Second Season (7 page)

“Unnecessary, papa. Lady Inverclyde has already presented him to me,” Sharlie inserted. “In the stress of the moment, I fear he missed any formal introduction to Emily, but what of it?”

“Yes, very well, but what happened?” Lady Stanwood insisted.

The tale was soon told succinctly by Sharlie, leading on to innumerable questions from her mama, in particular concerning Captain Sir Eustace Gayle. She was only slightly reassured by his aunt, Mrs. Ixton. “Yes, very true that I am acquainted—very true that you may have met—but we are not upon visiting terms, Charlotte.”

“Nevertheless, it was he who actually rescued Emily, ma’am, and the duke congratulated him on his masterly handling of the horse.”

“Indeed it was, papa,” Emily said earnestly, “for he had me away from Firefly without the least trouble, and talked so kindly that I was stopped shaking almost at once. Then the duke transferred me to Lady Inverclyde. We drove once around the Park, with Sharlie and his grace riding beside. Truly, there was no impropriety, Mama.”

“I am persuaded you both behaved as you should,” Lady Stanwood relented. “Finish your tea and go to dress for dinner. We must not be late in reaching Lady Abercrombie,” but when the girls had gone, she was still uneasy. “I cannot like this, Robert. If Sharlie was rated too shy last season, she’s like to seem too free this one. She seems more dedicated to establishing Emily than herself. Her manners, while always polite, are far too unaffectedly natural for an unmarried girl. She treats the beaux as—as though they were friends of Geoffrey’s! It will not do, you know it will not do, Robert. Some little reserve there should be instead of this attitude of older spinster sister.”

Lord Stanwood pursed his Ups and considered. “Perhaps—but I can’t feel it in me to restrain her, Nelly. Stap me, but they’re two different girls, Emily as well as Sharlie! You’d not see it, you’ve been with ’em constantly, but there’s a bloom about ’em—a sort of glow. Damme, they’re—they’re
interestin
’
,
ma’am. Leave ’em alone, dress ’em handsomely as you well know how to do, milady,” he grinned approvingly at his wife. “Take ’em here or there to be seen, but don’t curb ’em. That’s my advice you, ma’am.”

Immersed in the hip bath before the fire, Charlotte’s reflections were—exciting. She had no doubt that Sir Eustace would prevail on his aunt to call tomorrow morning for the correct half hour, which would permit Charlotte to accept his escort in the Row. She spent a few minutes recalling his dashing rescue, the superb chestnut horse, and dismissed Sir Eustace: it would be fun to ride with him.

More important was the Duke of Imbrie. He had been struck by Emily’s beauty in Melsham, had apologized by note to Lady Stanwood and to Lord Stanwood during the hunt party. He had devoted himself to Emily on the chance-meet in yesterday’s walk, instantly requested a dance—as well as from Charlotte; she did not refine too much upon that, he could scarcely do less. All was obvious that he wished to be on terms with the family. Today was another chance meeting. He’d had no way of knowing they would be riding, yet he’d quickly seized the opportunity for formal introduction.

Words and glances came back to her. The duke had “thought your sister was with you.” He’d kept his eye on Sir Eustace carrying Emily all the while he was chatting with Charlotte on the sward, and had swiftly dashed forward to take Emily away from the stranger. He had protested it’d be boring for Sharlie to keep beside the carriage—yet been perfectly happy to lean down from his horse for quite half the circuit to talk to Emily.

Lady Inverclyde wasn’t fooled! She’d teased him by her reference to Lady Abercrombie. He hadn’t meant to be present this evening, but as she stepped out to be patted dry by Marie, Sharlie chuckled to herself. The Duke of Imbrie would be there—she’d wager on it!

He near as nothing wasn’t, although Sharlie had no way of knowing this. Trotting leisurely home from Park Street, the Misses Stanwood were dismissed from Julian’s mind. He flicked cynically through the day’s accumulation of carefully-casual invitations in Robsey’s basket and found one worth opening. “Gerry Smythe has failed, leaving me in disgrace with dinner commanded. Join me? A.V.”

Julian’s spirits lifted. He was bidden, hopefully, to a dozen homes; he would spend the evening with his cousin. “Send word to Lord Arthur that I’ll be with him at eight.”

