by Candice Hern
"Ah, my darling girl," he replied, placing a possessive arm around Louisa's waist, "you were always most fond of my ribald tales. Never one to blush. Takes after Frances. My sister," he said to Emily.
The Windhursts arrived in due time and were introduced to the other guests by Lord Bradleigh. Emily was chatting with Simon and Julia Cameron when Lord Bradleigh approached with the Windhursts in tow. Simon, a jovial young man, was Lord Bradleigh's cousin and heir presumptive. His new bride, Julia, was very young and almost painfully shy. Emily had been attempting to put Julia at ease when they were confronted by the Windhursts. Julia took one look at Lady Windhurst, extravagantly draped in silver gauze and sporting a jeweled turban, and visibly retreated into her timid shell. Lord Bradleigh performed the introductions. Lord Windhurst was polite though obviously somewhat overawed by the level of the company. He was a short, compact gentleman with a head of thick, unruly gray hair and a pair of bushy gray eyebrows that moved constantly up and down as he spoke. Emily was momentarily distracted by the animated brows and missed some of the subsequent remarks, but was snapped back to attention by the shrill voice of Lady Windhurst.
"Well, Mr. Cameron," she was saying, "I suppose your nose is quite out of joint that my Augusta will surely produce an heir to overset your current expectations. Only natural, don't you know. But we won't hold that against you, will we, Augusta? We shall all be friends regardless. Isn't that right, Augusta?"
"Yes, Mama," Augusta replied, eyeing the floor in obvious embarrassment at her mother's forwardness.
Emily saw Mr. Cameron's eyes narrow briefly while his wife's widened in astonishment. Lord Bradleigh caught his cousin's eye, smiled ruefully, and quickly rolled his eyes heavenward and down again. Emily was thankful the Windhursts were at his side and unaware of the gesture. Nevertheless, she found that both she and Mr. Cameron had to bite back laughter.
"And, Lord Windhurst," Lord Bradleigh interrupted, "allow me to present to you Miss Townsend." He nodded toward Emily. "Augusta, Lady Windhurst—you remember my grandmother's companion?"
Lady Windhurst eyed Emily from head to toe. "Yes," she said with a sneer, immediately turning away and taking the earl by the arm. "I'm told your cousin the Marquess Haselmere is among your guests. Please introduce us."
As they watched the Windhursts move away, the Camerons and Emily shared several speculative glances. "Good God!" cried Simon when the Windhursts were out of earshot. "What a harridan!"
"Simon!" his wife scolded.
"Well, what would you call her, my dear? She ain't exactly angelic. What can Rob be thinking of? Well. .. the beautiful Miss Windhurst, of course. My God, but Grandmother must be having fits!" He looked over at Emily, and neither could hold back the laughter any longer.
Dinner was soon announced, and the guests assembled in the large dining room, each checking the place cards for their assigned seats. Emily found herself between Lord Windhurst and Lord Peregrine Banham, the young son of the dowager's daughter. The informality of the drawing room continued at table, where conversation was general and often boisterous. Clearly Lord Anthony was not the only raconteur in the group. Emily had some experience with the dowager's and Lord Bradleigh's way with a story. She was soon to witness those two, at either end of the table, matching wits with Lord Anthony, Sir Richard, Lady Haselmere, and Simon Cameron.
Lord Peregrine, recently down from Oxford and ready to embark on a career as a poet, tried repeatedly to engage Emily in a discussion on Lord Byron's most recent publication. But they were interrupted each time by one family member or another who drew them into the general conversation. Lord Peregrine leaned over toward Emily after one particularly loud outburst of general laughter.
"I hope you are not thoroughly disgusted by the antics of my relations, Miss Townsend," he said. "But then, if you've been with Grandmother in Bath, you must be used to her unconventional ways. Frankly, I love these riotous family dinners. I tell you, it is a welcome change from our home where, I can assure you, Mother never allows such uncivilized behavior!" he said, grinning.
