by M C Beaton
The Earl had been engaged, some ten years before, to a pretty little debutante, Lady Sarah Devane. He was charmed and fascinated by her kittenish ways and had fallen in love with her with all the fire and passion of his twenty-five years. Two weeks before the wedding he had called at her home unexpectedly. As the butler had been relieving him of his greatcoat in the hall, the silvery tones of his beloved in the drawing room had carried to his ears with deadly clarity. “Well, of course, Mama, I would much rather be marrying Bertram or someone like that. Roger is too serious,” Lady Sarah was saying. “But think of all Roger’s beautiful money. And I shall enjoy being a Countess. Married ladies have such freedom…”
The Earl had covered his hurt and shock very well. He had quietly lied to Sarah’s father that he had lost all his money on “Change” and felt it would be unfair to subject Sarah to an impoverished marriage. Sarah’s father had heartily agreed. Sarah, too, had agreed with a pretty show of sighs and tears. By the time the Devanes had discovered his lie, Sarah was married to her Bertram. Since then the Earl had preferred to keep mistresses and flirt idly with several hopeful debutantes. And now, he mused as he looked at Penelope from under drooping lids, I am considering entangling myself with a young lady who has an aunt who is as common as a barber’s chair.
Charles had begun to talk to Augusta in a high, nervous way about England’s recent war with France and how marvellous it was that that monster Bonaparte was safely installed on Elba. He said all this with an almost pleading note in his voice, the Earl noted, and thought it was sad that young Charles so obviously did care quite a bit for Augusta’s opinion.
Their mother had died when both the Earl and the Viscount were small boys. The Earl had not missed his mother much since he had seen little of her, having been brought up by a nanny and then a tutor before going to Eton. But perhaps, he reflected as Charles chattered on, his brother had felt the loss more than he, Roger, had ever imagined and was finding in the horrible Augusta a weird substitute.
Dinner was announced, and the Earl conducted Augusta into the dining room while Penelope and the Viscount trailed behind.
Unless one was a member of the Holland House set and accustomed to witty, garrulous, political dinner parties, one usually ate one’s food at the tables of the best houses in a morbid silence. This dinner party was no exception. The Earl ate sparingly and seemed immersed in his thoughts, Charles was drinking steadily, Penelope was too overawed by the numerous footmen, the gold plate, and the formidable Earl to open her mouth, and only Augusta enlivened the silence by the steady chomping of her great jaws.
By the end of the meal the fact that Charles did not wish to remain alone with his brother became all too obvious when the port wine and walnuts were brought in. He started to rise to follow Augusta and Penelope, making some feeble joke about the ladies being too attractive to be neglected even for a moment.
“Sit down, Charles,” said the Earl in a deceptively mild voice. “I am sure the ladies will forgive us for a few minutes.”
Charles looked longingly after the retreating backs of Augusta and Penelope and slumped down sulkily in his chair.
“Now, Charles,” said the Earl. “I must ask you again what all this is about. I tell you now I will not have that infuriating woman across my threshold again. Tell me plain—does she hope I will offer her niece a carte blanche?”
“No!” said Charles. “Nothing like that.” His sulkiness changed to petulant bad temper. “You’re always twitting me about something, Roger. You’re always so demned toplofty. So Miss Harvey is perhaps a bit of a rough diamond, but her niece is all that is proper.”
“A proper niece would not be seen in the company of a woman like that,” said the Earl coldly. “Pass the port, Charles, before you drink it all. Now tell me for once and for all—what do you see in a woman like Augusta Harvey?”
“She’s kind to me, dammit,” burst out Charles. “You always said this was my home as much as yours. Can’t I invite my friends? You’re always prosing on about something. It’s like living with a demned Methodist preacher, that it is. I’ll not stand for it.”
“Very well,” said the Earl, looking enigmatically at his brother from under his drooping lids. “You may entertain whom you will. But pray warn me next time Miss Harvey is expected, and I shall spend the evening at my club.”
