Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  A few minutes later they walked past a small hotel. Intrigued by its proximity to Soho Square, and its tidiness, Dare made a mental note of it. A pair of urns with trailing ivy and scarlet flowers marked the entrance, the door gleamed with fresh paint, and the windows shone in the sun.

  “We’ll cross over here,” said Oriana. “The address we want is on the other side. Number Fifty-two, Mr. Weatherall’s.”

  “Is that what it is? Looks like Wormwiggle.”

  While exploring the sizable workshop, he found a pair of Pembroke tables that were perfect for his library. Encouraged, he described to one of the artisans the glasstopped display cases he required, and sketched an example of what he wanted.

  “Three tall cabinets with shelves and glass doors,” he said, and jotted down the dimensions. “Three lower ones with glass tops that lift up, and an inner compartment lined with green baize.”

  He placed the order, and collected another trade card.

  “How will you transport your purchases to the island?” Oriana asked him when they proceeded to the next shop.

  “By water. Wind and tides permitting, my Dorrity will reach Deptford docks within ten days. She won’t be needed for the Liverpool run. Now that the season for herring fishing has begun, Mr. Melton has fewer men working the mine.”

  In Broad Street, Oriana paused to admire a pianoforte displayed in the window.

  “Owen and Cox—this shop doesn’t appear on your list.”

  “I didn’t think you had any use for what they make here.”

  “My drawing room is large enough for musical parties,” he improvised. His drinking cronies—Cousin Tom Gilchrist, Buck Whaley, George Quayle—would be astonished if he ever invited them to attend a concert in his home.

  “You’ll do better elsewhere. Broadwood makes a grand-pianoforte—five and a half octaves, two pedals, English action. I purchased mine last year, and am delighted with it. I’d like to have a new harpsichord as well, for they’re not so popular as they used to be and there’s no saying how much longer they’ll be made. But I can’t afford one just now.”

  “I thought you earned vast sums for your performances.”

  “In comparison to others, I do. But my income waxes and wanes, and I cannot bear to run up debts.

  Since returning to town I’ve spent a great deal of money on new gowns.”

  “I’ll buy that harpsichord for you. Cost is no object to me.”

  “I never accept gifts from gentlemen.”

  He didn’t press the point, although he penciled the name “Broadwood” at the bottom of the list as a reminder.

  Mr. Thomas Sheraton’s showroom came next, and there they lingered. Dare studied a recent edition of the famous Directory, containing sketches and detailed narrative descriptions, until his head swam with images of chairs, settees, and sideboards. He examined the sample furnishings on display and wrote down the dimensions of a handsome dining table before he and Oriana visited the shops on Gerrard Street and Berwick Street.

  “I can stock Skyhill House without ever leaving Soho,” he commented as they emerged from yet another cabinetmaker’s.

  “You’ll want to look round St. James’s also,” she replied. “Somebody at Nerot’s can direct you to the upholsterers in Jermyn Street and New Bond Street.”

  “You won’t go with me?”

  With a sweeping gesture that took in the bow-fronted shops and brick residences, she said, “This is where I’m most comfortable. I rarely stray into the most fashionable part of town, unless I’m on my way to the Park for air and exercise. Or to exhibit a new walking gown.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” he approved. “We’ve breathed in enough varnish and sawdust for one day.”

  “You’ll have to go without me. My feet are too weary—yours would be too, if you’d been walking about in these.” She raised her skirt a few inches to show him her narrow, sharply pointed slippers.

  “With ankles like those, I wonder you didn’t become an opera dancer.”

  She dropped her gown immediately. “Dare Corlett, you’re a terrible influence! Whenever we’re together, I find myself doing the most outrageous things.”

  “Yes, I remember one thing in particular.” Leaning down, he added, “When shall I have my tour of your library?”

  Up came her head, and she smiled no longer. “Here we must part. I’ve much to do at home, with a dinner party to plan. And my Vauxhall concert the next night—I must keep practicing for it. Not to mention packing for a week in Newmarket.”

