by Beth Bryan
Dev stood up. “There’s some brandy in the library I’d like your opinion on, Ivor. I’ll even risk some on you, Charles, provided you promise not to hurl it about.”
They followed him into the hall. Loud knocking sounded from the front door and Larrigan, the butler, passed them with an expression of outrage on his face.
The three men entered the library. They settled themselves in the deep wing-chairs and Ivor propped his feet on the gleaming brass fender. But scarcely had they lifted the heavy snifters when a further to-do broke out in the hall. Dev’s eyebrows rose. In one fluid movement he raised himself and strode out.
The others exchanged glances and then followed. Prudently, however, Ivor tossed off the last of his drink and stopped for a refill before going into the hall. There, a most unusual scene greeted them.
The butler stood barring the front door. Behind him peered two staring junior footmen. A number of housemaids clustered near the servants’ door at the end of the hall.
“I tell you, ma’am,” the butler was saying, “I tell you this is not...” He fell to one side when he saw Mr. Devereux approach.
Dev beheld a middle-aged lady, her hat awry, standing determinedly in his doorway. She supported a drooping figure, wrapped in a dark, hooded travelling cloak. As he stepped forward to speak, this figure raised its head.
He found himself staring into a pair of the largest, pansy-brown eyes he had ever seen. For a long moment their gaze held. Then a curiously glazed look swept over the great eyes. The translucent eyelids fell and he reached out just in time to catch Lucinda as she fainted.
CHAPTER THREE
Lucinda opened her eyes and gazed at unfamiliar faded pink silk walls. She could hear the dull rumble of metal wheels on cobblestones. In the background she could just make out someone shouting. Straining her ears, she deciphered the street-hawkers’ cry: “Mackerel! Fresh mackerel!”
“I am in London,” she said aloud and sat up.
As if on cue, the door opened and Emmie came in carrying a tray. Behind her bustled Ethelreda, her arms full of flowers.
“So delightful,” she cried, “and on your first day in Town, too!”
“But are they for me?”
“Who else, child, who else? Now, Emmie, you can just leave the chocolate there.”
Lucinda picked up the smaller of the two bouquets, a mass of tiny yellow roses. She read the card: “May these speed your recovery and help you enjoy London.” It was signed “Charles Grantham.”
“Sir Charles is dear Amelia’s boy. I have not seen him for some years, but he has grown into a handsome man. But do look at these.” Mrs. Cleeson indicated the great sheaf of white French lilacs.
Their heady scent enveloped Lucinda as she took them. There was no message, just the signature “R. Devereux” in firm black script.
Ethelreda smiled in satisfaction. “So thoughtful of them both. And, my dear, such a lucky thing for you, to have met Beau Devereux already. There is many a beauty who would give her eye-teeth to gain his notice.”
Lucinda had a sudden vision of clear grey eyes under straight black brows. The blood rose in her cheeks and she buried her face in the cool white blossoms.
“And it was all my fault, even though the ending was so propitious. It is my wretched memory. I cannot tell you how many times Jasper tried to drum it into my head that it was Agincourt Circle, not Crescent. Yet when it came to the point, I completely forgot. I was never so mortified.” Mrs. Cleeson flushed. “I know I was here as a girl, but I could offer Will no assistance and so we found ourselves at the wrong house.”
“The wrong house?” Lucinda lowered the flowers. “We went to the wrong house? I seem to recall knocking, but I don’t remember much of this Mr. Devereux and—” she glanced at the card “—nothing of this Sir Charles.”
“No, dearest, you wouldn’t. When I realized my mistake, I was ready to sink. But you had already fainted—small blame to you, my love—and Mr. Devereux immediately carried you inside to the library. He called his housekeeper, a most superior person and then he and the gentlemen retired. The housekeeper burnt some feathers to bring you round and then she gave you a few drops of laudanum.” Mrs. Cleeson looked guiltily at Lucinda. “In general, you know, I do not approve of such drastic measures, but you were so very unwell, dearest.”
“So that’s why I don’t recall very clearly. How did I get here?”
