by Edith Layton
He saw James with Annabelle on his arm as they walked toward him. She looked up at him for a moment as they walked past, and allowed a rueful grin to touch her rouged lips. He remained still, for if she chose, now was the moment that she could create an unpleasant scene. But gin-bold as she was, she was foremost a woman of business, so she merely allowed herself one last regretful look at the Marquis and then turned her attention to her small, plump companion. James, seeing the marquis standing there, took this opportunity to take one of her cool hands in his moist grip and raise it to his lips. St. John said nothing, so they passed by. “Well done,” the Marquis thought, noting that the transfer had been made as correctly and formally as any ceremony he had ever witnessed.
Quite a clutch of unattached gentlemen now stood against the walls of the corridors, watching the other Opera-goers stroll by. St. John noticed a few old friends, a few older gentlemen, a few young sparks out to make their mark on the town. He felt relieved to be one of their number again, and pleased himself by watching the women of the demimonde self-consciously flirt past his raised quizzing glass. A slight stir in one group to the corner of the hall brought his attention to the entrance of the Duke of Torquay, his presence signaling the beginnings of muttered gossip. St. John smiled, and saluted the Duke with his quizzing glass.
“Sinjin,” the Duke greeted him in his soft hoarse voice, “don’t tell me you didn’t feel the urge to tell the latest on dit about me to your friends the moment you saw me? What, you still stand here just to have a word with me? Do you think I can impart something new and exciting that they haven’t yet told you?”
“I don’t need to dine out on your exploits, Your Grace,” St. John answered, looking coldly at the slight figure beside him.
“No, no, you at least do not,” the Duke acknowledged. “You are commonly acknowledged to be my successor, these days, aren’t you? When my dissolute ways bring me down to the worms, it will be you who replaces me, will it not, Sinjin?”
The Marquis did not acknowledge the hit by so much as a lift of his shoulders, but still he felt a cold chill at the words.
Jason Edward Thomas, Duke of Torquay, was already, although he had not entered his thirty-fifth year, acknowledged to be the supreme pleasure-seeker of his day. The joke that made the rounds was that if the Duke could find a way to fit it in his bed, he would bed it. The stories told about him and his exploits on the town beggared the imagination, and although the more sensible of listeners discounted half of what they heard, the half they accepted was shocking enough. Still, he was of impeccable birth, title, and position, and many of the gentlemen who listened avidly to stories of his scandalous exploits, would still have gladly handed over the choice of their eligible daughters to him in wedlock, should the elegant widower ever seek marriage again.
And the same young women whose eyes rounded at the abbreviated tales that filtered down to them of his doings, would still have found themselves eager to be wed to him. For his appearance belied all the gossip and scandal that followed him. Of medium height and slender as a boy, his pale gold hair fell softly upon a white brow. His large clear blue eyes and tender mouth seemed more appropriate to a romantic poet than to the sort of man whose name had become synonymous with license. But St. John had seen the Duke at his play. And the Marquis had known some of the women who had known him intimately, and did not doubt most of the stories that he heard. Something deep within the Marquis bridled at being dubbed the Duke’s successor, but still he acknowledged the truth of the jest.
“Well then, Duke,” he drawled, “it is most fortunate for our audience that we stand here together. It saves them a great deal of effort and eyestrain if we stay here thus, in tandem.”
“It does,” the hoarse sweet voice acknowledged. “It might, dear Sinjin, save you a great deal of trouble, too, for then I could not make a move you could not emulate immediately,” he remarked, glancing up through his long lashes at the tight face next to him.
The Marquis pretended not to have heard, as he felt the unease spread through him, but he was spared any rejoinder as the Duke’s head turned.
The wide china eyes flew open and the slight body almost visibly trembled, like a dog at the hunt. “My God!” the Duke breathed in hushed undertones. “Who is she?”
The Marquis looked with relief toward the woman whose presence had stirred his companion so. Yes, he admitted, she was worthy of the attention.
