Barbara Metzger (15 page)

“Carter Sprague, Lord Parkhurst’s aide? He’s a good man, serious type. They say he has a fine future in the government. What has he to do with anything?”

“Well, Mr. Sprague is infatuated with Priscilla Ponsonby. It cannot be anything more, for she doesn’t even notice he’s around. So I thought to wean him away from such a hopeless amour and point him in Rhodine’s direction. Now I see it won’t fadge. He isn’t wealthy enough for her family, is he?”

“No, but Arthur is. Is that what you’re aiming at, vixen?”

“It’s only a possibility, mind,” she admitted happily. “But think of how proud Arthur would be with a titled wife. Especially one so sweet and unassuming. As for Rhodine, she needs someone to look out for her, to give her confidence. Arthur is so sure of himself, some of his pride would be bound to rub off on her. And consider how pleased he’d be to have someone to be important for.”

“But Jacelyn, Arthur’s not anxious for leg shackles. Besides, you can’t move people around like some giant chess set.”

“Can’t I, even if it’s for their own good? Just watch me!”

The park was thinning of coaches and riders, but they did spot Arthur on horseback near a stopped chaise, which, to Jacelyn’s irritation, contained his sister Priscilla and what Jacey was dubbing the shadow twins, Miss Chadwick and Captain Highet. Why was the man still in uniform, she wondered, if all he did was peacock around Town in Marcella’s wake? No wonder the country was in financial difficulty!

Surrounding the carriage were a few pedestrians and a knot of riders, from which Lord Farthingale’s voice called out: “There they are now. Miss Trevaine, Lord Claibourne, good day. We’ve been planning a picnic ride out to Richmond tomorrow, while the weather still holds. I know you might have previous plans for the evening, and you ladies need time to make yourselves even more beautiful”—Miss Ponsonby simpered—“but if we leave at ten we’ll be home by four or five. My mother’s going along, and she particularly asked that I extend the invitation to you. Would have done so myself anyway,” he told Jacey, somewhat flustered. “Be pleased if you’d accept.”

Judging from her scowl, Miss Ponsonby wasn’t pleased at all. She had assumed the excursion was devised for her amusement, not the farouche Miss Trevaine’s. Viscount Farthingale had been the biggest fish on Priscilla’s line since her come-out. Just because she hadn’t decided whether to keep him or not didn’t mean she was ready to toss him back.

“I’m sure Miss Trevaine would find it much too tame,” she advised Farthingale and the rest of the company. “We ladies do have to ride sidesaddle of course. Oh.” She put her hand up to her mouth in mock dismay. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything about that, was I?”

Arthur hissed, “Bad
ton
, old girl,” at his sister, but Claibourne cleared his throat, deflecting the daggers in Jacey’s eyes and the sharp words on her tongue.

“Quite all right, Miss Ponsonby.” He addressed Priscilla but made sure they all heard: “Everyone knows Miss Trevaine rode astride on the privacy of her father’s estates. It’s the only way to break and train your own yearlings. From what I gather, riding astride is something all younger ladies of spirit try. When they are among family and friends, of course, who wouldn’t betray them to censure. Miss Jacelyn, further, is a superb rider in either mode.”

Bravo
. Jacey wanted to clap! All she’d been able to think of, for wiping that smirk off Priscilla’s face, was hurling her reticule at it. Instead, Claibourne had smoothly, gently, implied that Priss was old, dull, bad-mannered, and had a seat like a sack of turnips. Jacelyn rewarded him with her most brilliant smile.

“’Faith, did you really train your own mounts?” Lord Farthingale was excited. He’d never understood women—just look at how Priscilla Ponsonby was turning from a purring housecat into a clawing tiger—but horses he knew. “Are they in London with you? Do you race them? Please do come tomorrow.”

With just a quick glance at the earl, Jacelyn accepted, pending her aunt’s approval, naturally.

“No need to worry about that, with m’mother along for chaperone,” Farthingale reminded.

“Right, Priscilla,” Arthur goaded his sister, “if Miss Trevaine sets too bruising a pace for you, sidesaddle, of course, you can always ride in the carriage with Her Grace.”

*

Arthur rode alongside their coach on the way out of the park, still apologising for the odious Priscilla. “Bacon-brained thing to do anyway. Made her look no-account in front of her friends.”

“Why don’t you mention that fact to her, Arthur,” Claibourne said, “in case she’s tempted to make any more fuss about the Treverly happenings. No one else seems to care about the gossip at all.”