The Earl sighed and wondered if he were indeed being too harsh. But he had had to be both father and brother to Charles, who seemed to tumble into an endless succession of scrapes. He was constantly having to be rescued from one hell after another—where he was usually found dead drunk and with his pockets to let. His friends often belonged to the fringes of society but, to date, they had all been men. Thinking of Charles’s friends, the Earl suddenly recollected something and frowned.
“I hear that the Comte de Chernier was staying at the Courtlands as a houseguest. I am surprised at the Courtlands giving house room to such a shady emigré. He has been seen in your company too. I would avoid that one, dear Charles. We may have ceased hostilities with France, but Bonaparte will never give up while he lives, and he is reported to have spies in London. The Comte must know that we have many friends in the higher echelons of the army.”
Charles had turned paper white. “First you damn my lady friends and now you accuse a member of the French nobility of being a Bonapartiste spy. Well, let me tell you this, Roger, I shall choose my own friends and if you continue in this vein, I shall leave this house forever!”
“Think about what I have said,” replied the Earl, looking at his brother sadly. “I am concerned for your welfare, Charles, that is all. There now. Let us say no more. Shall we join the… er… ladies?”
As soon as Penelope and Miss Harvey had been ushered into the drawing room, Penelope waited until the butler had retired and then turned and faced her aunt.
“I cannot go on with it,” she said firmly while Augusta stared in amazement to see her niece so incensed. “Yes, I hope to find a husband this Season, but I will not prostitute myself, madam, in front of a sneering aristocrat who obviously thinks we are lower than the dirt beneath his feet. Oh, he noticed your winks and leers and smiles. I believe you have succeeded in convincing the Earl that I would suit as his mistress.
“I agreed to do the best I could, knowing nothing of the world, and thinking that such bold tactics, so repugnant to my nature, were the way of the world. But one look at the Earl’s face and I knew they would not serve. I am aware I am entirely dependent on your charity, madam, but I will not humiliate myself in such a fashion!”
Penelope paused for breath, her cheeks flushed and her eyes blazing.
“Don’t be in such a taking,” said Miss Harvey, backing off a step. “You refine too much on things.” Augusta thought furiously. She would love to turn this impertinent baggage out of doors, but the money she had already spent on the scheme should not—could not—go to waste so quickly.
She stretched her crocodile smile to its widest. “Perhaps I was too forward,” she said with an awful laugh. “But, you see, I have your welfare at heart and was anxious to secure a good marriage for you. Forgive me, my dear. You can’t blame me for wanting the best for you.”
Penelope was immediately contrite. “I am sorry, Aunt, if I have been unjust. I shall try to do my best to please you—but fling myself at the feet of that… that… red-haired, white-faced Lord, I will not!”
“There, there,” said Augusta. “Why don’t you play a little something on the pianoforte, dear, and we won’t say any more about it.”
Penelope gratefully sat down on the music stool and began to play a piece by Scarlatti with exquisite precision, while Augusta plumped down in an armchair and thought furiously. Penelope was right. The Earl had looked disgusted. She had played her hand too quickly and too fast. She had thought that her wealth would have been enough to convince any Lord that his intentions toward her niece must be honorable, but that did not seem to be the case. Augusta reluctantly came to the conclusion that
she must do something about herself first. She must somehow become more genteel. She furrowed her brow in concentration until the powder flaked down her face like dandruff.
Miss Stride, that was it! Miss Stride should teach Augusta Harvey how to behave like a Duchess. Then Augusta thought of the money the woman would demand and groaned.
Penelope played on, beginning to relax under the soothing spell of the music. She was extremely sorry she had berated her aunt and wondered what had come over her. Her aunt was not to blame for the Earl’s attitude. Her aunt’s manners did strike her as coarse, but the good woman was only trying to secure a future for her as any mother would. It was the Earl’s attitude which had contrived to make poor Auntie seem vulgar. If he now believed she, Penelope, would be prepared to become his mistress, he was very much mistaken! Before this evening is out, thought Penelope, I shall make sure the noble Earl never wishes to set eyes on me again.
