by Beverley, Jo
Lucy circled this, seeking a trap, but didn’t find one. Frightened of shattering the precious opportunity, she plaintively said, “It is, it is. . . .”
Clara backed away, whispering, “I will leave you in tranquility, cousin. . . .”
A moment later Lucy heard her running along the corridor crying, “Mama! Mama! Lucinda is a poetess!”
Lucy sank her head in her hands, shaking with laughter. What had she done now?
When she’d overcome hilarity and wiped her eyes, she began to hope. As a poetess, would she be allowed time alone rather than being invaded by people concerned that she was at death’s door?
She opened the book again, but then realized that the merest glance at the first page would see prose. How was she going to keep up the pretense when she could be interrupted at any moment?
Could she write her observations and thoughts in the appearance of verse? That merely meant in shorter lines.
As an experiment she transcribed some of what she’d written onto a new page.
There is a spare bedroom here,
So it’s most unfair.
I can’t imagine what evil might arise
From solitary sleeping,
But if there is any, Cousin Jeremy is exposed to it.
It was working!
Cousin Jeremy is as much a chatterer
As Aunt Mary and Clara, but less often home,
Being out in a striped waistcoat
And monstrous cravat, doing foolish things.
Aunt Mary enjoys scandals,
Perhaps because they allow her to show superiority
Through disapproval, and that’s because
Lord Caldross is not quite as he should be.
What a lot one learns
When living under the same roof as others.
Now, could she write original thoughts in the form?
I do believe that I have found the way
To enjoy some sweet tranquility every day.
She frowned at the rhyme. There was no need to go to extremes, but the plan was working.
She used her small knife to carefully cut out the first page. She folded it and hid it in her desk. Her book would be entirely in poetic form.
“Thank you, Sebastian Rossiter. May you be truly with the angels now.”
After a tentative tap on the door, Clara came in. “I apologize for interrupting you, Lucinda, but it’s time we prepared for our morning visits.”
Lucy could smile in true good humor. “Of course it is, and the muse has done with me for now.”
She locked the book away in her desk, but put the key in her pocket. She’d find a secure hiding place, for despite her relatives’ reverence for poets, she’d lay no money on them being able to resist trying to get a glimpse of her inspired verses.
* * *
That evening Lucy had another period of privacy.
They were all preparing for the Charrington ball, and a hairdresser had come to attend them. Lucy’s hair had needed little, for he’d only had to gather it into a knot and secure the Grecian tiara she was to wear. Clara’s hair was a mightier work requiring pomade and curling irons. As that was taking place in Aunt Mary’s room Lucy took out her journal to record some more tidbits and thoughts.
Aunt Mary normally holds a rout
To fulfill her social obligations.
This year, of course, Clara must have a ball
So assembly rooms have been booked.
Not Almack’s, though they are for hire
Except on sacred Wednesdays.
Will I achieve the entrée soon on a Wednesday
If I maintain Silly Lucinda at all times?
Perhaps not, being a Cit.
I have heard that word used,
Despite my mother’s birth
And my aunt’s sponsorship.
A Cit, with the T spat as it is spoken.
Her lead broke, and she realized she was angry. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. She sharpened the pencil, then locked everything away, choosing happier thoughts.
She was going to a ton ball, one hosted by a countess, no less, and a countess who had been a poet’s inspiration. She anticipated opulence beyond reason, extravagance without restraint, and expanses of fabulous jewelry.
For her true social debut she’d chosen a gown in a silky opalescent material, which was now ornamented with golden beads and fringing and cut wide on the shoulders.
She had some fine jewels inherited from her mother, but her parents had never flaunted their wealth, and she suspected that the ton would be watching for some vulgar display. So she’d chosen a parure of delicate gold set with topaz and diamond chips, which wasn’t costly but glittered delightfully under candlelight. Instead of the matching bandeau for her hair she was wearing a golden Grecian headband that had been a favorite of her mother’s. She touched it, for luck, and to be sure it was secure.
Clara rushed back and stared at Lucy. “You look magnificent!”
“You look lovely, too,” Lucy said, and it was true.
Clara’s tightly dressed hair improved her, and she sparkled with excitement. She was soon dressed in a moss green gown overlaid with spider gauze that suited her coloring, and then she added pearls.
Lucy wondered if she should wear pearls for her ton debut. She had a magnificent string. Too magnificent, she realized, and she was hardly a miss in her first season. She took stock in the long mirror, fluttering her golden lace fan.
“Perhaps that gown is just a little too low?” Clara said hesitantly.
A good portion of Lucy’s upper breasts showed. She pushed away misgivings. “This isn’t my social debut, Clara. I’m twenty-one years old.”
“That’s true. The gentlemen will positively swarm you, I’m sure.”
Lucy smiled, but the word “swarmed” made her think of changing into something more demure. No, because the true appeal was her money. Even one of her plain gowns wouldn’t deter the fortune hunters.
Her mind slid back to Winsom’s. Had her country gentleman returned to his boggy acres? Despite all her willpower, she hadn’t been able to avoid looking for him when traveling through crowded streets, and even at social events, where he’d never be. Of course she hadn’t seen him, and she refused to be disappointed by that.
