Regency Valentines

by Jo Beverley

  She took his hand. "I wish I could remember her."

  "I wish that, too, my dear. I worry that I have come to depend too much on you for companionship."

  "Then I depend on you."

  He met her eyes. "That's what concerns me, Agnes. You're young. You have your own life to live. No, don't interrupt. Yes, your grandmother is domineering, but sometimes she's correct. She says you should go to London in the spring where your Aunt Martineux is willing to guide you through the season and make sure you meet eligible gentlemen."

  "As far as I'm concerned, there are none. Papa, I do not wish to marry."

  "Which isn't rational, Agnes. Mama is right. You should at least sample the banquet of life before choosing simple fare. I wish you to go, and," he added, for her knew her too well, "I wish you to play your part to the full."

  The image of that king of clubs floated before Agnes, but she banished it. That had been a silly game of no significance. She wanted to refuse to go to London, but she knew her father well. He rarely asserted his authority, but when he did, he meant it. She'd thought she wouldn't be bothered by dispute, but with her father…. No, that was intolerable.

  "For how long?"

  "It's not a prison sentence, Agnes. Six weeks."

  "Four. A month. Truly, father, that's all I could bear."

  Gently he said, "The more you protest, my dear, the more sure I am that you must go. There is a rich world beyond Dux Cherrymead. What's more, I want you to promise me something else."

  "What?"

  "That if you receive a suitable offer you will give it full consideration. I see that you are fearful, my dear, but I know you are brave."

  Agnes was frighteningly close to tears. She wanted to protest at being called fearful, but she could see that her father was convinced. There was no way to refuse this trial, for her nasty, overbearing grandmother would harangue him till the day he died.

  Very well. She'd do this and put the matter in the grave. It shouldn't be difficult for she'd hardly attracted any amorous attention in Dux Cherrymead. She'd be invisible in the beau monde.

  "One month only," she said, "but I will play my part to the full for that time."

  Chapter One

  "Ready, dear?" Aunt Martineux used the bright tone she always applied when preparing for another foray into the Ton.

  "Quite ready." Agnes rose from her dressing table pulling on long, white silk gloves. As ready as she could ever be.

  Her visit to Town was proving to be fully as much a trial as she'd expected. She didn't want to be here, supposedly seeking a husband, and her poor aunt didn't want to be hauling such an unpromising bundle around from rout to soiree to ball. The eligible gentlemen of London certainly didn't want to be compelled to dance with her.

  She turned to the long mirror to make sure she was at least tidy -- that none of her fine, mousy hair was escaping its pins, and that the maid hadn't scattered the powdered rouge onto her ivory silk gown. She'd tried to rebel against the rouge, but her aunt had wailed on so about her sun-browned complexion, and she had promised to obey her aunt.

  In the case of the ivory silk and its fellows, she obeyed with good grace. There was always the possibility that an eligible gentleman would decide that her portion of four thousand pounds outweighed her lack of charms. In the pale, frilly fashion designed for youthful ingénues she was safe. Nothing could suit her less.

  She nodded at her reflection, satisfied. She had only one week to survive before she could return home. Only seven more evenings to endure. She turned, but paused. Her aunt's thin gloved fingers were tight on her fan and she might even be paler than usual.

  "Are you quite all right, Aunt? We can stay at home if-"

  "No! Not at all. It's only that.... Your grandmother is here!" she blurted.

  "Here?" Abby asked, squeaking from a tight throat. "In Town?"

  "Here," Lady Martineux repeated. "In the drawing room."

  Agnes sat down again. "Oh, my. Why?"

  "To take command of your case. I have begged you to apply yourself more!"

  "More? Am I not in silk, with rouged cheeks and lips? Do I not attend every event you devise and do my best to be pleasing? What more should I do?"

  "Oh dear, oh dear. Do try not to speak like that to. But as always, you will do as you think right." She made that seem like a sin. "She demands to inspect you before we leave. And,” she added faintly, “she's staying,"

  "Staying?"

  "In this house. For the next week."

  Agnes knew how dreadful that would be. "I'm very sorry, Aunt."

