“If you mean the one who stared at me so rudely, yes.”
“I think that is so romantic.” Honoria pirrouetted about the room. “Shall we break hearts, do you think?”
“Mr. Delaney said something that was puzzling.” Pamela frowned. “He said, ‘What are a vicar's wife and a young innocent doing going to stay with such as Lady Dacey?’ What do you think he meant by that?”
“I do not know. But nasty Mr. Pomfret made a remark about my aunt being a trollop.”
They looked at each other uneasily. Then Honoria said, “We are worrying over nothing. Can you imagine Mama or Papa or your husband allowing us to go and stay with anyone who was other than the most respectable of ladies?”
Pamela's face cleared. “You have the right of it. Now we can be comfortable again.”
But she did not tell Honoria about that kiss.
* * * *
Two days later the Duke of Ware came back from a long day's duck shooting, wet and cold. He bathed and changed and went down to the library. He stretched his long legs out to the fire and picked up the day's post. He preferred to read his mail in the evening.
He flicked through the letters, discarding one from his mistress to read later, tossing aside invitations to events in the county, and finally cracking open one from his friend, Mr. Sean Delaney, whose flamboyant seal was instantly recognizable.
After the opening salutations—the letter, the duke noticed, had been written from some inn in Bedfordshire—Mr. Delaney, to the duke's amusement, began to declare his love for a vicar's wife he just met. “Not one of your simpering misses, Charles,” he had written, “but dainty and fragile with great eyes like pansies shining in the sweetest face you ever saw. My knight errantry is aroused, for she is to be the guest of none other than the scandalous Lady Dacey. Alas, she is still married and goes south in the role, I think, of chaperon to a young miss called Honoria Goodham, the servants at the inn having told me as much as they know. This Honoria is exceedingly beautiful, and my friends could hardly eat their dinner for goggling at her. Although this young miss was quaffing champagne, there is a purity and innocence about her that makes her a fitting companion for my beloved.
“But how are such a pair of turtledoves going to cope with Lady Dacey? She will attempt to corrupt them.”
The duke smiled cynically. Surely pursuing a married woman was enough of an attempt at corruption.
“I plan to call on them. You did say you might open up that barn of a place of yours in Grosvenor Square. Your presence would give my lady's little friend some social cachet.”
The duke read to the end and then put the letter down. Honoria Goodham had surfaced in his life again. He could not imagine his little pigtailed sermon reader drinking champagne or indeed causing three hardened rakes—he knew Delaney's friends—to stare at her in open-mouthed admiration.
It was all an intriguing puzzle. He realized that, as usual, these days, he was suffering from a dragging ennui, which he tried to exhaust by energetic days shooting or hunting.
Delaney was a rattle but never a bore. It might be amusing to see how that little puritan, Honoria Goodham, fared with such as Lady Dacey.
He decided to move to London.
Chapter Three
THE LAST STOP before London had been at an inferior sort of posting house with a lumpy bed, damp sheets, and active bugs. Honoria and Pamela had spent an almost sleepless night, and by the time their carriage began to roll over the cobbles of the London streets, even the usually resilient Honoria was tired and silent.
Just in case Lady Dacey should report to her parents that she had arrived with her hair up, Honoria had once more braided it.
The carriage rolled to stop outside a tall, thin house in Hanover Square. One of the outriders hammered at the door. The ladies waited in the carriage. The door opened and a very grand footman stood there. He inclined his head as the groom talked and then called something over his shoulder. An equally magnificent footman joined him and both approached the carriage. A butler appeared on the front steps.
The groom opened the carriage door. “Lady Dacey is not at home, but you are to step inside. Her ladyship will see you tomorrow.”
Relief flooded both of them as if at a stay of execution. They entered the house and dimly took in the richness of their surroundings: the white and black tiled floor like a chessboard, the fire burning and the bowls of flowers, in a hall. Halls in Yorkshire were small, dark places, redolent of damp dog and damp coats.
