by Amanda Scott
“The larger of the two,” Nell said diplomatically, in a discreet tone, “is Lady Pomfret. I do not know her scintillating friend.”
Rory giggled and shook her head, but beyond glancing complacently down at her own slim, muslin-clad self and wondering in a low voice if Lady Pomfret meant to astonish the company by dancing, she soon lost interest in the pair, though she continued to cast curious glances hither and yon.
As she preceded Nell into the ballroom, her gaze came suddenly to rest upon a pair of broad, blue-and-gold draped shoulders. Her attention riveted and she actually came to a halt, causing Nell to remind her that there were others behind them and that if they meant to find chairs for themselves along the far wall, it would be best if she kept moving. “Oh, yes, of course,” Rory answered vaguely, narrowing her eyes. “Aunt Nell, do you see that gentleman ahead of us in the Hussar uniform?”
Since a great number of the gentlemen present were wearing if not the scarlet uniform of the King’s Dragoons then the blue and gold of the Prince’s Own Hussars, Nell had all she could do not to laugh at such an absurd question. She managed to preserve the gravity of her countenance, however, and merely requested that her niece indulge her by being more precise in her description.
“The one with the shoulders,” replied Rory helpfully.
“Rory, they all of them have shoulders!”
“Not like his,” declared her niece flatly. “I do like a man with decent shoulders, don’t you, Aunt Nell? ’Tis one of Huntley’s few attributes, I think. But, Aunt Nell, I am persuaded—indeed, I am nearly certain—that that is the same extraordinarily handsome young man we met in Donaldson’s on Friday.”
“We did not meet him, Rory, and I utterly forbid you to seek him out or in any way to call his attention to yourself,” Nell said hastily, careful to keep her own voice down. “Do you understand me, young lady?”
“But I want to meet him!”
“Then we must try to discover—discreetly, mind you—if we enjoy any mutual acquaintance. But that is all I will allow, and you would do very well to mind me.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
The mournful tone did little to relieve Nell’s mind. With a sigh she thought—and not for the first time—that it would be a deal easier to prevent Rory’s doing something utterly shocking if they had a proper male escort for the evening. To be sure, she had taken courage in hand and had made a strong attempt to persuade Kit that he would find the assembly an amusing pastime. But he had merely laughed at her, reminding her that Rory was her responsibility and recommending with a sad want of civility that she acquire the services of a strict governess if she truly meant to keep the chit out of mischief.
Fearing that Rory would persist in her determination to make the young officer’s acquaintance, Nell did what she could to prevent her from going beyond the line by introducing her to everyone she knew, including several stout matrons who could be trusted to know nearly everyone who was anyone. She could not feel, however, that the younger girl had been much impressed by the advice that she cast her bread upon the waters and hope that eventually someone who knew him would present the young Hussar as a desirable partner. Indeed, Nell placed little dependence upon her niece’s patience and was therefore not so surprised as she might have been when, at the end of the second set of country dances, Rory’s innate grace seemed to desert her and she stumbled, falling heavily against a young man who had not been part of her set but who seemed, in fact, to be wending his way toward the exit. Nor was she surprised that the young man was clad in blue and gold, nor by the fact that he possessed a pair of shoulders magnificent enough to have rivaled Huntley’s.
Rory’s partner, a shy young sprig who had already shown distinct signs of being besotted, stepped forward anxiously to assist her, but Rory clung—quite unnecessarily in her aunt’s opinion—to the man she had fallen against. He had reacted quickly enough to keep her from falling to the floor and seemed willing now to set her on her feet again, but Rory appeared to be quite unable to rest any weight upon her right foot. She spoke to the young officer, ignoring her own partner shamelessly, and a few moments later Nell watched with a jaundiced eye as her niece approached, limping, but supported on either side by the two gentlemen. Rory practically quivered with pent-up mischief, the young sprig looked resigned, and the officer shot Nell an apologetic look that nearly caused her to shake her head in a gesture of shared understanding.
