The day had been filled with visits to buy hats, shawls, fans, shoes, dresses, pelisses, and wraps. She had been pushed, prodded, turned, and pinned until her head whirled. Augusta Harvey had not stopped once for meals. “During the Season,” she had said with her usual crocodile smile, “you may eat your fill in someone else’s house. ‘Tis the done thing.”
In all this whirl of shopping, Penelope had been torn between gratitude towards her aunt for her splendid new wardrobe and distaste for her vulgar, pushing ways. Madame Verné, the dressmaker, had discreetly suggested that Miss Harvey’s niece was in need of new underthings. “Why?” Augusta had demanded with great aplomb. “I ain’t wasting money on what don’t show.”
Now, despite the courage engendered by a beautiful white silk dress embroidered at neck and hem with tiny rosebuds and a completely new coiffeur of artlessly rioting curls, created for her by Monsieur André, the court hairdresser, Penelope heartily wished the evening were over.
She wished this more than ever as they were ushered into the Earl’s drawing room. The exquisite furniture, the fine paintings, the beautifully subdued colors—all made Augusta Harvey appear at her worst. Miss Harvey was dressed in all the glory of green and white stripes with a multitude of bows and tucks and flounces.
An applewood fire crackled on the hearth, and two fine chandeliers cast a flattering glow over the room.
Charles lounged into the room, looking self-conscious. His face lightened when he saw Penelope, and he made her his best bow. Penelope saw a pleasant looking young man with a weak face, impeccably dressed in long tails and evening breeches and a cravat so high that he had difficulty turning his head. He sported a great number of fobs and seals on his waistcoat and nervously took snuff in rapid delicate little pinches from an enamelled snuffbox. To Penelope’s surprise, the Viscount seemed to be as nervous as she was herself, and she set herself to put him at his ease, asking him questions on London life and succeeding so well that Augusta’s grating question came as a shock. “And where, young man,” demanded Augusta, rudely breaking into the conversation, “is your brother?”
Penelope looked at her in surprise and Charles flushed. “Roger will be here directly,” he mumbled. “I promised you …”
Augusta became aware of Penelope’s amazed stare and laughed shrilly. “The dear boy,” she said, patting the Viscount on the cheek. “I’m like a mother to him, ain’t I just?”
“How touching!” said a cold voice. “But Charles is out of short coats after all and does not, I think, need a substitute mother.”
The Earl of Hestleton stood framed in the doorway. Penelope looked up and found he was staring straight across the room at her. He was a very tall man with a thin, white, high-nosed face and peculiarly light gray eyes, almost the color of silver, under heavy, drooping lids. His expression was austere and harsh, his hair an unusual copper color with red lights which glinted in the light from the chandeliers. He was dressed in a close-fitting black evening coat and black satin knee breeches with diamond buckles on his shoes. A magnificent diamond pin winked in the folds of his snowy cravat.
Penelope dismally decided that he was one of the most terrifying-looking men she had ever seen. She hurriedly cast down her eyes and studied the toe of her slipper.
The Viscount made the introductions. The Earl gave Miss Harvey a very slight bow and Penelope a lower one. She looked up once more into his eyes only to find her wide blue gaze trapped and held by that hard silvery stare.
Miss Harvey launched into speech and the Earl turned his gaze slightly from Penelope, but not so far away that she could not fail to observe his look of hauteur deepening to one of disgust.
“Naughty man,” shrieked Miss Harvey coquetting awfully from her chair by the fire. “You don’t think I’m like a mother to your little brother? Ah, but I am. I dote on the dear boy.”
She lumbered to her feet and placed a fat arm around the horrified Viscount’s neck and gave him an affectionate squeeze. He hurriedly rose to his feet to escape her embrace and fled to the corner of the room where he busied himself with the decanters.
“But you grand bucks are always teases,” went on Miss Harvey, regardless, turning to the Earl who was still standing in front of Penelope. “You’ll need to be careful, Penelope, my dear. This fine Lord eats hearts for breakfast, heh!”
