The Golden Season (9 page)

“You said he didn’t need the money.”

“He don’t need it to live, but he needs it to live as he’d like,” Borton said. “If he could secure that sort of wealth then everyone would have to forget his family was in trade but four generations back. He is accepted, but he is not acclaimed and he wants that very much.”

“Good Lord, Borton, you are a virtual font. It makes me wonder what you might know about me,” Ned said.

Borton remained unperturbed. “Nothing to your discredit, which in itself ought to make me suspicious.”

Ned laughed. “Oh, I have my sins, I assure you.”

“Can’t imagine what they are. You were always so different from the rest of your family. Me old da used to say that the Locktons were born backward, the youngest having the most sense and the oldest having no . . . Oh. My. I’ve stepped in it again, haven’t I?” Borton flushed.

“Think nothing of it.”

“Here. Let me send someone to look around for Smyth.” A flick of his fingers brought a footman hurrying over. “See if you can locate Mr. Smyth. I suggest you start in all the rooms with largish mirrors. He’s bound to be in front of one.”

The footman did not dare smile as he ran to do Borton’s bidding, but Ned grinned. “Fond of his reflection, is he?”

“Damn dandy. Don’t know why he ain’t a member at White’s except he’d have too much competition and he might not have been accepted. But now that Brummell looks to be about to sconce the reckoning and head for the Continent, there’ll a vacancy in the bow window.”

“Perhaps you ought to apply,” Ned suggested innocently.

Borton laughed. “Me? Oh, no. True, I enjoy my valet’s services, but with the dandies it ain’t just about the dress, you know. It’s their languor, their
ennui
, and their ability to make something momentous out of the trivial. Last Season two of them almost came to blows at Lady Devonshire’s fete over which legume produces the vilest flatulence. No, I’m no dandy. Just well dressed.” He preened a bit.

A servant appeared at Borton’s elbow, saving Ned from forming a reply. Borton took the glasses from the proffered tray and ushered Ned ahead of him into a large, comfortable-looking room with thick Oriental carpets and tall windows overlooking the street below. The room was already filled with gentlemen reading newspapers and periodicals or sitting together drinking and talking. Borton spotted a pair of unoccupied chairs near the marble fireplace and led the way toward them, nodding at acquaintances as he went.

“Here we are, Captain. Have a seat. How is that leg of yours, anyway? Wouldn’t know you’d had a good piece of it torn out, the way you move. Ain’t wooden, is it?”

Ned took the chair Borton indicated and accepted a glass of port. “No. I can vouch for it being all too real. Especially when I ride. Or I should say attempt to ride.”

“Well, I should not be too eager to mend.”

Ned tipped his head inquiringly.

“However will the ladies know you are a wounded war hero if you do not limp?”

Ned laughed. “I shall have to rely on you to tell them.”

At this, Borton put his glass aside and leaned forward, giving Ned a meaningful nod. “Ah. So you
are
thinking of entering the marriage mart, aren’t you?”

“Why would you think that?” Ned asked and took a sip of port.

“The new coat had to betray something more than a nascent sartorial interest. Any man who’s not a dandy buys a new coat for one of two reasons, to impress a lady or his valet. Since I doubt you have a valet, and I know you are not wed, it can only stand to reason that a lady has attracted your interest.”

Ned shook his head, though in truth the mere word
lady
conjured up an image of silky, coffee-colored curls, pale skin, merry violet eyes, and a lively smile that would not disappear.

“Normally I’d advise caution,” Borton said. “You’re about to launch yourself into far more dangerous waters than you’re used to, Captain. Looks, lineage, and wealth such as yours are powerful lures for the predators in these waters, particularly of the mama variety. They would devour a choice morsel such as yourself except . . .”

“Except?” Ned prodded curiously.

“Except you’ll be having a great deal of competition this year. Men I never thought to see fall into the parson’s mousetrap are preparing to hurl themselves at the altar like lemmings into the sea.” He nodded somberly.

“The crops are failing, the stock market is falling, soldiers are returning home to no work and bread taxes. Few men have been untouched by the troubled economy. Even amongst those with indemnity, there is a rush to consolidate fortunes and shore up dynasties shaken by these troubled times.”

