The Conqueror's Dilemma (4 page)

Shifting from the window,
Kilbride clapped the valet on the back. ‘Bestir yourself, Frocester, I’m as
hungry as a hunter.’

‘Ignore him, Frocester,’ said
William gently. And to his friend, ‘I cannot be expected to scramble into my
clothes only because you choose to invite yourself for breakfast. I have a
reputation to maintain, as well you know.’

‘And half a dozen morning calls
to make, don’t tell me.’

While William slipped his arms
into the coat the valet was holding up, his friend’s energetic gaze rode up and
down the tall figure.

‘You won’t break any hearts in
that rig. Beats me how in Hades you manage to sit down in those things.’

William ignored the jibe. Being a
thoroughgoing sportsman, his friend was never to be seen in pantaloons. One
could not fault his buckskin breeches for fashion, even if their cut was made
more for comfort than elegance, and William did not despise a fustian burgundy
frockcoat over a corduroy waistcoat. On the whole, he thought Kilbride, who had
not his own advantage of height, was wise to stick to a style flattering to a
pair of powerful shoulders and a muscular leg.

Despising fashion, Hector
contented himself with a cursory nod in the direction of good taste, but
refused either to crop his chestnut locks, which he wore unfashionably long and
tied in the nape of his neck, or to spend unnecessary hours in dressing
himself.

‘One of these days,’ said William
lazily, as he examined his reflection in the long glass, ‘you will succumb to
the lures thrown out to you by matchmaking mamas—yes, I know you avoid them
like the plague, but the day will come—at which time, my dear Hector, you may
value my sartorial advice.’

A derisive grunt greeted this
sally. William’s lips twitched as he leaned forward to press a fold of his
starched cravat into place.

‘Observe,’ he pursued, waving at
his reflection. ‘The coat, a fetching dark green. Note, if you will, the slight
gather of the sleeve at the shoulder. The waistcoat striped—merely a hint of
brown against the cream. Pantaloons yellow, of course, and, to the glory of my
feet and thanks to Frocester’s energetic exertions, the Hussar buskins polished
to a sleek finish.’

Hector rolled his eyes. ‘You
sound like a damned tailor. And look like his dummy.’

‘And you,’ retorted William,
turning with a grin, ‘rise all too readily to the fly.’ He nodded at his valet.
‘I do believe I’m done—in my leisurely way.’

‘About time.’

Leading the way, Kilbride made
short work of the passage and flung into the parlour where only one cover was
seen to have been laid at the table. This was soon remedied and the two men sat
down to a hearty breakfast provided by the woman who kept the three apartments
in the Pall Mall building, of which William occupied the one on the first
floor.

Misliking the more formal
atmosphere of his family home in Brunswick Square, Lord Kilbride was a frequent
adjunct at the morning meal, which gave him, he said, an opportunity to keep up
with his friend.

‘Never see you but you’re surrounded
by a coterie of females,’ he complained. ‘Besides, the least you can do is give
me breakfast now and then when I’ve gone to such trouble to bring you into
fashion.’

An exaggeration, but William was
ready to concede he owed his start in society to the generosity of his friend.
Arriving in London six years earlier, with nothing to recommend him beyond
genteel birth, William had traded shamelessly upon Kilbride’s good nature until
he had one foot upon the ladder of success. To wit, his liaison with Juliana,
Lady Yelverton, from where he had catapulted to dizzying heights as society’s
darling. Sheer luck had given him status. Hard-headed cynicism had kept him
there. Dubbed for his now legendary conquest of the Queen of Society, William
had held the title by playing a winning social game, despite a sometimes
desperate lack of the necessary funds to maintain his position.

He might have joked of his wit
and charm to Juliana, but they were his stock in trade. He could have gambled
his way to a fortune—or the debtor’s prison—but William chose a less precarious
path. As long as he contrived to entertain or amuse, hostesses would continue
to invite him to dine and dance, country house parties would be thought dull
without his presence, and a succession of high-born mistresses would continue
to ply him with gifts. Until, that was, he could beguile a likely heiress into
marriage.

Which was why, he reflected with
a twinge of regret, he could not afford the luxury of acquaintance with a
nobody of a wench from who knew where, no matter how many rascally imps
flickered in her eyes.

