by Beth Bryan
Sir Charles emerged from the wood and had to have the situation explained to him. His chagrin was complete when his mother, hurrying by with some sal volatile, said accusingly, “Really, Charles, could you not have taken better care of Belle?”
By common consent the excursion was felt to be over. Ivor resigned his seat in the chaise to Belle and joined the two girls in the landau. He paid them a number of bluff, jovial compliments, but when neither responded more than perfunctorily, he soon fell silent.
Dev led the cavalcade and Charles and Will rode beside the landau, but both appeared sunk in gloom. Patience’s thoughts also seemed to be less than enlivening. As Lucinda watched the golden afternoon decline, she felt that no one could describe the expedition as a success.
Certainly, if its object had been to cheer Lucinda, it had been a distinct failure. She awoke the next day in the same crotchets. When she and Ethelreda went for a stroll along New Bond Street the next morning, she could scarcely respond patiently to the acquaintances they met, and their endless stream of chit-chat.
“Really, cousin,” she complained after the third such encounter. “I had no idea London was so full of tattle-mongers.”
“Come, Lucinda! There is no need to react like a Methodist. Naturally people are interested in each other’s doings.”
“Well, I am not.” Lucinda glared ferociously at a befrilled gown in a bow-fronted shop window. “I am not in the least concerned with whom Mr. Richard Devereux may marry.”
Mrs. Cleeson stared at her. “Are you quite well, Lucinda? Are you sure you do not have the headache or perhaps a touch of indigestion? I am not convinced those gooseberries last night were entirely ripe.”
“My digestion is perfectly sound, cousin.”
“You need not hesitate to tell me, child, for I know indigestion does tend to make one crotchety.” Lucinda ground her teeth, but Mrs. Cleeson continued, “For you know, it is quite nonsensical to say people ought not to be interested in Mr. Devereux. His impending marriage is the talk of the town. He is a Devereux, after all. And his uncle—” Mrs. Cleeson flushed “—his uncle has told me that Richard feels it is his duty to his family to marry, which is a very proper sentiment.”
Lucinda sniffed disparagingly, but Ethelreda’s attention was distracted.
“Oh, dear,” cried Mrs. Cleeson, “there is Belle with Miles Stratton. What a tiresome girl she is, to be sure.”
A vision in blue and white, with a matching parasol, Belle was coming towards them. The only evidence of her mishap of the previous day was a tiny bandage about her ankle. Miles Stratton was in assiduous attendance and Belle leant heavily upon his arm. Behind them trailed Belle’s maid, a doting smile on her broad face.
Ethelreda clucked in annoyance. Realizing that her cousin was seriously annoyed, Lucinda said placatingly, “But Mr. Stratton is not so very bad, is he?”
“He is not at all the sort of person Belle should be encouraging. He is nothing but a rake and everyone knows he is hanging out for a rich wife.”
“She does have her maid with her.”
“That girl,” snapped Mrs. Cleeson with unaccustomed asperity, “that girl couldn’t chaperon a mouse.”
Ethelreda was indeed put out and their meeting with Belle and Stratton was chilly and stilted. Mrs. Cleeson responded frostily to Miles’s flamboyant chatter and kept a disapproving eye on Belle. That young lady was obviously bursting with news that she could not impart under that inescapable regard.
However, as she touched her cheek to Lucinda’s in farewell, Belle murmured, “Come this afternoon,” and pressed her hand meaningfully.
Lucinda mistrusted that look in Belle’s blue eyes. She stared hard at Miss Ryland but met only a bland, guileless smile.
On their return home, Mrs. Cleeson found a letter with the Grantham crest awaiting her. She perused the thick cream sheets with many exclamations and rereadings.
“Here’s a coil, Lucinda. Amelia writes that she is called away. Her aunt Dorcas is taken ill. She is as old as the hills, my love, and quite gothic. Amelia hopes to return tomorrow, but in the meantime, she asks me to chaperon Belle and Patience at Almack’s! tonight.”
“I had forgot we are to go there this evening.”
“I have told you before, Lucinda, how important is the patronesses’ approval. I wish you will not go about saying that you have forgot you received vouchers.”
