“Michael!” Aunt Minnie cried. He looked up to find her sailing out of the drawing room doors toward him, the tall feathers in her rose pink turban waving jauntily. She went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “My most handsome nephew.”
Michael laughed, and kissed her in return. “I am your only nephew.”
She waved this away with an airy gesture of her gloved hand. “If I had a hundred nephews, you would still be the most handsome. You are becoming quite the heartbreaker, so I hear.”
“Exaggerations, I assure you, aunt.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, clearly unconvinced. “Exaggerations, perhaps. But obviously it runs in the family, as Violet is also becoming a very pretty figure. It is obvious that Mrs. Chase’s Seminary agrees with her. She is blooming.”
Michael glanced over to where Violet was chatting with an elderly colonel and his wife. She was smiling, and as bright and pretty as her yellow muslin gown. It was reassuring that she had emerged unscathed from their meeting with their father—at least for now. “It was thanks to your persuasions that our father agreed to send her there.”
Aunt Minnie gave an inelegant snort. “Oh, my brother is terrible, and has been ever since we were children! But Violet seems to be weathering the storm, as do you, my dear.”
“Violet will always be fine, because she has inherited your beauty and good heart. As well as your literary taste, I believe?” He held up the copy of A Lady’s Rules.
She laughed, and snatched the volume out of his hand. “It is all anyone is reading of late! I haven’t seen a craze to equal it in years, not since I was a girl and everyone had to wear heart-shaped patches. To be au courant now one must be polite. Such a bore, not at all like the great fun we had in my youth. Wigs a foot tall, high heels, card games that lasted a week, not to mention those patches. But the Rules are really quite amusing to peruse. I can loan you my copy.”
“No need, Aunt Minnie. I was recently given a copy of my very own.” Michael remembered the expression on Mrs. Chase’s face as she held the book out to him. “You in particular are most in need of it, Lord Morley.”
Aunt Minnie gave him an arch glance. “Oh, yes? And may I venture a guess that it was a gift from a lady?”
Michael gave her a look of his own. “You may venture as many guesses as you like, Aunt Minnie. A gentleman never tells. Is that one of the rules?”
She laughed again. “If it is not, it should be! But come with me, young rascal. We have been standing here for too long, and there are guests I would like you to meet.”
As she took his arm to lead him into the fray of her company, Michael took another glance at the book before tossing it back onto the table. A Lady’s Rules—they were everywhere.
Chapter Six
“A lady should always try to avoid discussing such matters as finances and politics.”
—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Two
“T he morning post has come, ma’am,” Molly announced, putting a small silver tray down on Rosalind’s desk.
Rosalind glanced up from her writing, automatically sliding a blank sheet of vellum over her notebook. It was not that she didn’t trust Molly—it was simply instinct. She was working on the new edition of A Lady’s Rules, which her publisher had been trying for weeks to get her to begin. She had to preserve her anonymity as A Lady.
“Thank you, Molly,” she said, and reached for the sheaf of letters.
“Would you like your luncheon in here, ma’am, or in the dining room?” the maid asked.
Rosalind did not need very long to make that decision. It was much too gloomy to eat all alone in the spacious dining room. During the term, it was full of people, students practicing their table manners under the watchful gaze of the teachers, their talk and laughter ringing out. During the holiday, it was silent.
“In here, please, Molly. I am going to try to work through the afternoon.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Molly bobbed a curtsy and left the office, closing the door behind her.
Rosalind sorted through the post. There were a couple of missives from her teachers, on their holidays in Bath and Lyme Regis. A few notes from parents inquiring about future places at the school for their daughters. A scribbled, blotted note from Uncle Silas at his country home.
And one frighteningly official-looking letter from the bank in London. The one Allen had borrowed money from.
Rosalind stared down at the green blob of wax on the heavy white vellum. As she stared, the wax shifted, twisted, until it looked like a yawning, gaping, biting tiger’s jaw. Poised to swallow her, and her comfortable world, whole.