She turned her mind to the delights to come and took a few dancing steps in front of the long mirror. Her golden slippers, jewels, and Grecian headband glittered in the candlelight and all her golden fringing swayed.
She was ready to sparkle at her first ton ball!
* * *
Three streets away, Susan came to inspect David.
“I wish it were possible to capture you instantly in a portrait. Aunt Miriam would be in alt to see you so elegant.”
He smiled at her. “I could say the same to you.”
“She’s grown accustomed to me playing the fine lady.”
For most of their lives Susan had been careless about fashion, but now she did her best to live up to her station as a viscountess. Tonight she was wearing a fine bronze striped gown with half a yard of flouncing around the hem and shoulders that seemed ready to slide off, which seemed to be the latest device to drive men mad.
Her brown hair was almost entirely concealed by an ivory turban cockaded with a sprig of bronze flowers set with glittering stones. He knew they were paste and not diamonds only because Con couldn’t afford jewels of that size. The Viscountcy of Amleigh was only comfortably prosperous, even if it was far more prosperous than his earldom. If there had ever been family jewels, they’d disappeared, entail and legalities be damned.
“You do look very handsome, David. Miss Potter won’t be able to resist.”
“I pray you’re right, for then I won’t have to do this for long.” He turned to the mirror. “I feel like a shopkeeper playing tricks to fool customers into buying inferior goods. This isn’t me.”
The operation to remove the creasing at the waist of his jacket had pinched it in. It was the late
st style, but he thought it looked ridiculous. He was wearing the essential black pantaloons, but had been allowed to retain his old dancing shoes, even if he hardly recognized them with such a high shine. His hair had been severely cropped by a master in what was called a Caesar.
“That hairstyle makes you look formidable,” she said. “You should keep it. It will help you cow the Horde—especially when you glower like that.”
That made him laugh. “I assure you, I won’t dress like this back home, not even to rule the world. This cravat seems likely to strangle me.”
“Other men survive,” she said unsympathetically. “And by fashionable standards, it’s quite modest.”
“Only because I fought off all comers.”
She came over to adjust the pearl-headed pin that fixed the starched folds in place. “Your twenty-first birthday present. Uncle Nathaniel and Aunt Miriam could never have imagined you’d end up an earl.”
And I wish their imaginings had been true. But he managed not to say it. “At least the fashion is for limited ornament for the male. I can get away with just the signet ring.”
She looked at the red coral engraved with a dragon. “Con never wore that. He was as reluctant as you.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
Of course she understood.
“Let’s get to it,” he said, picking up his cloak, hat, and gloves. “What if Miss Potter doesn’t admire the latest style? Perhaps a City lady prefers something simpler.”
“Unlikely.” Susan linked arms as they left the room. “I met her at Mrs. Gilbert’s yesterday afternoon and she was dressed in very fine style. A large pendant pearl, smart green half boots, and two rows of Vandyke lace around her hem that must have cost a fortune.”
“She’s going to beggar me through haberdashery?”
“You could see it as bringing a rich dowry of trimmings.”
“I’d rather spend her money on trimming hedges. Is she as featherbrained as reported?”
“She’s certainly no bluestocking,” she said as they went downstairs. “Because I know your requirements, I tested her a little. I dangled the topic of parliamentary reform and she responded as if she scarcely knew what Parliament was. She became more animated when the talk turned to bonnets, but when some ladies compared the cost of feathers with the cost of silk flowers it was as if they spoke Greek.” At the bottom of the stairs she frowned at him. “Are you sure you could bear that, my dear?”
“She sounds perfect.”
To a depressing degree.
As David went with Susan and Con out to the carriage, his mind slid back to the lady of the bookshop. He shouldn’t allow that brief encounter into his mind, but he seemed to have no barriers against it. He’d even found himself en route to Winsom’s yesterday and only just managed to turn back.
He knew his duty, and that his tastes played little part in it. He wouldn’t marry a woman he disliked for he’d not be able to disguise that, which would be misery for both of them. But if Miss Potter was tolerable, he’d win her and her money, and then be the best husband he could.
Chapter 8
The Amleigh carriage joined the line in front of Lady Charrington’s house, where he’d have to face the beau monde en masse for the first time. Many would doubt his right to be there, and some might even be hostile. Even though his mother truly had married the Mad Earl, David represented flagrant, unrepentant immorality by one born high enough to know better.
They joined the queue to go upstairs and were soon warmly greeted by Charrington and his wife, whose simple, good-natured smile seemed a contrast to her husband’s polished style. David took it as evidence that couples didn’t have to be alike to be happy.
Music was playing, but not yet for dancing, and so he strolled around with Con and Susan, exchanging greetings with those he knew and being introduced to others, especially ladies. He tried to sense the atmosphere as he would the winds. He’d have to be dead not to feel the attention focused on him, but he didn’t detect outrage. He was entertainment for a jaded world and could only hope the interest would fade.
“Do you see Miss Potter?” he asked Susan.
