by Jade Lee
Chapter 13
Morning came late, thankfully, but when it arrived, it gave no mercy. Scheherazade was woken by Delilah, who brought tea and complaints. Her concerns were even written down in a rather ramshackle hand, but the words were clear enough. Kit had been meddling, and the troupe did not like it.
Scher dressed quickly, then went about soothing ruffled feathers. She told everyone she could that she would speak to Kit this very afternoon, that she would explain to him why he was wrong, that she would do everything in her power to keep things running smoothly. No one believed her.
The actors weren’t stupid. They all knew that as soon as she married Kit, their lives would fall into his hands. And as happy as they were at her coming change in status, they did not want it to effect their lives. In short, it had taken Kit one week to turn everyone in the company against him and their wedding. By the time Scher was in a hackney on the way to the countess’s tea, her shoulders were bowed almost to her knees. She had expected problems from Kit’s family, from his aristocratic friends, but never from the troupe or the man himself. Never had she thought Kit would create more difficulties when they already faced so many.
And damn it, why couldn’t Kit have come by to pick her up himself so she didn’t have to sit in this terrible hackney, crushing her skirts and picking up the smells of God only knew what had last been in the cab? She sniffed delicately, wrinkling her nose at the scents of urine, vomit, and stale perfume. There was also the strong scent of cabbage. She had on her own perfume, with extra in her tiny reticule for after she disembarked, but it would not be enough. A discerning nose—and she was sure that the countess had a very discerning nose—would detect every vile scent that clung to Scheherazade.
She thought fondly of Brandon’s high-perch phaeton and how she had felt when he handed her up. No noxious smells then, just the sweet spring air and mint. It was ridiculous to think that her affections could be purchased with a carriage ride, but she had felt especially grand sitting beside Brandon in his phaeton. Or she had felt grand until they made it to the park.
The countess’s home was in the most reclusive part of London. Pappy and she had once strolled through the neighborhood on a particularly fine autumn afternoon. But someone’s butler had spotted their commonplace clothing and chased them away. What would Pappy think now about her attending a party at this exclusive address?
Probably that it was all well and good to pretend to being royalty, but she should never try to walk among them for good. He was happy to playact at being nobility for an afternoon, but at the end of the day, he firmly believed that every man—and woman—had a place in society. She should not think to rise above it.
And that thought, she decided abruptly, was the last self-indulgent, pitying thought she would have for the rest of the day. Pappy was wrong. As were all the actors in the troupe. She was going to marry into the aristocracy and they could all take their complaints and their ideas of “place” and go hang! She would be respectable. In two weeks time, no less.
So with a sweep of her skirts, she stepped out of the hackney. She took a moment to pay the cabbie and sprinkle perfume across her skirts, then with a determined smile, she climbed the steps to the Countess of Thornedale’s front door.
She didn’t need to knock. The butler opened the door directly. He sneered at her, his disdain obvious, but she responded with a pertly raised eyebrow. And she held her stare long and hard until she was rewarded with a slight flush to his cheeks. She would pay for that flush, she feared. It was never a good idea to antagonize the butler of an establishment, but at that moment, she didn’t care. So she swept into the foyer and allowed the man to take her bonnet and gloves.
She was greeted immediately by the earl. It almost felt as if he had been loitering, waiting here, but that was ridiculous. Why would he be waiting for her?
“Good afternoon, good afternoon, Miss Martin. I am so glad you were able to make it,” he said as he brought her hand up for a quick kiss.
“Of course I would come,” she said breathlessly as she half stumbled into her curtsey.
“The thing is,” he said as she straightened, “I wondered if I might have a word with you about Brandon. Before you go into the tea and all.”
