by Jane Feather
Next he needed to establish himself in suitable lodgings and set up his stables in a modest fashion. He corrected a sideways lunge of his mount with an exasperated sigh. Hired hacks developed bad habits without a consistent rider, and he definitely needed a riding horse of his own. He would need a carriage, too. A curricle, probably, with a decent pair. They wouldn’t have to be top drawer at Tattersalls, but they’d need to make a respectable showing on the park circuit. He had no aspirations to the sporting world of the Corinthians. His fighting skills were rather more underhand than straightforward boxing and fencing. But in combat, when it mattered, he would back himself anytime. His lip curled in derision. Of all the assignments Simon could have given him, this was the least acceptable.
After an hour, when the first riders, showing off their prowess after a night of dissolution, began to appear in the park, Greville rode his horse back to Brook Street. The livery stable’s groom took charge of the hack, and Greville went into the house to be greeted by the butler, who wore an air of some urgency.
“Ah, Sir Greville, her ladyship awaits you in the morning room,” he announced with some portentousness. “She’s been waiting for half an hour or more,” he added, disapproval evident.
“What ails her ladyship, Seymour? She doesn’t usually stir from her room until noon,” Greville observed, handing over his crop, removing his hat, and drawing off his gloves.
“Nothing ails Lady Broughton, sir,” the butler declared, gathering up Greville’s discarded possessions and passing them to an attendant footman. “I understand she is anxious to talk with you. Breakfast will be served immediately.”
Greville contemplated saying that he would like to change his dress, but it was a mischievous impulse, designed only to discomfit the disapproving butler, and as such not worth pursuing. He nodded acceptance and strode to the back of the house.
“Greville, my dear nephew, have you had a pleasant ride?” Aunt Agatha beamed at him from the far side of the round table. Her beauty had been legendary in her youth, and while that beauty had faded somewhat, she was still a handsome woman. She was swathed in Indian silks, her hair concealed beneath an impressive turban, and she was engaged in dipping fingers of toast into a bowl of tea.
“Pleasantly quiet, ma’am,” he said, pulling out a chair opposite. “This is an ungodly hour for you, is it not?” He smiled as he raised an interrogative eyebrow.
“I own I would prefer to be taking tea in bed, but I wish to talk with you, Greville, and I knew once I missed you today, I would never find the opportunity.” She dabbed at her lips with a snowy napkin. “So energetic, you are. You’re never still for a minute.”
Greville laughed gently. “I am always at your service, Aunt Agatha. You have only to summon me.”
She regarded him across the table with narrowed eyes. “If I believed that, Nephew, I’d be as blind as your poor mother…may she rest in peace,” she added piously.
Greville was saved from an immediate response by the entrance of two footmen bearing chafing dishes and a tankard of ale.
“Deviled kidneys, sir, and fried trout,” one of them announced, removing the lids from the dishes as the other set the tankard at Greville’s elbow. “Cook says there’s coddled eggs and lamb chops if you’d like.”
“I would,” Greville said with enthusiasm. “I’ll help myself, thank you.”
“I’ll bring the eggs an’ the chops then, sir.”
The footmen disappeared, and Greville took a deep draft of his ale before going to the sideboard to help himself from the chafing dishes. He brought a laden plate to the table, sat down, shook out his napkin, and addressed his aunt. “So, ma’am, what is so urgent that it gets you from your bed betimes?” He forked a kidney into his mouth.
Before responding, Aunt Agatha dipped another finger of toast into her tea. “You said you would be staying in town for a while, and I have it in mind to give a small party in your honor…no, no, hear me out, dear boy.” She raised her free hand imperatively, and Greville stilled his tongue.
“You have spent so little time in town over the years. It’s why you have no wife…now, forgive me if this is a sensitive subject, but you do owe it to the family, dear boy. If your mother were alive, she would be telling you the same thing. You were little more than a child when your father died, and no one expected you to assume family responsibilities for some years. But, dear boy, you need a wife, and you need an heir. And I don’t see how you’re to acquire either gallivanting around Europe on the heels of that tyrant. But now you’re to be settled for a while at least, I intend to go to work.”