“A sedan chair! Yes, you may very well stare. It seems Mr. Devereux keeps one for the use of his grandmother, and both he and Sir Charles assured me it was the very thing for you. You do not recollect the gentlemen because of the laudanum.” She felt Lucinda’s forehead. “How do you go on now, Lucinda? Perhaps a day in bed...”
“Oh, no!” Lucinda threw back the bedclothes. She jumped lightly to the ground and ran to the window. “With London just outside, cousin, I couldn’t possibly stay in bed.”
“Lucinda! Come back from that window at once! The very idea! And you in your nightgown, too!”
Laughing, Lucinda obeyed. “Come, what shall we do today, cousin Ethelreda?”
“There is no shortage of things needing to be done.” Ethelreda looked doubtfully at her. “We must visit the modiste to order your gowns. I trust we shall be able to find some ready-made till your own are finished. Then you will require shawls, slippers, boots, gloves, ribbons, fans—oh, hundreds of things. And we must also consider the house. Jasper has not used it for some years and it is in sad need of refurbishing. We cannot hold your come-out ball until all that is finished. Oh!” She clapped her hand to her forehead.
“What is it, cousin?”
“I declare, I am more forgetful than ever. Amelia Grantham has written this morning to ask if we would attend what she calls an informal supper tonight. Though,” Mrs. Cleeson continued, wrinkling her brow, “I should think she must have her hands full at the moment, for, you know, as well as her own son and daughter, she has Will and Belle staying with her. Perhaps we should not add—”
“Do say we may go, dear cousin. It would be so flat to spend our first evening in London at home. Besides, I long to see Belle again and I should also thank Sir Charles for his flowers.”
“We-e-el, I really don’t know that...”
“I feel quite positive, so do you write accepting immediately and I shall get dressed, then we will go out and see the Town.”
Still vaguely protesting, Mrs. Cleeson departed. Lucinda rang for Emmie, and with her help was soon arrayed in a pretty lemon sprigged-muslin with an apple-green spencer. It represented the epitome of the village seamstress’s work. Town ladies, Lucinda felt, would naturally wear something much more a la mode. But in this ensemble, at least she need not feel too much of a country dowd.
Ethelreda was, however, still more uneasy over Lucinda’s health than over her wardrobe. “We really must not go racketing all over London and then go out to this party tonight. If you will not rest, then I must insist on a very small, quiet expedition, perhaps to one of the bookshops—”
“Let’s go to Hatchard’s, then! We may hand in Papa’s list, as well as our own. What fun it will be to see the newest novels right away and not be obliged to wait till they make their way to Nether Wilden.” Ethelreda might have thought Hatchard’s an unexciting little excursion, but she had reckoned without her charge’s reaction to her first view of Town and her first sight of The Mall.
“So many people!” Lucinda hung dangerously out of the carriage window. “Where can they all come from? And, cousin Ethelreda, do look at that man over there. Whatever is he wearing?”
Mrs. Cleeson took a quick look. “Those are Petersham trousers, my dear. Only the veriest macaronis wear them. They are very wide, are they not?”
“Astonishingly so, and oh, do look over there—”
“Lucinda.” Ethelreda took firm hold of her cousin. “You must sit down. Quite apart from it being excessively unbecoming, it is dangerous to lean your head out of the window in that way.”
A gleaming black brougham dashed p
ast them, almost grazing their wheels, and provided Lucinda with a graphic illustration of the truth of this dictum. So she reluctantly sat back and waited till they drew up in front of the famous bow-window.
There was a great coming and going at the front door of Hatchard’s. The crowd seemed to Lucinda to be dressed in the first stare of elegance, and as they all seemed also to be the very best of friends, Lucinda felt a little shy and hung back.
However, Mrs. Cleeson was less intimidated and quickly shepherded her charge inside. They were immediately greeted by a clerk in the livery of the establishment.
He received Lucinda’s lists with a deep bow, then indicated a large table, which seemed to be the centre of attention. “If you care to wait, madam, while your order is filled, the very latest volumes are displayed here. However, if you prefer, we shall deliver your order later today.”
“Oh, no! We are going to look round, aren’t we, cousin?”