Their bedchambers were warm and well-appointed. “Everything is going to be all right,” said Honoria happily. “I know it. No one with such a pretty house can be rigid or puritanical.”
The London morning dawned dark and wet and windy, with smoke swirling down into the square from the tall chimneys of the houses and a few remaining leaves, last survivors of autumn past, blowing over the cobbles.
They awoke late—for them—but were told by a French lady's maid that Lady Dacey never rose before two in the afternoon. This was all very London and exciting to Honoria. But she told the lady's maid that she would wear her hair braided as usual.
After a cold collation, Honoria and Pamela read all the newspapers, sitting in front of the fire in a drawing room that glittered with mirrors, gilt and marble tables, French clocks, and shiny satin upholstered furniture.
At three o'clock, both were becoming increasingly nervous. Honoria had sent their respects up to Lady's Dacey's bedchamber at two o'clock, but so far that lady had not sent any reply.
Their nervousness began to mount. They stopped reading or even pretending to read. When a footman entered, they both started in fright.
“Her ladyship's compliments,” he said. “Her ladyship will be with you presently.”
After the footman had left, both stood up and faced the door ... and waited, and waited.
The clocks began to chime four. Then the double doors to the drawing room were thrown open, and Lady Dacey swept in.
Honoria and Pamela stood and stared.
She was wearing a scarlet wig. She had a round pretty face, slightly marred by thick eyelids and a thin, highly painted mouth. Her eyes were pale blue with bluish whites, making them look like doll's eyes. She was dressed in dampened and transparent muslin that left very little to the imagination. Her tiny feet were shod in Roman sandals. She had a full figure and round plump arms and round plump breasts.
She stood and surveyed Honoria and Pamela, her eyebrows rising.
Both remembered their manners and curtsied low.
Lady Dacey smiled. “Little Honoria! Why, you are a beauty! But badly in need of town bronze. Sit! Sit! Mrs. Perryworth, I believe? Charmed. Now tell me about your journey.”
“We apologize for the delay in our arrival,” said Honoria, still hardly able to believe this painted and outrageous female was her mother's sister. “Our carriage overturned in the snow, and we had to beg shelter.”
Lady Dacey yawned, a wide pink yawn like that of a sleepy cat. “I hope you found tolerable company.”
“We were resident with the Duke of Ware.”
Lady Dacey blinked and sat up straight, those odd eyes of hers so very wide and strained with surprise that Honoria had an impulse to reach out a hand and see if she could close them, like those of a doll.
“Wicked Ware?”
“That I cannot say,” said Honoria primly. “His Grace was ill and I had the privilege of nursing him to health.”
“Good gracious, child, the most handsome man in Britain, not to mention one of the richest, and you were on intimate terms with him.” Her eyes gleamed lasciviously. “You were at his bedside?”
“Yes, Aunt Clarissa.”
“Do not call me that! La, I look too young to be anybody's aunt, do I not? How did you entertain Ware?”
“I read him sermons.”
“You joke!”
“Not I, Aun—I mean, my lady. They are very good sermons. The sick are in need of strengthening of the soul as well as the body.”
Lady Dacey laughed and laughed and then wiped her streaming eyes. “You must not moralize in London, my sweeting, or you will be a laughing-stock. But to think of Ware, of all people, trapped in his sickbed, listening to sermons! Nonetheless, your news interests me greatly. Ware is not for you, of course. He needs a more mature and experienced woman of the world. Misses bore him.” She stifled a giggle. “Particularly misses who read sermons. But I am interested in Ware ... very. This will be an opportunity to write and thank him. Did you say you were to reside with me? Did you say I was your aunt?”
“Yes, on both counts.”
“Good to the first, bad to the second. I do not like to be known as your aunt. So aging, don't you think? Still, perhaps he will not remember. And you, Mrs. Perryworth? Ah, we are to be friends. Pamela, is it not? And you will both call me Clarissa, and we will have such fun. So, Pamela, what did you think of Ware?”
“I was unfortunately ill myself, Clarissa. I had no opportunity to study our host.”
