“Puddingheart,” Jane said. “Please don’t withdraw from your friends. We want to help. You know that, don’t you?”
She felt Iphigenia nod.
“You won’t attend parties or balls, naturally, but in a few months I'll take you to the Berry sisters’ spring salon and other such meetings. In time, you’ll recover your spirits.”
“That’s kind of you, Jane, but you see, all is lost. You mustn't associate with me for I am undone.”
Iphigenia didn’t have to explain the cryptic euphemism. Evidently, she and Holmsbury had anticipated their January wedding. It was commonplace for affianced couples to act on their passion. Among the ton, Jane couldn’t count the number of ‘early’ firstborns announced in the newspapers each year. But Iphigenia was still unmarried. Pregnancy would ruin her life, unless—
“Phidge, I’ve been thinking about what to do with myself now that I am financially insufferable. Perhaps you’d like to live with me when I set up my own establishment. If your brother is anything like mine, he’ll be glad to see you leave. I’ll hire a suitable companion for us, too.”
Iphigenia could not meet her eyes. “It wouldn’t be proper for you to associate with me if—”
“Fiddle. You will live with me and no one would dare raise an eyebrow,” Jane told her. “We will speak of this again if your courses are late. Don’t be afraid, Phidge, I will see that you are safe come what may.”
Thereafter, Jane made calls as regularly on Iphigenia as Lady Abingdon. (The subject of her friend’s undoing did not come up.)
She brought the outside world to her shut-ins. Together, they read novels or poured over fashion plates in La Belle Assemblée, or discussed articles in the Lady’s Monthly Museum, or indulged in lurid broadsheet gossip. In time, she succeeded in drawing Iphigenia out of doors, to meetings and for drives in the park.
Without fanfare, Jane made certain those she loved never felt abandoned. She said little and did much not just because she was a loyal friend, but also to prove Lord Seelye wrong.
Chapter 8
In which our hero wins at love, albeit secondhand.
6 January 1817
In the betting book at White’s:
Dated 2 October 1816:
Ld Seelye and Mr. G. Percy bet Lds Waltham, Uxbridge, Powis, Alvanley, Capt. Capel, Sir Stanley Winchell, Mssrs. Gibbons-Walsh, Doulton, Reeves, Chilton, Mansfield, Harris and Clay 50 gs apiece that Ld C weds Ldy E. D. on or before 14 February 1817:
Signed:
S. Burton
G. Percy
Pd Waltham
PdUxbridge
PdPowis
Pd Alvanley
PdCapel
PdWinchell
PdGibbons-Walsh
PdDoulton
PdReeves
PdChilton
PdMansfield
PdHarris
PdClay
In the first week of the month of the new year, Seelye scrawled a jubilant note in his accounts book: ‘God bless Lord and Lady Clun! Wedding gift to come.’
Indeed, Seelye gave thanks to the Almighty that his doomsaying friend succumbed to the obvious—that he loved the Earl of Morefield’s Junoesque daughter—before Juno herself thought the better of it and cried off.
Not only had Clun’s begrudging surrender to love entertained him quite as much as Ainsworth’s, Seelye’s windfall forestalled a full-immersion baptism in the River Tick. The alternative, owing that great cohort fifty guineas each, would have sent him scrambling for the first barge, barque or skiff bound for Calais and fulfilled Jane’s snide prediction.
Little wonder, he felt blessed with fortune’s favor at the baron’s January nuptials. That is, until Jane cut him at the wedding breakfast. (The notation: ‘Still Impossible.’)
Clun’s wedding delivered him from immediate difficulty but he certainly didn’t have Brummell’s princely inheritance to squander or the Beau’s indifference to mounting debts.
With 650 quid in hand and his paltry quarterly allowance from Exmoor, Seelye might rusticate at the ancestral Somerset pile, avoiding all social engagements and the requisite tailoring. But a gentleman hoping to preserve his lifestyle through marriage could ill afford the social exile of a repairing lease to the country. Such a man had to gamble that his efforts to impress—purchased on credit—would attract a rich cit’s daughter and pay out before the bailiff plucked the peacock’s plumage from his backside.
