“Whatever you say, ma chère. We shall deal with young Braeburn as if he were, not a fish, or a fox, but a noble lion on the African plain.” With her free hand, she described the broad flat vista of the African plains.
Willa grimaced at her headstrong aunt.
“No? You would not have me hunting a lion, either?” Honore burst out laughing. “Come, let us tell the gentlemen our happy news.”
They entered the dining room arm in arm. Willa stared at the floor while Honore tugged her forward.
“It is all decided. Wilhemina goes to London with me in the morning.”
Willa glanced up in search of Alex’s face. He was staring into his glass of brandy. He lifted the snifter in mock salute to her and tossed the contents down his throat.
The dining room door squeaked and clicked shut. Willa surmised Aggie had been eavesdropping. To confirm her suspicions, a great wail vibrated from the kitchen. Good grief, the woman was bawling like a cow in need of milking.
Aggie suddenly ceased crying and began bellowing. “Get out of my kitchen, you great Scottish witch! Out! Out!”
The sound of crockery smashing against the wall sent Willa running. It took several minutes, and several drastic promises, to calm Aggie down.
When Willa returned to the dining room, Sir Daniel and Alex were gone. Her heart sank. What was she doing, haring off to London with a madwoman? Leaving the home and the people she loved? In that single moment, the disappointment she’d witnessed in Alex’s face played back to her a hundred times. Her corset suddenly seemed to tighten painfully against her stomach.
Chapter 6
She Put Her In A Pumpkin Shell
TWO DAYS LATER, their carriage clattered to a stop in front of Alison Hall, Aunt Honore’s London townhouse. Lady Alameda, her niece, Mattie, and a very haggard Aggie filed out of the coach. Aggie straggled up the front steps behind them.
Honore clasped Willa’s elbow and guided her into the house. “Why you insisted on bringing that wretched woman with us, I cannot understand. She did nothing but get sick and make all of us miserable.”
“Poor Aggie. I don’t think she’s ever ridden so far in a coach before. She’s lived all of her life in St. Cleves.”
“She would’ve done well to stay there.”
“I don’t think she could have managed the separation. She’s been with me since I was born.”
Honore snorted. “Just keep her out of my way.”
Aggie stumbled through the front doors and gasped. She and Willa stared open mouthed at Honore’s marble entry hall. Four huge Doric columns vaulted three stories to a domed glass ceiling. The Grecian motif was carried into the circular marble staircase. The walls were set with white relief sculptures of Greek gods. Willa adjusted her glasses in an attempt to see more details.
“Aunt Honore, this is magnificent, truly magnificent. I never would have guessed from the outside what marvels lay inside. Oh, look Aggie! There is Orpheus, and over there are the nine muses. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Aggie’s mouth remained open.
Honore sniffed at the maid and looped her arm through Willa’s. “Come. I want to show you to your rooms.”
The neoclassic architecture fascinated Willa. The house was so open and spacious it glowed with reflected light. It was better than any palace Willa had ever imagined. The rooms Honore led her to were larger than the entire first floor of the vicarage. Willa caught her breath.
“These can’t be for me.”
“Yes, my dear, they are.” Honore signaled to her butler. “Cairn, send for Madame Brigitte. Tell her to come this afternoon and bring an army of seamstresses.”
“Yes, m’lady.” The tall white-haired servant bowed very precisely and looked down his long nose at Willa as he walked away. Willa felt as if she were a cuckoo in a nest of peacocks. She fiddled with the skirt of her worn traveling dress. “I’m afraid you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, Aunt.”
“Is that another of Jerome’s favorite proverbs? You may rest easy, dearest. I have no intention of remodeling a pig’s ear.” She pinched at the fabric of Willa’s sleeve. “I simply wish to provide a suitable wardrobe for my niece.”
Honore rubbed her palms together as if eager for the project to begin and adopted a more instructive tone. “Now, you must not allow yourself to be intimidated by Madame Brigitte. Her real name is Ada Bainbridge, but it wouldn’t do to call her that. She uses a French persona because the ladies of the ton think only a French modiste will do. Nevertheless, the woman is a genius. You will see.”
And see, she did.