“I shall try to remember,” replied Lucinda demurely, not wanting to aggravate her cousin further. “We must go to the Granthams’ immediately after lunch. I wish now we had no afternoon engagements. But I must certainly speak to Sir Charles, and then to Belle and Patience. There are so many...”
Ethelreda fussed throughout the meal and when it was over instantly retired to her room to produce a handful of over-scribbled lists. She shuffled and emended them all the way to Cavendish Square.
On arrival, she asked for Sir Charles, but Lucinda was shown to the drawing room where Will and Patience were sitting together on a confidante. Patience blushed and Will leapt to his feet as Lucinda was announced.
“Goodness,” Lucinda said. “Do relax, you two. Who on earth did you think it was?”
“There you are!” Belle hurried in, her ankle apparently completely restored to normal. “Come upstairs right away, Cinda.”
But before they could leave, Sir Charles and Mrs. Cleeson entered.
Sir Charles bowed over Lucinda’s hand but his eyes were on Belle. “Belle, Mrs. Cleeson wishes to know if you and Patience would prefer to dine with her and Lucinda, before you go to Almack’s tonight?”
Belle affected to think. “Why, I believe I would prefer to dine here, you know. It would give us more time to, er, dress. What do you think, Patience?” Lucinda particularly mistrusted Belle’s air of innocent deliberation.
“What I should like to know,” said Patience, with a teasing look at her brother, “is why Charles says ‘when you go Almack’s,’ as though he were not going, too.”
Sir Charles glanced uneasily at Will. “It’s not that we are not going exactly...” he mumbled.
“We?” Belle cried, “What are you and Will up to?”
“Now, Belle, Grantham and I are just going out of Town for a while.”
“A mill! I know you, Will, you’re off to some dreadful prize-fight.”
“I believe you’re right, Belle. Look at their faces!” said Patience, laughing.
“No use trying to hide anything from you ladies,” said Charles ruefully. “But we aren’t abandoning you and it isn’t a ‘dreadful’ prize-fight. It’s a dashed important one.”
“Be back well in time to dance at Almack’s,” Will promised reassuringly. “Bring our gear with us, you know.”
“By Jove, yes. Can’t go to Almack’s without the proper rig.”
“Meet you there, ladies, before you’ve even had time to miss us.”
“Be certain you do.” Belle looked sideways at Sir Charles. “If you come too late, our cards will be completely filled and we shan’t be able to spare you a dance.”
“Miss Ryland,” Charles declared dramatically, “if I have to fight a duel to remove one of your partners, a waltz with you will be worth it.”
“That’s all very well,” Mrs. Cleeson interjected, looking up from her lists. “But you do remember, do you not, that the doors will be locked at eleven. Not even the Prince Regent is admitted after that.”
“We shan’t forget, Mrs. Cleeson. We shall have bags of time.”
“Well, we certainly haven’t.” She rose. “Patience, Belle, we shall call for you this evening. Will, Sir Charles, we shall await you at Almack’s. Come, Lucinda, we have calls to make.”
“Enjoy yourself at Almack’s, Lucinda dear,” Belle whispered as they kissed. “I have quite other fish to fry.” And Belle smiled seraphically at her. Lucinda hesitated, staring back at her friend.
“Come, Lucinda,” Ethelreda called again in growing impatience.
With a last look at Belle, Lucinda foll
owed her cousin out. They made a number of calls and at last arrived at Lady Borely’s. As she munched tiny macaroons and sipped pale, straw-coloured tea, Lucinda’s thoughts were still with Belle.
What was that very unreliable girl planning? She placed no faith whatsoever in Belle’s discretion and she grew increasingly uneasy as the afternoon wore on.
Lady Borely’s teas were select affairs, but their precise observances of propriety and stately manners in no wise impeded the flow of gossip. Lucinda soon found herself joined by Miss Florinda Borely on the yellow sofa.
“And what did you think of the pictures at Somerset House, Miss Neville? Mrs. Cleeson told my mama you had been in attendance.”
Lucinda looked down at her tiny cup. She could not really recall what any of the pictures had looked like. “There were a great number of them,” she ventured at last.
“Oh, indeed! And such a squeeze! I vow I thought we should never win our way back to the door.”
