A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) (9 page)

Chapter 16

The Marquess of Durham had only just sat down to
Annabelle’s Adventures
and was
wondering with slight disaffection what had happened to his life. Here he was, forced to listen to society gossips lisp about his life, and on top of that, he was reading a silly romance novel in an attempt to uncover the truth about his own life. He was relieved when Lord Blackwell was announced and he put down the book and stood up.

“Any news, Simon?” Mason asked when they were both comfortably ensconced in leather chairs, the doors to the study firm closed and all thoughts of novels and gossips firmly stowed away.

“Unfortunately, I can determine nothing about the identity of the ship attempting to dock using our secret code, but no further incidents have been reported, thank God. It’s damned worrying, but it may simply be a one of a kind coincidence.” 

“Do you think it’s possible the French government has discovered our use of the Chateau?” Durham asked as he leaned back in his chair, sipping a brandy.

“I wouldn’t put it past a devilish Bonapartist to do much of anything,” Blackwell replied, “But it seems rather unlikely. Every time a ship docks at the Chateau, the French flag is prominently displayed and the sailors rally round and shout about how excited they are to go ashore for the…well…
offerings
you so cleverly invented.”

The idea had been entirely Durham’s and while it had proven extremely effective, he was not entirely comfortable with society at large knowing how he smuggled information back from France. He had only a few ships, three, really, that had French and British flags, and a number of very loyal sailors who spoke perfect French. They would sail the ships under a false name and, when going ashore, would make it clear that it was a whorehouse located there that was the draw. Mason had decided that the distaste of using such a ruse could be outweighed by the convenience of having a place where men could be seen coming and going at all times with no consequences, particularly sailors, and the Chateau was a perfect ruse. The “Madame,” who was his late grandmother’s housekeeper, was responsible for collecting the correspondence from the incoming ships and sailors and sending it back out, though she had no idea she was smuggling anything but brandy.

The scheme had worked well, thus far. Ships incoming had to reveal a secret code to be permitted to dock. This was purportedly to prevent hordes of sailors from descending upon the place at a time, but Durham used it to allow only his own ships to dock. Should an unfamiliar ship dock, they would quickly find that there were no “ladies” in the Chateau whatsoever; only barrels of French brandy with coded communications concealed in sheepskin pouches inside the barrels. It was a risky operation and Durham and Blackwell both knew it. But so far, the ruse had been complete. He was prepared, if necessary, to import some actual ladybirds and open the place to one or two ships if absolutely necessary to keep up the subterfuge, but he viewed that as an unqualified last resort and something he did not look forward to suggesting. 

“Perhaps the fact that the French ship guessed the code is indeed a coincidence? These things are rather difficult to keep secret among so many operatives. The code changes frequently but perhaps we should change it early and wait to see if we have another incident. How was the ship caught?”

“Madame recognized it immediately as not one of yours and made as if the code they had attempted to use was wrong, as she usually does when that situation occurs. It only resulted in an immediate communication because it was, in fact, correct.”

The Marquess sighed. “Well let’s hope it’s a once-only incident, though I can hardly believe us to be so fortunate. We shall discover the reason soon enough, I fear. I have some of my best men on it, right now, including Melville.” His valet had been with him for years and was one of the most talented investigators he knew. 

“And I do, as well—say, what’s that there you’re reading?” Blackwell pointed at the splayed-open copy of the novel Harriet had lent him and he was annoyed he hadn’t thought to hide it. “It wouldn’t perhaps be
Annabelle’s Adventures
by D.E. Mannering, would it?” 

Durham scowled as he picked up the offending novel. “And how would you, pray tell, know about this particular blight on the literary landscape?” he asked.

“My mother, the Dowager Countess, would not stop discussing it earlier this very day! Said it was the most amusing thing she’d read since someone published that false autobiography of Princess Charlotte.”

“I cannot hazard an opinion as to the merits of the novel at this point, as I have only examined the title page,” Durham told his friend, “but Harriet seems to be of similar opinion to the Dowager. It is her only flaw.
A predilection towards flippant novels. Despite her vast intelligence, she reads frivolous literature after absorbing all the ancient philosophy she can in a day.”

