Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress (24 page)

The banns were called, the marriage took place in due course, and shortly after Easter, the Miss Meredith that had so recently been Mrs. Flowers became Mrs. Everett.

After the small wedding, the Bath-ites—or was it Bathonians?—could not quite recall who it was that had first suspected Mrs. Flowers was playing a part in the spring of 1817. The relevant page seemed to be missing from the guest book in the Pump Room. So perhaps she had arrived under her true name, and they were all in on the joke?

Perhaps so.

There was no denying it had been a bold joke, and the denizens of Bath were not sure whether they liked it. But they liked Lady Tallant, and she liked the new Mrs. Everett, and…well, perhaps one ought not to expect an heiress to a soap fortune, or whatever it was, to know all the rules of proper behavior.

She and her husband were gone soon enough, off to Brighton, or so rumor said, where they intended to work with a Hindustani man who called himself a “shampooing surgeon” and ran a most elaborate bathhouse. The prince regent spent a great deal of time in Brighton and seemed to like it—but really, it all sounded rather exotic. The denizens of Bath were also unsure whether they liked the exotic or not.

But they did like the soaps that were soon stacked up in every chemist in their town and, from word that traveled into Bath with new visitors, across most of the south of England. These were soaps such as no one had ever seen: translucent ovals like great pieces of amber, delectably scented of honeysuckle. Or jasmine. Or sandalwood or lemongrass or sweet pea—and somehow, deliciously, there was an apple soap that smelled of the local orchards during the ripening season.

The price was exorbitant, but then, sometimes cost didn't matter, did it? So said Lord Chatfield and Lord Whittingham, both of whom had invested in this line of soaps, the latter after his ship did at last come in.

An unusual new product called
shikakai
appeared too; a sort of powder that smelled of fruit and, when worked into a paste, could be used to cleanse the hair. That was slower to catch on, though more than one lady's maid professed herself delighted by the ease with which she was now able to scrub the pomade and dust from
madame
's coiffure.

Lord and Lady Sutcliffe remained in Bath for quite some time, as his lordship attempted to sell coal to Mr. Duffy of the city's iron foundry. The baron and baroness were not seen to spend a great deal of time together, though they appeared cordial. Lord Sutcliffe was recognized about town not only for the brightness of his coats, but also for the spyglass he inevitably carried. When questioned about it, he tended to adopt a sly expression and say that his wife had insisted his hand tend to his spyglass.

In future years, Lady Tallant and her husband and their two rambunctious sons again visited the house in Queen Square. Once, Mr. and Mrs. Everett joined them there with their young daughter, upon whom Lady Tallant was seen to dote with a rather misty expression.

As the two families promenaded in the garden of Queen Square, there was a great deal of chat and merriment. Upon one occasion, a grimy boy pulling a Bath chair overheard Mr. Everett being accused of “man flirting” with the board of advisors that had once served as Meredith Beauty's trustees. Whatever “man flirting” was, it inspired a great deal of laughter.

Counter to the recommendation of Lord Sutcliffe, none of Meredith Beauty's soaps nor cosmetics ever contained
somalata.

Theresa Romain's Matchmaker Trilogy

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July 1815

Tallant House, London

It was no good. The canvas still looked as though a chicken had been killed on it.

Henry Middlebrook grimaced and stepped back, casting his eye over his work. In the cooling light of early evening, his vermilion paint looked ghastly.

He dragged his brush over one corner of the canvas and regarded it again. A slight improvement. Now it looked as if someone had killed a chicken on it, then tried to clean up the evidence.

No matter. He could fix it later somehow. Or hide it in an attic.

As he stepped forward again, ready for another artistic attack, Henry's foot bumped the fussy baroque table on which he'd set his palette. The palette rattled perilously close to the edge of the table, and Henry swooped for it before it tipped. He lost his grip on his paintbrush and could only watch, dismayed, as the wide brush flipped end over end and landed with a faint thump on the carpet.

Well, damn.

“How lovely!” came a cry behind him, and Henry turned.

His sister-in-law Emily, the Countess of Tallant, was standing in the morning room doorway smiling at him. She wore a gown the watery, fragile pink of rose madder, with some part of it pinstriped and some other part of it beaded, and her auburn hair arranged with a quantity of pink-headed pins.

Henry did not understand all the details of women's fashion, having spent the past three years learning the significance of shoulder epaulets, forage caps, and stovepipe shakos. Still, the effect of Emily's ensemble was pleasing to anyone with the slightest eye for color—which Henry had, though no one looking at his canvas would possibly think so.

“Good evening, Emily,” he said, shifting his foot to hide the fallen paintbrush. “I might say the same to you. You look very well.”

“Nonsense, Hal,” she said. “This gown is a full year out of fashion and is suitable for nothing but lolling around the house. I must go change for the ball, as must you. What I meant was that it's lovely to see you painting again.”

She craned her neck to look behind him. “And it's even lovelier to see you resting your palette on that dreadful table. Jemmy's Aunt Matilda gave it to us as a wedding gift. I can only conclude she must have hated me.”

