Nicholas spoke in a low voice. “An impressive discourse, Osborne. Since I left the nursery, I have not been called to task in such a fearsome fashion. But I say, old boy, I draw the line at street doxies."
Osborne reluctantly chuckled. “Never be the one to ring a peal over your head, Brockton. But you must admit, the older you get, the more dissatisfied you become with females. Growing up as the darling of your mother and sisters, you entertain a lopsided view of the world."
Sermons from Osborne. Blast! What next? “What are you trying to say, old fellow? Are you a convert to the wedded state? Trying to get me leg-shackled? If so, then where is your blushing bride?"
What was the cause of his friend's attack? Had Lord Rotterham convinced him to marry and to persuade Nicholas to take a wife, as well?
Devil take it! Nicholas refused to let anyone decree his life. His one great sacrifice, to cashier out of the Navy after his father's accident, haunted him daily. Nicholas might play the part of a dandy on the outside, but inside, he was still a military man. And he had no plans to marry, green girl or no. His father's demands only strengthened his resolve to remain single. Heirs, who needed them?
Osborne had the good grace to appear sheepish. “No, no, Brockton. Don't mean to set your back up. Just that there are some demmed fine women around. Don't like it when you denigrate them all."
Nicholas studied him as if seeing him for the first time. “Sounds as if some sweet miss has set her cap at you. When should we expect to see the engagement announcement in the papers?"
Osborne, smelling of April and May. What was the world coming to?
"By Jove, no! No, man. I had my chance once, but lost it. I was but a stripling. She married someone else—years ago."
"This is news. Who was the fortunate maiden?"
His friend kept silent.
"Devil take it! A mystery.” But then Nicholas let the subject drop. Osborne looked puppy-eyed sad. Uncommonly out-of-character, for him.
In an exaggerated gesture, Nicholas fanned himself with his hand. “Well, I admit my relief. Thought m'father had dropped a flea in your ear. You know how he is pushing for me to marry and beget an heir."
"You are not alone, Brockton. M'father also hounds me."
Nicholas sympathized. “Have you seen the latest up for bid at the Marriage Mart? Since my return to London, this game of trying to ensnare me has resumed with a vengeance. I have no use for these innocents casting out lures. My tastes run more to their married, older sisters—a tryst with those who know the rules of the game. That is more to my liking."
And that might be just the thing to restore his friend to good humor.
He stood, then ran his hand through his short, thick hair. “Come, let us quit these walls and find some worthy game, some in-the-know ladybirds, perhaps. I promise to show my, er, respect."
That remark got Osborne laughing. Leaving the Gaming Room, they stopped in front of White's huge stairway mirror to adjust their askew cravats. Nicholas tipped the night attendant for their great coats, then they journeyed out onto St. James’ Street, into the brisk night air.
* * * *
On Wednesday night, the eleventh of March, Serenity looked forward to her informal introduction to Society. Wednesday night here in Regency London was date night. Anyone who was anyone congregated at Almack's Assembly Rooms on King Street. Almack's, where the high and mighty discussed who was doing what to whom.
From what she heard, the pecking order for the season would be determined by a select few. This would be a perfect opportunity to observe some of the social structure involved in selecting a mate for life. Almack's, it seemed, was a precursor for the future's Meat Market. Or, more aptly put, Meet Market.
When someone knocked on her bedroom door, Serenity grabbed a robe and put it on. Although she anticipated tonight's events, she still hadn't decided what to wear.
The Marchioness poked her head inside, a gesture so reminiscent of Serenity's mother. “Goodness, Serry, where is your maid? Why are you not dressed?"
Obviously Serenity couldn't say the real reason; she'd been busy writing in her journal. As she started to rub tension from her shoulder, her fingers touched her hair's new short length.
How strange the cropping felt. Earlier today, Lady Rotterham had urged a new style to be more up-to-snuff, and Serenity reluctantly agreed. At first, when her butchered locks lay in carnage on the floor, she regretted the shearing. But now she had to admit the layered look brought fullness to her thin face. She sort of liked the hairdo—in a tousled sort of way.
She ran her fingers through its short length and ran out of hair. Eventually, she would get used to the haircut. Eventually.