That was the ugly truth Jane laid bare and it galled him she was right.
He was, in fact, a wastrel lordling treading water until a financially-bouyant female fished him out of the drink. A lucky wager or two merely bought him time to keep paddling.
Even after he collected the money, Jane’s observation continued to nettle him. Her jibe took all the joy out of gaming and jolly-times-tomorrow-be-damned. As a consequence, Seelye resolved to retrench a bit to silence that dismissive voice in the back of his mind.
Unfortunately, retrenching presented its own risks. As one of the rosiest pinks of the ton, he jeopardized his cachet paying off accounts. If there were any inkling of his perverse fiscal discipline, he’d be seen as a traitor to his debt-shirking class.
After all, no one liked a man who made his fellows look bad.
Settling up might also engender unwholesome expectations among tradesmen whose credit and patience the Quality habitually abused. And if he were the one responsible for those expectations, he was sure to be shunned by anyone who preferred to live well till the tipstaff stood on the doorstep—which was to say, almost everyone he knew. Whatever eligibility he enjoyed would evaporate should Society turn its collective back on Lord Seelye Burton, bourgeois bill-payer.
In the end, the lingering sting of Jane’s comment goaded Seelye to act despite his misgivings.
He proceeded carefully. To his indispensable and tight-lipped Belgian valet, he presented back wages. Over the next week, he paid his shot at White’s, made good for his lodgings for the year, and used coin not credit at Rundle & Bridge. He purchased a pair of sterling candlesticks for the newlyweds with crowns he offered on the spot. None of this caused a stir.
Purveyors of men’s elegancies and his tailor were another matter.
He met with mild disbelief at miscellaneous haberdashers when he paid off his accounts. He downplayed the singularity of this by pointing out to each that his balance was negligible and he’d discovered a few coins between sofa cushions. They chuckled with him and all was well.
But when Seelye stopped in 10 Clifford Street to retire his tab at Johann Stultz’s establishment, the tailor’s unabashed amazement worried him. Brummell and the Prince Regent’s clothier was a great success but not because his most influential clients paid him or because he was discreet.
No phlegmatic Teuton, he.
Indeed, Mr. Stultz pandered shamelessly to Prinny, who was the kingdom’s most notorious and gossipy debtor of all.
It was too late to snatch back his pound notes, so he yanked the startled German aside by the cravat and swore him to secrecy. His ultimatum: should Stultz tell a soul, he’d incur Beau Burton’s wrath and never see another groat toward future balances.
The flustered tailor pledged his discretion, but his promise rang false when he offered this assurance fighting back a little smirk.
Too late, Seelye realized that his cravat-grabbing guaranteed the entertainment value of the scene they’d just played. He left Stultz cursing himself for caring what an arrogant prissy-petticoats thought of him.
What happened next after retrenching was entirely unexpected. Be damned if he didn’t feel better about himself. His purse was lighter by more than half his winnings yet he felt less burdened. His mood lifted.
His own conscience recognized what the ton did not. A man of true character paid his way whatever his ancestry. This was an eccentric belief among the upper class, and one that he knew better than to express aloud, but living up to it restored some of his self-respect.
Anoth
er of Seelye’s eccentric principles related to the Marriage Mart. It shamed him to have no real prospects and to know that young ladies and their families knew it. It felt wrong to harbor mercenary motives when meeting young ladies at social events. He wanted to feel worthy of marriage not needy.
This compunction was no small obstacle to one’s future comfort when one was, in practical terms, in need. His kind generally married well or lived deep in dun territory. It was Seelye’s misfortune to bridle at both options.
After retrenching, he discovered a third. He resolved to present himself as an suitor in earnest only after he was entirely debt-free.
What wastrel lordling ever set himself that goal, Lady Jane?
Better yet, little stood between him and his objective, so long as he kept house inexpensively.
In the meantime, he was charming and attentive at parties but careful not to show a marked inclination toward anyone. When unmarried ladies encouraged him with shy flirtation during a dance, he feigned obliviousness. When their hopeful mothers gushed over his fame, noble connections, or what have you, he feigned deafness. And when bluff fathers hinted him at their daughters, he feigned thickness. It was wearisome work.