Mrs. Cleeson’s eye had already been caught by a large virulently green-coloured book, proclaiming itself A Compendium of Infallible Herbal Remedies. She nodded absently.
Lucinda eyed the ladies and gentlemen at the table. They all appeared frighteningly sophisticated, but they also demonstrated a complete lack of interest in her. So she plucked up her courage and reached out for a book.
The Season, she understood, did not officially begin for a week yet. But as she eavesdropped on the surrounding conversations, she heard constant references to routs, card-parties, breakfasts and receptions. A number of persons spoke of Lady Hoxborough’s ball. It was, she gathered, the event to open the Season.
She sighed quietly to herself. She had never heard of Lady Hoxborough. In Nether Wilden she had known everyone and they had known her.
London was something quite different—and rather intimidating. But then she brightened. She had forgotten that she didn’t need to worry about balls, routs, receptions and the like. It didn’t matter what anyone in London thought of her. She was already engaged.
With this heartening thought, Lucinda plucked up courage, took three volumes and added them to the pile the clerk was amassing for her. She saw that Mrs. Cleeson was still immersed in her potions and set off to investigate other aspects of the shop. The books were mainly displayed on tall shelves which stretched from floor to ceiling and were arranged in very narrow aisles.
The books were packed tightly together on the shelves, and Lucinda could well believe the claim that volumes on every conceivable subject might be found here. Every few feet a protruding handwritten sign indicated the subject of the works in those cases. She grimaced as she saw that she was in an area devoted to sermons and quickly skipped round the corner.
There a large, somewhat tattered volume caught her eye and she was soon smiling over fashion plates of twenty years before. Surely no one had ever really worn her hair like that? So absorbed was she that she only gradually became aware of voices from the other side of the shelves.
“...always said it was a dammed silly notion, having a Circle and a Crescent with the same name. Scores of people get confused, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Do you think so, Charles?” That was a drawl, a drawl so bored and uninterested that it set Lucinda’s teeth on edge.
“Of course I do. Why, anyone might make such a mistake.”
“Your innocence is refreshing, my dear. Experience will teach you that pretty young women and their matchmaking duennas make such mistakes only before the doors of the most eligible—and wealthiest—partis.”
Lucinda froze.
“Come, Dev, I can’t believe that, and if you do, why did you send her flowers?”
“Really, Charles. Miss Neville’s behaviour may not be good ton, but mine invariably is. I am also somewhat acquainted with her father, who is of quite a different cut. Furthermore, I am loath to destroy your faith in womankind, but if I cared enough to bet, I should wager that Miss Neville will be more than happy to presume upon that very fortuitous mistake.”
Lucinda snapped the book shut and shoved it onto the shelf. Her eyes flashed and two spots of colour burst in her cheeks. Why, that opinionated, self-satisfied...
She rounded the end of the shelves, ready to tackle the hateful Mr. Devereux. But only more rows of books confronted her. Aisles led off in various directions, but though Lucinda hurried down several, she found only a scholarly gentleman, perched atop a ladder, who frowned through his pince-nez at her.
Eventually she made her way back to the front of the shop. There cousin Ethelreda had abandoned her medicinal tome and was chatting animatedly with a rotund, red-faced gentleman. She beckoned Lucinda over.
“This is a very old friend of mine, Lucinda,” she said brightly. “Someone I had not thought to see again. Ivor, this is my dearest Lucinda. Lucinda, this is Mr. Ivor Devereux.”
Lucinda cast a smouldering glance at him, but it was obvious that this cheerful-looking stranger could not be the owner of that despicable drawl. She greeted him politely.
“Dashed pretty girl,” said Ivor approvingly. “Glad to see you in better pin, my dear.” He bowed over her hand. “I like a gel with high colour.”
“Lucinda!” Mrs. Cleeson stared at her in consternation. “I hope you may not have overtaxed yourself. I knew I should never have permitted this outing. Ivor, I am delighted to have seen you again, but I beg you will excuse me. Come, Lucinda, your father will never forgive me if you are knocked to pieces before the Season has even begun.”
Lucinda allowed herself to be bundled out of Hatchard’s and into the carriage. She was still furious. How dared that man! To suggest she was setting her cap at Beau Devereux! She, an engaged woman!