"I, ah, I was just wondering which gown would be best. Perhaps you could help me?"
The Marchioness took brisk steps to the wardrobe and flung the door open. Rifling through the dresses, she settled on one of the new garments Serenity bought on a recent trip to Bond Street. “This one, most definitely, Serry."
The choice was a blue-grey crêpe gown with a black velvet zigzag hem at the bottom, which also decorated the puffed sleeves. Simple, but elegant, and yet the gown had a sense of humor. The sleeves reminded Serenity of a jack o'lantern's wicked grin!
"Thank you, I like that one, too. But.... “Even though the dress was intended to be worn during the half-mourning period, its scooped neckline hung too low for comfort.
Her hostess tilted her elegantly coiffured head. “The décolletage concerns you? My dear, it is the veriest nothing. Indeed, it is modest to a fault."
She rummaged through the wardrobe and produced the matching headdress, called a toque; a black, China silk fringed scarf to drape around the shoulders; chamois leather gloves; and slippers.
"There, now you will be complete. I am so used to doing this for my own daughters. You shall be impeccably dressed to attract a worthy match."
Serenity wisely withheld her comment.
Lady Rotterham tapped her index finger against her chin. “Am I forgetting something? Let me see, I do have your voucher for Almack's, though I must say I had quite a time procuring it. To think those haughty patroness wished to deny you a ticket because you are an unknown. Stuff and nonsense!"
"Oh, I had no idea it would be difficult, my lady. I apologize—"
"No apologizes needed, I assure you, Serry. To refuse me—unconscionable! Believe me, it was my pleasure to set those women straight. One actually called you an upstart."
Serenity hid her grin. She'd been called worse things in her life. “So what happened then?"
"Why, I marched over to Lady Emily Castlereagh's and called in a favor. She is one of the patronesses, you know, and has a reputation for unusual dresses."
The Marchioness settled in a chair, obviously relishing the tale she was about to tell. “One of Emily's peculiar gowns once got her into trouble. Before her marriage to Castlereagh in 1794, she and I attended a royal ball given by the King himself. Back then poor George was awake on every suit, you know. At any rate, Emily's puffed neckerchief loosened from her gown, threatening to expose more of her bosom than a proper lady desired. Her reputation would have been ruined! I averted disaster by bustling her off to the powder room to correct the offending scarf."
Lady Rotterham stood majestically. “When I reminded Emily, there was then no question as to whether I could purchase a voucher for you.” She smiled smugly.
Serenity picked up her reticule. “I am deeply in your debt, my lady. That was quite an amusing story. Please, let me repay you for the voucher. Is it ten guineas?"
"Stuff and nonsense!” The Marchioness airily brushed aside the offer. “You may repay me by forming a suitable connection.” She clasped her hands together. “I do so wish to see you happily wed. But for now, you must dress."
Serenity saw her hostess to the bedroom door. After closing it, she leaned against the woodwork and exhaled a bit of troubled air. It appeared she would stay in Lady Rotterham's debt indefinitely for marriage was cer
tainly not in her future.
* * * *
At Almack's huge front door, Serenity and the Wycliffe ladies waited their turn to enter the hallowed portals.
"If only Edward were here.” The Marchioness sighed. “Somehow he would thrust us to the head of the line. I do so dislike for you to stand out in the cold, Georgiana."
The frigid temperature put a rosy glow on Georgiana's cheeks. “Do not worry, Mama. Soon we shall be inside where, I am assured, it will be as hot as blazes."
"Georgiana!” her mother remonstrated.
"Now, Mama, you mustn't take on so. Please relax. I promise I will not overextend myself."
Lady Rotterham straightened her feathered toque, mandatory head apparel for matrons. “Your father would know what to do. But, alas.” She turned to Serenity to explain. “You see, Serry, the Marquess never puts in an appearance at Almack's."
"He is fond of saying, ‘There are nothing but old biddies present.'” Zeena giggled.
Her sister added, “And when we remind Father that there are also young girls and men in attendance, as are the patronesses, he just repeats, ‘They are all old biddies.’”
