Barbara Metzger (24 page)

“If Miss Ponsonby is not very, very wealthy, she has more to worry about than that so precarious equipage,” the old gentleman told them.

There was a man in Lancashire, it seemed, Chater by name, a wealthy mine owner. Monsieur related this, not to carry tales out of school, they must know, but for family. Chater was of the bourgeoisie, better than most. His mines did not collapse as often as others’. Chater wished to better himself, and his family status. To this end he hired a music teacher for his talented daughter, the best instructor, he could find, Blanc. The girl had a pleasing touch, but her hands were too small.
Enfin
.

While Monsieur Blanc resided under Chater’s roof, the wealthy capitalist contracted a marriage for his daughter with the son of a minor nobleman in the vicinity…Lord Malcolm Anton-Fredricks. Blanc had played the organ at the wedding in the local church, at Miss Chater’s fond request. In the last letter the new Lady Anton-Fredricks had written, she was practicing her scales diligently, while awaiting the birth of her first child, next spring. Perhaps, she’d added, Monsieur would see her husband in London; Anton-Fredricks was attending Parliament to look after Mr. Chater’s interests in labour laws or such.

Rhodine had her hand to her mouth, so it was left to Jacelyn to exclaim, “That swine! That scum! I feel like going right over and telling Priscilla and the others.”

“You mustn’t, Jacelyn! Oh, please don’t! Arthur will have to call him out, you know he will. And Arthur could get hurt, or arrested, or…or killed.”

“Sh, Rhodine, we won’t let Arthur challenge him. But Priscilla has to be warned. She—”

“Pah!” Aunt Simone put in. “That one would not thank you, petite. She likes playing with the fire.
Tiens
, I think a small lesson might do her some good. The Season has only a few weeks left to it, then we all go home, no? And Anton-Fredricks goes to be a papa, and Miss Ponsonby polishes her beauty for the spring Season. Maybe no longer too proud to consider a man of true values, no?”

“Carter Sprague? But the humiliation,
belle-tante
, if anyone finds out! I just don’t know what’s right to do!”

*

Jacelyn was still undecided by the first curtain that evening at Drury Lane. She wondered if she should discuss it with Leigh during the farce, which no one listened to, or even sat down for. There were so many people coming and going in the box the Parkhursts and the Ponsonbys shared, however, that there was no opportunity for privacy. Farthingale stopped by, acting as if he’d never seen a pink gown before. Jacey’s deep rose velvet from Ryefield was regal, perfectly fitted, but utterly unadorned. She wore only her mother’s pearls, and a single white rose in the shining coils of her chestnut hair, for contrast. Claibourne wore his relaxed, amused expression, but Jacelyn noticed that he put his arm across the back of her seat while Farthingale rhapsodised about her celestial beauty. “Fustian” was all he said, though, when the viscount left. Lord Tayson silently handed Jacelyn a pink rose, which quite ruined the effect of her gown, but she tucked it into her hair next to the white one, anyway. Tayson blushed, bowed, and left, obviously too overcome by the full box. The
Conde
de Silva visited, weighted with gold braid, diamonds, and compliments so grandiose they could all laugh. Even the young politician, Lord Broome, came to pay his respects, and ended up losing his heart to the lovely young woman who was so enthusiastic over his cause.

Lady Endicott stopped by, to check on her “dearest Rhodine,” who was totally ignored as Lady Tina usurped the chair next to Leigh.

“We’re old friends, you know,” she told Jacelyn, who was staring at that lady’s bare arm resting on Claibourne’s satin-covered thigh. A lot of the rest of the lady was equally bare. When she left, Jacelyn whispered to the earl, “How come you almost outdid the grandee in your flattery of Lady Tina, and you only told me I looked charming?”

“Because she is nothing without her outward appearance. You would still be your exquisite self no matter what you wore. And stop pouting, or I’ll put you to the blush by telling you exactly how I’d like to see you dressed…or not.”

At least she didn’t have to worry about Leigh, not tonight, thank goodness, because through all of this, all the mock courtships and friendly banter, Priscilla was flirting with Anton-Fredricks.

It almost turned Jacelyn’s stomach to hear Priscilla’s lisp and “La, sirs,” and to watch her flutter her fan and her eyelashes at him. The more gentlemen who came to the box to greet Jacelyn, the shriller Priscilla’s voice seemed to get; the more heady the compliments to Miss Trevaine, the more coquettish Priscilla’s behaviour. Jacelyn could
not
let her make such a cake of herself over such a libertine. As the lights were dimmed before the first act of the major play, Anton-Fredricks was sucking each of Priscilla’s fingers in farewell. Ugh. Jacelyn had to warn the other girl. After that, Priscilla could make her own choice.

