The Daring Debutantes Bundle

by M C Beaton

  “I’m going to the Hart’s ball with Penelope tonight,” said Augusta. “Meet me there and I’ll let you know my decision.”

  “As you wish,” shrugged the Comte. “But I think you have already made up your mind!”

  Augusta rang the bell and instructed the butler to show the Comte out and then returned to the drawing room where Mr. Liwoski was waiting impatiently.

  The artist peered round his easel as Augusta seated herself and received a faint shock. Before, when Augusta had posed for him, she had primped her mouth into a small fashionable “o” and her eyes had been empty of expression. Now her mouth was stretched to its widest in an evil grin like a rictus, and her green eyes gleamed with a mixture of malice and power.

  Mr. Liwoski shrugged. Miss Harvey wanted the picture completed that day and he had only time to paint what he saw. He rubbed on the canvas with his rag and then began to lay delicate brushstrokes, placing them an intricately and delicately patterned as a mosaic, and under his expert fingers he caught Augusta in all her glory.

  Lady Hart tapped the Earl of Hestleton on the arm with her long fan. “Now, I could swear I did not invite that protégé of the Courtlands to my ball.

  The Earl looked across the room and spied the Comte de Chernier bowing to various acquaintances. “Then throw him out,” he said laconically, turning his eyes away from the Comte to scan the room for Penelope.

  “I do not wish to make a scene, Roger,” said Lady Hart, “Perhaps you might …” She broke off with a sigh. For the Earl’s face had become transfigured. Penelope Vesey had just walked into the room. She was wearing a rose pink silk gown, high-waisted in the current mode, with a spangled overdress floating around her slim figure in the evening breeze which drifted in through the long French windows opening onto the garden.

  The Earl had forgotten about Lady Hart and the Comte, and indeed everyone else in the long ballroom. He had eyes only for Penelope. He crossed quickly to her side, and her face, turned up to his, glowed with love.

  Penelope smiled up at him shyly, wondering for the hundredth time what this magnificent aristocrat could see in her. His black and white evening dress was faultless, from his intricate cravat to the sparkling jewels on his pumps. His copper hair seemed burnished till it burned with fiery lights and his gray eyes under their hooded lids held a message that made her pulses beat.

  “A moment of your time, Roger,” grated a voice in his ear.

  Augusta Harvey stood smiling up at him. A faint look of hauteur at Miss Harvey’s familiar use of his Christian name crossed his features. “What is it, Miss Harvey?” he demanded, none too graciously.

  “I am thinking of taking a little holiday in France,” said Augusta. “I’ve always wanted to see Paris and the countryside but I don’t want to leave my little Penelope alone in Brook Street. Mayhap you could take her to your country home so that she’ll get used to the running of a big house, like.”

  “Yes,” said the Earl slowly. “As a matter of fact I have some unfinished business to attend to in the country. My maiden aunt, Matilda Jefferson, lives with me at the moment and would act as chaperone. When did you plan to leave, Miss Harvey?”

  “Well, I’m having a party for the unveiling of my portrait,” simpered Augusta. “Just a little informal affair with a few friends. I’m holding it in a couple of days time. Let me see, that will be Saturday. And after that, I can leave. Say first thing on Sunday morning.”

  “Very well,” said the Earl. “Does that please you, my darling?”

  “Oh, yes,” smiled Augusta before Penelope could answer. Augusta thought the Earl had addressed the endearment to herself.

  Augusta walked away, well satisfied, and Penelope collapsed into helpless giggles.

  “I cannot wait to see Mr. Liwoski’s portrait of Miss Harvey,” said the Earl. “Now, my sweet, this next dance is a highly energetic Scottish reel. On the other hand, we could walk in the garden and do something … er … less energetic.”

  The Comte watched the Earl’s well-tailored back disappearing through the French windows and waylaid Augusta Harvey.

  “Roger is becoming quite fond of me,” simpered Augusta. “He called me ‘my darling.’”