  "And so you should be! Oh, I apologize, dear. I don't mean to berate you, but what Martineux will say when he finds out his mother's here I don't know. Come along, do, and try to placate her. If you could secure a proposal tonight, she might return to Preston Park tomorrow."

  Agnes rose and followed her aunt along the corridor rejecting that solution, even if it were possible. But, oh, she wished she weren't terrified.

  It was ten years since she'd encountered the Dowager Lady Martineux, mother to Lady Martineux's husband plus Agnes's father, a general, an admiral and two countesses, all of whom trembled before her. She'd terrified a thirteen-year-old girl.

  The dowager ruled her family with dragon's breath, but by the grace of heaven, she mostly did it by letter from the dower house at Preston Park. No wonder Agnes’s father had settled himself three counties away, another brother had taken to the sea, and General Abbott sought commands abroad. Lord and Lady Martineux didn't have any choice, but even they had managed to find a great many duties that obliged them to be away from Preston Park, including a two-year diplomatic posting to Russia.

  Agnes entered the drawing room tense with nervousness made worse by a wave of sandalwood that carried her back ten years. It probably wasn't an offensive perfume, but the dowager used it to excess and thus it carried distaste and fear for her. She resolved not to be bullied. After all, what could the old tyrant actually do to her?

  The dowager sat upright, thin hands on her carved wooden cane, mouth literally pursed -- gathered tight amid wrinkles. Her wiry gray hair was frizzed into a nest crowned by a black widow's cap that had long lappets on either side of her scowling face. Her gown, though richly embroidered with jet beads, was a dense black, and given her thin body Agnes could only think, crow.

  "Why is your bosom covered, girl?"

  Agnes managed not to put a hand to her neckline. "For decency, Grandmother."

  "What's decency got to do with it? You're on the Marriage Mart and should show off your wares! You look well enough endowed. Unless that's all padding."

  "Certainly not!"

  "Don't take that tone with me, girl. Something's amiss or you'd have a husband by now. You're an Abbott, and as your mother failed to produce any other child, your portion is respectable. You look healthy enough, and Claudia assures me that she's taken you to all suitable events."

  "She has," Agnes said, hoping to deflect fiery breath from her poor aunt.

  "Ineffectively. But what else is to be expected?" The beady eyes skewered Lady Martineux then swiveled back to the main target. "You promised your father that you would apply yourself to your duty."

  Agnes's rare anger stirred. "I have done my duty in all respects, Grandmother."

  "Bosom!" the woman spat. "We'll have your gowns lowered tomorrow. Some width taken out of the skirts, too. That bulky thing makes you look broad in the beam."

  "I am broad in the beam, ma'am, and plain as well. If being purchased from the shelves in the Marriage Mart depends on physical charms, I'm like to rot there. Except, of course, that I will soon return home."

  She threw it as a challenge, and the dowager inhaled, which made her nostrils narrow in an odd way. "So, you confess. You strive to return home unwed."

  There was a neat trap.

  "I do not wish to marry for the sake of it, Grandmother, and I've not yet encountered a gentleman for whom I have any tender emotions."

  "Tender e
motions weaken a wife. Marry for rank and fortune. Those can be relied upon."

  "I would not think that Christian, grandmother."

  "Christian! Folly to name you Agnes. What's amiss with Charlotte, Caroline, Anabelle and such? Puts a girl in the right way of things. Agnes, indeed. Patron saint of virgins and chastity, and always carrying around a lamb. Are you aware that the ton call you Saint Agnes?"

  Agnes wasn’t and her cheeks heated. She glanced at her aunt and caught a grimace. Lady Martineux had kept it from her.

  "No, grandmother, I didn't know that, but I see no shame in being likened to a saint, though I am, of course, unworthy of it."

  The dowager smirked. "Are you confessing that you're not a chaste virgin?"

  Agnes realized her hands were fists, but she couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't be sinfully undutiful.

  The dowager sniggered. "Not chased by the men, I'll be bound. Well, now that I see you, you probably are a hopeless case. I should have kept you at Preston Park when you were a child and had the shaping of you. At least your saintly reputation can be put to use."