“Pray be seated, madam,” said the Earl icily. “I would be grateful if you could possibly modify the personal tone of your conversation. Tell me, Miss Vesey, are you recently come to London?”
But before Penelope could find her voice, Augusta rattled on. “Now, now, my lord. We musn’t get twitty.”
“Twitty?” said the Earl awfully. “Explain yourself, Miss Harvey.”
“Mifty. Up in the boughs. Spleenish,” said Augusta with a wide smile. “But don’t mind me. I’m used to gentleman and their little ways when they gets a twinge of the gout.”
Pity for his brother made the Earl refrain from giving Augusta Harvey the terrible setdown he wished to. He contented himself for the moment by turning a deaf ear to her remarks.
The Earl decided Charles had been lying to him. His brother must obviously be smitten with Miss Vesey’s undoubted beauty. He looked thoughtfully at Charles who blushed miserably and looked into his glass of wine.
He turned to concentrate his attention on Penelope. But Penelope, ashamed of her aunt and overawed by the splendid Earl, muttered only brief replies to his questions. Yes, she had just arrived in London. Yes, she was enjoying herself. No, she had not yet been to the opera.
The Earl looked down thoughtfully at her bent head and wondered if the girl was as graceless as her aunt in a quieter way. The soft candlelight showed the perfection of Penelope’s white skin and the silk dress displayed the soft curves of her slim figure to advantage. There was a vulnerability—a fragility—about her beauty that was infinitely feminine, decided the Earl.
He looked briefly across at Augusta Harvey and surprised a triumphant, gloating expression on that lady’s face. His thin brows snapped together. Augusta could not—would dare not—look so high for a marriage partner for her niece! But that she hoped for some outcome from his interest in Penelope was all too obvious.
She is hoping I set the girl up as my mistress, thought the Earl, turning again to study Penelope. Perhaps it would be worth the vast amount of money he would probably have to pay Augusta. The girl was undoubtedly a diamond of the first water and, provided Penelope proved to be a willing partner in Augusta’s plot, he might oblige. She looked like a lady, but appearances were obviously deceptive. Any filly out of Augusta Harvey’s family stable would no doubt prove to be little better than a cart horse.
The Earl had been engaged, some ten years before, to a pretty little debutante, Lady Sarah Devane. He was charmed and fascinated by her kittenish ways and had fallen in love with her with all the fire and passion of his twenty-five years. Two weeks before the wedding he had called at her home unexpectedly. As the butler had been relieving him of his greatcoat in the hall, the silvery tones of his beloved in the drawing room had carried to his ears with deadly clarity. “Well, of course, Mama, I would much rather be marrying Bertram or someone like that. Roger is too serious,” Lady Sarah was saying. “But think of all Roger’s beautiful money. And I shall enjoy being a Countess. Married ladies have such freedom…”
The Earl had covered his hurt and shock very well. He had quietly lied to Sarah’s father that he had lost all his money on “Change” and felt it would be unfair to subject Sarah to an impoverished marriage. Sarah’s father had heartily agreed. Sarah, too, had agreed with a pretty show of sighs and tears. By the time the Devanes had discovered his lie, Sarah was married to her Bertram. Since then the Earl had preferred to keep mistresses and flirt idly with several hopeful debutantes. And now, he mused as he looked at Penelope from under drooping lids, I am considering entangling myself with a young lady who has an aunt who is as common as a barber’s chair.
Charles had begun to talk to A
ugusta in a high, nervous way about England’s recent war with France and how marvellous it was that that monster Bonaparte was safely installed on Elba. He said all this with an almost pleading note in his voice, the Earl noted, and thought it was sad that young Charles so obviously did care quite a bit for Augusta’s opinion.
Their mother had died when both the Earl and the Viscount were small boys. The Earl had not missed his mother much since he had seen little of her, having been brought up by a nanny and then a tutor before going to Eton. But perhaps, he reflected as Charles chattered on, his brother had felt the loss more than he, Roger, had ever imagined and was finding in the horrible Augusta a weird substitute.
Dinner was announced, and the Earl conducted Augusta into the dining room while Penelope and the Viscount trailed behind.
