Presenting Miss Letitia

by Andersen, Maggi

  They were assisted inside, then Letty’s trunk was strapped to the back by the groom. He leapt up to join the coachman who told the horses to walk on.

  “We shall visit my modiste,” Lady Arietta said as they turned toward Piccadilly. “We have no time to lose to fit you out with a proper wardrobe, as the Season will soon be in full swing.” She cocked her head, her observant blue eyes twinkling. “And I suspect there is nothing in that trunk of yours worthy of our consideration. I do look forward to dressing you. I always wished for a daughter, but it was not to be.”

  Letty wondered briefly what befell her husband for Aunt Edith had made no mention of it, but she did not like to ask. As the carriage drew up in the street outside the dressmaker’s establishment, Letty had great hopes that any gowns Madame Rochette produced would be a far cry from Mrs. Crotchet’s. After all, the modiste had dressed Lady Arietta, whose outfit was in the first stare of fashion. Letty smiled at her benefactress, hardly able to believe her good fortune.

  Some hours later, Letty felt as limp as a wet glove when they left Madame Rochette’s salon. It was as she’d guessed, a far cry from Mrs. Crotchet’s establishment with the reception room walls covered in enormous gilt-framed mirrors and curtained areas in which to change. Seated on velvet couches, they’d sipped coffee while exquisite fabrics, furs, feathers, beading, and braid were brought for their consideration. Both the modiste and Lady Arietta seemed in accord. Their knowledgeable discussion of styles and fabrics made Letty’s head whirl.

  Lady Arietta’s carriage deposited them at her London townhouse, an elegant dwelling that overlooked Hyde Park. Footmen assisted them from the carriage before it was whisked away to the stables. Lady Arietta, talking all the time, led her through the impressive entrance hall, across a floor of marble tiles like a checkerboard, and up the sweeping staircase. They sat on a cream and gilt satin sofa in the elegant small salon while a footman brought glasses of madeira and placed a plate of wafer biscuits on the table before them.

  “We shall stay in tonight,” Lady Arietta announced. “You must be fatigued, Letitia. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it, being pulled this way and that?” She lifted her slender shoulders. “Unless you have something suitable to wear to Mrs. Fountain’s musicale?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Letty wished she could answer in the affirmative. Regretfully, nothing she had was stylish enough for a musicale, which she imagined would be an elegant affair.

  “I would lend you a gown if you were not taller than me.” Lady Arietta patted her hand. “Best we don’t go. Even though you’ve attended two balls, no one is likely to remember you. And you must make a suitably dramatic entrance. It’s a pity there’s no time to organize your come-out ball. But we shall do nicely. The streets are beginning to fill with carriages. Everyone who is anyone returns to London.” She smiled at Letty. “We have the Longtree’s ball on Saturday, and Madame Rochette has promised to have your gown ready.”

  Letty hoped Lady Arietta was right that no one would remember her; although a certain gentleman might. Of all the fabrics and styles finally settled upon, the ball gown stood out in her mind. It promised to be very different to the one she’d been wearing. “I can’t wait to see it!”

  “I promise you, it will be beautiful. Gentlemen will be lining up to dance with you, my dear.”

  Letty rather doubted it, but she smiled and hoped it was true. It would be thrilling, but more than that, she was eager to justify all the time and effort this kind lady was prepared to spend on her.

  “And tomorrow, we simply must shop the day away. You have need of a great many accessories to go with your new clothes.”

  Letty bit her lip. “The expense, Lady Arietta…”

  “Call me Arietta, Letitia, please. You have no need to concern yourself. Your aunt has given me a bank draft which will cover expenses.”

  “But that cannot be enough,” Letty said.

  A small frown creased Arietta’s smooth pale forehead. “It is quite generous!” She cocked her head again, a golden ringlet trembling against her ear. “You have a handsome dowry, my dear, did you not know?”

  Letty stared. “No…I didn’t.”

  “No doubt your uncle properly chose not to concern you with money. So vulgar, isn’t it! Whilst you are no heiress, you are not without the means to attract a suitable gentleman.” Arietta picked up her wineglass. She raised it. “Let us toast your Season, my dear!”