“What?” she asked, her mind splintering in panic. “I-I mean,” she stammered, “I’m not sure what I could know about Viscount Blackstone that you—”
“Well, he’s gone missing, you see,” he said as he tugged her down the hallway, presumably to someplace more private. “And I thought—”
What he thought was lost as the butler opened the door to three girls and their mamas. The girls were chattering away, as were the mothers, and the noise in the hallway abruptly became deafening. Then to complicate matters even further, the countess came down from the opposite end.
“Ah, there you are, Michael. And, Miss Martin! You look lovely, my dear. I can see Kit has helped you immeasurably in that regard.”
Again, Scheherazade sunk into a demure curtsey, inwardly pleased with her choice of gown. It was a blue one, as Kit said he preferred, made to Brandon’s instructions of not appearing as a nun’s habit. And, yes, she did feel like she looked quite good in it. Meanwhile, the earl had released her hand so she was able to credibly greet his wife, but Scheherazade could not shake the feeling that he expressly wished to discuss more with her. What did the earl know? Did he suspect that Scher had his brother secreted away in a neighborhood his bootblack would disdain to enter?
“Come, come, enough of that,” the countess trilled as Scheherazade stayed too long in her curtsey. “Come girls. As it is such a lovely day, I have opened the back terrace to the afternoon. We are having such a gay time of it outside.” So saying, she led the way through to the back.
Scheherazade had no choice but to follow, though she felt the earl’s eyes on her back. She didn’t dare glance at him, but her imagination supplied a dark and rather disapproving stare on his austere face. And then there was no time to speculate as she stepped into a party of twelve, mostly women, all gathered outside.
She saw Kit immediately. He was surrounded by three ladies of various ages. He looked up upon her entrance but didn’t spot her until she raised her hand in a wave. His expression lightened and he excused himself from his admirers to come to her side.
“You look lovely, Scher,” he said warmly. “I knew that blue muslin was just the thing.”
And how lovely it was that he announce to everyone that she had consulted him as to her dress. Especially since she had not consulted him. She gave him a pained smile and he chucked her under the chin.
“Chin up, old girl,” he said sotto voice. “This will be a lovely afternoon.”
Was he trying to be sweet? Or was he truly unaware that everyone was watching him reassure her? “Why, of course it will be,” she said with false brightness as she turned to look at the entire group.
“Yes, yes!” laughed the countess. “Do not monopolize her, Kit, especially when I have worked so very hard so she could meet everyone else. Go talk somewhere else, Kit. Let me introduce her around.”
And so Scher was neatly separated from her fiancé as the countess walked her about the terrace and even out to the grounds. There were mostly ladies about, all looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and loathing. Scheherazade tried not to be too sensitive at every stiffed greeting or slightly curled lip. Perhaps some of the women were suffering an illness. Perhaps their dresses were too tight. Or perhaps pudgy women dressed in too many flounces should not be so judgmental.
Then there were the men. Two, to be exact, plus the earl, who was sitting on the opposite side of the terrace and staring holes into her back. They seemed polite enough in this setting, but Scheherazade knew them all, as they were occasional visitors to the Tavern Playhouse. She dubbed them young, but tending to pompousness. They were not her allies, that was certain.
“Here is someone you must expressly wish to see, I am sure,” said the countess as she walked her to a
woman of middling height and soft features. She might have been pretty with her glossy brown hair and big eyes, but the coldness in her expression destroyed all pretense of beauty. “Miss Deidre Sampson,” the countess continued. “An old schoolmate of yours from Mrs. Cabot’s School for Young Ladies. I invited her expressly to make you feel more at home. Plus, it was thanks to her that I was able to invite another one of your dear friends, though he isn’t here yet.”
Alarms went off in Scher’s mind, but she didn’t have time to react as she finally remembered Deidre. She was younger than Scher, of excellent lineage, but possessed no money at all. Mrs. Cabot’s school was the best she could afford. But even at five years below Scher in school, the girl had wasted no time in showing her absolute disdain of those with a more suspect lineage. Scher had been a particular target. The girl had been vicious and cunning, and now she sat next to Kit and smiled that horribly false smile. Was it possible the woman had changed from the girl? Scher doubted it but knew better than to express her true thoughts. Instead, she smiled sweetly. Perhaps she could turn Deidre’s ways to her advantage.
