Barbara Metzger (13 page)

Jacelyn didn’t agree with him, as usual. “How can you say that, Arthur, when she’s your own— Why, good evening again, Priscilla. I must congratulate you on your performance. It was, um, edifying. Your interpretation of Vivaldi would certainly have delighted the composer.” If he could have recognised it, she wanted to say, but didn’t.

Claibourne and Arthur added their praise to Jacey’s and the others’ who were now gathered around. Very well satisfied with herself, Priscilla decided to appear gracious, offering to share the limelight with Miss Trevaine, especially since she was very well aware that Jacelyn had no drawing-room accomplishments whatsoever.

“Surely you’ll oblige my guests,” Miss Ponsonby pressed after Jacey’s first, laughing, refusal to sing or play. “Everyone has some talent.”

“I’m afraid mine remains undiscovered then,” Jacey said, still smiling, until Priscilla smugly informed the group, “How odd. I thought all young ladies of breeding could entertain company.”

“Now that you mention it,” Jacelyn heard herself saying, “I do have one small talent. I can imitate frog calls.”

Arthur was looking as pop-eyed as any lilypad dweller, and Miss Chadwick was tee-heeing. There was no backing down. She didn’t dare look at Claibourne. She just shut her eyes and gave her best bullfrog croak, throwing in a few peepers for good measure.

Priscilla’s mouth could have caught flies, but some of the young gentlemen, laughing merrily, took up Jacey’s dare to do better, Lord Farthingale challenging anyone to best his chuckwillow. A whole stream of boisterous birdcalls and guffaws followed.

“That niece of yours is turning my parlour into a barnyard, Amabel. Do something!” Lady Ponsonby ordered. Lady Parkhurst searched her reticule for her smelling salts.

Jacelyn, however, was no longer participating in the romp. This was
not
how she’d planned on behaving, not in front of Claibourne’s friends. Now he’d never see her as other than a headstrong, rag-mannered child. Fancy clothes and elegant hairstyles weren’t enough to show him that she was a mature, sophisticated woman, worthy of his attention—and his love.

Embarrassed, upset, not wanting to face the earl, she slipped back into the nearly deserted music room. A few older gentlemen were dozing in the back row, and a few young matrons boasted of their children in one of the sofas along the side wall. A single young lady, looking as dejected as Jacey felt, sat by herself at the pianoforte, her hands folded in her lap, her lower lip trembling.

“Do you mind if I sit by you for a few minutes?” Jacelyn asked. “If I sit by myself my aunt will find me, or Lady Ponsonby, and there will be the devil to pay.”

Silently the other girl pulled the billows of her white tulle dress closer around her, making room on the bench.

“Are you to play next?” It wasn’t a hard guess. “You
can
play, can’t you?”

“And sing. A little.”

“Well, a little would be a great deal more than we’ve heard. At least you have some talent,” she added ruefully, thinking of her own shortcomings. “What could be the problem? Do forgive me, I know it’s none of my affair. Here I was just scolding myself for my last indiscretion. My tongue seems to have a mind of its own.”

“No, no, don’t apologise. I wish I had some of your…your…”

“Brass? I’d gladly lend it, Miss…?”

“Endicott. I already know you as Miss Trevaine.”

Jacelyn grinned. “Fame travels fast. I’d be pleased if you’d call me Jacelyn, or Jacey, if you wish.”

The other girl finally smiled back. “Rhodine.” She let her fingers trail over the keys; the smile faded.

“Are you nervous? You could say your throat is scratchy or something?”

“No, it’s just that—Oh, listen to all the fun they’re having out there. And…and they’ll come back and take their seats and put on polite smiles. Their eyes will go all glassy, like mannequins’! They’ll be bored again. Then they’ll clap and tell me how charming my voice is. It isn’t! My music instructor said my voice was pleasant, no more.”

“My music instructor said the barn door needed oiling, and left!”

Both girls were laughing when the rest of the company drifted in and took their places. Catching sight of Leigh and Arthur coming their way, Jacelyn said, “I have an idea. Do you know ‘I Met Him in Spring’? Why don’t you do the opening and then ask everyone to join in for the chorus. Everyone knows it, and they’ll be happy to participate, rather than sitting like logs.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t ask them—”

“Arthur could! They’re his guests, after all. Besides, I think he’d like nothing better than to sit turning your pages and directing us all. I promise to mouth the words! Then you could do some rounds or whatever. Arthur will know.”