  While Letty couldn’t help wondering how much her dowry was, and why her uncle hadn’t seen fit to tell her, she grinned and raised her glass. It was all so terribly thrilling. She was sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

  Brandon entered the tavern which smelled strongly of male sweat and hops. He recognized the tall, thin man with graying hair at a table in the corner. Fraughton. Seated with him was the Frenchman, Pierse, who was shorter and younger by some years, speaking volubly, his dark head close to Fraughton’s.

  After he purchased a frothy tankard of ale, Brandon sat at a table out of their line of vision but still near enough to overhear them.

  With a furtive glance in his direction, they continued to talk, their voices low and urgent.

  “Would he have hidden it in his apartment?” Pierse asked.

  “It was searched but nothing was found,” Fraughton said.

  “What about Lavalette’s chateau in the Loire?”

  “That will be the next place we look, and we’ll have to search the apartment again. But it’s impossible to escape the Conciergerie. He’ll go to the guillotine, sure as hell.”

  “Oui! Then that will be the end of the matter.”

  Fraughton grunted. “Such careless thinking could get you hanged.” He glanced around again at Brandon who appeared interested in the two dock laborers arguing in the opposite corner. “What does it matter if Lavalette dies? The journal could still fall into the wrong hands. We must not give up until it’s found.”

  Brandon’s gaze flickered over them. Fraughton scowled, and Pierse looked close to unravelling.

  “What do you want me to do then?” Pierse asked with a surly look.

  “You must return to France…”

  Suddenly, the disagreement between the two dock laborers turned into a fight. A table was upset, spilling ale over the flagstones. The tavern owner, a burly fellow, moved to separate them by grabbing them both by their coat collars and heaving them outside.

  Just then, two more laborers, laughing at a ribald joke which Brandon caught the tail end of, came in.

  Fraughton muttered something to Pierse that Brandon failed to catch. The tall Englishman stood and left the tavern with the Frenchman casting an intense glance around at Brandon before following in his wake.

  One of the laborers also eyed Brandon with interest. He nudged the other man, saying something in his ear. A new face around the docks could cause speculation. Jobs were few and highly sought. Brandon drank the last of his ale, slammed down the tankard, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He rose and strolled out, only to see Fraughton and Pierse climb into a carriage.

  The weather had changed. A stiffening breeze thinned and cleared the clouds. Moonlight reflected in the harbor waters, and rats scuttled across the road. Brandon set out to walk to where his carriage should be. He hoped the promise of a healthy purse would ensure the jarvey’s return.

  He dug his hands into the pockets of his coat, reassured by the touch of cold steel. It was dangerous to walk about alone here at night even if he looked as if he had little more than a farthing to his name.

  Brandon turned at the sound of footsteps approaching behind him. The two laborers advanced purposely toward him. Swiveling, he faced them, while he cursed himself for his carelessness. He should have insisted the jarvey come down to meet him.

  Sly grins stretched their mouths, their coarse faces filled with intent.

  “What d’yer want?” Brandon demanded.

  “We ’aven’t seen the likes of you round ’ere.” The shorter of the two, a th
ick-set fellow, shuffled closer.

  Brandon preferred not to use his gun. A gunshot would bring people running to investigate, and it wasn’t wise to have himself talked about.

  The biggest of the two began to circle, a knife in his hand. Brandon took purchase on the road, pivoted, and delivered a well-placed kick to the man’s knee before the fellow could conceive such a thing might happen. He fell to the ground screaming in agony, the knife flying out of reach. With a sideways twist, Brandon raised his fists as the other thief charged him. A blow glanced off Brandon’s ear. His left jab landed on the thief’s jaw with a satisfying crunch, then he followed up with a right to the man’s stomach. The thief swayed, his eyes rolling back. Transferring his weight, Brandon stepped in and hooked a leg at the back of the man’s knee and pushed hard. With a scream, he went down. Brandon stepped in and stomped on his knee to make a thorough job of it.

  Both men lay groaning, as Brandon, taking no chances, took off at a fast run to where he’d arranged to meet the jarvey. If he came.

