by Sawyer North
“As you can see,” the duchess said, “your keen eyes and extensive experience are needed here. As I explained in my letters, we must prepare my granddaughter for the inevitable trials and tribulations of Society. I turn to you, my oldest and dearest friends, in this time of great need.”
The genteel women broke into a chorus of concurrence, offering support for the endeavor. Lady Barrington approached Lucy, who stood in humiliation with head bowed.
“Lady Margaret.” The woman said the name firmly but with a hint of warmth. “You must never drop your eyes to anyone but the immediate royal family. You outrank me by far.”
Henry watched as Lucy raised her eyes slowly to meet those of Lady Barrington. The visitor nodded approval. “See there. Is that not better?”
Lucy nodded uncertainly. “I suppose. You are very considerate of my unusual circumstances.”
Lady Barrington cocked her head toward the duchess with a warm smile. “It is just as you said. She is a lovely girl, certainly tempting to any suitor. And, oh, so fresh.”
As the visitors began to remark on her fine looks, Henry watched the flush climb Lucy’s neck and cheeks. Hearing such praise of the young woman’s beauty swayed him to study her yet again. Thus far, he had seen her as attractive, but mostly as combative, forthright, and openly disdainful of Society rules. In this rare moment of humility, however, her dark eyes and pouting lips drew him like a force of nature, like gravity pulling a falling man. When had this happened? He absently pulled at his collar and intercepted the conversation.
“Mr. Henry Beaumont, at your service.” He bowed to the women. “Perhaps you might offer Lady Margaret sage advice for the guests yet to come.”
Lady Garvey nodded at the suggestion. She peered down at Lucy from her impressive stature. “Dear, with your rank comes the need for reserve. When guests arrive, you must not rush to them for approval. It is they who must come to you and offer respectful gratitude for the honor of calling upon you. Remain as a statue and maintain a cold eye until your guests do so.”
Lucy accepted the advice and further recommendations from Lady Barrington before the women followed the duchess to the parlor. She glanced at Henry as if in apology. He attempted to exude calm as he whispered to her.
“What began roughly ended well. Steady on, Miss Locket. Steady on.”
She glanced up at him with narrowed eyes. “So, now I am Miss Locket?”
“Just between us, yes.”
She smiled and turned toward the door again at the sound of another coach halting on the cobblestone street outside. Seconds later, Hawes called out again.
“Lady Isabella Sedgewick. Miss Braye. Miss Wharton.”
Henry balled his fists at the names. Lady Isabella swept through the door with two other young women in tow. All were possessed of great beauty, bedecked in dresses of finest silk and with matching honey hair formed and constructed for the sole purpose of entangling a man’s attention. He noted how much the presence of such refinement contrasted with Lucy’s plain manner. However, he also noticed with relief that Lucy’s beauty this evening outshone that of the new arrivals.
As he watched, Lucy adopted a facial expression he had seen from her before—one reserved for cardsharps when bluffing—and she appeared to wait for the newcomers to react. Isabella locked eyes with her and paused, entering a contest of wills with the would-be lady. Lucy maintained her stoic and unmoving position for the space of three breaths before Isabella spoke.
“Lady Margaret, is it not customary to show delight at the arrival of guests? You appear as if waiting for Death on his horse.”
Lucy’s focus broke and she glanced furtively at Henry before returning her attention to the guests. “Lady Isabella. How nice of you to come.”
Isabella dropped a hint of a curtsy, and Lucy reciprocated in kind with a slight dip of the chin. Isabella’s accomplices, whom Henry recognized from past events, floated in beside their friend. They curtsied modestly and swept their eyes discriminately over Lucy.
“I should offer congratulations,” said Miss Braye, “for your marvelous dress. The fact that your dressmaker assembled it in only a few days is hardly noticeable, especially in the moderate light of evening.”
Henry saw Lucy’s face fall. “How do you know about that?”
