Barbara Metzger (9 page)

“It’s more than just my manners and breeding, Madame. Samantha says that Priscilla says that it will take a great push to get me into Almack’s—it’s this exclusive club attended by everyone who is anyone. My aunt, Lady Parkhurst, won’t make the effort to get me vouchers. She doesn’t quite approve of me, you see, and doesn’t wish to jeopardise her own good standing. And Samantha says that Priscilla says I’ll be ignored totally if I’m not accepted at Almack’s. You know, not invited to balls and parties, not recognised by other young ladies.”

“This Samantha I met, but who is this Priscilla who has so much to say?”

“She’s Squire’s niece Priscilla Ponsonby, and she’s an Incomparable. That’s what they call the most admired women. She had five offers in her first Season, but no one was good enough for her. Besides, she’s tall and pretty and never has stains on her gloves or a single hair out of its pins.”

“Ah, so we shall steal all of her beaux, yes?”

“Oh, Madame, I wouldn’t want any of them, just…just…”

“Just to show this
chat
that Mademoiselle Trevaine can shine in the first circles also?”

“Yes, but I don’t see how.”

“Didn’t my grand-nephew ask me to see about your debut? Today is what, Friday, and this Almack’s meets when?”

“Wednesday.”

“Oui, plenty of time. Don’t worry,
petite
. I’ll see it done.”

Jacelyn did not want to offend the older woman, though she couldn’t see how Mme. Aubonier could have any influence whatsoever in London, having been isolated in Durham for so long. She hesitantly mentioned, “Vouchers are extremely hard to come by, ma’am. Samantha says one must know the patronesses who run Almack’s. Priscilla’s mother is close with Lady Jersey, which means we couldn’t ask her.”

“Enough of this Priscilla, child. I am tired of her already. And that Jersey
chien
is a scandal unto herself,
l’affaire
with your prince. No, I would not let her invite us. Princess Esterhazy is still a patroness, no? She is a connexion of Claibourne’s grandfather, my father le Duc. And Lady Drummond-Burrell, her husband brought her to
la maison
on their wedding trip, many years ago.
Il fait
. It is done.”

“I am sorry, Mme. Aubonier, for doubting you. I did not realise you had such connexions in London.”

“Call me
tante, petite
, as Leigh does. I like you. And
non
, how could you know I would still have good friends and good correspondents, so long since I have seen them?”

“But,
tante
, if you have all these friends, why did you stay alone all those years while Leigh was away? Weren’t you lonely?”

“Child, I had lost my home, my husband, my son. The last of my family was Mignon-Marie, Leigh’s mother. Then she too was taken, and the boy went off to fight to save my country, too late. How could I be anything but lonely, wherever I went?”

“I understood there were many other French men and women in London. Perhaps you could have stayed with them?”

“Ah, I could have stayed French, and stayed lost in memories,
n’est-ce pas
? But Claibourne Abbey had no mistress, and the boy had no one else to come home to. So I stayed and made a new life and new friends. It was still sad,
triste
. But listen, Jacelyn, and remember, you can be lonely among the largest crowds, without your own loved ones. They are who matter, not people like this Priscilla, whose opinions are worth cabbage, yes?”

“Yes,
belle-tante
,” Jacelyn said, impulsively reaching over to kiss the other woman. “Thank you.”

After a relaxed luncheon at the Crowned Drake, about halfway to London, Leigh handed Baron’s reins to one of the outriders and settled in the coach with the women. He took the corner opposite Jacey, his back to the horses, his long legs in tight buckskins and now-dusty Hessians resting on the other side of hers.

“So, ladies, time for a council of war. What plans have you made?”

“Clothes first,” his aunt proclaimed. “The dressmakers can be working while we see to introductions.”

“But I have plenty of clothes. They were sent ahead to Aunt Amabel’s.”

“A lady never has enough clothes.
Tiens
, styles change overnight in London. Now you two make your arrangements. I rest.”

Jacelyn looked at the figure of Claibourne’s aunt in her corner, all in black again, a high-necked stuff gown, and was dubious about the lady’s taste, much less her knowledge of the current fashions. Aunt Amabel, however, would have the vapours over the styles and colours Jacelyn chose. She wasn’t even in London, and already there were difficulties.