  And there he was. Brandon heaved a relieved sigh, his ear throbbing.

  “In a hurry, guv?” the man inquired, checking out the street behind him.

  “You might say that.” Brandon ripped open the carriage door. “Back to where you picked me up, there’s a good fellow. And hurry.”

  “Right you are. Move on, Sally!” The jarvey cracked his whip, and the horse, for all its worn-out appearance, went forward at a clip. “Knows her feedbag and dry stall awaits,” the jarvey called out, chuckling.

  Brandon was deposited on the road near his house. He paid the jarvey and entered through the back gate. No sense in scaring Cook half to death, he checked through the window. The kitchen was empty, the staff having retired, so he quietly climbed the servants’ stairs.

  When he slipped unnoticed into his bedchamber, Hove was waiting. “I expect you’ll be wanting a bath and a shave, sir,” the valet said with a grin.

  Brandon ran a hand over his prickly jaw. His grazed knuckles stung. “You have the right of it, Hove.”

  With nothing to impart to Willard, Brandon would need to pursue Lady Fraughton, which could prove difficult with the rake, Robert Marston, hanging around her.

  Some twenty minutes later, Brandon stepped from the hip bath and toweled himself. He was yet to discover just what Marston was after, apart from seducing Lady Fraughton. Once a rake had succeeded in their aims, and Brandon suspected Marston had, they usually moved on to another conquest. Brandon understood the rake’s mentality only too well. While he didn’t place himself in that category, because he had too much respect for women to treat them in that fashion, he didn’t place much faith in love, either.

  Chapter Six

  Letty sighed with pure joy. She turned full circle before the Cheval mirror in the elegant bedchamber assigned to her. The scoop-necked, sleek white satin underdress glowed beneath net as delicate as a spider’s web. The pale pink satin sash under the bust that she considered a clever touch, was echoed in the pink and silver, silk embroidery on the capped sleeves and around the hem. Her hair had been dressed by Arietta’s skillful French lady’s maid, Adele, who coaxed curls to frame Letty’s face, then tucked tiny fresh white flowers into the coiffure. Pearls, a parting gift from her aunt, dressed her ears and circled her throat. She wore embroidered white satin shoes and long white gloves, and tucked her handkerchief, a small bottle of perfume, comb, and needle and thread into her reticule with the silver tassels.

  “How pretty you look! As I knew you would!” Arietta exclaimed coming into the bedchamber. “The right gown and accessories do much for a woman’s charms, my dear.”

  Letty knew she wasn’t a diamond of the first water who would set London on fire, but she was delighted with the result. She complimented Arietta, who certainly had been all that when she was younger, and was still lovely, in a low-cut lavender silk gown, diamonds at her throat and ears. As Arietta’s mourning period had passed, Letty wondered why she did not appear interested in remarrying, when so many widows did.

  Arietta tucked her hand through Letty’s arm. “Shall we go and set the gentlemen on their ears?”

  Letty grinned and tried not to feel guilty about poor Aunt Edith ensconced in Cumbria. Her aunt disliked the country, and Uncle Alford might not be so pleased with her. She would write tomorrow and tell them all her news. It was sure to cheer her aunt up.

  The chaise took them to the Duke and Duchess of Dunstan’s home in Grosvenor Square. Entering the grand mansion, they climbed the staircase to the reception areas which had been thrown open to create a splendid ballroom where a line of footmen in puce and gold livery waited to serve them. The elegantly dressed guests gathered beneath three splendid Italian crystal chandeliers. Around the walls, seating was placed amid ferns and pots of oranges. The lofty ballroom resonated with chatter and laughter while a discordant sound came from the orchestra on the dais as they tuned their instruments for the next dance.

  As they were announced, their entrance caused quite a stir. Letty was glad of Arietta’s company when women halted in conversation to appraise her. The frank stares of some gentlemen made her shy, one reaching for his pince-nez to better view her.

  Arietta’s many acquaintances came to greet them. Letty was introduced to so many she doubted she would remember their names.

  A gentleman claimed Letty’s hand for the next dance, a quadrille, and they joined the dancers on the floor. When she returned, pleased that she’d performed reasonably well, she learned that most of her nine dances remaining had been claimed.

