Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance)

by Candice Hern

  "Clever girl."

  "On the contrary, my boy. Rosalind is a priggish, docile little creature so totally lacking in spirit that even to picture her at one the entertainments you and I might enjoy is simply beyond imagining. Of all Edmund's brood, this one always seemed meek as a governess—quietly managing the lives of her siblings after their mother's death while keeping herself in the background."

  "She sounds a veritable mouse."

  "And so she is. Good heavens, Max, what am I to do with such an odious girl?"

  He put up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Don't cast your eyes in my direction, Fanny. Leave me out of it, I beg you. I have no taste for the prim governess type, as you well know. "

  "But darling, you must not desert me in my time of need. If I am to parade this chit about town, all my other friends will surely abandon me. I am counting on your support."

  Max leaned forward in his chair, tapping his quizzing glass against his knee. "If you expect me to squire the mouse around and dance with her at balls, then you are out, Fanny, for I won't do it."

  Fanny brushed aside his concern with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I would never ask such a frightful thing of you, Max. Besides, my objective is to attach the girl to some dull, unsuspecting swain as soon as possible and get her off my hands. I have no doubt she is coming to town in search of one of those stolid, respectable husbands one hears so much about but seldom meets. Good Lord, how am I to find such a paragon?"

  Max arched an eyebrow. "Not to put too fine a point on it, my dear, but aren't you afraid your own notorious career along with my scandalous presence might have the effect of scaring off the very sort you wish to attract?"

  "What a horrid boy you are, Max. But have no fear. I don't expect you to court the poor creature. I merely hoped to count on your company from time to time when I must take her about town with me. And perhaps to restrain me from flinging her into the Thames when she becomes particularly tiresome."

  "What a bore."

  "Indeed."

  Chapter 2

  "Oh, miss, what be that awful smell?"

  Rosie tore her gaze from the sights outside the carriage window to look at her maid, who sat on the opposite bench, nose twitching like a bunny. "I believe it is just the smell of the city, Violet. See how the air is slightly smoky? We're not in the country anymore."

  "Lord help us," Violet muttered.

  The maid's misgivings were not unwarranted. They had entered London some miles back and so far it was not quite what Rosie had expected. The Metropolis was big and crowded, as she had known it would be. But neither of her sisters—both of whom had been rapturous about their Seasons in town—had mentioned anything like the areas of squalor they were now passing through. Old, ramshackle buildings with grime-darkened windows, or no windows at all, lined the narrow, dark alleys and courts that led off the main street. Dingy doorways teemed with filthy urchins, dour laborers, exhausted slatterns, and sprawling drunkards.

  "Are you sure 'bout this, Miss Lacey? Coachman'll turn right back 'round to Wycombe Hall, if'n ye asked."

  Rosie smiled at the young girl's look of disgust. "Yes, Violet, I am quite sure of what I'm doing."

  She became even more confident as the scenery abruptly changed to broad streets lined with large, new, fine-looking buildings. Tidy, bow-windowed shop fronts faced the street, which was flanked on each side by elevated pavements of clean, bright flagstone crowded with fashionably dressed men and women. Boys swept the pavement with rush brooms and were offered coins by gentlemen strollers. Street corners were the territories of hawkers shouting the day's news and ballad singers singing their tales. Three-Penny Postmen darted through the crowds, ringing their bells as they passed.

  Suddenly, it all seemed very exciting.

  "You see, Violet?" Rosie said. "It is not so bad as you thought."

  The maid wrinkled her nose. "I still say it smells funny."

  "One comes to London for the Society and the art and the culture, not the fresh air and scenery," Rosie said. "We can have that back in Devon."

  "Ay, and ye'll be missin' it soon enough, I declare."

  "It will all be there when we return. But I cannot see the opera in Devon. Nor visit art galleries, nor watch a play in a real theater, nor see the menagerie at the Tower, nor attend grand balls, nor all sorts of other things I've come to London to do."

  Violet gave an indiscreet snort. "Whatever ye says, miss."