Emily followed his glance across the table to his mother, Lady Banham, who was indeed scowling at Simon Cameron as he mimicked with devilish accuracy the mannerisms of a notable Society matron who was the topic of recent gossip. Emily brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle as she recognized the impersonation.
"Of course," Lord Peregrine continued, "m'mother don't serve such good wine, either."
It was true, Emily noticed, that a great deal of wine had been consumed. In fact, a majority of the guests were slightly on the go.
The Windhursts each seemed in some way discomposed by the unrestrained atmosphere. Emily had attempted several times to converse with Lord Windhurst, who did little more than grunt in return. He seemed thoroughly disconcerted, torn between contempt and amusement, confused as to how to react. Emily glanced down the table to see Augusta chatting with Lord Haselmere, the soft-spoken marquess. She had more than once noticed the two in quiet discussion at their end of the table, apparently oblivious to the loud talk and laughter around them. Lord Bradleigh appeared to pay little attention to his betrothed, seated at his right, as he traded barbs and quips with the others. Since Augusta remained somewhat aloof to the raucous environment, refusing to take part, she must have been forced to rely on the shy marquess for conversation. Surely this had been the dowager's intent. But what was her ultimate goal? If she merely wished to demonstrate the unsuitability of the match, there would be no point, for Lord Bradleigh, as a gentleman, could not break off the engagement.
She turned her attention to the opposite end of the table, where the dowager was deep in conversation with Lady Windhurst, whose glance frequently strayed to the marquess. Her direct looks toward the young man hinted that he might be the topic of their discussion. My God, thought Emily with sudden clarity, was it possible that the dowager meant to fix the interest of both Augusta and her Society-conscious mother on poor Lord Haselmere? Is she in hopes that his superior rank and fortune would entice Augusta to cry off from her betrothal to Lord Bradleigh? Good heavens, that must be it. She shook her head as she considered the situation.
How very shrewd of the old woman, Emily thought—if she could pull it off.
* * *
When the gentlemen returned to the drawing room, Robert was surprised to find his grandmother chatting, apparently amicably, with Lady Windhurst. He had expected she would treat the whole Windhurst family with utter disdain, while making sure to showcase the differences between their families. In truth, she needed to do no more than gather his relations together in the same room with the Windhursts, and the differences made themselves glaringly apparent. Which, he naturally assumed, had been her intention all along. Which also made this new coziness between her and Lady Windhurst decidedly suspicious. What was the old woman up to?
His other relations had more or less ignored the Windhursts after a few unsuccessful attempts to draw them into the informal bantering that had always characterized their gatherings. Lady Windhurst appeared to have remained by his grandmother's side for much of the evening, having been subtly dismissed by most of the others as a result of one or another of her tasteless remarks. Lord Windhurst, a minor baron, looked completely daunted by the exalted company, despite their sometimes unusual behavior, and had remained fairly quiet and apart. Robert could also not help but notice Augusta's chilly reserve as she surveyed his family with an attitude that hinted at disapproval. Somehow her mother must have instilled in her a strong sense of propriety and decorum that had been offended by some of his relations. Uncle Tony had probably drooled over her hand and made some indelicate remark. Aunt Doro, in her cups, had no doubt tried to engage Augusta in a political discussion, and ended up insulting her lack of interest in social reform. But they were family, and he adored them. It would not do for Augusta to be too nice in her sensibilities. He supposed he should take a little more care with his future countess, give her more time to adjust.
Dammit, but
he was tired of his betrothal interfering with his normal way of life. He had anticipated that having a wife would have little or no impact on his usual activities, that once the business of producing an heir was accomplished, he and his countess would lead more or less separate lives. That had, of course, been the way of Society marriages for generations. In deference to Augusta, however, he had gone so far as to give his latest mistress her congé. But he had fully expected to resume such freedom in his relationships once Augusta had presented him with a son. As long as she was also discreet, he wouldn't keep too close an eye on her activities either. That was the way things were done, after all. Just look at his own family.
