by Jayne Davis
“…not been in society… must be something wrong with…”
“…a little thing, and that gown!”
“…large dowry, and an earl’s daughter will always…”
Bella’s face flushed. She’d hoped she might make some friends—girls she could talk to and who could share the experience of their first season with her.
“…and her hair!”
“…trying too hard to appear taller, but…”
Bella’s grip tightened on the saucer. Tamworth, her aunt’s maid, had shown Molly how to dress her hair—pulled up, padded, and powdered. It was fashionable enough: her aunt and several other ladies were wearing a similar style. And Tamworth had indeed said it would disguise her lack of height. For all the spite in the overheard words, Bella thought they held an element of truth. Her coiffure made her resemble a shorter replica of her aunt, as well as being uncomfortable and an unaccustomed weight that she felt would topple if she moved her head too fast.
“Lady Brigham and Senhor Luis Alfonso Sousa da Gama.” The butler’s voice cut across the chatter, and all eyes turned to the door. Lady Brigham appeared to be of a similar age to Aunt Aurelia, and was just as expensively dressed. Senhor da Gama didn’t look much older than Bella. Tall, with broad shoulders, he was dressed in a deep red that suited his olive complexion and dark eyes. He regarded the company warily as Mrs Roper hurried to greet the new arrivals.
Senhor? Was that a Spanish title?
They were too far away for Bella to overhear, but the bows and curtseys suggested that introductions were being made, and then the two ladies conducted the newcomer around the room. The giggling, smiling, and fluttering of fans indicated that Senhor da Gama was as new to society as Bella, but was being received far more enthusiastically.
“I am happy to make your acquaintance, my lady.” Senhor da Gama bowed over her hand when they reached her corner of the parlour. Sadly, Lady Brigham led him away before he could say more. Aunt Aurelia bustled over.
“Come, Isabella, it is time we moved on. You need to meet more people.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Senhor da Gama was the most intriguing person she’d met so far, but she was unlikely to get the chance to talk to him in the present company.
“I didn’t know Lady Brigham had the money to dress like that,” Aunt Aurelia muttered as they descended the front steps. “Where is that coach?”
“We will try Lady Pamington next,” Lady Tregarth said as Nick closed the door on her sedan chair. “Tenby, to Portman Square, if you please.”
The chairmen set off, with Nick walking beside them in the warm sunshine. This part of his task was pleasant enough, but he fervently hoped that they would strike lucky soon. They were working their way down a list of names that Lady Isabella’s maid had passed on as possible destinations, but so far there had been no sign of their quarry. Instead, he had endured numerous exchanges—he could not call them conversations—with giggling misses and put up with several unsubtle enquires about his father’s title and estates. The only young woman who hadn’t inspired him with an instant desire to be elsewhere was Mrs Roper’s daughter, who he had met on their first visit today—but even she had only talked about the weather. It did not bode well for his quest to find a suitable spouse.
“That looks like Marstone’s coach,” Lady Tregarth said as they turned into Portman Square, and Nick’s spirits lifted. “Now if the footman knows which house they are in…”
A bored coachman sat on the box and an equally bored footman leant on the closed door. The latter stood as Lady Tregarth’s chairmen set her down, and Nick saw a flash of recognition.
“Lady Tregarth desires to know where Lady Cerney is visiting,” he said. Best not to bring Lady Isabella into this.
“They went into number seventeen, Mr Carterton,” the footman said. “I don’t know whose house it is.”
“Thank you.” Nick didn’t recognise the footman, but the man clearly knew him, even though it was two years since he had been in Marstone House. “You have a good memory. What is your name?”
“Langton, sir. Part of my job, sir.”
The trusted one. Langton’s gaze met his own, returning Nick’s appraisal. He was tempted to ask what Langton knew, and if Archer had spoken to him, but the coachman was within earshot and probably curious by now.
“This is Lady Pamington’s house,” Lady Tregarth said, as Nick escorted her into number seventeen.
