Vixen in Velvet (11 page)

A ghastly image was painting itself in his mind’s eye when he became aware of Swanton plunking down his breakfast plate on the table.

“You look ill,” the poet said. “Has that rascal Foxe found out about the hundred pincushions you bought?”

“My cousin Gladys has been reciting poetry,” Lisburne said. “In public.”

“Is that the girl with the melodious voice? I should like to hear her recite some of mine. Maybe she can make it sound intelligent.”

Lisburne put down the paper and looked across the table.
“Lysistrata,”
he said. “She wrote a poem about it.”

Swanton’s pale blue eyes widened. “But that’s the one—the one about the women. The Peloponnesian War—and the women banding together to stop the fighting by refusing to—” He made the universally understood gesture for coitus. “It’s obscene. How on earth did she get hold of it? Surely it isn’t part of a lady’s curriculum. Or have I been away from England for too long?”

“Her education wasn’t feminine,” Lisburne said. “And her father was rarely at home. She learned Greek and Latin and probably read whatever she pleased. I can’t believe she did this. Is she
trying
to be ejected from Society?”

Yes, of course he had to win his wager with Miss Noirot. That didn’t mean he wanted Gladys to humiliate herself. Again. He hadn’t been in London for her debut, but Clara’s mother, Lady Warford, who’d sponsored her, had written to Lisburne’s mother, in despair and at length. A host of others had written, too, not so compassionately, because Gladys had, in a few short months, contrived to make everybody loathe her.

Every year, flocks of girls made their social debut. Naturally, not all of them were successful. By all accounts, Gladys’s failure had been so spectacular as to set a new standard.

“Let me see.” Swanton snatched the newspaper from him and swiftly read the entry. “It doesn’t sound scandalous. She ‘regaled’ the company and the recitation was ‘delightful.’ Obviously, her version must have been highly expurgated. If she’d shocked and offended everybody, the
Spectacle
would be thrilled to say so.” He gave back the paper.

“Maybe not. The
Spectacle
might have decided that the better part of valor is discretion. Her father is Boulsworth. You remember him, don’t you? At my father’s funeral?”

“Who could forget?” Swanton said. “He was terrifying. I reckoned that was the secret of his military success. At the mere sound of his voice, the enemy fled, screaming like girls. I certainly would. Your cousin Gladys is his daughter? The poor thing! Or perhaps not so downtrodden as one might suppose. A girl who can compose a poem based on
Lysistrata
—and recite it—at Almack’s—sounds like a girl of spirit.”

Lisburne stared at him. “Sounds like? You’ve met her, on more than one occasion. How can you not recall? The general brought her to my father’s funeral with him.”

Swanton shook his head. “Those days are a haze of misery. But the general stands out vividly. A personality like a charging bull.”

“She was at the British Institution the other day,” Lisburne said, striving for patience. How could anybody who’d ever seen Gladys forget her, even if he wanted to? “With Clara. Surely you remember. You must have spoken to them. And I’m sure we’ve encountered them elsewhere.”

Swanton lifted his shoulders. “There seem always to be so very many young women. Their faces become a blur.” He shook his head. “But your cousin Gladys can’t have spoken to me. Had I heard her voice before, I could not have forgotten.” He looked down at his plate, and seemed to recall what it was there for, because he picked up his cutlery and began to eat.

A day earlier, Lisburne might have dropped a hint to his cousin about Gladys’s being unforgettable in less than agreeable ways. But Miss Noirot’s remarks silenced him on that subject.

Her father, however, was fair game.

“Even Tom Foxe might decide against stirring up the wrath of Boulsworth,” Lisburne said.

“If your cousin Gladys stirred up the wrath of Almack’s patronesses, everybody will know about it. Hard to believe Foxe would ignore such a juicy story.” Swanton chewed in silence for a moment. Then he said, “Only one way to find out whether or not she’s made herself persona non grata. She’s staying with the Warfords, is she not? Let’s pay a call at Warford House.”

If Gladys had made no impression on Swanton in person, Lisburne preferred to keep it that way. While he couldn’t believe she’d suddenly become alluring to men, he could believe that Swanton sometimes saw what he wanted to see. He wasn’t the best judge of women. He was softhearted and too easily imposed upon. This made it not entirely impossible to imagine Gladys effecting, through sheer force of personality, a capture.

