Robert started, and gave a weak smile in response.
"Merely keeping watch on the comings and goings of the square," Rob demurred, "Awful lot of riff-raff about these days, one can't be too careful."
"The only riff-raff to be found on this square lives in number ten," the duke replied, with a dark scowl across at Cavendish House. "Did you know that the Marquess of Pembrook tried to chisel me out of a fine piece of horseflesh in Tattersalls last year?"
"I did, for you've told me forty times," Robert answered, under his breath, but Staffordshire had developed an acute case of selective deafness and continued to retell the tale.
Robert "ummed" and "ahed" in all the right places—an easy task, for this was his forty-first audience to the story—while his gaze remained focused across the square.
A carriage had drawn up before number ten; a gleaming, new Landau, much like the one that Rob had spied in Tilbury Coachbuilders in Mount Street the week before. A liveried footman hopped down from his perch, and Rob gritted his teeth as he saw just who it was that emerged from the vehicle.
Lord Pariseau.
At the same time, the door of Cavendish House opened, and a dark haired girl slipped out—the young lady who had danced with Orsino at Almack's, if Rob was not mistaken.
As the pair passed, Pariseau offered a word of greeting, and Rob saw the young lady blush so red that she might have heated all of London for a month.
The insufferable, despicable, charmer, Robert thought darkly.
"...in the end, neither of us got the filly, for the Prince of Wales outbid us both. And who do you think will end up paying for that, do you think, dear boy?"
"We will," Robert replied, on cue.
"He'll raid the public coffers to fill his stables with horseflesh," Staffordshire grumbled in agreement, "And he's already raided them to fill Carlton House with wh—"
"Yes, yes," Robert interrupted, wincing at his father's crude comparison, "Though Parliament will vote against any further funding for His Royal Highness' excesses."
"As I will veto any further funding of your excesses, until you are wed," Staffordshire answered, his thoughts once more returned to the line, "If you are not leg-shackled by the end of this season, I will cut you off. Do you hear me?"
This wasn't the first time that his father had threatened Robert with being cut off—in fact, he had threatened it so many times that Rob had lost count. This was, however, the first time that Robert found himself as marriage minded as his father.
"I have every intention of marrying this season," he answered, rendering his father silent with shock. "In fact, I have the girl all lined up—I just need to persuade her to accept my offer."
"It's not one of your actresses, is it? Not that blowsabella Rosaline, who you ended up in the Serpentine over?"
Rob winced; Rosaline Bowers was a beautiful courtesan that he had spent the better half of the year attempting to woo. In order to attract her attention, he had entered a curricle race in Hyde Park, but had lost control of his vehicle and ended up in the river. The story had been shared widely, earning him fierce reprimand from his father, but at the time, Robert had not minded.
Rosaline was under the protection of the elderly, but extremely wealthy, Earl of Snowdon, and Rob had known from the off that she would not leave him. His attempts to woo her had been more of an attempt to amuse himself, than any act of love.
"She is not an actress," Robert said firmly, "She is the daughter of a very old house—as ancient as our own, if I have my Debretts correct."
"You're telling me," Staffordshire said, slowly, "That not only have you found a girl you wish to marry, but that girl is of blue blood and well bred?"
"Her blood is the bluest of the blue," Rob agreed.
"And why has no announcement of your engagement yet taken place?"
"Well," Rob bit his lip, "I have to persuade her to marry me first, you see."
To his surprise, his father gave a guffaw of laughter that shook his thin frame.
"She's got a brain then," the duke grinned, "If she needs to be persuaded to marry a dolt like you; I like her already. Pray, tell me, who is the lucky girl?"
"That I cannot reveal," Rob ignored the earlier insult, "But if I do manage to persuade this girl—I mean, lady—to marry me, can I count on your blessing?"
"My dear boy, if you can convince any well-heeled lady to leg-shackle herself to you, then I will join the clergy and marry you myself."
"You don't have to go that far," Robert replied mildly, "Though I thank you for your blessing, I shan't forget it."