Their hostess hurried towards them as they were announced, and greeted them with an arch glance at Nick. “So good to see you in my salon, Mr Carterton. Can I hope that you will be taking a full part in society this season?”
“Yes, indeed.” Having answered a similar question several times during their earlier calls, Nick perjured himself again without hesitation. His promise to his father didn’t involve attending every rout, ball, and picnic.
“Now, who should I introduce—?”
“Good heavens, is that Marstone’s daughter?” Lady Tregarth interrupted, to Nick’s relief. He followed her gaze, not recognising any of the young women on a sofa at the far side of the room. Two talked to each other, their heads close, while the third, who was wearing a heavily embroidered orange gown, stared out of a window with a blank expression.
“She needs rescuing from more than Marstone,” Lady Tregarth said quietly as they crossed the room. “Where’s the aunt?”
The girl in the orange gown looked up as Lady Tregarth stopped in front of her. She did seem vaguely familiar, once he looked past the powdered hair, and she had Wingrave’s blue eyes. With her quiet demeanour and unattractive gown, Nick didn’t think he’d have to fend off too many unsuitable swains.
“I wonder if you remember me, my dear?” Lady Tregarth said with a friendly smile. “You must have been quite young the last time I saw you. I’m Lady Tregarth, the mother of Wingrave’s friend Harry.”
Lady Isabella stood up, her eyes barely level with his shoulder. A tentative smile curved her lips as she greeted Lady Tregarth.
“I would like to introduce Mr Carterton. He is a friend of your brother.”
Nick bowed over her hand, trying to reconcile this quiet creature with the girl he had last seen diving for the cover of a table. “I am happy to meet you, Lady Isabella.”
“And I you, sir.” Her smile grew more confident as she looked into his face. “I believe you were acquainted with my sister, Lady Elizabeth, before her marriage?”
“I was, yes.”
The twinkle in her eye indicated that she did recall their previous encounter—it seemed Marstone hadn’t managed to knock all the spirit out of the little minx. The animation in her face drew attention from her unfortunate gown—she could be as attractive as any of the young women he’d met today if she were better dressed. He might not have such an easy task after all.
“Mr Carterton, I must introduce these young ladies to you.”
Nick sighed as Lady Pamington joined them. No chance to find out what Lady Isabella might have said next.
Politeness required him to make inconsequential conversation with the two young women who had been ignoring Lady Isabella. By the time Nick had extricated himself from their clutches—both were much more interested in him once Lady Pamington let drop that he was the heir to a barony—a blond youth he didn’t recognise had drawn up a chair and was making stilted conversation with Lady Isabella. There would be little chance to talk to her now.
“The poor girl has little confidence,” Lady Tregarth said when they were finally back in her parlour. “Hardly surprising, with that gown and hairstyle. And no conversation, either. That’s down to Marstone keeping her immured in the countryside. If he’d even allowed her to visit her sisters after their marriages, she’d have had more to say.”
He could see how it must be difficult for her, and he was surprised that she’d managed to retain some of her spark over the past two years.
“I don’t know Lady Cerney well,” Lady Tregarth went on. “I think she is not as fanatica
l about social standing as Marstone, but we cannot rely on her goodwill towards Isabella. Marstone is paying the piper, and she is like to dance to his tune if there is a conflict between Isabella’s interests and Marstone’s.”
“Point taken, my lady.” Although he’d promised Wingrave only that he’d do his best to stop her being married against her wishes, the easiest way of doing that might be to find a suitor she did like. It seemed he would be taking a fuller part in this season than he’d anticipated.
“We have a box at the Drury Lane Theatre. Would you care to join us one evening? School for Scandal is being put on again. I will invite Isabella, and you may find an opportunity to talk with her then.”
“I would be delighted, thank you.”
“Well, Isabella, you didn’t have much to say for yourself at any of our calls today,” Aunt Aurelia said as they sat in the back parlour overlooking the garden.