Serenity laughed along with the sisters, but the Marchioness hushed them, out of respect for her husband. “The Marquess is not the only man who thinks that way. Nicholas does, also."
As if that settled the matter, she tilted her toque more to the side and herded her party through the great front door.
Serenity had to smile. An unbidden picture of a duck leading its baby chicks came to mind.
Inside the Hall, Serenity casually glanced around to see how her appearance stacked up with the Almack ladies. She gave herself a mental pat on the back. Gloved, toqued, and slippered, she looked like a genuine Regency matron.
Zeena made her own debut in white satin with sky-blue ribbons winding around her bustline and through her cornflower curls. In the blink of an eye, several young gallants swarmed around her, desiring to speak with her. Her dance card wasn't going to be large enough to accommodate all of them! With her mother's permission, she allowed a handsome gentleman to escort her for a minuet.
The festive atmosphere was contagious. Although as a widow, it wouldn't be proper for Serenity to participate in the dancing, she found herself swaying to the sweet melody played by three musicians.
"Dear Serry, I must introduce you to some of my acquaintances.” Lady Rotterham gestured to a group of women in position by the refreshments.
"Please, don't worry about me. I think I will stay here and mingle."
"Just enjoy yourself, my dear,” the Marchioness advised. “Come, Georgiana. Let us visit with Lady Castlereagh."
Serenity watched the pair wander off, got a glass of lemonade, then walked to one end of the immense green velvet draped ballroom. This was the “Dowagers’ Row.” Chaperons and matrons sat sequestered here; it was a fruitful spot for striking up a conversation.
Choosing a seat next to a squat, older lady, Serenity introduced herself. In no time at all she learned Mrs. Piedmont's life history plus the trials and tribulations of rearing a delicate, young miss, Patricia.
The pot at the end of the rainbow, for Patricia, was attracting a dazzling parti. The family would benefit by gaining prestige—and, hopefully, money. As Mrs. Piedmont rattled on, Serenity listened attentively.
When two colorfully dressed men approached Dowagers’ Row in tandem, she turned her gaze on them. They were so bathed in eau de cologne, she could smell them from a distance.
"Gracious!” Mrs. Piedmont gasped. “Lord Uffing and his friend ... oh my, his name escapes me. Fancy, Lord Uffing actually coming over for an introduction! If I could just catch my Patricia's attention...."
Lord Uffing, a spindly man with thinning red hair, bowed languidly, and said, “Greetings, fair ladies. I am Lord Wilfred Uffing. A baron, you know.” He fluttered his handkerchief. “May I acquaint you with my friend, Mr.—"
Serenity sneezed. She couldn't help herself; the Fragrance Twins’ aroma was overpowering.
Lord Uffing politely forgave her. After Mrs. Piedmont stated her name and Serenity's, he asked, “Would you be so kind as to grant me this cotillion, Mrs. Steele?"
Impersonating a recent widow did have some consolations; no one could press her to dance. “My regrets, my lord. I shall have to decline.” Her nose twitched, threatening to sneeze again.
"I-I am sure my darling Patricia would be in alt to partner you, Lord Uffing,” Mrs. Piedmont interjected. “I shall go get—"
"Do not trouble yourself. Ladies.” Both men bowed and took their leave. The pair minced graceful steps in another direction.
Lord Uffing and Mr. So-and-So. So that was what real live dandies looked like.
Serenity's burgeoning popularity seemed to rankle the talkative Mrs. Piedmont. The worthy lady signaled her disapproval of “that nobody Mrs. Steele” by moving to a different chair to strike up an avid conversation with another dowager.
Serenity shrugged her shoulders at this affront. Checking the time—almost eleven o'clock, she took a sip of warm lemonade. Perhaps she should find her companions.
She glanced past the dance floor and observed the entrance of two exceedingly handsome gentlemen. One man wore a stern, forbidding expression while the other had a smile lurking in his eyes. They were both extremely tall, and seemed to be scanning the crowded room in search of someone.
Looking for fresh offerings on the Marriage Mart table, no doubt.
She wasn't the only one gazing at the newcomers. Many women, both young and old, turned their heads to stare at the gentlemen and buzz secrets behind their decorated fans. The men obviously excited comment.