She slid a letter opener under the wax wafer, popping it open, and unfolded the sheet.
It was short, polite, and to the point. Mr. Richards, one of the managers of the bank, would very much appreciate an appointment with her and Mr. Silas Lucas, to discuss recent loans made to Mr. Allen Lucas. Sincerely hers, etc….
Rosalind dropped the letter to her desk. The skin around her eyes tightened painfully at the thought of having to meet with some bank manager. It sounded, well, less than respectable. Not something a lady should have to face. It reeked of financial ruin. She took off her wire-framed spectacles and rubbed at the bridge of her nose.
Blast Allen anyway. He had no right to put her through this. This was the fault of Lord Morley, and others of his reprehensible ilk. If not for their influence, Allen would be quietly studying, not running up debts.
What was she going to do about this mess?
The Thoth Club was crowded on this Wednesday night, thronged with gentlemen freed at this late hour from their duties of escorting wives, sisters, and sweethearts to the dreaded Almack’s. Brandy was liberal, the billiards room full, the card tables surrounded by players and observers.
Michael sat in one of the comfortable wingback chairs by the fireplace, a glass of port cradled in his hands, watching the hum of activity. He himself had just passed an evening in respectable society, escorting Violet and Aunt Minnie to a small musicale. Not, thankfully, to Almack’s—Vi was still too young for its hallowed portals—but still heavy with propriety. Now Violet was left with Aunt Minnie and her cronies in Minnie’s drawing room, and Michael was here, in this masculine sanctuary.
Sanctuary? Strangely, it felt like a mere extension of the outside world.
Michael sipped at his port, and tried to decipher why this place, which had always been a place of enjoyment and escape for him ever since he helped to found it, should feel so cold tonight. He had always enjoyed the Thoth Club. It was full of members with an artistic or literary bent, not like politically minded Whites and Brooks, or sporting-mad Boodle’s. There was always discussion of Byron’s latest volume or Turner’s newest canvas to go along with the cards and drink. Even the food was not half bad.
Tonight, though, he felt oddly—restless. He did not want to play cards, or talk about poetry, or do any of the things that usually sufficed to while away a pleasant evening. Ordinarily it was all amusing enough, even if not profoundly satisfying. Tonight, though, it was just not enough. He briefly considered visiting the home of a most obliging golden-haired courtesan, but not even that appealed to him.
He should leave, go back to his lodgings and write. In his own world of words and fantasies, time could often fly past on silvery wings. That was sometimes the only thing that could satisfy him, the ephemeral zone of art. It was far, far beyond the shallow pastimes of gaming, horse races, balls—even blond courtesans. Tonight, though, he felt that even poetry could not fill the hollowness at the very center of his being.
So he just sat there, sipping at the glass of port, watching the activity of the club swirl past him.
The front doors opened, letting in a burst of cool evening air and a flurry of new arrivals. They were laughing brightly, talking too loudly—obviously, they had begun their carousing long before coming to the club.
Among them was Allen Lucas.
“Morley!” Lucas cried upon seeing Michael
. He handed his cloak and hat to the footman, and staggered across the room to collapse in the chair next to Michael’s. He paid no attention to Michael’s obvious solitude, gesturing for a port of his own.
“How are you this evening, Lucas?” Michael asked, and put his half-empty glass down on the nearest table. Apparently, alcohol was going to be of no use to him this evening.
“Very well indeed. Haven’t seen you since that day at m’sister’s school.” Lucas tossed off his first drink, and poured out another from the decanter. He loosened his elaborately fashioned cravat. “I didn’t know your sister attended the Seminary.”
“Oh, yes. Lady Violet enjoys it there very much.”
Lucas snorted. “I daresay she does. All the girls just worship Rosie.”