He spent afternoons relaxing at the club with his friends to prepare himself for these ordeals. The Horsemen usually discussed current affairs or laughed at one another, which Seelye found restorative.
On this day, he entered White’s in a dark mood.
As soon as he found Ainsworth and Clun, he complained, “Percy’s off to parts unknown. Ainsworth feigns gibbering incoherence from his Olympian height. And you glower at everyone like Grendel stuffed into full dress at sword point. I’ve always had to be the civil one, even when I’d rather be standoffish like you.”
“Poor Lord Seelye BuRrrden,” Clun said and shook his head.
“Why do I bother?” Seelye asked. “Not as though I can marry right now.”
“There’s your mistake. The ton loves you. Marry sooner than later. Strike while the iron’s hot,” Ainsworth said. “Married men aren’t expected to be sociable. We just show up and do as we’re told. Wives simplify everything.”
“EveRrrrything,” Clun agreed, with a smug grin. “Pluck up one of the damsels throwing themselves at your feet, man. Some are even tolerable. Choose one and have done.”
“Compunctions prevent me,” he said.
“Can’t afford compunctions, you’ve always said so,” the duke pointed out. “Nothing to blush at, fact of life. My advice, stop glaring at me and get on with it.”
Feeling bilious, Seelye wished them to perdition before bidding his amused comrades good day. He returned to Gower Street in a grim mood.
Then his relatives came to call.
Why Mrs. Carmody let the Marquess of Exmoor and the dowager marchioness into her Bloomsbury establishment perplexed Seelye. She’d yet to show any inclination to open the door to him and he paid for lodgings in the place. Perhaps the marquess’ thunderous pounding prompted the woman to act—good to know if he found himself locked out during the balance of his stay.
In any event, Mrs. Carmody remained undaunted by a crested carriage at the curb and the Quality on her doorstep. She announced herself a proud, urban daughter of John Bull when she bent her knees slightly and offered a brusque, “Upstairs, number three,” to Exmoor’s inquiry.
With nothing more to say, the woman straightened her mob cap and marched away without so much as a by-your-leave.
He witnessed this farce while peering over the upstairs railing after he stalked from his rooms to answer the door himself and stop the racket.
He lived on the first floor, obliging his two fair-haired relatives to ascend the narrow staircase. Both looked about in horror, as if they climbed through a particularly grisly tableau in a wax museum. His mother took care not to touch the banister.
With kith and kin on their way, Seelye tiptoed back through his door, closed it quietly, and locked it for good measure. He pressed an ear to the paneling to hear his older brother and their mother hiss back and forth on the door’s other side.
“We rush from Somerset for this, Mother?”
“My last letter went unanswered. He has disappeared from his lodgings in Jermyn Street.”
“I just told you he lent the place out to some East India Company nabob who gave me this direction.” Pause. “Don’t give me that look, I told you not to come.”
“Could I sit by while my son’s life unspools into depravity?”
“Daresay we won’t find him in a hopeless state, he’s only just relocated.”
Sudden pounding on the door concussed Seelye. He staggered back a few steps. After more pounding, he unlocked the door.
“What a surprise, Mother, Exmoor, what brings you to my humble abode?”
“Oh, Seelye, it is humble, isn’t it?” she said and brushed past him. “Just look at you.”
He looked at himself. He wore decent stockinette pantaloons and quality Hessians. His shirt was wrinkled but, once he wrestled himself into a frock coat, it wouldn’t matter. His waistcoat was handsome and hanging open, as was his dressing gown.
“Come in, if you must,” he said with no enthusiasm.
“Exmoor, it’s worse than I feared,” she whispered, looking around. “He’s gone bohemian, or do I mean romantic?”
“Look here, you’re giving our mater the vapors with your slinking off and dressing like a bohemian romantic and being demmed secretive about it,” his sibling said.
The marquess, a florid, puffier version of Seelye, prowled about, noting with distaste the dressing room’s lack of order.
“Lud, the whispers are true. You are,” his aggrieved parent sighed tragically, “retrenching.”
