by Joan Smith
“What I suggest is that you pack your bags and return home before you are found out.”
“Found out? The whole town knows what foul deeds we are up to. There is no keeping it secret when the line of victims extends from Upper Grosvenor Square to Whitehall.”
“You will not find me in the line-up.”
“I wonder that I find you in my aunt’s saloon, to tell the truth, after your expressing no desire to return. Why is it Sir Lawrence does not come to do his own haggling?”
“He does not wish to.”
“Now that is the very sort of behaviour that gives Auntie a disgust of her victims. Top lofty. He wants a good raking down.”
“You persist, then, in demanding some payment to withhold the story?”
“If you will but consider, Your Grace, we have never demanded a thing of you or Sir Lawrence. You came of your own free will to berate us and try to push money down our throats. Five hundred wasn’t enough—you had to double it, and the insult. We returned the cheque with a very civil note, pretending we were not hurt and that there was some misunderstanding. But these repeated incursions upon our privacy are making us quite short-tempered with the pair of you.”
“When you set upon a course of this sort, you must be prepared for some unpleasantness.”
“True, but we had not thought the unpleasantness would come from someone we had not approached with our vile scheme. We had not thought people so eager to be blackmailed that they would come barging in twice, demanding the privilege of paying up.”
“I am here to tell you we have no intention of paying a sou."
“No one asked you to pay a thing, but your obvious fear of what we might say makes me wonder whether I haven’t missed a chapter of the memoirs. I begin to think there is something Auntie is keeping from me. I shall go through the books with a fine-tooth comb and see if I have missed something.”
“No, I don’t think you miss a trick.”
She laughed aloud and said in a warning voice, “Bear it in mind, Your Grace.”
“Don’t think to threaten me. My hands are clean.”
“Ah, I see you have washed your hands, but is your conscience clear? No ladybird tucked away in a corner? No wild parties at your Leicester hunting box? No secret vices my avid curiosity might smell out? There is no saying the reminiscences will stop at 1800, as originally intended. I might personally add an epilogue pointing out that the sins of the fathers are visited on the children. I shall suggest it to Colburn.”
“Sir Lawrence is not related to me, except by marriage. It would seem more accurate to suggest the sins of the aunt are visited on the niece.”
“Auntie will be crushed to hear it is a sin to write a book.”
“The sin is in your extorting favours for suppressing your stories.”
“It seems it is a chaplain I require, not an attorney. My crimes have been elevated to sins all of a sudden.”
“There is no rational discourse to be had with you. I shall leave.”
“Without having accomplished a thing! I begin to think you came only to vex me. Take care, or you will find yourself having to return to this place.”
“Good day, Ma’am.”
“Au revoir, Your Grace,” she waved her fingers. “Till we meet again.”
He heard a silver tinkle of laughter follow him as he strode towards the door. He was about to turn around and light into her again but couldn’t think of a sensible word to say.
Chapter 6
St. Felix left the apartment in a state of vexation. He had managed affairs much more serious than this for his family without a qualm and wondered that he should let a saucy little chit bother him so. The worst she could do was to publish some spiteful nonsense in a year’s time, and Larry’s appointment was due any day. It was in no danger, and the other stories Mrs. Pealing would be telling were bound to eclipse the romance with Sir Lawrence.
The sense of frustration came from his not being able to get the upper hand over her. He was the man; he the one who ought to be running the show. She should be trembling in her boots at his empty threats, as any of his sisters or any normal woman would; but no, she laughed at him, and taunted him for returning when he had indicated he had no desire to do so. The most galling thing of all was that he knew damned well he would be back for more of her impertinence as soon as he could find an excuse. But he wouldn’t let Bess invite her to Charles Street. She would see who was running the show.
