An Honest Deception

by Alicia Quigley

  His mother snorted, but allowed him to lead her towards a chair by the wall. “Lord, not near Amelia Setterington,” she objected. “I can’t abide the woman.”

  Phillip obligingly changed course, and soon the dowager was settled on a chair next to her old friend, Lady Hambledon. After fetching her the strongest refreshment he could find, a claret cup that she greeted with derision, he prepared to leave her to her gossip.

  “Mind you, find someone who won’t cause me trouble,” she said.

  “A respectable, only slightly stupid, young woman who will not cause you trouble,” he said. “I will bear it in mind.” He kissed her hand lightly and strolled away, his gaze raking over the room. If dancing with a few of the young women present would make his mother happy he would be glad to oblige her, but he had no intention of marrying any of them.

  The past years had given Eynsford ample opportunity to observe how much more attractive he was with a title than without. As a younger son with a competence that could command the necessities but not the elegances of life, he had been anathema to matchmaking mamas, who viewed a young gentleman of great beauty and excellent address but limited fortune with great suspicion. As soon as he acceded to the honors of the marquisate, however, he became the most pursued man in the kingdom.

  “Eynsford! What are you doing here?”

  The marquess turned to see a very exquisite young gentleman with elaborately high shirt points and a turquoise coat approaching him.

  “Good evening, Partney,” he murmured. “I am escorting my mother.”

  Sir Jason Partney raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised to see you at Almack’s. Since your return you’ve been far more likely to be found at Watier’s or the Daffy Club.”

  “I find all this sadly flat,” agreed the marquess. “But my mother is formidable and not to be denied.”

  “I’ve met her,” said Sir Jason with a laugh. “A daunting woman, to be sure. The last time I encountered her she told me she did not care for my coat.”

  “She finds all of us to be sadly lacking in manners and taste,” said Phillip. “You should not feel singled out.”

  “Would you care to join me in the card room?” asked Sir Jason. “The stakes here are not high, but it’s better than dancing with girls barely out of the schoolroom.”

  The marquess shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I intend to dance with one of these delightful ladies.”

  Sir Jason appeared to be surprised. “At your mother’s behest?” he asked.

  “You understand me perfectly,” said Phillip.

  Sir Jason laughed. “When you are bored, you know where to find me.”

  “Indeed.” Phillip watched as Sir Jason moved away towards the card room and then resumed his perusal of the salon. Many a young woman eyed him hopefully as he made his way across the floor. The Marquess of Eynsford was known for his address, his exquisite taste, his impeccable manners, and his caustic wit. A sign of favor from him could add greatly to a lady’s consequence.

  Eventually he appeared to find what he was searching for, and he walked across the room, his face a mask of boredom. If he noticed the inquiring glances and murmur of voices that followed him, he gave no sign. Eventually he reached his quarry, and bowed low before one of Almack’s patronesses, the Princess Esterhazy.

  “Eynsford!” she exclaimed. “How kind of you to grace us with your presence.”

  He kissed her hand and held it for a moment. “I’m delighted to find you here in London,” he said. “It reminds me of our time together in Vienna.”

  She gave him a sly smile and tapped his cheek with her fan. “Ah, Vienna,” she murmured. “But now we are in England.”

  “Indeed we are,” he said, releasing her. “And I must ask you to present me to Lady Pamela Ravenscroft as a desirable partner.”

  “Lady Pamela Ravenscroft?” The princess’ delicate eyebrows inched up. “She’s a shy thing, and hardly up to your weight, Eynsford. The poor girl’s tongue-tied and often lacking partners.”

  “Exactly,” said the marquess. “Her father was a good friend of my father, and I feel that I should help his children if I can.”

  The princess laughed. “How noble of you! You mean to lend her some of your consequence, do you? But you are not epris in that direction?”

  The marquess gave her a look of amazement. “Hardly,” he said. “After being in your presence how can I look at another woman?”

  “You’re altogether too glib, Phillip,” murmured the princess. “But I don’t see why we shouldn’t give the youngster a treat.”