“A friend of George Percy’s wanted a place for the Season,” Seelye told her. “He’s looking to marry and return to India by August. I lent him my rooms so he’d have the right address for his bride hunt. I’ll be back by autumn.”
“Where’s your little Belgian?” Exmoor asked, using his walking stick to poke at a knee-high deposit of used linens, stocks, shirts, and miscellany on the dressing room floor.
His mother, a beauty in her day, watched her eldest in tense anticipation of what might spring from the dressing room’s dim, disheveled bowels.
Seelye’s blood went cold. Having no valet would give their mother fatal spasms. Only thing for it was to lie. And according to Percy, the best lies stay close to the truth.
“Bloomsbury did not agree with Montret,” Seelye said cautiously. In fact, his valet remained in Jermyn Street to serve the subtenant at twice his normal wage with Seelye’s blessing. What’s more, the nabob paid a full year’s manservant tax, which was handsome of him. By doing without Montret, Seelye saved the whopping £4 8s the crown bled bachelors for this service.
“Who’s seeing to you now?” his brother asked.
“No need to worry.”
“Why would you of all people employ a slob?” Exmoor demanded and probed at the pile as if he expected to find the new valet curled up within it. “Why hasn’t he dealt with this? Dashed frowzy, if you ask me. Name?”
Seelye’s mind blanked. He cast about the room, encountered the dowager marchioness’ anxious gaze, then his brother’s skeptical scrutiny.
“Gimlet,” Seelye said.
“Gimlet,” Exmoor repeated, eying him. “Don’t like it, sounds Irish.”
“Not your concern, brother.”
Seelye led his mother to the under-stuffed sofa in the middle of his sitting room. She examined it, turned her back to it, and sank slowly into its cushions with eyes closed. She touched only the surface area required by laws of gravity.
“What brings you here today, ma’am?”
“My poor boy,” she said, tucking her gloved hands in her lap. “You’ve created some bother over tradesmen, or so Exmoor tells me.”
His brother scowled at him.
“I’ve no notion what you mean,” Seelye said. He cursed Stultz silently and joined Exmo
or by the fireplace, hoping to hasten their departure.
“You must do as everyone else does, dearest,” she said with gentle condescension. “Tradesmen wait.”
“Till kingdom come for all I care,” his brother added indignantly.
Seelye vowed to stick the little, needle-wielding blabbermouth full of pins. Henceforth, Beau Burton would rely on Weston or Scott.
“Exactly, Exmoor,” his mother was saying. “Our sort does not pay their sort with alacrity. It’s unseemly. Nor do we settle accounts in cash like a cit and set tongues wagging.”
“I’ll have you know they ripped up at me at Brooks,” Exmoor said growing surly. “How dare you come back from the Low Countries with rubbishy Dutch notions of fiscal responsibility.”
“No one pays bills until absolutely necessary,” she said. “That is good ton.”
“And if I wish to start a new trend?” Seelye asked.
“I’d much rather you didn’t,” his brother said. “M’ tailor’s eyeballing me in a way that’s deuced disagreeable. Thinks I’ll fork over the ready toward my account because I’ve made good on yours. Tried to set him straight, but a man who imagines money at hand ain’t reasonable.”
This left Seelye outraged. He and no one else had paid his debts. Even so, practical considerations silenced him. Society would flay a man upending common practice just to refute one of Lady Jane Babcock’s insults.
“Fact is, I won a wager and hundreds of guineas,” he told them.
“And you paid bills with it?” the marquess exclaimed. “Who’s going to believe that?”
“It's the truth.”
“Don’t care. Won’t convince a soul if it’s incredible, will it?” his brother said and used his sterling-tipped stick to rap his boot shaft.
“Tell your friends you had to make good for me or see me in the Fleet. That should silence them,” Seelye said, though it wounded his pride.
His older brother looked up, taken with the idea. “Won’t lie,” the marquess said. “But might not deny it, if it got about and I’m asked.”
“Understood,” Seelye said. “I’ll let it slip at a ball tonight.”
His Lordship's Last Wager Page 7
