The Perfect Waltz

by Anne Gracie

  They trotted along in companionable silence for ten minutes or more, Giles lazing back against the seat and Lady Elinore half lying against him, his arm gently but firmly supporting her, but as the cab reached Leicester Square, she seemed to recall herself. With a start, she thrust herself away from Giles and skittered along the seat until she was a good two feet away from him.

  She said in a voice husky with embarrassment, “Th-thank you, Mr. Bemerton. I believe I have recovered from my bout of—”

  “The vapors.”

  She sat up straighter. “I was not vaporish! Merely overcome for a moment.”

  Giles shrugged provocatively. “Whatever you wish to call it.”

  “It was not the vapors. My mother despised vaporish women. No true lady succumbs in public to any strong emotion.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t so public. Just you and me. Our little secret.” He smiled lazily and leaned back against the leather squabs of the cab, watching her. She raised her nose high, pretending to be unaware of his regard. The more he lounged and watched, the straighter she sat. She twitched her dress straight, her bonnet straight, and her mouth compressed in a straight little line of disapproval.

  By the time they’d reached Piccadilly, she’d regained her composure completely. The only sign of her tearful outbreak was her slightly reddened nose and eyes and the damp square of linen in his pocket.

  “Tell me about your mother,” he said.

  She looked at him suspiciously. “What do you want to know?”

  “When did she die?”

  “Last February. But it was a very slow death.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Of course! We were very close.”

  “In what way?”

  “In all ways. My mother depended on me for everything,” she said proudly. “I answered all her mail, and she received a great deal, for she was quite well-known, and I copied out all her papers for the printer, for my hand is clear and neat. I ran our house also, for Mother’s mind was on too lofty a plane, and she was impatient of mundane details. She used to call me her good right hand in all things.”

  “Her dogsbody, in fact.”

  “Not at all! I resent that remark. You have no idea.” She shifted another few inches away from him, looked out of the window, and said crossly, “This cab is very slow.”

  “And since she died, how has your life changed?”

  She thought about it a moment. “Not very much. I live the life she designed for us and have continued her work as best I can.”

  He said gently, “Were there no dreams of your own you wished to pursue?”

  “Oh no,” she said quietly. “My life with Mother was busy and fulfilling.”

  He raised his eyebrows at that but said only, “Fulfilling? I see. I did not think you used to attend assemblies when your mother was alive.”

  She flushed. “No.” She compressed her lips in a clear signal that she would say no more.

  “Some would say it is rather late to join the marriage mart. Most of the young ladies making their coming-out are a dozen years younger.” It was ungentlemanly of him to mention her age, but he could think of no way else to prod her out of her shell.

  She flushed darker, struggling with herself a moment, not wanting to explain to him but not wishing him to jump to the wrong conclusions. She said starkly, “My late father made a will, in which he leaves me a fortune, to come to me after I have been married three years. My mother left most of her money tied up in her various important works.” She gave a short, embarrassed twist of her shoulders. “So I have no choice but to seek a husband.”

  Giles was silent a moment, thinking about a mother who cared more about her self-aggrandizing crackpot enterprises than the security of the daughter who had devoted her life to her.

  “Do you have an aversion to marriage?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Not precisely. In any case, needs must.”

  He said bluntly, “I would not wish my friend Mr. Reyne to take a wife who holds him in secret aversion. You are aware, I suppose, he is courting you.”

  She hesitated, twisting her reticule in her hands. “He has said nothing, but I am aware of the directions of his attentions, yes. And I do not hold him in aversion. He is a decent enough man.”

  “Yes, he is. He will make you a fine, strong, lusty husband.”

  She stared at him, appalled.

  He continued suavely, “And no doubt you will find comfort in any children you may have.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Children!” There was a short silence, then she said in a shaken voice, “I must admit I hadn’t thought of children. I thought I was too—” She broke off, flustered.

  Giles said it for her. “You are not too old for anything, Elinore.”

  She flushed, instantly pokered up, and said crisply, “I did not give you permission to use my given name, sir. And I think this conversation has become quite improper. See, we are coming to Berkeley Square. My home is but a few steps away. We shall finish the journey in silence, if you please!”