His gaze found Aunt Doro in animated conversation with Uncle Tony. The tales of his uncle's indiscretions were legion. Aunt Doro had been involved in at least one lengthy affair which had cast public doubt on the paternity of her youngest daughter. And no wonder, considering her circle of friends. Lady Melbourne, her closest friend and rival Whig hostess, had one son believed to have been fathered by the Prince Regent. Even William, her eldest son, was reputed to have been the result of her affair with Lord Egremont. Now William's wife, Lady Caroline Lamb, was making a cake of herself over Lord Byron; but of course she had the example of her own mother, Lady Bessborough, who had borne two illegitimate children by Lord Granville. And just a few years ago Lord Granville had married Lady Bessborough's niece, Lady Harriet Cavendish, who was now raising her aunt's bastards as her husband's wards. And she was, of course, the daughter of the notorious Duchess of Devonshire, who . . .
He shook his head as if to clear it. If one contemplated too closely the amorous relations of the ton, one's head could explode. But this was the world he lived in, the only way of life he knew. It was also clear, however, that things were changing. Society no longer turned such a blind eye to public indiscretions. In fact, it was considered positively ruinous to be the object of gossip. Even Lady Caroline Lamb was finding herself snubbed by some of the younger hostesses. Only look at his own situation. Despite his title and fortune, he had found himself unwelcome in many respectable drawing rooms—all because of a few indiscreet liaisons with well-known Society matrons. Middle-class morality was surely working its way up into the echelons of the ton.
Augusta came from a solid middle-class background on her mother's side. Why had it never occurred to him before how important the difference in their backgrounds would be to their marriage? As he watched her ill-disguised disdain of his rather flamboyant relations, he realized with sudden clarity that their marriage would never be the uncomplicated Society alliance he had envisioned. It was not going to be that simple. Augusta and her mother would no doubt expect him to dance attendance on his wife to a greater degree than he had planned, to be a pattern card of respectability and propriety. My God, what had he gotten himself into?
As his glance swept over the various groups in the drawing room, he noted that Miss Townsend was chatting with an unusually animated Julia Cameron. Leave it to that remarkable lady to make a point of befriending his cousin's shy young wife. The poor girl was seldom at ease among the boisterous Camerons, but she seemed quite relaxed at the moment. He watched as she flashed a brilliant smile at her approaching husband, drawing him down beside her. Simon gave a grateful smile to Miss Townsend before joining in their conversation.
Robert remembered the bit of diplomacy that Miss Townsend had worked with the battling chefs, the results of which had been plain this evening, and thought that her encouragement of the timid Julia was all of a piece. He supposed that the many years she spent in genteel service must have taught her the art of making others comfortable. Despite her habitual prim composure, she seemed perfectly at ease with his family. It was difficult not to be forever comparing her to Augusta, but that was a fruitless exercise, and he made a deliberate effort to shake such thoughts from his mind.
He really should pay more attention to Augusta. Their betrothal, despite his current misgivings, had been all his idea, after all. He must make more of an effort to demonstrate to both families that their match was indeed suitable. In fact, he must continue to remind himself of that fact and behave appropriately.
He headed toward Augusta, who was seated alone on a small settee.
"Robert!" His grandmother's voice and iron grip intercepted him. She pulled him to her side. "Lady Windhurst and I were just discussing the pleasures of country life. In particular, the beauties of the Sussex coast came to mind. Perhaps you could enlighten us on the specific delights of that area, as I recall that one of your estates is somewhere in the neighborhood."
"Not an estate, exactly," Robert said as he cast a speculative glance at his grandmother. "I have a small hunting box near Midhurst, quite inland. Afraid I don't spend much time there. It's Ted, as you must know, Grandmother, who can expound endlessly on the beauties of his beloved coast. In fact, it's one of the few subjects you are likely to get him to expound on at all. His seat is there."
"Of course," the dowager said, peering through her quizzing glass at something behind him.
Robert turned slightly to see the young marquess take the seat next to Augusta.
"How could I have forgotten?" The dowager turned toward Lady Windhurst. "Lord Haselmere owns Longcliffe, you know," she said in a confidential tone.