While he bolted along in his curricle, the young lady did as she had threatened and went to look over the memoirs, her eyes alert for any mention of Thyrwite. Her most careful perusal brought nothing new to light. Reading the chapters, however, she found some allusion to St. Felix, whose acquaintance with her aunt pre-dated Larry’s by some few years; and she reconsidered anew Effie’s relationship with the Duke. Effie had become more pliable since her new rise to fame. She was always smiling now, planning new outfits and her little soiree. Catching her in a happy frame of mind, Daphne again made a try.
“Aunt Effie, I wish you will tell me the story of your affair with St. Felix,” she said in a wheedling voice.
“Lud, Daphne, I’ve told you a dozen times..."
“Yes, I know you were just friends, but you didn’t feel it necessary to hide any other pages from me except those dealing with your ‘friend’, St. Felix. I know there was more to it than that, and you might as well tell me, for I am. imagining the most lurid things.”
“Is that what St. Felix came about?”
“No,” Daphne answered, her interest quickening that he might have done so. How she would love to have something to hold over that sneering face. “I am not standing in line—but you might be yet, Your Grace. I shall quiz him about it next time he does come, if you don’t tell me.”
“You’re making a mountain out of a mole hill. He was just one of my beaux, that’s all. When I was married to Standington there were a dozen of them hanging around.”
“For shame, and you a married lady.”
“Oh, the single ones weren’t allowed any fun at all, only the married ladies. But I was the only one who paid such a price for her affairs,” she said, a little sadly.
“Did you have an affair with St. Felix?”
“No, and not with half the others I was supposed to have had, either. He never suggested an affair—he was too much of a gentleman. We spoke of getting married when Arthur sued for divorce.”
“That was impossible—St. Felix was already married.”
“Oh, yes, and divorce was an even worse scandal in those days than it is today. Practically no one did it then. Bad enough I was divorced, but to lead St. Felix to abandon his wife, and he with three children! The present duke was on his way then, as well, and the eldest daughter getting up to the age where she was soon to be presented. I couldn’t let him do it. It was too great a sacrifice.”
“But he wanted to?” Daphne enquired, feeling a surge of exultant power over her foe.
“My, yes. I lived on at Half Moon Street all through the divorce. Arthur moved into a club. Mrs. Elders stayed there with me for the looks of it. St. Felix came every night for a week to try to talk me into running away with him, but I brought him to see it would not do,” she said and then laughed merrily.
“He was quite persistent, I gather?”
“I’ve never told a living soul this, Daphne, for Georgiana is dead now, and she is the only one I ever told. My, how she laughed, ready to split her sides. She was a love. What I did was this. I took a page from Prinney’s book—you remember his trick of pretending to commit suicide because dear Marie Fitzherbert wouldn’t have him? I pretended to St. Felix I meant to kill myself after the duel.”
“The duel!” Daphne gasped. “I heard nothing of a duel. Oh, but I suppose Arthur had to defend your reputation.”
“That wretch! No such a thing. He said he couldn’t be duelling with half the gentlemen in London, and he knew perfectly well it was only Ansquith I ever—Well, it was not Arthur w
ho defended my name, but St. Felix.”
“Oh!” Daphne was stunned into silence. She had been cheered to hear of the romance between her aunt and the Duke, but a duel having been fought was more than she counted on, or knew quite what to do with. It sounded so very shady, and Effie’s own husband not being willing to fight made it worse. “How—how did it come about?” she asked weakly.
