Birds of a Feather

by Allison Lane

  None of the gentlemen she had met this past week would deign to touch a filthy, bleeding dog. Especially a scraggly mop of indeterminate breeding. Yet he had not only examined the animal, but had actually picked it up, holding it comfortingly against his coat despite its objections. Even knowing the animal did not explain such disregard for his clothing. So he must be an unusual man.

  New heat rushed to her face. Her own behavior had been appalling. The stupidity of rushing in front of a carriage was bad enough, but mortification had kept her from acknowledging his presence. Then she had compounded her sins by babbling so incoherently that he could not have understood a word.

  That was another of her curses: Embarrassment tied both tongue and brain in knots, turning words into a mishmash of incomprehensible gibberish and mortifying truths – like the time she had addressed Lord Lipping by the village girls’ nickname of Lord Liplock, derived from his penchant for kissing the maids.

  She had been forgiven that one. Not so the incident of the squire’s steward. In her embarrassment over stumbling into a private discussion while in a trance, she had wondered aloud if the steward really was skimming the profits. The squire hadn’t suspected. The steward lost his job and threatened revenge. Both had been furious with a mere girl for meddling in men’s affairs. No one cared that the information had been true.

  She shook her head. At least she had only prattled to the dog this time instead of blurting out something horrid – like admiration for his broad shoulders, powerful arms, and unexpectedly muscular chest.

  Goose bumps tickled her neck, for he was very well set-up. The encounter had made her too aware of his assets. No padding enhanced that physique, and his strength had astonished her. She was not a frail, petite miss like Harriet. She was as tall as many men, and no one would ever describe her as slender. Yet he had picked her up as though she weighed nothing, crushing her to him from shoulder to thigh, and proving that her head fit perfectly…

  Forget his assets!

  She repeated the admonition as she climbed the steps to Wicksfield House. He had dismissed her as the insignificant servant she was. Nothing but pain could come from mooning over his splendid form. Her duty lay with Harriet, who would need all her attention. Distractions would lead to disaster, betraying Lord Wicksfield’s trust.

  * * * *

  The carriage crept closer to Ormsport House through streets jammed with the cream of Society.

  “Pay attention, Harriet,” snapped Lady Wicksfield, her nerves overset by the lengthy delay. The other gatherings they had attended had not been squeezes. “You will meet all the best gentlemen tonight, so you must remember which ones to encourage.” She sniffed. “Why did Symington have to wed? As heir to a duchy that controls a legendary fortune, he would have been perfect.”

  “Which is irrelevant,” pointed out Joanna. “He was betrothed well before the Season began. In fact, his betrothal predates your decision to launch Harriet.” The wedding had been discussed often during morning calls, but descriptions of Symington made him sound far too intelligent to have any interest in Harriet. “You could as profitably mourn the loss of any gentleman who wed before meeting her – including the Regent. After all, if he had only waited another three-and-twenty Seasons, he might have chosen Harriet, and we would not now be mourning the loss of the only heir to the throne.”

  Apparently the sarcasm worked. Lady Wicksfield squared her shoulders, addressing her daughter. “Lord Almont is an excellent possibility. He seemed quite taken with you last night, and Lady Thurston claims he is seeking a wife. Mr. Parkington was equally smitten. He lacks a title, but his connections are good, and his fortune is excellent. But you must discourage Mr. Singleton.”

  “It is early days to be narrowing her choices.” Joanna interrupted before Lady Wicksfield’s admonitions overset Harriet. The girl had a soft heart that made it impossible to refuse any request – another reason Joanna’s job included screening all suitors. “Mr. Singleton is too young to consider marriage, but he comes from a good family and is well liked, so his attentions are beneficial.”

  “Very astute,” agreed Lady Wicksfield. “Amassing a large court will attract notice.”

  “Let us not dwell on individual suitors,” she begged. “For now, I am more concerned with manners. This is the first top-drawer gathering we’ve attended, so making a good impression is crucial.”

  “I know that,” said Harriet.