Emily walked over to Henry and held out her hand for the paintbrush, which he sheepishly retrieved from the floor. She scrutinized it, then began to daub the gilded table at Henry's side with red curlicues.

“I'm not the expert you are, of course, but the texture of this red seems a bit off.”

“Yes, it's too oily. I'm out of practice.”

“Well, that's easily enough fixed by time. I'm glad we still had some of your supplies left from… well, before.” Emily signed her name with fat, bold brushstrokes to the ruined tabletop. “There, that's the best this table has ever looked. If you can stand the sight of the beastly thing, then you must have it for your own use while you paint. Surely we can find a studio for you somewhere in the house. You could even keep painting here in the morning room if you don't mind rolling back the Axminster, of which I'm rather fond.”

Henry looked at the heavy carpet guiltily. A splotch of warm red paint marred the fine sepia pattern of scrolls and bouquets. “I should have done that first thing. I'm sorry, Em.”

She waved a hand. “I understand artists are remarkably forgetful creatures. Once the creative mood seizes you, you cannot be responsible for your actions.”

“Are you giving me an excuse to be an aggravating guest? This could be entertaining.”

Emily's mouth curled into the cunning smile that meant she was plotting something. “You're much more than a guest, as you know. But you're right. I should demand that you pay me a favor for spilling paint all over my possessions.”

Henry took the brush from her and laid it carefully across the palette, atop the newly adorned table. “Let me guess. You already have a favor in mind, and you are delighted I have ruined your carpet, since now you can be sure I'll agree to whatever you ask.”

Emily looked prouder than ever. “Excellent! We shall slip you back into polite society more easily than I could ever have hoped. Already you are speaking its secret language again, for you are correct in every particular of your guess.”

“I'm overjoyed to be such a prodigy. What, precisely, have I guessed?”

“Tonight, I am going to introduce you to your future wife. What do you think?” She beamed at him, as though she expected him to jump up and start applauding. Which was, of course, impossible.

Henry gripped the edge of the fussy little table tightly. It was difficult to imagine feeling comfortable amidst the
ton
again—as difficult as it had seemed to leave it three years ago.

But he was just as determined on the former as he'd once been on the latter. Choosing the right wife could be exactly the key he needed to unlock London.

Emily passed a hand in front of his face. “You didn't answer me, Hal.”

Henry blinked; stalled. “Don't call me Hal, please.”

She raised her eyes to heaven. “You know perfectly well that I shall never be able to stop calling you Hal in my lifetime, just as you cannot stop calling your brother Jem. We are all far too set in our ways. But that's not the answer I wanted. What do you think of my idea about finding you a wife? Actually, it was Jemmy's suggestion, but if you like it, I shall claim it for my own.”

Fortunately, Henry's elder brother Jeremy, the Earl of Tallant, poked his dark head into the doorway at that moment, saving Henry from a reply. “Em? Aren't you ready yet? I've already had the carriage brought around.”

In his sleek black tailcoat, mathematical-tied linens, and waistcoat of bronze silk, Jem looked every inch the earl. Every inch, that is, except the one between his forehead and nose. His eyes—a bright lapis-blue, the only feature the brothers had in common—held an ignoble amount of doubt just now. “Hal? Are you sure you're ready for this?”

Henry decided on deliberate obtuseness. “For Lady Applewood's ball? No, I still have to change my clothing.”

“I'll send my man up to help you,” Jem replied too quickly.

Emily crossed her arms and regarded her husband slowly, up and down. “You look very elegant, Jemmy. But why are you ready? We aren't leaving for an hour.”

Jem's expression turned puzzled. “An hour? But I thought—”

“We must make a grand entrance,” Emily said in a hurried hush. “I told you we shan't leave until nine.”

Jem shrugged, squeezed by his wife, and came to stand next to Henry. “It's too dim in here,” he decided as he regarded the painting. “I can't tell what you've painted.”

Henry swept his arm to indicate the baroque table. “This table, for a start. And your carpet. And my breeches a bit.” He regarded his garments ruefully.

Jem nodded. “Rather ambitious for your first effort.”

“Yes. It's served me well to be ambitious, hasn't it?”

Jem managed a smile as his eyes found Henry's. “I suppose it has. Well, best get ready. Em's told you about our grand plan, hasn't she?”

“If you mean the plan to marry me off, then yes. I can't say I'm shocked. I'm only surprised it took her two weeks to broach the subject.”

“She's been plotting it for weeks.” Jem sighed. “Quite proud of the scheme.”

“I'm still
right
here
,” Emily said from the doorway. “And I
am
proud of it. It's just…”

When she trailed off, both brothers turned to her. Emily's merry face looked sober all of a sudden. “We think you'd be happier, Hal. If you were married.”

Henry pasted a smile across his face. “Don't worry about me. I'm quite as happy as can be expected.”

Emily studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “One hour, Hal. Jemmy, do come with me. You may help me decide which dress to wear.”

The earl followed his wife. “It doesn't matter, Em. You always look marvelous. Besides which, you never wear what I choose.”