“No. But there’s Maria Vandeimen. I don’t think you met her niece on one of your visits to our area. Her first husband’s niece. Natalie’s as well-dowered as Miss Potter, but don’t try your luck there unless you can honestly profess love. Van and Maria would have your guts.”
David recognized a warning. When he was introduced, he understood why. Miss Florence wasn’t at all beautiful, being short and plump with nondescript hair, but she was pure delight. Despite still being young, she sparkled with joie de vivre and confidence and seemed well disposed to all. She deserved complete adoration.
After a few minutes of conversation, Susan nudged him. “Miss Potter has arrived.”
David turned, to see a cluster of men encircling two women. Miss Potter must be the shorter one, for the taller was brown haired, but all he could see of his thirty thousand pounds were some blond curls and a golden headdress.
“As you’ll note, you have competition,” Susan said. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”
David turned away. “I don’t think so. She’ll not be impressed by another panting hound.”
“Then how do you plan to meet her? I doubt her hounds will leave her alone.”
“I must retreat to plan a strategy.”
Despite her protests, he went in search of privacy and found it in the room put aside for men who wished to smoke a pipe. This early in the night, no one was using it.
At the tailor’s Vandeimen had suspected he would turn tail and run, and here already the accusation could prove true. It was one thing to devise a coolheaded plan to marry a stranger for her money. It was quite another to carry it through when faced with a real person.
Miss Lucinda Potter was here in the flesh, but as her father had pointed out, she would expect to be wooed. David wasn’t sure he could make convincing advances to a woman about whom he cared so little.
Or if an honorable man should.
* * *
Clara had been right—Lucy was being swarmed. As a consequence, she was close to losing her temper.
The clustering was ridiculous and she feared it was making her ridiculous, especially when the men began to vie with one another. Lord Launceston claimed she outshone every lady present, which was hardly likely to make her popular. Outram admired her tiara in gushing terms and declared her a goddess. Stevenhope then crowned her the Gilded Aphrodite and attempted a stanza on the theme.
She wanted to snap at all of them, but to keep to her persona, she could only be flustered. When Outram and Stevenhope began to quarrel over who had first claimed her to be a goddess, she dismissed both for distressing her.
Two down, eight to go.
In an attempt to disperse the rest, she chose a partner for the first set. Sir Harry Winter seemed a sensible man, but the tactic failed. Most hovered on, demanding the second.
Lord Northcliff asked Clara for the first dance, which improved Lucy’s opinion of him, but that was doubtless why he did it. All the other young ladies must be wishing her in Hades, which is where she wished the men. For every one that left, a new one arrived.
When her cousin Jeremy whispered, “Lucinda—a word with you,” she stepped aside with relief, though she couldn’t imagine what he wanted.
Jeremy was of an age with her, but much younger in every other way. He looked ridiculous in his wasp-waisted jacket, which required a corset, worn with an enormous cravat of blue-and-yellow-striped satin. His hair was dressed to stand on end, so with his wide, panicked eyes, he looked as if he’d had a fright.
“What’s amiss?” she asked. “Is it Aunt Mary?”
“No, no. It’s Stevenhope and Outram. They’ve gone mad.”
“What are those idiots doing now? Truly, I’m ready to shoot one of them!”
“They’re going to save you the trouble. They plan to shoot each other.”
“A duel? Over me? You can�
��t be serious!”
“Am. Were naming seconds when I came to find you.”
“I’ll have their guts for garters. Where are they?”
“Down that corridor over there.” Jeremy seized her arm. “You can’t interfere.”
“Then why come to tell me?”
“Perhaps mother—”
“Would have a fit of the vapors and your father’s not here.”
Lucy tried to think of some other gentleman to help her but found none. She’d not involve any of her unwanted suitors in this.
“Take me there—and stop looking like a rabbit heading for the pot.”
She needed to hurry, but made sure she and Jeremy moved around the room at a pace in harmony with the glittering crowd, waving away any suitor who came close. She tried to look as if she hadn’t a care in the world, but she was seething. A duel could ruin her.
Jeremy led the way into a quiet corridor. “They’ve gone,” he said with relief.
But Lucy could hear a raised voice from a room and went that way. Jeremy grabbed her again. “That’s the gentlemen’s smoking room!”
“I won’t choke on the fumes.” She pushed through the half-open door snapping, “Gentlemen, stop this madness!”
But then she realized three men were present, not just two, and that it was the third who was speaking.
Who was . . .
Could it really be?
The man from the bookshop? There was nothing of the country about him now. He’d glanced at her once, but not interrupted his reprimand.
“. . . can only bring a lady’s reputation into question, as well as risking both life and liberty for the most foolish of reasons. Be grateful this has gone no further.”
The two rivals took the implied dismissal like schoolboys. Sir Mallory slipped out of the room sheepishly, even murmuring an apology to Lucy as he passed. Stevenhope stalked out, trying to pin her with one of his fierce, Byronic looks. But he went.
Lucy was tempted to scurry after them, but her pride wouldn’t permit it—and she was transfixed by it being him.
