“Myron has the king’s confidence, Countess Peagoose, and you have Myron’s. As long as you both stay in Prinny’s favor, you can dine out among the social set forever.”
“To my infinite dismay.”
Bella had never aspired to be part of the social whirl. Her childhood had been spent entirely on Charlotte’s father’s estate in Somerset. Charlotte, the viscount’s daughter, resided in the sixty-room manor house. Bella lived with her destitute father and brothers in a run-down cottage on the outskirts of her uncle’s land: three rooms above, three below.
With no dowry to speak of, no firm foothold in the landed gentry, and no semblance of a pretty face, it was only by the sponsorship of her cousin and aunt that she had any prospects at all. If not for them, Bella would have been married to a country squire or a vicar with low expectations—or more likely, never married at all. She couldn’t imagine what machinations must have been required to gain her admittance to these exclusive assembly rooms.
“I have no wish to be a countess, and it is much simpler to act the baroness while wearing one’s own clothes.”
“It couldn’t be helped,” Charlotte said. “It is not my fault you were robbed. I cannot imagine why you stayed at the Blue Bear. Everyone knows—”
“I am now well aware what everyone knows.”
Bella wished she and her husband had never stopped at the horrible roadside inn. They had woken to find a sneak thief had stolen the night’s receipts from the innkeeper and money and valuables from every traveler, including the Holsworthy’s luggage and their coach from the stables.
The theft had been a real blow. They had lost her only child’s christening gown, a gift from Charlotte that had never been used; Myron’s war medals from the rebellion in the American colonies; the miniatures that were the only remembrances she had of her family; and the elegant Parisian gown she had intended to wear to her first party in London.
Still, she could only find fault with Charlotte for forcing her to be here, not for her own unreasonable fear. She wished she had stayed at home, curled up with a novel in the library.
“We could have waited to attend a party. We haven’t settled into the house yet, and the trip wearied my husband more than he will admit. I must be concerned for his health.”
“Nonsense. Myron is as spry as ever.”
Bella’s lips compressed into a thin line; Charlotte’s constant references to the thirty-two-year age difference had started even before she married him, and only Bella knew how dangerously ill Myron had been on the trip back to England. Even Myron pretended he had no notion.
“You have been here more than a week without attending any parties,” Charlotte nagged, “and you would never present yourself anywhere unless forced to it.”
“I have become quite adept at parties, and in any case, common courtesy would have forced the issue soon enough. It is simply easier to feel elegant and refined in the company of people with every reason to be kind to a man and his wife on His Majesty’s business. Myron has more influence in Ceylon or Barbados or Sierra Leone than in London, and no one likes a bookish girl in England.” Bella bit her lip. “I know my place, Charlotte. I just would have preferred to face the ordeal in the dress I had made for the occasion.”
“You look quite handsome,” Charlotte argued. “Your hair is straight as a plumb line, but the color is brilliant as ever, not even a trace of grey.” Charlotte smoothed it in the front. “And you have finally grown into your face.”
Bella’s nerves fled with a cynical laugh and an impudent curtsey. “I am ever so grateful for the backhanded compliments, Your Ladyship.” A habitual, playful disparagement raked over her cousin. “I can be as handsome as I want since I caught and kept a husband, and I am offended you discount my scintillating conversation after I have worked so hard at it all this time. The Governor-General of British India finds me fascinating.”
“And no doubt the commandant of the penal colonies.”
“The title you are looking for is Governor of New South Wales, and yes, Governor Macquarie and Myron have been acquainted for many years, beginning in India, and his wife, Elizabeth, and I were quite bosom friends both times we were in the Antipodes. She is the one whose care of the natives—”
She broke off when Charlotte held her hand out. “I beg you not continue about natives.”
To distract Charlotte from further comment, and put an end to any argument, she inclined her head toward Malbourne, murmuring, “He is very handsome.”
Across the room, he was under siege by a young lady on the shelf at two-and-twenty, scandalously dressed in near-translucent silver muslin, whom, it seemed, had been pushed into the inappropriate pursuit by an ever-vigilant mother trying to find a way to compromise her daughter.
