The Indomitable Miss Harris

by Amanda Scott

  Blithely ignoring the fact that Landover had not precisely rescinded his order that Mrs. Periwinkle accompany her wherever she went, Gillian called Ellen and ordered a carriage to drive her to Warwick House. Thus it was that when Princess Charlotte confided a wish that Miss Harris accompany her upon a visit to her mother, the Princess of Wales, there was none to say yea or nay. But with Landover’s comments fresh in her mind, Gillian had no hesitation in agreeing to the outing. She did mention the necessity of an early return, however, and received a royally infectious grin in reply.

  “Not to worry, my dear Miss Harris. ’Tis an illicit visit for both of us. My respected father strictly curtails intercourse between dear Mama and myself, and he will descend upon me like the Furies if he discovers I have defied him.” Gillian made a move to protest, but her highness silenced her with a graceful gesture. “’Tis of no consequence, I assure you. Papa is by far too much occupied with the business of currying imperial favor to bother his head about us. There is the Tsar’s levee at my Uncle Cumberland’s house at one o’clock, and then the King of Prussia’s levee at Clarence House. Then between five and six this evening is Grandmama’s court, where he must introduce them both. Afterward, they will all dine at Carlton House. I shall no doubt have to attend the dinner and possibly the court, but no one will bother about me before that, so I shall surprise Mama.”

  The journey to Connaught House assumed the outlines of a royal progress. Gillian, the princess, and Miss Knight rode in one carriage, followed by another containing several ladies-in-waiting and surrounded by outriders.

  Connaught House was an elegant residence standing in well-kept gardens near the corner where Bayswater Road met the Edgware Road, and Gillian thought it a charming place. She was not so impressed by the Princess of Wales, however. Having expected an older version of Charlotte, she was rather put off by the plump, guttural-voiced woman who greeted them. There could be no doubt that the Princess Caroline welcomed her daughter’s visit, but Gillian could see none of the signs of maternal love that she associated with her own dear mother. The Princess of Wales seemed only to complain of her lot—in particular, to complain of the fact that the Queen had ordered her to avoid all the June drawing rooms on account of the fact that the Regent meant to grace them with his presence.

  “To be forbidden even mein own daughter’s presentation,” she moaned wretchedly. “’Tis an abomination, don’t you agree, Miss Harris?”

  Noting Gillian’s reluctance to take sides on an issue about which she knew very little, Charlotte spoke up more quickly than usual.

  “I missed you dreadfully, madam, but her grace of Oldenburg was very kind, and it quite upset Papa to have to be civil to her—or to me, for that matter,” she chuckled.

  Her highness nodded. “She is a very clever woman, that duchess,” she said to Gillian. “Knows the world and mankind well. My daughter could not be in better hands.” Her sudden, wry smile gave her a more noticeable resemblance to her daughter. “Besides, they are a great deal together, which makes the Regent look outrageous.”

  There being no acceptable reply, Gillian was once again grateful to the younger princess when she changed the subject abruptly to discuss forthcoming events such as the Ascot races, the Opera, and the Burlington House masquerade, as well as the upcoming Guildhall Banquet. The latter was an annual dinner given by the City of London to honor the prime of the English nobility and was particularly intriguing to women in that it was always an all-male affair.

  Although the visit lasted barely an hour, Gillian was extremely grateful when Princess Charlotte signaled for their departure. On the way back to Warwick House, the princess maintained a lively chatter, so it was not until she was alone in her own carriage that Gillian paused to reflect upon Landover’s probable reaction to her visit to the Princess of Wales.

  It proved not to be a matter of immediate concern, however, for she discovered upon her return that he was out, and she would have to hurry if she meant to be ready when their guests began to arrive.

  The first to arrive was the Hartnoncourt contingent. Lady Sybilla greeted Gillian enthusiastically and stayed speaking with her for some moments, though her eye tended to shift rather often to the hearthstones, where Sir Avery stood, Malaga glass in hand, conversing idly with Lord Harmoncourt, an affable, plumpish gentleman with a perpetual twinkle in his eye.

  “It’s going splendidly, is it not?” Sybilla observed with a grin, dragging her gaze back to Gillian’s amused countenance.

