Joan Wolf (12 page)

“Thank heavens that is over,” my grandmother murmured from my other side.

Diccon smiled very faintly and his hand just touched mine. He leaned across me and said, “There are refreshments in the saloon, Lady Ardsley. May I bring you some champagne punch?”

He escorted us to the supper room and saw Grandmama comfortably ensconced with some punch and some lobster patties. He then very thoughtfully provided her with an elderly conversation partner, Lord Booking, whom she apparently knew quite well, and took me away to see the harpsichord.

I was fingering the keys and listening to Diccon when M. Ramatin appeared at our side. He looked at Diccon.

“Please play, my lord,” he said quietly.

Diccon shrugged. “It is too late.”

The other man was regarding him very seriously. “I have heard of you, of course. Please, you will not deny me the opportunity of hearing you play?”

Without another word, Diccon sat down. “What do you want to hear?”

“What Lord Oxford tells me you were playing this afternoon?”

Diccon raised a black eyebrow.

“I beg you,” the man said.

Diccon raised his hands and began to play from the Goldberg Variations. I sat down in a gilt chair and M. Ramatin sat beside me. I had once attempted the Goldberg Variations on the piano. They are perhaps the most difficult single keyboard work ever written.

Diccon played for half an hour and when he had finished, the ballroom was almost full again.

“How long have you been practicing that, my lord?” It was M. Ramatin.

Diccon looked surprised. “This afternoon,” he said. “I thought Oxford told you that.”

“I mean,” said M. Ramatin sternly, “for how long
before
this afternoon?”

“Oh,” said Diccon easily, “I haven’t played any of the Goldberg in years.”

M. Ramatin stared at him in wonder, shook his head, and walked away.

“The poor man is awestruck,” I said with amusement.

“He is a very fine musician.” Diccon was serious. “I want to get him to come to Carlton. Excuse me for a moment, Valentine, will you?” He went off in pursuit of M. Ramatin and I turned to find my grandmother at my side.

“We are leaving, Valentine. I cannot endure to sit through another hour of this.”

I sighed. She had really been very patient. “All right, Grandmama.” We got our cloaks and left before I could speak again to Diccon.

I went for a ride in the park the following morning with my cousin Martin and we met Diccon galloping along Rotten Row to the obvious displeasure of several other riders. One did not gallop in Hyde Park. One cantered, decorously.

Diccon pulled up when he saw me and I introduced him to Martin.

“That’s a new horse,” I said, and looked admiringly at Diccon’s gray. The horse wanted to gallop, but Diccon held him relentlessly to a walk.

“He’s Newcastle’s,” Diccon informed me. “I didn’t want to bring my own cattle all the way to London. Newcastle has been having a difficult time with this gray, so I volunteered to teach him some manners.”

I looked up at him, at his black hair disheveled from the run, his brilliant dark eyes, his flawlessly proud profile. I laughed. “What manners? You’ve been tearing up and down the park like a maniac.”

“That was a reward,” he returned imperturbably. “He walked over here like a gentleman.”

“Perhaps you did not realize it, my lord, but it is not the thing to gallop in the park at this hour.’’ Martin sounded stiff and disapproving, and Diccon turned his head to stare at him.

‘ ‘Wakefield. Are you the fellow who is going to inherit from Ardsley?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” Diccon looked him up and down, and Martin’s back got noticeably stiffer. “Well, Wakefield,” his lordship went on in the pleasant voice that always made me nervous, “I find I am not interested in what is the thing to do.”

Martin’s chin looked remarkably stubborn. “I might have expected as much,” he said grimly.

Diccon’s face lit with a charming and thoroughly untrustworthy smile. “Certainly you might.”

Martin began to look really angry. I knew what was wrong with him, and it had nothing to do with Diccon’s galloping his horse in the park. I gave his lordship a minatory look and said, “I enjoyed the music last night very much. Thank you for inviting me.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he said mockingly.

“Don’t let us keep you from your lesson.” I smiled sunnily and glanced at Martin from the corner of my eye. His hands on the reins looked rigid. Diccon was provoking him just by being there.

“Good-bye,” I said firmly, and after a minute he laughed.

