Barbara Metzger (27 page)

“Of all your strange and varied whimsies, dear heart, this is one of your most hare-brained. A man don’t introduce his fiancée to his mistress!”

“I’m not your fiancée yet, and she’s not your mistress, still,” she persisted.

“Cut line, baggage. A lady isn’t even supposed to talk
about
such women as Flo, much less talk to them. As much as I like Flora, there’s no denying what she is, and what she is just isn’t suitable for you.”

“Why? Do you think she’ll encourage me to take up the life of sin?”

“Jacey,” he finally said in exasperation, “it doesn’t matter what I think, or what the social arbiters decree. Flo wouldn’t want to meet you. It would only embarrass her and make her feel ashamed of her…her profession.”

Jacelyn thought about it awhile. “Leigh, does Flora like what she does?”

“Lord, Jay-bird, I don’t know! I surely wouldn’t ask her!”

“And what about when she’s older and not so attractive? What happens to women like her then?”

“With luck, she’ll have put some money away. If she’s been lucky and her gentlemen have been generous, she can sell off the baubles she’s accumulated, like the king’s ransom Flo wore the other evening. Why?”

“Just curiosity, I suppose. I never knew any…any
demimondaines
. Only Sal, down at the Speckled Pony, but that was different. She was barmaid, so everyone could pretend she didn’t do the other.”

“In London, gentlewomen pretend that other doesn’t even exist.”

“Here they come. Can I at least smile?” She did anyway, before he could answer. Leigh raised his whip in greeting, and Flora tilted her head, slightly. Mr. Unger searched his sleeve for specks of lint.

“What a hubble-bubble convention! Leigh, do you think Mr. Unger will marry her? Or maybe one of her other gentlemen will?”

“A man doesn’t marry his mistress, primrose. He doesn’t need to. Gads, I hope you don’t tell anyone about this conversation! You know, the only reason I said I’d take you to the masquerade at Vauxhall was that I feared you’d go by yourself. And the only reason I had this discussion with you was to keep you from accosting some poor girl waiting for business outside the theater or somewhere. I’ve never been so glad to see Lem. Squire was right: you do have an odd kick to your gallop.”

Leigh parted from her at the stables, reminding Jacey that he wished to hear all about her dealings with Farthingale, that evening at Wrenthe House. “And if that puppy is still trailing after you, you owe me a kiss!”

“And if he’s not?”

“Then I owe you a kiss!”

*

Consider the man who thinks so much of his appearance that he’d wear the latest fashion, no matter if it were war paint and feathers. In Farthingale’s case, he wore his starched shirt collars so high he could blind himself with a quick denial. His waistcoat was nipped in so tightly he couldn’t eat in public, and tying his neckcloth in the delicate
trône d’amour
took one valet, seven snow-white linens, and forty minutes. All this was for a walk in the park with Jacelyn and her dog.

Farthingale cared inordinately for what he looked like, but more for what he looked like to others. Perhaps it was because the viscount had such a high position to live up to, or that his mother was so disapproving, or just that the other boys hadn’t let him play knights and dragons. Jacelyn didn’t know what made a man—or a woman—wear such a social façade with so much pride, but she knew how to handle him gracefully, without injuring that same
amour propre
. With a dog, of course.

That same dog who is such a friendly topic of conversation among strangers, its antics and ancestry, is not quite as comfortable up close. A person-to-canine meeting, among strangers, is a hound of another colour. The lovable star of all the anecdotes is liable to embarrass its companion worse than a split seam to sternward. The darling pet will happily relieve itself as near to the stranger’s boot as possible, in full view of passersby, of course, and then indulge in a loud, vulgar display of personal hygiene. If two of the little dears get together, their introductory rituals could send a gently reared female into palpitations. As for four-footed romance…

That’s why no one ever brought any but the tiniest lapdogs to the park, and rarely put them down.

That’s why Jacelyn fed Pen a large meal at noontime, and a whole bowl of broth, and did not have Lem walk her near the house as usual, before getting into Farthingale’s carriage. And that’s why she insisted they get out to walk right at the entrance to the park, where all the fashionables were gathered to see and be seen.

Jacey had to hold her parasol; could Lord Farthingale please hold the leash?

Pen was your typical dog, only more so, since she was larger. Farthingale was used to hunting-hounds in the woods, not this. He was mortified. People were turning their backs, snickering, lifting their noses and their skirts to step around them, and Miss Trevaine was twirling her parasol! He prayed the ground would open up and swallow him—or the unconventional girl and her impossible pet! No such luck, as Jacelyn just kept chattering, walking onward slowly, behind two ladies whose skirts the dog was sniffing! Death couldn’t undo this blow to his self-esteem. The shame was bound to haunt him throughout eternity.