“I didn’t know what to talk about.” Thankfully, her aunt appeared exasperated rather than angry.
“You needn’t start conversations, but you can say more to continue them.”
Bella’s chin rose. “They talked of people I have not met, Aunt. Or about fashions. You don’t suppose my father allowed magazines and fashion plates in the house?”
Aunt Aurelia scowled, but then shook her head. “You have a point, child. Marstone is pig-headed and arrogant, but I hadn’t realised he is also stupid.”
Bella’s mouth fell open, then she laughed. To her surprise, Aunt Aurelia smiled.
“I’m taking his money—that doesn’t mean I have to like him, or even respect him. But I need to find you a husband.”
Bella’s amusement died again.
“Oh, don’t look so glum, girl. There are plenty of suitable men out there. If you co-operate, we should be able to find one you can tolerate before Marstone loses patience and makes arrangements with someone you find repellent. You only need to give the man an heir and a spare, then you can please yourself.”
Please myself?
“Fetch the newspaper from the bureau, Isabella. There must be something we can do to supply you with more conversation.”
Aunt Aurelia took the paper and turned the pages.
“Aunt, it’s not only conversation. I heard people talking about me.” She repeated some of the hurtful comments, and her aunt put the paper aside.
“Hmm. Perhaps that amount of powder in your hair doesn’t suit you. Tamworth uses a lot on me to disguise the grey. Oh, yes,” she added, as Bella’s brows rose at this unexpected confidence, “there’s no use hiding such things between ourselves. You were right about that gown, too.” She picked up the paper again. “The Royal Academy Exhibition… Lady Tregarth said we could use her box at the theatre… Yes, that will do to start with.”
Bella nodded, although she had little idea what her aunt had been talking about.
“Now, Isabella, to whom did you speak today?”
“I can’t remember all their names. But there were Lady Jesson and Miss Yelland—”
“Which men, Isabella! Do concentrate.”
“Mr Trent.”
“That popinjay? No, I don’t think he’d do. No title, and Marstone won’t want such a pretty boy in the family.”
“Lord Barnton.”
“Hmm. Eligible, certainly.”
“Senhor da Gama.”
Aunt Aurelia shook her head. “I know nothing about him. I’ll have to ask Lady Brigham. Marstone may not favour a foreigner, either.”
That was a pity. “Mr Carterton,” Bella went on.
“Carterton—wasn’t he one of the ones who got away two years ago?”
Bella giggled. “He decided that he and Lizzie would not suit, if that’s what you mean.” A twitch of his lips when they’d been introduced indicated that he still recalled what she had done. She couldn’t regret it, but she was glad he didn’t seem to hold it against her. He had kind eyes and a pleasant smile—she wasn’t sure how he might help her, but it was reassuring to have someone beside her aunt she could turn to if necessary.
“That was it, yes. Hmm—if Marstone chose him once, he may not object this time. I thought my brother was after higher rank though—Carterton is only heir to a barony, from recollection. Who else?”
“Lord Narwood.” Bella had been introduced to him on their last call. He was older, much older than Will, with a full, powdered wig but without the paunch that men of his age seemed to develop. He’d been polite enough, and talked the usual commonplaces, but his manner had been cold.
“Hmm. A viscount, I think. That’s another possibility. Fetch me the Debrett’s, child.”
Chapter 6
Luis gazed around the exhibition hall in Somerset House as he walked in with Lady Brigham. The room was huge, with high walls leaning in towards the top. Paintings of various shapes and sizes filled the walls, with hardly any space between them, all lit by the wide windows above. People thronged the floor, some wandering around or standing gazing at the paintings, others seated on long benches.
“Over there,” Lady Brigham said. “The woman in the dark blue gown.”
The lady indicated appeared less than ten years older than Luis himself, and was wearing only the lightest film of powder on her smooth cheeks and in her dark curls. Her gown, although lacking the elaborate trim and ornate brocade that Lady Brigham wore, was stylish and elegant.