Robert was, in fact, trying desperately to commit to memory his father's words, so that he might repeat them back to him when he brought Lady Julia home.
"Now," Rob said brusquely, all business, "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
"Anything important?"
"Yes," Robert grinned; he had to learn how to fly.
In 1802, when Robert had been a young lad, his Uncle Virgil had taken him to witness Monsieur Garnerin jump from a hydrogen balloon into the sky, with the aid of a contraption called a parachute.
At the time, Robert, and the thousands of others who had lined London's streets, had been flabbergast ed at the spectacle of a man seeming to fly. It had seemed a dangerous and even foolhardy thing to involve oneself in, yet here was Robert now, about to attempt the same feat.
Except from a smaller height.
"Non," Jean-Pierre Blanchard, a famed balloonist and parachutist, said with a frown, as he surveyed the oak tree which Robert had selected for his jump, "It will not do."
"It has to do," Rob grumbled; he had spent two days trying to track the man down, and he was running out of time.
"We would have to ascend in a balloon, and then you would have to jump from it," Blanchard argued, as he assisted Montague into the harness of his new-fangled frame-less parachute. "Otherwise, you will go bang."
"Bang is a risk I am willing to take," Robert declared, "Though only from the top of a tree. If you cannot convince me to leap from a balloon, what hope have I to convince my lady love?"
"And how do you suggest you convince her to climb a tree?" the Frenchman grumbled, but Montague was not listening.
He had walked to the trunk of the oak tree and was eyeing up which branch he might jump from. Spotting one, quite near the top, Rob began to climb.
The parachute upon his back was mighty heavy, even though it was only made from silk. As Rob scaled his way through the branches, he felt sweat begin to pump from his body. His white shirt was sticking to his frame and his breath came in puffs and gasps.
At last, he reached the pinnacle of his climb, a bow high enough that it might be useful, but strong enough to hold him standing.
Extending his arms to balance himself, Rob walked to the edge of the branch, as far as it would support him. Nerves filled him, but he recalled the tale of Fausto Veranzio, who, in the sixteenth century, was said to have jumped from the top of St Mark's Basilica, and floated to the piazza below. Which was almost two centuries ago, Rob thought bravely, surely invention had advanced enough by now to aid his flight.
"I'm ready to jump," Rob called down to Blanchard.
"I really don't think this is a good idea," the Frenchman called back, not very supportive, even though Rob had paid him enough coin.
"What do the French know?" Rob muttered to himself, as he arranged the silk chute behind him, so that it would catch the air when he took his dive.
Three. Two. One.
Rob counted down in his head, taking a running leap on the count of one. He closed his eyes as he leapt into the sky, sensing the chute behind him lift.
It was working, he thought, opening his eyes so that he might witness his own miraculous flight. It was really working!
An insistent shredding noise interrupted his celebrations, and Rob's descent came to an abrupt halt. He craned his head to find that the silk chute had become entangled in a branch, leaving him hanging some fifteen feet from
the ground.
"My parachute," Blanchard wailed below him.
"My neck," Rob roared back, for it did not take a genius to realise that the torn silk would soon give way.
Three. Two. One.
Rob counted again in his head and braced himself as the chute tore, sending him hurtling to the ground below. Somehow, Rob managed to turn himself, so that the largest part of his body to make contact with the ground was his posterior and not his head.
" Sacré bleu!" Blanchard moaned, as he rushed to inspect the silk chute.
"Oh, I'm fine," Rob groused, as he slowly stood himself up, "Don't worry about me."
The Frenchman paid him no heed, instead he inspected the silk canopy, which was sporting a rather large tear.
"It should be alright," he finally told Rob, "Though I shall bill you for the repairs."
"Yes, yes," Rob sighed, "Send me the bill. Lud. I am such a fool."
"A deaf fool at that," Blanchard agreed, "For I told you this would not work."
"Well, what am I supposed to do now?" Rob frowned, "I left my lady three days ago, promising her that I would teach her how to fly. How am I supposed to face her now?"