Isabella laughed lightly. “Oh, my dear. Let this be our first lesson for you this evening. The haute ton knows all. The more desperately you hide a secret, the more aggressively Society seeks to expose it. The desire to humiliate is proportional to the magnitude of the potential shame.”
Henry grimaced. He knew this to be true. Miss Wharton cast a conspiratorial eye toward him and stepped nearer to Lucy with a sniff.
“Lady Isabella is quite correct, Lady Margaret. I certainly hope you have nothing to hide. Do you?”
He felt Lucy tensing for an argument.
“Ladies,” he said, “if you please. The duchess waits in the parlor with other great ladies of London. Hawes will lead you there.”
With some reluctance, the younger women followed the butler. As they departed, Lucy leaned toward him to whisper. “How am I to know the proper manner of greeting when one guest contradicts the next? It seems as if there is no correct answer, no appropriate rule.”
“Ah, but you are learning. Society rules are not so much a hedgerow as they are a forest. You must weave your way through the woods without the appearance of avoiding the trees.”
Her expression grew puzzled. “You make no sense, given your incessant drilling on propriety and rigidity. How am I to know what is proper, then, if the rules are so fluid?”
He pondered the question before an idea lit his mind. “When Sir Steadman invited all manner of scoundrels to your home, how did you manage to maintain an upper hand while avoiding their schemes and influences?”
She stared at the floor, deep in thought. Of her many mercurial expressions, he found this one the most intriguing. When she raised her eyes, they sparkled with recognition.
“When new guests arrived, I observed and listened. I attempted to determine their game and how to use it against them.”
Henry smiled more broadly than he intended. “Do that, then. These people are simply scoundrels with titles, money, and airs, but scoundrels nonetheless. They all play games.”
Her face brightened and she clenched her jaw with determination. “I am ready, now. Shall we retire to the parlor?”
“Not yet. We await another.”
She fell silent, perhaps sensing the foreboding of his tone. They waited only briefly before Hawes announced a new guest.
“The Viscount Warwick, heir to the Earl of Uckham.”
She shot a startled glance at him. “Viscount?”
He shushed her with a finger to his lips and motioned toward the door. Warwick entered, his height and athletic build commanding the room immediately. His gaze of nonchalance soon found Lucy, and he dipped his head.
“Lady Margaret, I presume.”
Lucy seemed frozen, so Henry swept a hand toward the newcomer. “Lord Warwick, how long has it been?”
The man appraised him for the space of two heartbeats. “I do not recall. Perhaps three years. What nonsense have you been about since then?”
His question dripped condescension, raising Henry’s pique. “Not much. Gaming, drinking, and ridding the world of Napoleon. What of you, my lord?”
Warwick frowned mildly and swept past them toward the sound of voices. “Perhaps superior company may be found in the parlor.”
Lucy stared at Henry crossly and mouthed the words, “Who is he?”
He wished to blurt the truth that Warwick was a man who might torment her for life. However, he could not muster such cruel words. “Only someone to impress. Just remember, this is merely a game.”
She nodded with an expression that bordered on trust. As he led her to the parlor, hi
s soul shriveled as the weight of duplicity bowed his shoulders.
Chapter Thirteen
Once in the parlor, Lucy heeded Henry’s advice by viewing the visitors as no different from the criminals she’d known so well, while remaining mostly silent. Before long, Isabella probed Henry.
“What an odd invitation list, Henry. Lord Warwick seems a bit out of place in this gathering.” Then she batted long eyelashes at Warwick. “Although, my gratitude for his attendance is substantial.”
“You are looking well, Lady Isabella,” Warwick replied warmly. “I must admit, I am as befuddled as you are. My father ordered me here tonight with no explanation. That said, your presence eases my irritation.”
“Why, sir. What a gentleman you are.” She swiveled her regard to Henry. “Nearly equal to Mr. Beaumont, I would say.”
