by Carola Dunn
"Yes, sir.” Venturing to peek at his face, Thea saw a flash of boredom, quickly hidden. She tried to think of something to say and failed.
"Are you acquainted with the city?” he struggled on.
"My sister and I have never been there. Megan is to make her come-out."
"You are going up for the Little Season, I expect,” said Lord Hazlewood. “I commend your wisdom, Lady Kilmore. My mother took each of my sisters to Town in the autumn to learn how to go on in the world before diving into the maelstrom of the Season the following spring."
His calm voice gave Thea confidence. “That is part of it,” she agreed. “Also, our home in Northumberland is often cut off by snow from December to March, or even April."
Mr. DeVine shuddered theatrically. “What a horrendous fate! No wonder you made your escape in good time."
"As I daresay you have already guessed from his dress, Will is a true Bond Street beau, never happy far from the metropolis,” the marquis quizzed him.
"You malign me. Do not heed him. Miss Kilmore, it is envy speaks. Bond Street beaux are frippery fellows. I am a pink of the ton."
"Coxcomb,” said his cousin as the door opened to admit a parade of waiters in striped waistcoats. Supervised by Mr. Percival, they bore in a steaming tureen, platters with pewter covers, casseroles and sauce-boats. Thea had never seen so many dishes served at once. She realized she was ravenous, but she had no intention of letting hunger overcome good manners. Mama should have no further cause to blush for her.
Even at home, with just the three of them. Lady Kilmore had always insisted that conversation was as important as food at the dinner table. Tasting the delicately flavoured soupe à la reine, Thea wondered whether to ask Mr. DeVine to explain the difference between a Bond Street beau and a pink of the ton. Nor was she precisely certain what a coxcomb was. Had they been unacceptable subjects for ladies, the gentlemen would not have spoken of them, but she did not want Lord Hazlewood to think her shockingly ignorant.
Before she could make up her mind, her mother asked if their host was travelling towards London or northward.
"We have just spent a few days at Hazlewood Castle, near York,” the marquis said. “We are on our way to Town."
"Then you did not come to see the mill at Collyweston?” said Thea, recalling something that had puzzled her. “The landlord said he had no rooms available because there was a mill near here today. I do not understand how a mill could be there just for one day, nor why sporting gentlemen should go to see it."
"Percival referred to a pugilistic exercise, Miss Kilmore,” explained Mr. DeVine, making a poor effort at hiding a grin.
She must have looked blank, for Lord Hazlewood frowned at his cousin and said kindly, “Will is flaunting his vocabulary. Miss Kilmore. He means a prizefight, a boxing match."
Judging by Mama's wrinkled forehead, that was no fit topic for a lady, but how could she have guessed? Once more she had blotted her copybook. “I thought he meant a windmill or a water-mill,” she said, excusing herself miserably.
"A natural supposition,” said the marquis. “The colloquial term is scarcely something a lady can be expected to know. I daresay Northumberland has many water-mills, Lady Kilmore? I am unacquainted with the county, but it is for the most part rough and hilly, is it not?"
Thea shot him a glance of fervent gratitude. She was beginning to think she would never dare open her mouth in company again, yet she felt she could say anything to Lord Hazlewood. If he was amused or shocked, he was by far too courteous ever to show it. She had dreaded meeting him again; now a faint hope raised its head that their paths might cross in London.
She finished her soup in subdued silence while the others talked about the beauty of the northern moors in summer, their bleakness in winter. Mr. DeVine obligingly helped her to some of the dishes before them. As he consulted her taste before serving her, she was forced to admit that several of the ragouts and sauces, and even one or two vegetables, were unfamiliar to her.
"Percival sets an excellent table,” he said, “which is why Rod always stays here. My cousin calls himself a gourmet, but the truth is, it takes a vast quantity of viands to keep up a man his size, and it would be dull work stuffing himself with boiled beef and potatoes."
"Whereas Will starves himself for fear of spoiling the set of his coat,” retorted the marquis placidly. “Try some of these quenelles. Miss Kilmore."
"What we plain folks call forcemeat dumplings,” Mr. DeVine informed her in a conspiratorial whisper. She began to like him, and there was something most attractive about the affectionate way he and his cousin teased each other.