Greville waited until the returning footman had placed the fresh dishes on the sideboard before he spoke. “I appreciate your concern, Aunt Agatha, although I doubt I shall be in town long enough to settle down in any permanent fashion.” A humorous smile accompanied his pleasant tone. “I don’t intend to be a charge upon you, my dear ma’am. I have it in my mind to find suitable lodgings and set up my own establishment.”
“What nonsense…whatever for?” the lady demanded, her plump features creasing ominously. “This house is a mausoleum, far too big for me alone. You can have an entire wing to yourself if you wish a separate establishment.”
Greville’s smile didn’t waver. “You are too generous, ma’am, but I couldn’t possibly impose upon you in such fashion.” Deftly he filleted the trout on his plate as he spoke.
Lady Broughton’s frown transformed her amiable countenance, drawing her carefully plucked eyebrows together, narrowing her pale blue eyes. Her mouth took a downturn, and she fixed him with a glare.
Greville ignored the glare. He knew his aunt of old. She had been spoiled by a fond and indulgent husband and detested being thwarted in the most minor matters. He savored a mouthful of trout and allowed the glowering silence full rein.
Her ladyship broke first, as he knew she would. A disgusted snort prefaced her statement. “Well, you must please yourself, I suppose, as you always do. Your poor mother never could see how you twisted her around your little finger, even in short coats.”
Greville contented himself with a sardonic twitch of his eyebrows. To his certain knowledge he had never twisted his mother around any finger, little or otherwise. She had barely laid eyes on him during his childhood, spending her time shut away in a wing of the ancient, creaky house, leaving her only child to the sometimes haphazard care of a series of nursemaids, until he’d been packed off to school at the age of eight. His father had died when he was twelve, but had been a shadowy figure in his son’s life at best. Only his aunt Agatha had shown any interest in her sister’s son, and that had been, while generous, fairly infrequent.
He sipped his ale. “Of course, ma’am, if you are seriously minded to give a small party for me, I would be most grateful.”
The sun emerged from the clouds, and Aunt Agatha smiled again. She adored entertaining. “I’ll prepare a guest list this morning…a rout party, I think. I haven’t given one since last season, and it would be most suitable for such a purpose. A little dancing, not a big orchestra, but a few strings, a piano…and pink champagne…I’m sure we have plenty in the cellar…I’ll check with Seymour.” She tapped her teeth with a fingernail, her earlier disappointment forgotten, her good humor restored.
Greville laughed and pushed back his chair. “I’m sure, as always, Aunt, that you’ll know what is best. Let me know when to present myself, and I’ll be there in fine fig.”
“Yes…yes…well, I have a lot to do.” She waved him away and reached for the little silver bell beside her. “I’ll discuss matters with Seymour at once.”
Greville bowed and left her happily contemplating her wide circle of acquaintances and the prospect of giving a party that would be the talk of the town. He was perfectly happy to be the guest of honor at such a gathering, it would give him a head start in the business of reintroducing himself to society. Once one invitation was issued, the rest would flood in, and he could begin to play Simon Grant’s game. He wen
t upstairs to change from riding dress into something more suitable for paying morning calls.
Would Aurelia receive him?
A good question, but he was hoping that Frederick’s letter would have had a softening effect on the lady. He had no idea what Frederick had written, but he knew he would have spoken well of his comrade, if he’d mentioned him at all. But it was difficult to imagine a letter in such circumstances that failed to mention Colonel Falconer.
Critically, he examined his image in the long mirror. He’d been away from the social circuit, apart from flying visits to London, for close to fifteen years, and he suspected the tailoring of his present garments was somewhat outmoded. He rarely gave thought to his dress; most of the time he was either in uniform or dressed for some activity that bore no relation to morning calls, rout parties, or Almack’s Assembly Rooms. He’d clearly have to update his wardrobe, but for the moment he could find little to object to in his dark gray coat and buckskin britches. They’d been made for a younger man, but good tailoring will always tell, and the coat still fitted him well across the shoulders. He had tied his linen cravat in a modest but perfectly acceptable knot, and his top boots, while not cleaned with champagne, had a respectable shimmer to them.