He was tall, very likely taller than Huntley, she thought, watching him. His hair, coarsely textured and medium brown in color, was tied back in the regulation pigtail, and he sported the bushy sidewhiskers and thickly curling mustache generally preferred by Hussar officers. His features were regular, and the lines at the sides of his dark brown, heavily-lidded eyes seemed to suggest both an outdoor life and a habit of laughter. He was a nice looking young man, Nell decided, although in her opinion he looked pretty much like any other Hussar officer, and she could not imagine for a moment why Rory should fancy him to be better looking than his lordship.
“Aunt Nell, you are cursed with a clumsy niece,” Rory said cheerfully after her two aides had helped her to the gilt, harp-backed chair next to Nell’s and the young sprig had taken his reluctant departure. “I have twisted my ankle and, in the process, nearly knocked poor Major Talcott off his feet. Oh, this is Major Gideon Talcott, ma’am,” she added as an afterthought. “And this is my aunt, sir, Miss Lindale.”
“At your service, Miss Lindale.” His voice was pleasant, and his bow was polished. Nell nodded but was given little opportunity to speak.
“He is the same gentleman we saw at Donaldson’s, Aunt Nell, and he remembered me—that is, us—as well, for he called me by name when he apologized for his clumsiness, and when I asked how he knew who I was, he admitted he had looked in the visitors’ book after we had departed.” She cast a roguish look at her by now acutely uncomfortable companion, which made Nell long to shake her. “Was that not naughty of him, ma’am?”
“’Tis not an uncommon practice, however,” Nell said evenly. “I am persuaded that my niece will do very nicely now, sir. Thank you for assisting her.”
“’Twas the least I could do after nearly mowing her ladyship down in my path,” he replied gallantly, making no effort to accept Nell’s broad hint.
Rory, her right foot daintily extended, had taken the brief moment to inspect it, turning it first one way, then the other. She looked up in response to Talcott’s words and chuckled disarmingly.
“You are most kind, sir, but you know perfectly well that that is not what transpired at all. ’Twas I who fell against you. If you were not so strong—”
“Rory, please!” Nell expostulated under her breath.
“But he is strong, and he saved me from a fall and very likely from being trodden upon, as well, so why should I not speak of it?”
Major Talcott’s eyes twinkled, and his expression as much as dared Nell to answer as he no doubt believed she would have liked to answer. Instead, Nell smiled at him, albeit weakly, and said, “We are indeed in your debt, sir. Rory, is your ankle swelling?” She could see perfectly well for herself that it was doing no such thing, but she was curious to know how the minx would respond.
Rory flexed her foot experimentally, then directed a limpid gaze at her aunt and replied, “Do you know, I think I must be very lucky, for it does not hurt me in the slightest now.”
“We must all be thankful for that,” returned her aunt dryly, shooting a darkling look at her. Rory avoided her gaze.
“Indeed, I am persuaded I need not miss a single set.” She gazed speculatively at Major Talcott from under her dark lashes.
“Don’t be foolish,” Nell said briskly, restraining an increasing urge to throttle her niece. “Major Talcott would be the first to warn you to rest your foot, my dear. You must resign yourself to sitting out at least one dance.”
Rory looked mutinous, but providentially the major suggested that she might like a glass of orgeat while she rested.
She agreed happily and watched his retreating form with an expression that, in her aunt’s opinion, could be best described as nauseating.
“You will have a good deal to answer for when we have a private moment, my child,” Nell said quietly.
Rory turned to her, wide-eyed. “But, Aunt Nell, I could scarcely help fall—” Nell’s patent disbelief caused her to break off and look down at her hands. She began to pick with one at the fingernails of the other, speaking again only after a long moment. “Well, I am sorry, then, if I have vexed you, but I was afraid he meant to leave, and I knew it would take days to arrange a proper introduction even if we did manage to find someone who knows him.”