By the time the table was cleared of dessert, Thea was sufficiently at ease to wonder aloud what variety of pears had been used to make a particularly delicious tart. Mr. DeVine asked a waiter.
The man gaped at him. “I dunno, sir."
"Go and ask in the kitchen, man,” he said impatiently.
The waiter scurried off, while another set out tea for the ladies and, with the ladies’ permission, port for the gentlemen. He had scarcely closed the door behind him when it was flung open again and a small, plump man in a chef's cap rushed in. Bowing with a flourish, he beamed at Thea.
"Ah, mademoiselle, you are ze young lady zat demands to know vat is zis poire? To you I kiss ze ‘and. Zese ozzer English, zey eat like pigs but nevair zey ask ze intelligent qvestion. For zis tarte aux poires, I use only ze Parkinson vordens. You add ze nutmeg, un peu de gingembre, cinnamon, and...” he looked around suspiciously, then muttered in her ear, “...and un soupçon de poivre. You are surprise, hein? Zis is mine secret."
Mr. DeVine was in fits of laughter. The Frenchman cast him a disdainful glance and bowed to the marquis. “Milord, you also appreciate ze art of la cuisine. Always Monsieur Percival, he tell me, ‘Monsieur le Marquis is here, do your best, Ambroise.’ Ze dinner please you?"
"Excellent as always, Ambroise.” Lord Hazlewood flipped a coin to the chef, who caught it with dexterity and dropped it into the pocket of his apron, where it clinked. Apparently other patrons enjoyed Ambroise's creations, if falling short of the true appreciation of the connoisseur.
He bowed to the flustered Lady Kilmore and strutted out.
"You have made a conquest. Miss Kilmore,” said Mr. DeVine, smiling at her in a friendly way.
"What an odd man! If he knew how ignorant I am about cookery, he would not have told me his receipt."
"Do you mean to reveal the secret ingredient?” Lord Hazlewood asked. “He has never favoured me so highly."
Thea shook her head, feeling like a peagoose. “Even if I were prepared to betray his confidence, I fear I only understood one word in two, and I have no notion what the secret ingredient is."
The marquis and Mr. DeVine both laughed, but as if she had said something witty, not foolish.
"I shall have my chef experiment,” said his lordship. “What kind of pears did Ambroise use?"
"Parkinson's wardens,” Thea told him. “Wardens are good cooking pears, though too hard for eating. I have read of Parkinson's variety but never tried them. In the north—"
"Thea, if you have finished your tea it is time we retired,” her mother interrupted, sounding anxious.
"Yes, Mama.” What had she said wrong now? Once more abashed, she murmured her thanks to Lord Hazlewood for a delightful evening.
"It was our pleasure, ma'am. Lady Kilmore, I trust you will make use of this room when you break your fast tomorrow morning. Whether my cousin and I are about or not, you will be more comfortable than in the public coffee-room.” He opened the door as he spoke and a hubbub of shouts, whoops, guffaws, and female squeals from that and the taproom met their ears.
The dowager assented absent-mindedly, her thoughts elsewhere. As she and Thea ascended the stairs to their chambers, she said in distress, “Oh dear, another matter of which I did not think to warn you. Pray do not mention your interest in growing fruits and vegetables, Thea. Flowers are unexceptionable, or e
ven herbs, but people will think you odd if you talk of pears, potatoes, and parsnips."
Potatoes, parsnips, pregnancy, and prizefights, Thea thought rebelliously. How much easier her introduction to the ton would be if all she need do was avoid every word beginning with P.
"Thea?” A small, frightened voice woke her next morning. Sleepily she rolled over towards the centre of the bed. Penny was sitting up, her face a ghastly colour, shivering and clutching her stomach and her throat. “I think I'm about to be sick."
Throwing back the covers, Thea sprang out of bed and rushed to fetch the white china basin from the washstand. She tucked Penny's wrap about her shoulders, then donned her own, an aged, shapeless, blue flannel garment.
"I'll call Mama at once. She will know what to do."
"I'm going to die,” Penny moaned.
Her long braids flapping against her back, Thea dashed across the passage to knock on the door. Meg opened it. She was already dressed, her cheeks pink, her dark eyes restored to their usual brightness.