Then, in his mercurial fashion, Borton brightened. His eyes sparkled. “But, then, perhaps I have it wrong and you are interested in persuing a sweeter and more ephemeral association, rather than a permanent and pragmatic one?”

Ned wasn’t. He had never had a mistress. Mostly because he’d never had the time but also because there was something in him that resisted the notion of purchased passion. “And here I have always thought those ‘ephemeral’ relationships were the more pragmatic ones.”

Borton chuckled. “Ah, I see. You’re either a romantic or a cynic, Ned. I suspected as such.”

“Did you?”

“Oh, yes. Heroes only come in those two varieties. They either care too much, you see, or not at all. Even ones as seemingly imperturbable as yourself. Possibly most especially types such as yourself. So, which is it, Ned: cynic or romantic?”

Ned ignored Borton’s question. “For the purposes of discussion, let us say you are correct, Borton, and assume I am looking for a wife. Where would you suggest I start looking?”

Eagerly, Borton rubbed his hands on his knees. “My dear fellow, I am honored you would seek my opinion. Now, let me think. The new crop of debs has not yet sprouted fresh from their court presentations so I’ve not had the pleasure of looking them over. As to those unwed ladies I do know . . .” He squinted, thinking hard.

“Let me see, let me see. Someone accomplished, beautiful, wealthy”—he darted an apologetic look at Ned—“not that the Locktons have need of wealth, but it is nice if one’s wife has a fortune of her own.”

Ned did not disagree.

“There’s Lady Deborah Gossford—”

“Bad teeth!” a masculine voice proclaimed.

Ned looked around to find a pair of gentlemen standing nearby. The stouter one had thinning ginger hair and an overgrown squash of a nose, the older one, a swarthy, Italianate look.

“True, Elton,” Borton allowed, looking over his shoulder. “But nice skin.”

“Very,” agreed the stout fellow.

“Lord Elton and Prince Carvelli. Captain Lockton, late of His Majesty’s navy,” Borton introduced the men. “I am trying to recollect this Season’s crop of hopefuls.”

Ned rose and the prince waved him back into his chair as Borton pulled a chair over for him.

“My sister has excellent teeth,” Borton tossed out a little too casually once they were all seated. “And very nice skin.”

“She don’t want to wed, Borton,” Elton said firmly. “She likes her situation with you too well. Might not be able to boss around a husband as easily as she does you.”

“No one will have me as long as she’s in me house,” Borton said dolefully. “She needs to wed. Perhaps, Captain . . .” He broke off abruptly, shaking his head. “No. Can’t do it to you, Ned. Like you too much.”

“Diane de Mourie is a very pretty young lady,” Carvelli said.

“Never do,” Elton said. “She’s a prude.”

“Nothing wrong with prudes,” a newcomer declared, approaching them and greeting Borton. “Married one myself. Keeps ’em from interfering with one’s nocturnal activities, dontcha know? Prudes never ask what you’re doing because then they’d have to pretend to care.”

“My congratulations on the efficacy of your union, Toleffer. And my condolences,” Borton said, garnering a laugh from the group gathering round them. More introductions were made, more chairs found and pulled close.

“Well, what of Lady Anne Major-Trent?” Elton asked. “Eighty thousand pounds. A figure like Venus—”

“—and the most annoying laugh in the kingdom,” Borton said.

“Lady Margery Hicks?” another offered.

“If one could teach her how to dress,” someone replied disparagingly, then, “Jenny Pickler is making her bow this year.”

“Have you met her mother?”

Ned was barely attending the debate. His thoughts kept returning to Lady Eastlake’s ridiculous impersonation. And her purple eyes. And her winsome smile. And the memory of her light, taut body against his chest.

“What about Lady Lydia Eastlake?” he asked.

Ned might have rolled an unexploded missile into the group’s midst. For a moment, no one spoke and everyone stared. Then Borton broke into laughter and the others joined in.

“That is rich! Too, too good, Ned!” Borton laughed and then, abruptly, “Good Lord. He isn’t joking. He—Oh, my heavens. I completely forgot.”

He took note of the group’s confused expressions. “Captain Lockton has never spent a Season in London. He doesn’t
know
.”

Sounds of understanding rippled through the group.

