Amy Lake

Lady Reggie and the Viscount

Amy Lake

Prologue

My best friend, Cassandra Barre, says that
my stubborn nature will get the best of me someday.  I suppose she’s right, but certain habits are difficult to give up.

I can’t deny that stubbornness led me to my current tangle; un-chaperoned and in charge of a houseful of independent-minded servants some hundred miles from London, not to mention in hiding, of a sort, from my own mother and father, and from a prospective fiancé.  Miss Barre has written several times, reminding me that the erstwhile fiancé is handsome and intelligent and that I once claimed to be quite fond of him.

But that is exactly the point.

Chapter 1: A Waltz at the Lincolnshire Ball

I could blame the whole affair on Freddie, I suppose, although he would try to say ’twas society’s fault, at least the London society we were brought up in, which requires certain behavior and activities of its more august members.  Such as we are, to be sure.  My parents are Lord Graham and Lady Lydia Knowles, the Earl and Countess of Aveline.  Knowles is an old and honored name, and our people have been exceedingly wealthy for generations, with a large property in Cumbria and a London townhome—Roselay—of the finest address. 

A number of years ago, however, my father’s father—the previous earl—found himself in love with a duke’s daughter.  The rather disastrous outcome of that affair, combined with grandfather’s penchant for strong drink and a game of piquet, brought the family finances closer to their present, and rather shaky, state.  My father now presides over Roselay with a high hand, doing his best to ignore all evidence that we do not have the blunt to live as one expects an earl to live, and certainly not as he would prefer.  The countess—my mother—is his equal in blithe avoidance. 

The other member of our immediate family, and the heir to this fortune, such as it is, is Lord Wilfred Knowles—my brother, Freddie.  Freddie, who is some three and half years my elder, has a courtesy title—the Baron of Ross—and a small income to go with it.  Since he can eat, drink and sleep at any of the Aveline homes, his expenses are minimal, and if he had half the sense of one of his hunting dogs he could live easily, and well, until our father died.

He does not.  The parties he throws are lavish even for the
ton
, the horses he buys, and promptly ruins with clumsy handling, cannot be counted, and his gambling habits were apparently inherited from the late earl—without, unfortunately, the latter’s tolerable degree of intelligence. 

That his friends egg him on goes without saying.  Why shouldn’t they? 
Their
families are not paying the bills.

 The prudent and sensible path was left to me, to pursue in solitude.  For good or for ill, my maths are excellent, and I could add up accounts and see as well as anyone—not that anyone else bothered—the hole we were digging ourselves into.  Tradesmen with the temerity to approach Roselay for payment were quickly sent packing by Dean, the butler, but occasionally an exceptionally stubborn individual would get his foot in the door, and I would hear a voice raised in protest from below stairs.  I knew ’twould be quite some time before our orders for jams and butter, flour and tenweights of sugar, meats and even, heaven help us, chicken, were actually
refused
, but this did not help my opinion of the matter.

A debt ought to be paid.

Occasionally my father and mother could be persuaded, with some difficulty, to make economies; these days the countess almost never buys a second ball gown in the course of a sennight, and the earl contents himself with drinking brandy
bois ordinaires
.  With encouragement, and my undisputed skill at finding the best use for every sixpence, we might have muddled through well enough.

But Lord Freddie was not to be stopped. 

By his twenty-second year, at which point he had given up any pretence of a university career, matters had come to a head.  In the beginning I was cheerfully ignorant of any problem, and my parents were afraid to set any limits upon their only son.

Afraid of what, one might ask?  A fair question, and probably without answer.  My brother was the fair-haired child of the family, the one who fit in, the one they understood—

But I digress.  To understand the predicament I now find myself in, ’tis necessary to back up a bit.  Perhaps to the night of the Lincolnshire’s ball.  

* * * *

“Your new gown is lovely,” said Cassandra, adding “but I do think . . . ”

She frowned at the ruching of the bodice, the modiste’s attempt to give me curves where nature bequeathed none.

“She refuses to listen to reason,” I said, meaning my mother.  Ruching was the order of the day in every ball gown the countess ordered for me, not to mention furbelows, bows and satin tucking.  I knew it was an attempt to make me look like the simpering little princess that I, most assuredly, was not, but I never knew how to avoid the result.  Fashion sense was not my strongest suit.

“She does you no favors,” said Cassie.  “It only calls attention to what is not there.”

“I know it,” I sighed.  Every glance in Cassandra’s mirror lowered my spirits further, especially in comparison to Miss Barre, who was dark-haired, fine-featured, and elegant, all without apparent effort.  I collapsed into one of the large armchairs of her bedroom and kicked off my slippers, which nearly disappeared into the deep pile of the carpet.

“I think you would do better in a simpler gown, something with good lines—”  Cassie frowned and turned toward her closets.

I usually visited Barre House the evening of a grand ball, the better to avoid the countess’s raised eyebrows and complaints of my appearance.  My mother was perennially disappointed in me, her only daughter and an odd duck in the Knowles family nest.  Where the countess was petite and bosomy, I was tall and slim, with the curves of a boy.  Her hair fell naturally into soft curls; mine tended to frizz in all but the driest of weathers, and resisted all attempts to constrain it with hairpins.

’Tis not that I am truly unattractive, or at least I do not believe so.  My skin is clear and my teeth are regular.  My nose might be a trifle long, but it is well-formed, and my cheekbones as prominent as current taste dictates.  A rational examination would even admit that my eyes are large and their green colour compliments the auburn of my hair.

’Tis unfortunate that my mother is so rarely rational.

Cassie was making sounds of ‘hmm’ and ‘ah’ as she rooted through her third or fourth wardrobe, one of several that stood like so many fat soldiers against the far wall.  I bit my lip and considered my choices.  The number and quality of Miss Barre’s gowns were the talk of London, and she was nearly as tall as I.  If the perfect gown awaited me therein—and I had little doubt of it—what could the countess say? 