That afternoon Madame Brigitte arrived followed by troops of seamstresses carrying bolt after bolt of gorgeous fabrics.
“Green, I zink with ze red hair. Unless, m’lady, you wish ze débutante white? No, of course not. What was I thinking? Not good for my lady’s protégé.”
Willa stood with her arms extended while they draped swatches of every color over her and evaluated.
“Also, I have ze blue magnifique—take a look at ziz. With her eyes, it will be divine, yes?”
“Hhmm.” Aunt Honore tapped her fingers against her cheek, shrewdly scrutinizing each fabric. “Yes.”
Madame Brigitte approached her with some temerity. “Perhaps one white gown, yes? Against her red hair, it will show so nicely. I have ziz white Turkish taffeta, extraordinaire. See how it shimmers. White, but not debutante white, if you know what I mean.”
Madame laid the iridescent cloth across Willa’s shoulders. For hours, Willa was measured and pinned and prodded and poked. Finally, Madame and her army marched away, and Willa threw herself down on a fainting couch.
Honore walked over to her and gently stroked Willa’s wild curls. The next thing Willa knew, Honore was pulling a bell summoning the very stiff butler into the room.
“Send for Monsieur Renellé. We must do something with this hair.”
Willa groaned.
* * *
Five days later, after Willa had been coifed, properly outfitted with gloves, fans, slippers, and hats, after her face had been soaked in cucumber plasters, zinc creams applied to diminish her stubborn freckles, and after she had been manicured and perfumed, she decided to draw the line.
“Enough! I hardly recognize myself as it is. I will not give up my spectacles. I cannot see past my hand without them.”
“Fiddlesticks! I’m not asking you to go without seeing. Just carry this lovely lorgnette instead of wearing those ugly wire things buckled to your nose. I, myself, carry a peering glass on many occasions. An elegant instrument, don’t you agree?”
Willa refused to take it. She looked it over and shook her head.
“Why not?” Honore held the ornate, long-handled lorgnette up to her eyes.
“I fail to see the advantage. It’s merely a pair of spectacles on a gold stick. Remarkably inconvenient. I must hold it up every time I wish to see past my arm.”
“Ah, but handled correctly, a peering glass can be as effective a social device as your fan.”
“That’s another thing. I can’t possibly remember all those codes and signals connected with the fan. I’m certain I shall be suggesting an assignation with some poor fellow when in truth, I was merely trying to cool my face.”
“Oh bother, Willa! I know for a fact you are not as thick as you pretend. We’ll rehearse the fan business again this afternoon. Now take this glass and practice using it.” Honore thrust the lorgnette into Willa’s hand. “I must sort through my invitations and decide where we will go this evening. Perhaps we will attend Lady Haversburg’s card party.”
“Cards? This evening? But I couldn’t possibly. You see, my hands will be quite taken up, what with a fan dangling from this one, and the lorgnette in the other.”
“Out!” Honore pointed toward the stairway. “Go pester that evil woman you inflicted on my household. Go!”
Willa tripped gaily up the stairs with a little smile on her face. She took unrepentant pleasure in her small victory.
After all, Aunt Honore regularly harried her beyond endurance. She was so pleased with herself that she almost failed to notice Cairn quietly ushering a man wearing a dark coat into Honore’s study below.
* * *
Honore leaned back in her chair and regarded her visitor. “Well? What did you learn?”
The man remained standing at attention and did not remove his long brown dustcoat. “As you suspected, has rooms in Blackfriars road, might. Goes out regular to Jackson’s. Makes the rounds at Boodle’s, Watier’s, and the Cocoa Tree. Been seen, frequently, in the company of a Mr. Erwin and Lord Tournsby. Both gents said to’ve had a run of bad luck of late. Seems unlikely your fellow plays as deep as t’other two. No vowels lying about unpaid.”
The visitor stopped speaking and stood stiffly with his hands clasped behind his back.
“And?”
“And what, m’lady?”
She tapped her fingernail against the varnished desktop. “Where does he go this evening?”
“Begging your pardon, m’lady, but I’ve no way of knowing.” He shifted uneasily.
Honore kept her voice level and low, but the note of irritation could not be missed. “Well, find out.”
