Gilded: The St. Croix Chronicles (19 page)

Fanny braced one hand on my knee. “Stop your fidgeting,” she warned. “Ladies do not fidget.”

This lady did. Not that I laid much claim to the title. Ladies did not sneak off in the dead of night to hunt men for bounty, either.

When Booth disembarked, my stomach had turned itself into a shriveled thing, coiled tightly around the rapidly disintegrating strength of my spine. My gloved hand shook as I placed it in my butler’s.

His eyes twinkled at me from his so-stoic features, proud nose and impressive white sideburns all serving to give him quite the distinguished air. With the whole of the Northampton home gracing the late afternoon skyline behind him, he looked as at home as I’d always imagined a man of his caliber should.

Booth was a true butler, a gentleman’s gentleman.

How long had he wasted his talents with me?

His fingers squeezed mine for a heartbeat before letting me go, turning to offer the same steadying courtesy for my chaperone.

I took a deep breath, somewhat soothed by the kindness.

If Booth—darling, steady, kind Booth—thought me worth his attention, then the least I could do would be to see this through.

What could the marchioness say when the invite had come from her own son?

So armed with such shallow reasoning, Fanny and I stepped into the Northampton entryway and pulled the bell that did not ring as sweetly as the mechanism my father had installed in my own home. Instead, a simple bell chimed.

Within moments, a staid man less old than Booth but every inch the groomed butler in black and white opened the door. “Miss St. Croix,” Fanny offered, card in hand, “and Mrs. Fortescue, her companion.”

The butler took the card, bowed formally. “You are expected,” he said, not so much looking at us as over us and down his long nose all at the same time. A true trait of the elite, I thought, restraining an inappropriate giggle. To have a nose so long that a man could look down it and across it with one glare.

The estate, seen usually by evening, was truly something to behold. The foyer was magnificent, a large staircase winding up the far side and the floor gleaming with polish and care. The art upon the elegantly papered walls was heavy with gilt frames and bold colors; men and women I did not recognize looked down upon us as we passed through the halls.

Family, I suspected. There was something to the eyes, the set of the mouth.

“Today’s function,” the butler said as he led us, “will be in the largest music parlor.”

The
largest
? Were there more?

Why? I couldn’t fathom a need for more than one music room, unless there were more than one musically inclined members of a household whose tastes would not complement.

I had no chance to ask. The butler stepped through a set of lovely doors patterned with lattice and gilt, cleared his throat and intoned, “Miss St. Croix and Mrs. Fortescue.” With no more than that, we stepped inside to find too many eyes pinned on us.

On me.

This was it. If I did not perform well here, I would never lay claim to a place in this Society.

A tempting consequence.

One that did not allow me much time to consider as Earl Compton disengaged from a small knot of gentlemen. His mother, I noticed, made no move to rise from her place at the center of a circle of chairs and settees. She held court with her salon, as expected, but also with a few others I recognized.

Lady Rutledge was not in attendance.

“Miss St. Croix,” the earl said by way of greeting, bowing gallantly. “Mrs. Fortescue, I am delighted to see you in good health.”

My chaperone colored, but her eyes sparkled in pale diamond blue as she curtsied in returned greeting. “My lord, you’re too kind.”

“Nonsense.” The earl’s gaze, kind in eyes that mirrored his mother’s in all but intent, reflected a smile that only hinted at his mouth. “ ’Tis always a pleasure to invite two more fetching ladies to one of my mother’s luncheons.”

Not quite a lie of convenience, or of motive. I discerned nothing but simple truth in the words, flattery though it was.

I glanced at my chaperone.

Her day dress was among some of the more somber in a muted shade of navy blue, but its trim of crimson gave it a lovely splash of color. She was quite fashionable, I realized in surprise. I had not noticed just how much so until her smile widened upon seeing two other matrons of her circle. She stood out, like a subtle lantern in the fog.