“She won’t even notice,” said Cassie, reading my mind.  “She’ll be too busy trying to chat up Lincolnshire.”

“Very true.”

“Ah, I’ve found it!”  Cassandra turned to me, holding up a something in a soft sea-foam green.  It seemed to float in her hands.  “What are you waiting for, Reggie?  Off with that horrid thing.”

* * * *

Which is how I ended up going to the Duke of Lincolnshire’s ball in a gorgeous silk gown, cut in the Grecian style and personally sewn by Madame Gaultier, Cassie’s modiste.  Primrose, my own lady’s maid, worked on my hair as Cassandra dressed, and perhaps she was inspired by the sight of madame’s handiwork, for she managed to subdue the heavy auburn tresses and pile them on top of my head in a semblance of order.

“You look very well,” said Cassandra, and I could tell that she meant it.  Miss Barre was not one to hedge.

* * * *

Despite what the countess might think, I am a social creature and I do not dislike balls.  I enjoy the liveliness and pattern of country dances, and although I’m not quite as sought after as Cassandra, I get my share of partners.  Young gentlemen seem to find me . . . pleasant.  I don’t require elaborate compliments, I rarely flirt, and we can even chat about current politics.  If they so choose.

Some do not.  Lord Dabney, for example, my present partner, cannot be shifted from a single topic of conversation, which is always the same: Tattersalls.

One buys horses at Tattersalls, but I don’t think that the cattle are Lord Dabney’s real interest.  He seems to be more fascinated with the act of purchase, provided that the money is being spent by someone else.

“Just last week the Marquess of Grenbye bought a team of six matched bays!” he told me, during the sarabande.  “Six!” 

“However could they have found so many?” I murmured.  ’Twas not necessary to listen with more than half an ear to Lord Dabney.

“Exactly!  And you could not believe how much he paid—”

Actually, as Freddie’s sister, I could.

“And later that same day the Duke of Carroll’s man put in an order for several out-and-out runners. 
If
you can imagine the expense, and after he’d purchased a set only last year!”

“Ah.”

Lord Dabney is a fine dancer, for all that.  We finished the sarabande in good order, and as I was returning to meet Cassie, as agreed, in the vicinity of one of the duke’s giant potted palms, I noticed a gentleman standing nearby, so close that I could hardly avoid him if I was to achieve my rendezvous.

What to do?  A young lady did not introduce herself to an unknown gentleman, even an exceedingly handsome one.  I slowed my pace and turned slightly aside, examining the man as discretely as possible.  Tall and well-made, strong-featured, with blond hair pulled back into a simple mare’s tail.  He was dressed severely, in black, with clothing that was obviously of the finest make, but in which he seemed somehow uncomfortable.  As if he was not accustomed to such high-flown company. 

I discovered later that was untrue.  He was familiar enough with the
ton.

“Who is he?” came a whispered voice in my ear.  Cassandra, of course.  “Lud, but he’s gorgeous.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“Wouldn’t you like to dance with
that
?  How do you suppose we can winkle an introduction?”

 Fortunately, at that juncture we were joined by two other of our friends.  Amelia Hingham was the daughter of Sir Basil Hingham.  She was a perpetual flurry of blond ringlets, smiles and laughter, and terribly kind.  Amelia was accompanied by Lady Helen Wilmott, daughter of Lord Terence Wilmott—the Marquess of Vale—and one of the best connected females of our acquaintance, due to the happy circumstance of possessing four older brothers, each more social than the last.

“Good heavens,” said Lady Helen, following the direction of our gaze.  “Can it be that Lord Davies has returned at last?”

* * * *

Lord Talfryn Davies, as I then learned, was the Viscount of Cardingham, the only son and scion of a family so old and so proud that they eschewed all reward from the crown, and every attempt to bump them up the aristocratic ladder, so to speak.  No earldom or marquisate for the Davies; they had land and power enough to remain unbeholden, and they preferred to keep it that way.  The young viscount—his father had died some time ago—had returned from an extended stay at the family estate and was now taking his place in London society.  He had two younger sisters—

“Twins!” said Lady Helen, and we were goggle-eyed at that, ’twas most unusual—

—and Lord Davies himself was rumored to be in the market for a wife.

“Ah-ha!” said Cassie.  And for some reason all eyes turned to me.

“The name is rather unusual,” I said, ignoring their interest.  ‘Talfryn’ was not in the common way. 

“His mother’s people come from Wales, I believe,” said Helen.

One of Lady Helen’s brothers knew the gentleman, of course.  And in due time, after the sarabande, and a longways, we were introduced.

“Lady Regina,” said Peter Wilmott, “allow me to present Lord Davies, Viscount of Cardingham.”

 My breath caught in my throat, which I know sounds ridiculous, but in this case ’twas entirely true, because Lord Davies’ attention turned to me and his eyes seemed to be gazing directly into my soul.  They were the deepest blue I had ever seen.  I curtseyed as the viscount made his leg, and when we were both more or less upright I smiled and, to my own surprise, managed a commonplace.  My mother would have been so proud.

“I understand you are newly come to London, my lord.”

Cassie, who had been introduced first, blinked.  She knows exactly how ill-suited I am for small talk, how much more likely I am to remark about the current situation in the House of Lords, say, than ask of the weather.

“You are correct.”

The orchestra had begun a new tune, and I fought back a quick blush, wondering—will he?

He did.

“Do you waltz?” asked the viscount.

As it happened, yes.  The countess, always alert for any method to increase my marriageability, had requested that the patronesses of Almacks grant this favour.  I’d had lessons for months.