A Christmas Gambol (12 page)

It did not occur to him that the Duke and Duchess of Morland might be there. He met them everywhere, and was beginning to overcome the sense of
gêne
at the encounters, but with Sissie’s sharp eyes to scout out his secret, he hoped to avoid the Morlands.

Chapter Ten

When a minor crisis arose at Whitehall that afternoon, Brougham called a meeting of the Whig shadow cabinet. After Montaigne’s dereliction that morning, he didn’t feel he could miss it. He wrote a note apologizing to Cicely and postponing the trip to Bond Street until the next day. She was relieved to receive it. The sky was overcast, and between riding out with Gresham in the morning and the rout in the evening, she hadn’t left herself any time to work on the pantomime.

What she had in mind was a comical piece in which the hero was against Christmas, and his dame contrived all the usual decorations, food, and festivities by a series of pretexts and excuses that became more ludicrous as the piece progressed. This allowed for musical numbers by the carolers and a bit of comedy by the mummers. It would end with the usual Christmas dinner in a fully decorated dining room, with the hero, played by a lady, assuring his dame that Christmas was all humbug. They had had a perfectly fine day without all that stuff and nonsense.

Once Cicely began work, the thing fairly wrote itself. She had a rough copy by five o’clock. Another day or two to polish it and add some more jokes, and she could give it to Mr. Palin in plenty of time for rehearsals on Monday. She was in buoyant spirits for the rout party that evening.

The Fairlys were also in good spirits, anticipating another performance as invalid and nurse. When his wife was courting him, as she was on the evening of Lady Radcliffe’s rout party, Fairly paid little heed to other ladies. Had the rout occurred during one of their tiffs, he would have been enchanted with Cicely’s appearance.

She wore her chestnut locks drawn to one side, tethered with a white rosebud. Curls bounced saucily against her shoulder. The peach-colored gown of Italian crape with the silver net overskirt, which she borrowed from her hostess, looked quite ravishing on her. With Anne’s small string of diamonds to add the final touch of glitter, Cicely was all the crack.

Fairly scarcely glanced at her, but when Lord Montaigne arrived, he looked across the room at the apparition, came to a dead stop, and stared in blatant admiration tinged with astonishment.

“Don’t look like that!” Cicely scowled, when he advanced to make his bow. “I know I look abandoned, but all of Meg’s gowns are like this.”

“Strange, they never looked like this on Meg,” he murmured.

“Sissie has done us proud, has she not, Monty?” Meg said. “I shan’t blush to sponsor her into Society.”

“
I
shall blush like a blue pig!” Sissie said, glancing unhappily at the fulsome expanse of bosom above her gown.

“If you could contrive to be less conscious of your—er, bodice,” Montaigne said, caught between a frown and a grin, “then others will not be so aware of it. Remember Lady Godiva.”

“I expect you’re right. Once I am among other seminude ladies, I shan’t feel so exposed.”

They had a glass of sherry and were off to Lady Radcliffe’s. Montaigne took Cicely in his carriage, as the Fairlys had spoken of darting along to a couple of other dos after they had exhausted the admiration of the Radcliffe party.

Cicely gazed all about at the elegant West End mansions as they drove along to Half Moon Street. When they reached their destination, she made a mental note of the torches flaming in front of the house to lighten the guests’ path. The entrance hall, decked out like a summer flower garden—and for only a simple rout—left her speechless.

“I am the only lady here not wearing a fur wrap!” she whispered to Montaigne when he helped her remove her woolen pelisse.

“Fortunate you don’t have to wear your wrap into the ballroom. No one will know.”

“They will notice I am the only lady wearing chicken-skin arms. It was chilly outside.”

As her arms looked fine to Montaigne, he took her remark for a case of the jitters.

When they entered the ballroom, Cicely had to make a conscious effort to keep her mouth closed. She had never seen so many precious jewels, such expanses of silks and satins and female flesh, so many quizzing glasses lifted to examine her until she felt like the bearded lady at the traveling fair. Nor had she ever smelled such a stifling miasma of heady perfumes, all aromas competing to overpower the olfactory sense.

“The assembly at home is nothing to this,” she said in an awed voice, as she gazed around like a regular Johnny Raw.