  With a flirtatious look she took his proffered arm, and they moved across the room to where Lady Pamela stood by her mother. A seventeen-year-old still in possession of her baby fat, with a slightly sallow complexion and large dark eyes, she barely glanced at them at first, but her expression became increasingly alarmed as they drew closer.

  “Are you sure you wish to do this?” asked the princess. “She looks terrified. Perhaps it would be kinder for you to find a young lady more up to snuff.”

  “Not at all,” replied the marquess. “This is my good deed for the day.”

  The princess shrugged. “Very well, my friend.”

  They paused in front of Lady Pamela, who gaped at them openly. Her mother stepped quickly into the breach.

  “Good evening, Your Highness, Lord Eynsford,” she said, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the envious eyes turned on them by the other ladies in the vicinity.

  “Ah, Lady Ravenscroft,” said Princess Esterhazy. “Allow me to present Lord Eynsford as a very desirable partner for your daughter.”

  Lady Pamela flushed a brilliant shade of red as Phillip bowed over her hand. “Would honor me with this waltz?” he murmured.

  “Oh—oh my,” stammered Lady Pamela, shooting an anxious glance at her mother, who nodded firmly. “Why—why yes, thank you, Lord Eynsford.”

  With a nod at Lady Ravenscroft and a wicked smile directed to the princess, the marquess led Lady Pamela out onto the floor. He lightly circled her waist with one arm, and clasped her hand in his.

  “Are you ready?” he asked gently.

  She glanced up at him, alarm in her eyes, but nodded. With a reassuring smile, Phillip swept her into the dance. Lady Pamela had clearly been trained in the steps of the waltz, but was an inexpert practitioner. The marquess, however, was extremely adept in the art, having found over the course of his years in the military and as a diplomat that skills in the ballroom were every bit as important as those at the negotiating table.

  He did not speak to Lady Pamela for some moments, quite aware that she must be overwhelmed. Eventually, however, he felt it best to attempt a conversation.

  “Is this the first time you’ve waltzed?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  Lady Pamela’s head popped up, and she gazed at him, her eyes wide. “I’ve waltzed with my dancing master, of course,” she said.

  “Naturally,” he responded. “I hope I dance as well as he does.”

  “Oh yes, of course you do,” breathed Lady Pamela.

  “You honor me,” said his lordship.

  Lady Pamela dropped her eyes, and Phillip was quite sure that she was counting her steps. “Are you enjoying Almack’s?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, it is so very exciting,” Lady Pamela informed the top of his waistcoat. “Mama says that it is very important that I make a good impression here.”

  The marquess’ lips twitched slightly at this confession. “I am sure that you will make an excellent impression tonight,” he assured her.

  She looked up again. “Do you think so?”

  “I am certain of it,” he promised.

  The rest of the dance was accomplished in silence, Phillip gazing down at the top of Lady Pamela’s head with a slight smile. When it ended, he retained her hand, and asked her to honor him with the country-dance that the fiddlers were striking up. After glancing anxiously at her mother, who nodded encouragingly, Lady Pamela agreed, and the marquess led he
r expertly through the intricate figures. When the dance was through, he escorted Lady Pamela to an adjoining room, where he procured her a lemonade before restoring her to her mother, who beamed at him.

  “Thank you for dancing with me, Lady Pamela,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it lightly.

  “Oh no, thank you, Lord Eynsford,” she breathed. “That was lovely.”

  “As are you,” he said. He bowed over Lady Ravenscroft’s hand and took his leave. As he moved away he saw a young man hurry up to ask Lady Pamela for the next dance. Where the Marquess of Eynsford had been pleased, Society was not likely to find fault.

  The marquess had the felicity of observing Lady Pamela dance every one of the next five dances, while he led out onto the floor a selection of young women, not one of whom he could recall five minutes later. Eventually he returned to his mother’s side.

  “Have I made you happy?” he asked, bowing before her.

  “Lord, Phillip, I don’t know. Are you going to marry any of ‘em?” she asked.

  “Did you have a particular favorite?” he asked. “I could call on her parents tomorrow.”

