The Perfect Gentleman (The Love and Temptation Series Book 7)

by M C Beaton

  He glanced pointedly at the clock on the mantel and asked, “Where is Miss Mortimer?”

  “Penelope should just be descending the stairs. Let us go.”

  Mother and son went out into the hall. Lord Andrew looked up. Penelope was indeed just descending the staircase.

  Her fair, silvery hair was crowned with a coronet of pink and white roses. Her gown was of rose pink, criss-crossed with threads of gold to make a diamond pattern. The neckline was low. The sleeves had been slashed like a Renaissance gown.

  He thought in a dazed way that she looked like an illustration to one of the stories by the Brothers Grimm.

  It was almost a relief when the new fairy-tale Penelope said in a practical voice, “I was dressed an hour ago, but I gather it is the fashion to be deliberately late and so make an appearance.”

  “You look so very beautiful, Miss Mortimer,” he said gallantly, “that you do not need to do anything to attract attention to yourself.”

  “Thank you,” said Penelope. He took her cloak from her arm and put it about her shoulders.

  The butler hurried to open the street door.

  Lord Andrew frowned as he saw his mother’s landau waiting outside. “An open carriage!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes, an open carriage,” said the duchess. “Everyone will see us.”

  “Are you not afraid the mob might spit on you?” asked Lord Andrew.

  There had not been a revolution in England as there had been in France, but members of the proletariat often roamed the streets of the West End and would jeer and catcall at the aristocracy as they went out for the evening’s amusements.

  “We have two outriders,” said the duchess placidly, “and you, dear Andrew, will protect us.”

  But Penelope’s beauty, Lord Andrew discovered, was not the kind to excite envy in the bosom of the ordinary people. Rather it drew gasps of wonder and admiration. When their carriage stopped for a moment in the press of traffic, passersby stood on the pavement and stared open-mouthed with pleased smiles on their faces, rather like so many poor children looking at a beautiful doll in a toy shop window.

  Penelope appeared very calm, but inside she was frightened to death. She was now appalled at the amount of money that had been spent on her clothes. What if she was not a success? The duchess would be furious. Oh, beautiful cottage in Lower Bexham, where she planned to improve the garden during the lazy summer days—where she could be her own mistress!

  She gazed down unseeingly into the admiring eyes of the populace and wished she could spring down from the carriage and run away.

  Lord and Lady Dempsey’s house had a deceptively narrow frontage which led to enormous rooms once you were inside. It was all glittering and bewildering to Penelope as they passed between a line of footmen in red and gold livery with gold dress swords lining either side of the staircase which soared from the hall of black and gold tiles. The most enormous chandelier Penelope had ever seen blazed overhead—and she could see it, the chandelier being far enough away.

  Miss Worthy had made a late arrival, but Penelope’s entrance came half an hour after her own.

  Until that moment, Miss Worthy had been feeling very well satisfied with her own appearance. She had not been asked to dance but had assumed that every man in the room longed for her company but respected the fact that she was now Lord Andrew’s property. Her near-transparent white muslin was worn over an invisible petticoat. She was wearing fifteen multicolored plumes as a headdress.

  Her eyes dropped from the tall figure of her fiancé to the smaller figure of Penelope at his side—Penelope, who was causing a ripple of admiring comment to run along the row of chaperones. Her dress was nothing out of the way, thought Miss Worthy, staring at the rose pink gown embroidered with gold. The duchess led Penelope over to where Mrs. Blenkinsop was seated. Lord Andrew looked about the room, saw Miss Worthy, and crossed the floor, bowed to her mother, who was seated next to her, and sat down on Miss Worthy’s other side.

  “Who is that odd female with the dyed hair who came in with you?” asked Miss Worthy.

  “Miss Penelope Mortimer, a protégée of my mother. She is but lately come to town, and she does not dye her hair.”

  “Indeed!” said Miss Worthy. “Such an odd, unfashionable color. Do you not think so, Mama?”

  And Mrs. Worthy, who on seeing Penelope had sent up a prayer of thanks that her daughter was engaged to Lord Andrew, and that there was therefore nothing to fear from this dazzler, said stoutly, “Yes, it looks false. Quite like spun glass.”

  “I am surprised the dear duchess could not persuade the chit to wear white,” said Miss Worthy, waving a large fan of osprey feathers.

  “The dress was my mother’s choice,” said Lord Andrew. “I think it a delightful creation, simple and modest.”

  “It is cut too low for such a young girl. She is showing too much neck,” said Miss Worthy. Her fan tickled his nose, and he turned his head away in irritation. He looked across to where Penelope was now sitting with his mother. The neckline of her dress just exposed the tops of two firm white breasts.

  “Perhaps,” he said, for he was suddenly out of charity with Miss Mortimer for looking so seductive when his fiancée seemed hell-bent on appearing as the female of some barbaric tribe.

  Miss Worthy smiled. “I am glad you are come, for that terrible rake, Mr. Barcourt, is here, and no woman is safe with him.”