  “If I promise not to behave outrageously, will you walk with me in the Park tomorrow?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “The weather.”

  A succession of showery days forced him to seek indoor pursuits. He submitted to Wingate’s insistence that he visit the most eminent tailors; though his wardrobe was appropriate for Ramsey and Liverpool, in London he was very much behind the mode. Making a foray to the financial district, in the City, he established his account at Down, Thornton, Free, and Cornwall of Bartholomew Lane. When he declared himself a client of its partner bank in Matlock, Arkwright and Toplis, he received prompt and respectful attention. In Ludgate Hill he found the jewelers Rundell and Bridge, and spent a pleasant half hour gazing upon the sort of pretty, sparkly, costly items that Oriana was certain to refuse.

  How could he convince her that he was different from all the other men who had courted her favors?

  Undaunted by her reluctance to be his mistress, he intended to follow Buck Whaley’s advice and offer whatever she wanted or needed. Not money, not gemstones.

  He hadn’t much practical experience of courtship. Willa Bradfield, attracted by his wealth, had been an easy conquest. The genteel young belles of Matlock and Douglas had always sought his company, and though he might partner them in a country dance, he had no intention of courting them. The attentions of those lively lasses in the island’s brothel had been his for a few shillings. They liked him, they satisfied him, and he’d felt a shallow affection for his favorite, before she left to seek her fortune in Liverpool.

  Accustomed to being pursued, he eagerly embraced this unfamiliar and interesting role of pursuer.

  During his rainy-day outings, he supplied himself with a smart pair of patent shoe buckles, a new hat, and had himself measured for new clothing, thereby winning his servant’s approval. Wingate was less pleased by his abrupt decision to change his lodgings, but Dare turned a deaf ear to all protests.

  When the sunshine returned to London, Dare walked to Soho Square. On the way past the garden, he saw young Merton Pringle’s golden head poking through the black-iron railing.

  “Do you ever leave your cage?” he asked.

  The child reached through the bars, tiny fingers curled into a claw, and growled. “Did you kiss Madame St. Albans yet?”

  “A gentleman never tells,” Dare replied.

  “If you come into the garden, I’ll let you play with my soldier.”

  “I wish I could, but I have an engagement.”

  Merton’s cherubic face suddenly bore a striking resemblance to that of a gargoyle, and he stuck out his tongue before ducking back into the shrubbery.

  Dare proceeded to Oriana’s door. “Good morning, Lumley,” he greeted the elderly retainer. “A splendid day, isn’t it?”

  “For some,” the man responded heavily. “Me missus has been pouring beef tea down me throat—says it’s strengthening. You’ll find Madame St. Albans in the music room.”

  He’d already guessed that; he heard her soaring soprano, accompanied by strings.

  When he invaded her sanctuary, her music ceased.

  “Is that a lute?” he asked, studying the instrument she cradled. At the top of its long neck were eight tuning pegs, four on each side; the bowl-shaped body was made of inlaid wood.

  “This is a mandoline. I learned to play it when I lived in Naples. Mine came from the best workshop, it’s made of rosewood and fir. As you s
ee, it has double strings, and they’re tuned in fifths, like a violin.

  The top ones are gut and the lower brass.” She plucked to demonstrate the difference in sound.

  “What do you use to pluck them?”

  “A raven’s quill. I trimmed it down myself. Some players prefer ostrich.”

  As she laid the instrument aside, he said, “Don’t stop. Play for me.”

  Her left fingers dancing between the frets, she serenaded him in Italian, with such sweet wistfulness that he assumed it was a love song. When she finished, she tucked the bit of quill into a space near the bridge and placed the mandoline on the sofa cushion beside her.

  “I know now why they call you the Siren of Soho-your magical songs have surely lured many an unwary gentleman to his doom. But you’re out of place in the city. Those sirens who gave Ulysses and his mariners so much trouble lived on an island.” And so could she, if only he could persuade her to exchange London for Glen Auldyn. “Will you perform that tune at Vauxhall?”

  “No. I’ll have the accompaniment of a full orchestra. Today I’m practicing for my concert in Bury St.

