by M C Beaton
Lord Varleigh rose to take his leave. He bowed punctiliously over Annabelle’s hand, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Lady Emmeline had started to berate Horley over nothing in particular and everything in general, and Annabelle could not resist moving to the window to watch Lord Varleigh leave.
A smart yellow landau came to a stop in front of him. Smiling alluringly at Lord Varleigh from the landau was Lady Jane Cherle. A pale shaft of sunlight shone on the magnificent pearls at her throat. Lord Varleigh joined her in the carriage, and Lady Jane rested her head on his shoulder as they drove off.
Annabelle stood very still. Lady Jane had looked so sophisticated and beautiful. Annabelle became aware that she was engulfed in a new strong violent emotion. She wanted to see Lady Jane ruined; she wanted all London to laugh at her. Above all, Annabelle wanted Lord Varleigh to look at his mistress with contempt instead of with that heart-wrenching lazy intimacy.
I’m jealous, thought poor Annabelle. I’m jealous of Lady Jane’s beauty. What a stupid wretch I am!
She raised her hands to her suddenly hot cheeks. Was this then how her sisters felt? With a new understanding of Mary, Susan, and Lisbeth tucked away in the Hazeldean rectory, Annabelle removed to her room to write a new kind of letter to them—telling them how much she missed them and how she longed to be home again.
Chapter Five
In the following days Annabelle became more and more accustomed to the bewildering social round.
Some of it seemed delightful, like the breakfasts among the Middlesex meadows or Surrey woods, and some, downright ridiculous. How on earth could one call an event a party when there was no room to sit, no conversation, no cards and no music—only shouting and elbowing through a succession of rooms meant to hold six hundred instead of the sixteen hundred invited? And then battling down the stairs again and the long wait for the carriage to make its way through the press so that one spent more time with the gold-laced footmen on the steps outside than with one’s hosts upstairs.
Annabelle was to have her voucher for Almack’s since Lady Emmeline was a great social power and any girl making a come-out under her aegis must be good ton.
In 1765 a Scotsman called William Macall reversed the syllables of his name to provide a more memorable title for his new Assembly Rooms—Almack’s. Now nearly fifty years later at the height of its fame with a great wave of snobbery sweeping London, it thrived under the management of the haughty, vulgar, and indefatigable beauty, Lady Jersey. Not to have a voucher to one of Almack’s Wednesday nights was to be damned socially and forever. So formidable were the patronesses that one of them, the Countess Lieven, was heard to say, “It is not fashionable where I am not.”
A lady of the ton was expected to be fragile and useless and infinitely feminine. But the definition of a gentleman was the exact opposite, Annabelle learned. “An out and outer, one up to everything, down as a nail, a trump, a Trojan … one that can patter flash, floor a charley, mill a coal heaver, come coachey in prime style, up to every rig and row in town and down to every move upon the board from a nibble at the club to a dead hit at a hell; can swear, smoke, take snuff, lush, play at all games, and throw over both sexes in different ways—he is the finished man!” No wonder, reflected poor Annabelle, that Lady Emmeline was increasingly amazed that her strange goddaughter had not tumbled head over heels in love with Captain MacDonald.
But it was sometimes exciting, particularly in the evenings from six to eight and from eight to ten when Mayfair came alive with the rumbling of carriages, their flaming lamps twinkling along the fashionable streets, past tall houses ablaze with lights from top to bottom. And the food! Périgord pie and truffles from France, sauces and curry powder from India, hams from Westphalia and Portugal, caviar from Russia, reindeer tongues from Lapland, (olives from Spain, cheese from Parma, and sausages from Bologna.
Sometimes the sheer extravagance of the members of this gilded society seemed overwhelming to Annabelle. Lady Londonderry went to a ball so covered in jewels that she could not stand and had to be followed around with a chair. And her very handkerchiefs cost fifty guineas the dozen. Everything, as the Corinthians would say, had to be “prime and bang up to the mark.”
Despite various discreet requests Annabelle had refused to divulge the name of her dressmaker for fear Madame Croke would discover Annabelle’s alterations to her styles.