Montaigne inclined his head to hers and inquired softly, “Do you still feel nude?”

“Ye-e-es,” she said uncertainly, “but at least I look like the other ladies. I should feel like a complete dowd if I had worn a decent, modest gown.”

The cotillion was in progress when they arrived, so that their first moments were spent mixing with other guests who had come late. Before long, Cicely’s attention was caught by a young lady so startlingly beautiful she took the breath away. Hair with the jetty iridescence of a crow’s wing swept back from a noble brow. The complexion was ivory, tinged with pale rose on the full cheeks. Cherry-ripe lips opened to reveal a set of perfect pearly teeth. A sequin-spangled gown of white lent an angelic touch to the vision. One felt there ought to be wings sprouting from her shoulders. Cicely couldn’t detect the color of the eyes from across the room, though she could see they were large and wide set.

She tugged at Montaigne’s elbow and asked, “Who is that beguiling creature with the little man in the burgundy jacket?”

Monty followed her glance across the room. When he beheld the Duchess of Morland, his body stiffened. “The gentleman with her is her husband. They’re the Morlands,” he said, trying for a tone of indifference.

“You cannot mean she is married to that little ankle-biter with the bulging eyes!”

“Yes. You haven’t met the Dartmores, Sissie. Let me introduce you to them.” He quickly moved her along the room.

His ruse failed. No sooner were they in conversation with the Dartmores than Cicely resumed the subject of the Morlands. She was having a quiet word with Lady Dartmore while the gentlemen spoke of horses.

“Mrs. Morland is very beautiful, is she not?” she said, gazing across the room.

“Mrs. Morland? I don’t seem to recognize the name.” Lady Dartmore looked, and beheld Debora. “Oh, you mean the duchess. Yes, she was last Season’s Incomparable.” She lowered her voice and added, “But perhaps we ought not to discuss her in front of Montaigne.”

Comprehension dawned in a flash. “Just so,” she said and, at the first opportunity, drew Montaigne away to tease him.

“Would you like to leave, Montaigne?” she asked, feigning concern, but her sparkling eyes alerted him to mischief.

“Leave? We just arrived. We haven’t had a dance yet.”

“To be sure, but
she
is here.”

He gave her a belligerent stare. “I shan’t add to your amusement by pretending I don’t know whom you’re talking about. Of course Debora is here. The Morlands go everywhere.”

So that was her name: Debora. “It was very brave of you to come, and I do appreciate it. Do you think you are up to presenting me to her?”

“Why do you want to meet her?” he asked irritably.

“Use your head, Montaigne. Where else am I likely to see amethyst eyes? They are as rare as three-legged hens. I wouldn’t miss it for a wilderness of monkeys.”

To refuse would only add to her curiosity and lend a misleading seriousness to his past history with Debora. But they would do no more than say good evening.

“Very well,” he said, bracing himself for the ordeal.

He took Cicely’s elbow and led her around the corner and down the far wall until he came to the Morlands. While he presented Cicely, she made the proper greetings, but her attention was all on the famous eyes. They were exactly as the author of
Chaos
had described Eugenie’s eyes. They changed from violet to a shadowy indigo, depending on the light. The duchess’s voice, too, had that same zephyr-like quality often mentioned in the book. Cicely would have called it a little girl’s voice. It was high-pitched and so light one had to listen closely to catch her words. Once caught, they hardly seemed worth the bother. She uttered nothing but the most common banalities.

“Charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Cicely,” she said while her gaze fluttered over Cicely’s shoulder to Montaigne.

His effort to walk on to another couple failed. Morland had latched on to Cicely. As they all stood talking, Cicely noticed that the duchess’s hands fluttered like butterflies—just as Eugenie’s hands fluttered. Other little things, too, reinforced the likeness. She had a beauty spot on the left corner of her chin. Eugenie’s was on the right corner, but taken altogether, the similarities were too striking to have occurred by chance. The Duchess was Eugenie Beaureport. But there was no way in the world that the duke was the handsome, dashing Lord Ravencroft.

Ere long, the duchess’s banalities turned to complaints. The general behavior of the Morlands reminded Cicely forcefully of the Fairlys’ before their latest rapprochement.