“She is obviously an intelligent young lady, Durham. I have no idea where she gets it.”

“Go to the devil,” the Marquess said, albeit with good humor. At that moment, Harriet herself was announced, interrupting her brother and the Earl for a second time that week. This time, however, she did not trip over any stray hassocks.

“Mason, I
must
find out who this D.E. Mannering is! I cannot bear the thought that he might never write another novel! You must go with me to the publisher tomorrow so we may determine his address and I can provide appropriate encouragement.”

“Harriet,” Durham said with an exaggerated sigh, “Your badgering this poor man will not force him to finish his novel any more quickly. Now, I am not inclined to go haring about London on a wild goose chase with you to find and
harass recalcitrant authors. But I
am
inclined to request that you greet guests like a proper young lady when you meet them.” He inclined his head to the Earl of Blackwell, who had stood when Harriet entered the room. She blushed, as was her wont.

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “How d-do you do, Lord Blackwell,” she stuttered at his intense gaze. “It’s lovely to see you again.” She managed to hold his gaze, despite her blushes.

“Very well, Lady Harriet,” the Earl said smoothly, bending over her hand. “Your brother is an ogre. Never mind his remonstrations. He has no notion how to behave properly toward young ladies.” 

“This particular
young lady,
need I remind you Blackwell, is my
sister.
And I am perfectly capable of behaving responsibly toward her. You, on the other hand,” he began darkly. 

The Earl released Harriet’s hand and turned to her brother. “I shall discover the identity of this D.E. Mannering, Lady Harriet, and let you know his address. It will be no matter.” 
             

Harriet beamed up at him gra
tefully and said to her brother: “See?
Other
people treat me like a young lady! It’s only you who persists on insisting I belong in the school room.” Her nose in the air, Harriet curtseyed to them both and marched out of the room.

“I do not envy you your sister, Durham,” the Earl said. “She will drive you to an early grave. She is too smart and too precocious for her own good.” The Marquess winced slightly and walked to the door of the library.

“She could do without your encouragement, Simon,” he said, only half-heartedly irritable. He truly had no idea how he was supposed to produce an articulate young woman out of the girl he could only see as his beloved little sister. If other people could do it, why could he not watch and learn? “And she’s still an imp with no manners,” he continued good-naturedly. “I honestly do not know what I shall do with her. I suppose she’ll marry some day…that is a problem to be dealt with another time,” he said firmly. “Let’s go to Boodles’. I could use some distraction.”

When the two men arrived at their club and had settled to take a drink, the Earl’s young cousin, Mr. Freddy Whitmore, approached them at close to a gallop.

“Freddy! What a pleasant surprise,” Blackwell said with a raised eyebrow. “You look like you’ve something to say—have a seat.” The young man’s eyes were shining as he sat and leaned forward toward the two men.

“I—am in love,” he announced.

“Freddy, how many times must I tell you that infatuations with opera girls must be avoided at all cost? They are excessively expensive and unfaithful to boot. Now, find yourself a serious mistress before you get into too much trouble. No one ever falls in love with his mistress.”

Freddy Whitmore looked appalled. His eyes moved from cousin to friend, “I
am not in love with a loose woman of the theatre! How could you think such a thing? Those creatures have no draw for me; no, only a sweet innocent named—“

“It was true a mere three weeks ago,” the Earl remarked, not precisely under his
breath.

“Cease your insufferable insinuations!” Mr. Whitmore expostulated, “That was quite an age ago! I was infatuated on a level so superficial when compared with the deep feeling I have for this
lady of such exquisite beauty, such manners, and such taste! Her hair, so soft…her—“

Durham interrupted him, “You have touched her hair? I was certain you said she was a lady.”

“I most certainly did
not
touch her hair, Lord Durham,” Mr. Whitmore replied, indignant. “I am simply speculating on its softness because I could see it! So many colors: red and brown and gold…and her eyes! Nearly violet!” Lady Delia appeared unwelcome in his mind as he listened to Mr. Whitmore’s lengthy description of his love’s attributes. She had hair that was too many shades to count; it was so soft, like the rest of her so very soft and white.