Lucy watched with alarm as Warwick and Henry locked eyes, exchanging unspoken words that seemed more a prelude to a fistfight than anything else. She recognized Isabella’s subtle maneuver, having seen Steadman do the same many times. When discussing the price of an item or the share of a windfall, he would pit interested parties against one another to drive up the bidding and enhance his interests. Isabella wore the smile of a child who had set a spinning top in motion and simply waited to see which way it would fall.
“Perhaps Mr. Beaumont has no alternative to playing the gentleman,” Warwick said, “because his breeding outstrips his income.”
Henry glared at Warwick. “I prefer that condition to the opposite.”
Isabella waded into the brewing conflict. “Gentlemen! There is no need for tension on my account. I hold you both in the highest regard.”
Lady Barrington sniffed and turned to the duchess. “Flirting has changed since our day. Today’s young do so with all the aplomb of oxen on a muddy track.”
As the older women nodded agreement, Isabella confided loudly to her cohorts. “Lady Barrington makes an excellent point. A long time has passed since her youth.”
Before allowing a counterpoint, Miss Braye leaned toward Warwick and clapped her hands. “My lord, I hear such wondrous stories of your father’s estate. Can you confirm them?”
Warwick smiled. “Why, of course, Miss Braye. What do you wish to know?”
“Everything!”
With no additional prompting, he launched into a long-winded description of his family’s expansive country estate and extensive holdings. After several minutes, Isabella interrupted him.
“Lord Warwick, I fear we are behaving rudely to our hostess. The fineries you describe are likely foreign to her. You speak of classicism and rococo without explanation. Perhaps you should define such terms for her benefit.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Lucy sensed an opportune moment to execute her first maneuver. She clasped her hands together and gazed earnestly at Warwick. “Please accept my deepest gratitude, sir, for so kindly considering my ignorance. Your benevolence is equaled only by your humility.”
Warwick and Isabella forced uncertain smiles of acknowledgment before he pressed ahead. His monologue soon veered toward his family’s renowned stable of Thoroughbred horses.
“My personal mount is descended of the Godolphin Barb himself.” He looked to Lucy. “I should explain that the Godolphin Barb was one of three original Arabians brought to England a century ago.”
She smiled adoringly at him. “Once again, sir, I thank you for illuminating the dark corners of my benightedness. Your generous sharing of equine lineage is most appreciated.”
He nodded with seeming suspicion. “You’re welcome.”
Isabella sighed. “One must know details of fine horseflesh if one is to walk among gentry, Lady Margaret. Dispelling your ignorance on this and other subjects is of utmost importance.”
Lucy nearly flinched at the earnestly mocking tone. Her well-maintained façade wavered. “I know of horseflesh in a manner you never will.”
Isabella cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Henry leaned forward to catch Lucy’s attention, likely hoping to stop further explanation. She ignored him. “One can never truly know a horse until one has reached into a mare’s birth canal to extract a struggling colt, and then nursed both mare and colt to health. As I have done.”
Expressions of ghastly horror instructed Lucy that she had overstepped her bounds. A brief glance at the stricken face of the duchess told her just how far. Miss Wharton broke the silence.
“Well, I have never heard of such indelicacy!” She raised a hand to her forehead and feigned a swoon. Miss Braye fanned herself with shocked indignation. Isabella, however, smiled like a cat before the kill. Lucy looked to Henry for support, but his forehead remained in one hand. Lady Garvey, however, rode gallantly to her rescue, with saber swinging.
“I will have you know, ladies, that I am third cousin to His Majesty, and I helped my noble father birth a colt when I was a girl. I see no wrong in charity toward such fine creatures.”
She shifted her glare from person to person, daring anyone to denigrate the actions of a royal relative. In a manner that threatened to impress Lucy, Isabella rose to the challenge.
“Oh, I quite agree, your ladyship. Birthing a foal is a fine skill that would prepare Lady Margaret for any number of professions, including groomsman or midwife. And see, she has suitable hands for the task.”
Lucy clutched her calloused hands to her waist, wary of the gazes now trained there.