  Lord Andrew looked across to where Mr. John Barcourt was standing with a group of friends. Barcourt was a fine figure of a man with hair almost as fair as Penelope’s own. He had a dreamy, romantic expression. Lord Andrew did not think him a rake but only a highly susceptible man who fell violently in love at least three times during the Season.

  “Has he been troubling you?” he asked.

  “He has not dared come near, for all the world knows I am engaged to you,” said Miss Worthy. “But such scorching looks as he has sent in this direction! Is that not so, Mama?”

  “Yes, my love,” said Mrs. Worthy dutifully.

  Penelope was glad the ballroom was so large. Although the people near her were little more than a colored blur, she could clearly make out the faces and dress of the guests on the other side of the ballroom. Her wide blue gaze fell on Mr. Barcourt. She looked at the London Season’s famous heartbreaker and thought he reminded her of that desperately handsome boy who worked in the butcher’s shop in Lower Bexham: handsome but weak.

  The duchess meanwhile was narrowly watching the progression of her friend, Mrs. Blenkinsop, round the ballroom. Mrs. Blenkinsop was gossiping busily, and eyes were turned in Penelope’s direction.

  Fiddle, thought the duchess angrily. She is out to sabotage me. She is telling them all that Penelope is merely another of my lame ducks and has no dowry whatsoever. Her gaze shifted to the young lady who sat next to her on the other side from Penelope. Miss Amy Tilney was Mrs. Blenkinsop’s niece, a plain, shy wisp of a thing. But Maria Blenkinsop had already let it be known the girl was possessed of a comfortable dowry. Her eyes took on a hard, stubborn look. She would not be defeated by Mrs. Blenkinsop.

  “Do change places with me, Miss Tilney,” said the duchess, “and chat to Penelope. I am desirous to talk to Mrs. Partridge.” Amy changed places and sat next to Penelope while the duchess smiled sweetly on Mrs. Partridge, London’s biggest gossip.

  “And how is the world with you?” asked Mrs. Partridge.

  “The world goes very badly,” sighed the duchess. “But I shall not live to see much more of it.”

  Mrs. Partridge nearly fell off her chair with excitement. “My dear duchess,” she cried, “never tell me you are ill.”

  “Gravely ill,” said the duchess. “I do not think I shall live much beyond the end of the Season. Do you know Mr. Anderson, the royal doctor? He tells me I have the Blasted Wasting.”

  “Gracious! What is that?” asked Mrs. Partridge, eyeing the duchess’s well-upholstered figure.

  “A rare disease brought from the Indies,” sa
id the duchess with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “Then you should be home in bed.”

  “My duty lies with little Penelope here. It must be well known that I am to leave my vast personal fortune to her, and I would see her safely launched and protected from adventurers before I… die.”

  “Is this your first Season?” Amy was asking Penelope timidly.

  “Yes, and I hope my last,” said Penelope gloomily.

  “Oh, yes, it will be your last,” said Amy simply. “You are so very pretty, you will be wed quite soon.”

  “I do not want to be wed at all,” said Penelope, taking a liking to this girl although she could not quite see her, but warming to the friendly interest in her voice. “I want to be left alone.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Amy in a low voice, “but it is not possible for such as we. We have no free will.”

  “Oh, yes we have,” said Penelope. “No one can stop us thinking what we want to think. And it is always possible to plot and plan a way out of any predicament.”

  “Here is Mr. Barcourt approaching us,” said Amy with a hint of longing in her voice. “He is so very handsome.”

  “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” said Mr. Barcourt, bowing low before Penelope. But as Penelope could not quite make him out and assumed somehow that he and Amy were acquainted, she also assumed he was asking Amy to dance. So she smiled and said to Amy, “There you are, and off you go, Miss Tilney. Your first dance of the evening.”

  Somehow there was nothing Mr. Barcourt could do but take Amy onto the floor. At his invitation, Penelope had not looked at him once but had immediately turned to Amy Tilney.

  Then Penelope suddenly found herself being besieged on all sides to dance. She picked the first one who had asked her and went out to join a set being made up for a country dance.

  She found that dance a great strain, for her weak eyesight put her constantly in danger of losing her partner. She hoped once the dance was over that she would be allowed to go back to her chair and sit quietly. But no sooner had it finished and no sooner had she dropped gracefully down into a curtsy than she was besieged again by a group of gentlemen.

  In another part of the ballroom, Lord Andrew was being hailed by his closest friend, a Scotsman called Mr. Ian Macdonald. Mr. Macdonald was as messy and careless as Lord Andrew was precise and correct. Where Lord Andrew’s tailored clothes flattered his athletic figure, Mr. Macdonald’s were either too tight or too loose. He had a huge, beefy face, small, clever brown eyes like a bear, and a mop of glossy brown curls.

  “My good friend,” Mr. Macdonald hailed Lord Andrew. “Why did you not tell me the dreadful news? Perhaps I could have been of some comfort.”