  “Yes, Avery is growing accustomed to doing the fancy,” Gillian replied wickedly. “I expect it is because he has discovered how well he looks in knee breeches.”

  Lady Sybilla flushed delicately. “’Tis Landover and Lady Sharon I meant, Gillian, and well you know it. I am sure Sir Avery’s activities are of no consequence to me.”

  Gillian smiled but forbore to tease her friend, and at that moment, MacElroy opened the doors of the salon to announce the arrival of Lady Sharon and her mama, the Countess Edgware, a stout dame solidly encased in corsets and wielding a gold-rimmed lorgnette like a lethal weapon. Lady Sharon, in a becoming russet-silk robe trimmed with gilt fringe, paused on the threshold with an air of pretty shyness and surveyed the room much, thought Gillian with strong disaffection, as though she were assessing the value of its contents. Then, catching sight of Landover and Mrs. Periwinkle, the redhead rushed forward holding out her dainty, white-gloved hands.

  “Mrs. Periwinkle!” she gushed. “Dear Mrs. Periwinkle! How nice to see you again. And Landover.” She laid a possessive hand upon his arm. “What a marvelous house, my lord.” The marquis smiled down at her.

  “Fatuous idiot!” muttered Miss Harris wrathfully.

  “What’s that you say?” drawled a familiar voice at her shoulder. She started, then glared.

  “It won’t do, Avery! That redheaded witch is impossible!”

  VII

  SIR AVERY STARED DOWN at his sister with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “It’s doing just fine, Gill,” he said pointedly. “Landover hasn’t had a moment to scold in a week, and that chit’s had a good deal to do with the fact.”

  “But she’s unsuitable, Avery! Can’t you see that? Just watch her. Though she stands perfectly still, it’s as though she’s gloating over gold coins clinking through her fingers.”

  “Can’t see it m’self,” he refuted, “but whether you’re right or not makes no never-mind to me, just so long as the chit keeps his mind off me.” His eyes widened suddenly, and there was a surprising stiffness in his next words, spoken past Gillian’s shoulder. “Good evening, sir.” She turned to find Mr. Brummell approaching them.

  “Good evening, children.” He gestured toward the rest of the company. “Nice pleasant group you’ve got here. Surprised the Clevenger chit’s still hanging about, but I daresay Landover is encouraging her to humor his sister. Must want to humor her mighty bad if he’s willing to have that Edgware dragon in his house. Still, a far superior group to the mob gathering just now at Carlton House.”

  Gillian dimpled. “A rather august gathering, however, Mr. Brummell. It surprises me that you would choose to honor us instead.”

  “You’d not be surprised if you knew what sort of morning I had, my dear Miss Harris. Prinny descended upon me before I had finished my breakfast, babbled on about the insults he’s suffered from his charming visitors, and positively hovered whilst I ruined I don’t know how many neckcloths. He would keep nattering on whilst I attempted to achieve the proper crease, you know.”

  “Nattering, sir?” Gillian noted her brother’s flushed cheeks and realized this must be the first time he had encountered the Beau since his unfortunate blunder at the Bettencourt ball, but her comment was enough to encourage Brummell’s confidences.

  “Indeed. What with the two levees, a Queen’s Court, and a state dinner all in one day, he was at his wit’s end about his wardrobe, so I am in favor again for the moment. There was little I could do for him, of course. No one can con
vince him to tone down his style, and with that fat carcass of his forever creaking about in Cumberland corsets, there is nothing he could wear that would not call attention to itself. I did my poor best. Nonetheless, I had a sufficiency of his company for one day, so I shall not grace his dinner tonight. I only hope,” he added, “that his flair for the unique has kept him from ordering a river of carp flowing down the center of the tables as he did for the Carlton House fete several years ago.” He lapsed into reminiscent silence, and Gillian, conscious of Sir Avery shifting from foot to foot at her side, wracked her brain for some brilliant comment to keep the conversational ball rolling.

  Sir Avery cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Mr. Brummell,” he said, speaking with care and struggling manfully to meet the Beau eye to eye, “I owe you an apology for my unfortunate behavior when last we met. There can be no excuse for … for—well, just no excuse at all, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Well said, young fellow,” murmured Brummell with a tiny smile. “We all have our moments, and no doubt Landover made you regret yours.” Avery’s color deepened, and Brummell’s smile grew wider. “Perhaps I ought to have been flattered instead of taking such a pet. Generally have better control of myself, I assure you.”

