by Amanda Scott
“I need scarcely ask what sort of answer you have returned to this impertinence.”
“Impertinence, Landover? I feared you would not approve, but how can you call an invitation to visit a grand duchess an impertinence?”
“Don’t quibble, miss. ’Tis not the invitation, and well you know it. ’Tis the suggestion that you evade your chaperone—that’s the impertinence.”
Gillian wrinkled her nose. “Evade my—” But then she remembered. Her grace had not phrased it so bluntly, of course, but the fact that the afternoon was to be an informal one had been strongly emphasized, despite a similar emphasis on the fact that the Princess Charlotte would be present. It was clear that Gillian was meant to come alone. She couldn’t deny it. She swallowed carefully. “Perhaps you are right, sir, though I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. I am perfectly certain that I shall come to no harm in such company. However, if you insist upon it, I shall naturally ask Cousin Amelia to accompany me.”
“You are not going,” he said flatly.
“What!”
“You heard me. And we shall not debate the matter.” He glanced pointedly at his niece.
“But how dare you!” Gillian cried, ignoring the look. “And what on earth shall I write to her grace that will not be taken as an insult?”
“Leave that to me. I know precisely how to respond to this. You need not be troubled further by it.” And with that, he turned upon his heel, the offending scrap of vellum clenched in his fist, and left the two young women to stare at one another in astonishment.
“Merciful heavens,” breathed Lady Sybilla. “Whoever would have thought he’d arouse himself to such exertion?”
“Exertion, my rosy aunt!” exclaimed Gillian indignantly. “This is nothing but another example of his highhandedness. Why, he nearly forbade my attendance at the de Lievens’ rout merely because the grand duchess meant to be present, and he came very near to making me refuse an invitation to drink tea with the Princess Charlotte herself! ’Tis all of a piece!”
“The Princess Charlotte!”
“Indeed, and if I have not misread the invitation, she will be at the Pulteney tomorrow, too. But Landover dislikes the connection.”
“Surely he cannot dislike the princess!”
“No, of course not. He just doesn’t want me involved with her, lest I get caught in the middle between her highness and the Regent.”
“A rather exalted middle to be caught in, I should think,” Sybilla observed dryly. “You’d think he’d be flattered that you’ve drawn royal attention.”
“Well, he’s not!” Gillian snapped. Then she sighed, casting an apologetic look at her friend. “I’m sorry, Sybilla. It isn’t your fault, and there’s no reason you should have to suffer my bad temper. But perhaps you can understand a little better just what Avery and I must put up with from his infernal lordship.”
Sybilla giggled. “Indeed I do! Why, it would drive anyone mad. I thought Mama was a nuisance, forever reading my letters, lecturing me on my behavior, and screening my friends. But I’m not nearly so confined as you seem to be. I came here alone today, after all. Of course, my maid came with me, but she doesn’t really count. No doubt she is belowstairs right now exchanging all the latest ‘crim cons’ with your Ellen. But that is a very good thing, of course. For how else should we keep up with all that goes on in the world?”
“Very true,” Gillian chuckled, her spirits heightened considerably. “The Times and the Gazette will never surpass the servants’ grapevine for pertinent news of the day. But what on earth are we going to do about Landover?” she added with a deep sigh.
Sybilla smiled at her. “I shall speak to Mama for you. I think I know how the thing may be accomplished. After all, she cannot wish for Orison to step into Uncle’s shoes. And perhaps if I prevaricate a bit—let it be known that whilst here I was given to understand that Uncle might be in the market for a wife …” She let the final thought hover tantalizingly.
“Your mother would never leave the choosing entirely to his lordship,” Gillian grinned.
“No, indeed,” Sybilla agreed. “She would be certain he would choose someone entirely unsuitable. However, that approach might be too vague. She exerts far more influence over him when she loses her temper, for he abhors a row. I don’t think she has properly considered Sylvan Darracott. Perhaps a nudge in that direction will set her off.” Sybilla had been thinking aloud, but now she gathered up her reticule and looked directly at Gillian. “I shall have to consider the matter. Shall we see you at the Deering ball tonight?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Good. I shall attempt to speak to Mama before then.”