He took up his beaver hat and gloves and hefted the slender, silver-knobbed cane he always carried, weighing it in his hand, feeling the delicate balance. The stick was transformed at the touch of a spring into a wickedly sharp sword and had proved indispensable on many occasions. Not that he expected to need it on the streets of London during a cool March-morning stroll. But one never knew in his business.
• • •
“Mama…mama…why are you taking me to Stevie’s?” Franny tugged at her mother’s arm. “Why isn’t Daisy taking me?”
Aurelia looked down at her prancing daughter with a slightly distracted smile. “In a minute, Franny. I’m talking to Morecombe.”
“Yes, but why?” the little girl demanded, but with less urgency in her tone; it was more a matter of form.
“Prince Prokov’s wine merchant usually calls on the third Thursday of the month, Morecombe. When he comes today, if I’m not back, could you make sure he understands that this month’s delivery is to be shipped to the country?” Aurelia drew on her gloves as she spoke. “And the prince is most insistent that two cases of the vintage champagne be included in the delivery.”
“Oh, aye,” Morecombe said. “That’ll be for Lady Livia’s confinement, I daresay.”
“Yes…well, perhaps not the confinement itself but its results,” Aurelia said with a smile. “Only another three weeks to go.”
“Aye, well, we wishes her all the best fer a safe delivery,” the old man declared. “Our Mavis an’ our Ada ’ave been knittin’ away for months now. There’s bootees, an’ caps, and whatnot all over the ’ouse.”
Aurelia laughed. “They’ll be well appreciated, Morecombe…. All right, Franny. We’re going now.”
“I’ll be late,” Franny announced with a note of satisfaction. “And Miss Alison will be cross.”
“No, she won’t,” her mother returned. “You won’t be late anyway, it’s barely a quarter to nine.” She took her daughter’s hand and hurried her out of the house.
“But why are you taking me an’ not Daisy?” Franny repeated her unanswered question.
“Oh, I wanted to see Aunt Nell about something,” Aurelia said vaguely. In truth, even though she knew she must honor Frederick’s request that she say nothing about the extraordinary situation, she was driven to seek her friend’s company this morning because she needed its familiarity, a return to a sense of normality that she hoped the easy comfort of Nell’s presence would give her.
Franny was prattling in her inconsequential fashion as they walked briskly along the quiet streets. It was a chilly morning, a fresh March wind gusting around the corners, and they swung hands to keep themselves warm. Aurelia offered an occasional comment, an encouraging murmur now and again, and it seemed all that Franny needed to keep up her monologue. They reached Mount Street and the Bonhams’ establishment just as Harry descended from a hackney carriage at the door.
“Good morning, Harry.” Aurelia greeted his disheveled and weary appearance without surprise. “You don’t look as if you’ve been home in a day or two.”
“And so I haven’t,” he said with tired sigh. “Good morning, Franny.” He dropped a kiss on the child’s upturned brow as she launched into a minute description of a goldfish she and Stevie were keeping in a bowl in the schoolroom.
He accompanied them into the house, producing all the right sounds of astonishment and appreciation at the antics of the goldfish.
“Run along upstairs, Franny,” Aurelia said, mercifully interrupting the flow. “Stevie and Miss Alison will be waiting for you.” She bent to kiss her, unbuttoning the child’s coat as she did so. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Franny scampered off and Aurelia shook her head with a resigned smile. “She never stops talking.”
“She’s a bright little thing,” Harry responded with a chuckle, turning to his butler, who stood waiting to be noticed. “Hector, is Lady Bonham down yet?”