  Avery returned the smile gratefully, and just then MacElroy announced dinner. Lady Harmoncourt graciously declined her brother’s arm and nodded for him to take Lady Sharon in instead. Landover bowed, and Lady Sharon accepted his arm with a gentle air of submission that nearly caused Gillian to snort aloud, but she caught her brother’s stern gaze and subsided.

  Dinner itself was uneventful. Conversation seemed to focus, as expected, upon the antics of the visiting sovereigns, particularly upon the Tsar, who, like his sister, made no attempt to disguise his contempt for the Regent.

  Gillian overheard Lady Edgware remark that Alexander had already refused to dance with Lady Hertford, the Regent’s mistress. “He’s got a nice eye for the female figure,” she added complacently, “but he supposedly said Lady Hertford is too old. Prinny didn’t like that much, I daresay.”

  Gillian, aware of Landover’s watchful eye, stifled a grin and returned her attentions to the delicacies on her plate, which included a mouthwatering fricandeau of veal, as well as a ragout of celery with wine. She particularly enjoyed the second-course sweet, an elegant strawberry ice provided by Gunter’s, the fashionable caterer located just across the square. But after dinner, while the ladies were gathering their wraps in preparation for the departure to Almack’s, she overheard a remark that sent her temper soaring again.

  They were in a small sitting room off the green saloon, and most of the others had moved back to the saloon itself, when Gillian overheard Lady Sharon speaking to Sybilla in an undertone that nevertheless carried easily to her own sharp ears.

  “I’m ever so grateful to your mama, Sybby dearest,” the redhead said sweetly. “If I play my cards well, my mama says there’s no reason I cannot be the next Marchioness of Landover.” She grinned smugly. “He must be worth forty thousand a year. How will you like having me for your aunt?”

  Whatever Sybilla might have responded was stifled when she caught Gillian’s eye, and her expression must have warned Lady Sharon. The redheaded girl turned with a light blush but recovered quickly, and drawing herself up, she looked down her nose at Gillian and passed disdainfully by without so much as a word. Gillian looked at Sybilla.

  “She’s awful.”

  “Indeed she is,” agreed Sybilla heartily, “but you must agree she answers the purpose.”

  “Mr. Brummell says Landover is merely humoring your mother.”

  “Perhaps. Although there is already talk. If he keeps squiring her about and allowing her to drool over him as though he were a platter of Gunter’s best éclairs, he will have to offer for her. And that will certainly solve your problem, for you’ll be back in your little house in Curzon Street before the cat can wink her eye.”

  Gillian tried to convince herself that that was precisely what she wanted, but the vision of Landover saddled for life with a woman who wanted only his fortune and title was a bit too much—a high price for him to pay for her freedom.

  She gave the matter some thought as she rode in a carriage with her brother, Mrs. Periwinkle, and Mr. Brummell to Almack’s, but she could think of no acceptable way to stop what she had begun. It was not until after the second set of country dances that the glimmer of an idea occurred to her. A strand of hair had escaped her elegant coif, and she excused herself to a nearby withdrawing room to repair the damage. No sooner had she swung the door shut behind her, however, than she realized she was not alone. Her brother and his friend Mr. Willoby turned suddenly, guiltily, to see who had entered. Sir Avery expelled a breath of undisguised relief.

  “Dash it, Gillian, you’ve no notion how you startled us. Thought it must be Landover, looking for me to do the pretty.”

  “Well, it’s not. He’s occupied with his current interest.” She shot him a searching look. “Why on earth are you skulking about in here anyway?”

  “Not skulking,” he insisted, gathering his dignity. Mr. Willoby, managing to look the picture of guilt, said not a word. Sir Avery hemmed and hawed a bit, but when he realized Gillian wouldn’t leave without an explanation, he capitulated. Her eyes widened when he produced a silver flask from behind his back.

  “Wherever did you find that?”