The prospect of Swanton trapped by Boulsworth and his daughter, and having his sensitive soul crushed beyond recovery, was too horrible to contemplate.

Wager or no wager, sporting or not, in this case Lisburne had no choice but to intervene.

“You don’t have time for social calls,” he said. “You were the one who was moaning yesterday about having to write half a dozen poems in less than a week. I’ll call at Warford House this afternoon, after Clara’s adoring hordes have come and gone. I’ll report to you when I return.”

Chapter Six

How often do we see the same countenance change its expression, according to the influence of the feelings! And how many are the transformations of beauty when under the magic power of Fashion’s variegated wand! Inexhaustible in her resources, she rules over the female part of the human species with peculiar despotism.

—
La Belle Assemblée
, 1827

Later on Thursday afternoon

L
isburne had had an earful this afternoon, at Warford House and elsewhere. He still didn’t believe what he’d heard. He had to see it for himself.

Driving in an open carriage to Hyde Park, he couldn’t help but be aware of the sky’s unpromising grey complexion and the air’s increasing oppressiveness. But this was a distant perception. He was aware in the same way of the streets on which he drove and the vehicles, animals, and people who cluttered the route. This afternoon they cluttered it more than usual. His mind, though, was mainly on the phenomenon those four hundred acres contained this day.

It was no great journey from St. James’s Street to the park. The trouble was, at this time of day everybody—meaning Everybody who was Anybody—traveled in the same direction. Even though the Season neared its end, the ton could produce carriages and riders enough to take possession of the park during what they considered to be their time. Today, especially, everybody wanted to be there, because Lady Gladys Fairfax was driving with her cousin Lady Clara.

And everybody wanted to know what she was wearing, according to both Lady Warford and the shopgirls at Maison Noirot.

People wanted to see what
Gladys
was wearing, not Clara.

When Lisburne reached Hyde Park Corner, he realized that word had traveled even unto the lower ranks. Not only was the entrance to the park in the stage of conglomeration more commonly seen on Sundays, but a wall of onlookers lined the railings of the roads.

Once he’d disentangled himself from the mob near the Triumphal Arch and was able to look about him, he spotted her easily enough.

Not Gladys.

Leonie Noirot.

She stood surrounded by men at the railing, a short distance from the statue of Achilles.

She wore a dress of deep blue, adorned with a frothy piece of white ruffles and lace that spread like a cape over her shoulders and tucked into her belt, to reappear beneath it in two flowing tails. A narrow green scarf draped the garment’s neck, drawing the eye upward to the matching green flowers and bows of her bonnet.

Though she seemed not to notice all the fellows ogling her, Lisburne hadn’t the slightest doubt she’d taken an exact count of those vying for her attention, assessed their bank accounts, and could make a reasonable estimate of their property holdings.

He halted his curricle, to the audible annoyance of the other drivers. His tiger, Vines, jumped down from his perch at the rear of the vehicle and went to the horses’ heads.

Lisburne alit.

“Drat you, Lisburne!” someone shouted. “You’re blocking the road.”

The road here was wide enough to allow several vehicles to ride abreast. Today, however, too many were trying to squeeze in. The place reminded him of Paris, especially Longchamp during Easter week.

“Gentlemen, I must beg your indulgence for a moment,” he called. “A moment only, if luck is with me.”

He sauntered to the rail where Miss Noirot stood. In his usual lazy way he let his gaze travel over the crowd surrounding her.

The men moved away.

“Miss Noirot,” he said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“My lord,” she said, with a polite nod that set the ruffles aflutter. “Is it?”

“Pleasant but probably not a surprise, since I was told you’d be here,” he said.

“I’m waiting for Lady Clara and Lady Gladys,” she said. “I thought this would be the best place to wait, since all the park roads meet here.”

“Confound it, Lisburne!” someone behind him shouted.

“Had we but world enough, and time, dear lady,” he said, “I should linger here for days and converse. A hundred years should go to the innocent pleasure of contemplating a great mind and prodigious wit in a beautiful package. But at my back I always hear those louts in the road, who are in a perishing hurry to cover ground. I seem to be in their way. Will you join me—in the carriage I mean,” he said, leaning closer and dropping his voice. “The other connection will come, I hope, later . . . at a place of my choosing.”