“How wonderful to meet an old schoolmate. We shared such fun times as girls, didn’t we?” And in this way, Scher linked her history with Deidre’s. Perhaps the two of them together could turn the tide of aristocratic hostility.
“Mrs. Cabot had such democratic ideals,” she said with a sigh. “It is, no doubt, why the school closed. Some concepts are really not meant to be.”
Well, no ally there. And clearly Deidre hadn’t changed a bit. Scher wasn’t discomposed by that for she truly hadn’t expected anything different. But she felt sadness that Mrs. Cabot’s school had closed. The woman had been kind, and she was directly responsible for educating Scher in accounting and business practices. Without her, the Tavern Playhouse would surely have gone bankrupt years ago.
Meanwhile, Scher had no time to comment more as the countess spirited her around the terrace. And though the participants changed, the discussions took the exact same form. They always began with the weather, which was unseasonably cool, then progressed to one of three choices. First was dresses and that the color blue was overdone. Second choice was a lady’s refined education at the overly democratic Mrs. Cabot’s School for Young Ladies. And third was about upcoming balls or teas to which Scheherazade had never been invited. All innocuous taken one by one, all absolutely respectable topics, and every moment was designed to point out Scher’s lacks.
And then something disastrous happened. Something Scheherazade had not expected at all, and she had been expecting the worst. But this was beyond worst. This was unforgivable.
Charles Barr joined the party. Apparently, he was the other “dear friend” the countess said was coming.
He had gained weight since she’d last seen him, but there was no mistaking his overdressed refinement or the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. She saw the truth now, of course. She knew that his wealth was only middling, his background as a second son of a viscount only average for this company. Of course, she’d known all that when she was sixteen too, but what she hadn’t seen then was that his charm covered a calculating soul. That his intelligence was used half on the perfect form of flattery and the other half on how best to exploit his victims. In some dark ways, he reminded her of Kit—all sweet charm and boyish smiles. But at the core, Kit was kind. Charles was absolutely not.
“My apologies, my apologies for my tardiness, my lady,” he said to the countess as he bowed over her hand. “My poor mother had one of her spells, you know, so I was delayed. But I am here now, and eternally grateful for this moment of joy you have brought into my life.”
Scheherazade knew his mother, had indeed spent a great deal of time listening to tales of his mother’s ailments. The lady thrived on her “spells,” on creating all manner of illnesses such that all were forced to pity her.
And why, oh why, hadn’t she seen that the son’s character was not so far removed from the mother’s? If she had seen that Charles played the suffering son as perfectly as the mother played invalid, then perhaps she would not have been so charmed.
“And how is your mother?” asked the countess, her face filled with concern.
“She struggles, you know, but I am able to help her as needed.”
“And what a great son you are,” the lady continued. “But come, this is a time for fun. Miss Martin, come see who I have invited just for you. Deirdre tells me you and Mr. Barr were the best of friends once.”
“Why, yes,” Charlie picked up, his expression boorishly enthusiastic. “I was her first admirer, you know, when she was sixteen. Not the only one, I am sure, but certainly the most intimate. One never forgets the first, and I am honored to have taken that particular place in her life.”
Scheherazade felt her blood run cold. Raw fury could not stop the creeping chill that froze her where she stood. Right here, practically declared for all to see, was her first and only lover. She’d been sixteen and he’d promised her marriage. There had been mistletoe and a proposal. And then he had lifted her skirt and done as he pleased instead. When Christmastide was over, so were any plans for their wedding.
“You were never my friend, Mr. Barr,” she said, forcing words out from stiff and cold lips.
“Come, come, my dear!” he chortled. “Of course we were. I still recall that sweet mole on your backside with such joy.” He placed his hand on his heart in reverent memory.
