The Sins of Lady Dacey (6 page)

As they waited nervously in the Green Saloon, each with a magnificent cashmere shawl draped around her shoulders, Pamela tried to remain calm. She was not doing anything wrong, she told herself repeatedly, although the stern and reproving face of her husband was always before her mind's eye.

Honoria, aware of her friend's heightened color and shining eyes, felt the elder of the two. With a wisdom beyond her years, she dreaded the effect of the attractive Mr. Delaney on such a lady as Pamela, who had never had any fun or laughter in her life. Honoria remembered the chill air of the vicarage and the way the vicar crept softly about, always seeking fault. Her preoccupation made her treat the duke rather coolly, and at first he was piqued and then amused at himself for being so put out by the seeming indifference of a chit of a girl.

Contrary to the duke's expectation, there were a great number of fashionables there as they took their seats in a box. People openly stared. Honoria had forgotten about that social stare. Some raised lorgnettes and one man even trained a telescope on their box.

But then the pantomime started and Honoria forgot about everything else. In later years, she was to try to tell her children about the magic of Grimaldi without success. It was not what he
said
that was so funny: it was what he
was.
There he stood, looking out at the candlelit audience, with “a thousand odd twitches and unaccountable absurdities oozing at every pore” of his clownish mask. Above his rolling eyes were two ridiculous eyebrows that would “go up and down like a pair of umbrellas or one would ascend, and the other remain to superintend a wink.”

His voice was another weapon. Future biographers would describe it, variously, as “husky with constant laughing"; “richly thick and chuckling like the utterance of a boy laughing, talking and eating custard at once"; or “a gin voice, heaved from the very bottom of his chest.”

So with all his heady exuberance of animal spirits and the kind of laugh that made the whole house laugh with him, Grimaldi kept one eye on fantasy and one on reality: he never allowed the audience to forget for long that he
knew
it was all a game and that they were playing it, too.

And Honoria and Pamela laughed the grim years away, laughed until they held their sides, laughed until they cried. The duke was at first amused at their innocent enjoyment, for he considered himself too old and sophisticated to be captured by such childish folly, but soon he found himself laughing helplessly.

By the time the transformation scene arrived with all the cast descending a staircase on the stage to take their bows, the duke and Mr. Delaney had recovered, but their more unsophisticated guests leaned forward, drinking in the glory of the spangled costumes.

When the deafening applause had died down at last, Pamela turned to Mr. Delaney and said simply, “Thank you.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Pamela finally shyly withdrew her hand, but her eyes were warm and glowing.

“Yes, indeed, thank you,” said Honoria briskly, anxious to get Pamela away. “A most enjoyable evening.”

Pamela, afraid of her emotions, was silent on the road home and Honoria, worried about Pamela, was silent also. She rallied enough when they reached Hanover Square to thank both the duke and Mr. Delaney again.

“We must find something else to entertain you,” said the duke. He had only meant it as a piece of empty gallantry, but to his surprise Honoria said, “I am afraid that will not be possible. We have much to do. Come, Pamela.”

And like a stern matron, Honoria urged Pamela before her and into the house. The door shut behind them with a firm bang.

The duke was amazed. Never had any girl or woman turned down the chance of seeing him again.

“We cannot leave it like that,” exclaimed Mr. Delaney.

“Oh, but I think we must.” The duke propelled him gently to the waiting carriage. “As Miss Goodham firmly pointed out, they will be too busy. And that, my friend, is your fault. You cannot go around courting vicars’ wives.”

“I will not be so obvious again.” Mr. Delaney struck his heart, to the amusement of two tall footmen passing by. “I shall be devious and circumspect and hide my passion!”

“Do that. But do not involve me in the plot. Despite my wicked reputation, I have never seduced a respectable female in my life.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he wondered what it
would
be like to make love to someone as pure and innocent as Honoria.

He assured himself it would be a bore, got Mr. Delaney into the carriage, and drove off.