“Good-bye, sweetheart. I’ll see you this evening.”

He was off in an abrupt flash of silver gray, and I turned to find Martin looking at me in astonishment.

“Sweetheart?” he said.

Damn Diccon. He had done that on purpose.

“Lord Leyburn was a very good friend of Papa’s,” I said. “What is on the cards for tonight?”

“A reception at Carlton House.”

My jaw dropped.
“Carlton
House? Can Diccon really be going there?”

“Diccon?” echoed Martin in even greater astonishment than before.

“Come along, Martin,” I said impatiently, “let’s canter.” I started up the row at a pace that was scarcely decorous.

Chapter 17

Carlton House was the residence of the king’s eldest son, the Prince of Wales. The prince had assumed great political importance because of the uncertain sanity of his father, George III. There was every likelihood of the prince becoming Prince Regent within a very short time and the government would depend upon whom he sent for to head it. The Tories under Spencer Perceval were presently in power, but the Whigs had long enjoyed the favor of the Prince of Wales and so they hoped that their chance was close at hand.

I received all of this political background from my cousin Martin during the remainder of our morning ride.

“The Whigs were in for a short time after Pitt died, but when we lost Fox, everything went to pieces. The Tories came back again under Portland. When Canning and Castlereagh had that ridiculous duel, they all had to resign and things looked hopeful for us, but the king brought in Perceval and he seems pretty well entrenched. Our best hope lies in Prinny.”

“What you are saying, then, is that everyone is buttering up the Prince of Wales.”

He smiled ruefully. “That is what I am saying, Valentine. And that is why all the world will be at Carlton House tonight. The prince has made no commitments as yet. He is as pleasant to his father’s ministers as he is to his old friends of the opposition.”

“Will it really make any difference to the country who gets in?” I asked.

He stared at me, aghast. “Of course it will, Valentine. With the Whigs we will have some progress at least.”

“Oh. Progress. I often wonder if it is all it’s cracked up to be.”

He looked at me with injured dignity and said nothing. Evidently he did not consider my remark worthy of a reply.

* * * *

In the afternoon I went for a drive in the park with Lord Henry Sandcroft. A great part of one’s day in London revolved around Hyde Park. It was frightfully tame.

Lord Henry and I discussed the latest news from the Peninsula. The Spanish army had been defeated, but Wellington was in Portugal waiting to begin a new campaign.

“I have some news for you, Valentine,” he said after a little silence had fallen. “I shall be going out myself. It’s all settled. I’ve been appointed to Wellington’s staff.”

“Harry, how splendid.” I smiled. He had wanted this appointment for quite some time.

“My mother doesn’t think so,” he replied a little dryly.

“Mothers don’t like to see their little boys go to war.”

“I’m not a little boy.” His voice was even dryer than before, and I looked up at him. He was an extremely well-built young man with a strong aquiline nose and a quite decided chin. He was twenty-five and most certainly not a child.

“I know,” I said placatingly, “but mothers don’t think that way.”

“She’s afraid I’ll get killed.”

“Well, you might. Men do get killed in war.”

He gave me a very strange look. “You don’t sound very upset by the prospect.”

“Everyone has to die sometime, Harry. The thing to do is to live, to be happy, and not to worry oneself unduly about the way one goes out.” I smiled at him. “I should be very unhappy to hear of your death. But I would never want to stop you from doing what you felt you had to do.”

There was a pause. His eyes were focused straight ahead, between his horse’s ears. Then he spoke, still without looking at me. “I don’t believe you would.”

“It’s because you
are
a man,” I explained. “Some people need to be taken care of. You don’t.”

“Nor do you.” He turned to look at me at last. “And the amazing thing is, you don’t even realize how extraordinary you are.”

****

Martin had said all the world would be at Carlton House, and it appeared he was right. The graceful double staircase that went up to the Chinese Room was jammed with people. The prince was graciously greeting his guests and I curtsied deeply when Grandmama presented me.

All the rooms were crowded, with people and with objects both. There were displays of Sevres china and collections of clocks and mirrors and bronzes. The entire effect was overpowering. I was standing looking at a marble bust by Coysevox when a pleasant voice spoke next to me.

“Do you admire sculpture?”