Complete to a shade in brown satin knee breeches and a swallowtail coat of dull gold superfine, Julian accepted hat and gold-knobbed stick from Robsey, refused the suggestion of a chair, and strolled from his house down South Audley to Hill Street, where he was admitted by his cousin’s man. “Evening, Patch.”

“Good evening, milord. I hope I see you well?”

“Well, indeed, with one of Mrs. Patch’s dinners to anticipate. Needn’t bother to announce me—Arthur, how are you? Hadn’t expected you in town so soon.”

“Why, I might say the same of you,” shaking hands heartily. “What keeps you here? Not that it isn’t dashed convenient, we’ll settle everything in comfort. I’m anxious to know what you found at Keighly.”

Lord Arthur’s rooms were cozy, Mrs. Patch provided an ample dinner suited to the requirements of gentleman of quality, her husband dispensed the contents of his employer’s cellar with a free hand, and the cousins lingered companionably over dinner until past ten. They were then decidedly mellow, but still fit to go out and in a mood for it. “White’s?” Julian suggested. “Or the Great Go, if you prefer.”

“See who’s there,” Arthur nodded. “If we don’t like ’em, there’s a place in Albemarle Street.”

The crisp April air had a settling effect. By the time they reached Berkeley Square they were in shape to be aware of no less than three houses offering hospitality this evening. Arthur groaned, “Oh, damme, we should have gone the other way. I forgot Lady Abercrombie’s giving some curst musicale, she’s m’godmother, Julian—always deuced kind, don’t care to offend her.”

“Abercrombie” and “musicale” struck a faint note in Julian’s memory. He halted abruptly and laughed, “Hah, we’ll present ourselves—briefly, because I warn you there’s a young lady with a harp.”

“There is always a young lady with a harp,” Arthur shuddered, “and I wish God hadn’t invented ’em.”

“Which—the harps or the young ladies?” Julian asked irrepressibly. “No, this is a special young lady, Arthur. I have it on no less unimpeachable authority than her elder sister that she has also mastered the pianoforte and is thought to have a singularly pleasing voice.”

“Good God!”

“Oh, it is a tale of wild adventure this afternoon in the Park,” Julian was laughing helplessly, sorting through cards drawn from his pocket. “Yes, here it is. Stepan always arms me with all the invitations for the night on the chance I may fancy one. Nothing will quench his hope of eventually turning me into a top gallant.” Thrusting back the others, “Oh, I thought to ride today, and found myself assisting in a rescue.” Rapidly he outlined the details, and had Arthur snorting hilariously at Lady Inverclyde’s comments.

“Stanwood? Those same whose coach wheels you grazed?”

Julian nodded. “Met the father at Blandford Park—very sound man—but the daughters, Arthur! The elder, Miss Charlotte Stanwood, is conversable. The younger, Miss Emily,” he threw back his head in a guffaw, “Arthur, she has to be seen to be believed! This will be your privilege tonight.”

“What’s wrong with her?” his cousin asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Julian gasped, leaning against the lamp post. “Nothing, Arthur. She is angelically beautiful. The sight of her seated at the harp will require only wings to convince the audience they are already within St. Peter’s gates. She is spoken of reverently as THE Incomparable, she fits every classic standard of the
ton
: a wealth of pure gold curls, immense blue ‘orbs’ for poets to rhapsodize, every indication of shy maidenhood from blushes to downcast eyes ... and not one brain in her head!

“Arthur, I swear you cannot tear yourself away from her for the fascination of her vapidity. You find yourself hanging upon her rosebud lips for the next bromide, wagering to yourself which she will use. The man who marries her will need either a devilish sense of humor, or no brains at all. Come,” Julian pulled himself together with a final sigh of merriment, “I cannot wait, I die to see your reaction.”

In the event, it proved impossible, for the musicale was long advanced, the rooms thronged and nearly all seats occupied. The cousins were swept apart by the necessities of courtesy, and when Julian finally gained the music room, Arthur was nowhere to be seen. Apparently a selection had just ended, there was a general shifting of the guests, and it was some while before Julian sighted Charlotte on the far side. She wore a gown of amethyst sarsnet with her hair dressed
a la diademe,
and he thought appreciatively that she was in looks tonight. She, or Lady Stanwood, had excellent taste; the green habit and saucy bonnet were flattering, but this was even more so. By the time he’d gained her side, the intermission was ending and the guests were straggling lethargically back to the chairs.