Lady Windhurst's eyes widened momentarily at the mention of the famous country house that was prominently featured in every book on the beauties of the English countryside. Her glance followed the dowager's to watch her daughter chatting pleasantly with the owner of Longcliffe. "Does he?" she said. "How very interesting."
Chapter 11
Emily was unashamedly enjoying herself. She felt positively exhilarated, almost like a young girl again, as she was twirled by Mr. Giles Hamilton in a lively country dance, her skirts of azure blue shagreen silk billowing about her. It had been years since she'd danced. Although she had attended many assemblies in Bath with the dowager, they had generally spent their time in the card room or the tearoom, only entering the ballroom occasionally, and then only to watch and gossip with the other dowagers and chaperons.
But this evening, at her first London ball, she was not allowed to sit quietly among the dowagers. Her employer and Lady Lavenham had seen to that. Her dance card was almost filled. Lord Bradleigh and his cousins and Lord Lavenham had all solicited dances. But there were other gentlemen as well—those gentlemen deliberately tossed in her path by her scheming employer.
Oh, but she didn't care just now about the dowager's matchmaking plans. After her first dance with Lord Lavenham, she had given herself up to the sheer enjoyment of the ball. She would feel guilty about it later. Tomorrow, perhaps. But not just now.
Mr. Hamilton, whom she had discovered was the younger son of an earl, had been introduced to her at Lady Bessborough's rout, and had been at her side within minutes of her arrival this evening in order to solicit a dance. He had been flattering in his attentions, and she quite enjoyed his company. As the dance ended he offered his arm to escort her back to the dowager.
"Oh, but that was most enjoyable, sir," Emily said somewhat breathlessly. "Thank you very much for the dance."
"It was my pleasure, Miss Townsend," Mr. Hamilton said. "I am glad you are enjoying the ball."
"Indeed I am, sir," she replied.
"May I be so bold, Miss Townsend," he said, "to ask you to join me in a drive in the park tomorrow afternoon? I would be honored to take you up in my phaeton."
"Why, thank you, sir," Emily replied, somewhat flustered. She hadn't considered that any gentleman would be interested in more than a dance. It was really quite flattering, she thought, smiling. But she must not forget her place. "I will need to check with my employer first, to make certain that she does not require my presence. If she agrees, then I shall be delighted to join you."
"I shall look forward to it, Miss Townsend," Mr. Hamilton said, bowing over her hand as she took an empty chair. "Until tomorrow, then," he said as he took his leave.
Oh
, my, thought Emily, biting back a smile. She opened the fan at her wrist and tried to cool herself, as the last country dance had been rather energetic. She reached for her dance card and was relieved to see that she had not promised the next set, as she preferred to sit and catch her breath.
"Well, well, well."
Emily looked up to see an older somewhat dissipated-looking gentleman glaring down at her with steely gray eyes. He was unfamiliar to her, but something about him caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand up.
"I'd know the gel anywhere, Hugh," he said to a younger fair-haired gentleman standing behind him. "She's the spitting image of her mother." He almost spat out the last word.
Emily's breath caught. Who was this man?
"You knew my mother, sir?" she asked, her calm voice hopefully giving no hint of her uneasiness.
"Indeed I did," the man said and then bared sharp teeth in a broad smile that sent a tremor up Emily's spine.
Emily slowly closed her fan and tried to look calmly at this man without letting him sense her fear.
"Your mother," he spat, "the slut, was once my sister. Before she was ruined by that ne'er-do-well Townsend and disgraced the family by running away with him."
Emily caught her breath and felt the blood drain from her face. She was beginning to feel faint. The man moved closer, bent down, and fingered the pearls at her throat. Her mother's pearls.
"Not to mention," he continued, "that she absconded with some very valuable jewels that belonged to my family."
"You are my uncle?" she asked in a quiet voice as she moved away from his touch. "Lord Pentwick?"
"I am Pentwick," he replied, sneering at her movement.
At that moment the young man behind him stepped forward and extended his hand. "And I am Viscount Faversham," he said.
Out of pure habit Emily reached out to accept his hand.