“Well, the little story about Arthur discovering myself and Ansquith together got about. It happened at Sprocket Hall on a house party. Everyone was talking about it, as people will do. When St. Felix learned Arthur didn’t mean to defend my name, he said he would do it himself or other gentlemen would try to take advantage of me. I daresay he thought to shame Arthur into it, but he didn’t; and the next thing I knew the duel was over and done with, with only a shoulder scratch. They used swords in those days, which is less likely to be fatal than a gun, and much more civilized, I’m sure. Ansquith was touched in the shoulder and St. Felix never hurt at all. He said I had to marry him for he was ruined anyway fighting a duel over another man’s wife, but we managed to keep it hushed up. Georgiana knew, of course, but she wouldn’t tell a soul. So that is when I thought of suicide; oh, not committing it, of course, for that would be so very fatal, but of pretending, like Prinney. So the next night when St. Felix came to see me and tried to talk me into running off with him, what did I do but have a glass of wine and vinegar sitting by me. I kept looking at it nervously, and a little later, St. Felix picked it up to take a sip, for I made sure not to offer him a glass. He noticed the odd taste right away, and I knocked it out of his hand as though I were scared to death and said he must not drink from that glass. But I let him get one sip first, and he thought immediately what I meant him to think— that I was drinking poisoned wine. He carried on so—oh, my! How it was a sin and worse, and why was I doing such a thing.
"Well, I gave him to understand it was unhappiness with his behaviour that led me to it; that I would sooner die than let him ruin his life for me. I told him I loved him too much to see him ruined, and a good deal more nonsense of that sort, with tears and all the rest of it. I told him the only thing that could induce me not to take my life was for him to go back to his wife and family and make something useful of his life. He said it was impossible and even suggested at one point that we both drink poison—so uncomfortable, and awkward, too, me with not a drop of real poison in the house. I would have looked silly if he’d pushed it, but I reminded him of his family obligations at this point, you may be sure. And made him get rid of his other flirt, too,” she added.
“He sounds a sanctimonious gentleman, to be sure. Had another friend, as well, had he?”
“Well, my dear, everyone had. He was not considered at all fast or loose. He had a little actress at one point, for it was never pretended to be a love match between him and the Duchess. She took the actress amiss all the same, and they were not getting along at all when he got after me. The St. Felixes, you know, were always said to live up to their full title, the saint and the dukedom, and the wife’s family was full of starch. Her brother Archie is the Archbishop of Canterbury, if you can imagine. Ho, and he as full of vinegar as any of them. But St. Felix went back to being a saint after I put a scare into him. He and his wife got back together and there was never any talk about him, so it was all for the best. How it makes one aware of one’s age. Young Richard a grown man now, and looking very much like his father, too. Finally having a son did much to settle George down. He had given up hope of it and felt that as his brother Algernon had two sons, the title would be going to them; and so I suppose that is why he didn’t care too much about running off and making a fool of himself. Only think if I’d let him and then heard the minute we set foot off the island that he had had a son! Fathers always dote on their sons when they are dead ringers for themselves, as Richard is. Someone pointed him out to me t’other day in the Park. It is why I can’t bear to see him when he comes. It brings it all back to me. I believe I loved old St. Felix. Oh, not in the way I love—loved Standington. The first passion is never quite recaptured; but I could have been happy with him if it weren’t for Arthur and, of course, the Duchess and his family. But instead of taking up with him, I went abroad and married Mr. Eglinton. I’ve led a sad and sorrowful life. Such a lot of shame and disgrace I’ve brought on everyone, but at least I don’t have St. Felix on my conscience.”
“You are a much-maligned saint yourself, Aunt Effie,” Daphne said, very moved by the story. Like everyone else, she had thought her aunt a bit of a mindless fool, but there was a broad streak of kindness, as Mama had always insisted, buried in the foolishness. “Yes, and I wager God has got a special corner of heaven set aside for people like you, too. There won’t be many in it, either.”
“I hope I am not quite alone,” Effie laughed. “It won’t be heaven to me if I am not with my friends.”
It was a heart-wrenching statement—Effie and her “friends,” who robbed her pockets when she was rich and accused her of blackmail when she was poor. And the St. Felixes the worst of the lot—coming with their noses in the air to pay her. She could have ruined the whole family years ago, and they would not be in such eminent positions now.
“So you tore the pages out to hide this story from me, Auntie? You have nothing to be ashamed of in it.”