To her disappointment she had not yet found a female friend. In the hurly-burly of the marriage mart she was marked down as one of the few who had already succeeded. Members of her own sex who were still out there on the battleground preferred to huddle together in groups, plotting and exchanging gossip.
London was enjoying an unusually fine spell of hot weather so it was possible to wear the delicate lawns and Indian muslins without also displaying acres of mottled gooseflesh. Annabelle was to attend a fête champêtre onboard the Hullocks’ “little yacht.” Mr. Hullock was a wealthy merchant who entertained the ton lavishly in the hope of securing titled marriages for his daughters. But the aristocracy drank his fine French vintages and guzzled his food and remained as aloof and patronising as ever.
A long box had arrived from Madame Croke containing Annabelle’s costume for the party. In vain had Annabelle pleaded with Lady Emmeline to be allowed to make her own. What could a country miss know of fashion, Lady Emmeline had demanded.
Annabelle stared at the contents of the box in dismay. Madame Croke had surpassed herself. A neat label in tight script declared it to be the costume of Athene. It was of fine white lawn—so fine it was nigh transparent and the skirt ended just below the knee. Did Madame Croke expect Annabelle to show her legs in public? She obviously did.
Annabelle recalled having seen a slim rose silk gown in her vast wardrobe. With a few tucks and changes and stitches, it could be transformed into an alluring under-dress. The flounces at the hem would have to be removed to style the dress in keeping with the Greek-goddess image.
The gold helmet was, however, very flattering and no doubt Monsieur André, the hairdresser, would twist Annabelle’s long curls into an attractive style to suit it.
She bent her head over the costume and began to work.
Horley came into the room as quietly as a shadow. Annabelle guiltily thrust her work behind her. “What is it, Horley?” she demanded as Horley’s piercing black eyes seemed to stare straight through her to the costume hidden behind.
“It’s the Captain, miss. Captain MacDonald,” said Horley, holding open the door and stepping aside to let Annabelle past. “He’s waiting downstairs.”
“I shall be down presently,” said Annabelle. “And next time, please knock, Horley.”
“Good servants never knock,” said Horley righteously.
“Then scratch at the door. You know exactly what I mean, Horley,” snapped Annabelle. Horley bristled with anger and then turned abruptly and left the room.
She was quite sure miss was tampering with those gowns and more than one lady had held out a bribe to Horley in the hopes of finding out the name of Annabelle’s dressmaker. Then they should have it, decided Horley grimly, and that might give that little upstart something to worry about.
The Captain was pacing up and down the room. He stopped when he saw Annabelle, and the pair went through their peculiar hit-and-miss ballet—the Captain trying to kiss Annabelle and Annabelle trying to avoid the kiss being planted on her mouth. At last the Captain turned to the decanter as usual and, after he had poured himself a generous measure of canary, he asked Annabelle in a surprisingly gentle voice if she would mind if he did not escort her to the fête.
Annabelle did not mind in the least but felt it would be rude to say so. She compromised by pointing out that the Captain had indeed been a dutiful escort during the previous days and that she felt he deserved an “evening off.”
The Captain beamed at her with affectionate relief. There was a prime mill at Brick Hill and he would not miss it for worlds and if he did not get there the night before,
then he would not be able to command the best place since sportsmen from all over the country would be journeying there. He waxed almost poetical on the subject of boxing—how the last time he had been at Brick Hill, he had been loitering around the inn door when a barouche and four had driven up with Lord Byron and a party and Jackson, the trainer. How they had all dined together and how marvellous it had been, the intense excitement, the sparring, then the first round and— oh! it was … Homeric.
Annabelle smiled and tried not to show her relief at the prospect of a social evening without the Captain.
LADY Jane Cherle bit her rather full underlip. For all Lord Varleigh’s kisses and caresses, she had not liked the way he had promptly walked off with Annabelle from the Standishes’ breakfast. He had just now sent Jane a note saying that he would be grateful if she could make her own way to the Hullocks’ party as he had some pressing business. She would not go, thought Jane pettishly. But her costume of a Turkish harem girl was infinitely seductive, and she did not want its charms to go to waste. After some thought she decided she would go after all—but very, very late. That would give Sylvester Varleigh time to miss her. And that way she could make a very splendid last minute appearance.
