by Amanda Scott
Under cover of Mrs. Periwinkle’s sprightly conversation, Gillian watched Landover. He seemed to be giving the elderly lady his undivided attention, so she felt perfectly safe in doing so. He looked precise to a pin and completely at his ease as he responded to a question regarding politics put to him by Mrs. Periwinkle. Within moments, their conversation had turned to the forthcoming visit of the Allied Sovereigns.
“What with Tsar Alexander and King Frederick William of Prussia coming to celebrate that dreadful Bonaparte’s defeat, not to mention possible royal nuptials, this will truly be a Season to remember,” Mrs. Periwinkle said cheerfully.
Gillian had little interest in the Tsar or the King of Prussia—though, to be sure, she was looking forward to catching a glimpse of these mighty personages—but she was rapidly developing a strong interest in the fate of the crown princess.
“I don’t think we should count on a royal wedding,” she said as a lull fell into the others’ conversation.
“Would you care to explain that?”
Gillian scarcely realized she had spoken aloud, but she looked up at him now and answered directly. “The princess herself said so. I daresay she’s having second thoughts about the Prince of Orange. I really know nothing more than that, but I like her, and if she doesn’t want to marry him, I don’t think anyone should force her to do so.”
“Your opinions must always be of interest to us, Miss Harris, though I would prefer that you not express them, as you did tonight, to such persons as Brummell or his ilk,” Landover said, adding bluntly, “You are not to cultivate that acquaintance.”
Gillian stared at him. “Mr. Brummell’s?”
“Of course not,” he growled. “Her highness’s.”
“Why not?”
“Because I say so. It can do you no good.”
“My lord,” she returned between gritted teeth, “you may control my purse strings, but I cannot allow you to control my friends. The princess has very kindly said she will send me an invitation to visit her. I shall not refuse to go.”
“Indeed, Landover, she cannot,” put in Mrs. Periwinkle quickly. “’Twould be to insult Princess Charlotte, and the only person who would approve such a thing is the Regent. Gillian has no reason to curry favor in that direction.”
“No, certainly not,” Landover agreed evenly. “I never meant either of you to attach such a meaning to my words. If the princess does indeed extend such an invitation, Miss Harris must accept. However,” he added, speaking directly to Gillian, “you are to stay no longer than the requisite twenty minutes and you are to do nothing to put yourself forward.”
“But she needs friends!” Gillian protested. “She said so herself, and the grand duchess said she ought to have more friends of her own age.”
“I am totally uninterested in the duchess’s views upon that or any other subject. And whatever the princess needs or doesn’t need, I don’t want you mixed up in the affairs of that household. And that’s my final word on the subject.” With that he turned blandly to Mrs. Periwinkle and asked her opinion of the play currently being presented at Drury Lane. She responded with undisguised relief, and Gillian was left to glare impotently at them both.
Neither of her companions made any effort to bring her into their conversation, so she was left to her own thoughts until they reached town. It was decided then to postpone their appearance at the Bettencourt ball, since it was already nearing ten o’clock, and the prince’s guests would no doubt have left the dining table. It seemed no time at all after that before the carriage was drawing to a halt before the Pall Mall entrance to Carlton House.
The magnificent Ionic screen and well-lit Corinthian portico were nothing new to Gillian, for she had passed by the prince’s primary residence often and had seen it lit up and teeming with colorful guests. But this would be the first time she herself would number among those guests, and excitement welled within her at the thought.
Her quarrel with Landover was forgotten instantly, and her eyes were sparkling as he handed her down from the carriage and gave instructions to his coachman to return in an hour. Following Landover’s guidance, they passed quickly through the torchlit courtyard to the vestibule, then through a series of elegant drawing rooms, past the famous grand ballroom, to an exotic chamber that Gillian recognized from descriptions she had heard as the Chinese Room. Here they found his highness amidst a group of some twenty or thirty chattering guests. The presentation was quickly made, and Gillian soon found herself rising from a deep curtsy under the twinklingly appreciative gaze of the First Gentleman of Europe.
