Barbara Metzger (20 page)

“Damn you for a simple-minded sot, Percy. How many have you had?”

“Bottles or glasses?”

“Oh, God. Put it down and listen. What have you done about the Trevaine girl?”

Percy set the bottle on the table, but dabbled his fingers in the puddle there. “Trevaine? Oh, Claibourne’s chit. I followed her around one day, like you said.”

“Stop sucking your fingers, lumpkin. You’re not a child, you only think like one. What was she like?”

“Small. Dark. Drab except for an orange dress so I could spot her easily in the crowds. Blue-nosed. Seemed to like the bookstores and the galleries. I couldn’t see what Claibourne would want with her.”

“Only wealth, a willing wife, and heirs, nothing you’d understand, you raw-boned rattlepate. So what have you done about getting rid of her?”

Percy did not want to remind himself of the whole terrible incident of the horse—or the dogs or the cats—so he searched for some cheerier information to relate. Beaming like a baby who’s just found his toes, he uttered: “She smiled at me.”

Fenton’s glassy eyes grew round, his mouth dropped open. “It couldn’t be. I cannot believe it’s true. Percy, tell me, do you really think to end Claibourne’s engagement by stealing his bride’s affections?
You?”

“Miss Trevaine’s got nothing to do with it, Da. Brown dab of a female. I told you I’d talk to La Fleur. Today she looked right at me…and smiled.” Percy was in love.

“At least there is some limit to your stupidity. Do you know what today is?”

“Wednesday.”

“See? And tonight?”

“Uh, Wednesday night?”

“It’s Almack’s, you cup-shot cabbage head! Where the aristocracy goes to play. The French may have had the right idea after all.”

“Smart people, the French. They make damn good brandy.” Percy eyed the bottle longingly. His father ignored him.

“They go to their private club to show each other how exclusive they are, as if they needed to be reminded of their social standing once a week. You’re not invited to Almack’s, you’re nobody. You get accepted there, you’re Somebody. Claibourne’s little nobody will be going tonight, and you’ve got to see she doesn’t become a Somebody.”

“Huh?”

Fenton pounded his fist on his wasted legs. “You see these, shrivelled and shrunk from lack of use? That’s what your brain must look like! I’m telling you, you’ve got to stop that woman from being a success tonight. Once she’s recognised by the social set, Claibourne can never back off; it wouldn’t suit his notion of honour. Nor would having a bride who’s a social outcast. Those Merrills and their fancy family pride! You’ve got to stop it, Percy!”

“Me? I mean, how? You need somebody to go inside and make the girl look no-account, and you just said I’m a nobody, gov, I think.”

“Don’t think, boy, save your effort for breathing. I have a plan that may work.”

“I ain’t going back to the butcher.”

“I pay a cook to do that, you fool. Besides, they don’t serve meat at Almack’s, only cake, tea, and orgeat.”

“No liquor? I’m glad I’m a nobody. Now Fat Mona’s place is kind of private, but anybody can—”

“Shut up, Percy! From the
on dits
pages and what Jensen picks up, the girl’s a high-strung hoyden. So far she’s not gone in over her head, but a scene outside Almack’s ought to put her beyond the pale. Here’s my idea: You and Jensen will hire an old broken-down horse and cart. Buy it, if you have to; it’ll be worth the price. You’ll take it to Almack’s, and when you tell Jensen the Trevaine chit is coming, he’ll pretend to start whipping the horse and—”

“Hold on, governor. Those swells take their horses seriously. It could get real ugly. Now if Jensen was to beat an orphan…”

“The girl likes horses. She’ll get hysterical and start an uproar, mark my words. They—that’s the Somebodies inside—don’t like mingle-mangles, especially if there are dirty, smelly peasants involved.”

“What dirty, smelly peasants? I didn’t hear you mention any.”

“You and Jensen.”

“I don’t see why Jensen can’t do it alone. Claibourne might recognise me.”

“You have to identify the girl, you long-legged looby. That’s why I sent you to follow her. You’ll be in disguise, and you can disappear as soon as there’s a crowd. Jensen can just act like the village idiot till it’s over.”

“He gets the easy part! Uh, gov, I think I’ll pass on this one. Clever idea and all that, but Claibourne will be there. He’ll kill me if I bother the girl.”

“And Jensen will if you don’t.”