  Edmunds, which takes place after the racing at Newmarket.”

  He perched on the armrest of the sofa and hovered over her. “You smell like a rose garden. Whom were you expecting?”

  Her cheeks went pink. “Nobody. I always use floral water.”

  “There’s a military review at St. James’s Palace today. Afterward, we can go walking in Hyde Park.

  The next fine day, you said.”

  “You’ve got a habit of persuading me to do things I shouldn’t.”

  “I haven’t even begun to persuade you,” he responded. “And I won’t. I’ll not have you come along just to be civil. I thought you might enjoy being outdoors on so warm and bright a day. If not—”

  “I can’t be seen with you, that’s all.”

  Gazing at his feet, he said glumly, “New coat, new waistcoat, new breeches—and these very elegant shoe buckles. Wingate seems satisfied—I hoped you might be, also.”

  “Oh, Dare, that’s not what I meant. I’m not concerned about your clothes, but about our reputations.”

  “I haven’t got one,” he pointed out. “Nobody in London knows who I am.”

  “Your anonymity will suffer if you take me to the Park,” she warned him, leaving the sofa.

  For some reason she felt the need to change the placement of her figurines and straighten one of the prints hanging on the wall. He watched her in silence while she moved about.

  Her inner struggle was brief. Facing him, she said, “Until you see what indignities I endure, you’ll never completely understand why that guidebook description of Glen Auldyn was so tempting. I’ll go with you, to the review and the Park, and anywhere else you suggest. I hope you won’t mind if my maid accompanies us.”

  “Certainly not.”

  Suke Barry, pretty and mannerly, had soulful blue eyes and soft brown hair. She appeared to be her employer’s contemporary, and was almost as elegantly dressed. Head demurely bowed, she trotted behind Dare and Oriana, responding with a shy smile whenever he glanced over his shoulder to see if she was still there.

  “How long has she worked for you?” he asked Oriana.

  “Three years. Rushton recommended her—she grew up on his estate—and I agreed to take her on.

  She was apprenticed to a milliner in Chester, but when the business failed she found herself without a place. I’m fortunate to have her.”

  Had the earl’s intervention in her household been as disinterested as she implied? Possibly he’d placed Suke Barry in Oriana’s household as a spy. But Dare’s tendency to leap to conclusions had already caused great strife, so he made no mention of his suspicion. Her easy friendship with the toplofty peer troubled him, but a show of jealousy and possessiveness would alienate her.

  “The Lumleys have been part of my life forever,” she went on, “and Sam, the footman, is their nephew. My chef is a Belgian who cooked for my father—a very devout man, he goes to mass every day. The scullery maid is a pert little thing, and drives my older retainers to distraction.”

  Outside the gates of St. James’s Palace, he had his first encounter with royalty. The Duke of Gloucester, brother to King George, presided over the parade of soldiers. The gold buttons and fastenings of their scarlet coats glistened in the sunshine; the sprightly march carried well in the humid air.

  The crowd gathered at the edge of the streets cheered the procession, and Dare’s mood was similarly buoyant, till he noticed Oriana’s still face.

  Her Henry, her beloved husband, had been a military man. If he’d remembered that sooner, he might have spared her a heartache.

  Taking her elbow, he said, “I’ve seen enough.”

  She glanced up at him. “But they’ve only just started. It’s a large regiment.”

  “And a great deal more impressive than the Manx Fencibles,” he admitted. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the bookshop I noticed the other day—on Piccadilly.”

  “Hatchards? Yes, I know it.” She crooked her finger at Suke.

  Gentlemen’s clubs and fashionable shops lined St. James’s Street, which extended from the redbrick palace to busy Piccadilly. At the bookseller’s, Oriana purchased a monthly journal, the Universal Magazine of Knowledge and Pleasure, in addition to a selection of new music. He kept the clerk busy hunting for scientific literature, and left with Rashleigh’s Specimens of British Minerals.