But London, although thin of company, was already beginning to buzz about the wicked duke and the unknown innocent. The duke's reputation might shock in the country, but in the heady atmosphere of London, ambitious mamas were prepared to forget it to secure a title and a fortune for their daughters. Eyebrows were raised when the spies finally reported that the young lady was a Miss Honoria Goodham, her chaperon was a Mrs. Perryworth, and that Miss Goodham was the niece of the outrageous Lady Dacey. Speculation was rife. To get close to the duke was surely possible by befriending these ladies. Mr. Delaney, questioned about the pair, was singularly uncommunicative, not wanting to talk about his love and casually dismissing Honoria as “some chit of an heiress.”

Now the mothers of marriageable sons came alive. An heiress! Miss Goodham did not go anywhere socially, but maids reported to mistresses that the best of dressmakers, mantua makers, milliners, and hairdressers had been flocking to the mansion in Hanover Square. Honoria's status as heiress was therefore confirmed.

A few cards began to arrive, and then more and then more.

“We should accept,” said Pamela as they went through them.

Honoria primmed her lips in disapproval. “If we start to go about in society, you will no doubt encounter Mr. Delaney, and that will not do.”

Pamela felt a sudden wave of fury. Honoria had gone on like a stern guardian since the outing to the pantomime. She had read sermons aloud. In fact, the book of sermons was lying open on the table beside her, no doubt in preparation for another moral reading.

“If we do not go about,” Pamela said severely, “then the Season will be upon us. If you return unwed, then no doubt your parents will offer you again to Mr. Pomfret, a fate I am beginning to think you thoroughly deserve.”

“Pamela!”

“It is
my
life,” said Pamela, striking her breast. “Mine! I am weary of being lectured to and moralized over. Here!” She stood up, picked up the book of sermons, ran to the window, opened it, and threw the book out into the square.

“There!” she said, swinging round, her face flushed. “I am now going to Hatchard's in Piccadilly and I am going to buy one of the latest novels, so there! I have never been allowed to read fiction, and I am going to start now.”

When Pamela had swept out of the room, Honoria sat down heavily, nursing a feeling of dread, which she persuaded herself was fear for Pamela's welfare rather than any trepidation at the thought of meeting the wicked duke again.

It was Pamela who selected their first invitation, to a ball at Lord and Lady Buchan's. Lady Buchan, a correct Scottish matron, had called to pay her respects. There was nothing about her to alarm Honoria, who did not take into consideration that Lady Buchan had two unwed sons in their early twenties.

“I sometimes fear we have been over-extravagant,” ventured Honoria, looking at their new gowns.

“Nonsense,” said Pamela with her newfound tetchiness. “This is our first public appearance—the pantomime does not count—and we must make the best of it. Only see the number of invitations we have! What on earth can your aunt be thinking of to remain so long in Paris! Well, I am determined to ingratiate myself with as many notables as possible this evening, for I fear it is beginning to look as if I shall have to bring you out myself.”

Honoria, as a debutante, was obliged to wear white and envied Pamela her rustling lilac silk gown, but Pamela thought Honoria looked enchanting in a simple Grecian robe of white muslin embroidered with a gold key pattern and worn over a white silk slip. She had little gold slippers on her feet and a headdress of gold leaves on her hair, that soft brown hair that now framed her face in delicate curls.

Pamela sighed when she saw her, her anger and bad temper fading away. “You will break hearts,” she said. “Lady Dacey has the right of it. You could marry a duke.” Immediately the words were out, she regretted them, for a shadow clouded Honoria's eyes and Pamela thought she was thinking of Mr. Delaney when, in fact, Honoria had been reminded of the Duke of Ware.

Both were, however, looking forward to the ball without much trepidation, for Lady Buchan had seemed such a comfortable, sensible lady and she had promised “not a very large affair. A few couples.”