“Could be, I won’t know where he’s going till I follow ’im to his destination.”
“You’re paid to find out. Bribe his valet. Do whatever you must, but find out.”
“Gent doesn’t employ a valet.”
Honore rubbed her temple impatiently. “He has servants of some kind. Be creative. Perhaps, one of his friends. Tournsby, yes, that’s it. The whole family has run dry. His pockets are to let. Try him.”
Honore picked up her quill and began looking over a document. “Report back as soon as you know.”
He pulled on his forelock and left as silently as he had come.
Chapter 7
Mirror, Mirror On The Wall, Who’s The Blindest Of Us All
“SHE TRICKED ME, Aggie. Now I’ll have to use this ridiculous thing.” Willa waved the lorgnette in the air. “I won’t be able to see the stage without it.”
Aggie clucked her tongue. “Now, Miss Willa, don’t fuss. It’s a lovely glass. See how the gold matches your dress. Much as I hate to admit it, your aunt has clever taste. You look as fine and elegant as any lady I ever seen.”
“Saw.”
Aggie nodded and clapped her hands together. “That’s right. My little Willa is going to attend the Royal Opera House. I can’t ne’er believe it.”
Willa held the lorgnette up to her eyes and studied herself in the full-length oval mirror. White iridescent fabric draped gracefully over her figure, artfully designed so that it covered her while revealing her at the same time. Without her corset, she felt nearly naked, but Aunt Honore had insisted. A transparent overskirt, shot with gold threads, floated around the sides and back of her gown. With white flowers in her hair, she felt like a princess, albeit a half-naked princess.
“I’m an impostor.”
“What can you mean?”
She turned away from the mirror. “It doesn’t look like me.”
“Don’t be a goose. It’s you, all right. You look ’xactly like the gentlewoman I raised you to be, that’s what.”
“Are you certain this neckline isn’t too low? Without a corset my bosom looks horridly large.”
Aggie sniffed, plucked at a thread on her old woolen skirt, and shook her head. “I wouldn’t say so, no. That dressmaker, what wasn’t a frog after all, said as how all the best ladies wear low necklines.”
Willa sighed and dangled the lorgnette from her wrist. “Let us hope you are right.”
“You best be on your way now, sweeting. I’ll be waiting up to hear all about it, so remember everything.”
* * *
The white marble staircase seemed longer than Willa remembered. She tried not to stumble while walking down to meet her aunt and their escort. One of the tallest men she had ever seen stood next to Lady Alameda. She raised the peering glass and looked up at him. Thin, well dressed, with dazzling white hair and a sharp beak-like nose, he gazed back at her with open curiosity.
Honore tugged on Willa’s arm, forcing her to lower the lorgnette. “Where have you been? We have been waiting for nearly an age. Lord Monmouth, allow me to present my niece, Miss Wilhemina Linnet. Lord Monmouth has kindly agreed to escort us to Covent Garden for the evening.”
He nodded politely. Willa dropped a curtsey. Escorted by this statuesque man, there would be no way to escape anyone’s notice, probably the very reason Aunt Honore had chosen him to accompany them to the opera.
“Come along, dear. Monmouth’s cattle are standing.”
They piled into his carriage and drove slowly onto St. James and then into heavy traffic on Hart street. Honore grew impatient. “This crush is all because of those infernal elephants Kemble is putting on the stage. Everyone and his uncle must come to see them.”
“Real elephants?” Willa could not believe it. “On stage?”
Honore flicked her hand as if it was a trifle. “During the pantomime, I expect.”
Monmouth rested his cane against the squabs. “I rather think this heavy traffic is owing to Mrs. Siddons’s performance. It’s rumored she’ll not remain on the stage much longer.”
Willa could not fathom her good fortune, elephants and Mrs. Siddons all in one night. “I’ve heard her portrayal of Lady Macbeth is the best of all time.”
“You may judge for yourself tonight.” Honore snapped open her fan and stirred a small breeze. “If her brother, Kemble, would stop turning the stage into a circus so often, she might stay on it a few years more.”
“Whatever the cause,” Lord Monmouth said with equanimity, “London shall feel the loss keenly when she retires.”