  The dowager shook her head and stood. “You are humoring me. I know you’re bored to tears.”

  “I could never be bored when I am with you, Mother,” he promised.

  “Do you talk to your opera singers that way?” she asked.

  “Not at all. They frequently bore me,” he said lightly.

  The dowager laughed. “Well, Phillip, I suppose I must thank you for doing as I asked. I know you aren’t interested in any of these girls, but do keep it in mind that you need to be married, and soon.”

  “I will marry when I find someone as interesting as you,” he promised, raising her hand to his lips.

  She snatched it away. “Don’t try to get around me that way, Phillip. I can’t be charmed away from my goal.”

  “I am very well aware of that,” said the marquess. “Your persistence is one of your most singular characteristics.”

  “Poppycock,” said his mother. “Someday you’ll get your comeuppance, Phillip, and I’ll be glad to be there to see it.”

  “I’m sure you shall,” said the marquess smoothly, and, taking her arm in his, led her from the room.

  Chapter 7

  A fortnight after the funeral, all the visitors who had congregated at Morgan Park to pay their last respects to Lord Morgan had left, and only Isobel remained with Letitia, helping her to prepare for the removal to London. Morgan Park was beginning to take on the melancholy aura of an unoccupied home. Most of the furnishings were now swathed in holland covers, while pieces that Letty anticipated she might wish to have in her new home were moved to an unused part of the house to await shipping.

  Potential tenants had been shown around the property and, in spite of its dilapidated condition, the house's handsome design and the park's location and aspects made it attractive, and a tenant was soon found. Letty had been willing to accept a rent that would just cover the mortgages, and was optimistic that the tenants, a retired admiral and his wife, would be able to afford to make improvements to the house and grounds.

  One afternoon in December, despite the gloomy weather, Letitia's heart was light as she realized that a few more days would bring her duties at Morgan Park to a close. After she and Isobel lunched, she left Isobel penning a note to Exencour, informing him of her plans to rejoin him shortly. Although Letty had sorted through most of the cellar on the previous day, she wished to finish some small tasks, and she hummed as she walked down the stairs. While she rummaged through trunks of linens and other pantry wares, she pondered the feeling of pleasure that the ability to control the course of her own life gave her. Though she had made many difficult decisions, they had been her choice; she had not been required merely to make the best of a bad situation not of her creation.

  After completing her survey of the trunks and determining that their contents could best be given to the parish or the tenant farmers, Letitia's eye fell on a dusty box in a nearby corner. Opening it, she was astounded to find several bottles of wine. There were two old sherries, a fine claret, and two bottles of vintage champagne. Since everything in Baron Morgan's cellars that he had neglected to consume had been sold to a wine merchant in Chester, Letitia was surprised to discover this cache, but she gathered the bottles in a worn out tablecloth and brought her booty upstairs.

  She found Isobel in the sitting room transcribing inventory lists that Letty required before she left and the tenants took over. Letty dumped the bottles on a settee in a little cloud of dust. At the clinking, Isobel looked around. A smile crossed her lovely face.

  “Letty, it is nearly time for dinner, and I think a glass of sherry would be delightful,” she said.

  Letty smiled and went to ring the bell. “We shall have Banning open it for us, I think,” she said. She peered at the bottles. “I believe that this must be some of the amontillado laid down by Alfred's father. I wonder how it came to be sitting in a box with the rest of these?”

  “It makes no difference how it came to be there, I suppose,” responded Isobel. “We can simply enjoy it.”

  “Indeed,” smiled Letty. The aged butler appeared. “Banning, please open this bottle of Amontillado and chill the champagne if you can. And ask Mrs. McCreavey to do what is possible to create a more elegant dinner.” She turned to Isobel. “I think we should dress for dinner and enjoy a celebration, Lady Exencour. What say you?”