Unless one was a member of the Holland House set and accustomed to witty, garrulous, political dinner parties, one usually ate one’s food at the tables of the best houses in a morbid silence. This dinner party was no exception. The Earl ate sparingly and seemed immersed in his thoughts, Charles was drinking steadily, Penelope was too overawed by the numerous footmen, the gold plate, and the formidable Earl to open her mouth, and only Augusta enlivened the silence by the steady chomping of her great jaws.
By the end of the meal the fact that Charles did not wish to remain alone with his brother became all too obvious when the port wine and walnuts were brought in. He started to rise to follow Augusta and Penelope, making some feeble joke about the ladies being too attractive to be neglected even for a moment.
“Sit down, Charles,” said the Earl in a deceptively mild voice. “I am sure the ladies will forgive us for a few minutes.”
Charles looked longingly after the retreating backs of Augusta and Penelope and slumped down sulkily in his chair.
“Now, Charles,” said the Earl. “I must ask you again what all this is about. I tell you now I will not have that infuriating woman across my threshold again. Tell me plain—does she hope I will offer her niece a carte blanche?”
“No!” said Charles. “Nothing like that.” His sulkiness changed to petulant bad temper. “You’re always twitting me about something, Roger. You’re always so demned toplofty. So Miss Harvey is perhaps a bit of a rough diamond, but her niece is all that is proper.”
“A proper niece would not be seen in the company of a woman like that,” said the Earl coldly. “Pass the port, Charles, before you drink it all. Now tell me for once and for all—what do you see in a woman like Augusta Harvey?”
“She’s kind to me, dammit,” burst out Charles. “You always said this was my home as much as yours. Can’t I invite my friends? You’re always prosing on about something. It’s like living with a demned Methodist preacher, that it is. I’ll not stand for it.”
“Very well,” said the Earl, looking enigmatically at his brother from under his drooping lids. “You may entertain whom you will. But pray warn me next time Miss Harvey is expected, and I shall spend the evening at my club.”
The Earl sighed and wondered if he were indeed being too harsh. But he had had to be both father and brother to Charles, who seemed to tumble into an endless succession of scrapes. He was constantly having to be rescued from one hell after another—where he was usually found dead drunk and with his pockets to let. His friends often belonged to the fringes of society but, to date, they had all been men. Thinking of Charles’s friends, the Earl suddenly recollected something and frowned.
“I hear that the Comte de Chernier was staying at the Courtlands as a houseguest. I am surprised at the Courtlands giving house room to such a shady emigré. He has been seen in your company too. I would avoid that one, dear Charles. We may have ceased hostilities with France, but Bonaparte will never give up while he lives, and he is reported to have spies in London. The Comte must know that we have many friends in the higher echelons of the army.”
Charles had turned paper white. “First you damn my lady friends and now you accuse a member of the French nobility of being a Bonapartiste spy. Well, let me tell you this, Roger, I shall choose my own friends and if you continue in this vein, I shall leave this house forever!”
“Think about what I have said,” replied the Earl, looking at his brother sadly. “I am concerned for your welfare, Charles, that is all. There now. Let us say no more. Shall we join the… er… ladies?”
As soon as Penelope and Miss Harvey had been ushered into the drawing room, Penelope waited until the butler had retired and then turned and faced her aunt.
“I cannot go on with it,” she said firmly while Augusta stared in amazement to see her niece so incensed. “Yes, I hope to find a husband this Season, but I will not prostitute myself, madam, in front of a sneering aristocrat who obviously thinks we are lower than the dirt beneath his feet. Oh, he noticed your winks and leers and smiles. I believe you have succeeded in convincing the Earl that I would suit as his mistress.
“I agreed to do the best I could, knowing nothing of the world, and thinking that such bold tactics, so repugnant to my nature, were the way of the world. But one look at the Earl’s face and I knew they would not serve. I am aware I am entirely dependent on your charity, madam, but I will not humiliate myself in such a fashion!”
Penelope paused for breath, her cheeks flushed and her eyes blazing.