*

Five hours to prepare were four and a half too many for Percy’s precarious hold on sobriety or sanity, especially as he switched from the bottle to his father’s pipe as soon as Jensen had carried Fenton upstairs. By the time Jensen was ready with the ancient horse and cart, reality was like last month’s weather to Percy, a vague memory. He must not be recognised, he knew, or someone would murder him, but gads, he wouldn’t put such foul rags on his body! Not Percival Fenton. No, he had the brilliant notion of donning the costume he’d worn to the last rowdy masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens, half mask and all. Great night, that was, with those French girls. Exiled nobility, they said. Maybe they’d be at Almack’s…

Jensen’s horse made the one Percy bought at the knackers look like a Derby contender. To help it along, the giant-sized servant got out and walked. Then Percy got out. Then Percy led the horse while Jensen pushed the cart. On King Street, though, one block from Almack’s, there was a hill. Not a big hill, mind, just a slight incline. To this horse it might as well have been Mount Olympus. And time was passing. Carriages were starting to turn the corner; fancy coaches with crests on their doors drove past them. Jensen unhitched the cart and put the yoke over his own shoulders, then grunted for Percy to get the nag moving.

Soft words and coaxes got him a few steps. Going to the other end and pushing won him a few more, and a dry throat. He tipped up the flask he’d managed to conceal under his disguise, and remembered that afternoon’s spill. He dipped his finger in the mouth of the flask and offered it to the horse. It was sloppy work, but effective, for a while. The horse followed Percy as far as it could, until its back legs gave out and it sat, doglike.

“Aw now, old sod, we’ve almost got it. A bit more now, you can do it.”

But the horse slowly laid its front end down. Percy held up the head, pleading. “Here you go, old chap, you can make it. I have just the thing to set you back up.”

*

That’s when the Parkhurst entourage drove up to the red carpets at Almack’s doors. Stepping down first, Claibourne looked back. What he saw stunned even him: a huge, ragged man pulling a cart and his cousin Percy, beak nose under a sequined half mask, hairy spindleshanks under a short Roman toga, pouring whiskey down the throat of a half-dead horse.

Claibourne shook his head. The vision was still there. Lord, he’d like a few words with Percy right now, but first he had to see about getting Jacelyn and the aunts, the dowager, and the other antiques into Almack’s with the least fuss. He thought of declaiming the classic “
Ave, Caesar, morituri est
,” etc., which would be wasted on Percy. Instead he just called out: “Chariots just aren’t what they used to be, eh?”

Don’t expect much, and you won’t be disappointed. That’s what everyone told Jacey about Almack’s, and they were right. The place itself was dingy and dowdy—but oh, the people! Jewels, feathers, finery, she wanted to stare as she’d done at the gallery, but Claibourne tugged her ahead, following her chaperones. What an unlikely trio they made, these three Fates in charge of her introduction to Society.

Mme. Aubonier was in black as usual, tall, dignified, self contained. She greeted acquaintances with a nod, like an emir bestowing his favour. She made sure that Jacelyn’s first curtsey was to the patroness who had secured her vouchers, Princess Esterhazy.

Aunt Amabel was in lavender chiffon. Her shawl kept slipping as she greeted everyone they passed with an embrace, as if she’d been out of the country for two years.

It was the dowager, though, in her glaring purple and red, short little legs trundling ahead, who kept them moving from introduction to introduction.

“Sooner we get the tomfoolery over, sooner I can find the card room. Chicken stakes only, but it’s better than watching these silly geese trip over each other.”

“I can see to Jacelyn’s introductions, Mother Parkhurst, if you’d rather sit down,” Amabel dithered, after Mme. Aubonier left them to sit beside Lady Drummond-Burrell behind the velvet rope marking the still-empty dance area.

“You can’t even untangle your draperies, Amabel. The gel needs countenance. Let than all see I approve; that’ll hold their clacking tongues. There’s Countess Lieven. Not as bad a gabblemonger as Sally Jersey, but bad enough.”

Jacelyn had her little how-do-you-do’s down pat. “Yes, ma’am, I’m delighted to be here. Thank you for the invitation. The pleasure is all mine,” etc. She even had a rote reply to enquiries concerning her London visit, and how much she was enjoying everything, when the matrons were kind enough to ask. She was taken aback, therefore, to meet with a cutting remark
a la
Priscilla from a total stranger.

The countess was coyly looking around Jacey and asking, “What, no livestock?”