“Many members of the ton were there.”
Miss Borely laughed tinklingly. “Quite so. I was much interested to see some of those present.” She looked meaningfully at Lucinda.
“Oh?” Miss Neville looked uncomprehendingly back.
Dramatically, Miss Borely lowered her voice. “As we were arriving, Mama met her dear friend Miss Barchester-Trump in the hall outside the Great Room. I was waiting with them when I heard footsteps from one of the side halls, coming from one of the rooms where there are no exhibitions.” She emphasized the last words.
Lucinda blinked at her.
“And who do you think it was? All flushed and panting?” She did not wait for an answer. “Lady Chloris dePoer!”
Lucinda’s gasp of surprise was all Miss Borely could have wished for.
“You may well stare,” she said in satisfaction. “For you know, she gives herself such airs—as though such things as vulgar assignations were far from her thoughts.” Florinda laughed mockingly.
“Assignations?” Lucinda’s cup rattled on the saucer.
“What else? Of course—” Miss Borely looked virtuous “—I should never have suspected such behaviour if the first person I set eyes upon in the Great Room had not been Richard Devereux! And what else could she have been doing outside the exhibition hall?” She sat back with a triumphant air and gave her attention to a pink marchpane sweetmeat.
“Did I hear you mention Richard Devereux?” Lady Borely leaned towards her daughter. “I believe we are shortly to expect an interesting announcement from that quarter.”
Miss Barchester-Trump, a thin, acidulated lady of uncertain years, nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. I am, you must know, greatly in the confidence of a certain lady,” she declared, glancing round to gather everyone’s attention. Her listeners all looked knowing, except for Lucinda who was merely baffled. “I have it on the very best of authority—” Miss Barchester-Trump preened herself for a moment, then went on impressively “—that they are merely waiting for Lord dePoer to return from France to make a formal announcement.”
A buzz of conversation greeted this intelligence. “And you, Miss Neville...” Lady Borely looked closely at Lucinda. “I had at one time thought that you ... well, you did seem to be on terms of considerable intimacy with Mr. Devereux.”
Lucinda put down her cup. “I, Lady Borely? I?”
“Do not be upset, my dear. I realize I was quite mistaken.” Her ladyship tapped Lucinda playfully with her fan. “For I see now that you had quite other intentions. We shall soon be hearing another interesting announcement, I don’t doubt.”
Lucinda flushed scarlet, but fortunately some of the guests were now leaving and Lady Borely and Florinda rose to receive their farewells. Thankfully, Lucinda went to sit beside Mrs. Cleeson for the duration of their visit.
Later, on the way home, Lucinda said, “What was Lady Borely hinting at, cousin Ethelreda?”
Mrs. Cleeson gave her a searching look. “Well, it has been rather remarked, Lucinda dearest.”
“What has, cousin?”
“That you are much in Will’s company.”
“Oh!” To her chagrin Lucinda found herself flushing again.
“You do not need to be upset, dearest. After all, it is not unknown for childhood friends to discover they are becoming something closer.” Mrs. Cleeson patted her charge’s hand.
In confusion, Lucinda gazed out at the London streets. She had not told Mrs. Cleeson of her secret engagement and was curiously taken aback to find that her cousin and at least Lady Borely suspected an understanding. She was glad when the carriage drew up at Agincourt Circle and Mrs. Cleeson hurried her upstairs to rest.
“You must be in your best looks tonight, you know, for it will be your first appearance at Almack’s,” her cousin reminded her before retiring for her own nap.
Lucinda thought about crying off that evening. After all she had no use for the Marriage Mart. She knew a rebellious urge to fly in the face of convention, which only turned her thoughts to Belle and all her worries about her friend returned. She kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed.
Disturbing recollections of Belle’s past escapades flashed through her mind. In Nether Wilden these had been indulgently regarded as a mere excess of high spirits. But Lucinda knew the reaction would not be so tolerant in Town, and she was dreadfully afraid that Belle was plotting something.
She glanced up and saw that Emmie had propped a letter up on her dressing-table. It must have been , delivered when she was out. She reached over and snatched it up. But her face fell as she read it.