“Wait until tomorrow night before you bet your watch on it,” Jacelyn told him. “
Tante
Simone says the chaperones’ corner at Almack’s is the cruellest battlefield of any war.”

The earl patted her hand reassuringly. “You’ll do fine. You’ll be so busy dancing, you won’t have time to go near the dragon’s den.”

Even Arthur forgot himself into promising to stand up with her for the maximum two dances allowed, when he saw Jacey’s big-eyed, woebegone look. A moment later he recollected. Gads, he’d offered to dance with little Jacey Trevaine! He better go home and physick himself.

Instead he agreed to go to Astley’s with them after an early dinner. He always enjoyed the riding, especially the ladies in sequined tights. The last time he took his young cousins, there was a redhead…He looked at Pinkie, sitting demurely with her back to the horses, studying her primer.

Claibourne coughed, almost as if he could read his friend’s thought. Colouring, Arthur agreed that Miss Endicott just might appreciate the simple pleasures of roasted chestnuts and sliced oranges. She seemed like a quiet kind of girl, from what he remembered. “She didn’t have a lot to say, which isn’t bad, mind you.” He glared at Jacelyn. Two dances! “In fact, I may as well toddle off there now to invite her in person. Quicker than waiting for you to get home to send a message. It may be too late anyway; I’ll let you know.”

Jacelyn gave Leigh a look of triumph, but he wasn’t ready to concede. “Early days, my girl. I don’t think your Lady Rhodine can hold a candle to silver sequins. I heard about
that
dasher for a month. By the way, my sweet, if Lady Rhodine does accept for tonight, we’ll have to do something about a chaperone.”

“Pinkie would love to see the horses too, I’m sure.”

“Then Pinkie shall go on her afternoon off. No, my dear, she did admirably all day, trailing behind you like a grey-striped duckling, or sitting prim as can be on a bench studying her lessons. She’d be ample dogsberry if it were daytime, or just the two of us, since we have the supposed blessing of your father. But it will be night, and a closed carriage, and two gentlemen. Think of Lady Rhodine’s reputation, if she comes along. You wouldn’t want her to be called fast, would you?”

“Who would ever believe Rhodine capable of anything untoward, in her angelic white dress?”

“Still, those tabbies can talk, and I think she’d find it painful.”

“Heavens yes, but are you positive Pinkie wouldn’t be adequate? Lem could come too.”

“Pinkie is just sixteen. She’s much too young. Besides, she has no control over your behaviour, as a proper chaperone should. It’s obvious she believes you can walk on water. As for Lem, he’d stand on the riverbank cheering. And that’s supposing the two of them had eyes for anything but each other. Lady Endicott would never lower herself to anything so unstylish, so we’ll just have to ask the aunts.”

Mme. Aubonier acted like they’d asked her to go to China on a camel. She’d agreed to escort Jacelyn to social events, she said, not harum-scarum nursery parties. Lady Parkhurst, on the other hand, was too distracted to pay attention to Jacelyn’s problem. The dowager Lady Parkhurst had sent a message that she would be arriving tomorrow, to attend Almack’s with them. Her mother-in-law, according to Aunt Amabel, was the fussiest, snoopiest, sharpest-tongued woman she knew. On top of that, if that wasn’t enough, besides worrying over Jacelyn’s debut, some Bedlamite kept tossing cats over the courtyard wall and tying half-starved dogs to the front gates. The whole house was in an uproar, not at all aided by Jacey’s dog. Pen, it seemed, disapproved of scruffy cats landing inches from her nose, to say nothing of the cats’ thoughts on the matter.

As for the dogs, Marcus the butler was nearly in tears. Not for their sad, undernourished, insect-populated conditions, but for the calling cards they left. Each had been untied and presented with a lamb chop, as Marcus saw his Christian duty, then sent on its way. Any fool could have told him that a hungry dog is less likely to depart such an hospitable neighbourhood than a pig is to fly. Finally the watch was called to bring a cart and fetch the whole barking, whining, growling herd of mutts away. Where to, Lady Parkhurst neither knew nor cared.

One silver lining shone out through this whole day of clouds, as far as Aunt Amabel was concerned: Jacelyn wasn’t home. Otherwise, Lady Parkhurst was certain, every one of the mangy beasts would be sitting down to dinner with them and sleeping in the guest chambers—leaving fleas to bedevil her persnickety mother-in-law!

Such palpitations she had, and Jacey wanted her to play duenna at a circus! Devil a bit!

Aunt Simone finally unbent a little when Rhodine’s note of acceptance arrived, delegating Hammersmith as chaperone. No one could remotely imagine anything havey-cavey going on in her austere presence. They wouldn’t dare.

