by Amy Lake
Well, it was just too bad. If Lady Pamela would insist on partnering every ham-fisted chucklehead in the room there was nothing she could do about the matter. Amanda turned her attention to the other guests, watchful for likely sources of gossip. She noticed a group of the younger local bucks passing around a silver flask, and wondered which of them would be the first caught relieving himself in a potted palm. It was astonishing how much mischief people could manage to get into... . And in Bedfordshire, of all places.
A high-pitched giggle floated across the ballroom, and Amanda identified Lady Sinclair as its source. There’s a cat drinking cream, she thought, watching the marchioness flirting shamelessly with Lucinda Blankenship’s brother. But, of course, Celia did love her champagne. She was clearly half-sprung, and Miss Blankenship’s brother–Rodney?–was wearing an almost comical look of alarm, as if he had just realized that the Marchioness of Luton might be visiting his bedroom at some time during the night.
Good luck getting rid of her, Amanda silently wished him. Just then something seemed to catch Lady Sinclair’s attention, and she looked up, a brief, predatory smile crossing her face. Young Blankenship was forgotten as Charles Quentin, his countenance grim, his neckcloth slightly rumpled, crossed the dance floor. He was headed, perhaps unwittingly, in Celia’s direction.
What was this? Lady Detweiler had last seen Lord Quentin at the end of the first waltz, his hand firmly underneath Miss Phillips’s elbow as they made their way from the ballroom to the terrace. An expression of barely restrained passion had colored the gentleman’s face, and Amanda had not expected either of them to return for some time.
But here he was. Where was Miss Phillips?
Damn Jeremy Burgess, thought Lady Detweiler. I suppose I shall have to do something about this myself.
She would really need to say something to Lady Pamela about her absurd matchmaking schemes. True love! What nonsense! So much fussing over an adolescent sentiment. Still, she liked Helène. And if it would annoy Celia Sinclair . . .
For the marchioness had now intercepted Lord Quentin, claiming him as her partner in the quadrille. They moved hand-in-hand across the square of dancers, his steps measured and sure, Celia’s catlike, seductive.
I’ll wager he’s offered the governess carte blanche again, thought Amanda. What a cawker. Men are such idiots sometimes that it’s a wonder the species manages to reproduce at all.
Now, where would I go if I was a young woman desperately in love with a man who has just insulted me? Out to the gardens, decided Lady Detweiler, and she made her way toward the terrace doors.
* * * *
How much can you possibly think your low-class virginity is worth?
Lord Quentin’s words rang in her ears as Helène, skirts in hand, ran along the terrace to the one outside staircase she knew had been brushed clear of snow. Her hands were beginning to numb with the cold, her nose–she assumed–was now a bright, unappealing red, and her shoes were in no way meant for this kind of use. Still she kept on, determined to find her way through the parterres of the formal garden and around the west end of the house to the kitchen entrance. She was not going back into that ballroom.
How much can you possibly think–
Crack. She felt her hand fly up, once again, and Lord Quentin’s face twist with the force of her blow. How dare he? But Helène thought, miserably, that she knew exactly how he dared. She’d behaved like a wanton–a light-skirt. Allowing him to caress her, knowing all the time that he never proposed anything beyond making her his mistress. If even that. Helène had a sudden, horrible suspicion. Perhaps a few days’ dalliance before he returned once more to Tavelstoke was all that Lord Quentin had intended from the start. Perhaps the rest had been a lie.
’Tis not like there’s to be suitors banging at your door–
For once she could think of no other maxim of her father’s that might apply.
The staircase leading down to the French gardens loomed in front of her, its steps glistening with the remnants of ice. She ran toward it, not slowing, not thinking of anything beyond reaching the safety of her own rooms. Half-way down the slippery steps one toe caught the hem of her gown and the governess fell, awkward and twisting, ending up at the bottom in a jumble of grey silk. She managed not to cry out, and sat for a moment, shaken, hearing faint strains of the orchestra descending from the ballroom above. Helène felt her legs and decided that, although her right ankle was sore to the touch, no serious injury had been done. No doubt she would be sporting a number of magnificent bruises on the morrow.
