Regency Romp 03 - The Alabaster Hip

by Maggie Fenton

  Lady Benwick had always wondered why her daughter was so interested in More. Now she knew, as Le Chevalier dropped out of Utopia and fell on Lady Benwick’s toes.

  One glance at the nameplate in the front was enough to push Lady Benwick over the edge.

  From the Library of A. Honeywell

  She should have known Astrid was behind her daughter’s disgraceful behavior. That woman corrupted everything she touched. What Astrid must have done to tempt Montford into marriage didn’t even bear thinking about. Davina should have snagged the duke, not Lady Benwick’s meddlesome, bluestocking niece. She’d never forgive Astrid for that, or that tart Alice Honeywell for eloping with her beloved son to Gretna Green.

  The Honeywells had ruined her life for the last time. She would take a stand against all of the licentiousness that had infected London society since the Duchess of Montford’s arrival—or die trying.

  Thus Lady Benwick’s crusade was launched.

  She promptly paid calls on all of her acquaintance and proceeded to lament over tea the poetic scourge that held the young ladies of the ton in its thrall.

  Many of Lady Benwick’s acquaintance demurred when asked to join her fledging cause, however, their own copies of Le Chevalier—or even a covertly acquired work by Lady Hedonist herself—tucked under their own pillows awaiting an airing. But she soon found kindred spirits in the Duchess of Delacourt, who hated all poetry on principle; Lady Carlisle, who publicly endorsed any cause that ruined the fun of young ladies; and even the notoriously enfeebled Lady Blundersmith, whose own former servant had turned out to be a rabid Misstopher.

  Lady Benwick had become even more committed than ever after learning Lady Blundersmith’s story, for if ladies’ companions had grown so bold, then the disease was even more advanced that she’d first thought.

  She feared for England.

  Spurred on by such esteemed patronage, matrons across the city began intercepting their daughters’ correspondence and raiding their writing desks, uncovering a vast conspiracy of Misstopher writers and readers that rivaled any secret cabal of spies Napoleon could have ever mustered against the British Crown.

  But “The Alabaster Hip” was the final straw. The streets of London were in a state of upheaval not seen since the Victory Parade of 1815 the day that lewdly melodramatic abomination appeared in the Chronicle—hardly surprising, given that rag was as far from good, old-fashioned Tory conservatism as one could get.

  After some intense soul-searching—and the discovery of the Chronicle in Davina’s stocking drawer—Lady Benwick and the other members of the newly minted LLALLLL decided that Hyde Park would be the ideal venue for their rally. Despite some concern for the level of decorum involved (mostly voiced by perplexed spouses who had long ago resigned themselves to their wives’ dominion on matters of social reform—as long as they had their clubs and mistresses to retreat to), the crusaders were undeterred in their zeal.

  On the Saturday afternoon in question, daughters were rounded up, libraries and stocking drawers were ransacked, and liveried servants were mobilized to provide an endless supply of tea and finger foods to the attendees. Even Bow Street was engaged (by the aforementioned spouses, who had wisely decamped to their clubs for the duration) to keep out the common rabble, while the supporters of the LLALLLL attempted to teach all of England an Important Moral Lesson—or at least the parts of England that mattered, which didn’t extend beyond the Bow Street Runners’ present perimeter. Obviously.

  Lady Benwick was, of course, at the front of this vanguard, her daughter at one elbow and the very perplexed Vicar of Rylestone Green (whose summons to speak at the rally had been so waterlogged by the journey north he thought that, from the few legible words that had remained, he’d been invited to a literary salon celebrating Essex) at the other.

  Concerned mothers and recalcitrant daughters milled in front of an empty wooden stage, decorated in bunting made from the finest fabrics London drapers had to offer (for there was no need to look cheap even when engaged in political activism, according to the Duchess of Delacourt). A giant mound of insupportable material—journals, broadsheets, leather-bound commonplace books, and an overwhelming abundance of the offending issue of the Morning Chronicle—continued to expand in front of the stage as Misstophers, poor, unwilling worshippers upon the altar of the LLALLLL, were forced to give over their collections.