  “I am sure he was referring to his fiancée,” said the Comte cooly, and watched with satisfaction as a little cloud of doubt settled on Augusta’s brow. “Do not delude yourself, madam,” he pursued. “The Earl will not have you in his household. He lowered his voice. “And if you travel with me, then I can show you the grand chateau that will be yours. Napolean is generous to his friends. Think of it. No longer Miss Harvey but … Madame la Comtesse.”

  Augusta wavered. At that moment Lady Courtland sailed into view. Augusta dropped her a deep curtsey. Lady Courtland replied with a frozen stare and then raised her handkerchief pointedly to her nose before she stalked away. Augusta could not ignore this direct cut and her face flamed.

  “I’ll go,” she said, glaring after Lady Courtland. “But not till Sunday, mind. My portrait is being exhibited on Saturday. You’ll come, of course.”

  “Of course,” said the Comte smoothly. “I sincerely hope the artist had done justice to your striking features.”

  From another corner of the ballroom Charles watched them and nervously bit his nails. He did not trust that combination of blackmailers one bit. His heart felt heavy and his head reeled from too much wine. He felt as if his world, never very secure, was falling apart. Every second, he dreaded the shout “spy!” As he tossed and turned at night, he saw the contempt that would be on the faces of his friends and the look of distaste and scorn on his brother’s.

  Yet he could not keep away from the gambling tables. He could not! He had already lost all the money he had won at Watier’s and was in desperate need of more to satisfy his craving for the gaming table. Roger gave him a generous allowance but it was a pittance when one was playing against men who were prepared to gamble thousands in a night.

  Then a little ray of hope crept into his mind. He had at least satisfied Augusta. Her niece was marrying his brother after all! He would call on Augusta before her portrait party and beg her to help him get rid of the Comte. Augusta was wily. She would think of something.

  Augusta was by no means pleased to hear that the Viscount was desirous of having a few words with her before her famous party. Her lady’s maid had just placed an enormous turban on Augusta’s sparse locks which made her look rather like a bloated sultan. Augusta dashed the hares foot over her face, sprinkling powder on her pink and red striped dress as she did so. Miss Stride had not been consulted as to suitable wear for the party, and Augusta had given free rein to her penchant for violent colors.

  To complement the pink and red stripes of her gown, Augusta had chosen to wear an orange turban, decorated with a large synthetic ruby. She could never see the reason for wasting money on real jewels when fake ones looked just as pretty. She picked up an emerald green fan and stood patiently while her maid draped a purple gauze stole over her massive shoulders. She would see Charles. He had probably only come to cringe and flatter as usual.

  Charles blinked rapidly. What looked like a particularly violent sunset erupted into the room as Augusta entered in all her glory.

  The ill-assorted pair stared at each other in silence. Where there is a bully, there is always someone who seems to crave to be bullied; whose shrinking soul and very emanations seem to cry out to the bully for a harder hit. Such was Charles, Viscount Clairmont. And Augusta reacted to this quivering psyche as all bullies will react. Her eyes gleamed with a lazy enjoyment of power and the knowledge that there was one person at least who must suffer the worst of her manners without complaint.

  “What d’ye want?” she said.

  “What a splendid gown, Miss Harvey,” babbled Charles. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. You have such a fine eye for color. You …”

  “I asked you what you wanted,” snarled Augusta.

  “Oh, well, I mean, I hope you’re pleased that I’v
e paid my part of the bargain. I mean, Penelope’s to be married and all that.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I mean, we’re square, aren’t we? After all, you won’t tell Roger anything now?”

  “Who says I won’t,” said Augusta with a slow grin splitting her powdered cheeks. “That was only your first task,” went on this heartless female Eurystheus. “I’ve still got use for you. Now, the Comte wants me to get secrets for him. But I can’t crawl around Horseguards and the Foreign Office the way you can, and why keep a dog and bark yourself, heh! So you’ll do my work for me.”

  “No!” screamed Charles. “I can’t bear it. Don’t make me! I swear I’ll take my life. Have you never heard of a conscience? At first it did not matter. Just one little bit of information, that was all. But now, I am a fully fledged traitor. Good God, woman! We are betraying Eng!and!”

