by Mona Prevel
With equal disregard for the cost involved, magnificent staircases of wrought iron, also fashioned to emulate bamboo save for the handrails, which were made of mahogany, flanked each end of the corridor.
This rich array was repeated to infinity by the strategic placement of wall mirrors, causing Althea to be dizzied by the excess. She found the clash of colors unsettling, and wondered how their host could possibly wish to surround himself with such dazzling éclat.
A cursory scanning of the people who had arrived before her party proved to Althea’s relief that their host was not numbered among them. Not counting the four members of her family, there were fourteen in number. Either there were more guests due to arrive, or it would prove to be a very intimate little group.
She noticed that as usual, the gendtlemen huddled together in a corner, seemingly engaged in heated debate. Althea surmised that various aspects of the war taking place on the Iberian Peninsula were under discussion. She found it amusing how gendtlemen who had never set foot in Spain or Portugal knew exactly how the war against the French should be waged.
Four of the ladies had paired off and were strolling the length of the corridor, chattering away like magpies, no doubt exchanging on dits regarding the peccadilloes of persons who had the misfortune not to be present to defend their good names.
The other three, aging beauties with faces heavily made up in the manner popular in the era of powdered wigs and panniered dresses, sat at an ornate gilt table with their heads bent towards each other, deep in earnest discussion. Their rouge bled from their lips and cheeks into a network of fine wrinkles, reminding Althea of dolls that had been left out in the rain before their paint had dried.
The tallest and the thinnest of the group she recognized as Margaret Greenleaf, the Earl of Whitbrook’s wife, known for her vicious tongue. She had torn to shreds the reputation of more than one innocent. Usually, it was slyly suggested, ladies known to be diamonds of the first water.
To Althea’s dismay, probably at the prompting of the harpy facing the entrance to the corridor, the marchioness had the effrontery to turn around and subject her to deep scrutiny through a diamond-studded quizzing glass. Perhaps it is this sort of behavior that leads Mama to say that beauty requires courage, she thought grimly.
As if reading her mind, Celeste squeezed her hand and said, “Remember, ma petite. Care not a fig and consign the beldam to the devil—if he will have her.”
“Mon Dieu!” the marquis exclaimed. “Is she still alive? I had thought the Horned One to have claimed her years ago.”
“The old chap is probably terrified at the prospect of the mischief she could cause,” Philippe added.
“In which case,” the marquis continued, “I fear the lady just might be the first human ever to achieve immortality.”
Her fears allayed by their wicked humor, Althea relaxed, and as soon as their presence was announced, she raised her chin and glided into the room with all the regal dignity she could muster, her mother by her side, resolutely keeping pace.
The marquis and his grandson escorted them as far as the ladies promenading in their direction, then, with a few pleasantries and brief bows, scurried to join the other gendtlemen.
A few minutes later, the arrival of a Mrs. Howard and her daughter Mavis was announced. Mrs. Howard was a fine-looking woman of an uncertain age, well endowed in the bosom with hair a suspiciously bright shade of red. By her appearance, it would seem that her daughter was well entrenched into a life of spinsterhood.
“Who are they?” Althea asked.
“Mrs. Howard is a colonel’s widow,” Celeste replied.
“How sad. Lost his life in this dreadful war, did he?”
Celeste nodded. “At Trafalgar.”
Althea knitted her brow. “But I have never encountered the lady before.”
“I should not wonder. But now that His Highness has singled the Howards out with special attention, I suspect you will see them everywhere.”
Althea put Mavis Howard under close scrutiny. “I say. She is hardly the sort of female for whom I thought His Highness would harbor a tendre.”
Her mother raised a brow. “And never would,” she whispered. “It is the mother who has captured his interest”
Althea’s eyes grew wide. “But she must be several years older than the prince.”
“Really, child, how can you have reached your fourth Season in Society and not know that our prince has a weakness for matrons?”
Althea gasped. “Surely not”
“Do not look so shocked. I suspect that of late, his attachments are more platonic in nature. A little motherly sympathy along with his brandy must be very soothing.”
Before Althea could answer, she was surprised to hear George Delville’s name being announced. She wondered how someone of George’s lack of consequence had managed to be numbered among the very cream of the ton.
It did not take her long to find out. After a searching glance down the corridor, George made a beeline towards Althea and her mother, whereupon he made a deep bow to the older Lady Camberly with an accompanying effusive greeting before turning his attention to Althea.
His jaw immediately dropped.
“I say! Do forgive me. I did not recognize you for the moment.”
Althea gave him a cold stare. “Really, Mr. Delville? How odd.”
“I meant nothing untoward, your ladyship,” he responded, echoing her formal manner of address. “It’s just that you look so dashed beautiful and I was not paying close attention. It is quite understandable, I am sure.”
Althea dismissed him with a brief nod and turned her attention to her mother. George hovered about, looking absolutely miserable. Realizing that he was too intimidated to join the lofty ranks of the other gendtlemen, Althea took pity on him and accorded him a brief smile.
George snapped up the offered crumb like a starving puppy. “I say. I did so enjoy your ball last spring. It was the crush of the Season, don’t you know?”