When Sybilla had gone, Gillian sat back in her chair and contemplated the morning’s events. All in all, she decided, it had not been a bad day’s work. If anyone could succeed in diverting Landover from his self-appointed task, she was convinced it was his sister. And if anyone could motivate her ladyship to such a task, it was Sybilla. She must trust Sybilla to get the ball rolling.
In the meantime, she had her own tasks to attend to, and first of all, courtesy demanded that she reply to the invitations in the morning’s post. She would need to consult Mrs. Periwinkle before accepting any, but there was one note she decided to write herself before going in search of that lady. No matter what Landover chose to write to the grand duchess, Gillian was determined that Princess Charlotte, at least, should know that she had had nothing to say about declining that particular invitation, and that she personally hoped to further their slight acquaintance. The note was sent off with a sympathetic footman before she went looking for Mrs. Periwinkle.
At the Deering ball, Landover seemed to hover over her, so there was little opportunity for private speech with Lady Sybilla, but Gillian did manage to intercept a nod encouraging enough to lead her to believe Sybilla had spoken with her mother. The following morning she found her hopes justified, for she descended the grand stair just in time to see MacElroy showing Lady Harmoncourt into Landover’s study.
Her ladyship moved with regal grace, like a ship in full sail; however, she did not wait for the butler’s departure before announcing stridently that she had come to discuss a matter of vast importance. “… in effect, my dear brother, I wish to discuss that mooncalf Orison!”
MacElroy shut the door carefully upon these promising words and, after a twinkling exchange of looks with Gillian, who was halfway down the main stair, disappeared through the green baize door. Gillian would have dearly loved to eavesdrop upon the conversation presently progressing in the study, but she didn’t dare. She had already begged off accompanying Mrs. Periwinkle to visit the Berry sisters, acquaintances from their Curzon Street days, by insisting that she had letters to write to friends in Sussex. Now that Landover was clearly occupied, there seemed no reason she should not put another plan into effect.
“Miss?” She looked up to see Ellen leaning over the gallery rail. “Be we going now, Miss Gillian?”
“Yes, come along,” Gillian replied, keeping her voice low. It was nothing more than a small bid for freedom. She would face the consequences, if any, later. She had no intention of doing anything outrageous; she merely wanted to go shopping by herself. Since removing to Berkeley Square, she’d scarcely had a moment to call her own. As soon as she and Ellen reached the flagway, Gillian took a deep breath of fresh air. It was a fine morning for a walk to Bond Street.
But they had scarcely reached Bruton Street before an elegantly appointed light carriage drew to a halt alongside them. A liveried footman leaped to the pavement and approached Gillian with a bow.
VI
“MISS HARRIS?” HE INQUIRED politely.
“Why … why, yes, I am Miss Harris,” she replied. She glanced at the elegant equipage doubtfully.
“Begging yer pardon, miss, but her highness said I was t’ deliver this. The coach has been waiting more than an hour on the chance you might appear alone.”
Gillian searched his face carefull
y before she accepted the note. He was young, with a fresh-scrubbed, open countenance, and she could not imagine his being part of any nefarious scheme to abduct her. A glance at the coachman showed him to be an elderly man who carried himself with great dignity. Their livery seemed to be what she remembered from Warwick House, but she couldn’t be certain. Nevertheless, even if they were agents in the Harris Heiress stakes, they could hardly snatch her up, along with her no doubt shrieking maid, right here in broad daylight. She unfolded the message.
The Princess Charlotte hoped that Miss Harris would not let any gentleman, no matter how well intentioned, stand in the way of friendship. If she had contrived to slip away from Landover House, as she must have done in order to be reading the missive, her highness hoped very much that she would defy authority a bit further and join her at the Pulteney Hotel, if only for half an hour.