She didn’t blush, exactly. He saw only a hint—more of a promise, so faint it was—of color washing over her cheeks. He wondered what it would take to make her blush fully.

“In the carriage,” she said. “A drive?”

“That is what, in my clumsy way, I was trying to say.”

He watched her blue gaze flicker to his cattle, a fine matched pair. He remembered her reaction at Astley’s, to the horses, and the note of longing he’d detected in her voice.

“Are those good horses?” she said.

“They are not permitted to go wherever they please at any rate of speed they choose,” he said. “They are not allowed to rear up when the whim takes them or bite each other or anybody who looks at them in a way they don’t like. You’ll be quite safe.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” she said. “They seem unusually beautiful to me. I only wondered whether I’d judged correctly.”

“As always, madame, your taste is impeccable,” he said. “The question remains, Will you allow me to take you round the park? I’ll let you hold the ribbons.”

Her eyes widened before she caught herself. “You’re only trying to tempt me,” she said. “I may know nothing about horses, but I know how men feel about women driving their carriages. In any event, the point is moot, because I’m on this side of the railing, and you’re on the other, and I’m not going to—oof—no! Don’t you—”

L
ord Lisburne picked her up and lifted her over the rail.

Leonie had not seen it coming.

“That isn’t what I meant,” she said, her voice not completely steady.

“Now we’re on the same side,” he said as he set her on her feet. “Moreover, we’ve given the fashionable set something to talk about besides my cousin Gladys.”

Now, drat him, Leonie was reeling with physical awareness. The expert tailoring and almost foppishly perfect style hugged a body, she was hotly aware, of solid muscle.

As was not the case with other big, strong men, the muscle did not extend to his brain, unfortunately. He was entirely too perceptive.

She didn’t have time for this. She had a young woman’s future to save, not to mention her shop. She couldn’t afford to have her mind cluttered with Male. Big, strong, male, smelling of male things—starch and shaving soap and leather and mingled with it, the tantalizing scent of horses.

While she was trying to put her wits back into order, he found the part of her arm not encased in stuffing—her lower arm—took hold of it, and led her to the carriage. In other words, like every other aristocrat, he did as he pleased, leaving others to cope with the consequences.

England belonged to them, and so, naturally, she belonged to him.

She’d noticed the way he’d given the latter message to the men standing near her.

Oh, very well, she’d felt a thrill, stupid she, because this splendid man had given other men possessive signals about her, and she was human, not made of wood or stone or steel, as would be infinitely more practical. Meanwhile, there were those beautiful creatures. He’d promised to let her hold the reins because she’d given herself away in some manner, and he knew how much she wanted to.

She climbed into his carriage and wondered whether one of his ancestors had been a Noirot or DeLucey.

He took his seat and the ribbons again, and his groom leapt to the rear of the carriage. The onlookers applauded.

Lord Lisburne threw her a little smile, and set the carriage in motion. And all of it, from the moment he’d stopped the vehicle and come to the railing, he’d done with effortless grace. So smooth, so elegant, and so charming that he made it all too easy to forget how dangerous he was.

Last evening she’d dined at Clevedon House, and the duke had told a story about Lord Lisburne—Lord Simon Blair at the time—at Eton. A group of boys had been bullying Lord Swanton. Young Blair had taken on the lot of them. He’d walked away from the melee with a few cuts and bruises. “The rest of them lay broken and bleeding on the ground,” the duke said. “Lisburne was like a berserker—if you could picture a cold, quiet, and methodical one.”

She could easily picture it. Wolves and tigers were beautiful and graceful, too. She’d known from the start he wasn’t harmless. Those Roman gods never were.

He’d picked her up, not once but three times now, as easily as if she’d been a kitten.
His
kitten. To play with, she reminded herself. To him it was a game. And he was too damned good at it.

“This is excellent,” he said when the carriage was in motion. “We’ve created a diversion.”

“Is that why you came?” she said. “To create a diversion?”

“Certainly not. I came because the girls at your shop said you’d be here, and I had to know what you were up to.”