  “Oh, tol rol!” sneered Augusta. “Such heroics.” She got to her feet and stood over Charles who was crouched on a low chair. She suddenly seemed immense and powerful. “You snivelling little coward,” she said, “prating on about patriotism while you foul up my drawing room and shit your small clothes with fear. Harkee, laddie, you will do what I want and when I want it or Roger shall hear about you. He can’t touch me because he would have to expose you and he’s too proud of his great name to do that. Take yourself off. You puking little baby.”

  She began to laugh, a loud, horrible, jeering sound which rang and rang in Charles’s ears as he crept from the room.

  He reeled across the hall, unaware that Penelope was standing on the staircase staring at his distraught face in amazement, and out of the door into the street.

  Penelope stood very still. What was wrong with Charles? And why was her aunt laughing in that terrible way?

  She went into the drawing room. Augusta had stopped laughing and was adjusting her turban in front of the looking glass. Penelope winced at the violent color combination and then said, “Tell me, dear Aunt, is there anything the matter with Charles? I saw him leaving just now and he looked so very white.”

  “No,” said Augusta. “He is in fine fettle and delighted with your engagement, my dear—as are we all.” She came towards the girl and put a plump arm around Penelope’s slender waist and gave her a playful squeeze. “I’ll be sorry to lose my little niece but, after all, Auntie will be staying with you for long, long visits. Won’t she?”

  “Oh—oh, yes, that is—well, Roger says we should be on our own—together that is—for … for some time so that we can get to know each other,” said Penelope, looking at the floor. The Earl had, in fact, warned Penelope that, despite her improved manners, he could only stand a very, very little of Augusta’s presence.

  Augusta took note of Penelope’s downcast eyes and the hesitancy with which she had spoken and became more than ever resolved to depart for France in the morning.

  One by one the guests began to arrive until the drawing room was quite crowded. Miss Stride was there, and the Earl. Other members of the ton had accepted Miss Harvey’s invitation out of curiosity and because the Earl was one of the highest members of society. Eyes kept turning to the draped easel at the end of the room. Only the artist had failed to put in an appearance.

  The door opened and everyone turned. But it was only Charles, his face still very white. The Earl looked at his brother anxiously and then gave a mental shrug. Charles spent such late nights drinking with his cronies that he often looked white and shaken the next day.

  At last Augusta could wait no longer. Mr. Liwoski had obviously decided not to attend, which was strange since he had not been paid and had not let Augusta see the portrait, having promised her a glorious surprise on the day of the unveiling.

  Augusta gave a loud cough to collect everyone’s attention. “My lord, ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a voice quite squeaky with excitement. “I shall perform the unveiling of the portrait myself.”

  She grasped the edge of the cloth which covered the easel and pulled.

  There was sudden silence.

  Penelope stood rooted to the floor, gazing in horror at the portrait.

  The paint had been laid on by the hand of a genius. The figure in the portrait seemed alive. The painted Augusta Harvey stared at the room full of guests, her face a mask of hatred, cunning, and malice.

  The real Augusta Harvey looked proudly up at her painted self, seeing nothing amiss. It was, after all, a face that often stared back at her from her looking glass.

  Then the silence was hideously shattered. Charles let out a high, thin, screaming, spluttering laugh. With a shaking finger he pointed to the canvas.

  “Augusta Harvey to the life,” he screamed. “By God, Augusta, the man has painted your soul!”

  The Earl hurried towards his brother and then, taking his arm in a firm grip, led him from the room.

  The guests all burst out into noisy speech.

  Penelope stood quite still, staring at the portrait. Her own feelings for Augusta had swung back and forth as her still undeveloped personality swung from maturity to immaturity—one minute the woman, the next the child. The woman felt that Augusta should be watched very carefully and not trusted very much. The child longed for Augusta to be a substitute mother and saw in her coarseness a rough diamond. Which was the real Augusta?

  Penelope did not know.

  But as she continued to stare at the portrait, she began to feel afraid.