  They arrived at Hyde Park in advance of the fashionable promenade, but already it was populated with smartly dressed pedestrians and stylish equipages. Many of the women were handsome, but none could eclipse his companion—the cold, disdainful glances she attracted were surely provoked by envy.

  He, too, received curious stares despite being an unknown—or rather, because of it. He hadn’t been watched so closely since his forays into the Matlock Assembly Rooms, where the young ladies had studied his every move.

  A group of gentlemen crowded round Oriana. In rapid succession, he was presented to Misters and Sirs and Lords, all of them looking at her in ways that made his blood simmer.

  “You’ll be at Newmarket?” asked one excitedly.

  “When’s your next Vauxhall appearance?” another wanted to know.

  “Saturday evening,” she responded.

  “We missed the last one. Will you dine with us after your performance? Do say yes, just this once!”

  “Pray do not ask again, Mr. Launceston. You know I must decline.”

  “Cruel Ana. Have a care, Corlett, she’ll break your heart as she did mine.”

  Oriana listened patiently to their competitive banter, neither inviting nor discouraging their attentions.

  When Mr. Launceston sought her opinion of his horse, she was complimentary. On being assured that she’d been greatly missed during her absence from town, she declared that she was happy to be back among friends.

  “But you’ve made new ones,” observed Launceston caustically. He glared at Dare before cantering away on his bobtailed gray.

  No sooner did the mob of young bucks disperse than Oriana gave a mournful little sigh. “Oh, no.”

  “What’s amiss?”

  “The Prince of Wales is here. The portly, fair-haired man in the blue coat.”

  An equerry approached Oriana and informed her that His Royal Highness wished to speak with her.

  With an apologetic glance at Dare, she followed the messenger along the pathway.

  “I gather this commonly occurs when your mistress walks in the Park,” Dare commented to Suke Barry.

  Her head moved up and down. “Those gentlemen-Mr. Launceston and the others—they cannot leave her be. Nor me. Sometimes they seek me out and give me letters for her, and I’ve received money for delivering them. The first time it happened, I told her. She laughed like anything, and said I might keep whatever I was given. I use the notes to light my bedroom fire.”

  “You must pocket a tidy sum.”<
br />
  “I do, sir.”

  “Does Lord Rushton ever bribe you for information?”

  “Bribe me? Nay, sir. In the spring he did ask me how often a particular gentleman called at the house, and I told him. But he didn’t pay me.”

  “Which gentleman?”

  “Mr. Powell, sir. The man who will wed his daughter.”

  Dare decided there was nothing terribly sinister about a man ascertaining the habits of his future son-in-law. “I gather there’s no Lady Rushton.”

  “Not for many a year. Her ladyship died soon after Lady Liza was born, and his lordship didn’t wed again.”

  When Oriana’s audience with royalty concluded, Dare went to meet her.

  She apologized for abandoning him. “I couldn’t present you to the Prince without his requesting it.”

  “I was content to gaze at him from afar.”

  When they made their way to Hyde Park Corner, she turned her hazel eyes upon him and asked, “Now do you see why I was so reluctant to come? I’m so very weary of all these predatory gentlemen.

  Even though they often amuse me, they are an annoyance.”

  “Is your fame always so burdensome?”

  “There’s a difference between fame and notoriety,” she replied. “The quality of my singing receives less attention from the public and the press than the affairs I’m supposed to have had and the gowns I wear. The bucks of the town flock ‘round because they assume I’m an easy conquest. The Prince beckons from a belief that flirtation with me enhances his reputation for gallantry.”

  “And because he wanted a closer glimpse of your lovely face.”

  “At least he doesn’t want me for his mistress. He prefers ladies who are older—and married.”

  A hackney coach returned them to Soho Square, and on entering Oriana’s house they discovered a chaotic scene.

  Her elderly butler was seated on the staircase, clutching the rail, while his wife held a feather under his nose.

  “What happened?” cried Oriana.

  “Me legs turned all wobbly,” the sufferer reported. “And there’s a buzzing in me ears.”

  “I told him to lie abed,” Lumley’s spouse huffed. “Where’s Sam with that brandy?”