They passed into the next room, painted a cool shade of green. Her breath caught. Panels of serpents and dragons adorned the walls, giving the room a muted though somewhat menacing feel. She noted a grand piano in the corner. Was this where she was meant to play?
Clara murmured the question to her mother, who shushed her, with a whispered, “I believe we are to go farther.”
Go farther? She took a deep breath and followed the footmen.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Long Gallery.”
She gasped.
The restrained palette of the previous room had given way to an explosion of color, the room richly decorated in reds and gold. The Oriental influence was all the more clearly seen, with tasseled lanterns competing for attention with life-size figures of Mandarin-robed men. The walls were papered in a delicate design of bamboo and birds, while large urns and a great painted central chandelier added to the ambience. The room seemed to stretch forever, until one of the end doors was opened, and the illusion revealed to be one made by the strategic placement of mirrors.
“It is fantastic!” she murmured to Father.
“It is certainly not in any way restrained,” he muttered.
Similar comments could be heard from the clutches of guests around them.
“Marvelous!”
“Astounding.”
“Bizarre.”
“Most un-English.”
Clara smiled. The latter comment sounded like something she imagined Tessa’s brother George might say; he’d made his disapproval of the unortho dox quite plain during his visit. She wondered what Mr. Kemsley would make of it.
For herself, she wasn’t sure if she liked such dazzling decoration. It almost hurt her senses. She supposed it was designed to overwhelm, but the excess of the bizarre and the garish drew the gaze too quickly, not allowing time to peruse at leisure, and left her feeling somewhat unsettled.
She glanced around at the other guests. She recognized no one; her parents recognized few more. It seemed the Prince Regent’s guest list comprised not just the aristocracy, but also those who, for whatever reason, had piqued his interest.
Finally a figure she did recognize made her smile with relief. “Lord Houghton!”
“Ah, Miss DeLancey.” He bowed and greeted her parents. “I am so glad you are here. Tell me, what do you think of the place?”
What could she say? “It is certainly magnificent.”
“Enough to make you faint? Some ladies have, you know.”
Should a building really make one faint? Such a thing certainly did not seem hospitable.
“There will be refreshments soon. The Prince will be along shortly. He’s in the Saloon.” He smiled. “Perhaps I might be able to show it to you one of these days.”
She nodded, her thoughts awhirl in confusion. Wasn’t she only here for one visit? Surely any further visit would be dependent on how well tonight’s performance went. The blood pulsing in her ears rushed even faster.
Lord Houghton moved away, and footmen began bringing around trays of filled glasses. Clara sought the lemonade, certain the punch would not be conducive for the clear head she needed in order to perform at her best. After what seemed an age, when her legs were growing weary, the end doors were finally opened, and another footman strode forth. He murmured something to Lord Houghton, who turned to address the guests.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I request that you accompany me to the Yellow Drawing Room.”
The guests moved, their murmurings displaying the excitement Clara felt. Her moment was nearly arrived. They were herded, sheeplike, into a bright golden room, again dressed in fanciful chinoiserie fashion, with lanterns hung from plaster dragons, and white-and-golden furniture. Patterns of interlocked circles hung between green-and-gold silk drapes. Although not as visually demanding as the Long Gallery, there was still quite enough to draw the senses and make her long for a chair. A fainting miss she’d never thought herself, but the Pavilion certainly made her weak at the knees.
A door to the left opened, and at once the assembled company bowed. A most magnificently attired man drew near, his girth and regal countenance proclaiming him to be their host, the Prince Regent.
Clara gave her deepest curtsy, harkening back to the days of her presentation to his mother, Queen Charlotte.
The Prince drew closer, closer, his murmurs of welcome accompanying Lord Houghton’s hushed words of introduction. Still she held her curtsy. Her left leg felt like it might start wobbling when finally she spied a pair of gilded shoes. Her breath caught as she heard her parents introduced. Now it was her turn.
“And this is the Honorable Miss DeLancey. She is here to play at Lady Sefton’s behest.”
“And one must do whatever that good lady commands, mustn’t one? Rise child, you look as though you might topple over any moment.”
Clara pushed herself upright, and met a merry pair of rather protuberant blue eyes.
Those eyes opened a little wider. “Well, you are a pretty thing, aren’t you?”
She smiled despite her nerves. What was she to say to such a comment? “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Oh, don’t thank me. Thank Lady Sefton and Lord Houghton here; he’s the one who thinks you should be here. Now, tell me, is it pianoforte only, or do you sing as well?”
She swallowed. “I have come prepared for either, Your Highness.”
“Good, good. Well, there’s no need to look so nervous, my dear. I shall not eat you.”
“I am glad, for I fear I would not taste so very well.”
He laughed, a great booming sound that made heads turn their direction and her cheeks heat even more. His smile crinkled his eyes. “Well, I look forward to hearing you play. Anything you need, talk to Houghton here. Oh, and I hope you won’t take offense if I should feel it necessary to join in. I am rather fond of a good song, you know.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“Good, good.”