  Chapter Eight

  Wyndham Court, home of the Earl of Hestleton, was a great rambling pile of mixed architecture, from Tudor to modern. It stood on a rise, commanding a fine view of the fields and woods of Hertfordshire.

  Here was the home Penelope had dreamed of, with its long, spacious rooms and bowls of flowers.

  She had at first been intimidated by the army of servants and the rather grim and austere figure of Aunt Matilda who was an extremely tall, thin elderly spinster. But the servants had done all in their power to make the future mistress of Wyndham Court feel at home and Aunt Matilda had turned out to be garrulous and friendly and not at all like her forbidding exterior.

  The weather was idyllic, long hot sunny days fading into soft gray and rose evenings and starlit nights.

  Penelope had spent her days being driven around the estate by the Earl and her evenings playing the piano for Aunt Matilda who had an insatiable love of music. And then, sometimes, in a quiet corner of the garden there were those stolen, hungry kisses with the Earl. Each time they seemed not enough, and Penelope would toss and turn during the night, feeling strangely restless and unsatisfied.

  It was not that Aunt Matilda was a particularly conscientious chaperone. It was just that she had taken a great liking to Penelope, trotting happily after her when Penelope retired for the night and passing half an hour each night in Penelope’s bedroom “having a comfortable coze.”

  Early one evening Penelope escaped from Aunt Matilda’s company and went out onto the broad flagged terrace to enjoy the cool, still air. Scarlet roses spilled over the edge of great stone urns on the balustrade of the terrace, and beyond, the wide, green, shaven lawns rolled gently away towards the darkness of the woods.

  Penelope heard a step on the terrace behind her and a well-loved voice said, “Dreaming, my dear?”

  Penelope turned, her pale skin almost translucent in the soft twilight. “Oh, Roger,” she sighed. “Of all things to think about on this beautiful evening! But I can’t help wondering why Mr. Liwoski painted Aunt Augusta so. He did not seem a particularly malicious man. He made her look evil.”

  “It was a caricature, that was all,” said the Earl mildly.

  “But it could not be that,” expostulated Penelope. “A caricature dramatises, highlights, qualities that are there. And Aunt is not malicious or evil.”

  Her voice rose at the end in a faint question.

  “There is no accounting for the whims of artists,” said the Earl lightly.

  At that moment they heard Aunt Matilda calling them in to dinner. While
she regaled Penelope with a recipe for rose water, the Earl sat buried in thought, remembering the aftermath of the portrait party.

  Augusta’s portrait! Charles had been nearly incoherent. “But don’t you see, Roger? Don’t you see the joke of it all,” he had kept saying over and over again. “It’s the pig lady in person.”

  The pig-faced lady was one of the absurd reports and ridiculous stories which had swept London during the spring of 1814. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who had seen the pig-faced lady. The shops were full of caricatures of her wearing a poke bonnet with a large veil, with “A pig in a poke” written underneath. A timid young baronet, Sir William Elliot, claimed that the pig-faced lady lived in Grosvenor Square. He had met her when he had called at a certain mansion and had been unable to restrain his cry of horror when what he thought was a fashionably dressed young person turned to reveal the monstrous and horrible face of a pig. He claimed that the pig-faced lady, incensed at his cry of horror, had rushed towards him with great grunts and had bitten him in the neck. The wound had been dressed by Hawkins, the surgeon, in St. Audley Street and Mr. Hawkins had said the wound was a severe one.

  Sir William, however, claimed to have forgotten the exact address in Grosvenor Square.

  For days after, several bucks and bloods had hung around the confines of Grosvenor Square hoping for a glance at this lady, but in vain. The story spread all over London. The pig-faced lady had been seen at the Tower, at Gunter’s eating ices, even at Almack’s!

  The Earl realised that if Charles continued in this hysterical vein, most of London would be flooding to Brook Street for a glimpse of Augusta Harvey.

  He finally seemed to have driven some sense into Charles’s head, and when his young brother appeared calmer, had asked him the meaning of the outburst. Charles had looked slightly furtive and had claimed that he had been foxed and the Earl remembered that his brother had smelled of brandy.