IV
AS GILLIAN AROSE FROM her deep curtsy, she realized that the prince was eyeing her appraisingly, and she was promptly reminded of the grand duchess’s warning. Determined not to be overset by his bold looks, she gazed at him straightly, her candid eyes wide with awe.
“This is such a wonderful house, sir! You must be ever so proud of it!”
“’Tis well enough, Miss Harris.” But he was beaming his approval of such admiration. “We seek continually to improve upon its perfection, however, and let me say that tonight your presence achieves that very purpose.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gillian replied, looking demurely down at her satin-covered toes.
“No need to blush, Miss Harris. No more than the truth, assure you.” He turned to Landover. “Why have you been hiding such a light under your bushel, my lord? ’Tis to deny the rest of us poor mortals the blessings of basking in its glory. For shame, sir.”
Landover gave a wry bow. “Pure laziness on my part, your highness. But I have been brought to understand my error, I assure you.”
Gillian did blush this time, and the prince eyed both of them a bit doubtfully before once again giving her his full attention.
“Since you admire my house, Miss Harris, perhaps you will allow me the pleasure of showing you a bit more of it. I have lived here more than twenty years now, you know, and in that time I have achieved—if I might be pardoned for saying so—great things. My armory fills four entire rooms and includes a Cellini sword as well as arms from every nation. Or perhaps the Plate Room.” He beamed. “Some very fine King Charles plate and all manner of elegant things. Or perhaps you prefer to be amused by the antics of the gamblers in the Circular Drawing Room.” He bent his head nearer hers and lowered his voice. “They play E.O. and chemin de fer there. Don’t gamble myself, of course, but I do enjoy providing pleasure for others.” He chuckled. “You won’t credit it, but Lord Kenyon vowed he’d put Lady Bessborough and her friends in the pillory for their activities here. And do you know, some folk actually call this place ‘the Pillory’ as a result?”
He laughed, evidently thinking it all rather a good joke, and at the same time dropped a plump if princely arm around Gillian’s waist as though to guide her whither he would.
“I’m sure we shall be delighted to see more of your glorious residence, your highness,” piped up Mrs. Periwinkle enthusiastically. “The very pink of courtesy indeed.”
The prince glanced doubtfully at Landover.
“’Tis a quote from Romeo and Juliet, sir, but very apt. We should indeed be delighted to accompany you.”
“Dash it, Landover,” the prince glared in an angry aside, “I never meant to make a touring party of it. Surely your Mrs. Popwhistle there is dying for a petit four or a dish of tea. See to it, man. You’re not the chit’s guardian, after all!”
Landover leaned forward confidingly. “No, sir, that I am not—most thankfully. But you will certainly understand my predicament when I tell you that her guardian is a mere stripling, scarce dry behind the ears himself. Why, as a result of his rather haphazard surveillance, I have had to exert myself far beyond my normal practice. Already today, I’ve been forced to make my position clear to one young rake, so I think—with your permission—I shall continue to advertise my intention to keep Miss Harris well under my wing.”
The prince continued to glare, but he had little choice other than to submit
with as much grace as he could muster. Nonetheless, their tour of Carlton House was brief and uninspired. The moment they returned to the Chinese Room, the Regent indicated a nearby group surrounding Lady Hertford and took himself off, much in the manner of a sulky child.
The glint of amusement in Landover’s eye deepened when Mrs. Periwinkle turned anxiously toward him and exclaimed, “He is most put out, my lord! I trust our behavior tonight has not endangered your friendship!”
“Not to worry, my dear ma’am. One would scarce honor our relationship by such a term as ‘friendship,’ but his highness has far greater need for my purse than I have for royal favor. He’ll soon come about.”
“Your purse, Landover?” Even as the words tumbled out, Gillian realized that she had spoken out of turn. Such matters were no concern of hers. But instead of the setdown she knew she deserved, he smiled wryly and answered her.
“Indeed, Miss Harris. Even in the depths of Sussex, you are near enough to Brighton to have heard at least some of the gossip about Prinny’s financial embarrassments.”