Without taking a breath, he plunged headlong into a topic so beloved by any right-minded person in possession of even the slightest drop of English blood. “By the way, this has been a glorious day for so early in June. Would you not agree?”
Althea leaned forward and whispered, “For goodness’ sake, calm down, George. These people do not bite—at least, not in the literal sense, and I doubt they will subject you to any unpleasantness.’’
George looked crestfallen. “No, I suppose not. I lack the consequence to even be noticed. I wish the Prince of Wales had not invited me. These intimate little affairs are far more difficult to handle than a crush.”
“Cheer up,” Althea soothed. “Having the good will of Prinny should give you enormous cachet. To what do you owe your good fortune, do you suppose?”
“Baron Lampson invited me to a ball they hosted directly after you left Town in such a hurry. Prinny happened to overhear a comment I made with regard to Beau Brummel’s neck linen.”
Althea raised a brow. “Oh? Please elucidate.”
“I would rather not. But you must have noticed that of late, the points of Brummell’s collars and the elaborate fall of his cravats have reached such impractical extremes he can scarcely move his head.”
George took on a haunted look. “Just let us say that it was not the sort of remark a chap wishes to be known for, and it was but the merest whisper in Francis Lampton’s ear. Imagine my horror when I heard this great guffaw directly behind me and turned to face no less a personage than the Prince of Wales, taking high glee in my remark.”
“I have heard that Mr. Brummell’s odd behavior toward the prince of late is driving a wedge between them.”
“But do you not see? The prince has accorded me his regard on the strength of this one remark. Good heavens, Althea, I am not a great wit. I am not likely to trot out another syllable worthy of note if I were to outlive Methuselah.”
Althea laughed in spite of herself. “Yo
u underestimate yourself, George. Just be you. His Royal Highness is a kind man and will do nothing to hurt you, but in future please be more circumspect It does not do to make powerful enemies.”
George bowed, and with his brow knitted as if weighing her words, took his leave of the ladies to join the other gendtlemen. Althea shot her mother a rueful glance. “Poor George. The kind regard of our illustrious prince is on the verge of killing him.”
“Do not concern yourself, darling. George will survive. The worst that can happen is that invitations from the prince will taper off. Who knows? Perhaps your childhood friend is destined to become the darling of the ton.”
“Mama, do you really think so?”
“Hardly.”
“Oh, dear.”
The next guest to arrive was Lord Ridley. At the time, Althea was engaged in a polite exchange of chitchat with a young matron she had known since childhood. It had not taken Althea long to discover that they no longer met on common ground and had very little to say to one another.
Elizabeth married her husband, a Mr. Henry Beaton, one of the Prince of Wales’s cronies, during her and Althea’s very first Season. As Beau Brummell put it, “Before her dancing slippers had begun to show signs of wear.”
Her first child, a little girl, was born a scant nine months later, causing many a raised brow among the more raffish members of the ton. Their second child, a son, was just three months old. When news of the second baby’s birth was mentioned at White’s, Mr. Brummell expressed surprise. “Did not think Beaton was home often enough to accomplish the deed.”
As Elizabeth Beaton enthused ad nauseum about her children, Althea watched the viscount’s progress down the corridor out of the corner of her eye. She was surprised when he accorded her mother only the very briefest of bows. She wondered if their friendship was cooling. Marcus Ridley was not known for steadfast devotion.
Just about the time that the young matron’s droning had driven Althea into a state of glassy-eyed desperation, the arrival of His Royal Highness was announced. Elizabeth ceased her chatter in midsentence and hastened to her husband’s side. Thankful for the reprieve, Althea joined her mother.
At the same time, those who were seated rose to their feet, and all heads turned to watch the prince’s laborious descent down the staircase. As she made her curtsey along with the rest of the ladies, Althea noted that the heir to the throne’s girth had increased even more since the last London Season.
Charming to a fault, the prince made his way along the corridor, according each guest his full attention as he exchanged pleasantries with him or her.
When it was the turn of the Camberly ladies to be so honored, he addressed Althea first’ ‘My dear, you have blossomed into one of Society’s beauties, I see.” This remark was followed by a twinkling smile. “Splendid. Splendid. A lovely lady is one of the Deity’s more lavish gifts to the world.”
Feeling her face flush with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment at being singled out for such effusive praise, Althea mumbled her thanks. Immediately, she castigated herself for sounding like an idiotic pea-goose and frantically searched her mind for something intelligent to say. It was too late. The prince directed his next remark to her mother.
“Lady Camberly. It is always a pleasure to meet you—nay, an honor.”
This remark was made in a voice barely above a whisper. Raising his voice to a normal pitch, he went on to expound on the plans he had for extending the Pavilion; then, with a bow, he moved on to the next guests, who happened to be Mrs. Howard and her spinster daughter.
Promptly at half past six, dinner was announced. Their host approached the highest-ranking lady in the room—on this occasion it was the Marchioness of Whitbrook—and with a bow, offered her his arm. He then escorted her in to dinner, his guests pairing up and following behind them.
