Duchess,” he said, grasping her satin clad arm in a vicious grip. “Please come with me. I have something important of a private nature to communicate to you.”

  Perhaps because no one ever dared treat her with such indignity, his aunt let him drag her into a corner out of earshot of other guests.

  Such submissiveness didn’t last. “Let me go,” she barked.

  He dug his fingers into the flesh. “Only if you promise to behave. You will smile, you will nod, and you will listen to every word I have to say.”

  “You’ve lost your mind, Nephew!”

  “Just ask yourself, Aunt, who has more to lose by making a scene in the Duke of Hampton’s rotunda.”

  He could see the wheels turn in her malicious brain, considering the fact that at Mandeville she couldn’t terrorize everyone by reason of her rank. In a bout between the Duchesses of Hampton and Amesbury, Tarquin would back his hostess every time, and his aunt agreed.

  “Very well,” she conceded with ill grace. “Let go of me. What do you want?”

  “Why are you here?” Tarquin countered, relaxing his grip without relinquishing his hold. “Did you learn of my presence here with Miss Seaton and come to make trouble?”

  “Certainly not. If you choose to ally yourself with such an insignificant young woman, it’s nothing to me.”

  “But you see, aunt, I have not. Or rather Miss Seaton and I have agreed mutually that we shall not suit. We are not betrothed and I do not wish a word of our connection to get out and damage her good name.”

  The duchess’s thin lips formed a smile to make a crocodile seem melancholy. “Dear me, Nephew. Are you crossed in love?”

  “That is none of your business. You shall not make it your business and you shall not mention it to another soul.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “No, I cannot. But if I hear one word of gossip about Miss Seaton’s brief and unexceptional sojourn under my roof, I shall not rest until I make you the laughing stock of London.”

  “Who cares for that?” She didn’t back down easily, but he could hear just a hint of anxiety in her question.

  “I think you do, Duchess. I think you care very much. You are a bully and you get your way because people are too weak and perhaps too polite, to stand up to you. I’m not speaking of your inferiors, of course. There’s nothing I can do about your servants other than pity them. But look around the room. Look at this gathering of the very cream of the ton.” He watched her obey, calculate the power assembled under the spectacular oval dome. “And then imagine them all smirking at you, whispering behind their fans, repeating the witticisms I have spread at your expense. Do you imagine, Aunt, that there is enough love for you in this room that even one person will refuse to participate in your mortification?”

  “Sticks and stones,” she said scornfully. “What is the opinion of anyone to me?”

  “If you really thought that, Duchess, I believe I would have more respect for you, but I know you very well. I had ten miserable years under your roof to learn exactly how the mind of a bully works.”

  “I’ll ruin the little tart, and you too,” she spat.

  “Setting aside, for a moment, the disrespectful reference to Miss Seaton, I’ll agree with part of your statement. You can ruin her. But me? I don’t think so. I shall be very slightly embarrassed, that is all. You don’t have the power to cause me any great harm. But you, you will suffer very greatly from my power.”

  The parrot face was blotched puce with rage as she thought about it. Every word he’d spoken was true and his heart thudded with anxiety. He delivered the final argument and prayed his gamble paid off. “Is it really worth it, Duchess, to destroy a lady who means nothing to you? I’m the one you hate and there’s nothing you can do to harm me.”

  But there was. He kept his face impassive and hoped she hadn’t guessed how much it meant to him to protect Celia.

  She wavered between rational fear and bitter resentment of defeat. And Tarquin, who knew her so well, found the words to tip her over the edge. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper and spoke close to her ear. “What shall you do? Are you going to give me the very great pleasure of destroying you? I’m already sharpening my wits.”

  She jerked back and shook off his hand. “Very well. I’ll say nothing. I don’t care if you marry her, or Countess Czerny, or no one. You are of no importance to me.”

  “Excellent,” Tarquin said, disguising his relief. “I am enchanted to find us in perfect accord.”