“He is always dreadfully purse-pinched,” Mrs. Periwinkle contributed.
“Well, of course I have heard things,” Gillian replied, “but I thought that his greatest debts were paid off when he married Princess Caroline.”
“My good child,” Landover chuckled, “that was nearly twenty years ago. Believe me when I tell you he has managed to accrue a good many more great debts in the meantime. There is that outlandish pavilion at Brighton, his horses, his treasures, and this place.” He gestured. “An incredible drain upon anyone’s pockets, believe me, and Prinny’s are not all that well lined to begin with.”
Gillian looked around again at the lavish furnishings, the elegant accessories, the magnificent artworks. “It must indeed be very expensive,” she said slowly.
“You might well say so. Why, each night that the ballroom is used, the band costs one hundred and fifty guineas, while it costs another fifteen guineas per night just for the French chalk for the dance floor. And the ratcatchers’ bills exceed those of the chimney sweeps, because the damned … ah, excuse me … the dratted place is infested with the vermin.”
Gillian glanced quickly about her, half expecting to discover a pair of glittering, feral eyes examining her from under a nearby lacquered table, and was accordingly glad when Landover added that their carriage must be waiting. But she could not resist questioning him further, especially in view of the fact that he seemed more approachable now than before.
“But surely you do not pay such bills for him!” They were making their way toward the Pall Mall entrance, and she lowered her voice in order that it might not carry to other guests. At first, she thought he had not heard her, but he was merely waiting until they reached the semiprivacy of the vestibule.
“I do not pay those bills,” he said slowly, “although I have been known to lend him money when he’s been badly strapped. More often, however, I purchase antiques and artwork for which he expresses a fancy, and then I donate them to Carlton House.”
“But why? Surely that is no way to help him learn economy.”
“We may pity though not pardon him,” murmured Mrs. Periwinkle. Then, realizing the other two had both turned to look at her, she added hastily, “His highness, of course, not you, Landover. His upbringing—so needlessly harsh—his family, so … so …” She spread her hands helplessly.
“Just so, ma’am, though I for one would not compare Prinny to Richard III. But I don’t do what I do out of pity, you know.” He paused, then smiled. “Prinny has a great many faults, but he also has wonderful taste and judgment when it comes to objets d’art. ’Tis my belief that the treasures he’s been gathering for the British crown will be loved and cherished long after his own reign has faded into history.”
They had reached the carriage, and Landover scarcely paused between phrases before he gave the coachman orders to take them to Bettencourt Hall. It was nearly midnight, but Gillian knew the ball would be in full swing. On evenings such as this one, when they moved from one entertainment to another, it was very often after three o’clock in the morning before she or her chaperone could lay their heads upon their pillows. The night was young.
Landover had changed the subject and was idly conversing with Mrs. Periwinkle. Gillian relaxed against the velvet squabs, listening to their voices—Mrs. Periwinkle’s like water rippling over stones in a brook, Landover’s slower, more solid, with a deep, melodious cadence that seemed to carry its vibrations to every corner of the carriage. It was a soothing voice, moving easily through the conversation with Mrs. Periwinkle’s higher tones skipping and weaving over and about it. Gillian watched the light from the carriage lamps as it flickered over his face, her thoughts turning to their earlier conversation.
Clearly, he had not wanted to discuss his royal financial dealings any further, but the discussion, however brief, had shown her another facet of his personality. It seemed there might be more to Landover than the tyrannical despot she had thought him to be. He was certainly handsome enough, she mused now, watching the glow of golden light on the chiseled features opposite. His gaze shifted, and she was glad her own features were shadowed, for she could feel warmth invading her cheeks.
“You’re very quiet, Miss Harris. Are you falling asleep?”
“Just relaxing, my lord. I find it easier to be gay if I rest between entertainments. I’m sorry if I seemed inattentive.”
“Not at all,” he replied politely. “But I think we have arrived.”
