by M C Beaton
Fanny pleated a fold of her gown between nervous fingers. "I met Sir Anthony today . . . just by accident, of course . . . and he told me there is a rather unpleasant tale circulating around the coffee houses."
"I am not interested in unpleasant gossip," said Betty repressively.
"It concerns you."
"Oh . . . then I'm interested."
"Well, that horrible Campford woman has been circulating a tale of how you and Collingham arrived unchaperoned at the Jolly Coopers inn and that Collingham had introduced you as his fiancee and they are laying bets as to whether the Duke will marry you or nay."
"I am not interested in what the many-headed say," said Betty in a trembling voice. "I thought we were friends, Fanny. You have no right to upset me with such tittle-tattle."
"But you must counteract it!" exclaimed Fanny, "Or Collingham must. That's what Sir Anthony said. He asked me to tell you you could rely on his full support. He is . . . a . . . very thoughtful man, very much a gentleman." Fanny's face became suffused with pink. "What in fact happened, Betty?"
And so Betty told her. Fanny hung on every word. And she, Fanny, was no longer amazed that a woman should refuse a prosperous marriage on the grounds that it was not based on love.
After her hectic dinner with Sir Anthony which had miraculously escaped her mother's bat-like ears, she had become conscious of a desire to remain slim so that she would please his eye, and although most of the time she felt terribly hungry, she sincerely felt that all the truffles of Perigord would not be able to woo her from her resolution to remain a sylph.
"A ghost, too," she said to Betty. "Was that not monstrous frightening?"
"It was," said Betty with a shudder, "but now I find it hard to believe and now all I can really think of is that poor Mr. Russell is alone in that mouldering castle with only his fancies. I shall send him a hamper of food and perhaps return one day soon to see if he would perhaps like to live with us at the Chase. It is so enormous, that one more body would not make such difference."
"And shall you go to the Martindale's ball?" asked Fanny. "Collingham is bound to be there."
"I shall go after all," said Betty quietly. "I have nothing to be ashamed of. And if polite society shuns me because they consider me ruined, I shall simply retire to Eppington Chase."
"Do you feel anything for Collingham?" asked Fanny curiously.
"Anger," said Betty. "He is pompous and overbearing." And then Betty wondered why she felt so guilty at having criticized the Duke to Fanny.
"You should really have a chaperone . . . or . . . or an escort," suggested Fanny delicately. "Bella is all very well . . . that is, she was very well when Hester was here, but now . . .
"And whom do you suggest?" snapped Betty before she could stop herself. "Your mother?"
Fanny looked immediately miserable and Betty was immediately contrite.
"Oh, Fanny, what has come over me? I do not like Town and I dread going to this ball now." Betty's lips trembled. "They will stare at me and mock and make bets over whether the Duke will marry me or no. But for little Simon's sake, I shall face down this scandal, as face it I must."
"Sir Anthony will help," said Fanny eagerly. "In fact, he kindly said something about calling to see you in case he might be able to be of assistance. He is like that, you know. Such a gentleman and so brave!" Fanny's paean of praise was interrupted by the butler announcing Sir Anthony Blake.
Betty and Fanny arose and Betty swept Sir Anthony a curtsy. She was upset and embarrassed. Upset at having Sir Anthony as part of a sort of conspiracy and embarrassed because Fanny was all too obviously in love.
Betty could not help remembering the Sir Anthony she used to know when her stepsister, Jane, was alive. Then he had been a huge, fat, jovial man, much given to loud laughter and gargantuan meals. The new Sir Anthony was now even slimmer and more soberly dressed than he had been on the night he had escorted her to the Duchess of Ruthfords ball, the ball at which she had first met the Duke of Collingham.
Betty could not tell if Sir Anthony were in love with Fanny, because his manner was faultless and he treated Fanny to the same courtly bow as he had just given Betty.
Despite his new slim figure, Sir Anthony retained a lot of the fat man's bluff manner which had a tinge of the paternal, and Betty found to her surprise that she was telling him the whole story from beginning to end.