Augusta sat behind her, busily plotting and planning. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that it was some time before she realised that Charles and his brother had entered the room. The Earl was sitting quite still, his long legs stretched out in front of him, listening to the music as it turned and rippled in its mathematical beauty round the elegant room.
Augusta roused herself to direct some social remark to the Earl, but he silenced her with a frown and sank back into his absorption of Penelope’s playing.
Somewhere in Augusta’s dark, ferile, and tone-deaf soul, she realised that the Earl was enraptured. Hope sprang anew. I shall keep my mouth shut, she thought in surprise, and let things take their course.
While Charles fidgeted and worried and Augusta yawned and moved her bulk from one massive hip to the other, Penelope and the Earl sat lost in the world of music. All the Earl’s worries about his brother fell away as he watched the slim, golden girl conjure magic out of the piano. Penelope herself was completely lost in the music, far away in the only refuge she had ever known.
When she struck the last chord, there was a little silence. Then the Earl rose to his feet and walked towards the pianoforte where Penelope sat, very still, with her motionless hands on the keys.
“That was exquisite, Miss Vesey,” he said in a husky voice. “Beautiful playing by a beautiful performer. I pray you, will you sing for me?”
Penelope twisted slightly and looked up into his eyes. He was looking down at her, his gray eyes alight with warmth and a smile of singular sweetness lighting up his harsh features. She felt suddenly breathless and her body seemed to be undergoing a series of small physical shocks. She wanted to get away from him, to do something that would ensure this haughty Lord would not want to set eyes on her again. Penelope believed this sudden warmth and charm could only mean he planned to offer her his protection, but not his name.
“Very well, my lord,” she said mildly.
The Earl bowed and returned to his seat.
Penelope ran her fingers lightly over the keys. She suddenly remembered a vulgar ballad her father’s debauched friends used to sing when they were in their cups—so far gone they had forgotten there was a small girl in the room. What was it called? Ah… “The Harlot’s Progress.” Now, if that did not give my lord a disgust of her, then nothing would.
She began to play the deceptively simple and jaunty introduction and then to sing the words in a clear, sweet voice.
When Charlotte first increased the Cyprian corps,
She asked a hundred pounds—I gave her more,
Next year, to fifty sunk the course of trade:
I thought it now extravagant, but paid.
Six months elapsed, ‘twas twenty guineas then,
In vain I prayed and press’d and proffer’d ten.
Another quarter barely flipp’d away,
She begged four guineas of me at the play:
I boggled—her demand still humbler grew,
’Twas “thank you kindly, sir” for two pounds two.
Next, in the street, her favours I might win,
For a few shillings and a glass of gin.
—And now (though sad and wonderful it sounds)
I would not touch her for a hundred pounds.”
Penelope rose quietly from the pianoforte, fully aware of the electric silence in the room behind her.
For once Augusta was at a loss for words. The Earl’s face was a polite mask, and only Charles seemed to have trouble in concealing his emotions which eventually burst out in the form of a snigger which he quickly changed to a sneeze, burying his scarlet face in his handkerchief.
“Thank you,” said the Earl coldly. “A most interesting choice of ballad. I hate to end our congenial party but the hour is late….”
“Of course. Of course,” said Augusta, desperate to escape. Drat the girl. She should be out in the street this very night. Baggage!
“Thank you for your company,” said the Earl, bowing slightly over Augusta’s trembling hand. He turned punctiliously to Penelope. “And, Miss Vesey, thank you for your performance. I regret I shall be very busy this Season so it is unlikely we shall meet again.”
A small mischievous light danced somewhere in the back of Penelope’s blue eyes and she said, “I am most certain we shall not meet again, my lord.”