“I told Morland I didn’t want to come here tonight,” the sweet voice said. “The Rutlands are having a masquerade party. I had a lovely costume made up.” An adorable moue drew her lips into a bow.

“No use for costume parties,” Morland said firmly. He had been paying Cicely marked attention. When the dancing stopped, he said, “Miss Cicely, may I have the pleasure of the next set?”

“I should like it. Thank you,” she replied, and was led to the floor in hopes of discovering the identity of Lord Ravencroft. It proved beyond Cicely’s powers of invention to ask the question, however, as she spent her time fighting off Morland’s advances.

Montaigne had taken for granted that he, as Cicely’s escort, would have the first set with her. He felt a definite sensation of pique when she left with Morland. And to make it worse, he was now in the position of having to stand up with Debora, with all of Society tittering behind raised fingers and fans. Next they would be saying he had become her lover. It was some small consolation to see that Cicely was not enjoying herself. Even as research material, Morland was useless.

Chapter Eleven

When the set finished, Cicely was swept away with another gentleman. Montaigne, watching from the side of the room, judged she was better entertained by Mr. Witherspoon, an eligible bachelor about town.

Fairly became bored with being an invalid and decided he was cured. He took off his sling and went after Cicely for the next set. Meg stood up with Morland, who had discovered Lady Fairly was the means of access to Miss Cicely, whom he praised with the ambiguous description “a regular little guy.” Meg hadn’t the least notion what he meant, nor could he elucidate when she asked him.

When supper was announced, the Morlands accompanied the Fairlys, Montaigne, and Cicely to the table.

Morland flirted with Meg; Fairly ogled Cicely and the duchess more or less equally, Montaigne was as close to a fit of sulks as was possible for a gentleman of his years, and Cicely had a marvelous time ferreting out the secrets of Society.

The Prince Regent, she discovered, was having an affair with someone called Lady Hertford, much to the gratification of the lady’s husband. Everyone was carrying on with everyone else’s spouse. Cicely began to think she had straggled into Sodom and Gomorrah. It seemed the only faithful lady in all of London was someone called Emily, but eventually even Emily disappointed her. It was the lady’s lover, not her husband, to whom she was so faithful.

All this disillusionment did not prevent Cicely from watching Montaigne and the duchess. She could discern no overt advances on his part and was forced to the conclusion that only a red-hot affair could account for his flagrant indifference to such compelling temptation.

After a midnight supper, the Fairlys continued on to another rout. Cicely was hagged and asked Montaigne to take her home. He called for his carriage at once.

“You were right to speak of the fleshpots of London, Montaigne,” she said, drawing her gloved hand across her forehead. “I had no idea there was so much debauchery in the world. Is no one faithful to his wife in this city?”

“We know no ill of the king, in that respect,” he replied. “Unlike his sons.”

“But the rest of them ...”

“There are many good marriages. Those unfashionable folks are not spoken of. Who would listen if one said Lord Eldon went home to his wife every evening?”

“I’m monstrously relieved to hear it. And now I should like to speak of something closer to home. About the Duchess of Morland ...”

Montaigne schooled his voice to indifference. “Well, you have met her. What do you think?”

“I think you were fortunate she jilted you. One can see how you were bowled over by her appearance. She is quite the loveliest creature I have ever seen, but not much to say for herself. Of course I expect the fact that your affair now has to be clandestine adds a certain element of romance and danger, but—”

“My affair!”

“Well, you are seeing her, aren’t you?”

“Certainly not!”

“Really?” She squinted suspiciously in the darkness. “From the way you never looked within a right angle of her, I made sure you two were carrying on a madly passionate affair.”

“I am shocked at you, Sissie!”

“Doing it too brown, Montaigne. How can anyone who spends so much time in London be shocked by anything? Even the Prince Regent—imagine!”

“Especially the Prince Regent.”

“And they say his mistress isn’t even pretty.”

“One soon tires of a pretty face.”

“Or even a beautiful one. The duke is bored with his duchess already. And by the by, he is a shocking flirt.”

“I noticed,” Montaigne said through thinning lips.

“Meg says he called me ‘a regular little guy.’ What does that mean, Montaigne? I believe he meant it as a compliment.”