  Though she’d managed to secrete away most of her own cache despite her mother’s purge, Davina Benwick looked suitably cowed for appearance’s sake as she threw a copy of The Italian Poem on the heap. It wasn’t her favorite work, but it was still a reluctant sacrifice. She, along with the rest of the young ladies in attendance, hoped for a miracle to stop the LLALLLL’s machinations, but it seemed unlikely to come, as Lady Benwick had already directed a servant to douse the pile of books and papers in whale oil (for what better way to destroy something than to burn it?).

  But then the Duchess of Montford’s carriage pulled up, along with a steady stream of uninvited latecomers. Lady Benwick could feel her blood pressure start to rise. Lady Blundersmith waddled up to her side, fluttering her fan as if it were boiling outside and not a chilly spring day. She looked much too self-satisfied for Lady Benwick’s peace of mind.

  “What have you done, Belinda?” Lady Benwick demanded.

  “Did I not tell you?” Lady Blundersmith crowed. “I visited Montford House just yesterday, and the duchess pledged her support. I told you she would come if we just asked, Emily. It’s a coup to have her influence for our cause.”

  Lady Benwick thought it was a coup, all right, and that Lady Blundersmith was an old fool to have ever approached the duchess. She knew her niece all too well, and the ducal carriage was not a welcome sight. When she spied the bobbing tower of Madame la Duchesse de St. Aignan’s wig inside another approaching conveyance, she groaned inwardly and hurried along the servant with the oil before any of the new arrivals could even think about interfering.

  No one was going to stop her book burning—certainly not a Honeywell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE BONFIRE OF THE MISSTOPHERS

  WHEN MINERVA AGREED to aid the duchess in her protest against the LLALLLL, she had not counted upon the placards. But the duchess had insisted—had even made Minerva stay up well past midnight to help paint them. And though she entirely agreed with the need to take a stand against censorship, she felt ridiculous as she tromped through the lawn with her sign. The duchess and Lady Elizabeth, however, were proudly brandishing their own placards, as if they were the latest fashionable accoutrements.

  Perhaps if her placard read anything other than “Misstophers Unite,” she would have felt much better about the whole situation. But somehow she’d been stuck with the blasted thing when Lady Elizabeth had accidentally taken up Minerva’s much more morally instructive (and much less mortifying) “Censorship Is Tyranny” for her own. She would have even preferred the duchess’s “Boycott Benwick,” but she had a feeling that Her Grace was particularly settled upon her choice of signage.

  But then Minerva saw the pyre of books and broadsheets towering in the middle of the lawn, and suddenly the placard didn’t seem like such an insane idea after all. She raised hers up a little higher. She’d be a Misstopher, damn it, if that was what it took to counter the LLALLLL’s tyranny.

  “Surely they cannot mean to burn that,” Lady Elizabeth breathed, gasping as a servant doused the gigantic pyre in oil.

  “I believe that is exactly what they intend,” the duchess muttered, her cheeks flushing with fury. “The utter gall.”

  Minerva could not agree more, though she was beginning to be rather concerned for Hyde Park. The sheer amount of literature in that pile was rather alarming. She wouldn’t be surprised if the LLALLLL ended up burning the entire park down.

  “I was n-n-n-not aware l-l-l-literary salons took p-p-place in Hyde P-P-P-Park,” stuttered a man’s voice behind them. “And, oh d-d-d-dear, what are you d-d-d-doing with all
of those b-b-b-books, Lady B-B-B-Benwick?”

  Minerva turned with her companions to observe a slight, balding man with a clerical collar holding a clutch of books to his breast. He was flanked on one side by a formidably sized matron in black bombazine, an austere onyx necklace, and a scowl, and a younger woman in a chartreuse gown festooned with a thousand miniature bows, who looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

  The man just looked perplexed.

  When the trio spotted them, the women looked even more constipated. The man gaped like a fish and began to fumble his stack of books.

  “Aunt Emily! Cousin Davina!” Astrid declared brightly—too brightly. “And Vicar! How lovely to see you in London on such a gorgeous day.”

  It was cold, windy, and overcast.

  The women exchanged insincere curtsies all around, and the nearly undetectable bob of the duchess’s head skirted the bounds of politesse. Minerva, who had become well acquainted with relatives who loathed each other these past few weeks, wondered if she should seek shelter behind her placard for the war to come.

  “Duchess,” Aunt Emily said, looking as if she’d rather be run through than be forced to acknowledge Astrid’s title, “I didn’t take you for a supporter of moral decency.”

  Well, then. The gauntlet seemed well and truly thrown.