Even at this distance he could see that she was young, almost pitifully so, although many of the other women might have been of an age with her. She wore no rouge, no paint, and so her face looked more vulnerable against the background of this gathering. She was dressed simply and elegantly in a high-waisted blue velvet gown that accentuated her high breasts and slender figure. Her gleaming chestnut hair had been drawn up tightly, and only one long curl brushed against her shoulder. Her eyes were large, wide, and frightened, and a strangely vivid grass-green color which accentuated the clear whiteness of her skin. She was innocent of jewelry, of paint, but it was the innocence in her face that troubled St. John. She could almost pass for a woman of quality. But then, what would she be doing here on this night?
She stood, wide-eyed, her cloak thrown over one arm, as she realized the attention she had drawn to herself by exiting from her box. She turned and spoke in a low voice to the other woman who emerged from behind her, another young woman, but this one all frizzy ginger hair and freckles who wore a plain serviceable dress. A maid? St. John frowned. What the devil would a young woman with a maid be doing here at the Opera on such a night, when the courtesans flirted and vied for new liaisons? Unless she was a shrewd wench who had discovered a new ploy. But the look of fright in her eyes dissuaded him from that flight.
But his former companion, the Duke, had not waited to speculate. With the swift grace he was famous for, he had already achieved her side. She looked up at him in incomprehension. St. John could not hear a word that the Duke spoke so softly into her ear, but he could see the color drain from her already white face. She gripped the other woman by the arm and then almost ran to the top of the long stairs.
For only a moment the Duke stood still, as if bemused, and then he signaled swiftly to his man, who came to his side to listen to the quick, soft instructions and then, nodding, was gone. The Duke strolled back to St. John’s side. “Not quite flown,” he whispered in that intimate voice. “My man will wait to see her coach, to get her direction. It’s a shame that her courage deserted her. She will be quite a success. I think that the stir she caused quite overset her plans. And as to your plans, St. John? I noticed that you have so generously given over your seat to your friend. Would you care to share my box for the duration of the performance?”
“Thank you,” St. John bowed, “but I seem to have already achieved my plans for this evening, and so must be off to more profitable sport.”
“It will do you no good,” the Duke smiled. “I have already set my sights upon her…unless you care to vie with me for the honors?”
“I am not quite so exacting in my requirements this evening, Your Grace,” St. John retorted. “I’ll leave that field open to you. Remember, I am marked to be your successor, not your equal.” And, smiling pleasantly with a humor he did not feel, he left.
II
Regina Analise Berryman was in a rage. When she had returned from the Opera, a combination of shame and shock, coupled with the lateness of the hour, had sent her into an unaccustomed state of subdued self-recrimination. She had lain awake for many long hours, until the sheer weight of the night had sent her drifting off into a restless sleep. But when Belinda had drawn back her curtains to admit the shallow morning light, she had awoken to a healthy sense of fury.
She drew the belt on her morning gown and, unable to find her slipper’s mate, sent the orphaned partner flying to the wall. “Why,” her first words to Belinda were, “did you not tell me exactly why last night was not a proper night to attend the Opera?”
Belinda eyed her n
ew mistress warily. This was not at all like the quiet, amiable, green young girl she had been serving for the past weeks.
“Aye, but I told you, miss. I said and I said that it would be more fitting for you to wait for your uncle to return afore you went to the Opera. I did say that, miss, I did.”
“‘Aye,’” mimicked the infuriated Miss Berryman, looking like a proper witch, Belinda thought uneasily, with her long gleaming hair tousled and wild, her odd emerald green eyes shining like a cat’s. “But, Belinda my dear, you did not, repeat not, tell me that only…courtesans and their protectors would be there, now did you?”
“That’s not true at all, miss,” Belinda gulped, backing toward the door as Regina rounded upon her. “Why there was ever such a sweet old couple there, miss, and anyway,” she said in a rush, “how was I to know who all else would be there? I’m only a poor girl, miss, and never been to the Opera at all, and only heard belowstairs that it wasn’t the best idea for you to go…and I told you so, miss. Indeed I did. And you only said….”