Before going upstairs to change for dinner and the evening, Jacelyn went to the stables to retrieve Pen. She went out through the kitchen door, hurriedly. Chef was throwing saucepans and skillets and Gallic curses, furious at having to replan his menu, without lamb chops.

Pen was exhausted, but content. Lem and a stableboy were trying to splint a pigeon’s broken wing with a shaved stick and some string.

“What in the world has been going on here, Zack?” she asked the groom. “My aunt is nearly incoherent, and Marcus has locked himself in the butler’s pantry.”

“Coo, ma’am, you sure missed a rare sight. ’Twere rainin’ cats ’n dogs in Portman Square. Sick pigeons too. Your dog took care o’ the cats, all right n’ tight, though she don’t bother with the stable tom none. Then that Clive what drives for ’is lordship’s aunt ’n Henesley, the head groom, they sent us out on patrol. A regular militia, we was, miss, only we had pitchforks ’n broom handles ’stead of pistols. We didn’t see nothin’ either, more’s the pity, but what a peculiar day!”

“What a peculiar day,” Jacelyn told Pinkie later, after her bath.

“Yes’m, it sure was. To think I’ve been in London all this time ’n never knew there were so many big buildings. ’N all those statues. Some were older nor London itself, his lordship says. I can’t think of years in all those thousands, not when I’m used to hearin’ about m’granfer’s times. Those Greeks were dead ’fore even St. George was slayin’ dragons. Bet m’mum won’t never believe it.”

“We did see a lot today, didn’t we?”

Pinkie was towelling Jacey’s hair. “Yes, miss. But if I’d had my druthers, I’d have seen the ruckus here. Or was that what you meant by peculiar?”

Jacelyn hadn’t been thinking of the day’s marvels at all, actually. She’d been considering his lordship, and not comprehending him any better than Pinkie did Greek history. He’d been so kind and attentive, laughing and teasing, even coming to her defense when needed, almost like an older brother—too much like an older brother! Then he’d carefully listened to her opinions, as though they were worth tuppence. Yet tonight they were going to Astley’s, at his suggestion. Half the time he treated her like a real lady, as with the chaperone nonsense; the other half he encouraged the tomboy in her.

“Drat, what does the man want of me?” she said out loud, used to confiding her thoughts to the dog. Pen, lying near the open fireplace grate, perked her ears and wagged her tail, sending a cloud of soot into the room. Pinkie, though, was more helpful, correctly interpreting her mistress’s question, if not all the uncertainty behind it.

“You know that second footman Eugene?” she asked, grinning. “’N you know what he wants?”

Tossing a damp towel at the impish carrot-top, Jacelyn said, “That’s all you know, Miss Margaret, with all your years of experience! Why, his lordship hasn’t even tried to see me alone since we’ve been in London.” She wondered, to herself this time, if maybe that’s what had her so suddenly blue-devilled. Maybe if she wore that new peach muslin, with the brown velvet ribbons crisscrossed under her breasts…

“Pinkie, what gown have you laid out?”

“Miss Hammersmith says the dark blue merino, miss. The one with the long sleeves and the lace insert, or she won’t go. She says it’s dignified ’n won’t draw unwanted attention.”

*

Hammersmith sat as rigid as a ship’s figurehead at the end of their row. Laughter, gasps, and applause parted like waves around her. Claibourne sat next to her, casually elegant in dark pantaloons and a fitted jacket. Jacelyn was next in the row, with Lady Rhodine on her other side. Overdressed for a dinner at Carlton House, Rhodine looked even more out of place next to Jacey in her conservative dark gown. At first Rhodine was noticeably uncomfortable with all the attention she was receiving from the rest of the audience, a very eclectic group indeed. There were rich merchants and their families, shopgirls and their beaux, a pickpocket and his decoy celebrating a good day’s work. No one was dressed as richly as Rhodine, with four flounces to her pink gown and her hair prinked into ringlets. Jacey tried to set the other girl at ease by describing all the wonders she’d seen that day, even mentioning the ride planned for tomorrow.

“Why don’t you come along? I’m sure Lord Farthingale won’t mind.”

Colouring up, which made her seem more like a strawberry meringue than ever, and lowering her eyes and her voice, Rhodine declined. “I’m not that good a rider. I would only slow you down.”

Arthur, on Rhodine’s other side, reassured her. “Quite all right, Lady Rhodine, not every woman can ride like a red Indian, and not every woman can sing as prettily as you did last night. Meant to tell you.”