Well, that was none of her business. Serenity reached for her reticule, then stood. Maybe the Marchioness was in the supper room.
Not forgetting her manners, Serenity thanked Mrs. Piedmont for their talk. The woman acknowledged Serenity's departure with a barely civil nod.
As Serenity walked away, she heard Mrs. Piedmont complain to her new friend. “That Mrs. Steele could ruin my Patricia's chances."
Serenity had seen her Patricia. Poor thing didn't have any chances to be ruined—not that Serenity was competition, anyway.
Eager to find Lady Rotterham, she ignored the daggers shooting into her back and left the room.
* * * *
Following the thin woman's progress through the ballroom, Nicholas Wycliffe frowned. The gown she wore hung in close folds against her body, revealing slim hips to the casual observer. Had she no shame? In contrast, she held her shawl close to her breast as if she feared exposing too much skin. Peculiar.
Perhaps she would walk this way. But no, she seemed intent on her own course and did not notice his gaze. He shrugged, then continued to look for his mother. The Marchioness was nowhere in sight.
Blast! Everything turned sour tonight. In Osborne's company, he had raced to Almack's portals only scant minutes before the hour of eleven. After that time, they would have been refused admittance. Even so, they had needed to grease the attendant's palm to gain entry.
Nicholas wanted to arrive earlier, but devil take it, he had forgotten knee breeches were required wearing apparel for Almack's. So there was no choice but return home to change. It had been so long since he graced the assembly rooms. So long that he had forgotten the rules.
This was his second reason for being in an ill-humor. The first occurred earlier, when his butler informed him that his sister Lady Sedgwick, and her husband, and all his nieces, plus his nephew, were to be housed at the Brockton townhouse for the rest of the season. Or until Lady Trent felt up to mothering her own brood again.
When his butler had relayed the news, Nicholas inadvertently bellowed. “Abomination! Who orchestrated this turn of events? I cannot have six brats running around Hanover Square. I will be the laughing stock of the entire ton.” He had paced the checkered floor in the entryway, raking his fingers through his hair.
His butler reluctantly ventured that the situation
was due to the Marquess of Rotterham.
"I shall see about that. Why doesn't he house them?” Nicholas asked, knowing full well his butler could not reply. Slamming his beaver hat on his head, he headed for Thirty-six Grosvenor Square.
In the Blue Velvet Drawing Room, the Marquess had been waiting for him. Must have been, for the man was never home that time of day. Hell and damn! His father's patience must have been well rewarded to see Nicholas so out of countenance.
Trying to control his temper, he poured himself a glass of Madeira then sat opposite his father. “I hear you have decreed that my townhouse be infested with the Sedgwick clan. Plus Trent's brats. I thank you kindly, but I must decline the honor. A bachelor's residence is not the environment for young children. I am certain you agree."
His father, surprisingly mild, folded his newspaper and spoke with a self-satisfied air. “Actually, my houseguest, Mrs. Steele, suggested the solution. Your mother met her in Bath, you know. A delightful woman! And, a veritable fount of wisdom. After all, with Zeena's come-out, we shall have to give a ball. Not the thing to have my grandchildren roaming about. No, they will do better with you, Brockton. Surely you can put up with the inconvenience. Not as if you have a nursery of your own."
Nicholas did not trust himself to speak.
"I must say,” his father continued, “Mrs. Steele is such a sensible female. Responsible for curing our Georgiana. You did know that Georgiana was ill, did you not?"
Nicholas did not fail to recognize the Marquess’ shaft, but he had more important things on his mind. “You are permitting a chance acquaintance to reside with you? I cannot conceive you would allow such a state of affairs. What is this Mrs. Steele's background? What do you know about the woman? She shall toad-eat to her heart's content, mark my words."
The disbelief was heavy in his voice. Was his father becoming dicked in the nob? Had senility set in?
The Marquess seemed amused at Nicholas’ vehemence, and said that other than her being a provincial, he knew very little about her. “Oh yes, I do recall that she is a widow. A charming one, at that. We are all quite taken with her."
Regency Society Revisited Page 7