As if reading her thoughts, Mme. Aubonier opened her eyes briefly and fixed Jacey in her glance. “Not to fear,
petite
. I go to visit these
grande dames
of your English
ton
. They talk more frankly without a
jeune fille
present.
He
goes with you to the shops,” she decreed, nodding in Claibourne’s direction before shutting her eyes again.

“You, my lord, trailing after me in the dress shops?”

“And the milliners and booteries; I’ll wait outside the corsetiere, of course.” He caught Jacelyn’s look in his aunt’s direction. “All very proper: an open carriage, your maid for chaperone.”

“I haven’t got a maid,” Jacelyn contradicted. “I don’t want one, fussing about me and telling me what to wear, like a child.”

The earl inspected his sleeve for lint. “I’d be your abigail myself, pet, doing up all those little buttons and combing out your hair, but I draw the line at mending and pressing.”

“Mrs. Phipps always did that for me. I see that I cannot expect Aunt Amabel’s London housekeeper to sew new ribbons on my gowns. How does one arrange to hire a lady’s maid in Town? At home Mrs. Phipps would have promoted the second housemaid, or found a cousin who was good with a needle.”

“I’m certain your aunt has already seen to it, once your clothes arrived.” He held his hand up when he saw her brow start to lower. “You needn’t keep her, whoever your aunt selects, if she doesn’t suit you. Remember, your father sent funds of your own, so you can hire any amount of fancy dressers, or second housemaids, if you’d rather.”

That satisfied her but, curious, she asked, “Do you have a valet?”

“Arthur and I share a man-of-all-trades. Haggerty was my batman in the army. He can remove stains from a cravat and poultice a horse’s hock and cook a fine rabbit stew, if need be. Mostly he makes certain I’m tricked out
à la mode.”

“Do you know a lot about ladies’ fashions?” Jacelyn wanted to know, getting back to the subject at hand, though she was fairly sure of the answer.

That speck of lint seemed most tenacious. Claibourne cleared his throat. “I have had a, er, deal of experience in such matters.”

“I’m sure you have, if half the rumours are correct!”

“Hold your claws, little kitten. I never said I was a monk. One mustn’t listen to rumours, anyway.”

“Sometimes one cannot help it. People think they should tell you, for your own good. One story has it that you have an uncle”—she lowered her voice to a near whisper—“who is a slave trader.”

“Didn’t your father explain about all that? I was sure he would.”

“No. He said you had an unfortunate family history which had no reflexion on you. Is it true?”

“Yes, Fenton did own ships in the black trade; I don’t believe he does any longer. You needn’t worry about seeing him, however, he never goes out and I certainly never visit him. You won’t meet up with my cousin Percival either. He is not received in polite circles, thank goodness. A greater nodcock you’ll never see.”

Then, under Jacelyn’s interested questioning, he explained how his family tree got so infested, how his Aunt Sydelle was pushed into a hastily arranged marriage when a crop failure threatened the family with bankruptcy. The talk of divorce, the duel, Leigh covered it all. “So now you’ll know the whole of it, instead of the half-truths people will dredge up for your benefit. Now you’ll also see why I’m not top-drawer elite. Will it bother you?”

In one sense it bothered her very much: what if she obtained those prized vouchers for Almack’s and he couldn’t go? Suddenly her desire to attend that pinnacle of snobbery evaporated.

“What is it, Jacelyn? Does my background upset you so much?” Leigh was concerned at the look on her face.

“Not at all, you gudgeon. It’s just that your aunt is seeing to invitations to Almack’s, and I wasn’t sure if you…”

“Were granted permission to enter the sacred portals? Lord, yes, I’ve never been blackballed anywhere. Why in heaven’s name do you want to go there, though? It’s dull as ditchwater. It’s hot and crowded, and the cakes are stale. The dowagers sit around like gargoyles making hideous faces at anyone requesting a dance with one of their charges, when everyone knows they only bring the chits there to get rid of them. The Marriage Mart, they call it. Dreadful place.” He shuddered, making Jacey laugh.

“Well, you are going to have to attend, my lord, because I’m to be all the crack!”

“Are you now, my fancy lady? Then
avaunt
, let’s go. Besides, if I’m to be seen with you, perhaps I won’t get those gimlet stares. See how much good you are doing me already?”

“Don’t be goosish. I have nothing to do with your ancient history.”

“History, no, but there is, ah, a more recent past”—one eyebrow raised—“which we shall not discuss, save that it makes it impolitic for me to be judging your behaviour. Suffice it to say I was not an eligible parti, nor even a particularly desirable dancing partner for a young lady.”