“Of course,” added Miss Braye. “And her nonverbal manner would calm the dumb creatures. They might even view her as one of their own. A fine talent indeed.”
The mocking words had the effect of bringing Lucy ramrod straight. She peered intently at Isabella. “You need not patronize me. If you wish to insult, then do so directly and with courage. Your acting skills are not sufficient to pretend earnestness.”
Isabella’s eyes went wide, and her cohorts gasped. The older women, though, exchanged wicked smiles. The duchess leaned toward Lady Barrington and spoke in low tones.
“Now there is the aplomb of which you spoke earlier.”
Warwick sneered. “I see no aplomb. I see only a milkmaid pretending to be a lady.”
Lucy watched as the face of the duchess grew red with rage. “Scurrilous boy, why…”
Henry leaped from his chair. “Ladies! Gentleman! Please! There is something you must know about Lady Margaret.”
Lucy’s clenched hands became white-knuckled. When all eyes turned to Henry, he motioned toward her. “Through no fault of hers, she passed adolescence in a remote place without the company of finer people or a more conventional education.”
Warwick mumbled, “That explains much.”
Henry faced her with a grave expression. “Lady Margaret. As hostess of this affair, I think it only appropriate that you apologize for such frank and shocking talk.”
She glared at him, wishing to burn him to the ground with her eyes. His lack of support wounded her more painfully than any daggers from the haughty guests. He seemed no friend after all. After gritting her teeth, she offered what words she could manage.
“Please accept my apology. Now, let us dine before I say something actually worthy of one.”
…
Once the duchess settled at the head of the table, Lucy took the appointed place to her right, while Warwick sat to her left. Lady Garvey, Lady Barrington, Miss Braye, and Miss Wharton occupied the next chairs, the older women on one side of the table and the younger on the other as if two armed camps prepared for bloody battle. Despite her rank, Isabella asked to be seated across from Henry in the lowest chair, a maneuver that appeared to miff Warwick. Lucy frowned. What game was she playing?
As the staff served dinner, conversation commenced among the guests. Lucy remained largely silent, not wishing to begin the meal with an immediate breach of etiquette. At the prompting of the duchess, she manag
ed to string together a few sentences for Lord Warwick, but he seemed barely aware of her presence and more interested in the mostly inaudible conversation between Isabella and Henry. Lucy found herself craning her neck toward them as well. She failed to discern anything meaningful.
The main course had only just arrived when Isabella suddenly broke off conversation with Henry and trained her eyes on Lucy. “Lady Margaret.”
“Lady Isabella?”
“Please, dear. You must tell us more of this very intriguing upbringing. What words did Henry use? Remote? Unrefined? Unconventional? We must know more of the details.”
“There is little to say.”
“Oh, come now. At least tell us where it was.”
She glanced at the duchess and then at Henry from the corner of her vision. Both appeared cautious of the question but not overly alarmed.
“Go ahead, dear,” the duchess said. “You can say a little, or as little as necessary. Whatever you deem appropriate.”
She nodded. “A house in Devon many miles from any village.”
Isabella pressed. “With a genteel family, at least?”
“Yes. With a gentleman who, shall I say, represented my father’s interests.”
“What is the gentleman called? Perhaps I know of him.”
Henry’s eyes cut sharply to Lucy and spoke warning. However, his earlier advice of playing the game still echoed through her head. “Oh, I doubt you would know of him. He moved in different circles than the pampered folk of London, as he felt most of them were beneath him.”
Isabella’s forehead creased with the verbal shot, but quickly smoothed. Lucy braced for a countermove.
“This gentleman, I assume, is a relative of yours?”
“No, he is not.”
As expected, Miss Braye and Miss Wharton expressed dramatic disbelief by covering their surprised mouths with gloved hands and exchanging shocked glances. Isabella blinked slowly as a wry smile crept across her face. “That sounds positively scandalous! Some would call the man unscrupulous for housing a young girl not his relative. They might even call you the same by association.”