The daily journal was proving
difficult to write. Had it been purely for herself, Tiffany would have known
exactly what to say of last night’s encounter. But the account of her
activities being intended for Uncle Matt’s ears—and the delectation of Aunt
Peggy—she was hard put to it to know how to mention the Conqueror without
raising wholly unfounded expectations. His interest in Tiffany was but slight,
if it had not been for that fortuitous rescue. To speak of Mr Westerham as of a
knight in shining armour could have disastrous repercussions.

It was, Tiffany knew, her aunt’s
habit to read all avidly first, reserving for her husband an expurgated
version. ‘Men, my lovey,’ as she had often said, ‘are uninterested in those
little details of life in which we women delight. I never trouble your uncle
with them, and he does not ask, and so we go on very well.’

But where it concerned his
niece’s prospective future, Tiffany was well aware Uncle Matt would be all too
interested. He had every hope of Tiffany returning a betrothed bride to
Bridlington Key. Tiffany, on the other hand, could foresee no such happy
outcome. Happy? Could she be happy married into the circle that had cruelly
rejected Mama? Besides, she had not so far encountered any eligible gentlemen
besides one too elderly and odious to be considered—except the Conqueror.

Although Eva had not counted him
eligible, had she? No, his value lay in his usefulness, which made him but a
stepping-stone on the way. But would her guardians understand so much? Hardly,
given their ignorance of this abominable social whirl. Aunt Peggy—by no means
content to keep such a tidbit to herself—must inevitably draw an erroneous
conclusion. Uncle Matt would crow delight. And Tiffany would be obliged to tell
him that the Conqueror, whether or not kindly disposed, was far above her
touch. It would not do.

Sighing at the necessary
deception, Tiffany contented herself with the simple statement that she had
“seen” Mr Westerham at the ball, repeating her chaperon’s explanation of his
sobriquet as the Conqueror, and followed this with a description of him. Aunt
Peggy would devour it, and there was no need to go further into the matter of
Lady Drumbeg’s search for someone to introduce her. Why mention it when it had
been made abundantly clear none would be willing to perform this office? And
Tiffany shuddered at relating the near escape of a despicable humiliation.

Ending her little account, she signed
off the long letter, determining to post it off this very day. It had already
been a week since the last, and it was unlikely anything more interesting than
Lady Yelverton’s ball would befall her in the near future. As well to end on a
hopeful note.

Having sealed and addressed the
letter, Tiffany was on the point of requesting the footman to take it to the
Post Office, adding a suitable douceur for his trouble, when by good fortune
Lady Drumbeg announced her intention of accompanying a friend to an emporium in
Cheapside. She bade Tiffany be ready to go with her.

‘For there are articles to be had
there for the merest song, and as good as what you’ll find in your modish Bond
Street shops.’

The mention of Cheapside caused
Tiffany’s ears to prick up. Did it not leading off from Lombard Street? Her
early tours of London were proving useful. Why should she not pop into the Post
Office for herself, thus saving the gratuity to the footman?

Imbued with Uncle Matt’s doctrine
of economy, Tiffany was ever apt to look for savings where she might. Not that
she was short of funds. On the contrary, she had been astonished at the
extravagance exhibited by her uncle in the matter of her London Season. But,
‘Never grudged spending in a good cause, I haven’t,’ had been his cryptic
explanation, when Tiffany had protested. ‘Can’t have my brother’s child decked
out in less than the best. I won’t have you thought badly of, Tiff, and that’s
flat.’

Tiffany hoped he might never
discover how she had signally failed to be thought well of in the circles in
which his ambition for her was centred. Since the blame for this could squarely
be placed upon the woman he had chosen for her chaperon, it was the more
imperative he remained in ignorance. What he would say did he know Lady Drumbeg
acquired most of her finery in a locality whose name matched its prices,
Tiffany dared not think.

Mrs Gosbeck, the faded lady who
presently arrived at the door, had launched Tiffany at a ball given in her
large mansion in Great Russell Street. Its claim to fashion was more than a
century out of date, as several persons had been quick to inform Tiffany. It
had not taken long to divine these as regulars in attendance at such events,
which were clearly a general practice in whatever agreement existed between Mrs
Gosbeck and Lady Drumbeg. But at least, had added these ill-disposed
individuals, Russell Square had once been fashionable, which was more than
could be said for Soho Square, where Lady Drumbeg resided.