  Giles lolled against the worn leather squabs, well pleased with his morning’s work.

  Chapter Thirteen

  What are young women made of?

  Ribbons and laces, and sweet pretty faces.

  NURSERY RHYME

  “I FELT SO DREADFUL, AUNT GUSSIE. I HAD NO NOTION MY words would upset Lady Elinore so much.”

  The twins and Mrs. Jenner had come to tea at Lady Augusta’s and were sitting in her front parlor, discussing the recent visit. Mrs. Jenner, offended that she hadn’t been invited to the Tothill Institution—even thought she’d earlier declared she couldn’t abide poor people—was sulking in a well-bred fashion. The others ignored her.

  “Pshaw! No need to rebuke yourself. Dreams are important. Your sister is right, you inadvertently touched on a nerve, that’s all.” Lady Augusta’s eyes narrowed. “You say young Bemerton hustled her off home? I must say, that surprises me.”

  Faith explained, “The rest of us were too shocked to move.”

  Mrs. Jenner said waspishly, “And Mr. Bemerton is, after all, a gentleman born and knows how to treat a lady. Unlike others we could name.”

  Hope said hotly, “What do you mean by that? Mr. Reyne is perfectly gentlemanly! Mr. Bemerton just got in first, that’s all.”

  Faith laid a calming hand on her knee. “Dearest, do you know why Mr. Reyne was so admant about his sisters not coming to the tea party?”

  Hope shook her head. “No. He is very protective of those girls—perhaps a little overprotective.”

  Mrs. Jenner said, “I don’t understand why a man who is supposed to be courting Lady Elinore allowed another man to see her home, particularly when she was distressed.”

  Lady Augusta snorted. “If she’d had any sense, Lady Elinore would have fainted, and then that lovely big Mr. Reyne would be forced to catch her and carry her out. No idea, that gel.”

  Hope was very glad of Lady Elinore’s lack of idea. If lovely big Mr. Reyne was to catch and carry anyone, he would carry Hope Merridew! She said firmly, “Mr. Reyne, as owner of the institution, had a duty as host to remain with his guests.”

  Lady Augusta considered the notion and wrinkled her nose. “Possibly that was it. Did he do his duty as host then, the lad with the divine shoulders?” She gave Hope a wicked look and added, “Lovely hard thighs, too. I like a man with powerful thighs.”

  “Aunt Gussie, please!” Hope blushed at Lady Gussie’s embarrassing descriptions of Mr. Reyne. Accurate, but embarrassing.

  “Well I can’t help noticing, now that men wear those nice tight—”

  Faith interrupted hurriedly, “Mr. Reyne stayed for a short time and then escorted us home.”

  Lady Augusta winked at Hope, picked up a cream-filled chocolate meringue, and looked at it thoughtfully. “I pity Lady Elinore. Agatha Pilton always was a peculiar gel!”

  “Agatha Pilton? Who is Agatha Pilton?” Hope asked, puzzled.

  Lady Gussie took a large bite and
after she had finished chewing said, “Lady Elinore’s mother. Was a Pilton before she wed. She married Billy Whitelaw, the Earl of Ennismore—an Irish title—and made a complete mess of it. Got hysterical when she found out that Billy had a mistress—well, what did she expect? Not as if it was a love match. All the world knew poor Billy was on the lookout for an heiress. Didn’t have two sixpences to rub together, but oh! He was a handsome devil! Agatha Pilton was a good-looking gel, but no personality to speak of. She must have known she was married for her fortune. That’s how things were arranged in those days. It’s how it was with my first marriage. You just have to make the best of things.” She shook her head and ate the rest of the meringue.

  “What did Lady Ennismore do?”

  Lady Gussie made a disgusted noise, swallowed a mouthful of sherry, and said, “Made huge public fusses. She stood outside the mistress’s house and made the most appallingly vulgar scene. Followed Billy to his club and made another one. Stood under the bow window of White’s and just screeched! Shocking!” Her hand hovered over the plate of cakes indecisively. “In the end, she refused to allow him into the house. Started to dress like a fright. Took up a career as a living embarrassment. Billy went off to Ireland or India or somewhere and died in some bizarre accident. Typical of Billy.” She selected a lemon curd cake. “Last I heard, Agatha was running with a coven of bluestockings—that was round about the time when I was leaving for Argentina.”