She thought gratefully of Will. He would be just as angry as she, were he to hear such imputations. She settled back in her seat, her anger abating somewhat.
How fortunate that she did not have to worry about what Mr. Devereux, or any Town beau, thought. Ethelreda might be in alt at having met him, but she was not on the Marriage Mart and she needed no one’s approval. When she saw him again, she would show Beau Devereux just how little she cared for his opinion.
That opportunity presented itself sooner than Lucinda had expected. She submitted to her cousin’s fussing and spent the afternoon in bed, reading one of her new purchases. Then she rose and dressed leisurely in a favourite dress, a froth of cream over mauve crepe. It might be decidedly fuller than the present style but it showed Lucinda’s figure, particularly her tiny waist, to perfection. Emmie threaded a matching velvet ribbon through her glowing curls and tiny mauve rosettes decorated her white slippers.
The Grantham house was a tall, thin building in Cavendish Square. Three ladies awaited them in the front salon, two elegantly dressed young girls and a plump matron with feathers in her hair. The latter surged to her feet with a cry of “Ethelreda!”
While the two older women embraced, the younger ones had a chance to study each other. One was a quietly pretty girl with soft brown hair. But the other—Lucinda gazed in unfeigned admiration at the guinea-gold hair, the wide, china-blue eyes and the daringly low-cut gown.
This vision stared haughtily at her for a moment, then a mischievous smile curved the full red lips and one blue eye shut slowly in a wink.
“Belle!” Lucinda could scarcely believe her eyes. “Belle, is it really you?”
“Of course it is, you goose!” Belle hugged her.
“Let me look at you.” Lucinda stood back. “I should never have recognized you. Paris has transformed you.”
“Yes,” said Belle with simple satisfaction.
The brown-haired girl spoke. “I’m Patience Grantham, Miss Neville. I think your cousin and my mama are too occupied with each other to introduce us now.”
“So it appears. But do, please, call me Lucinda. I hope we shall all be friends.”
“Of course we shall,” agreed Belle. “For, you must know, Lucinda, that I have been telling Patience that we shall soon be all the crack. I am so fair, and your hair is so unusual an
d Patience is so pretty and gentle that we cannot help but become all the rage.”
The other two girls laughed and Lady Grantham eyed them indulgently as she joined them. “That’s good,” she said. “I like to see young people enjoying themselves.” She embraced Lucinda. “You are the image of your mother, my dear, and she too had that ravishing Titian hair. Now, where are those boys?”
Patience smiled. “You know, Mama, that they have gone to look at Charles’s new horses. We shall be lucky if they remember us at all.”
“Slander, Miss Grantham, I protest you slander us, and your own charms.” Beau Devereux stood in the doorway. His bleu-celeste coat clung flawlessly to his broad shoulders; his buff pantaloons hugged his muscular calves. His linen dazzled in its whiteness, and in the folds of his intricately tied cravat, there nestled a huge pearl.
Lucinda heard Lady Grantham greet him and then Ethelreda thank him again for his assistance the night before. She recollected the words she had overheard him say in Hatchard’s and clenched her hands.
“Lucinda dearest,” said Ethelreda, beckoning. “I know you want to thank Mr. Devereux personally for his kindness.”
Unhurriedly, Lucinda glanced round at the others. Will and a dark, stocky young man had just entered. The latter was modishly if rather flamboyantly dressed.
Beside the other two men, Will looked decidedly rustic. But as she watched him, Lucinda felt reassured and, lifting her chin, she went to Ethelreda.
A pretty enough chit, thought Mr. Devereux, mildly interested, especially when she has a bit of colour. He tapped a snuffbox with one long finger.
That hair is certainly remarkable. Then his attention sharpened.
Young ladies generally approached Mr. Devereux with downcast eyes or coy glances. He was not accustomed to being greeted by a lady with a martial glint in her eye and a combative tilt to her chin.
Lucinda looked coolly into those grey eyes. “I have to thank you, sir,” she said in the closest imitation of his own tones that she could muster. “I fear we sadly disrupted your evening.”