“Don’t be in such a taking,” said Miss Harvey, backing off a step. “You refine too much on things.” Augusta thought furiously. She would love to turn this impertinent baggage out of doors, but the money she had already spent on the scheme should not—could not—go to waste so quickly.
She stretched her crocodile smile to its widest. “Perhaps I was too forward,” she said with an awful laugh. “But, you see, I have your welfare at heart and was anxious to secure a good marriage for you. Forgive me, my dear. You can’t blame me for wanting the best for you.”
Penelope was immediately contrite. “I am sorry, Aunt, if I have been unjust. I shall try to do my best to please you—but fling myself at the feet of that… that… red-haired, white-faced Lord, I will not!”
“There, there,” said Augusta. “Why don’t you play a little something on the pianoforte, dear, and we won’t say any more about it.”
Penelope gratefully sat down on the music stool and began to play a piece by Scarlatti with exquisite precision, while Augusta plumped down in an armchair and thought furiously. Penelope was right. The Earl had looked disgusted. She had played her hand too quickly and too fast. She had thought that her wealth would have been enough to convince any Lord that his intentions toward her niece must be honorable, but that did not seem to be the case. Augusta reluctantly came to the conclusion that she must do something about herself first. She must somehow become more genteel. She furrowed her brow in concentration until the powder flaked down her face like dandruff.
Miss Stride, that was it! Miss Stride should teach Augusta Harvey how to behave like a Duchess. Then Augusta thought of the money the woman would demand and groaned.
Penelope played on, beginning to relax under the soothing spell of the music. She was extremely sorry she had berated her aunt and wondered what had come over her. Her aunt was not to blame for the Earl’s attitude. Her aunt’s manners did strike her as coarse, but the good woman was only trying to secure a future for her as any mother would. It was the Earl’s attitude which had contrived to make poor Auntie seem vulgar. If he now believed she, Penelope, would be prepared to become his mistress, he was very much mistaken! Before this evening is out, thought Penelope, I shall make sure the noble Earl never wishes to set eyes on me again.
Augusta sat behind her, busily plotting and planning. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that it was some time before she realised that Charles and his brother had entered the room. The Earl was sitting quite still, his long legs stretched out in front of him, listening to the music as it turned and rippled in its mathematical beauty round the elegant room.
Augusta roused herself to direct some social remark to the Earl,
but he silenced her with a frown and sank back into his absorption of Penelope’s playing.
Somewhere in Augusta’s dark, ferile, and tone-deaf soul, she realised that the Earl was enraptured. Hope sprang anew. I shall keep my mouth shut, she thought in surprise, and let things take their course.
While Charles fidgeted and worried and Augusta yawned and moved her bulk from one massive hip to the other, Penelope and the Earl sat lost in the world of music. All the Earl’s worries about his brother fell away as he watched the slim, golden girl conjure magic out of the piano. Penelope herself was completely lost in the music, far away in the only refuge she had ever known.
When she struck the last chord, there was a little silence. Then the Earl rose to his feet and walked towards the pianoforte where Penelope sat, very still, with her motionless hands on the keys.
“That was exquisite, Miss Vesey,” he said in a husky voice. “Beautiful playing by a beautiful performer. I pray you, will you sing for me?”
Penelope twisted slightly and looked up into his eyes. He was looking down at her, his gray eyes alight with warmth and a smile of singular sweetness lighting up his harsh features. She felt suddenly breathless and her body seemed to be undergoing a series of small physical shocks. She wanted to get away from him, to do something that would ensure this haughty Lord would not want to set eyes on her again. Penelope believed this sudden warmth and charm could only mean he planned to offer her his protection, but not his name.
“Very well, my lord,” she said mildly.
The Earl bowed and returned to his seat.
Penelope ran her fingers lightly over the keys. She suddenly remembered a vulgar ballad her father’s debauched friends used to sing when they were in their cups—so far gone they had forgotten there was a small girl in the room. What was it called? Ah… “The Harlot’s Progress.” Now, if that did not give my lord a disgust of her, then nothing would.
Penelope Page 3