  “But we will review it again, because most of the Almack’s patronesses will be here tonight. You must remain at my side whenever you are not dancing.”

  “Of course,” murmured Harriet, but her mind was clearly elsewhere.

  “What did I just say?”

  “Don’t go outside?”

  She sighed. “You should not go outside without my permission, but I was talking about watching your manners inside as well. The patronesses will be here this evening.”

  “The Almack’s ladies? What if I do something wrong?” She had Harriet’s attention, but fear now blazed from the girl’s eyes.

  “You won’t, if you are careful. Smile. And always think before you speak.”

  “About what?”

  “About the words you want to say and whether they will draw censure.”

  “Oh.”

  “I will keep track of your dance partners. But do not accept any invitations without asking me first.”

  Harriet shivered.

  “Relax,” she advised. “Everyone else knows the rules, so there should be no trouble. The important thing is to think before you speak.” She had nearly reminded her to keep Wicksfield’s dilemma a secret, but they were pulling up to the door. Harriet was likely to blurt out the last thing she had heard.

  The ballroom was impressive, more than making up for the long delay in the receiving line. Lady Ormsport had draped pale pink muslin in great swags to lead the eye toward masses of flowers that rivaled the most luxuriant gardens. The ostentatious decorations increased Harriet’s excitement. Joanna shuddered, foreseeing disaster unless she settled the girl down.

  “Keep your expression calm,” she murmured as they plunged into the crowd. “Try to look as elegant as this room. Walk slowly and keep your hands close to your body.”

  Harriet stopped a moment, then moved on at a more sedate pace. Most of the guests were too engrossed in gossip to note their passing.

  “Fosdale had been dead a fortnight, but they didn’t receive notice until after the ceremony,” a gentlemen was saying as they passed.

  His companion snorted. “I’ll wager ten pounds that Lady Glendale held up the letter so the wedding could proceed. She wanted the chit off her hands so she could concentrate on finding wives for her sons.”

  “Ten pounds it is. She would never have opened a letter addressed to another.”

  Ignoring Fosdale’s death, Joanna followed Lady Wicksfield toward a less crowded corner across the ballroom. She had already heard the tale from Harriet’s maid. But the other information was new. Who was Lady Glendale? Would her sons be acceptable suitors for Harriet’s hand? She again rued her ignorance of noble families. With no information beyond the woman’s title, she had no idea of her place in Society. Her husband could be anything from a knight to a marquess.

  “Why are they frowning?” whispered Harriet.

  “They are discussing a death. Their smiles will emerge in a moment. Always match your expression to the topic under discussion. Just remember that smiles should never widen into grins. Restraint is important, for the prevailing fashion is boredom. By controlling your expression, you can also control your impulses, thus presenting a proper image to the world.”

  If only she had remembered that earlier. By controlling her impulses, she could have avoided the embarrassment of dashing in front of a carriage.

  She let Harriet chat with Lady Thurston’s daughter while she scanned the crowd. A few girls wore revealing gowns such as the countess had wanted for Harriet, but they were accompanied by avid mothers who were activ
ely shunned by the most elegant gentlemen – a reaction that increased Joanna’s determination to hide any hint of desperation. Harriet’s fragile beauty must stand on its own.

  At least Lady Wicksfield spent most of her time with Lady Thurston and other old friends. The countess could easily become one of the matchmaking mamas that eligible men avoided.

  Joanna’s own tactics seemed to be working. Within minutes, Harriet was surrounded by gentlemen they had met at earlier gatherings. Some introduced friends. As the crowd grew, other gentlemen stopped to see who was raising such interest. Most of the newcomers were barely out of school, but some were older, raising hope for finding a good match despite their late arrival.

  Yet the very size of Harriet’s growing court made Joanna nervous. She knew nothing about these gentlemen except that they were accepted by Society. But mere acceptance was insufficient. Harriet needed a husband who cared for her.

  Lady Wicksfield was no help. She rarely looked beyond the title and fortune she used to judge worth. Lady Thurston was little better, and her determination to snare the wealthiest lord for her own daughter made her assessments suspect. At least one gentleman she had recommended had a reputation for lechery and gaming.