Gillian grinned at the footman. Why not? “We might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, Ellen. Come along.”
“Oh, Miss Gillian, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ellen whispered as the young footman helped them into the carriage. “His lordship’ll be fit to be tied!”
Gillian firmly repressed all thought of his lordship’s temper. With any luck, he’d never know about the visit. But she could not deceive herself with that notion for any length of time. Long before the carriage drew up at the entrance to the Pulteney, she had resigned herself to an inevitable, uncomfortable few moments with Landover. But it would be worth it. She would show him he could not dictate her every move. She would pick her own friends.
The young footman showed them directly upstairs to the luxurious suite occupied by the grand duchess, but it was Charlotte herself who greeted them.
“You have managed it! How wonderful! But will there be trouble, Miss Harris?”
“Nothing I cannot handle, your highness,” Gillian replied airily as she made her curtsy.
“It is good to hear you say so, Miss Harris,” commented the duchess, entering through a door at Gillian’s right. “Jeanelle!” she called. A pretty maidservant hurried in from yet another room. “Take Miss Harris’s woman to the servants’ quarters, Jeanelle. Then you may see to our refreshment.”
“Oui, madame.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and gestured to Ellen, who followed her out in a daze. Gillian smiled.
“Poor Ellen. She’s expecting fireworks when we get home and cannot decide whether to enjoy herself in the meantime or not.”
“And you, Miss Harris, shall you enjoy?” The grand duchess smiled charmingly.
“Yes, your grace, I shall. What may happen later is of no concern to me until it happens.” She hesitated, then grinned. “I do hope Landover’s note was not too rude.”
“Ah bah,” replied the duchess with a Gallic shrug. “Englishmen have not the trick of rudeness. ’Twas not even of a sufficiency to demand recall, and ’tis of little consequence anyway, since you are here. We shall drink tea together, and then I shall leave you two young ladies to become better acquainted with one another. Is that not an excellent notion?”
They agreed to it, and Gillian noted with interest that the duchess made a perfectly charming hostess. There were none of the pithy remarks she had made at the de Lieven rout, and for this Gillian was grateful, since she would have had no notion how to respond. It occurred to her that the Princess Charlotte, no matter how much she disliked her father, might find it difficult to listen to a steady stream of contempt for him. He was, after all, her father. She gave the duchess full marks for good sense.
There was no lack of conversation. The duchess had had a letter from her brother, the Tsar, informing her that he expected to land at Dover the following Monday. He was to be met there by the Duke of Clarence.
“’Tis a pity that my exalted brother should be met by a buffoon with a head like a pineapple,” observed the duchess.
Charlotte giggled. “Really, Catherine, you should not speak so. Of my five royal uncles, only he and my dearest Sussex are truly kind to me, you know.”
“He wipes his nose with his finger,” retorted the duchess flatly. That seemed to dispose of Clarence, but even the duchess seemed to have nothing particularly negative to say about the gentle Duke of Sussex. “What do you hear these days from Orange?” she asked glibly.
Charlotte’s face fell. “He still wants to take me to Holland. I daresay Papa would be only too happy to see the back of me.”
“But surely you will live in England!” Gillian protested. Charlotte was the crown princess. No one should try to separate her from her people.
Charlotte smiled a trifle sadly. “Be assured, Miss Harris, I have already refused to go, although I daresay that will not be the last of the issue.”
“I have told you before, chérie, that things will work out for the best,” said the duchess gently. “Even if you decide you cannot stomach marriage to the so estimable William of Orange. They cannot think him so great a personnage if they house him with his tailor in Clifford Street, instead of at Carlton House or St. James’s.”
“Well, he has clammy hands, and I think he is very dull,” pronounced Charlotte. “I do not care where he stays. At first, I thought being a married lady would be very nice because I thought I should have more freedom, but now it seems that will not be so. I wish to be a young girl like other young girls, if only for a short space of time, and besides, William is so ugly that I am sometimes obliged to turn my head away when he is speaking.”