The play was
Othello
, and the great Edmund Kean was playing the evil Iago. Last month, Jacelyn understood, he’d played the title role. The man was amazing, but she kept seeing Anton-Fredricks as the double-speaking standard-bearer. Watching poor Othello’s unravelling, she was glad she wasn’t the suspicious type. Jealousy was such a terrible thing.

When the curtain came down the applause rose like a wave, a uniformed footman brought a four-folded note to the box on a silver tray. It was for Claibourne, who unfolded it while the others watched curiously.

“Nothing wrong, I trust,” Arthur commented.

“No, not at all,” Leigh replied, refolding the note and placing it in his inside coat pocket. “Just an old friend who asks me to visit during the interval. Will you excuse me, my dear?” he asked Jacelyn, and left.

When Arthur and Rhodine also went out, to get refreshments for the ladies Parkhurst and Ponsonby, Jacelyn was too concerned with her planned conversation with Priscilla to wonder why Leigh hadn’t taken her along. If she could only speak to Priscilla before all the chitter-chatter began again and—Speak of the devil.

“Lord Anton-Fredricks, I hate to impose, but could I trouble you to procure me a lemonade? Claibourne was called away, and I have a terrible thirst. You’d like one too, wouldn’t you, Priscilla? Oh no, you mustn’t go off with Lord Malcolm and leave me alone. Besides, it’s been such a long time since we’ve had a comfortable coze.”

Priscilla was glaring. As soon as the gentleman unctuously bowed himself out, she snapped: “What are you trying to do, Miss Hobbledehoy, steal this beau of mine too? You have nearly every man in London at your feet. Isn’t that enough?”

“Be still, Priscilla, I have something to tell you. I feel I have to give you warning, as a friend. It’s…it’s about Anton-Fredricks. He’s only trifling with you, Priss. His…his affections are already committed elsewhere. I felt it best to tell you, rather than—”

“Why, you jealous little cat,” Priscilla hissed, her eyes narrowing. “How dare you! You’re only telling these nasty lies so I’ll stop throwing him lures and you can step in. You spiteful brat, how would you like to hear some home truths, hm? Just look over there at the ‘old friend’ your precious earl had to visit.”

She directed Jacelyn’s view across the horseshoe-shaped theatre. Jacelyn could recognize Leigh’s broad back, narrow waist and tousled blond curls anywhere. The lady alone in the box with him she’d never seen before. Full-figured, raven-haired, red-mouthed, she had a diamond the size of an ostrich egg nesting between her breasts. If the fullness of the woman’s bosom was any indication, the blasted thing would hatch soon!

“Who is she?”
she squawked. “Surely Leigh knows many women.”

“He knows them all, Miss Greenhead! This one has always been one of his favourite bits of muslin. La Fleur, she’s called. The flower’s a bit past bloom, I’d say, but there’s no accounting for a man’s taste. The
on dit
is that he’s always welcome at her house in Islington, no matter that she’s another man’s mistress. He used to stay there sometimes when he was in London on leave, before he and Arthur took lodgings together. They even say La Fleur purchased his army commission for him.” Priscilla gave the dart a moment to sink in, then she rammed it home: “So you don’t have to worry about his pride, Jacey, he’s used to living off his women’s money. Even if they earn it on their backs.”

Jacelyn was too stunned to move. She wasn’t sure what she was thinking about Leigh and this…this Cyprian, for she could now tell that the woman was no lady. The way the two were laughing, and touching, they were far more than friends. Her mind refused to focus, though, only backing to the beginning. “But Priscilla, Anton-Fredricks is—”

“Mine, and you better remember that. Look to your own, Jacelyn Trevaine, before you start making accusations. Here’s another ‘friendly warning,’ all in the family. Watch out for your earl and Lady Tina. Dear little Rhodine’s stepmama has been his flirt for the last six months. You knew he was a rake, didn’t you? Or didn’t anyone tell you what that meant? I’m sure you can figure it out for yourself now.” She got up to leave. “One more thing: If you tell your Banbury tales about Malcolm to my mother or Arthur or
anyone
, I’ll tell all of London how you spent the night alone in the gardener’s cottage with Claibourne. They’ve overlooked the whispers because of your connexions, but they’ll listen if I shout it loudly enough, you can wager on that. See how popular you are then, Miss Trevaine.”