ANNABELLE and Lady Emmeline were late by the time they boarded the Hullocks’ enormous yacht which was moored in the Thames near to Vauxhall Gardens. The decks of the yacht were thickly carpeted in oriental rugs, and silk canopies fluttered over the heads of the guests. A magnificent red sunset was blazing through the forest of masts of the other ships.
Mr. Hullock was as proud and as pleased with his fashionable guests as if they were a friendly company of kindred spirits instead of a vacuous-faced jostling throng. As darkness crept over the water and young Rossini’s music serenaded the guzzling guests, Annabelle noticed Lord Varleigh climbing aboard. He was correct to an inch in formal evening dress instead of costume; chapeau bras and knee breeches, ruffled shirt and cravat, short jacket with swallow tails, diamonded pumps and dress sword. His gaze wandered towards Annabelle, he gave a brief smile, and then continued to search the crowd. He is looking for Lady Jane, thought Annabelle. Her costume which had seemed so dashing and alluring only a few minutes ago now seemed to poor Annabelle to have become downright frumpish. Her head sank slightly under her gold helmet, and she stared dismally at the dirty water moving beside the schooner.
When she raised her head again, it was to see that Lord Varleigh had given up his search for Lady Jane and was moving towards her. All of a sudden Annabelle did not want to be singled out as second best. She moved swiftly away towards the stern of the ship where the light of the many lanterns; did not reach.
The heartbreaking strains of a waltz echoed in the still air, and the smells of wine and French cooking mingled with the less attractive smells of the river.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Annabelle could make out the shapes of a couple approaching her. She shrank back into the blackness and stood very still, not wanting her confused thoughts to be interrupted.
It was then she realised that the couple were approaching in a very odd manner. With surprise, she made out the gold lace of Lady Emmeline’s evening gown, the Dowager Marchioness having decided not to go in costume.
But Lady Emmeline was walking backwards, and instead of accompanying her, the gentleman was behind her. A sudden burst of fireworks went up from Vauxhall Gardens and Annabelle noticed with horror that Lady Emmeline’s escort or pursuer was dressed as a pirate and was carrying a very lethal-looking cutlass which he was pointing straight at the terrified Dowager Marchioness.
“Back,” grated the “pirate” in a hoarse voice. His face was masked and his eyes glittered strangely through the slits in the black velvet. “Over the side with you,” he hissed, holding the point of the cutlass dangerously near the terrified Lady Emmeline’s throat.
“I c-can’t s-swim,” babbled Lady Emmeline. “I sh-shall drown.”
“Exactly,” mocked the pirate.
“Wait!” cried Annabelle, darting forward. She stood in front of her terrified godmother. “Now, my man,” she said, “you have two of us to deal with.”
“Get out of the way, you silly little doxy,” rasped the pirate. Annabelle felt the point of the cutlass at her throat, but she did not flinch. Annabelle would have been very surprised indeed had she been told she was being extremely brave. Her duty was to rescue her godmother at all costs.
Her mind worked very quickly. Her godmother’s attacker obviously wanted Lady Emmeline’s death to look like an accident. Then she must risk screaming for help.
She threw back her head and screamed as loudly as she could, and great shriek upon shriek echoed along the length of the vessel.
There came the sound of running footsteps as Lord Varleigh hurtled along the companionway, his drawn sword in his hand. The pirate looked from Annabelle to Lord Varleigh and jumped nimbly over the side of the schooner. There was a loud splash. Annabelle craned her head over the side. There came another burst of golden stars from the Vauxhall fireworks, and she could see the pirate’s head bobbing among their golden reflections as he swam with strong strokes to the shore.
More people came running up, and there was a tremendous babble of “What happened” and “Good gracious” and the high voice of Mr. Louch suggesting, “It might have been Harry Stokes. He’s dressed as Neptune and mayhap wants some more fair maidens for his kingdom. Oh! ’Tis Lady Emmeline. Then he is perhaps in the need of some old trout.”