  Amused by Violet's rustic apprehensions, Rosie had no intention of allowing her own niggling fears to interfere with her plans.

  When the headaches had first begun, she had been afraid she may have contracted the same mysterious illness that had killed her mother. After the diagnosis had been confirmed—by an Exeter physician she had secretly consulted—she had been almost paralyzed with fear. But then she took stock of her life and uncovered an enormous ache in her soul for all she did not know and would never know, for all she had not done and would never do.

  Rosie had succumbed to overwhelming waves of self-pity at first, lamenting the waste of so many years looking after others, allowing her own life to pass by in uneventful routine. But it was not too late, not yet, to take back her life before disease incapacitated her.

  She had no doubt that London and Aunt Fanny would be the best medicine of all.

  "Lord, bless me, what is that place, miss?"

  Rosie looked out the carriage window to see an odd-looking building, its ornate Egyptian facade a sharp contrast to the simple buildings on either side. A small crowd of people were queued up outside the entrance. "Oh, that must be the Egyptian Hall," she said. "I read about it in one of the guide books. Mr. Bullock offers exhibits of all sorts of things. In fact, I believe he recently exhibited Napoleon's carriage. Perhaps it is still on display."

  "Ooh, do ye think so, miss?"

  "We shall have to find out. Then we'll come have a look, shall we?"

  "Oh, yes, miss. I should like to see that. Thank you, miss."

  Rosie smiled at her maid's sudden change of heart. She reached for her reticule and pulled out a flat ivory case from which she extracted a small notebook and tiny ivory-handled pencil. She flipped to a half-filled page and added a note.

  Visit Egyptian Hall.

  The list was growing.

  Rosie hung on to the strap as their coach made its laborious way through such traffic as she could never have imagined. Donkey carts piled with produce, brewers' carts and coal wagons pulled by enormous draft horses, elegant calashes, plain black hackney coaches, post chaises, curricles, and mail coaches—all filled the broad streets so that it became almost impossible to pass. Barreling through it all at reckless speed came a sporting vehicle so sleek and compact the driver must feel as if he were flying. Oh, how she would love to ride in one of those. She scribbled another note.

  Ride in a sporting vehicle.

  Or, better yet:

  Drive a sporting vehicle. Why not?

  Their coach came to yet another abrupt halt and Rosie peeked out the window to see a sedan chair carried along by two stout young men. Inside, she caught the briefest glimpse of an elegantly coifed woman whose face was obscured by a large fan. Nattily attired men who strolled along the pavement craned their necks to get a look at the woman, some doffing their hats. Smartly dressed women turned away.

  Who could she be? A member of the demimonde? It must make her feel like a queen to be carried around like that.

  Rosie moistened the tip of her pencil with her tongue, pleased, though somewhat overwhelmed, at the growing size of her list.

  Ride in a sedan chair.

  Heavens, there was so much to do. And so little time. To be perfectly truthful, she could not be sure about the time, but it could not be more than six months at best. Her mother, God rest her soul, had not lasted even that long.

  She tucked the notebook back in its case and returned it to her reticule. There was enough on the list to keep her very busy for quite some time. The trick would be to fill
every hour of the day and not waste a single moment.

  Rosie was going to have a grand time in London.

  * * *

  Max had just settled himself comfortably in one of Fanny's lush armchairs when he heard the sounds of a carriage pulling up out front, followed by an extraordinary amount of bustling. Blast! After a long night of exquisite debauchery with a notorious widow, he had risen late in the day, overcome with the inexplicable ennui that had so plagued him of late. He had dragged himself to Fanny's in hopes she could cheer him out of his doldrums.

  "Dammit, Fanny," he said, "I thought you weren't at home to visitors today. I had hoped not to have to put on my public face this afternoon. I really do not believe I am up to it." He uttered a groan and made a move to rise, but Fanny held up her hand to stop him.

  "I am not receiving visitors, Max, so you may stay put. Quigley will send them away."

  But the butler did no such thing. A few minutes later, footsteps sounded on the stairs and, after a perfunctory knock, Quigley opened the parlor doors.