  “Didn’t. Brought it with me in the waistband of these dashed breeches. Can’t dance with it, though, so we hid it in the potted plant yonder.” He seemed to take her unblinking silence as a sign of disapproval. “Dash it, Gill, can’t expect a fellow to muddle through an evening like this one fortified only by orgeat and ratafia. Not possible, assure you!” Mr. Willoby nodded in solemn agreement, and Gillian chuckled, turning away toward a nearby looking glass to fix her hair.

  “Very well, gentlemen. I shan’t cry rope on you, but it will be bellows to mend with you, Avery, if Landover happens to smell gin on your breath.”

  “Not gin,” he said cagily. “Took a lesson from our august visitors. ’Tis Russian vodka. They say you can’t smell a thing. But it does pack a wallop. I’ll say that for it. Very potent stuff. Puts the uninitiated under the table before they can say Jack Robinson. Not to worry, though. I’ll steer clear of his lordship.” He secreted the flask once more in the plant and slipped out with Willoby, leaving Gillian alone with her thoughts.

  There was no acceptable way to rid Landover of the Lady Sharon, but perhaps—She stifled the thought as unworthy of her, but it continued to nag, and when she noted Lady Sharon in cozy conversation with Lady Cowper and observed the redheaded damsel give a coyly proprietary nod in Landover’s direction, she began plotting more seriously.

  It was Landover himself who provided her with the opportunity she needed. She and Lady Sharon had both been returned by their respective partners to Lady Harmoncourt and Mrs. Periwinkle, whose chairs were quite near the pertinent withdrawing room, and Gillian’s partner, Lord Darrow, offered to acquire refreshment for them both. No sooner had he returned with the crystal punch cups filled with orgeat, however, than Landover strolled over to remind Lady Sharon that his name was down for the waltz just beginning. He glanced at her cup.

  “Of course, if you would prefer to sit this one out—”

  “Don’t be silly, Landover,” interrupted his sister. “Of course she don’t wish to sit out when she could be dancing with you. Run along, Sharon dear. Just set your cup on the side table yonder. It will still be there when Landover brings you back.”

  Lady Sharon obeyed with alacrity, and the melting look she threw Landover as he swung her onto the floor was more than Gillian could tolerate.

  “I think my hair is coming down again,” she said quickly to Mrs. Periwinkle, and before that lady could deny it, she had slipped into the withdrawing room. Lord Darrow had already excused himself with a flattering air of reluctance to find his next partner, and since it had not yet been approved for Gillian to dance the waltz
in that most conservative of clubs, she knew no partner would come looking for her. Drawing a deep breath, she hurried to the potted plant and hefted the silver flask. Plenty for her purpose. Spilling more than half of her drink into the plant, she replaced it with vodka from the flask and hurried back out into the ballroom.

  It took but a moment’s glance to assure her that no one was paying her any heed before she deftly exchanged the cup in her hand for the one waiting innocently on the side table. Hoping Lady Sharon wouldn’t notice how much the color of her drink had faded in her absence, she returned to her place to await her partner for the next dance.

  She contained herself with difficulty when Landover and Lady Sharon returned, but she could not help an oblique glance or two to see if her ladyship would remember her drink. She need not have worried. With a smile, Landover himself picked up the punch cup and handed it to her. Lady Sharon smiled her gratitude and took a sip. Gillian held her breath, but there was no outcry. Lady Sharon took a second, deeper sip. Then, as she observed her next partner approaching, she turned toward the side table as though to set the cup down again. Gillian sighed. But her spirits leaped again when Lady Sharon, with rather unmannerly haste, gulped down the rest of her drink, and turned, laughing, to take her partner’s arm.

  Gillian looked up suddenly to find Landover standing over her. She quailed momentarily, thinking that somehow he knew what she had done.

  “My dance, I think, Miss Harris.” He held out a hand to her, and swallowing carefully, she put hers into it and allowed him to lead her into a nearby set. As luck would have it, it was the same one joined by Lady Sharon and her partner. Gillian caught the other girl’s eye, and Lady Sharon glared, then unaccountably giggled.

  As the dance progressed, the redhead seemed to move more and more enthusiastically through the pattern of steps, verbally encouraging the others to greater energy. When at last the music faded, she came up breathlessly to stand, weaving a bit, in front of Landover. Her partner, crimson with embarrassment, made a halfhearted attempt to lead her from the floor, but she waved him away with a vague, disoriented gesture and leaned intimately toward the marquis.