The Scandalous Life of a True Lady (22 page)

She
did
need Harry’s support, whether it was merely for show or not.

Six paintings were framed and displayed on gilt stands along the mantelpiece in the drawing room, with six glass bowls in front of them. Each of the fourteen remaining gentlemen, whether his inamorata had entered or not, was given a single new guinea to place in the bowl in front of his favorite entry. The three paintings with the highest amount of coins would win points for their artists, who also got to keep the money. Some of the men were making a great show of judging, raising their quizzing glasses to inspect the artwork, viewing the collection from different angles, talking about brush strokes, the painter’s “eye,” lyricism, and perspective.

Hogwash, Simone decided, from self-important peacocks trying to show better taste and more intelligence than the next fellow. Connoisseurs, hah! The banker likely bought whatever masterpieces his man of business recommended as good investments, and Sir Chauncey Phipps, who had already had three glasses of sherry and heaven knew what else, admitted he preferred nudes to houses.

In addition, everyone knew that only four of the six paintings were truly in contention, since two were muddy blurs that looked like landslides instead of landscapes. Everyone, even the jug-bitten Sir Chauncey and the surly Lord James Danforth, disinterested because his harem-bred mistress had not bothered to enter, had to know which was best. They also had to recognize it as Claire’s. Not only was that one a perfect rendering of Griffin Woods Manor, but it was painted with skill and affection. Besides, watercolors exactly like it except for seasonal differences, the sky and the flowers, hung in nearly every bedchamber.

Six gentlemen placed their coins in that bowl.

The two unfortunately brown entries each received one coin, from the artists’ loyal beaus even though no one was supposed to know who painted which.

That left six votes, six coins, and three paintings: Simone’s, Elizabeth Althorp’s unfinished original, and the Frenchwoman’s. Madame Lecroix had chosen to depict the manor house in the distance, with the gardens in the forefront as splashes of color in a more modern style than Claire’s painting. Joseph Gollup, her shipping magnate lover, put his coin there, and so did Mr. Anthony of the East India Company because, he said, the flowers reminded him of home. Miss Althorp’s viscount almost placed his money there too, until she hissed at him to drop it in the correct bowl, hers.

Three gentlemen had still not cast their votes. Simone clutched Harry’s hand so tightly he couldn’t leave to study the paintings or place his coin. The other men were standing in front of the mantel so he could barely see to choose.

“I have to go vote, my love.”

She let go of his hand before he had to pry her fingers loose. “I won’t tell you which picture is mine, because I want you to pick your favorite because it is the best, not out of misplaced loyalty or fear of reprisal if you do not.”

“I couldn’t lie,” was all he said as he joined the other men studying the paintings. Then he started laughing, and Simone wished the floor would open up and swallow her, or a servant would come by with another glass of sherry. She’d made a fool out of herself. Worse, her poor efforts had made a joke out of Harry, who was making the best of things. She heard the clink of a coin, but she couldn’t look. Then she heard two others. The voting was done. She studied the view out the window.

Harry touched her on the shoulder, then kissed her hand when she turned. He smiled and held out a bowl with three coins.

“Three? I got three votes?” Simone did a hasty calculation. She had second place! She threw her arms around Harry’s neck and kissed him, right there for everyone to see. Metlock would be angry she’d ruined the creases of his starched cravat, but Simone did not care. “You voted for me?”

“I voted for my favorite, in all honesty. I knew it had to be yours, because who else had the daring, the imagination, the wit to paint a griffin in Gorham’s garden, lion’s tail and eagle’s head and all? You did get the house in, too, so Claire couldn’t disqualify you, although I’d wager she tried. You are brilliant, Noma.”

So she kissed him again, to applause from their audience.

Claire was miffed again, that she, the winner, was not receiving the accolades. Worse, she’d only won six of the guineas when she deserved them all. Lord Gorham kept patting her hand and telling her she was the best artist, with the best technique, the finest eye. And he needed another picture of the manor for his own bedroom.

“He wants this one,” Harry whispered to Simone, “but I told him he’d have to fight me for it.”