Nell sighed. “Do you do things to suit only your own pleasure, my dear?” Rory looked at her, but there was nothing in her expression to indicate the slightest understanding of Nell’s feelings. A moment later Major Talcott reappeared with her orgeat, and as soon as the orchestra struck up for a Scottish reel, he obeyed her unspoken command by requesting her hand for the dance.
When they had gone, Nell looked about her, trying to see if she could discover anyone who might have taken notice of Rory’s deplorable tactics. Thankfully, she saw no one who might have been expected to pay them any heed. A fashionably attired young man strolled up to her chair just then to ask her to honor him with a dance. She refused politely just as she had been doing all the evening. In point of fact, the number of offers she had received quite surprised her. She had known that her gown of bronze watered-silk became her well enough, and the new beribboned hairstyle, à la Aphrodite, was perfectly suited to her long chestnut hair. But she had not expected to be such a success. Had she been so inclined, she would not have needed to sit out a single dance. But of course it would be unthinkable when her charge required her constant attention.
Stifling a small sigh, Nell scarcely realized when her toes began to tap in time to the reel, noticing only when the sudden ceasing of the music caught her with toes raised. Color rushed to her face as she glanced self-consciously about to see if anyone had been watching. Surprisingly, every head seemed to the turned toward the entrance, where there seemed to be a great stirring of activity.
Some young girls off to her right were actually climbing onto benches in order to see better, a clear example of a lowered standard of behavior. Surely, no young lady would have dared make such a vulgar display of herself in bygone Seasons! They were muttering now among themselves, and Nell strained her ears to hear what they were saying. Someone mentioned his highness, and someone else mentioned Norfolk, which was enough to inform her that the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Norfolk had chosen to honor the assembly with their presence. She looked around for Rory, devoutly hoping that she would not find her among the girls on the benches, and was nearly startled out of her skin by a familiar voice at her side.
“Lost her ladyship already, have you?”
“Huntley! By all that’s holy, my lord, do you wish to frighten me silly?”
“It was not my intention,” he replied with one of his more enigmatic smiles. “I am a victim of circumstances and decided to seek compatible company.”
“Victim of circumstances?”
“Indeed. I have dined at the Pavilion and was unable—at such short notice, you know—to think of a reason not to accompany Prinny and his grace when they took it into their heads to come here. They are very drunk, although Norfolk doesn’t show it, of course. Man has a head like an ox.”
“The prince does not carry his liquor so well,” Nell said wisely, thinking Huntley himself was no doubt a little worse for drink if he had been dining at the Pavilion. “I collect there was a fair amount of wine at the table.”
“Of course, since Maria was not present,” he replied. Nell nodded, knowing as well as anyone in Brighton that Mrs. Fitzherbert kept a tight rein on his highness’s drinking. “Ought to warn you,” Huntley added with a sidelong look at her. “He wants to meet my intended. What have you done with her?”
“I have done nothing with her,” Nell replied indignantly. “Not, mind you, that I have not been sorely tempted.”
Favoring her with a quick grin of comprehension, he sat down, casually crossing one long leg over the other. He was attired in the evening garb made popular by Mr. Brummell—dark coat, black knee-breeches, white waistcoat and stockings, and black shoes. His watchchain sported a single gold fob, and he wore a diamond stickpin in his intricately tied, well-starched neckcloth. Nell thought he looked particularly elegant. When he turned to face her, she thought she could detect a glint of sympathy in deep-set hazel eyes.
“You’ve encountered difficulties? Where is she?”
“Dancing, of course,” Nell replied. “And I said nothing of difficulties, nor,” she added contradictorily, “is this the proper place to discuss them.”
“But you would like to discuss them at a more suitable time and place?”
“I would, sir. I don’t know how you can expect me to—to. …”
“To keep the baggage in line?” he suggested helpfully.