  By the time Harriet joined the first set, Joanna was brooding in earnest. How was she to discover the truth about any suitors when all of Society hid behind social masks? She chatted with some of the other chaperons, eliciting comments on Almont, Parkington, and a dozen others. Three sets later, she was more confused than ever. No two opinions matched. Everyone had different criteria for accepting or rejecting suitors.

  “Mr. Wethersby wishes to drive me in Hyde Park on Wednesday,” said Harriet when that gentleman escorted her back to Joanna’s side at the conclusion of a reel. Lady Wicksfield had long since abandoned them.

  “She would be delighted to drive with you, sir.” Joanna smiled to remove any sting from her next words. “But she is already engaged to drive out that day.”

  “Perhaps Thursday?” he asked.

  “That is agreeable.” At least Harriet had remembered to ask – or Wethersby had reminded her. The man was too young to be a serious suitor, but Harriet’s appeal was working. She relaxed slightly.

  Wethersby left to find his next partner. Half a dozen eager sprigs converged, hoping to claim a spot on Harriet’s dance card. But only waltzes remained, which made her card effectively full. Harriet had not yet received permission to perform that step.

  Mr. Singleton had just left to procure lemonade when a ripple of laughter drew her eyes to a nearby cluster of gentlemen. In its center, her rescuer gestured with a quizzing glass, his face reflecting weary boredom.

  “Shockingly shatter-brained,” he pronounced with a sigh. “Though not as blind as I first thought. She uttered the word dog while pointing to a member of that species. Such a pity she hadn’t learned the word horse. They are so much easier to spot.”

  Another laugh rippled through the crowd.

  Joanna froze. Odious man! He was deriding her, turning her into a laughingstock. She had thought him chivalrous, but this was downright cruel. What would happen if he recognized her?

  His eyes wandered lazily around the ballroom as he waited for the laughter to subside. Her first inclination was to duck, but sudden movement would draw his attention. She could only hope that he hadn’t looked closely at her – gentlemen rarely noticed servants unless they had improper designs on them. It was a fact she must remember now that she had embarked on a life of servitude. But her looks were so average, she should not be in danger. Unless he had noted her height. A quick glance around the ballroom brought relief. There were half a dozen ladies as tall as she.

  His gaze paused assessingly on Harriet, then slid on with no flicker of recognition, allowing her to breathe again. She was one of the few people who wore spectacles in public, needing them if she was to adequately watch Harriet, but he had not connected her to the woman he was holding up for sport.

  “’Twas Lady Barkley’s Maximillian – again,” he said on another long-suffering sigh. “That makes twice this week I’ve had to return the creature.”

  “As have I,” remarked a man whose shirt points nearly reached his eyes. Billowing Cossack trousers obscured his legs.

  “And I,” chimed in a sprig.

  “As has each of us, I expect,” added Lord Almont. “If anyone is shatter-brained, it is Lady Barkley. Maximillian spends more time on the town than most gentlemen.”

  “He ruined a most refreshing toddle by rumpling my favorite coat,” intoned Joanna’s rescuer. “I had to summon a carriage.”

  Joanna turned her back, determined to concentrate on Harriet. But she remained uncomfortably aware of him. If she had thought him elegant this afternoon, his appearance tonight was breathtaking. His cravat was an artistic masterpiece arranged in a style she had seen nowhere else. His dark blue coat clung so tightly that it must have required several assistants to ease him into it, yet it did not seem to hamper his movement. Every muscle of very shapely legs was on display under ice-blue pantaloons that exactly matched his eyes. Silver embroidery on his white waistcoat glistened with every gesture. Despite moderate shirt points and a single fob, he immediately cast every other gentleman into the shadows. Only his quizzing glass hinted at ostentation, its handle encrusted with blue gemstones.

  “Why does everyone hang on his words?” asked Harriet, nodding toward the speaker.

  “That is Lord Sedgewick Wylie,” Mr. Craven informed them, appearing surprised that anyone must ask. “He is the most powerful man in London.”