“Shame,” cried several voices, and Mr. Louch, who was dressed as a rajah, retired in disorder.
The Countess Honeyford, an old friend of Lady Emmeline, who was finding the entertainments tiresome and had complained bitterly at having been introduced to a mere merchant before she had taken two aristocratic steps on board, offered to escort the shaken Dowager Marchioness home.
Lady Emmeline recovered enough to give Annabelle a warm hug. “You saved my life, my dear,” she said clasping Annabelle to her scanty bosom. “No need for you to rush away. Look after her, Varleigh, will you?”
“Delighted,” said Lord Varleigh smoothly, leading Annabelle away. Annabelle wondered why she stayed. It was surely her duty to go home with Lady Emmeline. As she and Lord Varleigh elbowed and pushed their way through the throng, hands caught at Lord Varleigh’s sleeve and mocking voices asked him what he had done with Lady Jane. Annabelle saw the plump figure of her godmother being helped down into a small boat which was to take her to the farther shore and made an impulsive move to run after her but found herself restrained by the surprising strength of Lord Varleigh’s fingers.
Bowing and smiling to his acquaintances, he led the reluctant Annabelle to a quiet corner, picking up a bottle of champagne and two glasses on the way.
“Now, my delectable Athene,” he said, filling her glass. “You must tell me exactly what happened.”
As he listened carefully to her story, he was touched and amused by the bravery she had displayed and by the fact that she was completely unaware of it.
When she had finished, he sat in silence few what seemed to Annabelle a very long time. At last he said, “Someone is trying to kill Lady Emmeline.”
Annabelle had already come to just that conclusion herself, but it was shocking to hear it voiced in such a quiet conversational tone. “What are we to do?” she asked.
“Keep a close guard on her,” he said, “and watch for anyone who might be her enemy. I shall help you, Miss Quennell.”
“Thank you,” said Annabelle quietly, stealing a shy look at his profile. He turned suddenly and smiled down at her, and she felt as if her bones had turned to water.
Most of the guests were leaving and many of the lanterns had burned out. But in the dim light he could see Annabelle’s large eyes searching his own and the faint tremor of her lips. On impulse he bent his head and placed a fleeting kiss on her mouth. The young soft lips beneath his seemed to cling and burn, and he raised his head and stared at her in silence as the shrill voice o
f his mistress cut through the chatter of the departing guests, “Sylvester! Has anyone seen Sylvester?”
Lord Varleigh took Annabelle’s hand in his and held it. “Not tonight,” he murmured. “No. Not tonight, Lady Jane.”
Lady Jane stood surrounded by the remainder of the guests. “Varleigh’s gone off with that Quennell girl,” came the high voice of George Louch. “MacDonald will have something to say about that,” he added with a titter.
Lady Jane’s large eyes seemed to bore into the darkness where Annabelle was sitting. For a moment her face was white with fury and then, in an instant, she had changed to her usual coquettish self.
“Then who will be my cavalier?” she cried. Several male voices answered in assent, and surrounded by a laughing and cheering group, Lady Jane departed.
Annabelle became aware that Lord Varleigh was still holding her hand and tugged it free. She was suddenly hot with shame at the enormity of her behavior. What on earth would her father say were he to know that she had let one man kiss her while she was engaged to another?
But Lord Varleigh rose and collected his chapeau bras and escorted Miss Quennell home as if nothing at all had passed between them. She did not know whether to be angry or glad.
To Annabelle’s surprise Lady Emmeline was waiting up for her. Lord Varleigh had left Annabelle on her doorstep to go … where? To Lady Jane? Or did the “No, not tonight” still apply?
Lady Emmeline was dressed more in keeping with her age in a faded kimono and as a result looked considerably younger.
“Come in, sit down, my dear,” she said as Annabelle entered. “I have not yet thanked you enough for saving my life.” She raised one plump, beringed hand as Annabelle would have protested. “No, indeed! It was a most courageous action. You have more spirit than … than … well, than I would ever have guessed. You must tell me what I can give you. Jewels? Furs…no, not the season. Come now. There must be something you want?”