  Astrid’s broad smile took on a reptilian edge, and she twisted her placard until the message faced her aunt. Minerva had already learned what to do when she spotted that look on the duchess: step away, brace for impact, and above all else, enjoy the show. Minerva hoped Lady Benwick knew what she was getting into.

  “You know how fond I am of fire, Aunt, considering the fate of my former home,” the duchess said. “I fully intend to be entertained this afternoon. I daresay the world has not seen a decent book burning since Voltaire’s time.”

  “B-b-b, b-b-b, b-b-book b-b-b-burning!” the vicar cried, eyeing the burgeoning pyre with trepidation, as if just realizing what it was. He hugged his pile of books even closer to his breast and began to tremble. “I thought we w-w-were v-v-vi . . . v-visi . . . v-v-v- . . . attending a l-l-literary salon!”

  Aunt Emily patted the vicar’s hand. “Do not concern yourself, Mr. Fawkes. We are only burning the wicked ones. Surely your collection is safe.”

  The vicar paled, obviously realizing just how far from a literary salon he was. “W-w-w-what w-w-w-wicked b-b-b-books?”

  “Well, that horrid Wollstonecraft woman for one, and Lord Byron. And Essex, of course. That man has led far too many sensible girls to perdition with his overwrought sentiment.” Lady Benwick cast her daughter a withering stare. Davina’s face turned the same shade as her dress, and she looked everywhere but at her mother.

  The vicar’s already pale face lost all the rest of its color, and he tightened his hold on his books until his knuckles were white, taking a surreptitious step away from Lady Benwick.

  “E-E-Essex, L-L-Lady B-B-Benwick? Are you qu-qu-quite sure . . . that is . . . h-h-his w-w-words, and h-h-h-his . . . p-p-p-passion . . .” Lady Benwick raised an eyebrow, and he immediately abandoned with a whimper wherever that thought was heading. “I-I-I really w-w-was expecting to . . .”

  “Have a nice chin wag about ‘The Alabaster Hip’?” Astrid interrupted brightly, her eyes locked with her aunt’s. They were both smiling, but the daggers in their eyes could have pierced the tough hide of a boar. “Wasn’t it divinely romantic, Mr. Fawkes? I think it Essex’s best short work since the sonnets.”

  The vicar glanced from the duchess to Lady Benwick and back again, looking about five seconds away from casting up his accounts all over his book collection. Minerva didn’t blame him. She would rather eat her bonnet than be stuck between that particular rock and hard place.

  The vicar cleared his throat and sidled toward the duchess in increments. It seemed to be as courageous a stand as the vicar was likely to make.

  “And should you and your library find yourself at loose ends in the city, Vicar, please call upon Montford and me,” the duchess continued. “We have no need to burn books. Our supply of coal . . . and our library . . . is quite limitless.”

  The vicar’s taut shoulders seemed to unspool a little at that, and he edged even closer to the duchess.

  Lady Benwick narrowed her eyes at the duchess, then at the vicar’s stack of books, and harrumphed when he attempted to cover the titles on the spine with his sleeve.

  “Surely you cannot endorse such scandalous, morally corrupt verse, Vicar,” Lady Benwick declared. “I have invited you here particularly to speak out against such sin.”

  The vicar’s shoulders tensed again, his expression growing hunted. “I-I-I thought I w-w-was to d-d-d-deliver a sp-sp-speech on the religious imagery in Le Chevalier d’Amour.”

  “Yes,” Lady Benwick said, looking at the vicar as if he were dim-witted. “On such imagery being unwholesome and wicked.”

  “B-b-b-but I-I-I qu-quite liked it,” the vicar said.

  Both of Lady Benwick’s eyebrows shot up at that.

  “Pfft, of course you did, my boy,” Madame la Duchesse de St. Aignan, the duchess’s other aunt, said, toddling up behind the vicar and looking even more . . . spectacular than she had during the lady’s brief visit to Montford House this morning. She wore a brocade gown that looked as if it had last had an airing at Louis XVI’s doomed court, with crinolines nearly as wide as she was tall and so many jewels sewn into the bust that it sagged on her shriveled bosom to an alarming degree. On her face was an equally alarming amount of maquillage that rivaled even Oxley’s, and on her head perched a towering reddish-brown wig with pin curls piled the height of a French croquembouche.