"Stap me!" laughed Sir Anthony. "I'd have given a monkey to ha' been there and seen the Duke of Collingham playing housewife while the old earl's ghost rattled his chains in the hall above. My dear Lady Betty, the very truth is your weapon. If you will but allow me to spread it around, both you and Collingham will come out of this unscathed."
"The Duke will be furious with me," said Betty in a low voice.
"Not he," laughed Sir Anthony. "There's nothing much the matter with old Adolphus, Duke of Collingham. You cannot blame him for being high in the instep. He has been crawled and toadied to since he was in short coats. I will arrange all, Lady Betty. I am more used to the ways of the ton than you. Should Collingham ask you to dance, you must be very civil to him and stand up with him. If society sees you easy and friendly with each other, they will discount Old Mother Campford's story. Aye, and I can twist things to make her look a fool. There's a great many more than you has suffered from her malicious tongue and would rather believe ill of her than you."
"You are wonderful," breathed Fanny, and Sir Anthony turned rather pink and cast his eyes down, but not before Betty had seen the glow of love in them.
"I shall look forward to seeing Lady Blake this evening," said Betty after she had thanked him for his services and good advice, and then wished she had not. Sir Anthony seemed to withdraw into himself and Fanny looked downcast.
"Philadelphia has been poorly of late," said Sir Anthony. "She says she will go and in the next breath that she will not. But you ladies will have your flirtatious ways," he added with a weak attempt at humor.
"Should my wife not be attending, I would deem it a great honour to be allowed to escort you, Lady Betty," went on Sir Anthony, glancing sideways at Fanny and exchanging a look with her which was unreadable to Betty but obviously spoke volumes to Fanny.
Betty hesitated. She felt the pair were using her in some way, but there was on the other hand no doubt of their goodwill and it would be reassuring to enter the ballroom under the large protection of Sir Anthony.
"I shall be honoured, sir," she said, "provided Lady Blake does not mind."
"My wife will be glad to know that I am in such charming company." Sir Anthony rose to take his leave and Fanny arose, too, having suddenly remembered a pressing engagement.
Both Sir Anthony and Fanny were silent until the door of the Westerby mansion was closed behind them and they stood together on the steps.
"Hem," said Sir Anthony awkwardly. "The Martindales are not famous for their table. I declare I have had naught but bread and water since our last meal."
"It is the same in my case," said Fanny, suddenly shy, although she could not help noticing the admiring sideways glance that Sir Anthony cast at her trim figure.
"Will your mother and sister be there?" asked Sir Anthony, studying a passing carriage with intense interest as if he had never seen it before.
"Mother is undecided," said Fanny. "Frederica has been invited to the opera by Lord Chuffield and she is all a-twitter. I said that I would remain at home and then perhaps leave for the ball after they have left for the opera. Oh, you know how it is," said Fanny miserably. "Mother prods me and pushes me in the direction of any possible fortune and she is so blatant. But Frederica is having some small success, so for the moment she appears to have given me up."
"And the Westerbys, I hope."
Fanny looked up at Sir Anthony under her eyelashes. "And the Westerbys. . . I hope," she echoed.
Sir Freddie and Lady Alice Martindale were a young couple who were considered good ton, despite their lack of money. They lived in a large rambling house ou
t on the Kensington Road which had been left them by Lady Martindale's great-uncle. They were cheated by their slovenly servants and seemed to live cheerfully in an atmosphere of domestic chaos. Their suppers were legendary for their bad cooking and that well-known gossip, Cyril Braintree, had often been heard to remark that if one went belowstairs one could find the evil servants dining off the best while the guests suffered peasant food burnt to a frazzle abovestairs.
But the Martindales were extremely popular and, despite their bad hospitality, their affairs were always well-attended. After all, there was always something to talk about.
Sir Anthony was a great friend of the Martindales and was not at all surprised at their reception, but Betty and Fanny shrank together in alarm as the Martindale chef chased a footman across the hall with a meat cleaver.