Miss Althorp’s viscount was also aggravated. He’d gotten wind of her attempted swindle and took that as a poor reflection on his own taste. Conscious of his elevated station, he’d picked the least scandalous mistress he could find, the most educated and upright, when she wasn’t lying in his bed, of course. Now her artistic light had dimmed, and his own honor was damaged by her heinous actions. They were discussing the situation rationally, he thought, as mature adults of intelligence and manners. Then she called him a twit.

“And Claire was right, you are a cold-hearted, chinless clunch.” She kicked him in the shin for good measure, before stomping off to pack.

The viscount looked more embarrassed by the scene she’d caused than affronted by her insults. He also appeared more relieved than upset. He went up to the mantel, retrieved his coin, and handed it to Simone.

That didn’t make her the winner, but it did make Claire angrier. “When are you going to perform for us, anyway, Miss Royale? Have you decided on your entertainment?”

Simone tried to be diplomatic. “I would not dare sing, not after your thrilling concert. I beg you for a few more days to decide.”

“Hmph. You are running out of time. And I am running out of patience with your airs and graces. You pretend to be so mannerly butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, but I don’t trust you. You, Miss Royale, who appeared out of nowhere to snabble a top-of-the-trees protector, are not what you seem.”

Gorham stepped in and led Claire away. “Come, my pet, announce your surprise for tonight.”

Simone mangled Harry’s sleeve. “She knows.”

“No, she is guessing. Don’t worry. You are the most enchanting female here. Five rakes have asked my intentions, to see if they have a chance. I expect to hear from the chinless viscount before the night is over.”

Simone didn’t care about other libertines or other indecent proposals. She only wanted to know Harry’s intentions, too. But Claire was clapping her hands to silence the guests to hear her surprise.

Simone’s last surprise had turned her world upside down. She could not imagine Claire’s announcement to be anything heartwarming either, unless Gorham’s mistress was going to tell them she was withdrawing from the competition. The chances of that happening were as slim as Simone receiving an honorable offer from anyone.

“I called you down early for the judging and because I have planned a special dinner this evening, before we view the performances of the ladies who are going to display their talents tonight.” She shot Simone a nasty look. “Since it is such a lovely evening, we are dining alfresco, in a tent set up near the stables. It is a short walk, but the ladies might wish a warmer wrap.”

They might wish boots and heavier skirts, too. Claire received a lot of scowls herself. She was wearing a red woolen gown with long sleeves and a high collar that would have appeared modest on anyone with a lesser bosom, or less form-fitting seams. She looked like a ripe strawberry. She looked warm.

The other women were in silk and lace and as little of both as possible. They wore silk slippers that would be ruined walking through grass, face paint that would not show in the dark, jewels that already felt cold on their necks. They grumbled on their way to find shawls and spencers to cover what they had spent hours adorning.

Simone did not see Sandaree in the crowd, but she decided to bring down an extra wrap in case the Indian girl needed more warmth than Sir James Danforth seemed to have provided. Sarah handed Simone her new brown velvet cape, and excitedly told her the servants were permitted to watch tonight, those not waiting on tables or helping in the kitchens. A real treat for the visiting maids and valets, she went on, and she was going to wear her own new shawl, but she’d bring one for Miss Sandaree, weren’t her clothes peculiar?, and did Miss Royale think she needed her bonnet?

Simone was excited, too. Now that the art judging was over, and she was not the one performing tonight, she could enjoy herself. And Harry’s company. In the dark.

He was waiting in the hallway for her, and tenderly draped the cape over her shoulders, pulling the hood up. “Brown velvet,” he murmured as he tied the bow at her neck before she could do it herself. “Just like your eyes. I used to think they were black, but tonight they look soft and inviting. Like velvet.” His hands were still on her shoulders, stroking the soft fabric, stoking her anticipation. He lowered his head to hers and she raised her mouth for his kiss.

The butler at the front door coughed. “The others have gone on, sir.”

“Quite right. Dinner. In a tent.” The butler, the footman waiting with a lantern, and Simone all knew he’d rather go back upstairs and go hungry. “Dammit.” He took her arm and followed the footman out into the dusk.