  For a moment Minerva thought the mass of matching russet curls in Madame la Duchesse’s arms was part of her wig, perhaps some sort of elaborate train, but then it moved, and from the cacophony of curls popped a pair of eyes, floppy ears, and a snout that looked as flat as an airless accordion.

  Madame la Duchesse playfully thwacked the vicar across the back of the knees with her cane, despite the dog in her arms. The vicar yelped and nearly spilled his books on the damp ground. “I myself liked the naughty bits. I swear that Essex fellow has a predilection for dewy flesh and a well-turned hip unmatched by anyone but my sweet Billy,” she said. She swayed a bit leeward as a large gust of wind hit her.

  Minerva coughed at this.

  “Aunt Anabel,” the duchess greeted with a wide grin, pulling the woman upright once more, “we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Aunt Anabel gave Hyde Park at large a dismissive sniff. “Hard to find anything of note in this crowd of philistines. It is Voltaire all over again.”

  “That’s what I said,” Astrid declared.

  Aunt Anabel’s rheumy eyes finally landed on Lady Benwick, and she didn’t bother to disguise her snort of disgust. “Emily,” she said grudgingly, “I should have known you’d be among this godforsaken rabble.”

  “Madame la Duchesse,” Lady Benwick choked out, having even more trouble with this greeting than she’d had with Astrid’s (for the day Anabel Honeywell had married a French duc had been a grim one indeed in the Benwick household). “I should have known you’d be here encouraging Astrid in her folly.”

  “And who is this beauty, then?” Lady Elizabeth said with delight, scratching Aunt Anabel’s dog behind its ears, completely ignoring Lady Benwick.

  “Ain’t she a pretty thing?” Aunt Anabel agreed. Somehow she managed to cover both of the mongrel’s ears with her hands despite the cane. She only wobbled slightly without the support. “She’s illegitimate,” she said in a stage whisper. “Her sire were a three-legged Irish setter. We don’t talk about it around her, or my own dear, sensitive Billy. It gives the poor duc the vapors.”

  In that moment, Minerva came to the realization that Madame la Duchesse was completely, barking mad.

  She suspected all Honeywells were.

  “I think it reminds him too much of when Lord Cavan came to Versailles,” M
adame la Duchesse mused. “Poor Billy went out of his head with jealousy, which I can hardly blame him. That fellow were a strapping specimen, and when I had him down to his altogether . . .”

  “Aunt Anabel, I believe Betsy wanted to know your lovely friend’s name,” the duchess interrupted in a very timely manner.

  Aunt Anabel looked at her niece as if she were an imbecile. “I told you. Lord Cavan. Irish Earl from Cork or Kerry or some such. And he was lovely all over. Especially his coc—”

  “The dog, Aunt!” Astrid inserted loudly, valiantly restraining herself from bursting into laughter at the piqued look on Lady Benwick’s face.

  “Oh! Why didn’t you say so, gel?” Aunt Anabel demanded rather crossly of Lady Elizabeth.

  Minerva thought Lady Elizabeth had.

  “It’s Mademoiselle Clare in honor of her mixed nationality.” Aunt Anabel whispered the last two words and covered the dog’s ears once more.

  The dog sneezed through her puggish nose, causing Madame la Duchesse to startle so violently she dropped the poor beast and pitched sideways into her niece.

  Mademoiselle landed with a smooth grace, obviously used to her owner’s feebleness, shook out her russet curls, and padded over to the unlit pyre in the middle of the lawn. She pulled out a copy of the Morning Chronicle and began to tear it to shreds with her vicious little teeth.

  Aunt Anabel tugged on the leather lead attached to Mademoiselle’s collar, both of which seemed to be encrusted with enough jewels to feed the poor of London for at least a decade. “Naughty creature! Do not molest the Chronicle! I will not have a Tory troglodyte for a pet!” she scolded.

  Mademoiselle padded back, sat on her haunches, and began gnawing on Aunt Anabel’s cane instead.

  “I should give you to Emily,” Aunt Anabel cooed down at her pet. “You two can eat all the Essex you want together.”

  Lady Benwick sniffed, and as if on cue, Mademoiselle abandoned her cane and bounded to her paws at the haughty sound. Her body stiffening and the curly russet hair on her back rising like a cat’s, she began to growl in Lady Benwick’s general direction.