Tiffany knew not what to believe.
Was there jealousy involved? Mrs Eliza Gosbeck, intimate with Lady Drumbeg from
their schooldays, was obviously well liked, while her chaperon was not, as
Tiffany could not avoid noticing. Nor could she fail to recognise how Mrs
Gosbeck’s speech lacked Eva’s superimposed refinement, which spoke volumes for
their joint origins.

After the fiasco of Lady
Yelverton’s exclusive ball, there could be little doubt that her uncle’s usual
sapience had deserted him in the matter of choosing her duenna. But this aspect
of the matter paled when Eva was moved to utter a sinister warning.

‘Say nothing of Lady Yelverton’s
ball to Eliza, Tiffany. Until we can find a way to put you under the
Conqueror’s notice, it will be best to keep quiet about him.’

Appalled, Tiffany was stricken to
silence. Had her chaperon not given up this absurd pursuit of Mr Westerham? Had
she no shame? Was she not embarrassed to think of approaching him? For
Tiffany’s part, she had rather jump into the sea than seek his patronage.

Her agitation made her abstracted
as she returned Mrs Gosbeck’s greeting, and allowed herself to be ushered into
the waiting coach. It was an aged vehicle, its leather squabs worn, but it was
driven by the lady’s own coachman and a footman was by to open the door and let
down the steps, luxuries she was reluctant to forego.

‘There’s folk enough to advise me
to sell the great house,’ said she in an oft-repeated song, ‘only I can’t and I
won’t, not if it was for fifty spanking new coaches. I ask you, Miss Felton,
ain’t I right?’

Tiffany managed a smile. ‘I’m
sure you are, Mrs Gosbeck, if it makes you happy to remain in Great Russell
Street.’

‘Aye, dearie, but there’s the
rub,’ returned the lady sadly, ‘for it don’t. I’d like fine to be somewhere
cosy and out of that draughty mansion. Nor I can’t hardly afford the servants
to keep it up.’

‘You can’t sell it, Eliza,’
stated Lady Drumbeg impatiently. ‘Where would we hold our balls?’

‘Yes, but only think of the
savings, Eva. I spend a fortune on candles alone.’

‘Ah, but if you used fewer, you’d
be tempted to purchase wax candles instead of tallow, and wouldn’t make no
savings at all.’

‘Coal, too,’ averred Mrs Gosbeck,
as if she had not heard. ‘We light so many fires I’m sure I keep the coalman in
business.’

‘Fires smoke,’ pronounced Eva. ‘A
small house means small rooms, and the smoke would choke you to death. At least
it’s got somewhere to escape to in that house of yours.’

‘But I can’t keep warm in them
big rooms. I always sit in the little parlour, and the fire never smokes.’

Tiffany could sympathise, for she
was feeling chilled despite the warmth of the well-lined cloak she had taken
the precaution of wearing over the muslin gown that was, she had learned,
de
rigueur
for a young female in her first Season. The blue spencer worn over
it did little to keep out the cold, and since she had the intention of walking,
she needed the cloak.

The argument wore on as the
ancient coach made its lumbering journey into the City, and a burgeoning pout
sat uneasily upon Mrs Gosbeck’s plump countenance, under a bonnet richly
decorated with ribbons, feathers and oddments resembling fruit. Tiffany had a
sudden vision of Lady Yelverton’s face were she to encounter this monstrosity,
and was seized with so urgent a desire to giggle, she was obliged to turn her
face to the window and pretend an interest in the world outside.

This scrutiny soon became
legitimate, for Tiffany’s attention was caught by the changing landscape as the
coach proceeded along the thoroughfare into the busy world of the City: street
vendors burdened with trays or huge baskets crying their wares; the hurrying of
black-clad clerks and the burly forms of men at work; the rising noise from the
wheels of many carts and carriages; and the hooting of a not too distant ferry
on the river.

It was unlike in character, but
in liveliness so reminiscent of the harbour at Bridlington Key that Tiffany was
hit with a wave of homesickness, which served to heighten the misery of her
present situation. How she longed to be where she was valued. Where she might
count upon a cheery greeting, alike from a sailor or the harbour master
himself. Where she had been ever treated with respect and friendliness, and
none would relegate her to the status of the slimiest worm.