  Hope poured herself and her twin another cup of tea. “How very fascinating. Lady Ennismore published a book called The Principles of Rationality for Enlightened Ladies, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know. It sounds perfectly frightful!” declared Lady Gussie with an elegant shudder. “Sounds exactly like the sort of thing an enlightened lady should avoid!”

  “Lady Elinore was reared according to those principles.”

  “Well, that goes to show what rubbish the book must be. Poor gel looks appalling, dresses atrociously, and acts as if she’s never had any fun in her life. I bet she’s never even been kissed!” Lady Gussie nibbled delicately on the lemon curd cake, then sighed. “What a waste of a life. If I had the dressing of that gel, I’m sure I could make her into something passable at the very least. But all that gray!” She shuddered. “No one should go through life clad in gray.”

  “I do so agree,” said Faith fervently. “Our grandfather used to dress us all in gray homespun, and it was horrid.”

  Lady Gussie looked appalled. “I knew that man was insane, but to dress you beautiful young things in gray homespun! It’s criminal, that’s what it is! Criminal!”

  Hope stared at Lady Gussie and sat up straight. “Aunt Gussie,” she said slowly. “You’re absolutely right!”

  “Of course I’m right.” Lady Gussie finished the curd cake and dusted sugar off her fingers fastidiously. “What about, in particular?”

  Faith stared at her sister. “You’ve had an idea.”

  Hope grinned and nodded.

  “About Lady Elinore?”

  “No, about the orphan girls.” She sat forward excitedly on her chair. “We shall not simply have those girls to tea. It shall be a little more exciting than just tea and cakes. I am determined to bring some real joy into their lives! I do hope Lady Elinore won’t mind it very much—I don’t want to upset her any more than I already have. I felt dreadful when she burst into tears like that, because I do like her, even if she does have odd ideas.”

  “Yes, me, too,” Faith agreed.

  “Agatha Pilton should have been strangled,” muttered Lady Gussie. “Teaching a daughter to want to look like a fright! A crime against nature!”

  Faith nodded. “Yes, her ideas about life must be horrid! Imagine saying dreams are only rubbish fit for dogs!”

  The old lady snorted. “Indeed! Lady Elinore is fortunate her mother died. Pity it didn’t happen when she was a child, instead of when she was thirty.”

  Hope laid an affectionate hand on Lady Gussie’s dimpled arm. “Dear Lady Gussie. Poor Elinore would have been so much happier if you’d been her mother.”

  Lady Augusta nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, she would. Still, it’s never too late for anything. Agatha’s gel might make something of herself yet.”

  Faith said, “I’m dying to know, twin. What do you mean to do?”

  Hope explained her plan. When she finished, she sat back and looked at her sister and Lady Augusta. “So, will you help me? You know I’m useless at that sort of thing, but with help . . .”

  “Help you? Of course we will!” her twin exclaimed. “It’s a delightful plan! Count me in. And Grace will want to help, too, I’m sure.”

  They both turned to Lady Augusta for her verdict.

  Lady Gussie beamed at Hope. “I’ll help you, Miss Hoyden. Indeed I will.” She downed her third glass of sherry and chuckled. “I adore a plot. And you know, I’d like to know a bit more about this orphan asylum, too. Poor motherless little souls. D’ye mind if I get Maudie and some of her cronies on board? She’d love this.” She gave a sudden crack of laughter and added, “Maudie despised Agatha Pilton. Now, Hope, my dear, what are you going to wear to Lady Thorn’s gypsy ball?”

  Hope blinked at the sudden change of subject but answered, “To be honest, Aunt Gussie, I haven’t the slightest notion. I hadn’t given it any thought. What do Hungarian gypsies wear? Does anyone know?”

  “Fleas, I’ll be bound.” said Lady Augusta sardonically, “But there I’ll draw the line! Faith, my dear gel, you spend a deal of time talking to that pretty Count Rimavska. Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

  Faith looked a little self-conscious. As well she should, thought Hope, considering the amount of time she’d spent with the count lately!