“Don’t you think, Durham?” Mr. Whitmore asked him, interrupting his thoughts. 

“What?”

“Don’t you think I should ask Mrs. Mannering to come with us to Covent Garden tomorrow evening? She says she is in mourning but it’s been almost two years and absolutely
no one
will be there to recognize her! It would be a bit of fun, don’t you think? Or would that be improper?”

His two companies both looked up in surprise.

“Mrs. Mannering?” asked Durham.

“Yes, that’s her name. Didn’t I tell you? I was sure I did! It is likely you were not
attending, as you were too busy criticizing. It’s no matter; you will soon see why I have been so effusive. Mrs…Well, I’ll have you know that she’s such a lady that I don't even know her Christian name! She is a widow. Here is her card. I kept it because its beautiful scent reminds me of her exquisite drawing room and the softness of her hand…” Mr. Whitmore’s voice continued but Durham snatched the card out of his hand before his friend the Earl could take it.

“It is I who will be the hero to my sister,”
he told Blackwell as he inspected the card. “Which is as it should be, of course, as I am her brother.” He smiled with amusement while his friend stared at the card in amazement.

“D.E. Mannering! Why, that
is
extraordinary!”

Durham smiled a superior smile.

“Indeed you must invite the beautiful widow Mannering tomorrow evening. I confess I cannot wait to meet her,” Durham said to Mr. Whitmore.

“I am also quite curious to meet this paragon,” added the Earl of Blackwell, to his cousin’s confusion. “Please do ensure she attends.”

Chapter 17

When Amelia brought a note from Mr. Whitmore the next morning, Lady Delia was surprised and pleased to have heard from him so quickly. She tore open the envelope and bade Amelia wait.

“Why, it’s an invitation!” she said with astonishment.

“To what, my lady?”

“Ma’am! You mustn’t call me my lady, lest anyone hear!” Lady Delia reminded her maid impatiently but then continued “It’s tonight—to Covent Garden! He said he and some friends have hired a box…and, while he absolutely respects my being in mourning, he suggests that towards the end of
formal
mourning, it might be appropriate to
begin
being seen in public, and furthermore…absolutely no one will be in attendance tonight of the older and judging variety (that part is underlined) and he begs to be allowed to send a carriage for me at ten!”

“Good Heavens!”

“Indeed! Though, the usual transition from formal mourning involves attending afternoon musicales at the homes of respectable matrons, I cannot say I am not tempted!”

“Would there be anything wrong, my lady? It’s not as if anyone who knows you from Washburn Court would be there.”

“No, but there is always a risk of seeing an old friend of father or mother’s but it does not seem likely. It’s not a ball, after all. And they do have a private box. Amelia, I do confess I know not what I ought to do!”

“If you are asking for my opinion,” replied the maid stoutly, “I should think my lady
quite deserves a bit of fun after all the work you’ve been doing, ma’am. It’s not every day a lady publishes a book and a young man asks her to an evening out.”

“But
do
you think I ought? I suppose that even if Mr. Whitmore said he was with a widow, since I never actually had a husband and he never actually died, no one would be able to claim that I had not mourned the proper two years?”

“Indeed that is so, ma’am!” said Amelia. “I think that means we must find something for you to wear from these clothes we finally got from Washburn and get your hair fixed, then.”

“Yes, Amelia, yes! Why, bring me some note-paper. I shall accept at once.”

As Lady Delia wrote out the note for Mr. Whitmore, Amelia inventoried her mistress’ wardrobe. Amelia’s cousin, the footman Georgie, had successfully sent the trunks via post that Amelia had packed and she had rather a large selection to choose from. But there was nothing that was of the ball gown variety that could very well pass for even half-mourning, as Lady Delia had at Washburn Court no occasion to wear such a thing. And all of her ball gowns had been white, as became a debutante.

They eventually decided on a gown of white muslin, the girlishness of which was tempered by two rows of embroidered violets in deep purple satin. The low, square neckline flattered Delia’s figure and, with her long auburn curls piled high and away from her face, Amelia was quite pleased with her mistress’s appearance as she prepared for Mr. Whitmore’s carriage to take her to Covent Garden, where the gentleman would meet her.