“Yes, of course I am.” Cornelia’s light tones sounded on the stairs. She descended with a quick step, both hands extended to her husband. “Oh, you poor dear. You look exhausted. Have you slept at all since you left three days ago?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, taking her hands in his and kissing her mouth. “You look as fresh as a daisy, wife of mine, and I am rank and as prickly as a cactus.” He passed a hand over his stubbly chin. “I’m going to make myself presentable and leave you to enjoy Aurelia’s company.” He stepped aside to reveal Aurelia, who’d been standing quietly behind him, waiting for the couple to complete their greeting.
“Ellie, how lovely!” Cornelia exclaimed. “What brings you here so early?”
“I thought I’d bring Franny myself this morning…I felt like an early walk,” Aurelia said. “But I’ve no need to stay. I don’t want to intrude.”
“As if you ever could,” Cornelia scoffed. “Harry is going upstairs to repair himself and he’ll probably sleep until this afternoon. So let’s go and have coffee in the morning room. Have you had breakfast?” She linked arms with Aurelia and urged her towards the morning room.
Aurelia went willingly enough, but she was beginning to question the wisdom of this impulsive visit so soon after yesterday’s revelations. The urge to pour out to her friend what was uppermost in her mind threatened to become irresistible, and she must resist it. She could think of little else and was afraid that Cornelia would sense her distraction immediately.
But fortunately Cornelia had her own preoccupations that morning. She poured coffee for them both before sinking gracefully onto a chaise. “What do you think of a black-and-white theme, Ellie?”
Aurelia blinked at this seeming non sequitur. “For what?”
“The ball, of course.” Cornelia looked astonished that anyone could have forgotten this issue that occupied most of her waking hours at present.
“Oh, of course.” Aurelia sipped her coffee and tried to give the question her full attention. “You mean the decor, or must the guests comply with the color code, too?”
“I thought it might make it a little more interesting. Everyone gets so tired of the endless round of balls and galas, something a little different might be appreciated.”
“Absolutely,” Aurelia agreed. “And after the success of your gala last April, you’ve a lot to live up to.” She regarded her friend with a gleam in her eyes. “I believe you intend to stun the ton with a squeeze every year, Nell.”
A faint pink blossomed on her friend’s fashionably pale cheeks as she laughingly confessed, “I may have had some such idea. And it makes it all the more necessary to do something different this time, Ellie, otherwise everyone will say I’ve lost my touch.”
“More power to you, love,” Aurelia said warmly. “When’s the date to be exactly?�
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“I wanted to discuss that with you, too.” Cornelia reached for the coffeepot and refilled their cups. “It would be lovely if Liv could make it. The baby’s due in about three weeks, the beginning of April. I’d thought to give the ball in April, but she won’t be able to travel so soon. Should I leave it until mid-May?”
“You know Livia, she’ll come if it’s humanly possible. But it depends on her confinement. If all goes smoothly, then six weeks should be long enough, but…” Aurelia shrugged expressively.
Cornelia nodded. They’d both endured the rigors of childbirth, and while they and the infants had survived, they also knew that they had been lucky. “Liv’s strong,” she offered. “And determined.”
“True enough. But Alex isn’t going to let her take any risks, and you know how persuasive he can be.”
Cornelia nodded again. Alexander Prokov had a way of ensuring things went according to his wishes. Livia, independent-minded though she was, was no proof against her husband’s determination if he was really set upon something. And he would make absolutely certain his adored wife took no risks. It was a safe bet that he would set the bar for those risks high.
“Well, perhaps I’ll make it the end of May,” Cornelia said after a moment’s thought. “Towards the end of the season. And we can open the conservatory and the garden. Black and white lanterns, or, no…” She held up a hand. “Not black and white at all, silver and black. How would that be, Ellie?”
“Pure magic,” Aurelia said, setting aside her coffee cup. “I foresee a critical success, my dear. And now I must be on my way. Thank you for the coffee.” She kissed her friend, who had risen from the chaise as Aurelia stood up. “I’ll send Daisy for Franny this afternoon. Will I see you at Cecily Langton’s luncheon?”