The dinner, as Althea expected, was comprised of a steady stream of courses and removes, accompanied by the appropriate wines. She took care to take only a small sampling of everything placed before her and partook of the merest sip of each wine, yet still managed to leave the table feeling horribly uncomfortable.
Afterwards the prince, well fortified by brandy and wine, entertained his guests with anecdotes in the large, round-shaped drawing room known as the Saloon. The laughter he garnered from wickedly mimicking the voices and foibles of their mutual political enemies drowned out the strains of a string quartet emanating from an adjoining room.
Amid the frivolity, Althea experienced subtle overtures from two of the younger gendtlemen, both of them married, one of them, to her distress, Henry Beaton, the husband of the voluble Elizabeth. This made her feel extremely uncomfortable and more than a little insulted. At first, she wondered if a too-cordial manner on her part had led the pair to believe that she was receptive to such suggestions, but a roguish wink from Mr. Beaton soon changed her mind.
According him a freezing stare, she rose and departed the room with the intention of seeking sanctuary in the gardens. While walking along the corridor, passing several footmen in the process, she happened to catch a glimpse of her image in one of the mirrors lining the wall. For a brief moment, she did not recognize herself, having forgotten the transformation her new dress and coiffure had brought about.
Suddenly her mother’s words made sense. It did indeed take courage to be beautiful. Along with the pleasant compliments and special deference one received, one also had to fight off the dishonorable overtures of out-and-out bounders. Althea wondered if the good outweighed the bad.
She was still debating this point when the sound of rapid steps coming in her direction gave her cause to fear that one of her would-be seducers was hot in pursuit A backward glance proved it was George Delville. With a sigh of relief, she waited for him to catch up.
Having done so, he looked about him and, jerking his head in the direction of a nearby footman who stood with his eyes fixed to the ceiling, said, “I think it would be prudent to move further down.”
Althea complied, wondering at George’s need for privacy.
George ran a finger along the edge of his cravat and cleared his throat It had always been Althea’s experience that such an act was usually a prelude to a situation she would rather avoid.
“Well, George?” she prodded.
To her dismay, he grabbed her hand. “Dear, dear, Althea, I must confess a love and passion for you that will not be quenched. Please tell me that my suit is not without hope.”
Althea snatched her hand away. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, George, behave yourself. I fear it is the wine that fans your ardor, not love.”
George retrieved her hand. “I swear it is otherwise. The moment I saw you this evening, I fell completely and utterly in love with you.”
Althea pulled her hand from his grasp once more. “Nonsense. I am the person I have always been. Nothing in my attitude towards life has changed that could possibly make you love me.”
“I have always considered you to be kind and considerate—now my eyes have been opened to your beauty.”
“Oh, dear. This evening is proving to be full of revelations. I, too, am viewing things in a new light.”
George’s eyes filled with hope. “Can it be that my love is returned?”
Althea shook her head. “I wish I could say otherwise, but your sort of love is far too shallow to last”
“How can you say that? Your refusal leaves me absolutely desolate.”
“You will get over it, George. If you truly regarded me with love, you would have considered me to be beautiful long before this.”
“But—”
“Pray let me finish. A woman’s beauty fades with age and, I fear, so will your love. I rather think that you would become yet another man who ogles young girls behind his unsuspecting wife’s back. I would not want that—would you?”
“Oh, I say. “George stared at her gape-mouthed, reminding Althea of a fish gasping for air.
In a wave
of pity, she patted his arm. “Just because we would not rub well together as husband and wife does not mean we cannot remain good friends, does it?”
“I suppose not,” George answered, his mouth turned down in a sulk.
“Splendid.” Even to Althea, her response sounded far too effusive. “If you hurry back, no one will suspect that anything out of the ordinary has taken place.”
George seemed relieved, and with a curt nod, wheeled around and returned to the gathering in the drawing room. As he opened the door, Althea heard the unmistakable sound of their host’s strong baritone waft into the corridor as he sang one of the popular songs of the moment It would seem that the festivities were well under way and it was highly unlikely that she would be missed for a while.
Althea walked the length of the corridor before finding access to the garden via a small anteroom. Once out in the night air, she covered a considerable distance, regretting the thinness of her slippers as the heavy dew on the grass seeped through the soles, soaking her stocking feet in a manner she found most disagreeable.
She had thought to sit on one of the garden benches before returning to the drawing room, but since they proved to be equally bedewed, she changed her mind and decided to rejoin the others.
As she retraced her steps, she heard voices coming from the midst of a small shrubbery. First, she heard the deep baritone of a man. The answering voice was soft and feminine, and all too familiar.
Althea was filled with foreboding. Oh, no. What on earth could Mama possibly be up to now?
Hating herself for doing so, a backward glance confirmed her worst fears. Her mother was not a small woman, yet the man’s form towered over her. It had to be Marcus Ridley—no other man present that evening could begin to match his stature. Then Althea noticed that although the two of them stood quite close, they did not touch one another. Not one gesture passed between them that could be considered untoward.
She quickened her pace across the lawn, thankful that the background roar of the ocean and a rising breeze rustling through the trees covered up the sound of her footsteps. As she tried to make sense of her mother’s odd behavior, she found she could come to only one conclusion.