Lady Martindale was a diminutive little brunette with large vague eyes and a small rabbity mouth which made her look rather like a hare. Her husband was just as small, little above five feet in his stocking soles. He had tried to counteract his lack of inches by wearing a pair of shoes with extremely high heels and since he was always worried and alarmed before the arrival of any guests, he had been fortifying himself liberally with brandy and fell on his face several times when he was making his bow.
Some wealthy friend had at least paid for a good orchestra and the ballroom floor was polished to a high shine and great bunches of flowering weeds were tastefully arranged in chipped vases, since Lady Martindale had not only polished the floor herself but had had this brilliant idea of flower decoration.
It seemed a shame, she had thought, to pay such a vast sum for hothouse blooms when there were all these pretty flowers in the garden; innocent Lady Martindale could not tell a weed from a rose and so she was delighted with the effect.
The first minuets were in progress, the Duke of Collingham had not yet put in an appearance, and Betty was beginning to enjoy herself despite the many calculating looks cast in her direction, when there was a tremendous uproar in the hall and shortly afterward poor Lady Martindale appeared on the threshold of the ballroom and burst into loud hysterics while her concerned husband tried to pat her hand.
It transpired that the Martindale servants had walked out en masse, taking most of the guests' supper with them.
Sir Anthony, who was looking more like his old self in a magnificent suit of green brocade studded with emeralds, rallied quickly to the couples' aid. The guests would supply the supper themselves, he said, and he, for one, would send for his chef.
The suggestion was met by cries of agreement, for no one had expected to enjoy eating or drinking at the Martindale's establishment, and soon everyone had his servants running around London to fetch hampers of delicacies. There was such a gay atmosphere, such encouragement from Sir Anthony to play the roles of Lord and Lady Bountiful, that each guest thought he was supplying food for all the other guests, with the result that the Martindale kitchen was soon stocked to the corners with the best food that the cream of aristocracy could summon.
"It is too kind of you," sobbed Lady Martindale. "You must eat it all," and a tremendous cheer met her words and the eyes of Sir Anthony and Fanny met across the room.
Then Sir Anthony moved off to spread the news of Betty's escapade with the Duke of Collingham. He was a good raconteur and his audience had already been put in a good mood by the funny events of the evening.
Soon Sir Anthony's voice could be heard booming around the ballroom as he reached the end of his tale . . . "And 'Fore George, Lady Betty arrives at the inn with Colling-ham, both looking like the raggle-taggle gypsies—oh, and who should be there but Mrs. Campford, her eyes goggling, and that Friday-faced daughter of hers sniggering, and Lady Betty screams cos they look so evil and malicious she thinks its another pack o' ghosts." Delighted laughter.
So much did they enjoy the story, that they did not realize how cleverly Sir Anthony was hammering home the message that Lady Betty Lovelace was still a virgin and, not only a virgin, but a young lady who had such faith in her own innocence and in the goodwill of London society, that she knew they would not believe Mrs. Camp-ford's wicked stories. And they did not. Goodwill permeated the ballroom and when the Duke of Collingham walked in, bracing himself for malicious stares and gossip, he was surprised to find he was enthusiastically greeted by most of the guests as if he had just returned from some battle.
His eyes quickly raked around the room until they came to rest on the familiar face and figure of Lady Betty.
She was wearing a wide-panniered silk gown of a smoky rose color over a quilted underdress of white satin. The Westerby diamonds blazed at her neck and in her powdered hair. The dance was a country one and her wide skirts swung in the energetic movement. He was soon surrounded by a few of his own friends and quickly heard the story of his night with Lady Betty. Although he laughed appreciatively, he was privately amazed at Betty's cunning, not knowing it was Sir Anthony Blake who had been so clever. The world and his wife considered Betty innocent and somehow did not expect him to marry her. Only that day when he had heard the gossip, he had resigned himself to talking some sense into Betty's head and pointing out that now, at least for Simon's sake, she would have to marry him. He decided he had had a lucky escape and he would just dance with her once to tell her so.
But as he picked his way through the guests toward her at the end of the dance, he was forestalled by Sir Freddie who tottered into the middle of the ballroom floor and raised his hands for silence.