Jacelyn finally took pity on him when she saw the tears start to form in his eyes. “Shall we go, my lord? I think Pen has had enough exercise now, don’t you? You have such a way with dogs, we have to do this again soon. Perhaps tomorrow. No? I’ll see you this evening at Lady Wrenthe’s, shan’t I? You have other plans? That’s too bad.”

As Jacelyn told Claibourne later, making herself and Pen into Scylla and Charybdis was the easy part. Getting Priscilla to look like safe harbour was a little more difficult.

“Did you hear about Arthur and Lady Rhodine? Lady Tina is throwing them a ball on Friday. It will be one of the premiere entertainments of the Season, I’m sure. Everyone will be there.”

Farthingale was having a little smoother sailing, now that they were in the carriage and out of the park. His colour changed from green back to its usual baby pink. The chance to gossip enheartened him further, especially the word “everyone.”

“I wonder if Miss Ponsonby will attend? Shocking thing, that, everyone’s talking of it.”

“Poo. Anton-Fredricks was a cad, that’s all. We were all right there; no harm was done, except to him, of course. Priscilla will naturally attend her own brother’s betrothal ball, and I’m sure she’ll be all the rage. She was so brave, fighting off that madman and calling out for help. I’m sure everyone will want to hear her story. I’ll wager there won’t be any getting near her. And dear Priscilla will be looking as beautiful as ever, despite such a harrowing experience. I don’t know how she does it, never a hair out of place, never a spot on her glove. What do you think?”

“Mother thinks Priscilla’s no better than she should be, but the way you tell it…”

“You couldn’t think
Priscilla
was at fault, could you? Why, everyone knows Miss Ponsonby is the most proper girl who ever lived. My own aunt is forever holding her up as an example to me. I may have acted a trifle impulsively at times, which everyone has so kindly overlooked, but Priscilla? Never!”

“Deuced fine looking woman.”

“A real Diamond.” Jacelyn sighed. “I’ll never be like her. At least you won’t have to worry about not having a dance with me at the Endicotts’; my card is never as full as Priscilla’s.”

“I might just pop over there this afternoon and ask her to save me a couple. Quite the thing to do, you know. Show the dear girl all men aren’t bounders.”

“How kind of you, Lord Farthingale. You won’t come in for tea, then? Oh, and I so wanted to show you how Pen drinks from the saucer.”

*

“So now you and Arthur have to see that Priscilla comes to the ball and acts noble,” Jacey told Leigh.

“She’s way ahead of you, sweetheart. Arthur says that after Farthingale’s visit Priscilla actually started to believe she was a heroine. By the night of the ball she’ll have vanquished Anton-Fredricks herself, in single-handed defense of British morality. If no one else dances with her besides Farthingale, Arthur and I will, and I suppose we could ask Sprague, now that his eyes are open. That will be enough, with her pride. I salute you again, ma’am, for successfully completing another difficult mission in enemy territory. I only wish we’d had you in Spain for the Peninsular Campaign! Shall we proceed to the balcony where I might give you the decoration for valour?”

Sniff…sniff? “What’s that smell, boy? What are you doing over there?” Fenton put down his newspaper.

“Roses, gov. I’m writing a note to go with them.”

Fenton rolled his Bath chair down the long room to where Percy sat at the desk. On the desk, the floor, his lap, were piles of little calling cards. Some had ink splotches, some had spatters. Others had messages:
fondly, Claibourne
, or with affection,
Leigh. Yours truly, Merrill,
etc. Close by was a large parcel, two dozen red roses tied in tissue with a silver ribbon. The roses were already browning at the edges from being out of water so long.

Fenton looked at the roses, flipped over a few of the cards. “Your mind doesn’t work fast, Percy, when it works at all. I assume you’re still trying to get Claibourne and his straw damsel together; I just can’t understand why. He saw her at the theater, in front of the girl and the whole
ton
. So what? The
Gazette
’s still full of their doings, Claibourne and the chit, together.”

“He called at her house.”

“Did you see him there?”

“No, thanks be. Miss La Fleur had her man tell me Leigh was there looking for me.”