While Jacey was wondering how this woman could be so rude and still be considered a judge of polite behaviour, the dowager was answering. Jerking her head first in Aunt Amabel’s direction, then Claibourne’s, she said, “The gal’s got a peahen and a gamecock, she don’t need any stringy old chickens clucking at her.”

“Toughest is still to come,” the dowager told a wide-smiled Jacelyn, when they paused to let Claibourne fan Aunt Amabel’s flushed cheeks. “They call her Silence, ’cause she never is. Damned impertinent, because she can get away with it. I don’t know why. Her own history isn’t any lily-white. Mind your step, though, child.”

Lady Jersey was holding court with some of the older members of the Beau Monde, Alvanley, Petersham, Byng, the Regent’s cronies. Most of them raised their monocles to survey Jacelyn like a new species of water bug while Lady Jersey exchanged the usual pleasantries, giving an especially warm welcome to Leigh.

“So nice to see you among us again, Claibourne. I’m glad to see your rakehelling days are over. And here is your little Miss Trevaine,” she purred, still addressing Leigh, whose lips were twitching. “I hope she realises what a fortunate girl she is, to have landed such an eligible
parti
. So many girls in this situation find themselves at sea in London. You know, Leigh, all those little country girls with fat dowries who find themselves the target of every flat and fortune hunter in Town.”

Jacey looked at Lady Jersey’s diamond-studded hand resting familiarly on the earl’s arm, and the shy little country girl replied: “Better the devil you know.”

Sally Jersey was poised like Julius Caesar about to give the thumbs-down signal. Impudent chit, implying Claibourne was a bounder or a basket scrambler, when she, Sally Jersey, had gone out of her way to congratulate the girl. Poor taste to refer to his financial embarrassment, and poor choice of audience to utter any kind of
outré
opinion, especially for a girl with a gamey reputation. Esterhazy would hear about this—and all of the
ton
. But Claibourne was laughing, and old Lady Parkhurst was cackling about the girl’s spirit, and the Carlton House set behind her were all smiling and nodding, so obviously the girl was a witty charmer, not a coarse baggage after all. Small, but spunky. Obviously. She, Sally Jersey, decreed it so.

Luckily the music started then, and Leigh led Jacelyn off to the first set. It was the cotillion, with a lot of bowing and curtseying and smiling to complete strangers.

“Unless I miss my guess,” Claibourne told her during a quiet interval, “you’re about to take London by storm. Look at all the nods you’re getting, and all the bucks hanging around your poor Aunt Amabel.”

“Silly, that’s just Arthur and Carter Sprague. Besides, I noticed how you were welcomed back to the fold with open arms.”

“I told you I needed you to give me respectability.”

“With
wide
open arms. Soft, clinging, jewel-encrusted arms.”

Claibourne laughed out loud, drawing attention to them, and even more when he raised her hand and kissed it, still following the dance’s movements.

Tongues ran on wheels. It was true, then, Claibourne was cotched at last. Whatever tales had been circulating about an honour-saving offer could not be disregarded, as well as rumours of a market marriage. It was enough that he was attending Almack’s at all, but that he was enjoying it said a great deal about Miss Trevaine. She was certainly worth meeting, the talk went, and her name was added to those mental lists hostesses were forever compiling.

“This is our very first dance, Leigh.”

“Why, so it is, my love. And you are as graceful a partner as a man could wish.”

“You’re much more accomplished.”

“Only more practiced. I’ve been at it a deal longer.”

“Leigh, are you…that is, did you, ah, find Lady Jersey attractive?”

Claibourne laughed again. “I’m not about to take a page from Prinny’s book and admire women old enough to be my mother, if that’s what you mean. What has you in a pother now?”

“Arthur said I don’t know how to flirt, and she did it so well!”

“Did she? I didn’t notice. Come, precious, look up at me with those twinkling eyes, and show your dimples. That’s all the flirting you’ll ever need.”

When the dance ended, he led her to Aunt Amabel, sitting on a little gilded chair behind the velvet rope. Seated next to her was her bosom bow, Lady Ponsonby, so Priscilla was nearby, scowling. The Ponsonbys had arrived too late for the first set, leaving Priscilla on the sidelines like a wallflower while everyone exclaimed over Miss Trevaine and her earl. Priscilla was waving her fan so vigorously Arthur complained of the draught. After all the insincere greetings, and before the next set was begun, Jacelyn nudged Arthur aside and asked if he was promised for the next dance.