“Her majesty is holding another Drawing Room tomorrow,” Gillian said quickly, knowing she should hot be hearing such things and hoping to change the subject to a more acceptable one. “Are you to be presented at last?”
Charlotte nodded. “But again my mother has been ordered to stay at home, so I am tempted to refuse as I did before.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” chuckled the grand duchess. “I am to sponsor you instead. That will put the smile on the other side of your royal papa’s pudding face!” Charlotte grinned at her, her good humor restored.
A few moments later, when the duchess had left them alone to exchange, as she put it coyly, “girlish confidences,” Charlotte chuckled. “I could almost feel sorry for Papa if he weren’t such a beast. Catherine puts him in a constant taking. The first time I visited her here, I was accompanied by seven of my ladies. Catherine said she couldn’t tolerate the din and sent every one of them home again. Papa nearly had an apoplectic seizure.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t forbid a second visit,” Gillian commented.
“Oh, he did. Shouted it, in fact. But, for once, he cannot stop me, because he daren’t offend the Tsar. So Catherine pretty nearly has her own way about things. I come here whenever I like, and only my dearest Notti—Miss Cornelia Knight, you know, who has been with me for years—attends me. But even she retires to a smaller sitting room whilst I’m here, and I’m certain she likes the respite quite as much as I do.”
Gillian thoroughly enjoyed the next half hour. The two young women found they shared a good deal in common, particularly their mutual dislike of continually being curbed and restrained. Gillian told her highness about the Harris Heiress stakes and was pleased that Charlotte found the whole notion as absurd as she did herself. But Charlotte’s understanding was acute nonetheless.
“It is difficult when one has something men want, whether ’tis a crown or a fortune. How can we know, my dear Miss Harris, which one of them might like us for ourselves alone? I should like very much to meet a man like that,” she added wistfully.
“Perhaps his grace of Orange will prove to be just such a man, your highness,” suggested Gillian gently.
“Pooh! That stick! I should like to see it,” Charlotte scoffed. “William of Orange wants only one thing, and that is power. He wishes to be King of England, but I become daily more certain that I do not wish to share my throne with such a man.”
When it was time to leave, the princess insisted that Gillian take her carriage, and Gillian could think of no polite way to refuse. But any hop
e of concealing her visit from Landover was dashed the moment the carriage drew up in front of the house, for as the young footman helped her to alight, she glanced toward the study window to see the marquis himself glaring down at her. There could be no mistaking his expression. Landover was in a blazing fury. Gillian looked helplessly at Ellen when the girl jumped down beside her.
“Oh, Miss Gillian!” the maid wailed. “The cat’s among the pigeons now, right enough!”
Gillian nodded. She could not believe for a moment that Landover wouldn’t recognize the Warwick House livery, but perhaps she might still conceal her visit to the Pulteney Hotel. “You go straight up to Mrs. Periwinkle, Ellen, if she has returned. Offer my apologies, and say it is unlikely I shall be able to join her for luncheon but that I shall speak to her later.” Ellen cast her a speaking look, and Gillian sighed. She would be lucky if she was in shape to speak to anyone later. Landover was no longer at the window, but the one glimpse she had had of him convinced her that it would be a mercy if he didn’t beat her.
He was standing on the threshold of the study when they entered, but he stood aside, making it clear that he meant Gillian to precede him into the room. At that moment, MacElroy entered the hall through the green baize door, and with a glance at him and another at Landover, she turned her eyes toward the grand staircase and squared her shoulders.
“I shouldn’t advise it.” The words were spoken softly, but there was a savage undertone that told her he would brook no further defiance. Wistfully, she watched Ellen hurrying up the stairs to the gallery, and by the time she turned back, MacElroy had disappeared, and she was left to face the marquis alone. He still stood just as he had stood before. Glaring defiantly, she brushed past him into the study, waiting for the click of the door latch before she turned to confront him.
“Would you like to tell me where you’ve been, or shall I guess?” he growled.