  "Miss Lacey has arrived, my lady."

  Fanny cast Max a brief glance and rolled her eyes heavenward. Good Lord, it was the tiresome niece. He must make his exit. Max rose as a young woman was ushered into the room.

  "My dear Rosalind."

  Fanny's voice was so cheerful and welcoming that Max had to marvel at her instinctive graciousness. She had been grumbling about this loathsome responsibility for weeks.

  "Do come in and join me for a cup of tea while your maid sees to your bedchamber. Quigley?" She muttered quick instructions to the butler then took the girl's arm and led her into the parlor.

  "You must be exhausted from your journey," Fanny said. "I promise I won't keep you from your rest for long. But do sit down for a moment, won't you? Here, let me take your pelisse and gloves and bonnet."

  Max watched from his corner while the girl allowed Fanny to take her in hand. She had not yet uttered a word and appeared overwhelmed, if not precisely frightened, by her formidable aunt.

  Max stifled a groan as the girl removed a plain bonnet to reveal dark brown hair pulled back into a tight, prim knot at the back of her neck. She looked every inch the mouse Fanny had described. Not a tiny mouse, however. She was taller than Fanny, though she hunched her shoulders inward, making her appear smaller. Beneath an unattractive brown pelisse, she wore a simple sprigged muslin dress that hung loosely on her lanky frame. Its pale yellow color made her skin look sallow.

  Her face was unremarkable, save for rather large eyes of indeterminate color, and good bone structure. Max was a connoisseur of beautiful women and could assess in a glance the potential of any female face. Much could be made of good eyes and good bones, but this girl had done nothing to make the best of those features.

  And she was no girl, really. He would guess that she would never see twenty-five again.

  Poor Fanny. What was she to do with such a dowd?

  Miss Lacey shook out her wrinkled skirts and offered her aunt a wan smile. "Thank you, ma'am." Her voice was both surprisingly confident and intriguingly husky.

  It was at that moment, while Max pondered the rich tones of her voice, that the girl looked up and caught his eye. She held his gaze for a brief instant, then turned to her aunt, lifting her eyebrows in question.

  "Oh, how frightfully rude of me," Fanny exclaimed. "Max, darling, allow me to present to you my niece, Miss Lacey. Rosalind, this is Mr. Davenant."

  Fanny's sudden lapse into propriety caused Max almost to burst out laughing. Mr. Davenant, indeed. Well, this chit held no such hold on his own behavior. Perhaps he would just see if he could make the mouse run.

  He lifted his quizzing glass and eyed the girl through it, slowly studying her from head to foot. The survey revealed little or nothing to hold his attention. If the woman had any curves they were thoroughly masked by the too-large dress. When the glass readied her face again, she was staring back at him wide-eyed.

  Out of sheer badness, Max decided to continue taunting the mouse. Swinging the glass on its ribbon, he languidly crossed the room and stood before her.

  "Your servant, Miss Lacey," he said, then reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. He allowed his tongue to flicker briefly across her bare knuckles before lifting his head. Expecting outrage, Max was surprised to discover that despite a rather stiff-necked apprehension, amusement twinkled in the girl's eyes—they were hazel, after all—and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Perhaps she wasn't as much of a mouse as Fanny believed her to be.

  And perhaps the Season would not be such a bore after all.

  * * *

  Rosie watched Mr. Davenant take his leave and then sat down on the settee indicated by her aunt. She absently rubbed at the knuckles that still tingled from the touch of his lips. And tongue! Good heavens, she had so much to learn.

  "Who was that man, Aunt Fanny?"

  "I told you, my dear, that was Mr. Davenant."

  Rosie accepted the tea passed to her, took a restorative sip, and studied her aunt over the rim of the cup. Aunt Fanny was older than Papa but looked younger, with striking silver hair and bright, expressive blue eyes. "I recall his name, ma'am. But who is he? I mean, is he a friend of yours? Is he someone important? I've never been to London, you see, and am quite ignorant of Society. Should I have recognized his name?"