They had indeed. A pair of flunkies stepped briskly forward to open the carriage door and let down the steps before handing first Mrs. Periwinkle and then Gillian to the carpeted flagway.
“An hour and a half, Jason,” Landover ordered as he, too, descended.
“Very good, m’lord.” The coachman touched his hat, then gave his team the office, and the well-sprung carriage rolled off down the cobbled street as the trio ascended the steps and entered the warm rotunda of Bettencourt Hall.
They were greeted enthusiastically by their host and hostess and soon made their way to the ballroom, pausing now and again to greet acquaintances. But no sooner had they entered the magnificent, flower-bedecked ballroom itself than Landover, directly behind Gillian, was heard to give a low chuckle. She glanced back curiously to discover that his eyes were twinkling merrily as with a little gesture of his head he directed her attention ahead and to their right. Her gaze immediately encountered the elegant though patently bored figure of Mr. Brummell.
Landover’s hand on her elbow urged her toward him, and Gillian reached forward to tap Mrs. Periwinkle’s arm in order to warn her that they were changing direction. Mrs. Periwinkle responded immediately and, catching sight of him, hurried to greet the Beau.
“Why, Mr. Brummell, how nice to see you again,” she enthused. “But we quite thought we should be denied your further company tonight.”
“Indeed, George,” chuckled Landover. “What brings you here? And you, Alvanley—not a soul to call your own?”
Lord Alvanley cast his tormenter a speaking look, but the Beau was made of sterner stuff. “It seems Clarence promised her ladyship he’d look in for a moment or two,” he confided sweetly, referring to the Duke of Clarence, one of the Prince Regent’s five younger brothers. “He has promised not to remain longer than necessary, however, so we agreed to accompany him. Are you trapped for the duration?”
“Unlikely,” chuckled Landover. “’Tis too much of a crush to tempt us overlong. But I have been given to understand that my sister is somewhere in the midst of this rabble, and rather than submit to one of her scolds, I will attempt to pay my respects before taking departure. Ah,” he added, his eyes still atwinkle, “I believe I am about to have the honor of presenting my second charge to you, George.” He beckoned. “Sir Avery, may I claim your attention for a moment, if you please?”
Gillian, astonished to see her brother at such a party, watched wide-eyed as he approached with a rather weavi
ng gait, accompanied by a beet-faced gentleman of his own age.
“How d’ye do?” he replied offhandedly when the introductions were made. “This is m’ friend Willoby, Jasper Willoby, one of the Bettencourt cousins,” he added, explaining their presence. “At least, he was m’ friend till a moment ago.” He lifted an owlish gaze to Brummell. “Wish y’d explain the rules of snuff-taking to ’im, sir. Tried to dip his fingers into my sort, doncha know, then went all huffy when I told ’im I’d have to cast the rest onto the fire if he contaminated it. Tell ’im.”
A sudden, rather awful silence descended upon the group, Mrs. Periwinkle actually gasping with shock, while Lord Alvanley cast his eyes accusingly heavenward. Landover recovered first.
“You are foxed, sir,” he said sternly to Sir Avery, “therefore, I shall not attempt to correct your atrocious manners here and now. However, I will require your presence—your clearheaded presence, if possible—in my study at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I trust you will remember.”
Sir Avery’s wits seemed to sharpen momentarily, although he glanced at the others in some bewilderment. “Beg pardon, all. Your servant, my lord.” And with a quick bow and an anxious tug at Mr. Willoby’s elbow, he faded into the crowd.
“My apologies, George,” Landover said brusquely. “It won’t happen again.”
Brummell’s eyes had narrowed angrily at Sir Avery’s comment about the snuff, and now he turned that dagger look upon Landover. “Your little hen is deuced pretty, Landover, but yon cock has more bottom than wit. I trust you’ll drub some manners into his head.”
“Your wish is my command, sir,” Landover responded promptly, and Gillian was amazed to detect a note of ironic amusement in his voice. “Perhaps you would be so good as to suggest a word or two I might drop in his ear—just to get the point across, mind you.”