Charlotte spoke even more quietly than her cousin. “Leave off any interest in Lord Malbourne. He’s French, as though you need to know any more. You must not let him flirt so.”
“Keeping a Frenchman from flirting is like keeping a snake from a mongoose.” At Charlotte’s raised eyebrow, Bella explained with a half-smile, “The mongoose might win, but most likely, the snake will slither away to try again.”
“Why is he here?” Bella asked when Charlotte stopped giggling. “I know the war is over, but I confess I thought London hostesses would be fighting yet. And why ‘Lord?’ Is he not a duke?”
“He is a French duke,” Charlotte said, as though it were explanation for any rudeness she cared to inflict, “though he has been in England most of his life,” Charlotte started, clearly enthralled by the prospect of passing on delicious tittle-tattle. “You may have met him when—”
Bella shook her head.
“Well, you were only in London a few weeks. His late wife inherited land near Dover, and he took possession just before the Revolution. I heard he left her to die by guillotine, but Alexander says she was taken in childbed.”
“Does Alexander know everything about everyone?”
“Yes. Now, hush, or I won’t pass on what he’s told me.” Bella closed her mouth before Charlotte made good her threat. “He entertained King Louis at his manor house during the exile, and it’s said he loaned King George half a million pounds toward the war debt, but that is probably a lie. Everyone knows he lost all his money when he ran from the rabble in Paris. Now that the Little Corporal has been deposed, Monsieur le Duc is making the rounds of London again, pretending to be better than he is. They say he is looking for a wife, but he won’t pay attention to any one girl.”
“Why did a pedigreed émigré not return to France when—”
Before Bella could complete her question, their husbands joined them at last. Alexander Marloughe, Marquess of Firthley, moderated his lengthy stride to match Bella’s spouse, who tottered on a cane, supporting a gouty leg and declining state of frailty, both of which had precipitated their return to England.
When Alexander held out his arm to provide a steadying hand, the elderly man stumbled slightly to the side to avoid it. Myron Clewes, Baron Holsworthy, could be a stubborn man when he so chose. Stepping to his side, Bella slipped her arm through her husband’s, in order that he might lean on her surreptitiously, an inconspicuous position both comfortable and well established.
After many years of salt winds and tropical suns, they were both unfashionably tanned. For her part, Bella welcomed it, for it helped to hide the lines she was starting to see in her mirror, although one more mark against her in polite society. On Myron, the lines were years past hiding, as was his thinning shock of white hair, twice as bright just by proximity to his darkened face.
“My dear, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” Myron said, grasping Bella’s arm more tightly than usual. “Was that Malbourne I saw?”
“Yes.” Bella was taken aback. “You know him?”
Myron’s lips were suddenly thinner, his face almost ashen. “I know of him, and will not allow his attentions toward my wife.”
“Of course, husband,” she said, bowing her head
to the chastisement, letting any irritation drift into the crosscurrents of rumor and innuendo. Myron would entertain her thoughts, opinions, observations, questions, or arguments on any topic she chose—at home. In public, she always agreed with him.
“He’s right, Bella,” Alexander said. “Slippery man, that. Not good ton.”
“‘Good ton,’” Bella pronounced, “is a contradiction in terms.”
Alexander didn’t disagree, only turned to his wife, saying, “I wish you wouldn’t force me to Almack’s, Charlotte. Knee breeches are as bad as a ball gown.” He shifted in his clothes, pulling at his cravat until it was drawn askew. With his hair tied and powdered in the manner of several older, more influential members of Parliament, and attired in formal black breeches, clocked cream stockings and a coat of black superfine, he appeared closer to Myron’s age, a quarter-century beyond his one-and-forty. He had not yet matured, however, into the same sense of quiet dignity.
Charlotte smiled and adjusted his collar. “Don’t be ridiculous, my love. You are most distinguished and would look frightful in a frock. You haven’t the figure for it,” she laughed, continuing, “You will be pleased to know if Bella has her way, we shall be removed from the guest list entirely before the evening is out. Naked savages, indeed. Myron, it is scandalous you give her license to throw indecent stories around like brickbats.”