  Her aunt placed her teacup down on the table and gave Rosie her full attention. "Max Davenant is the greatest rake in all of London. He is more notorious than... than I am." She gave a little lift to her chin, as though proclaiming pride in her own notoriety. Rosie thought perhaps the old woman was trying to shock her, but she was only intrigued. In fact, if she hadn't thought it would be terribly rude, she would have taken out her notebook and scribbled an addition to her list.

  Flirt with a rake. Or perhaps:

  Flirt with the greatest rake in all of London.

  She wasn't altogether certain how to go about it, but she would learn. It had been her plan all along to kick up her heels a bit, to have fun while visiting Aunt Fanny. But after Ursula's outburst, Rosie had harbored a devilish desire to do something truly wild and outrageous, if only to annoy her smug sister. Meeting her first rake only whetted her appetite for adventure.

  Rosie could not have said she had ever before encountered a rake, but she would have known Mr. Davenant for one even without her aunt's pointed reference. She supposed he might be thought handsome, with his dark eyes, firm jaw, and patrician nose. But she suspected his looks had little to do with his success with women. He had an air about him—a sort of sleepy-eyed negligence that, coupled with a languid grace, lent him an aura of... well, she could only call it seduction.

  Rosie had felt the full force of his seductive manner, even in the few minutes he had been in the room. The wretched man had practically undressed her with his eyes, peering through that horrid quizzing glass. No one had ever looked at her in such a way, or made such a lascivious gesture out of kissing her hand.

  Not so long ago, she supposed she would have slapped a man for treating her with such disrespect. More likely, she would have swooned. Now, she rather enjoyed the notion of a man flirting with her, especially a notorious rake. It was amazing how quickly one's attitudes could change. Max Davenant was just the sort of person she had hoped to meet in London, someone with whom she might scandalize her priggish sister. After all, what harm could a little scandal do when she would be gone in a few months?

  "Is Mr. Davenant one of your lovers?" The words were out of her mouth even as the thought entered her mind. Rosie could hardly believe she had said such a thing, and hoped the heat in her cheeks did not translate into a visible blush.

  Aunt Fanny arched an eyebrow. "No," she said. Rosie's disappointment must her shown on her face, for her aunt smiled and said, "But his father was."

  Rosie returned her aunt's smile, and for the first time felt truly at ease in the woman's presence. "I cannot thank you enough," she said, "for allowing me to visit you in L
ondon. I realize it is a bold imposition from someone you hardly know."

  "Nonsense, my dear. You are most welcome. But I confess you are not at all what I expected. I believe you have grown up, Rosalind."

  Rosie chuckled softly and considered that her fearsome aunt was not such a bad sort after all. "Because I am not shocked to know you have had lovers, you think I am grown up? I assure you, Aunt Fanny, that though I have reached the ripe old age of six-and-twenty, I do not feel so very grown up. I haven't done much living, you see, and I have come to London to change that."

  Her aunt's eyes widened. "You have come to town to—"

  "To live. To go to interesting places and meet fascinating people and do all sorts of new things."

  "And to find a husband, perhaps?"

  "Good heavens, no! Is that what you thought? Well, I daresay that is what most people will think, but I tell you, aunt, that is the very last thing on my mind. In fact, I can tell you with absolute certainty that I will not be returning to Devon with a husband in tow. No, I can assure you that will not happen."

  Aunt Fanny stared for a moment, then shook her head in disbelief. "You astonish me, Rosalind. I was sure that you would want—well, never mind that. So, am I to understand that you simply want to... to enjoy yourself?"

  "Precisely. And I could think of no one better to show me how to do that."

  Aunt Fanny threw back her head and laughed. "I should think not," she said, "for I suspect few have enjoyed life as much as I have. Well, my girl, you must tell me how we should begin. What would you like to do?"

  "Oh, I have a list." Rosie patted her reticule, but was suddenly embarrassed to actually reveal the list to someone else. There were things on it she would rather not have anyone see. Like the note about being thoroughly kissed. Or the one yet to be added about flirting with rakes. "I've been jotting down things I'd like to do, but I can tell you what the very first thing is."