“That is Lady Milton, one of the people you are to… befriend.”
Luis took a keener interest. “Will you introduce us?”
“No. Even if I knew her personally, I do not want to be remembered as the person who introduced you if you make a mull of this enterprise.” Lady Brigham paused, as if waiting for him to protest, but he said nothing. “You will escort me to Lady Henderson’s ball this evening, and on more calls tomorrow. After that, you should be able to get your own invitations. I will leave you now—you will find the paintings here give you some topics for conversation.”
He glanced at the catalogue as Lady Brigham left and then stuffed it into a pocket. The crowd was thinnest near a collection of portraits—all beautifully painted, as good as any in his father’s mansion. Brighter, too, as many of the ones at home had darkened with age. The paintings above them looked more interesting. As he looked up, a woman in front of him stepped back, one heel landing on his toes.
“Oof!”
The woman spun around and he recognised the shy girl in the wide gown he had met the previous day.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.” She looked horrified, one hand flying up to cover her mouth. “I was standing back to admire the pictures at the top.”
He smiled down at her—the pain in his foot was already wearing off. “That is quite all right, my lady. Pray do not distress yourself.” He made a bow. “My apologies, but I have met so many people since I arrived in London that…” That he’d forgotten her name, although it did not seem polite to say so. He waved a hand, giving her his best smile again.
“Lady Isabella Stanlake,” she said, a breathless quality to her voice. “And you are Senhor da Gama… I’m afraid I have forgotten the rest. Is that a Spanish title?”
“Portuguese,” he corrected her. “My full name is Luis Alfonso Sousa da Gama.”
“Goodness!” Her hand covered her mouth again.
He chuckled—it was a relief to talk to someone he did not need to impress, and about whom he would not be quizzed later. “Yes, I have many names, but it is the way of the Portuguese. Tell me, which of these paintings do you admire the most?” At least here they had a ready source of conversation, and he would not have to struggle for compliments.
“I… I’ve only just arrived.” She hesitated, and bit her lip—a nice, plump little lip. “I admire the skill in the portraits, but I can see people around me all the time. I am more interested in the other subjects.”
“Ah, the battles, perhaps?” He pointed upwards, to where lines of ships in full sail fired guns at each other. He pulled the catalogue out of his pocket and riffl
ed through it. “Admiral Rodney defeating the Spanish off Cape St Vincent,” he said, locating the description. It was only a small engagement these English were celebrating.
“I’m glad you’re not Spanish,” Lady Isabella said.
What?
He frowned, then let out a breath of relief. She’d said he wasn’t Spanish.
“I… I’m sorry,” Lady Isabella stammered, taking a step back. “I only meant that it would seem so odd, if you were Spanish, to be admiring a painting showing a Spanish defeat. Wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, of course. My apologies, Lady Isabella, I mistook your meaning.” He resumed his smile as he looked up—he must remember not to let his expression betray his thoughts. “It is a good painting, I think, although I have not been on many ships, and certainly not in a battle. Shall we look at some more pleasant subjects?”
He held his elbow out and she laid her hand on it, a delicate blush rising to her cheeks.
“Now, here are some landscapes.” He consulted the catalogue again. “Hah—that is the peak in Tenerife—a Spanish island.” His lips quirked as he caught her eye. “Although your country is still officially at war with Spain, I think we may admire Spanish scenery?”
“Indeed we may, sir.” She gazed at the painting, then back at him. “Have you been in London long?”
“A week or so, only,” he said smoothly, having been asked that question numerous times over the last few days. “I do not recall meeting you before yesterday, my lady.”
“I have only recently arrived myself. This is my first chance to go about London. It will give me something to converse about.”
The innocent confidence was charming, and her reason for being at the exhibition matched his own. “It will certainly make a change from you English talking about the weather. Now, how do you like this scene?”