She glared at him, but the teasing twinkle in the hazel eyes defeated her, and she surprised him by chuckling.
“That’s better,” he said.
“Well, it is no matter for jesting, my lord. I don’t know how you came to make me laugh, because Rory is likely to land us all in the basket with her outrageous behavior.”
“I admit the possibility, and I am sorry if I seem to have deposited my burdens in your lap, but you are quite right in that we cannot discuss the matter now, for here she comes. Who is that splendid fellow at her side?”
“He would be arm in arm with her if his principles were not rather better than hers, my lord,” Nell said tartly.
“I’m glad you manage to provide her with principled partners, at least. By the look of this company, it cannot be an easy task.”
“Your sentiments, though gratifying, are of little consequence,” Nell replied, lowering her voice as the others drew nearer. “I did not present him to her.”
“Then who …” The thick brows knitted together when Nell shot him a speaking look. “Ah, I see. The chit’s manners want correcting, do they? Well, that is something I can attend to.”
Before Nell could comment, the others were upon them and Rory was making the introductions, her manners as polished as anyone might wish. A moment later, Major Talcott took himself off, and Huntley sternly informed his intended that he meant to dance with her. She quickly mentioned her dance card, whereupon he countered by submitting that, as yet, no partner had appeared to claim her. Left with no further argument she went off with him, and Nell braced herself for fireworks.
She was not surprised to note that, instead of joining one of the sets now forming for a cotillion, Huntley guided his reluctant partner inexorably toward one of the recesses at the end of the room. They did not return until the dance was nearly over, and when they did, Rory’s chin was up, her lips were pressed together in a straight, narrow line, and her eyes were mere slits of resentment in her lovely face. Huntley, just behind her, looked decidedly grim.
Nell let out a long sigh but did not attempt to speak to either of them, and it was not until the approach of a scarlet coat that Rory showed signs of reviving. Huntley frowned, but when Nell greeted the young man warmly and introduced him as the son of one of her mother’s oldest and dearest friends, his lordship relaxed noticeably, and Rory promptly accepted the forthcoming invitation to take part in the contradanse.
“I can see that you have your work cut out for you,” Huntley said when they had gone.
Nell looked at him searchingly, wondering if he was offering deliberate provocation. “I should say, rather, sir, that you have yours cut out for you.”
“Not for several months yet, thank God,” he replied.
“My good sir, surely you do not expect me to have much effect upon a character that has been seventeen years in the making. Not without a good deal of help, at any rate.”
He smiled. “Do you mean
to infer, Nell, that you could make the necessary changes if you had help?”
“Well, I should certainly make a push to try,” she retorted. “But so long as she encourages the attentions of every rattle in Brighton, and so long as you deny us your escort—which would at least show them that she is spoken for—there is not a great deal I can do beyond praying that she will come to no great harm.”
“Does she truly encourage rattles?” Huntley asked as if he were truly interested.
“She encourages anything in pants, my lord, particularly if they are uniform pants!”
“My poor Nell.” She looked at him in astonishment, but he was not attending to her. Instead, his eyes were focused upon a point behind her, and they narrowed as he got to his feet and held out his hand as if to assist her to hers. “I am sorry for this,” he said quietly. “Good evening, your highness. May I have the honor to present Miss Lindale.”
Nell turned quickly and dropped a curtsy to the prince, who hung on the arm of his friend the Duke of Norfolk. “Your highness.”
The Prince of Wales extended a hand and drew her to her feet. He seemed to look her over, she thought, much as if she had been a filly presented for his inspection. “Pleasure, Miss Lindale. D’ya know Norfolk?” His words were greatly slurred.
She curtsied again, and Norfolk nodded, then clapped Huntley on the shoulder. “This the one, man?”
“No, sir. Lady Aurora is dancing. Miss Lindale is her aunt.”
“Wish I had an aunt looked like that,” muttered an unidentified voice behind the prince.