The Earl looked quickly down at her in sudden speculation. She had wanted him to take her in dislike. He was suddenly sure of it. He took her hand in his and looked down into her eyes, holding her gaze. “Of course, Miss Vesey, I should be loathe to lose the charming company of such an expert musician. Perhaps Miss Harvey would allow me to escort you this Thursday? A drive in the park, perhaps? You agree, Miss Harvey? Good. Until then, Miss Vesey.”
He stood back and surveyed with satisfaction the look of alarm and dismay on Penelope’s face while Augusta was still enthusiastically accepting the invitation on her behalf, over and over again. He had been right! It would be interesting to find out more about this Miss Vesey who could play like an angel, sing like a fallen one, and who was the only female in London who did not pine for the rich Earl of Hestleton’s company!
Chapter Four
“Now,” said Miss Stride in governess accents, “I am the Earl of Hestleton come to take Penelope driving. ‘Good morning, Miss Harvey. I trust I find you well?’ Now, you reply. Close your eyes and imagine I am Hestleton.”
Augusta screwed up her eyes. “I’m doing very nicely, my lord,” she said, “although I have a twinge of the old rheumatics in my hip. I take after my poor father what was a martyr to the rheumatics. I…”
“Stop!” Miss Stride held up her hand. “Miss Harvey. When someone asks you how you are, ‘tis not necessary to tell them so with anatomical descriptions. Simply reply on all occasions that you are very well, thank you, and leave it at that. You will then offer him some refreshment—which he will decline—and after a genteel five minutes, you, Penelope, will make your entrance.”
I wonder if I can go through with this, thought Miss Stride, looking at Augusta’s fat and sulky features. Then she smoothed down her new gray velvet walking dress with a complacent hand. Augusta had indeed been generous. “And, Miss Harvey,” pursued Miss Stride, “you must not wear so many bright colors and feathers. Outside of the ballroom, the line of an outfit is the thing, not the color. Now, shall we begin again? I am the Earl of Hestleton…”
Penelope sat at the window seat with her tambour frame and watched the comedy going on before her eyes with some amusement. It was the evening before the day on which she was to go driving with the Earl. Penelope had forgotten her fears of that gentleman and although she still felt he was a rather unnerving man, she decided that it was only a drive after all and she would probably not see him much after that.
She had forgotten the strange effect the Earl had had on her when he had smiled down at her when she sat on the piano stool. She had come to the conclusion that her own inexperience had overset her nerves that evening and that she had read sinister meanings and undertones into what had been probably quite innocent conversatio
ns.
The Viscount had called earlier in the day, very much the worse for wine, and had paid her vulgar and extravagant compliments which could have come from Augusta herself. Somehow his behavior had seemed to make the Hestletons less formidable and Augusta less outrageous by comparison.
Watching her aunt’s struggles with the etiquette of receiving a call, Penelope could not help but be touched. She did not know of Augusta’s plans to rise on the social ladder through her marriage and therefore thought that her aunt, despite her distressingly common ways, was showing a great degree of commendable and selfless generosity. That Augusta should try to turn herself into a lady, all for Penelope’s sake, warmed that young girl’s heart, and she felt guilty for all the hard thoughts she had previously nursed toward her aunt.
I must be a snob, after all, thought Penelope. How could I be so hard on poor Aunt simply because of her gauche behavior. Her heart is in the right place.
Augusta’s heart at that moment was suffering under the humiliation of Miss Stride’s lecture. It had taken a lot of bribery and pleading to get her to accept the job. Augusta eyed the plain, angular spinster sourly, wondering at the injustice of society. Miss Stride had hardly a penny to her name and yet was accepted everywhere, whereas she herself was wealthy and so far—apart from her visits to Hestleton and the Courtlands—had been unable to get a foot over any other aristocratic doorstep.
But she had her feeling of power to comfort her, power over the Earl’s brother. And what was the name of that Frenchie Charles had been passing the papers to? The Comte de Chernier, that was it. One of the Courtlands’ footmen had supplied her with the information. “When I have what I want out of the Viscount,” thought Augusta, “I shall perhaps pay a visit to the Comte.”