*

Everyone complimented Lady Ponsonby on the evening’s entertainment. Most enjoyable night they’d had in ages, they told her, wondering why more hostesses didn’t follow her lead. Of course, the departing guests sympathised, it was too bad Priscilla had developed the headache and couldn’t enjoy the lively half of the party.

Jacelyn was pleased also, and not just with her new friend. Claibourne had a lovely rich baritone voice—and he held her hand during the entire second half.

“I’ve been hearing things, Percy.”

“I told you to cut down on the pipe, Da.”

“You blithering bacon-brain, I’ve been hearing things from my man Jensen.”

It was after noon, but you’d never know it by the darkened room nor Percy’s attire, his skin-and-bones, six-foot-plus frame covered by a dragon-embellished silk dressing gown and stubble.

He poured his breakfast. His shaking hand only spilled a little down the glass’s side. “And here I thought he could only grunt, not speak.”

“You have all the humour of a hangman, fool. I’ve been hearing from Jensen what they’re saying in the taverns; I’ve been hearing from Cook what they’re saying at the market. I’ve been reading what they’re saying in the blasted papers.” He brushed the Gazette off the table with one angry arm-sweep. “All about Claibourne’s chit. How she dresses, where she goes, who her people are, how he’s in her pocket. What I don’t hear”—he smashed his fist down on the mahogany—“is what you’ve done about it.”

As proud as an old man with a young bride, Percy announced that he was dealing with the situation. “I have a plan.”

Silence.

“Oh, do you want to hear it, then?”

“You misbegotten mutton-head, why do you think I called you here?”

“You didn’t call. I live here, remember? You really better watch the—”

“Your plan!”

An even more idiotic grin than usual swept over Percy’s face. His Adam’s apple convulsed in excitement as he solemnly intoned: “La Fleur, the Flower. Remember her? She’s the high flyer Claibourne used to keep. Actually, talk was someone else always paid the rent and he sublet, so to speak. Then Fortenham bought her a place of her own out in Islington, so she’s fairly independent about who she entertains. They say Claibourne stayed there to recuperate on one medical leave.”

“So? She was in the Ballet Corps over fifteen years ago. What’s some faded demirep got to do with anything?”

“That’s my plan. I’ve been going out to Islington waiting for cousin Leigh to show. He will. He never stayed away from a willing woman yet, that I heard of. Then I’ve got him! No green girl’s going to like seeing her beau with such a dasher.”

“You’ve got him? What did you think, you stilt-legged sapskull, that he’d trot out his middle-aged mistress to impress his bride?”

Trimphantly: “I thought of that! I figure to write a note to the girl telling her all about it. She’ll turn tail back to Cambridgeshire ’fore the ink’s dry.”

“Percy, you have all the wit of three men: two fools and a lunatic! Why should she believe you? Claibourne would only deny it, of course. Besides, the chit may be an innocent, but even two days in London will show her that most real men have a bit of muslin in keeping.”

The stress on “real,” needless to say, was for Percy’s benefit. He started working on his lunch. “Got another part to my plan. A good general has more than one strategy. Didn’t Wellington always say that?”

“Yes, when he was in retreat. I’m almost afraid to ask, what’s the rest of the brainstorm?”

Percy’s face wore its usual nobody-home look, only more so. “I talk to La Fleur. Get her to see the girl in person. You know, by chance in the park or at some fancy shop. Then Claibourne can’t weasel out of it.”

“Ah, I begin to see a glimmer of hope for you. The old mare confronts the filly, for a price, naturally. Well worth it, if Miss Trevaine was hoping for a love match. Maybe there is some Fenton blood in you after all. What did La Fleur say? How much does she want?”

Red splotches spread out on Percy’s cheeks. “I, ah, haven’t asked her yet. Sent m’card up, but the maid came back, said her mistress wasn’t taking on any new ‘callers.’ But I’m working on it.”

“‘Working on it’?” Fenton sputtered. “What are you doing, passing out in front of her house so her carriage has to run over you? I cannot believe it! She’s a paid doxy, for heaven’s sake, and she won’t even
talk
to you!” He looked upward. “Are you happy now, wife? Are you enjoying your revenge?”