"My lords, ladies and gentlemen," he cried. "You have been most exceeding kind and have supplied such mountains of food that I have asked the servants to bring the supper tables into the ballroom and I will not be satisfied until you have eaten it all!"
A roar of applause greeted this announcement. There was now a rowdy air about the ball and when the tables had been brought in, the guests cheerfully sat down exactly where they pleased without bothering about precedence or rank. The Duke of Collingham, moving with a speed surprising in one so stately, secured the chair next to Betty, leaving a relieved Sir Anthony free to esconce himself intimately at the very end of one long table with Fanny.
There was a strained atmosphere between Sir Anthony and Fanny, but by common unspoken consent, they only put a small amount of food on each of their plates. The tables were groaning under raised pies of every kind, mountains of fruit, game birds, fricasees, oglio and the ever-present salamagundi. It seemed to Fanny and Sir Anthony that at one moment their plates were full and at the next they were empty, leaving them to listen to the energetic sounds of happy guzzling about them.
Sir Anthony reached forward and picked up a bottle of wine and filled their glasses and the pair drank in silence. The wine was good and heady and after a while, Fanny pointed out it was surely not fattening, so they had another and then it suddenly seemed silly to sit surrounded by all this glory of food and do nothing about it, and before the pair quite knew what had happened, they had breached yet another bottle of wine and were smiling blissfully at each other over mountains of food.
Their absorption in their food and in each other soon left them isolated from the rest of the guests. Once or twice, either Sir Anthony or Fanny left the table with a murmured excuse, the one to loosen the tapes of his breeches and the other to let out her stays.
At one point, Fanny peered out from their rosy circle to exclaim: "Betty and Colling-ham! They've gone. Shall we look for them?"
"Let them be," mumbled Sir Anthony from behind a large pie which he had taken out of the dish and was eating with both hands, and Fanny promptly forgot about Betty and her troubles.
As their souls and bodies expanded under the warming influence of food and drink and the rowdy devil-take-tomorrow atmosphere which was increasing in the room, both Fanny and Sir Anthony began to become acutely aware of each other—physically.
Now, had Fanny been a virgin, the evening might have ended another way, but she was not, having lost her maidenhead to one of the Eppington Chase footm
en at an early age. As it was, the air about them became thick with lust.
It started when Sir Anthony lazily helped himself to a large peach and at the same time, his eyes fell on Fanny's bosom which was displayed to advantage in a low-cut gown. He raised and lowered the peach gently in his hand and then took another one and cradled them in both large hands while Fanny's breasts rose and fell quickly under his stare.
He began to stroke one of the peaches very gently with his thumb and Fanny stared down at a large sausage on her plate and her color came and went.
"Some more wine?" said Sir Anthony in a strangely croaky sort of voice and Fanny said, "Yes," in a sort of strangled squeak.
Sir Anthony abandoned the peaches in favor of a large piece of celery which he raised to his lips and began to munch very slowly while he transferred his gaze to Fanny's lips which appeared to become redder and slightly swollen.
She ran her tongue across her lips to remove a crumb. "The garden," said Sir Anthony, "must be very beautiful in the moonlight."
Fanny nodded and held out her hand which he engulfed with his own large one as he rose to his feet and drew her away from the table.
The Duke of Collingham did not know quite why he had persuaded Lady Betty to walk with him in the garden. He had first lured her away to the library on the pretext of showing her some rare editions, but somehow the setting had seemed wrong and so he had suggested the garden.
It could hardly be called a beautiful garden, more of a wilderness really, and plentifully stocked with Lady Martindale's pretty weeds. There also seemed to be a great deal of ankle-twisting rubble, half of a wooden bucket, one-third of a sundial lying on its side, a statue of a discus thrower, all that was left of it being a pair of muscular legs gleaming whitely in the moonlight, and the discus itself lying in the grass some feet away. The Duke had decided in his own mind that it would really be quite a good thing if Betty married him. Had he not always wanted some woman who would not be interested in either his rank or fortune? He felt at an advantage since he was splendidly dressed in rose brocade, a new suit of clothes which had only been finished by the tailor that morning and which, by fortuitous chance, matched the color of Betty's gown.