Whatever Claire’s other faults, she was a good hostess. Colorful Chinese lanterns lit the way toward the stables, swaying on branches in the light breeze. Bells hung there too, giving the path an enchanted feel, as if magic waited in the tent they approached. More bells chimed, silk banners fluttered, and garlands of flowers on every post and support scented the air.

The dinner guests were serving themselves from long tables filled with scores of platters and tureens, while servants kept filling glasses with wine. Simone did not spot Sandaree in the jovial crowd, but she did see Danforth standing by himself, drinking.

“Too bad,” Harry said when she pointed Lord James out to him. “This would have been a good opportunity to search his room. The personal servants are all coming to watch, I understand, after their own meals.”

Simone was glad. She wanted Harry at her side tonight, away from danger, thinking about her, not an unlikely blackmail scheme.

They ate another sumptuous meal on monogrammed china, with linen tablecloths, floral centerpieces, and scented candles, which almost masked the odors from the nearby stables.

“What the deuce are we doing in the paddocks?” Sir Chauncey wanted to know, almost staggering into one of the uprights on his way out of the tent. His companion, a dancer at the Royal Ballet, was gracefully picking her way between evidence of the equines. Miss Susan Baylor would dance another time, inside, thank goodness.

Simone tucked her cape more closely around her now that they had left the tent. “I believe Miss Harbough is going to perform tonight. Claire would not let her bring the horse into the ballroom at the manor, so this is her stage.”

Sir Chauncey was appeased. “Always liked a circus rider. They don’t wear much besides rhinestones, don’t you know.”

The ballet dancer attached herself to Danforth, who was still by himself with Sandaree absent. Sir Chauncey shrugged, then grabbed onto a fence post for balance. “Tired of her anyway.”

The area next to the stable had been fenced off, ringed with flambeaux, decorated with more flowers and streamers. Benches were placed to one end, with servants already gathering to stand at the other end.

Gorham assisted Claire up on onto one of the benches so she could introduce the performers. In a voice used to filling concert halls, she announced that Miss Harbough would ride Majesto. Since they required musical accompaniment, but the pianoforte could not be brought outdoors, other arrangements had been made. Simone knew that Miss Hanson was willing to play here, but Claire refused to subject the instrument to the night air, the dampness being good enough for the women, not the pianoforte.

Claire went on to explain that their two French guests had kindly offered to share their talents at the same time. Madame Eloise Lecroix, the shipping magnate’s diversion while his wife was breeding, and who had taken third place in the painting contest, would play the violin. Mademoiselle Mimi Granceaux, Claire coughed for the one-time Maisy Grant—would grant—cough, cough—them the pleasure—cough, of her talent: Whistling.

Several gentlemen applauded the prospect. This had to be better than opera and poetry and the harrowing harp. Some laughed.

First, Madame Lecroix stepped out to another circle of lantern light, holding her violin. The ship owner cleared his throat and all laughter died. The women took seats on the benches. Many of the men stood closer to the fence.

Eloise shook off the shawl she was wearing and blew on her fingers. Then she plucked at the instrument’s strings before beginning a classical piece. Simone was almost reminded of her grandfather and his fiddle, how he played outdoors because it reminded him of his youth and Gypsy campfires. Sometimes Simone’s mother had let her stay up to listen under the starlight.

Madame’s playing was excellent as far as Simone could tell, but held none of Grandpapa’s haunting chords of love and loss.

Then more flambeaux were lit by the footmen. Eloise took up a sprightly tune, and Madeline Harbough, nee Maddy Hogg, rode into the ring atop a gleaming white steed. The horse had red ribbons entwined in its mane and tail. Maddy had the same color ribbons holding her improbably yellow hair in a braid. Equally as improbable, she had somehow squeezed herself into her old red satin riding costume. One of the men clapped, until Maddy’s stout Lord Ellsworth tapped him on the shoulder with his cane. This was serious art.

While Madame Lecroix played, Maddy put the horse through its paces. Silent, unmoving, perfectly posed on her sidesaddle atop the large animal, Maddy got her mount to change gaits to the music, to circle the ring one way, then the other. With no words, no reins and no riding crop, she directed Majesto into figure eights, then a prancing high step, then a sideways sidle, and finally a bow to the audience. Now Ellsworth cheered along with the rest of the party and the servants across the way.