Blanchard frowned, as he stroked his neat beard thoughtfully.
"You are courting this girl, non ?" he asked, and Rob nodded in reply. "And, to be clear, your method of courting her has involved abandoning her in favour of jumping out of a tree with me?"
"Er, yes," Rob answered, wondering where the French man was headed.
"You English," Blanchard rolled his eyes, "So unskilled at the art of love."
"That we might be," Robert retorted, hotly, his pride wounded, "But at least we succeed more at war than the French."
It was a low blow, Rob had to admit, but Blanchard took it well.
"Pah!" he cried, "What man wants to make war, when the other choice is to make love to a beautiful woman?"
Rob didn't disagree.
"I must be off," he said to Blanchard, "Do be sure to send on the bill."
With a nod to the Frenchman, Rob took his leave, absently rubbing his posterior as he made his way back to where he had tethered his horse.
He hadn't wanted to admit it to Blanchard, but the man had been right. Only a fool left a beautiful woman alone...
Chapter Five
Lady Julia was being wooed—and wooed most ardently.
Her suitor called daily, brought flowers, professed affection. Her suitor was handsome, well-dressed, and convivial. Her suitor was everything a young lady might wish for.
Except for the fact that he was not Lord Montague.
Lord Montague had disappeared.
In the days since he had promised Julia that their paths would cross again, Julia could count nought times that her day's activities had overlapped with those of Lord Montague.
Not that she was waiting for him, she told herself fiercely.
In the interim, Lord Pariseau had begun his courtship of her, and Julia had reluctantly convinced herself to take his suit seriously.
The earl was quite handsome, she had to admit. And he was kind, as evinced by his many and large donations to various London charities. Though, perhaps, if one was giving for the sake of giving, one should not brag so much about it, but it was better that Lord Pariseau was a man who boasted of his charitable largesse, rather than any of the other things men found to bray about.
Like gambling and carousing, Julia thought mutinously, as she recalled a rumour she had once heard of the Prince Regent wagering one of his palaces against him drinking more ale in one sitting than Lord Montague. Montague had won, and the papers had fawned over his generous decision to gift said palace back to the Regent, instead of castigating both men for partaking in such a foolish act in the first place.
Pah, men!
Julia frowned, and she must have made a noise, for Lord Pariseau glanced at her with concern.
"Is anything the matter?" he queried, assessing Julia for signs of injury, "Shall I tell the footman to raise the hood?"
"I saw a bee," Julia replied, as a way to explain her sudden sigh of irritation, "That is all."
"What bee could resist such a fair flower?" Lord Pariseau duly replied, in a manner that Julia supposed other ladies might find charming.
Not she. She found Lord Pariseau's platitudes almost scripted in their nature; delivered because he felt he ought, and not because of any great feeling.
Though at least he was here, Julia argued, as she tried to push away her distaste for the earl whose only offence was that he was utterly inoffensive. At least Lord Pariseau was present, unlike Montague, who had promised her the stars, then disappeared as soon as night fell.
From the other side of the carriage, Lady Cavendish preened happily, as though Lord Pariseau had paid her the compliment.
"Oh, you do say such romantic things, my lord," Lady Cavendish called loudly, so that those in the passing carriages might too hear of how romantic the earl was.
Julia held in a sigh; her mother was determined that the world should know of Julia's courtship, perhaps hoping that if enough papers reported on an impending marriage, said marriage might actually take place.
"Oh, I try," Lord Pariseau answered, looking—to Julia's eyes, at least—a tad smug.
Therein lay the problem, Julia thought with a frown; Lord Pariseau tried, and tried a tad too hard for her liking. Julia could not imagine the earl clambering up to her balcony, to deliver her a kiss goodnight, nor could she ever imagine him promising her that he would one day make her fly...
That is because he is reliable, the sensible part of Julia whispered waspishly. He is not some silver-tongued knave, wishing to steal a kiss; he is a man who wishes to marry you.