“There’s no need to dance attendance on me,” I said suddenly, smiling as demurely as I knew how when her gaze sharpened on me. “Go greet your dear friends, I shall be safe.”

“Indeed,” murmured the earl as Fanny made her farewells. His gaze remained fixed on me, and was it my imagination that they seemed filled with a warmth of approval? “There is no place more safe than here, I daresay.”

Oh, I wasn’t so sure of that. I was keenly aware of the marchioness’s catlike glare from her position in the center of the room.

This would be a long, long event.

But as the earl led me to the knot of women surrounding his mother, I could not help but raise my chin.

“Mother,” the earl said, when the babble of inane female conversation faded. Beside her, Lady Sarah Elizabeth—resplendent in peacock blue trimmed in green—smiled in abject warning. A viper’s smile. “I present Miss St. Croix.”

The marchioness did not rise. “Lovely to have you,” she said, her mouth shaped into a smile but her cool tones anything but welcoming.

I dropped into a curtsy. “Your Ladyship,” I returned, pleased and relieved when the tremor hammering at my chest did not find its way to my voice. “You have my thanks for the invitation.”

Those cold eyes, so like her son’s, flicked to him. “Indeed.” She raised an elegant, gloved hand. “Sarah Elizabeth, make room for our guest.”

If the marchioness had taken a dagger and plunged it in Lady Sarah Elizabeth’s back, she could not have caused more damage. The hatred I saw beneath the younger lady’s calculating smile chilled me to the bone.

My stomach, already twisted beyond all reason, pitched. I swallowed hard as the lady rose to her feet, smoothing the skirts that needed no such thing, and gestured to the seat. “Please,” she chirped, every inch the gracious hostess, for all it was not her parlor.

To refuse would be rude. To look at the earl now would be tantamount to declaring my surrender. I forced my smile to remain, to brighten, as I took my place beside the marchioness.

It was akin to sitting beside an ice box in the dead of winter.

“You may fraternize with your friends, Cornelius,” the marchioness said dismissively. “I shall borrow Miss St. Croix for a time.”

“Of course, Mother,” the earl said, giving me a small nod as if I’d done something right. A short bow, a sketch of a formality, and he added, “I shall return to claim her for a turn around the parlor.”

“Of course,” the marchioness murmured, repeating his own capitulation but with none of his sincerity.

My hands in my lap, I studied the faces now ringing me. Lady Sarah Elizabeth standing at my left, causing the skin between my shoulders to itch. The marchioness, perched just so on the settee beside me, this time wearing a day gown of a beautiful shade of pale blue. Cut for a matron, it nevertheless flattered her still youthful figure, and outlined every way that she was still the finest shape of fashion.

I felt stuffed and plump between both women. Likely, I thought miserably, on purpose.

Mrs. Douglas was in attendance, wearing black poplin once more, trimmed with white. I saw Miss Cordelia Clarkspur, a barrister’s eldest daughter and—abashed that I remembered this from the periodicals—engaged to Lord Trefawney, a viscount of Teddy’s acquaintance.

As I recalled, Miss Clarkspur had turned down two suitors prior to landing the viscount.

She studied me without sympathy or interest, as if I were merely a passing thing soon to be forgotten. She was not as lovely as Lady Sarah Elizabeth, but she had a good face and a pleasingly shaped bosom. Things I knew a man would look for in a wife, even if he would be considered crass to admit it.

Of the six gentlemen in the room, I recognized only the Marquess Northampton and the aforementioned Lord Trefawney, dapper in his paisley waistcoat and dark brown coat tailored to near perfection. He cut a fine figure with the earl, his friend, beside him. They looked, to my cynical eye, like a pair of tomcats idling on a fence, taking in the females clustered for their attention.

Unfair, perhaps, but every time I looked upon Earl Compton, I could not help the way I noticed the fit of his gray frock coat, tapered at the waist, and the length of his striped trousers. His waistcoat was a vivid pattern of Oriental design, brilliant blue silk embroidered by gold and green. He was a fine figure all by himself, to be quite honest, and I noticed.