“That was not my purpose in doing it, love. The thing is, Henry Colburn was to see me again the other day and asked to have a look at my memoirs. I wouldn’t want him to find out about it. There are some parts of her life a woman wants to keep to herself—or share with only a precious few. You are the only one outside myself who knows the story, and it is not to be repeated. I shan’t say a word about Standington in print, either.”
“I wouldn’t turn the diaries over to Colburn. When did he ask?”
“He has been hinting since his first visit. I ripped the pages out the first night of his visit, but a few days ago I let him scan some of the later books. He wants me to put in things I don’t want to. I’m not even sure I’ll bother writing the book. We don’t seem to have much time for it now since we are going about to parties. Only fancy, Beau Brummell coming to call this afternoon. How I regret Mr. Pealing couldn’t be here to meet him. The hours he spent with his valet trying to get his collars starched up, and Beau could tell him exactly how to go about it for sure. It was Beau who started all this starching business. They do say he has his boots polished with champagne, but Mr. Pealing tried it and says it is all a hum.”
Effie exulted in her famous caller, and Daphne had a little exulting to do herself. If the Duke of St. Felix chose to come storming in again, she would be hard put not to laugh in his face. But Effie had asked her not to repeat a word and that would be very hard to do.
“Does the St. Felix family not know about the late Duke’s involvement with you at all, Auntie?”
“The mother knows. He had given her warning what he meant to do. Such a gudgeon-like thing to do, go telling her. But the others don’t, unless she told them. I daresay the older girls might have an inkling.”
“It was the Duke I was thinking of.”
“He wasn’t even born at the time.”
“Well, if he comes speaking of blackmail again, I might just give him an inkling,” Daphne said, to see what her aunt would say.
“Well, maybe just an inkling,” Effie said with an arch smile. “But I shouldn’t tell him about the duel, dear, for he will feel a perfect fool and we wouldn’t want that.”
“Oh, yes we would.”
"That’s no way to go about winning a fellow’s affection, goose.”
“I am not interested in his affection, I promise you."
Brummell paid his promised call, standing on his feet like a gentleman. His carriage, without reinforcement, proved to be up to Mrs. Pealing’s and his own combined weight, and with a face betraying to the world nothing but delight in his companion, he drove through Hyde Park, down to Bond Street, then back to the barrier of Hyde Park, to make sure he was see
n and recognized. He stopped four times, to make Mrs. Pealing known to Lords Alvanley and St. Clare, Ladies Blessington and Sefton, and two other groups of untitled notables. Lest this very public gesture should not be sufficient, he also asked permission to accompany the ladies to Lady Melbourne’s small rout a few evenings hence.
Daphne still mistrusted his intentions, but no more than her aunt did she wish to pass up the honour of being seen with him. While Mrs. Pealing rode in the Park with Beau, Daphne went with Mrs. Wintlock and Stephanie to a pic-nic at Richmond Park. She was collecting a circle of admirers, and when she went into public with the Wintlocks, the circle was swelled by Miss Wintlock’s beaux, as well. Though the girl was not a beauty, she was a considerable heiress and making a small splash.
Daphne was surprised to see that St. Felix made up part of the group. He was older than the other beaux present but clearly not counted amongst the chaperones as being of their number. She tossed him a bold smile, which he ignored completely, turning his back after a mere glance to speak to another lady.
“Do you know St. Felix?” Miss Wintlock asked.
“I have met him. He is very disagreeable,” Daphne replied with relish.
“Yes, holds himself very high, but handsome, is he not?”
“I suppose so, if you like that sort,” Miss Ingleside returned in a disparaging voice.
Stephanie stared to hear of anyone not liking a tall, handsome duke possessed of wealth and manners.
“He is said to live up to his both titles—sainthood and dukedom,” Daphne added, to imply he was too strict for her.
"That’ll come as a surprise to his flirts,” a Mr. Bosworth said. He was one of Stephanie’s admirers.
Miss Wintlock was amazed at the radiant smile this brought to her friend’s face. “Now she is interested. You see what a minx she is,” Stephanie laughed to the group.