  “Like the Regent?” Harriet sounded breathless with awe.

  “Socially, he is more powerful than the Regent,” he said, smiling. “He can elevate a nobody or ostracize an Incomparable. He wields more authority than even Brummell did, for there is nothing about him that one can criticize. He does not drink or game to excess and has never been rakish. His knowledge of fashion and style is unmatched, as are his manners and breeding. And he possesses one of the larger fortunes.”

  “He sounds quite frightening.” Harriet batted her lashes.

  Mr. Craven stepped closer in protection. “You needn’t fear him, my dear Lady Harriet. No one could ever find fault with you.”

  Joanna frowned, so he retreated to a more seemly distance.

  “Are you sure?” Harriet asked.

  “Even Lord Sedgewick would adore you,” Mr. Craven assured her. “Though that is typical of his power,” he added, nodding toward the gentlemen, who were now debating who had rescued Maximillian more often. “There is not a man in London who cares a whit for that plagued dog. It looks like a mangy rat and has a hideous disposition. But it belongs to Lord Sedgewick’s dotty aunt, so we all trip over our feet to keep it from harm. A perilous undertaking. It escapes a dozen times a day and has bitten more than one captor. It nipped a hole in my favorite coat only last week.”

  “How awful!”

  Mr. Singleton returned, bearing lemonade.

  Joanna sighed. Harriet had captured another heart, though Mr. Craven was too young for marriage. As was Mr. Singleton, who also gazed rapturously into her eyes. Yet she now wondered if they were as acceptable as she had thought. Maximillian was sweet and gentle, so what had Mr. Craven done to incite attack?

  Keeping an ear on their discourse, she turned her eyes back to Lord Sedgewick. She had heard of him, of course. His name arose in nearly every conversation. The premier dandy of London. The ultimate arbiter of fashion. The man who could make or break Harriet’s Season.

  She shivered.

  If she had known his identity, she would have fainted dead away. Why did it have to be Lord Sedgewick who had witnessed her lapse? Would he blame Harriet for her chaperon’s idiocy?

  Nothing underscored the gulf that separated her from the polite world more clearly than admitting yet another misunderstanding. After listening to the awe that accompanied every mention of his name, she had imagined him cloaked in brilliant colors, bedecked in jewels,
and strutting about with his nose in the air whenever he left off preening before mirrors. Only now did she realize her error.

  If Lord Sedgewick was the ultimate dandy, then his following must encompass those who stressed understated elegance and absolute cleanliness. An important point, she realized as Lord Wiversham strode past, reeking of musk that failed to hide the fact that he never bathed.

  But despite Lord Sedgewick’s reputation, her opinion of him had sunk. A true paragon would not hold her up to public ridicule, no matter what her station. It called his supposedly exquisite manners into question.

  As he paraded about the ballroom, she wondered what other mistaken impressions she had formed. Lord Sedgewick was not the only one displaying manners inferior to those she had observed at less exclusive gatherings. Ladies, especially marriageable girls, fawned on him, flirting outrageously and boldly stepping out to block his path. Since he wielded so much power, why did he not chastise such unseemly antics?

  Yet she could understand their desperation. The Season was advancing. Girls without suitors feared failure, so they cast aside their demure façades. And not just with gentlemen. More than one glare had been directed at Harriet for attracting a court despite her late arrival. Those whose admirers had defected made little attempt to hide their irritation.

  But Lord Sedgewick could keep them in line if he chose to exercise his power. Few would dare to cross him. Recipients of his nods and bows nearly swooned in delight.

  A crowd of sprigs trailed in his wake, copying his gestures. If he raised a quizzing glass, they followed suit. If he smiled, so did they. A mild compliment could bury its recipient under a wealth of gushing praise from the sycophants – all meaningless.

  His posture reflected the condescending arrogance she had sensed that afternoon. His chest protruded, the effect enhanced by an elevated chin and a discreet ruffle cascading down his shirtfront. When added to his stiff carriage and unsmiling face, it gave him all the hauteur of her father’s prize goose.