“‘Pooh!’ I said,” Regina admitted regretfully. “Yes, that’s so. I said it wouldn’t do any harm and it was a shame to let the tickets go to waste. But why didn’t you stop me, Belinda, before I made such a fool of myself?”
“Ah, miss,” cried Belinda, seeing and pressing her advantage, “but it isn’t my place to stop you. I’m only your maid, miss, and….”
“Only a poor girl,” interrupted Regina, deflated. “I know, Belinda. Excuse me.”
Regina turned and sank down again upon the bed. She tossed her heavy hair back from her face. Her own fault, she thought miserably, of course. No matter how poor Belinda had influenced her, it was, indeed, still her own fault. She had wanted to go to the Opera. That was undeniable. Only a few weeks in town and she had already made a cake of herself. For when the invitation had come, even though her uncle was away from home and would not return in time for the Opera, she had been determined to attend. She would not sit at home childishly, for lack of an escort. After all, she had reasoned, back at home in the country, when her papa had been alive, they had gone to the local theater as often as possible to see some of the infrequent Shakespearean productions presented by traveling troupes of players. And when Papa could not come with her, there had been no shame in attending with only her governess, Miss Bekins, as her escort.
But, she thought, as usual incurably honest with herself, she had wondered if the same manners obtained in the great city of London as did in her little corner of England. She had heard of how glittering and fashionable the theaters were here. Even more, she had thought of all her new dresses, hanging unseen in the closet, and no matter how often she rationalized that she wanted to actually hear a first-rate opera company, that had been the major reason she had so wanted to attend. And who, she thought, furious with herself, would have been mutton-headed enough to take the advice of a little lady’s maid on matters of rules of society? Even if there were no one else she knew whose opinion she could have asked, why hadn’t she waited for Uncle’s return? There would have been other operas, other nights.
Because she belatedly understood, if there had been no harm in her going unaccompanied by a gentleman at home, it had only been because there were few people in the audience who did not know Miss Berryman, the schoolmaster’s daughter. And they would no more have thought her fast for attending the theater without her papa than they would have thought her scandalous for attending a lecture without him.
So even if Belinda’s eyes had narrowed slyly when she asked if going by herself was “done,” and her answer had never been a direct “no” but rather a tangle of “Well, miss, it depends…” and “Some ladies do go by themselves, I hear tell…” she had only half listened. She had not really wanted to be persuaded to stay home. Once she had made up her mind, Belinda had been in ecstacies, thrilled with the chance to see the upper classes at play first hand for the first, and probably last, time. And Regina had caught fire from Belinda’s enthusiasms. She had rigged herself out in the first stare of fashion and sailed forth with an eager Belinda in tow, only to discover what she really should have guessed all along: that London was as far in miles as it was in attitudes from her home. And that no one could have guessed that she was only the schoolmaster’s daughter from Dorset, gawking at their splendid world; rather they had taken her for a trollop, bent on advancing herself. Regina sighed to herself. She was, she felt, well served for her self-deception and rashness.
She glanced at Belinda, whose hands were twisting under her little white apron, and felt she ought to let the matter drop. As well chastise a cat for stalking a pigeon as to condemn Belinda for seizing her chance for a little excitement, even if it were at her new mistress’s expense. My fashionable career, Regina thought glumly, shall go right back where it belongs—between the pages of a book, and in my mind. What a rustic she must take me for, she thought. And, she thought ruefully with a little sad smile that made Belinda’s hands steady themselves, what a rustic I am, indeed.
“Never mind, Belinda,” Regina said. “It’s over, and you shall not bear the blame. We’ll forget it. We’ll avoid the haunts of the fashionable and we’ll rub on together well enough in the future. But,” she said, eyeing the laden tray Belinda had set up on a little table near the window and embarrassed that the whole staff likely thought of her as a milkmaid fresh from the country, “could you please tell Cook that although I do come from the country, I do not eat like a yeoman and do not require a breakfast that could easily feed five strong men?”