She had no mole on her backside. She had nothing of the sort, not that anyone would believe her. She heard the gasps all around, most especially from the countess.
“Good God!” the countess cried with maximum effect. “Mr. Barr, such topics are not for discussion in this place! You insult me, and I must demand that you leave immediately.”
Charles was all apologies immediately. He stammered and bowed. He backed himself out of the terrace. But he never flushed, and he certainly didn’t seem surprised at the lady’s reaction. In fact, it was a rather poor performance, in Scheherazade’s opinion. A badly rehearsed play by bad actors, but it was effective nonetheless.
The Countess of Thornedale had just created a juicy on dit. Scheherazade could hear the gossip already. At a tea to celebrate the engagement of her husband’s cousin and Lady Scher, who should appear but the lady’s first paramour! He created a scene and was tossed out, of course, but what can one expect when inviting her sort to a party? Likely half the gentlemen in London have already enjoyed her favors.
The agony of it was that it was all true. Not that she had shared her favors with half the men in London, but that the countess had indeed found her first and only lover. She turned her agonized eyes to Kit. She saw two things in stark relief. His white face was prominent. And then, of course, down almost out of view, was how Miss Deidre Sampson laid her hand on top of his arm in sympathy.
“Kit . . .” Scher whispered. It was a soft plea, but it did nothing to break him out of his tight-lipped shock. And then the countess was there, all false concern as she fussed over Scher.
“Oh my goodness, oh my. Please forgive the upset. I had no idea he was . . . That he . . . And you . . . Oh dear!”
Scheherazade’s brain stopped functioning at that moment. She could see that the trap had been well and fully sprung. Any hope of a place in polite London society was over. Far from supporting them, the Countess of Thorndale clearly indicated her absolute hatred of this marriage. And without the lady’s support, there was no hope that she and Kit would redeem the situation by themselves.
So Scher stopped the pretense. She walked over to Kit and firmly gathered his hand from Miss Sampson’s. His skin was deadly pale and he moved as if a puppet. Worse and worse, she thought dully, but at least he disengaged from the party.
“Kit, would you mind escorting me home, please?”
He blinked. “Uh. Right. Uh. Not proper, you know. Need a chaperone.”
She nodded. “Of course. Perhaps you could walk me down to Hyde Park. I can arrange for a carriage from there.�
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He swallowed, obviously coming out of his stupor enough to nod. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Then he raised his eyes to Lily’s. “How did you find him?” he asked.
“Ah, sweet boy,” Lily said with what seemed like true regret. “It truly wasn’t hard. Not hard at all.”
Kit flinched and Scheherazade tightened her grip on his hand. She could not stand it if he deserted her.
He didn’t. Then they moved together into the main house, heading toward the front door. He walked in silence, obviously thinking hard. They collected their respective hats and gloves, which necessitated letting go of each other. And in that moment, the earl came bumbling forward.
He moved awkwardly, his face flaming with embarrassment. “Miss Martin,” he said. “Blimey this is difficult, but please. My brother, Brandon. Could you help me find him? Out of Christian charity? We are terribly frightened for him.”
Scheherazade stared at the earl, stunned that he could ask for her help after his wife had just assassinated her character. Scher lifted her chin, startled to find that a frozen body could still move, could still talk. “My lord, you and your lady wife are no longer invited to our wedding.”
And with that, she grabbed Kit’s arm and quitted the earl’s house. They walked in silence for a block or more. She prayed that he would say something. She wished that Kit were a man to brush off such a public humiliation and comfort her instead. But no such paragon existed, and Kit was no exception. They were just nearing an idle hansom cab when he spoke, his voice low and rather dull.
“Is it true?”
“That I have had many lovers? No. There was only one, and I was too young to see how stupid it all was.”
Kit nodded, then he raised his gaze to hers. “Was it him?”