He moved on to greet the next guest, and Mother pulled her close, saying with shining eyes, “Oh, my dear! You seem to have taken his fancy, his particular fancy. He has not exchanged more than a dozen words with anyone else.”
Clara eyed her mother sternly. “Mother, please do not think more of it than you ought. I am here to play music, not to provide any other type of entertainment.”
“Clara!”
Mother’s whisper carried around the room. Clara caught sight of her scarlet cheeks in the looking glass opposite, cheeks which nearly matched the color of her gown. She turned away, studying the intricately patterned Brussels carpet. Finally, when it seemed she could not stand any longer, the Prince finished making his rounds of greetings and chose a chair at the center and front of the room, and the assembly was finally permitted to sit.
Lord Houghton rose and outlined the order of proceedings. A number of others had been selected to play, mostly pianoforte, though the large harp waiting suggested musicians accomplished to play that also. Clara was announced the fourth name of seven, giving her several performances to learn the correct protocol—whilst giving her several performances to grow all the more nervous.
Finally Lady Mansfield finished her sonata and it was Clara’s turn. Her hands were shaking, and she forced a wobbly smile as her parents wished her well, patting her arm as she moved past. She walked to the rosewood grand pianoforte, bobbed a curtsy to the future king, and sat down on the brass-inlaid stool.
Nerves thrummed within and without. She cast a quick look at the gathered assembly. Apart from her parents and the Prince, who were leaning forward, as if in anticipation, the others sat with expressions of hauteur, expressions with which she was all too familiar. Some of them seemed to sneer, as if to say, who is this young person? Others eyed her more knowingly, as if aware of her reputation. She swallowed. Attempted a smile. Turned back to the piano. Lifted her hands.
Lord God, help me. Use me for Your purpose.
And she began to play.
The rich tone of
the piano seemed to roll through her fingertips. She completed a run, felt her shoulders relax, the very movement giving ease within. She may never have played in front of royalty before, but this, this she had done so often she could almost do so in her sleep. And she opened her mouth and sang.
AN HOUR LATER, she was once again being congratulated, the Prince’s smile and clasping of her hands all the signal needed to show she had succeeded far beyond her mother’s highest expectations. Lord Houghton only confirmed it as he drew near, smile stretching across his face.
“My dear Miss DeLancey! What a hit you have made! The Regent just told me he has scarcely heard such talent in one so young. He trusts you can be persuaded to come again?”
“Oh!” She glanced at her parents, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, of course.”
“Wonderful! We’re having a little soiree here next Friday. I trust you’ll be free to attend?”
“If we weren’t we soon would be,” gushed her mother, her smile as bright and broad as Clara had ever seen.
“Wonderful. We’re expecting quite a few; tonight was rather more intimate.” His glance lingered on Clara. Her skin prickled. His smile widened. “I trust you will not mind performing for a larger audience?”
“N-not at all.”
“Good. I imagine there will be a few more of your acquaintances here. The Seftons, of course, the Asquiths, the Exeters, and the like.”
“The Marquess of Exeter?”
Lord Houghton waved a careless hand. “One of them at least. Could be the son? I cannot recall.”
Could she? Dare she? Nervousness quivered through her. Surely if she …
“Lord Houghton”—she licked her bottom lip—“I wonder if I might ask you something.”
Her parents were distracted, being congratulated by Lady Mansfield and congratulating her in return. When Lord Houghton nodded, she moved a little aside to avoid being overheard. “I know this is awfully untoward, but I wondered if the Regent would mind if I were to have a friend accompany me next week?”
“Is she young and pretty?”
She blinked. Nodded.
“Then of course he would not mind.” He leaned close. “He only minds when they’re old and hag-like. Much harder to flirt with, then.”
She managed to nod, smile, and thank him, before remembering snippets of an overheard conversation. “Oh!”
“Something else I can help you with?” He raised a brow. “Perhaps further advice on which music the Regent particularly favors?”
She gave him her best smile. “No, thank you. But I do appreciate your thoughtfulness. I’m sure you help so many people in so many different ways.”
“Another favor’s price cancelled by flattery. What else can I do for you, Miss DeLancey?”
“My friend would probably feel more comfortable in the company of her brother.”
“I see. And whom might this brother be?”
She told him.
He eyed her curiously, before saying slowly, “I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Lord Houghton.” She beamed at him.
He studied her a moment longer before nodding again and taking his leave. She watched him walk away, hope humming in her heart. Perhaps her appearance tonight was mere practice for the real performance to be held next week.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“HOW WAS IT? Was it extremely magnificent? Did the Prince talk to you? What is he like?”
Clara looked around at the eager faces. The Sunday service seemed but the precursor to their reporting of the night before last. Mother’s loud account of the night had surrounded her with eager listeners. Clara’s gaze settled on Tessa. “Have you not seen him before?”
“Never. But I’m told he can be most gracious when he likes somebody.”