  The change of tone should have been a relief, but instinct put Agnes on full alert. What was the old harpy up to?

  "I have another reason for coming to Town," the dowager said. "A godson. I have too many god-children. Don’t give them much heed, but Livia Ballard's pestering for my aid for her son. Livia's always been a limp twit and she's grown worse. Married for love, note. Nothing good comes of that, and in her case, her only son's a bad 'un."

  Agnes glanced at her aunt and received a shrug. Lady Martineux was perplexed, too.

  "Stop looking at one another as if you think I'm a lunatic. My godson, Ned Ballard, is suddenly Earl of Riverstoke -- the Ballards have had a shocking run of bad luck -- and he's returned from America to take up his duties. She fears the ton won't like him, and she's doubtless right. She begs me to do something, and I suppose a godmother has some responsibilities. You, girl, will convey some of your saintliness to him, and in return you will be enlivened by his wickedness. That might improve your chances."

  Agnes stared at her. "What precisely are you expecting me to do, Grandmother?"

  "Make mad love to him at Almack's," the dowager said, then snorted. "Speak to him, that's all! No chance of dancing with him, for I doubt he'll be invited to any balls. He'd come into contact with too many innocents. Walk with him, drive with him. Anything that will convey your saintly approval."

  "I very much doubt I do approve, ma'am. What are his sins?"

  The wrinkled face twisted into a sneer. "Sure you want to know?"

  "I'm sure I don't, but if I'm even to consider this, I must."

  "You will do as you're told."

  Pushed to extremes, Agnes challenged her. "Or?"

  The dowager straightened in outrage, and Agnes feared that there might be some dire punishment available. But then the old woman sank back down. Was it possible that the dragon was a puffed up bladder?

  Through tight lips the dowager said, "Ravished a young lady in Philadelphia and refused to marry her."

  "Is that all?" Agnes said. A crack of laughter startled her, and she supposed it had been an unfortunate way to put it. "I mean, I expected a lifetime of vice."

  "Then you have it. Ned Ballard's always been wild. Lived beyond his means. Consorted with Cyprians. Left England under a cloud, I’m sure. His mother has written nothing but complaints of him for years."

  "A rake, in other words, but he won't be the only one in the House of Lords. I can't see where I'm needed."

  "The American girl -- Amelia Hurst, I think -- made a great fuss about his behavior to her."

  "Hardly surprising."

  "Is it not? By making it public, she's ruined, whereas discretion would have preserved her reputation, especially as she miscarried the child at an early stage. The chit lacks a father, but some other relative tried to call Ned out over it. The news about the earldom arrived and he took the opportunity to board ship and flee."

  A coward too, Agnes thought.

  "Mrs. Hurst then took the matter to the British ambassador, Sir Augustus Foster. His mother is now Duchess of Devonshire."

  A sound escaped Lady Martineux.

  "Quite," said the dowager. "The short of it is that powerful people are against the new Earl of Riverstoke and I've promised Livie to try to at least gain toleration for him. You, girl, are my instrument."

  "On which to play a very foolish tune, grandmother. How can I weigh against a duchess?"

  "Depends on the duchess. Elizabeth Foster was the duke's mistress for years. You must have heard about that, even in Muddlemead."

  “Dux Cherrymead,” Agnes corrected, but she had heard about the scandalous Devonshires. "It makes no difference. Lord Riverstoke is clearly a rakehell wastrel and my conscience would not permit me to try to whitewash him."

  "No? Consider this, you uppity young madam. You've promised to remain on the Marriage Mart shelves for another week and to obey your aunt, and your aunt will obey me. I can make the coming seven days miserable for you and almost certainly secure you an offer of some sort. Or I can leave you to your spinsterish devices."

  It was a devil's bargain, and Agnes didn't try to disguise her opinion of it, but she was tempted. Though she hadn’t directly promised to accept any respectable offer, it had been implied, and the dowager probably could drag some impoverished lord to the point. On the other hand, being seen Lord Riverstoke's sordid company might smirch her sufficiently to deter all the decent men in London.