The coach rolled to a halt on Bow Street, where its occupants disembarked and entered the portico of the Royal Opera House. They climbed the stairway to the saloon behind the private boxes. Willa marveled at the enormous Greek statuary adorning the walls. She was so absorbed in the architecture she scarcely noticed the other patrons staring at her.
Honore whispered in Monmouth’s ear. He leaned down to Willa, who was on his other arm. “Lady Alameda would like you to stop staring at the walls as if they were more interesting than the people. I believe she wishes to convey to you that one’s purpose in attending the opera house is to see and be seen.”
Willa listened carefully as Monmouth continued to whisper instructions.
* * *
It was in this moment of innocent intimacy that Alex, standing across the room, caught sight of her. His breath snagged in his throat.
It was her. Willa. An incredible Willa. A small voluptuous goddess. The marble statues were pale imitations next to her warmth and vitality. Her red hair glittered with golden sparks. Her enticing diminutive figure aroused his senses. He wanted to scoop her up and carry her away.
Damn their eyes! Every man in the room was leering at her. He took a deep breath and drained his glass of woefully weak punch.
What had come over him that he should feel possessive? It was impossible. Women like Willa were made for marriage and family. Alex Braeburn had no interest in either one. Nevertheless, he heartily wished Monmouth would stop whispering in the girl’s ear.
He would not stand here in the saloon and ogle her like a lovesick schoolboy. Ludicrous. She was merely the vicar’s little sister. Nobody. A provincial. He pictured her in that preposterous Georgian shepherdess dress she’d worn at the vicarage. Instead of hardening his mind against her, it made him smile and shake his head. Ridiculous dress. He remembered all too well how the short skirt exposed her delicate white ankles and calves.
And here he was, drooling over her like a nodcock again. Alex thumped his tumbler onto a waiter’s tray and set off to find Lord Tournsby’s box.
* * *
Willa felt someone staring at her. She lifted her lorgnette and focused, scanning the saloon. To her dismay, not one, but many people gaped at her. She swallowed har
d and hoped there was nothing vulgar or distasteful about her dress. The ladies’ faces did not appear friendly at all. The gentlemen, on the other hand, made her uncomfortable with their flagrant inspection of her person. She was relieved when Honore urged them to take their places in the box.
The private boxes were Grecian pink and cream with chairs upholstered in a light-blue cloth. Willa felt transported into a faerie world. The patrons seated in their boxes were as dazzling as the surroundings. It looked as if hundreds of kings and queens had gathered for the evening’s entertainment. From behind the crimson curtain, Mr. Kemble walked out onto the stage. The play was about to begin. Willa raised the lorgnette and leaned forward with all the eagerness of a child at Christmas. Not until the curtains closed for intermission did she take her eyes from the actors.
Lord Monmouth grinned at Willa. “I need not ask what you think of the play thus far, Miss Linnet. Pleasure is written upon your face.” He chuckled. “Quite transfixed, was she not, Lady Alameda?”
“Exactly so. Transfixed. I cannot think of a better word. Now all of London must realize this is her first visit to the theatre.”
“Come, my dear. No shame in having led a secluded life. Your niece is charming. Delightful company.”
He smiled warmly at Willa, who lifted her peering glass to get a clearer view of his face.
He chuckled. “Charming. May I get you ladies some refreshment?”
Honore whispered in his ear. He nodded and left to retrieve their punch.
She turned to Willa. “My dear, you stayed glued to the stage like the veriest yokel.”
“I’m sorry. The play was fascinating. I’ve read it so many times. Yet, to see it brought to life...” She searched for adequate words. “It was enthralling.”
“Yes, well, try not to be so enthralled during the second half. Look around a bit. Catch someone’s eye, and then carefully look away. Don’t want anyone thinking I’ve taken a green déb under my wing.”
“Is that not precisely what you’ve done?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t abide débs. Now then, any minute we’re likely to have visitors. Do not gush about the play. But don’t sit there mute, either. Do try to use that glass discriminately. Locate your quarry. Raise it and then lower it disinterestedly for effect.”
Mistaken Kiss: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 2) Page 6