She limped back to the staircase and sat carefully on a spot free of ice, reaching down to brush a bit of crusted snow from her satin slippers. The bedraggled shoes had never been fashioned for running–or falling, for that matter–and the grey silk gown was torn badly where her toe had caught the hem.
She remained there for several minutes, catching her breath, but the stone was no warmer a seat than the snow had been, and her hands and feet were becoming icy cold. For an odd, disorienting moment Helène was not sure why she had descended the steps at all. Where had she been going?
Oh. Yes. Back to her rooms. Unbidden, Lord Quentin’s voice sounded once more in Helène’s ears, and she attempted to block out the sound with nerveless, shaking hands. It was a vain exercise. Her eyes now brimming with silent tears, the governess rose slowly to her feet. The music of a quadrille drifted down from the ballroom, and Helène imagined the fancy lords and ladies as they took to the dance floor.
Including, quite doubtlessly, Lord Quentin and Lady Sinclair.
Have your dance, thought Helène. Have them all. I shall have nothing to do with another adult male ever again.
“Good heavens,” a familiar voice complained. “ ’Tis little better than a death-trap.”
Helène turned around to see Lady Detweiler standing at the top of the staircase, looking distrustfully at the steps in front of her.
“I suppose,” added Amanda, “that I shall have to manage the descent if we’re ever to get out of the cold. I assume you’ve no intention of returning to the ball.”
Helène shook her head silently, wondering why Lady Detweiler was out-of-doors.
“Well, then, there’s no help for it,” said Amanda. “D’ you suppose you could stand just over there, to break my fall?”
* * * *
Charles Quentin moved smoothly through the steps of the quadrille, hand in hand with the marchioness. He was kicking himself for not avoiding this situation, and wondering what his chances were for escape. Lady Sinclair had claimed him the moment he returned to the ballroom, and–distracted, still feeling the sting of Helène’s hand against his cheek–he had been unable to concoct an acceptable excuse not to dance with her.
“Dear, foolish Lord Quentin,” said Lady Sinclair, as they swept out another figure. The marchioness pressed against him at every opportunity, her movements practiced and sly.
“Celia– ” Lord Quentin began.
“Oh, don’t inflict another one of your speeches on me,” said Lady Sinclair, beginning to pout. “Honor, of all the nonsense! What is that to do with anything?”
“I don’t believe you understand–” Lord Quentin stopped, having no idea of what he had intended to say. Celia sniffed, and the quadrille parted them, the marchioness moving off with Viscount Dreybridge.
She was drunk, of course. Drunk, and jealous, and even fighting mad. A passionate woman–
He would admit to an appreciation of that facet of the marchioness’s personality. Charles’s mind turned to his first year back from the Peninsula, the months in London spent partaking of the enjoyments offered by, among others, his current dance partner. Lady Sinclair was no hypocrite, and this had attracted him to her from the start. After the nightmare of Spain, the last thing Charles had desired was a dewy-eyed miss protesting his every advance. Celia was refreshingly open about her enjoyment of... physical relations.
Women are just like men, she had once told him. But you insist
in keeping all the fun to yourselves.
Fun, thought Charles. Is that what they call it?
* * * *
After an endless trek through drifts of snow on the west side of the house, Amanda grumbling loudly with every step, Helène and Lady Detweiler reached the kitchen door. They hurried past startled cooks and scullery girls to the back staircase and–taking care to avoid the ballroom–soon reached the haven of Amanda’s suite. ’Twas like her last few months in London, thought Helène. Sneaking past the hapless landlady when her father had not paid the rents.
Come along, child, come along. ’Tis a scandal to even charge for such a sorry dwelling. The next one will be vastly improved, just you wait and see... .
The outcome in this instance was rather more pleasant. Her sodden slippers were now drying in front of a blazing fire, her feet were no longer numb, and Lady Detweiler had poured them each a large snifter of brandy. This was an unfamiliar drink to Helène, but–even while gasping each time the fiery liquid reached her throat–she thought she might rather learn to like it.