She had written earlier to Mr. Bunthorpe, enquiring as to the progress of Freddie Simms, the boy she and Mr. Devereux had taken to the hospice. Now Mr. Bunthorpe had responded, presenting his compliments and begging leave to inform Miss Neville that Mr. Devereux had taken care of the matter.
“Whatever that means,” Lucinda muttered, dropping the single sheet, and immediately fell back to fretting over Belle.
She lay down again, but she could not rest. She picked up a book but was unable to concentrate. Finally, she sat up and rang the bell. When Emmie appeared, Lucinda sent her to order the coach.
CHAPTER TEN
The night of the Vernissage, Richard Devereux sat in his library. There was a glass of sherry in his hand and a tray of plain biscuits and walnuts beside him. His gleaming Hessians were planted firmly on the fender of the Italian marble fireplace and his gaze was fixed above on the painting by Stubbs.
It showed two horses being led out of the stable. Mr. Devereux had owned the picture for some ten years now and he had been staring steadily at it for the past half hour. It would have been a safe wager, however, that once interrupted, he could not have said what he was so intently regarding.
“Hope I don’t disturb you, neffy.”
Devereux brought his feet down with a thump. “Ivor!”
“Told Larrigan I’d announce myself. In a brown study, eh?”
“I was thinking,” Richard said with dignity, sitting straighter in his chair.
“Oh, aye, aye. I don’t doubt it. Marriage takes a bit of thought, after all.”
“Much you know about it,” his nephew responded tartly. He turned to pour a drink for Ivor and so did not see that his uncle’s colour had darkened.
“Ah, well, Ricky,” he said with excessive heartiness, “live and learn, you know, live and learn.”
Dev handed him the glass and came back to his seat. “Haven’t seen much of you recently, Ivor.” He recalled Charles’s remark. “Been spending a lot of time at Agincourt Circle, have you?”
“Harrumph!” Ivor drank deeply. “Now, now, my boy. No harm in visiting a lady—old friend, you know, lots to catch up on.”
“I didn’t know you had any lady friends, old or otherwise. Not much in the petticoat line, didn’t you say?”
“Dash it all, Ricky! Don’t take a fellow up so sharp.” He took another gulp. “Damme if I don’t think you’re getting more like your father every day. And a dashed nasty
tongue he had, too.”
Dev laughed. “What a crushing thing to say, Ivor—to compare me to my late and quite unlamented sire.”
“Well, I don’t say you’re entirely like him, but you want to take care, my boy.”
“I shall watch myself for any such signs.”
“You do that. But tell me, Ricky, how are matters progressing with the fair Chloris?”
“Have you a wager on it, dear uncle?”
“Bet you wouldn’t go through with it.” Ivor answered so promptly and shamelessly that Dev was forced to laugh again. “But I don’t mind dropping a few guineas, provided you’re satisfied.”
“Ivor,” said Dev, moved, “that is uncommonly handsome of you and in return I shall tell you that I have not made any offer to anyone as yet.”
“Can’t screw your courage to the sticking-point?” Ivor grinned and poured himself another drink. “Ought to ask Charles for advice. He’s made no secret of his affection for the Ryland chit.” He wriggled his back reminiscently. “Dashed fine-looking girl but a bit on the hefty side.”
Dev smiled. “I saw him at Somerset House this afternoon. I’m surprised they didn’t snatch him up to model for the life classes—some of his poses deserve to be immortalized.”
“You, at the Vernissage? Ethelreda didn’t mention seeing you.”
“I didn’t know Mrs. Cleeson, and I suppose Miss Neville, were there.”
“In the thick of it, from what I hear.”
Dev’s attention had apparently returned to his Stubbs and the even tenor of his voice did not vary as he remarked, “From what I hear, there will be another marriage in the Ryland family.”
“Lucinda and the young fellow, you mean?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“They’ve known each other forever, so I collect,” Ivor said, frowning. “Ethelreda says it’s common for such close acquaintances to change their feelings. But I don’t know, they don’t strike me as nutty on each other.”
“No?” Dev had risen and now stood with his back to Ivor as though to get a closer view of the painted horses. “They seem much in each other’s company.”