Myron patted his wife’s hand. “She needs no license from me. She is a grown woman, perfectly capable of speaking her own mind.” Myron inclined his head toward Charlotte’s mutinous expression in a half-conciliatory gesture. “Though I’m sure you understand the way of things in London much better than I.”
Irritated at being discussed as though she weren’t present, Bella spoke just as the music stopped: “I don’t give a tuppenny damn for the way of things in London!” Her voice carried much further than she had intended, and a collective gasp rose from everyone in hearing distance, followed by a buzz of denigration that spread across the room like a wave across water.
Charlotte snapped her fan much harder on Bella’s hand, her mouth opening and closing, choking on the words to express her outrage. Lips twitching, Alexander and Myron covered their amusement with observations about the orchestra’s rapidly chosen next selection, a polka.
“You will kindly moderate your language, or I will take you home at once,” Charlotte hissed, rounding on the gentlemen. “And you two! Encouraging her!”
“I am not a child to be sent to my room without supper, Charlotte,” Bella snapped. “I have a voucher, so I will be staying.” She would rather dine on rotten meat than endure another hour at Almack’s, but a breakfast of ground glass was preferable to yielding to Charlotte.
“If anyone is to send her to her room without supper, my dear Lady Firthley, it will be me.” Myron spoke gently, in the tone he always used to forestall further argument. Bella’s coy smirk sent a message to him that shut out everyone else in the room without being at all inappropriate.
Charlotte snapped, “I might think you would encourage her to act like a proper wife, before it gets back to the king that she is still an incurable hoyden.”
“I daresay you might think so,” Myron answered, “but I assure you, His Majesty is well aware she is a hoyden. He has come to see it as a great asset.” Bella flushed at this encomium and lowered her eyes under Myron’s indulgent smile. “He has never failed to ask after her, and often remarks on the outstanding results of her wit and charm.”
“‘Tis true, Charlotte,” Alexander agreed. “Prinny holds a great fondness for Bella. He has said so several times in my hearing.” Angling his head away from Charlotte, he winked at Bella, adding, “No one can credit his partiality for such a hoyden.”
“I fail to see any wit or charm,” Charlotte sniffed. “She will be barred from polite society, and Seventh Sea Shipping will follow suit.”
“Pray, do not act like those stuffy women, Charlotte. You shall become old and boring long before your time.” Bella could not resist the jibe. “The look on your face will bring on even more wrinkles.”
Clearly afraid talk of wrinkles might turn into a brawl, Myron interceded. “I expect my business can withstand a bit of scandal. In fact, I know it can.” Myron held Bella’s arm tightly, running his thumb across the back of her hand. He said, though not loudly, “This is not the first time she has deservedly shown an aristo the rough side of her tongue, nor will it be the last, and I’m certain plain speaking causes no affront to God.”
Nodding her head sharply in agreement, Bella turned her nose up at Charlotte in a childish pretense. Finally unable to contain his building mirth, Alexander started laughing aloud.
“I say, Holsworthy,” he remarked with a grin, “you and your wife are just the fresh air we need at Court. It is so very dull listening to the same on-dit day after day. You’ll ruin yourselves by morning, but it will liven things up nicely.”
“I take back everything I said about missing you all this time,” Charlotte declared, looking down her nose at her wayward cousin. “I had forgotten what a heathen you are.”
“Then I shall endeavor to remind you as often as I can,” Bella released a melodramatic harrumph. “There are more ladies headed our way. Shall I tell the story of the Gongulobibi priests revering me as a goddess?”
Chapter 2
Nicholas Northope always took notice when a lady he had never seen entered the room. However, it had been months, perhaps years, since the ninth Duke of Wellbridge had been so intrigued. No spring miss, the newcomer’s face fascinated him: openly emotive, not the customary painted-on mask of genuine boredom. Eyes too close-set, a nose with character rather than charm, and cheeks more rounded than most, taken in total, he still found her features captivating. She stuck out in the crowd of jaded aristocrats like a sunflower in a field of nettles.