“Hm,” Michael murmured noncommittally. He really did not want to think about Mrs. Chase this night. Lately, every time he closed his eyes he saw her disapproving face, her blue eyes watching him with disappointment. He did not know why that should be; he had only met the woman twice in his life. And neither encounter had been what could be called auspicious. But there it was—he had been thinking of her, and he wanted to escape it.
And now here was the woman’s very own brother, sitting down right across from him. I need a distraction, he thought.
Fortunately, he was saved from hearing any more about “Rosie” by the arrival of two of Lucas’s cronies, Lord Carteret and Mr. Gilmore.
“Good evening, Morley!” Gilmore said, helping himself to the port. “Damn shame you didn’t come out with us earlier.”
“Oh, yes? Where did you go?” Michael replied, not deeply interested in the answer. But as long as the silly puppies were here, they might as well keep him entertained.
“We were at Lady Lovelace’s rout,” Carteret said, with a small hiccup. “And she threw us out!”
Now, that was a bit interesting, Michael thought. Lady Lovelace was not a woman generally known for being a high stickler, so this trio must have done something rather naughty indeed. “She threw you out?”
“Tossed us right out on our ears,” Lucas said, laughing into his port.
“Why?” Michael asked. “What did you do?”
Carteret leaned his elbow lazily on the edge of the mantel. “She said we were breaking the rules.”
The rules! Of course. Michael gave a bitter little laugh. Only something as ridiculous as “the rules” could get three such harmless pups expelled from the Lovelace rout. They were spreading like a virulent weed over Society, choking out any trace of individuality, any spark that could possibly enliven dull ton events.
“She said that the rules forbid a gentleman from being intoxicated in front of a lady,” Lucas said indignantly. “We were hardly foxed! How could one be, on that weak stuff Lady Lovelace serves?”
“And when I tried to tell a simple joke to Lady Lovelace’s daughter, the silly gel squealed like an affronted mouse, and ran off to tell her mama,” added Gilmore. “It was just the one about the opera dancer and the clock at St. Sebastian’s…”
“Lady Lovelace pulled out a copy of A Lady’s Rules and spouted off something about tasteless anecdotes,” said Lucas.
“Tasteless!” Gilmore cried. “That was my very best joke. It always gets a laugh.
“Hm.” Michael studied the flames leaping in the grate, as the three young men went on muttering about their “shabby” treatment at the hands of Lady Lovelace.
It was true that their behavior had not been all that it should have been, Michael admitted. Drinking too much and telling questionable stories to young ladies was not the done thing. But they were harmless young men, and had meant nothing by it. Their behavior had surely warranted their being taken outside by Lord Lovelace into the fresh air to sober up, but not being tossed publicly out of the soiree.
“It is those blasted rules,” Gilmore said, echoing Michael’s own thoughts. “Ever since Lady Jersey and the other patronesses started touting them all over the place, everyone is wild to follow them to the exact letter.”
“It’s dashed hard,” Lucas complained. “I can never remember all of them at once, so I’m always bound to break at least one.”
“But one has to follow them,” said Carteret gloomily. “If one wants to be accepted. As dull as all those routs and balls are, I want to be able to attend them. That is where all the pretty girls are, and my father would cut off my allowance if I didn’t do my duty there.”
“We just have to try harder to remember the rules,” said Lucas.
Here was the distraction he sought, Michael realized.
They all fell into a maudlin silence, broken only when Michael said quietly, “Not necessarily, gentlemen.”
The three of them turned in concert to stare at him, three pairs of eyes wide.
“What do you mean, Morley?” asked Lucas.
“Well, you say that a person cannot be accepted in Society unless he follows all these rules,” Michael said, and tapped thoughtfully at his chin with his steepled fingers. “Yet it seems to me that the people who have commanded the most attention, indeed the adulation, of the ton have been anything but rule followers.”
The trio brightened, leaning toward Michael avidly to hear what he might say next. “You mean like you, Morley?” Lucas asked.