“No matter. Does he plan to come to London?”
“He said nothing to me of the matter,” said Honoria.
Lady Dacey relapsed into silence. Honoria started to speak, but Lady Dacey put her finger to her lips. After some time, she said, “I think I might take a trip north myself. If my carriage were to have a mishap at Ware's gates, then he would need to entertain me.”
Pamela found her voice. “I should point out that we were fortunate in the timing of our visit. Had we arrived a week before, then we should have found the house full of Corinthians and Cyprians, not to mention,” she blushed, “His Grace's mistress.”
“Oh, Penelope Wilson? Her days are numbered, or so I hear. Yes, I think I shall introduce you, Pamela, to the mantua makers, the milliners, the hairdressers, and whatever you desire. They will furnish you both with fashionable clothes, and you can both work at practicing your social manners while I am away.”
“But, my lady,” exclaimed Pamela, forgetting the first name request in her distress, “neither of us know London or society or anyone. We shall be quite lost.”
“Fiddle. It is winter. What would you do were you still in Yorkshire? Read books and sew. You can do the same here. The Season is still a good way off.”
“We thank you for your generosity,” said Honoria quickly, “and we shall do very well on our own.” She realized it would be pleasant to be shot of this outrageous aunt and get her bearings in the capital without her.
“Sensible girl. London is sadly flat at the moment. What shall we do this evening to amuse you?” She rose and went to the card rack on the mantlepiece and began to flick through the invitations with her small tapering fingers with their sharp, pointed nails.
“Ah, here we are. A musicale at Mrs. Henry's. Rather dull, but you will meet a few people. Wear something simple, Honoria, and leave your hair down. Quite charming.”
Pamela guessed that Lady Dacey wanted to keep her niece looking like a schoolgirl so that her own years would seem less. She privately decided to do something about Honoria's hair and appearance while Lady Dacey was away.
The butler entered and presented a card. “Mr. Blackstock is called, my lady.”
Those china blue eyes sparkled wickedly. “Ah, yes, I shall see him, Withers. Ladies, I am sure you would like to go for a walk or something. Withers, tell the second footman, Ben, to be ready to accompany them. Now, if you will excuse me...”
Honoria and Pamela made their exit just as a thick, coarse man, Mr. Blackstock, was making his entrance.
“Goodness,” said Honoria, when they were changing into their walking dresses, “how can Aunt bear to let any man see her in that disgraceful gown?”
“I fear such an aunt will do nothing for your social life or chances of finding a suitable husband,” said Pamela sadly.
“There is good in everyone,” replied Honoria. “When she returns from her visit to Ware, we must see what we can do about reforming her character.”
“Now, I would consider that a waste of time.” Pamela swung a cloak about her shoulders. “At least the rain has stopped.”
The bustle of the London streets almost overwhelmed them. Everyone and everything moved so quickly. People on foot ran along as if pursued by bailiffs. People with carriages drove them at full tilt. The cobbled roads shook under the speed of the hackney carriages, and even a wagon went through Piccadilly at the hand-gallop.
There were few sedan chairs left plying their trade, but such as there were were still borne by aggressive Irish chairmen, running along the pavements shouting, “Make way!” and sending passersby diving for cover.
The shops were bewildering, piled high with every luxury from every part of the world. Pamela and Honoria studied the aristocratic ladies who swept into the most expensive shops, noticing their dress and manner and wondering if they could ever pass muster in such grand company.
By the time they returned to Hanover Square, both were tired and hungry. Dinner, they learned, was at the new fashionable hour of seven. Lucille, the French lady's maid, helped them both change for the evening. Honoria envied Pamela's fashionable hairstyle and more modish appearance. She herself felt sadly provincial.
Dinner was a silent affair. Lady Dacey appeared preoccupied, although she threw several calculating looks in Honoria's direction from time to time. The journey to the musicale was only a few streets away, but Honoria was to learn that a lady never arrived on foot, no matter how short the distance. The idea of a musicale was comforting. She would not be expected to socialize much, surely, and would be allowed to sit quietly and listen to the music.