Fearing that she was right, Julia attempted to push aside her innate disinterest in Pariseau and focused her attentions on being as amenable as possible for the remainder of the carriage ride.
The Row was crowded, as it always was after five, and Julia tried to keep her smile affixed, as people peered into the carriage to catch sight of them.
"It's like being on display in Polito's," Lady Cavendish said, as a gig, bearing four young ladies, slowed down to look at them.
"Is being seen not the very point of driving on The Row at this hour?" Pariseau asked with a smile.
It was. And it was why Lady Cavendish had suggested the outing in the first place. Despite her utterances of annoyance, Julia knew that her mama was, in fact, most pleased to be on display.
Once they had circled the park, Pariseau instructed his driver to turn back for St James' Square. They left through the main gate, which led out to Piccadilly, which bustled with noise and grime. Once they reached James' Street, the scene changed to one more sedate, and Julia forced herself to enjoy travelling along under the newly blossomed cherry-trees, as a light wind whispered against her skin.
Lady Cavendish and Lord Pariseau were conversing betwixt themselves, and Julia was happy to let her mama take the reins for the remainder of the journey, until she was called from her daydreams to join them.
"We were thinking of holding a masquerade, to celebrate Julia's birthday, weren't we, dear?" Lady Cavendish called to her daughter.
"Er," Julia pulled her gaze from the sky to stare in bewilderment at her mother.
"Lord Pariseau," Lady Cavendish repeated, with a smile on her face that did not quite hide the fact that she was speaking through gritted teeth, "Has said how much he enjoys masquerades, and I was just telling him how we have been thinking of holding one near your birthday, have we not?"
They had not, but Julia knew well enough not to call her mother out on her lie.
She nodded dumbly, and Lady Cavendish beamed.
"Then that's settled," the marchioness said, with a smile to the earl, "We shall hold one at month's end."
"Splendid," the earl smiled, bestowing Julia with a soft look that she did not like, not one bit at all, "And perhaps we shall have more to celebrate than just a birthday."
Lady Cav
endish was in such a state of excitement at his words, that the instant they arrived back at Cavendish House, she had to take to her bed with some smelling salts and medicinal wine.
"I shall have to cry off the rout in Sir Stare's," she informed Julia, as she departed for her bedchamber.
"No matter," Julia gave a Gallic shrug, "For if I recall correctly, you are not very taken by either routs or Sir Stare."
"Oh, you wicked girl," the marchioness tinkled, as she supped on her wine, "You'll have to entertain yourself for the evening. Perhaps you might peruse some old copies of La Belle Assemblée for ideas for your costume. If Pariseau is going to propose the night of the ball, you'll want to look the part."
"Perhaps I shall dress as Penthos," Julia replied brightly, knowing that her mama was not as au fait with her Greek Mythology as she was with the latest bustles and bonnets.
"Splendid," Lady Cavendish trilled, before turning on her heel to climb the stairs, whilst calling for more wine.
Julia turned for the drawing room, idly pondering how one might fashion oneself into the Greek god of sorrow. She made for the chaise longue, intending to lounge for the evening, but found herself standing up a few moments later, too restless to rest.
Outside the evening sun shone brightly, casting its warm glow on the square. The leaves of the tall oaks in the gardens were stirred by a light breeze, and Julia felt a sudden urge to be outside in nature. She spotted her copy of Evelina—which she was supposed to have read for the next meeting of the wallflowers—and decided that there was no better place to read it, than under a tree.
She requested the footman who had just taken her pelisse to give it back, and with a short word of her intention, set out for the gardens.
La! She thought cheerfully, as she slipped through the wrought-iron gate, this was what she needed. Peace, quiet, and a chance to catch up on her reading.
That the perfect seat on which to read just so happened to have the best view of Staffordshire House was of no importance, Julia told herself, as she flicked through the pages of her book, no importance at all...
With unseeing eyes, Julia read the first page of her book. As she reached the end of it, she realised that she could not recall a word that she had read, and forced herself to start again from the beginning.
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 6