Michael laughed. “I was thinking more of Byron, or perhaps Beau Brummell, who made his own rules and everyone followed them. These men, and others like them, would never have slavishly followed any rules in some book. Why, this lady will not even put her name on her own book! How much importance can her rules truly have, if she won’t even own up to them?”
Gilmore appeared most confused. “You mean we should write our own book of rules and get people to follow them?”
“I don’t think I could write a book. Not bright enough, y’know,” Carteret added doubtfully.
Michael almost groaned in exasperation. No wonder he was restless, if these bacon-brains were the only people he had to converse with! But somehow he felt he had to persuade them, to save at least three helpless souls from more mindless rule-following. “No, I do not mean write your own rules. I mean forget about rules entirely. If we follow common courtesy, and our own instincts, we will be fine. If you go a step beyond, and follow a different path, you will be admired.”
“Like you, Morley,” Lucas insisted again. “The ladies love it that you never do what is expected.”
“They did love it,” Gilmore said, his voice slurred from the great quantity of port he had consumed.
“But I haven’t seen you out much of late, Morley, and you weren’t at the Lovelace rout tonight.”
“That is because he did not choose to waste his time at such a dull place as Lady Lovelace’s rout!” Lucas cried. “She would have given her right arm to have him there, as would every Society hostess. Morley is right. Some people are above the rules.”
Michael had rarely had champions in his life, and never one as unlikely as Allen Lucas. But it was rather touching all the same.
“The lady who wrote the book says no one is above the rules,” Gilmore insisted.
“No one is above courtesy, perhaps,” said Michael. “But no one should slavishly follow someone else’s commands.”
“I would wager that not even you can flout the rules and still be accepted, Morley,” argued Gilmore. “They are too popular.”
Lucas leaped to his feet to face Gilmore, his face flushed a deep red. “And I would wager that Morley will always be accepted, no matter how many rules he breaks! I wager fifty pounds.”
“Done!” Gilmore answered.
Carteret glanced between them, laconically gleeful at the quarrel.
Michael studied the three of them in silence, tapping his fingertips on the arms of his chair. The wager was completely ridiculous, of course; Michael had outgrown betting on such silly matters years ago. But the rules had irked him, probably more than they should have. He hated seeing everyone, especially his sweet sister, behaving like such wooden soldiers, mar
ching in the cause of rigid etiquette. It reminded him too much of his father.
Plus, this would give him a chance to get—and keep—his thoughts off of Mrs. Chase.
“Very well, gentlemen,” he said. “I will take that wager.”
Chapter Seven
“Correspondence is a private matter, and one must never read another person’s letters without being invited.”
—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Six
“T here is a caller, ma’am.”
Rosalind glanced up from her embroidery to see Molly in the doorway of the sitting room. “A caller?” she said, puzzled. It was early on a quiet morning, and Rosalind had been enjoying the time to make some progress on her needlework while she pondered Allen and some new expenses at the school. She had not heard from her brother for several days, and it was beginning to worry her. Also, the roof had begun to leak in the east wing, and the funds would have to be found to repair it.
She always thought more clearly with a piece of embroidery in her hands. But today, no solutions were occurring to her. She was almost grateful to be interrupted, even if it was not the usual time for callers.
“Who is it, Molly?” she asked, and tucked her embroidery away into her workbasket.
Molly came to her and held out the silver tray, where one stark white card reposed. “He says his name is Mr. Richards. From the bank.”
Rosalind’s hand froze as she reached for the card. Mr. Richards. The one who had been writing her letters about Allen’s stupid loan. Now he was here, in person. He must be quite serious if he took all the trouble to come out here to the school.
She grasped the card, and folded it into her hand until it bit into her palm. “Tell him I will be down momentarily, Molly.”
Molly bobbed a curtsy, and left the room with her empty tray.
Safely alone now, Rosalind took a deep breath of air. She hated dealing with finances, except for paying bills with the local tradesmen at the end of the month. Those were simple, straightforward, necessary transactions. Her experiences with Allen’s creditors in the past had proved to be anything but simple.
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