Wearily, he reached down for the newspaper on the floor. “Listen, you lobcock. The
Gazette
says Miss Trevaine’s an animal lover, a real fanatic, she sounds. All the gossip about her says the same. Must be one of those do-gooders who preach about kindness to dumb creatures, meanwhile sitting down to their mutton and capon and turtle soup, wearing their fur hats. Where do they think their kid gloves and egret plumes come from, some beast that died of old age? No, they don’t mind the killing as long as they don’t have to see it. I know the type. Your mother, blast her soul, was one of them. Wept over the slaves while stirring sugar into her tea, as though that sugar hadn’t taken African sweat to make. Soft-hearted and cloth-headed. London’s a rough place for such a one, and you’re about to make it rougher for Miss Trevaine.”

“I am? I don’t—”

“You are going to do two things: One, you’ll wait outside the aunt’s house and follow the chit so you know what she looks like. Don’t let Claibourne see you; I don’t want him to get suspicious. Two, you’ll make certain she sees London’s harsher side: starving cats, mangy dogs, you know, what would upset a vapourish female. Enough of that and either she’ll go home, as your mother did, or Claibourne will have his fill of caterwauling watering pots. Again, don’t let Claibourne see you. Don’t tip our hand.”

Percy wouldn’t let Claibourne see him, not if his life depended on it, which it most likely did.

*

Jacelyn had a new plan for that day, too, which she put into effect early that Monday morning. No more fripperies, no more hoydenish behaviour. (She would start right after the mad gallop that had her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling.) Today she would show Leigh her love of learning, her aesthetic sensitivity, her cultured poise. When he asked what she wanted to do that day, she reeled off a list of attractions that would have impressed Marco Polo. She needed to take out her subscription to the lending library. She had promised her father a firsthand description of the Parthenon exhibit at the British Museum, and Lord Parkhurst had recommended a visit to the Royal Academy. There were also Westminster Abbey, Pall Mall, the Royal Exchange, and the Tower of London, for a start.

“What, all in one day, pet?” Leigh asked, flecks in his blue eyes dancing as he took in the picture she made, slightly tousled and out of breath from the ride. He knew what he’d rather do that day. All he could manage properly, though, was to hold her longer than necessary when he lifted her down from her horse. “Besides, you’re doing it much too brown. You’ve already got the vouchers, and the dragons won’t take them away until you have been there once at least. Wouldn’t you rather visit the Arcade or Ranelagh Gardens?”

It was hard enough being a bluestocking for one day. He didn’t have to test her resolve before breakfast!

“Another day? I told Papa I’d search out a new copy of Longinus for him, and I promised Pinkie we’d go sightseeing. Can you believe, she’s been in London a whole month and hasn’t even seen London Bridge?”

Arthur, incidentally, was not with them in the park, having mumbled, “Good idea. I’ll get to it right after breakfast,” before rolling over and pulling the covers around his ears.

*

Pinkie got to see the famous bridge, which wasn’t anything she’d have to write her mum about, when her penmanship improved. Westminster Cathedral echoed as if all the saints knew her mind was on Lem, not on the sacred. Things got better after that, when Jacey told her she could wait in the carriage outside the bookshop. Lem was up as footman.

Jacelyn found the Longinus with no trouble, and a primer for instructing Pinkie. She was having difficulty selecting a book for herself though, since buying the Minerva Press novels would have been like framing a Rembrandt with kindling wood. They didn’t match the picture she was trying to paint today. Besides, Aunt Amabel was sure to have the latest purple-jacketed volumes, and Jacelyn was, in fact, a voracious reader with wide tastes. Unlike the tiny library in Ryefield or even the bookseller in Royston, one could get lost in these London bookstores, with shelf after shelf of titles to explore. While the earl was involved in a conversation with a man in a brown stuff jacket, near what seemed to be tracts on farming methods, Jacelyn wandered to the rear of the building. She thought she’d seek out that new author everyone was talking about. The Prince himself had requested the author to dedicate her next volume to him, it was said. A Miss Austen, Jacelyn believed.

A stunning auburn-haired lady a little older than Jacelyn recommended her favourite of the author’s works and, smiling, some other titles she thought Jacey might like.

“The strangest thing,” Jacelyn told Claibourne later, after she’d paid for her purchases and he’d handed her back into the carriage. “That lady told me not to worry, the game was worth the candle. What do you think she meant?”