Jacey sat, turned to stone. It surely was a good thing she wasn’t the jealous type.

*

There was a bit of confusion in that other box when Leigh walked in and Mr. Farley Unger discreetly left on an errand.

“You mean you didn’t send this note, Flo?”

“Lord love a duck, pet,” answered La Fleur, Flora Cobb. “My writing’s better than that. And I wouldn’t put any silly little flower by the name, neither, not to you, Leigh. ’Sides, you should have known I’d never send for you like that, not with your pretty little miss sitting over there, nor Mr. Unger sitting here.” She fingered the boulder on her chest. “He’s a diamond importer, is Mr. Unger.”

“I’m sorry, Flo, truly I am. I did think it must have been urgent for you to ask for me here, so of course I came. I’ll explain to Mr. Unger, if you wish, that we seem to be the victims of a hoax.”

“No need to worry about Unger. If I can’t handle a middle-aged merchant, my name’s not La Fleur.”

“It’s not!”

“So there!”

They both laughed at this foolishness, then Claibourne said, “Since I’m here anyway, Flo, it’s good to see you. You’re looking as ravishing as ever, but is everything well with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong that a little more money and a few less birthdays wouldn’t cure.”

“Are you in trouble? I don’t have much of the ready, but I could—”

“Go on, Leigh. You save your guineas to buy that girl something pretty. If you want me to talk to Mr. Unger for you, just let me know. No? Well, I hear she’s a real charmer, and I wish you happy, indeed I do.”

“Thank you, Flo. I think I will be. You take care of yourself now, and if you ever do need anything…”

“You always were the sweetest, even when you didn’t have two coppers to rub together. Oh, Leigh, before you go, you know that cousin of yours?”

“Percy? Don’t tell me you know Percy Fenton? I’ve been looking for him for weeks.”

“Have you? If he’s the queer nabs I think he is, I know where you can find him.”

“Really tall, skeleton-thin, slept-in fancy clothes, a nose like a turkey vulture’s, and more money than brains. With Percy, it would only take a shilling. And he’s always in his cups.”

“That’s him, all right. He’s been weaving up and down my street for weeks now, days and nights. Sometimes he sits on the bench across the way for hours; sometimes he just passes out in the street. He’s been giving my man Remington money, so I make Rem pay for the hackney to get the poor cawker home. He’d catch his death of cold out there, castaway, if the pickpockets or press gangs didn’t get him, or the watch. ’Sides, it’s off-putting for my guests.”

“I’m sure. What does he pay your man
for
, though, Flo? I can’t figure what he’s about.”

“No more can I. At first he wanted to come up, but I’m not currently receiving gentleman callers. Except for a few dear friends, of course. Then he wanted to know if you’d been around. That’s why I thought he might be that cousin. Remington knows not to tell any more than he has to, to cover the hackney fare. I pay him plenty enough as it is. This week he told the poor bastard I’d be coming to the theater.” She waved a hand around expansively. “Everyone in London is here, so it was no secret…. I bet the nodcock’s the one what sent the note getting you here. And I just thought he was a harmless mooncalf on the go.”

“He is, for the most part. He used to be, anyway. I think he’s up to some devilishly queer business now, though. If he shows up again, you might mention that I’m looking for him. That should chase him away. Otherwise you can always send for me if he’s a problem.”

“If I can’t handle a cup-shot cawker, my name’s not La Fleur!”

“Flo, it’s no wonder I love you. I’ll stop by soon to see what Percy’s up to.”

*

Claibourne returned to the box just as the curtain was going up for the second act. At the next intermission he noticed that Jacelyn was pale and quiet.

“Do you feel all right, dear heart? Would you like to walk in the corridor where it’s cooler? Shall I send for the carriage?”

She waved away his concern. “It’s only the play and Mr. Kean. So affecting, don’t you know.”

*

The play was finally over. Instead of applauding madly like everyone else, Jacelyn just kept weeping, for poor mad Othello and sweet Desdemona―and herself. Jealousy was such a terrible thing!

“Aunt Amabel, I have to talk to you.” It was the next morning. Jacelyn had sent a message down to the stables for Claibourne, saying she was too fatigued to ride. Of course she was tired; she hadn’t slept at all last night. Now she was trying to get her aunt to listen to her, never an easy thing before noon. Poor Lady Parkhurst was doing her best to look alert, peering owlishly up from the bedclothes through the frills of her lace cap.