“That's because you'd send me out with no bodice. Honestly, Jem!”

Their voices quieted as they moved down the corridor, and Henry allowed the smile to drop from his face. He could guess what they'd begun talking about: just how happy
was
he?

He'd given them a truthful answer on the surface of it. He was as happy as could be expected. But a man in his situation had little enough reason for happiness.

Still, he had determination. Surely that was even more important. With enough determination, happiness might one day follow.

He dragged his easel to the edge of the morning room and gave his painting one last look.

Just as horrible as he'd thought. But in time, it would get better.

With a rueful shake of the head, he left behind his first foray back into painting and went upstairs to prepare for his first foray back into London society.

***

Frances Whittier was too much of a lady to curse in the crowded ballroom of Applewood House. Barely.

But as she limped back to her seat next to Caroline, the Countess of Stratton, she found the words a gently bred widow was permitted to use completely inadequate.

“Mercy,” she muttered, sinking into the frail giltwood chair. “Fiddle. Goodness.
Damn
. Oh, Caro, my toes will never recover.”

Caroline laughed. “Thank you for accepting that dance, Frannie. The last time I danced with Bart Crosby, he stepped on my toes twelve times. Oh, and look—I think I've cracked the sticks of my fan.”

Frances wiggled her feet. “He's improving, then, for I'm sure he stepped on mine only ten.” She exchanged her own unbroken fan for Caroline's. “And if you would quit batting everyone with your fan, it wouldn't break.”

“I can't help it,” Caroline said. “Lord Wadsworth puts his hands where they don't belong, and the only way to remove them is by physical force.”

“In that case, we should have a new fan made for you of something much sturdier than ivory. A nice rosewood should help him remember his manners.”

“Or wrought iron, maybe?” Caroline replied, and Frances grinned. Caroline was in quite a good humor tonight and more than willing to share it.

The role of companion to a noblewoman was often seen as thankless, but except when her toes were trod upon, Frances found her position quite the opposite. Maybe because her employer was also her cousin, or maybe just because Caroline was cheerful and generous. The young countess had been locked away in the country for the nine years of her marriage; now that her year of mourning for her elderly husband was complete, she collected admirers with the deliberate joy of a naturalist catching butterflies.

Frances enjoyed helping Caroline sort through the possibilities, though she knew her cousin was as determined to guard her independence as Frances had once been to fling hers away.

“What's next, Caroline? Are you of a mind to dance anymore?” Frances leaned against the stiff back of her chair. It was not at all comfortable, but it was better than having her feet stomped on.

“I think I will, but not just yet.” The countess leaned in, conspiratorial under the din of hundreds of voices bouncing off a high ceiling. “Emily has told me she's bringing her brother-in-law tonight, and she intends to introduce us. He's a war hero, just back in London after three years on the Continent.”

“A soldier?” Frances said faintly. The hair on her arms prickled from a sudden inner chill.

Caroline shot her a knowing look. “Yes, a soldier. That is, a former soldier. He should be intriguing, don't you think?”

“I have no doubt of it.” Frances's throat felt dust-dry. “At any rate, he won't be one of your tame puppies.”

“All the better.” Caroline adjusted the heavy jonquil silk of her skirts with a practiced hand. “They're so much more fun when they don't simply roll over, aren't they?”

Frances coughed. “I can't really say. I haven't
rolled
over
since I was widowed, you know.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Maybe it's time you changed that.”

“Believe me, I've thought of it.”

Caroline chuckled, though Frances's smile hung a little crooked. Any reference to her brief, tempestuous marriage that ended six years before still trickled guilt down her spine. Which was probably why she hadn't
rolled
over
in so long.

“How do I look?” Caroline murmured. “Satisfactory enough?”

Frances smoothed the dark blue crape of her own gown, then cast an eye over Caroline. With quick fingers, she tugged one of the countess's blond curls into a deliberate tousle, then nodded. “You'll do very well, though I think you've lost a few of your jeweled hairpins.”

Caroline pulled a droll face. “Tonight's casualties: one fan, an undetermined number of hairpins. I don't suppose a soldier would regard those as worthwhile, but I rather liked them all.”

“They were lovely,” Frances agreed. “I saw Lady Halliwell hunting the same hairpins on Bond Street after you last wore them five weeks ago.”

“Oh, horrors.” Caroline frowned. “She'll remember that I've worn these before.”

“If she does, it won't matter, because she admires you greatly. Besides, she wasn't able to get any for herself. I'd already put the remaining stock on your account.”

Caroline looked impressed. “You do think of everything, don't you?”

“I do. I really do.” Frances permitted herself a moment of pride before adding, “But if Lord Wadsworth calls on you again, he'd better bring you a new fan.”

“And himself some new manners,” murmured Caroline. “Oh, look, I see Emily now.”

Frances squinted, picking out Caroline's good friend Lady Tallant pushing through the crowd. The countess wore a grin on her face and her husband on one arm. A tall, fair-haired man followed a step behind. The war-hero brother, no doubt; his taut posture was military-perfect, his handsome face a calm cipher.