“You brandy-based bubblehead, that means he suspects you’re involved with the theater contretemps, not that he’s interested in the woman! Besides, even if he does call there, he’ll be discreet. It won’t have any damned effect on the Trevaine twit. The only way your cork-brained scheme could work is if the doxy is on our side. That’s like hoping the Tower of London falls on Claibourne’s head. Have you even talked to her yet?”

“She likes me. She wouldn’t have her man warn me, else. You’re right though, Da, I should be trying to win her affections to m’self, not my cousin Leigh.”

“Percy, your attics are to let! You could rent your brainbox to a couple of starlings—and still have room for a squirrel!” Percy wasn’t listening. He was torturing a new set of cards.
Fondly, Fenton? With affection, an Admirer? Hopefully, Percy?

Fenton read two of the blotched efforts, shook his head. “At least I won’t be going to hell. I’ve already done my penance…. I have a new idea, boy, lucky one of us does. Percy, put down that damn pen and listen to me!”

Percy blotted the nib on the penwipe, then naturally tucked the blackened cloth into his waistcoat pocket, like a handkerchief. “Listening, governor.”

“Aargh.” Fenton backed away. “There’s a ball tonight, according to the Gazette, and Claibourne’s sure to be there. It’s for his friend Ponsonby and Endicott’s daughter. The girl is friends with Claibourne’s chit, so it’s the perfect time.”

“Perfect time for what? You know La Fleur won’t be at any fancy nob’s ball.”

“Use what little wit you have, Percy. It’s the perfect time to show the gel Claibourne’s character, make him out a libertine and worse, a debaucher of women.”

“Is a debaucher anything like an accoucheur?”

“You skitter-witted slowtop, it’s a man who would seduce a virgin, get her with child, then just walk away.”

“Oh, a bounder. Whyn’t you just say so? It won’t fadge, though. Claibourne ain’t one. Everyone knows he don’t go near the innocents, except for Miss Trevaine, of course.”

“Exactly, but she doesn’t know it. She’ll believe the worst, if she sees proof right outside Endicott’s door.”

“Huh?”

“You stage a show for her, Percy, before the party, one to give her a disgust of Claibourne for once and all. They’ll all see it. He’ll be cut dead, tossed out of his clubs, finished in polite circles, just like they did to me.”

“Uh, gov, what kind of show is that? That horse bit outside Almack’s wasn’t any great success, you know.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t know, you gnag-nosed nodcock? This plan is so simple even you can do it. All you need to do is find a woman who’s breeding. A young, pretty one. You point Claibourne out to her, and you pay her to stand outside Endicott’s yelling the brat is his. That should settle his account, by Jupiter!”

“But, gov, where am I going to find a pregnant woman? You know I ain’t in the petticoat line.”

“You ain’t in the petticoat line, you ain’t in the banking line. You ain’t in the shipping line, and you damn well weren’t in line when they were handing out brains!” He wheeled his chair to the doorway, calling for his man Jensen. He shouted back toward Percy: “You’d better do it, boy, if you want to stay in line for my fortune.”

Percy sat thinking for a minute. You could tell: his mouth was open. Then he took the pen, dipped it in the ink, and painstakingly inscribed a fresh card
: Please let me love you. Percy.

*

“You want a pretty young woman who’s breedin’, for one night? I don’t know, Mister Percy.” Cook was eyeing him as if he was some kind of pervert. She was backing toward the meat cleaver. “There’s my sister’s girl Fanny, but I can’t say as how she’d oblige. Her man’s a mail driver, so they don’t need the ready. I’ll ask for you, if you just get along now, so I can do up these nice trotters your father likes.”

But it had to be tonight, and Percy had to have a pregnant woman, guaranteed. The only women besides Cook he ever dealt with made sure they never found themselves in an interesting condition, so that option was out. Down by the East End, Seven Dials, or the Docks, though, there were always half-naked urchins begging in the streets. That seemed as likely a place as any to search.

Percy was lucky. It only took three dingy taverns, and a few rounds of cheap gin in each, to find a pregnant woman. But she wasn’t very pretty, with her scarred face and stringy hair, and she wasn’t even very far gone. He gave her the time, address, instructions, and half the fee, in case he couldn’t find a more suitable increasing actress. He secured the deal with another drink, and a bottle to carry with him. What do you know? His luck was getting better. There were two big-bellied women at the next grogshop, sitting sideways at the table. One of them was almost pretty, too. Sure, she’d claim King George was the babe’s dad, for a half crown and a few drinks. Only thing was, she was very close to her time and didn’t like being out alone, so far from home. Could her friend come too?