"Thea, it is sunny out and there is a garden behind the inn. I'm going to walk for a while before breakfast. Will you and Penny...” She saw her sister's face as Thea stepped into the room. “Oh, what is wrong?"
"Penny is feeling dreadfully ill.” With relief, she saw that her mother, too, was up, though not yet dressed. “Mama, pray come quickly."
As they all hurried to the other chamber, Lord Hazlewood approached from the far end of the passage. Not wanting to be rude, Thea stopped.
"Good morning, sir."
"Good morning. Miss Kilmore.” He seemed larger than she remembered him, a solid, reliable figure in his dark blue coat, buckskin breeches, and top-boots. “Is something amiss?"
"Penny—Lady Kilmore—my sister-in-law is horridly queasy this morning. I am afraid something may be seriously wrong."
"I doubt it.” His calm soothed her. “Nausea is not uncommon in Lady Kilmore's condition. Every one of my sisters has suffered the same distressing symptoms, without ever a serious problem. I daresay your mama will tell you there is no cause for alarm."
"Do you think so? Mama will know, of course, for she takes care of our tenants and neighbours when they are ill. Megan often goes with her, but I can never think what to say to them,” she confided.
"Visiting invalids can be an ordeal.” He smiled down at her, and she suddenly recalled that she was dressed only in her nightgown and wrap, her feet bare on the polished boards.
"I must go,” she blurted out, and fled into the chamber.
Her mother turned from the bedside. “It is only morning sickness,” she said.
"Only!” Penny wailed, huddled in misery over the basin.
"You will feel better presently, my dear. Meg, open the window, if you please. Fresh air will help, as will peace and quiet. Thea, pray get dressed. Go down with Meg and order weak tea and dry toast to be sent up for Penny."
As Thea dressed, the sound of voices floated up from the courtyard below the window. She thought she recognized Lord Hazlewood's and could not decide whether she hoped he was departing or not. Every time she saw him, she made a cake of herself, yet he set her at ease in a way she had rarely experienced.
She was pinning up her hair when Meg answered a knock on the door and found a waiter there with a tray.
"Lord Hazlewood's compliments, miss. Tea an’ toast for Lady Kilmore."
Meg took the tray with an exclamation. “How did he know?"
"I told him Penny is unwell,” said Thea guiltily. “He has several sisters, so morning sickness is no mystery to him. Come, Meg, I am ready. Let us go out to the garden for a few minutes."
She pulled her sister out the door before her mother had a chance to bemoan her latest misdeed.
"Yet again, your marquis gallops to the rescue,” Meg murmured. “A modern knight in shining armour, providing tea and toast instead of the heads of dragons and ogres."
"More practical, and much more agreeable,” Thea pointed out.
Despite the season, the walled garden behind the inn was pleasant in the morning sun. Meg rhapsodized over autumn crocuses and spicy-scented chrysanthemums. A bed of Michaelmas daisies reminded Thea of Mr. DeVine's waistcoat and, discovering that Meg had been in no state last night to notice it, she described his resplendent attire.
"He claimed to be a pink of the ton,” she said, “but Lord Hazlewood called him a Bond Street beau and a coxcomb."
Meg giggled. “Is not a coxcomb a vain braggart? What precisely do the other epithets signify?"
"I don't know, and I did not like to ask."
"I daresay he is bang up to the nines,” said Meg, startling her sister with language she must have learned from Jason and upon which Mama would undoubtedly frown.
At that moment a window opened near where they were strolling and the Bond Street beau himself leaned out. “Miss Kilmore, shall you join us for breakfast?” he called.
While Thea hesitated, Meg responded gaily, “Certainly, sir, at once,” and tugged her towards the nearest door.
"I suspect we ought not,” Thea objected in a low voice. “Mama did not actually accept the invitation, and she is not here to chaperon us."
"You are sufficient chaperon for me, and I have had quite enough of my chamber."
The coffee-room was a still less desirable alternative, Thea had to admit, and she was old enough to chaperon her sister. They joined the gentlemen in their parlour.
Curtsying, Megan openly studied Mr. DeVine. Today he was more soberly clad, in buckskins, glossy gold-tasselled Hessians, and a bottle-green coat. Even his waistcoat was comparatively modest, grass green with a narrow gold stripe.