“Miss Stanwood, your servant.” Julian bent over her hand, and was favored with a flashing smile that startled him.

“Oh, you have come!” she exclaimed. “I had near despaired of you, milord, for you must know the order of the program has been altered, and Emily plays next. You are but just in time.” Sharlie glanced about quickly. “There!” she said with satisfaction. “There are still some chairs for a perfect view. Shall we take our places, Duke?”

“By all means.” Julian slid forward swiftly and secured the seats in the nick of time, to the disgruntlement of a large lady in a fearfully wonderful green turban. She was inclined to make something of it, until Julian eyed her up and down, and drawled, “Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am, but Miss Stanwood’s sister plays next and she must naturally have the full view. I am persuaded you will be entirely comfortable in the adjoining chairs. The music will sound the same, you know.”

He then adjusted his coat tails and resigned himself to boredom as the harp was placed. Miss Emily was led forward by an impressive escort of beaux contending for the honor of holding the chair, altering its position to her satisfaction, and accepting such precious burdens as her fan, handkerchief, reticule. Meeting Arthur’s wicked twitch of an eyebrow, Julian composed his face with difficulty. He had described her more accurately than anticipated. Emily was wearing pure white
soupir d’etouffe
in a style so deceptively simple that Julian (who was no stranger to the costs of female gowns) instantly priced it as not a penny less than 150 guineas. “With wings,” he told himself mentally, “it’d be twice as much.”

Her performance was exactly as wooden and uninspired as he had feared. It was also interminable. Worse still, the enthusiastic applause of the young gentlemen led to an encore—also as feared, although Julian clapped politely. He could scarcely do less with Charlotte beside him, but from her beaming pride, she had no doubt of his pleasure. “Is she not extraordinary,” Sharlie breathed. “She never mistakes a note! Ah, she is moving to the pianoforte. I hope she means to sing. Then you will hear her at her best.”

“Ah? I am sure,” Julian said politely, but after the first trills he began to long for the harp! Accustomed to the finest music in the great cities of the world, Julian cursed his sense of humor. He’d thought only to
make his bow to Lady Abercrombie and present Arthur to the Stanwoods before retreating. Who could have dreamed they’d arrive before the girl had played? Arthur would roast him finely for this!

The instant the final note died away, Julian was on his feet, wondering how to escape. Impossible to leave Miss Stanwood unattended in the center of the room, yet where to escort? To his further horror, he realized by the movements of the company that this was the supper intermission. However, it appeared she had no intention of retaining him. In fact, he found himself abandoned in the kindest possible manner. “I am so glad you were in time, your grace. At least you were able to hear my sister, but I fear you cannot hope to join her supper table,” regretfully. “I know she was bespoke from the moment of arrival, but tomorrow there is Almack’s, although you will need to be prompt to claim your dance,” Charlotte warned, holding out her hand with a friendly smile. “Good evening, Duke.” Julian bent automatically, feeling slightly stunned by her calm dismissal, and wildly cudgelling his memory about Almack’s. Yes, there
had
been talk of it when he’d met them walking, when he’d first been struck by Emily’s inanities and still thought her in the schoolroom. He was further struck that Charlotte made no mention of his engagement to herself.

“Until tomorrow, Miss Stanwood,” he murmured, “and mind you save the waltzes.”

She drew her hand away with a faint blush. “Oh, pray, we were only funning, milord. I do not expect...”

“Do you not?” he raised his heavy black eyebrows in astonishment, “But I expect, Miss Stanwood, and will not surrender to any Johnny-come-lately.”

She smiled with a sudden sidewise glance. “No, but I fancy you may wish for a release. Emily is certain to be approved for the waltz, you know.”

“She will certainly have a hundred claimants,” he retorted, “and you recall she assured me you were the better dancer?” Julian had no notion what prompted him to say, “
Guten abend, Fraulein, als morgender nacht
.”

Miss Stanwood’s reaction was—odd. She murmured automatically, “
Danke schoen, mein herzog
,”—and once again blenched, wide-eyed and stricken. “Good evening, I must go, you will excuse me ...” and hastened away toward her sister.