“I don’t believe,” began Amanda, “that I shall venture outside again before June. How the poor cows survive I can’t imagine.”
Helène smiled. “I suppose,” she told Amanda, “that animals become accustomed to the weather.”
“Nonsense. Not even a cow could become accustomed to snow. Such a sad variant of rain, I can’t see why ’tis allowed.”
“Mmm.”
“Charles Quentin is still determined to offer you carte blanche, I take it,” added Lady Detweiler.
“Ah. Well... ” began Helène, and then sputtered to a halt. She blushed.
“My dear girl,” said Lady Detweiler, “if we are to make any progress at all you must put away this silly notion of being embarrassed. The last time I was embarrassed was a decade ago, and I can assure you that you will not miss the experience.”
Helène laughed. Amanda was like Lady Pamela, the governess realized. One could talk to her about anything, and she would understand. But why should the affairs of an impoverished governess be of interest to anyone?
Amanda tipped her head to one side. “C’est carte blanche, n’est-ce pas?” she repeated.
“Yes,” Helène told her. “Lord Quentin has offered to make me his... mistress. But sometimes I believe he just wishes to . . .” The governess took a gulp of brandy and felt it trickle fire down her throat. She coughed.
“What?” said Amanda. “To bed you? That would rather be the point. Why should you be surprised? He is a male.”
“They can’t all be like that!”
Lady Detweiler eyebrows went up a notch. “Well,” she told the girl, “perhaps not all of them.”
“It’s too horrible!” cried Helène, warming to her subject. “How could anyone–even a man–never wish to be settled and have children? I can understand that he will not marry me, but surely he wants to marry someone!”
“My dear young innocent,” said Amanda, “he undoubtedly will.”
Helène looked up in shock, the color draining from her face. Lord Quentin–married? To someone else?
Lady Detweiler was shaking her head. “Helène,” she said gently, “you must have known. A gentleman who takes a mistress will take a wife as well. It’s simply the way society is.”
“I–I know,” said Helène. And she did, of course. What a fool she had been, even to consider a life with Lord Quentin, all the time knowing the reality of the situation. He will have a wife. And children. Imagining Lord Quentin with Lady Sinclair was bad enough, but his wife would likely be a dainty young miss of the haut ton, well-bred and virginal. Impossible to even think of it.
“Lord Quentin is not yet thirty, of course,” said Amanda. “It may be some time before he marries. Within ten years, though–” she mused, “–at most.”
“And then,” the governess said softly, “what will become of me? I should think the attraction of a mistress is that they can be disposed of.”
“Quite true,” said Amanda, “but it hardly signifies.” She poured herself another glass of brandy, adding, “Whatever his faults, Charles is no scoundrel. You’d be well provided for.”
“Provided for!” As if I were a child, Helène reflected–but this thought, uncomfortable as it was, was accompanied by an even deeper stab of pain. Her own father had not been able to provide for her nearly as well as Lord Quentin proposed.
It wasn’t his fault! The ton–
“Yes.” Lady Detweiler shrugged. “The usual arrangement, I should imagine. Lord Quentin is traditional in his own way, much as he pretends otherwise. You would receive an assortment of gowns, jewelry, no doubt a quarterly income as well.”
Helène’s eyes widened. It sounded awful, but she didn’t want to admit this to Amanda. The mistress of a well-borne gentleman was as likely to be a member of the ton as a common light-skirt, and it was conceivable that Lady Detweiler had a more than theoretical knowledge of the matter.
“I suppose I could move into a small country cottage–”
“–and live quietly for the rest of your life. Yes,” said Amanda, “it could easily be done. And I understand some people actually enjoy that sort of thing.”
* * * *
Nothing more was said of Charles Quentin for some time. The fire crackled and sparked and, with the brandy working its magic from within, Helène relaxed into her armchair, warmed through and through. What was it that he had said to her on the terrace? For the moment it hardly seemed to matter. The governess pulled the pins from her hair as Lady Detweiler–a born storyteller–regaled her with one piece after another of outrageous London gossip.