  “What terrible news?” demanded Lord Andrew acidly, for he feared his friend might be referring to his engagement. Lord Andrew glanced to where his fiancée was now dancing with a thin young army captain. One of her feathers was dropping down her back, and a good part of the revelation of her charms which should have been saved for the marriage bed was being displayed through damped muslin at a London ball. He felt, nonetheless, that his distaste at her appearance was overly severe. Many of the ladies were wearing just as little, and it was an age when they stopped posting guards at the opera to keep the prostitutes out, for the guards kept arresting ladies of the ton, not being able to tell the difference.

  “Come over here and sit down,” said Mr. Macdonald. He led the way behind a potted palm to where a sofa had been placed against the wall.

  “I lost my own mother last year, as you know,” began Mr. Macdonald in a low voice. “I cried for weeks, I can tell you. Still miss her.” He gave a hiccuping sort of sob and pulled a large handkerchief from the pocket in his tails and dabbed his eyes.

  “I know your grief must still bite deep, Ian,” said Lord Andrew, who had long envied his friend his closeness with his family. He rose and stepped behind the palms and told a footman to fetch them two glasses of wine, and then returned to his friend.

  “Talk about your grief, Ian,” said Lord Andrew. “I was supposed to dance attendance on my mother’s new lame duck, but she is such a success, I cannot get near her. So I have plenty of time to listen to you.”

  “I’m not talking about my mother,” said Ian Macdonald. “I’m talking about yours.”

  “Mine! There is nothing up with her.”

  “Oh, my dear friend. That I should be the first to tell you! The Duchess of Parkworth has”—his voice sank to a mournful whisper—“the Blasted Wasting.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “A rare disease from the Indies.”

  “Dammit, man, does my mother look as if she’s wasting away? Who is putting about such a farrago of lies?”

  “Not lies. For that gossip Partridge had it direct from the duchess herself. And there is worse.”

  “Can there be?” demanded Lord Andrew cynically.

  “She says she is going to leave her personal fortune to that chit, Penelope Mortimer.”

  The footman appeared with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Lord Andrew ordered him to leave the whole bottle. When he had poured out two glasses, handed one to Ian, drained his own in one gulp, and refilled it, he said, “Ian, the situation is this. My mother is competing with Mrs. Blenkinsop. Mrs. Blenkinsop is bringing out her niece, Miss Tilney. Miss Tilney does not rate highly in the looks department but has a sizable fortune. Miss Mortimer has none. Mrs. Blenkinsop, I know, has already been gossiping to the effect that Miss Mortimer is one of Mother’s lame ducks, of no fortune or breeding. But before that acid began to bite, I assume my mother told all those barefaced lies to Mrs. Partridge. Hence Penelope Mortimer’s success.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Oh, quite.”

  “But Miss Mortimer is divinely beautiful, is she not?”

  “She is very well in her way,” said Lord Andrew repressively. He stood up and peered through the palms. “Strange,” he said over his shoulder. “She is nowhere in sight. You will keep this to yourself, Ian, but it is my belief that Miss Mortimer is a trifle simple. I hope she has not done anything silly. Perhaps I had better go to look for her. But make yourself easy on the matter of my mother’s death. I am sure she will live a great many years longer. In a few weeks, the novelty of Miss Mortimer will have worn off, and that is the last anyone will hear of her.”

  Lord Andrew diligently searched the ballroom, the card room, and the supper room. There was no sign of Penelope. His mother appeared at his elbow looking agitated and whispered that Penelope had said she was going off to refresh her appearance, but servants sent to the dressing room for the ladies had reported she was not there.

  “You had best not rouse an alarm,” said Lord Andrew. “I shall find her, and later we must talk of my mother’s so-called forthcoming death.”

  He went out onto the landing and looked over the banister and searched the hall with his eyes. No Penelope. The dressing rooms for the guests to repair their toilet were on the floor above the ballroom. He made his way up there quite forgetting he was engaged to dance the cotillion with Miss Worthy.

  Penelope was standing in a small, weedy enclosed bit of garden at the back of the house, wondering what on earth to do. She had been reluctant to return to the hot ballroom and had wandered downstairs and through the hall to the back and then along a little passage to an open door at the end. She had walked through it and found herself in the little garden. The air was sweet and warm, and a full moon silvered the tall weeds, making them look like magical plants.

  Then some servant had slammed the door shut, Penelope had found it locked. Above her head, the loud noise of the orchestra drowned out her frantic knockings.

  She raised her skirts and took her precious spectacles out of a pocket in her petticoat and popped them on her nose.

  She was now thoroughly terrified of what the duchess’s rage would be like if she stayed missing for much longer. A long black drainpipe rose up the back of the building, and one of its arms sh
ooting out at right angles was right under an open window on the second floor where Penelope remembered the dressing rooms to be.

  She could easily climb that drainpipe, but her gown would be ruined, that gown which had cost so much money.

  Penelope decided frantically that if she removed her dress and slung it round her neck and climbed up in her petticoat, she could dive into the dressing room, pop on her gown, and run down to the ballroom. Shivering with nerves, she put her spectacles back in her petticoat pocket, untied the tapes of her gown and took it off, and then tied it around her neck.