“I do hope you have a lovely time, ma’am!” Amelia said as she admired Lady Delia’s reflection in the mirror on the dressing table. “You look quite beautiful if I do say so myself.”

“Thank you, Amelia,” she replied. “I feel somehow afraid that I might be cheating father—going out when I ought to be still in mourning—but then I remember he was so sick for so long, it’s almost as if he’s been dead for years. Perhaps it is only that I make excuses for myself for doing things I know I oughtn’t.”

“My lady—err, ma’am, you mustn’t be
so hard on yourself! I think it is a good thing that you go out tonight and anyone who says otherwise is not having your best interests at heart. That’s what I say.”

Lady Delia smiled and rose. She admitted to herself she looked quite well. Better than she had in months, since she was no longer in heavy black or gray or lavender. She was excited to go out, excited to see and meet new people and she was pleased to see Mr. Whitmore again. He did not give her the unpleasant tingling feeling or make her short of breath the way the Marquess had and she decided this was what interactions with proper young men were supposed to feel like. They were calm and delightful and easy to understand with admiration on both sides and no shocking insults.

When the carriage arrived, she was ready and waiting and was handed into it by a very properly liveried footman of Mr. Whitmore’s. As they drove, she tried to suppress her excitement at being in an area of town she had yet to experience on her visit. There was little view from inside the carriage in the darkness at the late hour, but she enjoyed the ride nonetheless. And, when they finally stopped in front of Covent Garden, Lady Delia was delighted with anticipation. The carriage door opened and Mr. Whitmore appeared immediately to hand her down himself.

“Mrs. Mannering!” he said, bringing her gloved hand to his lips, “I’ve been waiting for you to arrive,” he said, “and may I say you look more beautiful than even I could have anticipated!” In truth, Mr. Whitmore looked slightly thunderstruck in Lady Delia’s opinion, but she accounted this the result of the difference in her appearance in a half-mourning tea dress at their first meeting and the evening ensemble currently draping her figure. 

“I
am
so pleased to see you! And thank you again for the wonderful invitation tonight. I was surprised and delighted to receive it,” Lady Delia replied as he directed her to the box he had procured for the evening.

“We will joined by my cousin and his friend tonight, and perhaps some ladies, but I confess I am not so well acquainted with them as to know their names” Mr. Whitmore continued semi-coherently as he steered Lady Delia through the crowds. She was beginning to fear she ought not to have come. There were so very many people, and she feared being recognized. When at last they reached their box, she sat with relief and looked so distressed that her companion was alarmed.

“Mrs. Mannering? Is everything quite all right?” he sat eagerly next to her, taking her hand.

“Oh, my dear Mr. Whitmore, it is only that I have not seen such a crowd in longer than I can remember! I am certainly fine—thank you,” she permitted him to keep her hand and he bent to kiss it.

“Do—Mrs. Mannering—please call me Freddy? May I know your Christian name? I confess I do not know it and, while I could presume to use it only after given permission, it would please me to be able to think of you by it.” Lady Delia laughed as some of her nervousness was dispelled and she was able to extricate her hand to cover her mouth at her small pleasure.

“But of course, Freddy,” she said, obliging him. “It is Delia. Delia Mannering.”

“Delia! How beautiful. I know it was
D
something from your card. But I had no idea it was Delia. Very well, Delia, may I procure us some champagne? I fear the crowd has distressed you.”

“I am not at all distressed! My slight surprise is over and I am perfectly content. But I would very much enjoy some champagne. Thank you.” She smiled up at him and he impetuously grasped her hand and kissed it again, and Lady Delia thought that was really rather a lot of
hand-kissing. Perhaps she had not exaggerated it in
Annabelle’s Adventures
, after all.

As he stood and left the box, she heard his voice saying, “Mrs. Mannering’s already in the box. I will return shortly with champagne. Try not to frighten her, will you? She’s not used to crowds.”

She smiled again at his naïve solicitude and stood up to see who he had instructed not to frighten her, only to look straight into the piercing eyes of the Marquess of Durham.