Their nervousness did not begin until the carriage set them down in the courtyard of an enormous mansion in Piccadilly, hard by the Marquis of Queensberry's and overlooking Green Park. Flambeaux blazed from sconces on the walls and the great house was lit from top to bottom. Dance music sounded out into the night. The very air seemed to crackle with that particular sort of excitement London held in the evening, an excitement generated by several thousand people, rich and poor alike, determined to make merry. In an age when death lurked around every corner, all took their pleasures as enthusiastically as they could.

They went into a vast hall and were ushered to a side room to leave their cloaks. One of Lady Dacey's maids, who had accompanied them, helped them to make last-minute touches to their hair.

“It's like preparing to go on stage,” said Honoria with a nervous giggle. “Or so I imagine an actress must feel. I thought this was supposed to be a quiet affair.”

“Goodness,” remarked Pamela as they emerged back into the hall and looked up the long winding stair to the ballroom, “if this is a quiet affair, what is a
grand
London ball going to be like?”

“Oh, my stars!” cried Mr. Delaney, a few moments later. “They are arrived!”

The duke raised his quizzing glass. There was a luminosity about Honoria, he thought. She made every other woman in the room look shop-soiled, over-painted, fussy. Rose petal skin, huge blue eyes, and oh, that mouth, soft and delicate and pink and untouched. Faith, he reflected wryly. I am become a lecherous old man.

“Do ask Miss Goodham for a dance,” urged Mr. Delaney. “It would establish her social credentials.”

“I doubt if Miss Goodham needs my help,” said the duke, aware of the heightened interest of nearly every man in the ballroom. “Oh, very well. Don't tug at my sleeve in that irritating way.”

He walked across the ballroom. Both ladies sank into low curtsies. The duke bowed. “Miss Goodham, may I humbly beg the favor of this dance?”

A smile rose to Honoria's lips, only to disappear as the quadrille was announced. The quadrille was a new dance, and she had not yet learned the steps. Conscious of all eyes on them, she stammered out, “I must refuse, Your Grace.”

With a look of frozen hauteur, he made another bow and stalked off. A chattering rose and fell about Pamela and Honoria.

“Now you cannot dance at all!” exclaimed Pamela.

“But just
this
dance,” protested Honoria. “Why did we not engage a dancing master to teach us the steps of the quadrille?”

“It does not matter,” said Pamela gloomily. “You have refused a gentleman a dance. That means you cannot dance with anyone else.”

“Why did you not tell me this!”

“I thought you knew. If only you had told Ware you did not know the steps—then all would have been forgiven. We had best go and sit by the wall. The evening will not be wasted, for we can study how the other ladies go on.”

“Impertinent little minx,” the duke was saying to Mr. Delaney.

“I cannot understand it.” Mr. Delaney shook his head.

“You had best not ask Mrs. Perryworth to dance or you will meet with the same rebuff.”

“Perhaps Miss Goodham and Mrs. Perryworth do not know the steps of the quadrille. It has not yet been introduced at Almack's.”

“Fustian. The waltz was around for years before it was introduced at Almack's. It is a wonder they do not still perform only minuets there.”

“I shall try my luck at the next dance.”

The quadrille lasted half an hour, giving Honoria and Pamela ample time to observe the elegance of the dancers and the intricacy of the steps.

Pamela was conscious of Mr. Delaney with every fiber of her being. She tried to conjure up a picture of her husband and, unfortunately for her, succeeded in doing so to such effect, that all it did was give Mr. Delaney added charm.

The Duke of Ware, thought Pamela, was not for Honoria. He was too old in—his thirties—and had a bad reputation. Honoria needed someone as young and innocent as herself. But what young gentleman, she wondered uneasily, on this frivolous London scene was going to fall in love with a young lady whose idea of entertainment was reading sermons? She had to admit that the duke was looking very handsome in his black evening dress of coat, silk breeches, and white stockings with gold clocks.

At last the quadrille was over. The dancers promenaded around the room. Then a country dance was announced.

Mr. Delaney approached them and bowed. “May I beg you for this dance, Mrs. Perryworth?” Pamela felt her duty was at Honoria's side. But she could hardly add insult to injury by refusing the duke's friend.