Somehow Clara’s gaze strayed to Mr. Kemsley. His expression, unlike the others, was grave, as if he disagreed with the general verdict. Her heart panged, remembering what those ladies had said at the Sefton ball. Of course he would feel so, if it were true the Prince had not fulfilled his promise of reward. She forced her gaze to lower, to listen as the others praised the Regent’s magnanimity.
“Of course, he wasn’t so very kind to all those mistresses, leaving them with all those children.”
“Perhaps his morals should not be discussed in front of Theresa,” George said, with a warning frown.
“That’s right, George,” his youngest sister said. “Continue in your assumption that I am completely unaware of anything.”
Clara bit her lip. Somehow she had to let Tessa know that Lord Featherington would be in Brighton soon. Good heavens; he might be in town now! He did not seem the type to mind travelling on Sunday.
“Miss DeLancey?”
She spun around. Smiled. “Lord Houghton! How lovely to see you again.”
“And you.”
As they exchanged bow and curtsy, she noticed Mr. Kemsley eyeing the Chamberlain with a frown. She smiled to herself. Just wait until Lord Houghton revealed what she hoped he was about to say.
The older man glanced at her friends, his gaze resting on Tessa a moment before Clara remembered herself and performed the introductions. He nodded to Matilda, George, and Amelia, before smiling at Tessa again. It was hardly to be wondered at, for really, Tessa looked the perfect picture of sweet innocence, Clara thought.
“Miss Kemsley?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Meeting you today has proved most propitious.” He held out a small envelope to a collective gasp. “His Highness, the Prince Regent requests your company at an evening party this coming Friday night.”
“My company?” Tessa paled.
“Her company?” George frowned.
“Yes.” Lord Houghton turned to Mr. Kemsley and proffered a second envelope. “And yours also, Captain Kemsley.”
“Mine?” Sandy eyebrows shot almost to his hairline.
“His?” George demanded.
“Yes,” said Lord Houghton, offering Clara a small smile before turning to thread his way through the crowd.
“What?” George said, snatching the envelope from Tessa’s hand. “I cannot believe the Prince …” His frown grew more pronounced as he read the invitation. “I don’t understand! Why should Tessa of all people be invited to the Pavilion?”
Matilda met Clara’s gaze, her brow furrowed. “I have heard Prinny likes to flirt with pretty ladies. Did you encounter anything of the like?”
Clara could not help but notice Mr. Kemsley’s head rise at that. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on Matilda. “He was all that was kind and gracious.”
Mattie still seemed worried. “But I cannot like it. She is so young, and it will be quite overwhelming. Did you have any idea of such an honor?”
Clara could not admit to the truth. Admit she’d practically begged their invitations? No. “I’m sure it must be some consolation for Mr. Kemsley to have also been invited.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand this, either,” he said, frowning. “He has ignored my letters for months, then to receive a summons to the Pavilion? It seems most peculiar.”
“I cannot fathom how they could invite you when the person who by all rights should have been invited was me,” complained George.
“Perhaps the Prince wishes to recognize your brother’s heroism, Sir George,” Clara murmured.
He eyed her narrowly but did not speak.
Tessa had gone from white to pink to white again. Clara moved closer to hold her hand. “If it’s any comfort, I shall be attending also.”
“Oh, you will?” Tessa said, eyes huge. “Oh, that makes me feel so much better!”
“But where would we get the right attire?” Mattie wrung her hands. “We cannot send Tessa dressed in anything less than appropriate!”
Clara looked directly at George. “I imagine the head of the family would not wish for his sister to be so disgraced?”
He cleared his throat. “I … er …”
“I thought as much,�
�� she smiled sweetly. “If you like, I can take Tessa with me tomorrow to Madame Sabine, who I assure you is quite the best modiste to be found. She will be sure to know exactly how best to dress such a beautiful young lady.”
“But the cost!” he spluttered. “She will cost a small fortune!”
“Is that not what you possess?” Clara tilted her head, working to ignore Matilda’s barely smothered laughter. “I assure you, none of the ladies I saw on Friday evening wore anything less than their best. And I assure you their best was never what might be called … provincial.”
“But … but—”
“Then it’s settled.” Clara patted Tessa on the shoulder. “I will come to collect you tomorrow at ten. You need not worry, for Madame Sabine is a sweet dear, even if she does pretend to be French.” She glanced at Mr. Kemsley and held out her hand. “I trust you will not risk offending the future King of England by refusing to attend?”
His face still held traces of confusion, but he grasped her hand warmly. “I don’t know what to say. I suspect some sort of trickery, but I dare not speculate as to the source.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Probably wisest not to.”
He nodded; a twinkle appeared in his eye, then disappeared. He leaned closer, still holding her hand. “Would you be so kind as to advise me on what attire I should wear?”
“I’m sure that is a question best put to the head of the family.”
And amid a chorus of laughter, she made her exit and was gone.
“IS IT TRUE?” Mother demanded, when they arrived home.
“Is what true, Mother?”
“That the Kemsley chit is also going to the Pavilion next Friday?”
“She received an invitation, so I gather it must be.”
Mother frowned. “This did not have anything to do with your speaking to Lord Houghton last Friday did it?”
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 21