She had assuredly spent time in foreign ports; he might assume Spanish or Italian blood if her hair weren’t brighter than a fresh-minted copper ha’penny. Her unfashionably dark face was curious, intelligent, and by the set of her jaw, probably opinionated. Yet, her shoulders hunched just slightly, as though she were afraid the entirety of the British aristocracy would collectively slap her face as soon as she walked through the door.
He tugged at his tailcoat and straightened his gloves, feeling a perfect fool in knee breeches and dancing pumps, when he far preferred buckskins and boots. The conformist rules at Almack’s were, to his mind, set by rancorous old women with nothing better to do than make everyone else’s life miserable, but his sister had insisted this afternoon once more than he had managed to refuse.
A thick strand of blond hair fell out of his once-neat—if out of fashion—queue, curling at his temple, but he refused to be seen adjusting his hair like a woman. Bad enough Allie had forced lace at his cuff and diamond shoe buckles. He looked ridiculous—more dandy than duke.
Nick saw the lady across the room take a deep, fortifying breath as she was joined by the Marchioness of Firthley. From the way the two women put their heads together without so much as a salutation, they were well acquainted, possibly family. Good, he thought. Though he had never met Lady Firthley, he knew the marquess well enough to procure an introduction.
The woman’s gown was uglier than Satan’s Sunday suit: poor tailoring and endless rows of floating horizontal ruffles emphasized all the wrong parts of her body, and petal sleeves looked like the inadequate wings of a land-bound bird. The pastel-pink tulle made her dusty-rose skin look dirty and her bronze hair look brassy. He knew someone—no, everyone—in the room was calling her kaffir or coolie or gypsy by now.
When her shoulders periodically twitched, tensing her muscles under an uncomfortable skin, the awful dress gave the impression she would fly away from unwelcome obligations. Every time she so much as trembled, Lady Firthley tapped her on the arm with her fan, and the face Lady Holsworthy made when she was cross was fascinating, too, if only because ladies so rarely appeared peevish in public. Nick wished he were standing nearer,
so he could listen to her witty set-down. He’d bet a year’s income it was witty.
Turning away, Nick looked around for Allie, hoping she might not see him presenting himself to a woman she hadn’t chosen. Daughter of the seventh Duke of Wellbridge and sister to the eighth and ninth, Lady Allison was the unquestioned arbiter of appropriate ducal matches. To Nick’s chagrin, this meant enduring endless lectures when he refused to help her sort through eligible ladies, no small source of irritation. It was hardly his fault she had made a deathbed promise to their mother that he didn’t intend to keep.
The sooner he could accommodate this evening’s demands, the sooner he could leave. He was rather in the mood for a card game, and perhaps a visit to King’s Place to spend his winnings on a willing woman, as he had given his mistress her congé two weeks ago, after one too many whiny demands on his time. Tonight, he would happily pay double for a lascivious woman who would entertain him without following him home afterward.
When he finally spotted his sister in the crowd, he reconsidered approaching. He was not about to fight his way through the gaggle of debutantes circling her, not when every single one was vying to be promised the next set with him. There had to be some other way to meet Allie’s ‘polite requests’ than entertaining dozens of girls who would do anything to be a duchess. Anyone’s duchess. He only wished there were more dukes from which they could choose.
Tugging at his cravat, which seemed suddenly tighter, he turned his back, hoping no one had seen him looking for Allie, or they might believe he was sizing up his matrimonial prospects.
The most engaging sight in the room, the intriguing woman, was now fending off Lady Yarley and Lady Lannadae, inveterate tattle-mongers and, presumably, the bravest termagants seeking gossip. Her head turned frantically this way and that, as if by doing so she might extricate herself from the gossips and Lady Firthley’s grip on her elbow. Color rose across her chest, and he wondered if it were caused by anger or fear. He rather hoped for temper, so he might see Lady Lannadae taken down a peg. Ah! A flash in her eyes. She was fuming.
Royal Regard Page 2