Lady Dacey was wearing a more modest gown, although the neckline was so low it showed the top half of her nipples. On entering the Henrys’ house, Honoria was pleased to note that their hostess was a respectable matron, grandly but modestly gowned. She and Pamela were introduced by Lady Dacey to Mr. and Mrs. Henry. Mr. Henry, a florid man, pinched Honoria's cheek, and Mrs. Henry gave her a long, slow, assessing stare. Honoria was to become used to those stares. She could not help wondering why her outrageous aunt appeared to have social entrée to the best houses, but was to learn later that society never shut its doors on a rich countess. Someone of lesser rank would have been immediately ostracized. Having introduced them, Lady Dacey obviously considered her duties at an end. She flirted outrageously with the men and ignored the women.
They took their seats for the performance, a piano recital. The pianist, a young and romantic-looking man, raised his fingers over the keys. There was an expectant hush. He hit the first notes. Immediately the sounds of the pianoforte were lost in a great babble of gossip as each turned to his or her neighbor and began to talk. Honoria was intrigued and amused. As the music rose to a crescendo, so did the voices. At last, the musician hit the last note and immediately everyone fell silent for a few moments before applauding loudly.
“Poor man,” said Pamela. “What is the point of getting him to play if no one listens?”
“Disgraceful,” said Honoria, quite outraged. The guests were filing through to the supper room, chattering like so many starlings on a Whitehall roof. “We must go and thank him.”
Pamela looked uneasy. “I do not know if it is quite the thing.”
“It is the right thing to do,” said Honoria firmly.
She approached the musician, who was putting away his music. Pamela followed.
Honoria held out her hand and smiled. “I wish I could have heard what you played, sir,” she said. “Nonetheless, I thank you for your efforts to entertain us.”
He gave her a limp handshake. He looked very tired. “In truth, ma'am,” he said, “I do not know why I bother to make any effort to entertain the company.”
“We will listen,” said Honoria, “if you would like to play us something.”
He smiled suddenly and sat down and began to play a short piece by Mozart.
He had no sooner finished than Lady Dacey was upon them. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Honoria?” she
demanded. “Leave this bandsman and join the company.”
“He is a musician, Aunt.”
“Don't call me that! Goodness, you will have people saying you are a bluestocking. Come away.”
Pamela tugged at Honoria's arm and whispered, “People are looking. We will talk about this later.”
They joined the company in the supper room. Pamela saw two men scrutinizing Honoria. One said to the other, “That's a tasty piece of bait our Lady Dacey has brought with her.” She wondered what on earth they meant.
Honoria began to find the evening tedious. Everyone was relaying gossip about people of whom she had never heard, the men often talking in such broad cant they were nigh incomprehensible.
Fortunately for Honoria, the gentleman whom Lady Dacey had selected as her flirt for the evening escaped her clutches and could soon be seen talking animatedly to a young miss, and so Lady Dacey pronounced the evening sadly flat and suggested they should go home.
* * * *
They arose early the next morning and spent the first part wondering when their hostess would appear and what she had planned for them. When they went down to the drawing room, the butler handed Pamela a letter.
She read it and looked at Honoria in surprise. “Would you believe this? Lady Dacey has gone off to the north already! She has left a long list of all the people with whom she has credit, from dressmakers to stay makers, and begs us make use of them. She has also left a generous amount of money, she says, in the desk over there.”
“I should have spoken to her about the folly of trying to entrap Ware,” said Honoria sadly. “I fear he is a bad man. At first I thought we should not rely on servants’ gossip. But on reflection, I see no reason why that maid who told you about his previous visitors should lie. Furthermore, Lady Dacey accepted the existence of his mistress without a blink—in fact, even knew her name and her present standing in the duke's affections. I feel it is my duty to try to reform Aunt.”
“I do not think our hostess would think there was any reason for reform, nor would she willingly listen to any strictures from us, Honoria.”
The Sins of Lady Dacey Page 4