“Elton, if you would be so kind to fetch The Book,” Borton said and sank back, a cat’s smile on his face.

The men standing around traded knowing looks while Ned waited, curious. Soon enough, Elton returned carrying a thick ledger that he dropped unceremoniously onto Borton’s lap. Licking his index finger, Borton began leafing through the pages, his gaze scanning the years printed on the topmost line. Finally arriving at 1808, he paused and journeyed the tip of his finger down a long column.

“Here,” he said, shifting the book so that it faced Ned. He tapped at an entry two-thirds the way down the page. It read:
Byng wagering Colonel Ross 100 guineas to 10 that the newly arrived violet-eyed toast is not bespoke within in twelve months to this day. April 5, 1808.
The entry was marked paid on the appropriate date.

A little farther down the page, Borton pointed out another record:
Brummell offers Lord Butte 500 guineas to 25 if L.E. does not wed him before next Season. Paid.

He read aloud a few more entries before moving on to the next year and then the next, reciting a litany of wagers and bets placed on whether or not Lydia Eastlake would marry or become engaged. But as the betting book’s years progressed the focus of the bets subtly shifted.

Lord T. 1000 g to H.H.E’s 500 should a certain violet-eyed lady dance thrice with the same partner at Almack’s Friday next
.

There were fewer and fewer bets on how long Lady Eastlake would remain a spinster and more and more on what she would wear, with whom she would dance, and at what hour she would appear at various balls and fetes. Borton found the last entry and tapped it with his finger, raising his gaze to Ned’s as he read aloud. “ ‘ Lord A. 10,000 pounds to Lords Glass, Johnston, Barnell, and Fletcher’s 5000 if she does not accept his marriage proposal. ’ Need I tell you who ‘she’ is?”

“And, Captain,” the stout Elton said with a smile, “that wager was lost.”

Borton sighed and sank back in his chair. “More men have dangled after Lydia Eastlake than there have been lures cast in the Thames. Have you met the lady?”

“No,” Ned said. “I’ve merely seen her image and was curious about her.”

His companions nodded sanguinely, donning expressions either sentimental or lascivious, depending on their natures.

“Stunning woman.”

“A lady of quality.”

“The Incomparable.”

“Not as downy as she once was.” A silky male voice interrupted the murmured accolades. “Though not a mean bit yet.”

“Smyth,” Borton said in ill-concealed irritation. “There is no chitty-faced wench half as beautiful as Lady Eastlake and you know it well.”

Ned rose to his feet and turned. An elegant gentleman in biscuit-colored breeches and dark blue broadcloth jacket lounged against the marble fireplace, idly fingering a Sevres snuffbox. He had handsome, narrow features and artfully tousled dark locks shot through with gray, though Ned supposed him to be close in age to himself. His manner was profoundly languid. His heavy-lidded gaze traveled coolly over Ned and his smile was no more than a thin pleating of flesh at the corners of his mouth.

So this, thought Ned, was a dandy.

“One of the footmen said you were asking after me, Borton,” Smyth said.

“That’s so, Smyth.” Borton rose, too. “Captain Lockton, may I present the Honorable Childe Smyth? Mr. Smyth, Captain Edward Lockton.”

“I am glad to meet you, sir,” Ned said politely. “I understand you know my nephew Harold, Lord Lockton.”

Smyth snapped open the lid of his snuffbox one-handedly, earning admiring murmurs from some of the gentlemen. He dabbed a pinch on the back of his wrist and inhaled it delicately, his thin nostrils pinching closed, before answering. “Ah, yes. Young Harry. I do, indeed.”

The circle of gentlemen, intuiting that they’d become
de trop
, faded to the side, leaving Ned with Smyth and Borton, but not so far away that they would miss a choice bit of tattle if they strained their ears.

“I believe you have my nephew’s vowels,” Ned said. “I would like to make it possible for you to return them to him.”

“Good God,” Smyth exclaimed with exaggerated surprise, turning to Borton. “Most impressively tactful for a bloody naval captain, ain’t he?”

Ned noted Borton fidgeting, anticipating unpleasantness. Borton would be disappointed. It would be a sad day when a few words caused Ned to lose his temper. Far worse had been said of him, and to him, by far better men. Many under his command.