I turned to find a nice-looking man with brown hair and sophisticated gray eyes watching me. Grandmama was talking to someone at a little distance and not paying attention to me.

“Busts are not my favorite,” I admitted.

The man raised an eyebrow. “You don’t admire the prince’s taste?”

“I did not say that. I have never seen such an extensive collection of beautiful things.”

“You fit in among them very well. I’ve been out of town this last month and I must confess I do not know your name.”

“I’m Valentine Langley. Lord Ardsley is my grandfather.”

His other eyebrow went up. “Ah. Yes. Miss Langley.”

“How do you do. And you are?”

He smiled faintly. “My name is Brummell.”

So this was the famous Beau Brummell, the arbiter of all fashion, the man whose approval could raise a nonentity to social heights and whose disapproval could banish one to the nether depths of the country. I smiled at him and said nothing. He was the one who had started the conversation.

“It was too bad of you to have sneaked in upon the
ton
in my absence, Miss Langley,” he said.

“It was a dreadful mistake,” I replied immediately. “We were not properly informed of your schedule.”

“You see, it is my duty to put a seal of acceptability on all new members of society,” he explained gently.

“I do hope you approve of me, Mr. Brummell.” Actually, I cared not the snap of my fingers about his feelings one way or another, but I always try to be polite.

There was a glimmer of amusement in his gray eyes. “I understand you rejected Lawton. That is a recommendation.”

The Marquis of Lawton was a very stuffy, very pompous, very noble, very rich young man who used to ask me to dance rather frequently. I had taken to telling him my card was all filled. He was a dreadful bore.

“Lord Lawton was never interested in me, Mr. Brummell,” I said firmly. “I believe he likes Lady Barbara Bevil.”

“I see.” He looked even more amused, and Grandmama appeared at his shoulder. She looked a little apprehensive.

“Grandmama, may I present Mr. Brummell,” I said dutifully.

The two of them made all the appropriate murmurs, then Grandmama said, “I did not know you were acquainted with my granddaughter, Mr. Brummell.”

“I took the liberty of introducing myself, ma’am,” he replied smoothly. “I have heard a great deal about Miss Langley since I returned to London.”

Poor Grandmama looked distinctly nervous. It was really too bad of him to upset her.

“All of it good, I’m sure,” I said sternly, and gave him a quelling look.

His lips twitched. “Assuredly.”

Grandmama brightened noticeably.

“I should hope so,” I said, and Mr. Brummell laughed.

There was a stir at the door and I looked up to see that Diccon was coming in. He was dressed in black evening clothes and his black hair was brushed and smooth on his arrogantly held head. He looked like an angel in mortal dress.

“Leyburn.” It was the Prince of Wales’ voice. He beamed at Diccon, his whole well-corseted person exuding good humor. “My dear fellow, this is a great pleasure.”

Diccon was in front of him now, and from my place across the room I could see how he stiffened. He did not like fat German princes being genial with him. It was an almost imperceptible movement, but I saw it, and His Royal Highness must have, too. He held out his hand and said with dignity, “You are welcome to Carlton House.”

There was a moment of silence in the room as Diccon regarded his future sovereign. No doubt he was thinking of how the Fitzallans had been making and breaking kings while the Hanovers were still petty German electors. Then he took the outstretched hand and bowed, very slightly.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” he said gravely, a prince talking to a prince. “It is a pleasure to be here.”

Diccon spent the first hour of his visit talking to a great variety of gentlemen and to Lady Barbara Bevil. Martin and I, depressed by the sight of the two of them together, escaped to the conservatory. The Carlton House conservatory was like no other of its kind. It was a cathedral, with Gothic pillars, tessellated ceilings, and a marble floor. Martin and I sat down on a bench next to a collection of strange-looking cacti and regarded each other gloomily.

“Where’s Sandcroft?” he asked me moodily. “Stowe’s had a clear field with you tonight.”

“He was on duty,” I said. “He’s finally got his posting to the Peninsula.”

“Good for him.”

“Yes.”

“Here they are, hiding behind the cacti,” said a familiar voice, and Diccon came into sight around a huge azalea. Right after him came Lady Barbara Bevil. Martin jumped to his feet.