  “Masks, of course, in any style you want. And for the dress, I think lots of bright colors, Aunt Gussie. Plenty of red and black and white, and ruffles and flounces and embroidery. The men will wear boots and—”

  “Boots, at a ball!” Aunt Gussie exclaimed in horror.

  “Yes, and either baggy gathered trousers or tight black ones.”

  “No guesses as to what the count will wear,” muttered Hope waspishly.

  “Yes, he does like to wear his trousers snug, does he not?” Lady Augusta chuckled. “Mind you, dear, he does have the figure for it, unlike many other men of our acquaintance, poor dears—and I say, when a man has the figure for it, he may wear his pants as tight as may be; I for one shall never complain!”

  Everyone laughed. “Aunt Gussie you’re outrageous!”

  “Oh, pish tush! What else are eyes for? Now, what else will they wear, Faith?”

  “The men’s shirts should be white, full and gathered at the sleeve and a brightly embroidered vest. And he will wear a head scarf—”

  “A head scarf? A head scarf?”

  Both twins giggled at her appalled tone.

  “Yes, or a black hat.”

  “No man in London will wear a head scarf!” declared Lady Augusta firmly. “Well, that’s the men outfitted, but what shall we wear? Faith, what are you wearing?”

  Faith said, “I did ask Fel—Count Rimavska, and he helped me to come up with a number of different ideas. I have brought my sketchbook with me, as it happens.” She took a small sketch pad from her reticule.

  The ladies pored over the sketches, exclaiming over each in pleasure and excitement.

  “Very pretty, Faith.”

  Faith said, “You are welcome to take any of these you like.”

  “Oh, what a sweet gel you are! I might have this one—only in a different color—purple, I think.”

  Hope met Faith’s eye then, and they twinkled at each other. Aunt Gussie did love the color purple.

  Lady Augusta sat back in her chair. “What fun! With this gypsy ball and the plot for the orphan gels in the meantime, it’s going to be a busy time for us all! Ring that bell, will you, dear, and tell Shoebridge to bring me another drink. After all this talk of dresses, I’m parched!”

  “It’s
no use, Bas, you won’t get in; it’s a female-only affair,” Giles lounged in the driver’s seat of his chaise, his collar turned up and his curly brimmed beaver hat crammed low over his eyes.

  Sebastian had just pulled up in front of Sir Oswald Merridew’s house in Providence Court, ten gray-clad, nervous girls squashed into his barouche, the last load of orphans.

  “Females only?”

  Giles nodded as he descended from his carriage and walked toward the barouche. “Secret female matters, apparently. We males are only valued for our driving skills.” He shrugged. “Greetings, ladies!” He bowed extravagantly to the girls as he threw open the barouche doors and let down the steps. “You have arrived at your destination.”

  It was exactly the right approach, Sebastian saw. The nervous girls giggled shyly as they descended and filed into the house like obedient mice.

  “Lady Elinore not coming then?” Giles asked.

  Sebastian shook his head. “No. She’s had to accept the outing, but she doesn’t approve of it. She’ll meet the girls afterward.” He made to follow them into the house.

  Giles detained him. “I told you, it’s females only.” He shrugged. “Of course, we were invited to take refreshment with Sir Oswald, but to be perfectly frank, Bas, you couldn’t drag me into that house today if you tried.”

  “Why?” Sebastian frowned.

  Giles glanced up at the blank windows of the house in a hunted manner and confided, “The Merridews have enlisted a gaggle of dowagers—Lady Augusta, Lady Gosforth, and a dozen or so of their cronies—and I use the word advisedly. Terrifying collection of crones. They treat me like a scrubby schoolboy! Me! And d’you know what? I feel like a scrubby schoolboy the minute any one of them claps a beady eye on me! I might once have been a small schoolboy, possibly even a trifle on the flimsy side, but I was never in my life scrubby!”

  He gave the house a baleful glance and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. “And today, there’s a pack of ’em in there!” He shuddered. “So I’m away to the safety of my club. They want us back for transportation duty in two hours, I’m informed. Are you coming?”