“Oh yes, miss,” Belinda said eagerly. “I do hear that all the young ladies just drink a cup of hot chocolate and have a bit of bread for breakfast.”
“I’m not that fashionable,” Regina laughed. “An egg or two might be pleasant as well.”
“Oh yes indeed, miss.” Belinda curtsied, grateful to make an escape. “I’ll tell Cook at once.”
The Master might have my skin, Belinda worried, as she went down the stairs. But it wasn’t my fault, not really. She did want to go. And when would I ever get such a grand chance again to go to the bloody Opera, I’d like to know? So if my fine lady from the country wanted to go, why shouldn’t I go with her? I’d never get such a chance again, once he came home, no I wouldn’t. Didn’t she cause a stir, though? Only think, the Black Duke himself making a proposal to her! Wouldn’t I like to have heard what he said to her? Just wouldn’t I. So handsome he was, too…it’s a thing to tell my grandchildren, that is. I know what my answer would have been to him, if he’d asked me, she thought. Did you ever see such eyes on a gentleman, though? Took her clothes right off with them, he did. Now if it had been me…. And she entertained herself with thoughts of operas, and dukes, and magnificent offers of finery and jewels, as she took herself off below stairs to regale the others with a highly colored account of the night’s events.
But Miss Berryman was not entertaining herself with similar imaginings. She was, instead, sulking in a very unladylike fashion as she sat at the table and sipped her coffee. “What a fool thing to do,” she sighed in disgust, “flying off like a true clothhead, decked out like what I thought was a London lady, only to find myself taken for the Queen of the Cyprians.”
“Ah well,” she sighed, putting down the delicate cup and rising to stare out the window, “I do have a lot to learn in this new life, and I must teach myself not to be so impetuous…but…it did seem like such an…unexceptionable idea. But then, after all, what do I know about the customs that prevail here?”
*
Regina Analise Berryman had only been a resident of the city which so perplexed her for a scant three weeks. Before that, she had spent the whole of her two decades (except for one brief whirlwind tour of Bournemouth, where an acquaintance of her father lived) in a small house in a small village on the southern edge of the kingdom. Her father had been a schoolmaster at a boys’ school of little fame, and less distinction. But he, a large, gentle, and quietly unambitious soul, had been well pleased with his l
ot in life. True, he might have regretted the fact that few of his students would go on to a life of erudition—most were resident at his school only long enough to receive the rudiments of education. But since they were the sons of merchants, they expected no other fate and indeed chaffed at their lot while they were under his tutelage.
He himself was a younger son in a family of the merchant class. And his perplexed family soon realized his scholarly bent and, more importantly, understood that his nonaggressive ways, his lack of interest in financial dealings, and his incurable honesty (“The day John Berryman tells a lie,” his family grieved, “will be the day the King kisses a pig.”) made him eminently unsuitable for the freewheeling family business of business. The day he took an unsuitable wife, a girl of no surviving parents and French descent, the two beleaguered families put their heads together and soon were able to ship the changeling son and his portionless wife out to the school where a position had been found for him.
There they lived in undemanding bliss, until the birth of Regina Analise had put an end to her mother’s existence. There John Berryman, with the aid of a governess that the family sent down posthaste, had raised his daughter in tranquillity and peace. Hearing no terrible thing from the provinces, the family assumed that no further evil would befall their strange kinsman and allowed themselves to forget him. Only George Berryman, the schoolmaster’s brother, remembered their existence with any regularity. Indeed, it was his frequent gifts, discreetly made on special occasions, that supported the odd trio that now resided in the little house.
And it was an odd trio. John Berryman, having had very little to do with females until his besotted eye fell upon his future wife, had no idea of how to raise a young girl. Thus, the feeding, clothing, and moral training of his young daughter he gladly left to Miss Bekins, the angular lady of indeterminate years that his family had engaged for him.