“What, did they think you would ravish them, right there on the dance floor?”

“You’d best watch your tongue, my girl, if Almack’s is your goal,” he teased. “One such remark and your next invitation will be when Satan goes sleigh riding. And no, I never stayed long enough among the debutante set to find out what their mamas feared worst: a flirt or a fortune hunter. Now, pet, thanks to you, they won’t have to worry about the big bad wolf turning their daughters’ heads. As long as you are on my arm, I’ll be as safe as a lamb.”

“You better be,” Jacelyn muttered under her breath.

“What was that, my love?”

*

The next miles passed quickly, with a deck of cards. The earl played leisurely, relaxed as always, yet seeming to know where every card was in the pack. Jacelyn would begin a hand with great determination, vowing to concentrate on the discards, until she was distracted by a passing wagon loaded with baskets, or the need to know what dramas were showing at Drury Lane. After two hours Leigh put the cards away and consulted the tally sheet.

“You owe me five hairpins, two feathers and—what was this last stake? The button from your gloves. I think I’ll defer collecting, as it wouldn’t do to arrive at your aunt’s doorstep all undone. Don’t ever consider making a career of the pasteboards, dear heart, you’d starve.”

“Perhaps I’ll go on the stage, then. I can’t sing but I can handle the breeches parts well enough. Can you see me as Portia?”

“As well as I can picture you in hoops and headdress for the Queen’s drawing-room presentation. By the bye, have you considered at all what you’ll do after Christmas, pet, if no one else catches your fancy and you decide not to have me?” Over my dead body, he vowed to himself, but his noncommittal, jesting attitude stilled any assurance Jacelyn might have given. How could she speak of her newborn feelings when he still considered this a temporary liaison at best, a bothersome debt of honour at worst?

Her pride answered for her: “Oh, I’ll simply return home to Treverly. I never wanted a husband, or thought to need one. Most girls see marriage as a means to independence, a home of their own without chaperones and all the restrictions. I already have that, at home.”

“What about children?” he asked.

“Oh, puppies are more appealing,” she replied, “and a great deal easier to come by, from what I hear. Now that you mention it, however,” she added, with that look of mischief which set off sirens in Leigh’s head, “there are some things considered unsuitable for a maiden’s ears, which I wish to understand. Since we are nearly engaged, and this might be my only opportunity in life, perhaps you could explain them to me when we’re in London.”

The earl pulled his hat down over his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and pretended to go to sleep.

It’s strange how spiders have such a bad name, even among the insect groups. Go outside on an early spring morning when the dew is still on the grass, or a late summer afternoon when fog settles down, and there, by the trellis or under the eave, you’ll see one of the world’s priceless treasures, gleaming with diamonds. The spider is not remembered as the master craftsman, however, only as the villainous nighttime schemer. Perhaps the spider’s poisonous bite adds to such ill repute, coupled with the creature’s methods. Not for the spider honourable face-to-face combat; he spins art into artful, then lurks in shadows by his trap, waiting for unwary victims.

Now picture Josiah Fenton, hook-nosed, shrunken of frame, huddled in his spoke-wheeled Bath chair, spewing his hatred like venom into a dank, ill-lit, cluttered room. With apologies to arachnids, he resembled nothing so much as an evil spider, weaving treachery.

“Wars,” he muttered, tapping his long fingernails on the
London Gazette
in his lap. “Years of wars. Countless dead. Why couldn’t he be one of them? Hare-brained heroics ought to have done for him long ago. Blast his curst luck!”

The last exclamation did not manage to stir the dreary room’s other occupant, who was sprawled on the loveseat: Fenton’s son Percival, if son he was. Fenton was the only one to disparage Percy’s lineage because, at twenty-five, tall, skinny, and stoop-shouldered, with an enormous, boney, bobbing Adam’s apple presently unconcealed by the soiled neckcloth draped across his knobby shoulders, and that same hook nose, Percy was his father’s image—and despair. The only feature Percy didn’t share with Fenton was his hair; the younger man’s dank dishwater blond was proof enough for Fenton of Sydelle’s infidelity. Ignoring the memory of his wife’s shining gold curls, he swore she’d played him false. She had to have; Josiah Fenton could not have sired such an infernally stupid son! Percy was so stupid she must have mated with a tailor’s dummy. Percy was so stupid that he halfway, or hopefully, believed Fenton’s claims himself.