  Tense with anger, the duchess stood and surveyed the room, like a bird of prey seeking her next victim. Her glance settled on Celia, who must have taken leave of Hugo and Julia and now stood alone.

  “Don’t even think of it,” Tarquin said.

  “Truly,” the duchess said, in a tone quite mild for her. “I just wish to reassure Miss Seaton that I wish her well.”

  “I’ll do it for you. If you even go near Miss Seaton my threats stand. Leave her alone.”

  With a faint odor of brimstone, the duchess shook her ruffled feathers and stalked off to join her husband who, as usual, had managed to enter unnoticed.

  Tarquin allowed himself a satisfied smile. Six years ago, when he finished Cambridge, he’d removed every one of his belongings from Amesbury House and moved into his own London rooms, never to return to the detested mansion except for the occasional family gathering. Since then he’d climbed to a paramount position in the ton, despite occasionally wondering whether his ascent had any point. Tonight he knew that it did. Finally he’d used his power in a worthwhile cause. Perhaps the only time.

  Chapter 27

  When attending a house party, the well-bred young woman stays in her own room at night.

  Celia couldn’t have pinpointed what awoke her. Perhaps the recent memory of the last such disturbance in a dark room penetrated her slumbering brain. Someone was in the chamber with her.

  It hadn’t occurred to her to be nervous in the crowded Mandeville guest wing. Fearing her heart thumped loud enough to wake the dead, she lay still. She heard the intruder rooting through the things laid out on the dressing table, mostly the tools of Chantal’s trade and nothing of great value save some inexpensive amber beads and a silver chain lent her by Diana. He moved on to the chest and slid open a drawer. He wasn’t going to find anything of any value among her undergarments, not even a scrap of lace. She hadn’t wasted Diana’s funds on fripperies.

  Even keeping her eyes shut, she gained the impression there was a light in the room, that the searcher carried a candle or a lamp. It was agonizing to both follow his movements and keep her anxious body from betraying her wakefulnes
s. Something, a change in her breathing, an involuntary movement, must have given her away. As she snapped open her eyes a flame was extinguished without revealing a glimpse of her visitor. She lay under the covers, sensing him in the dark: still and waiting as she was. She took mental inventory of the bedside table and came up with no better weapons than her hairbrush and a candlestick.

  Sitting up, she attempted to preempt assault.

  “Leave,” she said loudly. “I have a heavy candlestick and a loud scream. I could make enough noise to summon help from the other rooms.” And prayed he didn’t know her immediate neighbors on either side were an elderly spinster cousin of the duchess and an empty room.

  There followed a rustling, soft retreating footsteps, the opening and closing of the door. The momentary admission of light from the dimly lit passage wasn’t enough to give a clue to his identity. Gathering her courage Celia jumped out of bed and raced to the door. The broad corridor, stretching many yards in each direction, was deserted. The intruder had vanished into one of the dozen or so rooms, or around the corner.

  Back in her room she groped for the candlestick, a puny thing that would have made a paltry weapon, and took it out to borrow a flame from one of the sconces illuminating the corridor. She hesitated before returning to bed. Suppose he came back? Suppose it was Constantine who had somehow inveigled himself into the house, posing as a member of the army of servants?

  Even with light she couldn’t face the rest the night alone in a room with a malfunctioning lock. Tarquin had brought her to Mandeville House on the assumption she would be safe here. He had been proven wrong and she wasn’t waiting till morning to tell him. She needed him, now.

  The guest wing was actually a quadrangle and Mr. Tarquin Compton, though a commoner, had been placed in one of the better chambers facing the avenue, around the corner from hers. Celia wouldn’t have known her own comfortable room matched her lowly standing without Chantal’s explanation of the order of social precedence as reflected by the assigent of guest rooms. Much of the maid’s several tirades on the subject had slipped her mind, but one thing stuck: the exact location of Tarquin.