  With a laugh Isobel agreed, and they went arm in arm to their rooms to change. When they returned to the drawing room, the bottle of sherry and two glasses waited on a small table. Letty and Isobel looked rather out of place in their elegant dinner dresses, for Letty had daringly chose to put off her widows weeds and shone in a low cut sky blue silk gown with a gauzy silver over dress open down the front, which glittered next to Isobel's sage green gown, embroidered with tiny gold flowers, and ornamented at the hem with deep rows of gold and dark green embroidery. Their elegance was jarring in the room from which so many pieces of furniture and pictures had been removed, but they sipped the sherry in good spirits, chatting amiably about their fast approaching trip to London.

  Some time later, when they entered the dining room, Letitia giggled, for the long dining table looked faintly ludicrous, as most of it was covered with holland cloth, with one end flung back to display a selection of the finest Morgan family plate. A bottle of champagne held pride of place in an immense and rather ugly silver urn that had been filled with snow.

  Isobel and Letitia exchanged amused glances at the sight, but they seated themselves gracefully, and prepared to do justice to the wine. Mrs. McCreavey had attempted to achieve a festive meal, even though they had been living very retired as they prepared Morgan Park for its new residents, and the kitchen contained little wherewithal for fueling great culinary endeavors. Still, two courses were offered, with a very tender lamb and some fresh flounder bathed in a creamy sauce providing the centerpiece of the meal.

  While Banning solemnly opened the bottle of champagne, Isobel waved one hand gracefully. “Upon my word, Letty, I feel exactly as I did when I was first out, and a glass of champagne was a symbol of the delightfully glamorous world outside of my schoolroom,” she said. “How charming this is.”

  Letty nodded. “Tonight, perhaps it can also be viewed as a symbol of the delightfully glamorous world outside of my marriage,” she responded.

  “A toast to it,” Isobel cried, lifting her glass toward Letty. “And to happier and far more amusing days.”

  The two ladies drank, smiling their approval of the vintage bottle. Letty refilled their glasses, and sipped enthusiastically.

  “Do you know, Isobel, I rather fancy myself as a dashing and slightly dangerous widow,” she observed in a thoughtful tone. “I could wear very décolleté gowns with nothing but an invisible petticoat beneath them, and learn to drive myself in the Park in a high perch phaeton.”

  “Yes, and you could flirt desperately with ineli
gible gentlemen, and make all of the very young men fall in love with you au coeur perdu, and let them drink champagne out of your slippers at very, um, very select card parties,” answered Isobel, entering into the spirit of Letitia’s daydream.

  “It is decided then. I shall become a fatal widow, and gentlemen across England will be clamoring for my smiles,” Letty declared, her spirits quite flown with imagination and alcohol.

  “Perhaps you could have a wardrobe of gauzy purple and lavender gowns made up for the Season,” conjectured Isobel, entering into the fantasy with enthusiasm. “You could dampen them for balls, and if you did not first catch your death of pneumonia, I can only imagine what Mrs. Drummond-Burrell would have to say.”

  The champagne was disappearing rapidly and Letty rang the bell for the second bottle.

  “I could lease an elegant little house in Clarges Street and allow my cicisbeos to lavish me with compliments and gifts,” she continued merrily. “And instantly banish from my court any who spoke a cross word to me.”

  “Enough, Letty, you will have me hoping that Exencour met with an accident on the way back to Strancaster if you continue in this vein,” said Isobel laughing as well. “Oh, why, when I was insisting I would never marry, did I never think of becoming a widow without becoming a wife?”

  “Alas,” Letty continued with a dejected air. “I fear that my jointure will not run to such a fashionable existence.”

  Isobel looked concerned. Letty's observation was, of course, true, but she wished to elevate her friend's spirits, not depress them, so she cast about rather desperately for a less expensive fantasy life for Letitia.

  “The Ladies!” she exclaimed triumphantly.

  “The Ladies?” inquired Letty with an owlish look as she refilled both glasses from the fresh bottle.

  “Llangollen,” responded Isobel mysteriously, but Letty nodded in recognition.

  “Indeed. There is an excellent notion. What need have I of gentlemen or money? Lady Sarah and Lady Eleanor managed famously on only a few hundred pounds per annum. And all the world came to them, they had no need of elegant houses in Clarges Street.”