“Countess Renfield,” Amanda was saying, “has never met a groomsman she didn’t like. I believe there is a wager recorded at White’s on the subject... .”
“Oh, no!” said Helène, giggling helplessly. “How dreadful!”
“Indeed. Something to do with hay lofts. Or,” Lady Detweiler added, frowning, “was that Lady Breton?”
“But what do their husbands say? Surely they would object to seeing their wives’ names in a betting book?”
“Hmm? Dear me, I don’t believe so,” said Amanda, who had apparently never considered this aspect to the matter. “Lord Breton generally spends the Season closeted with a fan dancer–”
“Good heavens.”
“–and I can’t imagine the Earl of Renfield has spent a sober moment at White’s for years.”
Helène thought about what it might be like to be a member of the ton, your behavior always on parade... .
“What an unappealing way to live,” she told Amanda. “I mean, to be so . . .” She trailed off, unsure of what she meant. A bad thing, to be wealthy? Certainly not–a moment’s true hunger would put that to rest. But–
“To be under society’s thumb?” said Lady Detweiler. “Or to be uselessly idle?”
“I suppose that’s it. I don’t know... . ”
“Idleness can be deadly,” agreed Amanda, “for a weak-minded person. Renfield for example. Drinks out of sheer boredom, most likely. A good day’s work would put it all to rights, but there’s no chance of that happening.”
“Lord Quentin does not seem idle.” There. She had said his name without blushing.
“Charles? No, but then he has a large estate to oversee, and a good man for a father.”
A father? Helène realized that she had thought of Lord Quentin as alone in the world. Like herself. The idea of him as a member of a family was somehow unnerving, and she had never heard any mention of his mother–
“Is . . .? Mmm.” Helène hesitated, not wanting Lady Detweiler to guess that she might be interested in Lord Quentin’s relations. But Amanda, of course, needed no further cue.
“No brothers or sisters,” she told Helène, “and the countess–his mother, not the earl’s new wife–is long dead. But speaking of Lady Quentin–”
* * * *
The marchioness was insisting that she and Charles take a walk on the terrac
e when Lady Pamela appeared. Jonathan’s sister rested one elegantly glove hand on his shoulder and favored them both with a blinding smile.
“Come now, Lord Quentin,” said Pam gaily, “ ’tis bad form to ignore the host’s sister. I must have the next dance. Dearest Celia, I know you won’t mind.”
Lady Sinclair’s expression might have said otherwise, but Lady Pamela was already pulling him away.
“Thank you,” said Charles, as they reached the dance floor.
Pam sighed.
* * * *
“Charles’s father, of course, is the present Earl of Tavelstoke,” began Lady Detweiler. “He is a very pleasant gentleman these days, but was quite the rowdy in his youth. Women, drink–the usual sort of thing. I even recall hearing about a duel.”
“Good heavens.”
“When Edward was close to Charles’s age he fell head-over-heels in love with an Italian opera singer. Signorina Francesca something-or-other... I can’t remember the family name now. Anyway, they were secretly married in Europe, but when the happy couple returned to England all hell broke loose.”
“Was his father still alive?”
“Father and grandfather. The old earl promptly died of apoplexy–”
“Oh, no!”
“–and the father–Charles’s grandfather–absolutely refused to meet Francesca. He sent them back to Italy, where Charles was born, and where Lady Quentin disappeared posthaste with a Venetian glass-blower. Edward raised his son almost entirely on his own, rattling around Europe with scarcely a nanny in tow, and it was only after Charles’s grandfather died... five or six years ago, I can’t remember exactly when... that the two of them returned to England.”
Helène considered this. The arrogant, top-lofty Charles Quentin was the son of an opera singer? It might have been almost amusing had her own circumstances been different. He had the nerve to call her low-class! But Lady Detweiler’s story did, she supposed, explain why Lord Quentin was so touchy on the subject. She wasn’t sure whether she now thought his behavior toward her better–or worse.