  The two debutantes Letty had spied at her first ball, sat together. Letty smiled at them. When they both returned the smile, she went to introduce herself. Miss Arabella Blake explained that she had come from Devon to stay with her grandmother who was bringing her out. Miss Jennifer Wallace, who lived in Ham, was under her married sister’s chaperonage. Now more at ease, they chatted for several minutes, until the quadrille was called, and Arietta beckoned. They parted, promising to meet again.

  While the ball was not quite as wildly exciting as she’d hoped, the evening passed pleasantly. Some men she danced with said nothing beyond the merest pleasantries, others expressed an interest in her life in Cumbria, when the movements of the dance permitted. All failed to cause any quickening of her pulse. Letty was engaged for the supper dance with a Mr. Boyce, a tall, studious gentleman just down from Oxford.

  Mr. Boyce led her into supper. He earnestly filled her plate and brought her a glass of ratafia. Letty soon discovered the best way to deal with him was to ask him a lot of questions about literature. While he answered, she sat and listened politely to him speak solemnly about Horace and Cicero. She nibbled the tasty food and allowed her gaze to roam the surrounding guests. Miss Somersby, having ignored her before, and whom Letty envied for appearing so at ease in Society, passed by on a gentleman’s arm. She deigned to acknowledge Letty with a regal nod. Letty, glad to be no longer invisible at least, inclined her head. Perhaps they might become better acquainted, although she rather doubted it.

  At a lady’s peal of laughter, Letty turned and found none other than Mr. Cartwright, talking to a pretty blonde woman. The lady coyly tapped him on the arm with her fan. She fluttered it open and leaned forward to whisper to him from behind the painted ivory sticks.

  Her comment must have been droll, for Cartwright chuckled.

  “I believe I might have met that lady in blue,” Letty said to Mr. Boyce with a nod in their direction.

  “Eh? Lady Fraughton?” Mr. Boyce paused in his glowing description of a work by Virgil. “She has captured the interest of that rakehell, Cartwright, I see.”

  “Oh. No. I must be mistaken,” Letty murmured. Was Cartwright a rake? Otherwise, why was he flirting with the wife of that gentleman they had overheard in the library?

  Boyce took her empty plate and handed it to a waiter. “Might I interest you in a dish of nuts or some trifle, Miss Bromley?”

  “You are most kind, Mr. Boyce
. I have been admiring that towering confection in the center of the table. Is it an ice?”

  “You are correct. An artistic arrangement, is it not? Might I fetch you some?”

  “If you would be so good. Thank you.”

  Her escort rose and hurried over to the long tables set with crisp white linen cloths and sparkling silverware. It was laden with sumptuous dishes: platters of lobster patties, chicken, thinly sliced ham, poached salmon, fruits, a selection of cheeses, and cake.

  “Good evening, Miss Bromley.” Letty glanced up at the deep voice. Cartwright’s amused blue eyes smiled down at her.

  Letty’s heart began a strange thumping, which quite unsettled her. “I hope you have not left the lady disappointed, Mr. Cartwright. She seemed enamored of your conversation.”

  He smiled. “You noticed?”

  She smoothed her skirts over her knees and eyed him. “Lord Fraughton’s wife, was it not?”

  He cocked a brow. “I believe we had an agreement to forget about that business in the library, Miss Bromley.”

  “Our agreement? You made the rules, Mr. Cartwright. You need not fear I will break them.”

  He nodded. “I merely wished to tell you how charming you look tonight.” His blue eyes danced. “The dress is quite lovely.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “If you plan to refer to my previous attire, I beg that you do not.”

  The smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “I would be quite beyond the pale to do so.”

  “You would indeed,” she agreed. “But still, I fear you might succumb to it.”

  “You have such a poor opinion of me,” he said in that manner she distrusted. “I should like to know what I have done to deserve it.”

  “As good manners prevent me from telling you, I fear you must remain in the dark, sir.”

  Mr. Boyce was shouldering his way through those clustered around the table, carrying a plate of ice cream. A frown furrowed his brow.