  "'Forgive one another,'" intoned the dowager, "'even as God hath forgiven you.' 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone.' 'The quality of mercy is not strained...'"

  "That’s Shakespeare," Agnes said, "not the Bible." But perhaps there was a virtuous aspect to this task. The Bible did urge forgiveness and mercy. It was specious reasoning, but it saved her pride.

  "Very well, Grandmother. Out of Christian charity I will not shun the soot-black sheep. If the Earl of Riverstoke then goes on to ravish some other innocent lady, on your head be it."

  "Agreed," said the dowager, smirking in the manner of one who had gained exactly what she'd wanted.

  "I'll have more. If I do this, I am allowed to return home tomorrow and you will not press my father any more on this matter."

  The dowager's eyes narrowed, but in the end she said, "Very well. You're clearly a hopeless case anyway."

  "I'll have more. If I do this, I am allowed to return home tomorrow and you will not press my father any more on this matter."

  The dowager's eyes narrowed, but in the end she said, "Very well. You're clearly a hopeless case anyway."

  Agnes and her aunt escaped and when they reached the hall, Lady Martineux murmured, "I'm so very sorry, dear. I couldn't think of a thing to say. You were very brave."

  "I don't have to live so closely with her."

  "True." She shuddered. "What Martineux will say…."

  Maidservants came forward with their cloaks and they set off on the evening's round of amusements.

  When first arrived in Town, Agnes had attended ton events in a state of nerves, but by now she was plagued only by boredom. Tonight was enlivened by her grandmother's plan, and she began to feel anticipation. Where would she encounter the black sheep and how would she arrange to smirch herself with his stains? Hostesses did not introduce ladies such as she to gentlemen such as he.

  She must also be careful not to be too much soiled. She'd no intention of returning home under a cloud of scandal.

  The coach deposited them first at Lady Chumleigh's rout, where they passed through the house, chatting briefly, but always in motion. A rout was the way a hostess fulfilled her obligations to a great many people with the least effort, and Agnes thought them a waste of time. Why not a symbolic one? Lady Chumleigh could have sent cards to say, "Consider yourself to have attended my rout."

  They went on to Mrs. Drummond-Burrell's drum, which was much like a rout exc
ept that one was supposed to pause to take tea. Consider yourself to have been drummed. The whole season could be managed that way, by a shuffling of cards, saving a great deal of trouble and expense. People could even do it from the comfort of the country.

  Agnes and her aunt, tea-cups precariously in hand, went to pay their respects to the hostess. She caught Mrs. Drummond-Burrell saying, "So unfortunate not to be able to attend Lady Saxonhurst's ball."

  Agnes had previously approved of Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, who was not much older than herself but very much in control of her life and a great stickler for propriety. So many of the younger women, single or married, were flighty. Now, however, she detected something cold, even spiteful, in the woman's tone. Was Mrs. Drummond-Burrell using her influence to deter people from attending Lady Saxonhurst's ball? Why?

  Agnes liked Meg Saxonhurst. She was a little flighty, but she also had common sense and had been kind. Perhaps to make Agnes feel more comfortable, Meg had revealed that her father had been a scholar, so they came from a similar background. They shared a no-nonsense view of life and had enjoyed some pleasant chats.

  Agnes was trying to think of a polite way to ask why their hostess couldn't attend when someone else did it for her. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell whispered, "Riverstoke! What could she be thinking?"

  Her cronies gasped and shook their heads.

  If Agnes had needed confirmation that the Earl of Riverstoke was as vile as painted, she had it. But why would such a specimen be at Meg's ball? Then she remembered that the Earl of Saxonhurst had a reputation for eccentricity. He owned an ugly, cowardly dog and a peculiar parrot. Many of his servants were defective in some way, having lost an eye, a limb, or even their good name. Had he brought home another outcast -- a man lacking morals and conscience? Poor Meg.

  Agnes and her aunt put aside their teacups and joined the stream going downstairs. "We are to attend the Saxonhurst ball, are we not?" Agnes asked.