"I have been woefully taken in,” Meg announced with a blithe unconcern for decorum. “Thea told me you are a Pink of the Ton, sir, but I do not consider your attire at all out of the common way."
Thea gasped in dismay, but both the gentlemen laughed.
"Now that is where you are wrong. Miss Megan,” Mr. DeVine assured her. He went on to explain the importance of the cut of a coat, the tasteful choice of colours, the tying of a cravat, champagne in the boot-blacking...
Lord Hazlewood interrupted. “Not to mention the importance of not frightening the horses. Hence, Will's comparatively mundane dress by daylight.” He turned to Thea. “Miss Kilmore, what may I order for your breakfast?"
When they were all seated and served, Meg, with a saucy smile, asked Mr. DeVine to explain the difference between a Bond Street beau and a pink of the ton.
"A Bond Street beau, ma'am, is a fribble with nothing on his mind but drawing all eyes to his appearance. To this end he will employ padded shoulders, false calves, pinched-in waist, a quantity of fobs, shirt points so high he cannot turn his head, and other vulgar excesses. A pink, on the other hand, while a leader of fashion and always precise to a pin, is also a sportsman and a man of easy manners, good address, and superior understanding."
"Bravo, coz! You could not praise yourself more highly."
Mr. DeVine shook his head in mock reproach. “My cousin Roderick favours the Corinthian set,” he told the ladies mournfully.
"What is that?” Meg enquired.
"A sportsman, Miss Megan,” said the marquis. “A man of easy manners, good address, and superior understanding, but with no more interest in his attire than to be neatly and properly clad. However, I don't aspire to belong to any set."
"Rod is a nonpareil. There is none other like him, especially in size! Miss Megan, allow me to recommend a slice of this delicious ham."
Lord Hazlewood asked Thea if her mother had agreed with his diagnosis of Penny's indisposition and went on to talk of his nieces and nephews. He had a dozen or more, aged from two to twenty. She tried to guess how old he was—four or five and thirty, she thought. Though by no means ill-favoured, he was not handsome in a conventional way; rather, his good-natured, tranquil cast of countenance made him attractive.
Nor was Mr. DeVine particularly handsome. His attraction was a lively, animated
charm to which Megan's own vivacious spirit responded, to judge by the laughter Thea heard. Gradually the laughter grew less, and, glancing at her sister, she saw her biting her lip.
"Meg, dear, what is troubling you?"
She tried to smile. “I am stupidly anticipating today's journey. We ... we have a long distance to travel, do we not?"
"Surely you do not intend to try to reach London today?” protested Mr. DeVine. “I doubt we shall make it in Rod's curricle, and he is a famous whip."
"Our brother is expecting us,” said Thea doubtfully.
"If I might make a suggestion,” Lord Hazlewood said, “I should be happy to reserve rooms for you at an inn in Biggleswade, halfway to Town, and to notify your brother of the delay."
"Oh, sir, what a splendid notion,” cried Meg, her glow restored. “Thea, Mama will not object, will she?"
"I doubt it, but we had best go and ask her. We shall not delay you, Lord Hazlewood. I shall let you know directly."
As Mr. DeVine bowed over Meg's hand, he begged permission to call on her in Town.
"We shall be delighted to receive you, sir,” she assured him. “We are to reside in Russell Square.” She turned to take leave of the marquis.
Catching the look of utter consternation that crossed Will DeVine's face, Thea flinched. Though she knew Penny's house in Russell Square was far from the fashionable part of London, she had not realized the full significance of that fact.
Lord Hazlewood took her hand and smiled down at her. “May I presume to be included in Will's welcome?” he asked courteously.
"Of course, sir,” she said, but she doubted either one would ever come to call.
CHAPTER THREE
"I cannot see why Lord Hazlewood called Mr. DeVine a coxcomb,” Meg said with some indignation as Thea closed the parlour door behind them. “I found him charming and elegant."
"I am sure the marquis was teasing his cousin."
"I'm glad they mean to call on us."
"Meg, pray do not count on it,” Thea said anxiously. “You must not be disappointed if, as I fear, they were only being polite."