She smiled and rose and took his arm, and Honoria was left alone on her little gilt chair. She was conscious of many stares in her direction, of whispers, of the fact that the row of dowagers across from her were leaning forward from time to time to scrutinize her. A lump rose in her throat, and she felt young and defenseless.

Pamela was separated from Mr. Delaney by the figures of the dance, but when they were promenading round the room after it was over, as was the custom, she said hurriedly, “Miss Goodham is overset. She did not mean to be rude. This is her first London ball, and she—neither of us has learned the steps of the quadrille. Please explain to the duke what the problem was. I fear he is angry with her.”

“Of course he is. But I will see what I can do.”

But when Mr. Delaney went in search of the duke, he found that gentleman was already leading a young miss onto the floor. Pamela went back to sit with Honoria but discovered to her confusion that she was immediately approached by a guard's officer who asked her to dance.

“Please go,” whispered Honoria. “I shall do very well.” But she felt miserable as Pamela was led off. She felt almost naked, sitting alone. She longed to dance, to mingle with the other dancers, to be part of the ball. She had plenty of opportunity to observe how well the duke danced, how his partner sparkled up at him, how intrigued he seemed to be with her.

That dance finished. Mr. Delaney waited his moment and then approached the duke. “Miss Goodham does not know the steps of the quadrille,” he said urgently. “She is too naive, too gauche, to know how to say so. Now she is in social disgrace—and at her first ball! She will need all the help she can get, particularly if that harridan, Lady Dacey, returns in time to sponsor her. Pray explain to Lady Buchan what is amiss and then ask Miss Goodham for another dance.”

“And risk being cut a second time by some provincial, sermonizing chit? No, I thank you.”

“Just this once. For me. It would mean so little to you and so much to her. Do this for me. You need never talk to her again afterward.”

“Oh, very well.” The duke sighed and went in search of his hostess. Lady Buchan listened to him with relief. She had urged her sons to dance with the new heiress and then found they could not as Miss Goodham had refused the duke. But if all were put right ...

“Such an easy mistake for a young miss to make,” said Lady Buchan indulgently, “and so good of you to explain matters. Let us go and talk to Miss Goodham.”

“It is a waltz,” said the duke sourly. “Do you think she knows the steps to that?”

“Oh, I am sure she does, and she has my permission to dance it.”

Pamela saw the duke and Lady Buchan approaching before Honoria did and her heart quailed, dreading a lecture. She could feel all eyes on them.

Honoria looked up to see the duke standing over her. “His Grace informs me you do not know the steps to the quadrille,” said Lady Buchan, “but he hopes you know the steps to the waltz.”

“Yes, yes I do,” said Honoria, looking flustered.

“Then will you favor me with this next dance, Miss Goodham?”

The duke held out his hand.

She rose with one graceful fluid movement and took his hand. He put one arm at her waist and smiled down into her eyes. Honoria had only danced the waltz before at country assemblies. Her first steps faltered until that grip at her waist tightened. She felt suddenly light-hearted. There was nothing to fear. She felt oddly safe, held in his arms, safe from prying eyes and avid gossip.

Pamela for once was hardly aware of Mr. Delaney as she circled the floor with him, so anxiously did she watch Honoria. “Look at me,” commanded Mr. Delaney. His dark gray eyes sparkled as they looked down into hers. She involuntarily clutched his hand hard, feeling almost as if she were drowning. This will never do, she thought breathlessly, quickly lowering her eyes.

Honoria felt a little tug of loss inside her when the dance finished and reality came rushing back. “You dance beautifully,” he said, as he led her round the room. “But you must hire a dancing master and learn the steps of the quadrille. Is there no word from Lady Dacey?”

“None whatsoever,” said Honoria. She glanced up at him shyly. “I thank you for being so forgiving. It appears that Mrs. Perryworth and I will likely have to cope with the London Season on our own. I should not have liked to start my social life in disgrace.”