Of course, with the kind of social warfare he’d been waging on me since we first met on that ballroom floor only last month, it was no wonder I noticed such things.

My fists clenched into my skirt, ruffling the rose fabric.

“What say you, Miss St. Croix?”

I startled, suddenly aware that I’d become the attention of the pit of viperous women I’d promptly ignored. “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Sarah Elizabeth did nothing to hide her scorn as she laughed a lilting sound. “Oh, dear, have we lost the poor bird?”

“We speak of manners,” Miss Clarkspur said, not unkindly. Not particularly friendly, of course, but she at least added, “Most particularly, those that dictate the conversation between a gentleman and a lady.”

My brow began to furrow; I forced it smooth. “Oh?” Feigning interest might get the conversation moved along at a pace that would allow me to make my escape. “What exactly is the question at stake?”

The marchioness’s mouth compressed. “I am given to understand that you do not attend these functions much.”

The group fell silent, and color burned clear to my ears at the unbridled censure. “N-no, my lady,” I said, suddenly furious to hear the stumble from my own lips. My throat closed.

My breath vanished, and I could not speak even if I wanted to.

Where?
It became a word that stretched like a net across the sudden void where my mind had been.
Where?
Where could I escape to? Where would I find peace?

Where could I find laudanum to ease this ache?

Where could I get money to purchase more grains of opium for the tincture and soothe my terribly fractured nerves?

“Tea, Miss St. Croix?” This from Miss Clarkspur, and I realized she held a delicate cup and saucer, filled with steaming black liquid. “How do you take it?”

I stiffened my spine, forced myself to swallow down the knot in my throat. “Two sugars, please,” I managed, blinking away a film over my suddenly blurred vision. “Thank you ever so kindly.”

Beside me, the marchioness sipped at her own cup. “Propriety insists that conversation between the sexes should at all times remain distant. I am in agreement. There is no call to share, for example, similar interests in matters that belong strictly to a gentleman’s domain.”

I gritted my teeth as I accepted Miss Clarkspur’s proffered cup and saucer.

It must have been a thinly veiled reference to the first conversation I’d ever claimed with the earl. We spoke of the periodicals, and the HMS
Ophelia
, anything I could seize upon to keep my foot from entering my mouth instead.

Regardless of intent, I would not let it stand. “I disagree,” I said, and could not have managed a more resounding silence if I’d reached over and slapped her.

Where did the words come from?

I took the cup in hand, made as if to lift it, but put it down quickly as I realized that my hand shook too badly to hide the tremor in the liquid.

This wouldn’t do. I needed control of my own limbs.

“Oh?” This from Lady Sarah Elizabeth, likely sensing blood in the air.

I glanced once at the earl; froze when I inadvertently met his gaze direct from across the brightly lit parlor. The corners of his mouth turned up.

“If men require discourse of a deeper nature,” Mrs. Douglas assured me gravely, “it is with men they will meet. Women are better served providing alternate forms of conversation, lest she find herself thrown over for company of a more agreeable sort.”

“What, like a mistress?” I asked, as much to my own shock as theirs.

Gasps ringed the parlor, and even the low murmur and laughter of Fanny’s older matrons fell silent.

“Miss St. Croix,” gasped Mrs. Douglas.

Two sets of pale eyes, fog-lit green, studied me.

I don’t know where the words came from; or perhaps I knew exactly then what it was I did. Suddenly, it was as if a net had torn inside my mind, a deep well of pressure giving way within my skin. I watched myself as I smiled brightly, even as a part of myself gesticulated wildly in dismay at my own temerity.
I could not stop myself
. “Many is a woman kept by a gentleman because she is intelligent and lively, besides. It seems to me, then,” I continued, unable to keep myself from raising my voice louder than strictly proper, “that a woman may be as intelligent as she wishes, so long as she performs in the marriage bed while she does so.”