“I wanted to treat myself to the sight of my newest client in a becoming carriage dress,” Leonie said. “I was too late to see her entrance, but I overheard some men speaking in a complimentary way about it.”

“I’m not entirely surprised,” he said. “Her father would never tolerate slovenly horsemanship.”

“Lady Gladys is so clever,” she said. “I had only to drop a hint—and she created an entirely new strategy.”

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the sharp glance he sent her.

“I’ve heard that Lord Boulsworth was a brilliant strategist,” she said. “She said he treated her like a regiment. That accounts for some of the traits people find so obnoxious. She’s a young woman who’s been trained more or less in military fashion. Now she’s finding the bits that work to her advantage. She’s thinking like an officer.”

“What bits? Reciting obscene verse at Almack’s?”

“Hardly obscene,” she said. “You seem to be hysterical.”

“I nearly fainted when I read it in the
Spectacle
,” he said.

“Do try to consider this in a rational manner,” she said. “If her ladyship had behaved in any way improperly, she would have been ejected. His lordship her father may be a great hero and, I’m told, a most intimidating one, but Almack’s patronesses fear nobody. They once refused the Duke of Wellington admittance because he arrived too late.”

“Miss Noirot, do you know what
Lysistrata
is about?”

“Of course,” Leonie said. She knew nothing about horses, but the rest of her education had been as good as and in some cases better than many ladies’ schooling. She knew something about the Peloponnesian Wars and rather a good deal about Aristophanes’s play. “But she must have used the premise in a clever way, because a number of the older ladies, especially the married ones, were amused. As you know, in respectable society it’s no good winning over the men if you can’t get some women on your side.”

“She seems to have got away with it,” he said. “If it’s a strategy, though, it’s a risky one.”

“Conventional methods don’t work for her, because she isn’t like other young ladies,” she said. “She wasn’t taught to be missish or defer to men or keep her opinions to herself. She’s had a degree of freedom other girls haven’t. Because no one taught her to walk gracefully, she walks like a man. All this makes her seem unfeminine. On the other hand, she drives like a man, too. Wearing a handsome carriage dress, with her pretty cousin by her side, she must make a rather exciting picture.”

“Exciting, like attacking cavalry?”

“Here she comes. Let’s see.”

As Lady Clara’s carriage approached, the situation became happily clear.

Several gentlemen on horseback escorted the vehicle, and Mr. Bates, one of Lady Clara’s admirers, was talking animatedly to Lady Gladys. She looked amused. Thanks to that and the splendid green carriage dress Marcelline had designed for her, her ladyship’s not-beautiful face wore a becoming glow.

Keeping her own face schooled to give nothing away, Leonie watched Lord Lisburne’s profile.

He didn’t give much away, either. One tiny flicker of surprise before his handsome countenance became as smooth as a marble statue’s.

As Lady Gladys drew nearer, he saluted her, and she returned the acknowledgment.

When she passed, he was the only one who didn’t turn his head to watch her departure. He seemed to concentrate on a small gap in the vehicle parade. This looked very small indeed to Leonie, yet a moment later he’d entered it. In no time, the greater part of the crowd was behind them, all straining for a glimpse of Lady Gladys Fairfax.

“You’re going to lose our wager,” Leonie said.

He laughed. “You’re leaping to conclusions. Yes, I saw the entourage of gentlemen. Yes, I saw Bates talking to Gladys. But all the men know Clara has a soft spot for her prickly cousin, and they’re trying to curry favor with Clara. For all the good that will do. She keeps them about for show or, more likely, defense. Safety in numbers. No one is favored. No one’s encouraged, either. They all hover about her, living in hope, poor fools.”

Leonie didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.

Inside, though, the Leonies were looking at each other and saying,
What? How did he know?

Except for Leonie and her sisters, no one, even those closest to Lady Clara, had an inkling of the game her ladyship played. Young ladies were not allowed to sow their wild oats, as young men were, but she was determined to enjoy as much freedom as she could for as long as she could. As the Member of Parliament had said, women had no rights. This was the one time in Lady Clara’s life when she had any real power over men, and she meant to make the most of it.

Somehow, though he spent little time with his Fairfax cousins, Lord Lisburne had caught on.

Somewhere on his family tree, a DeLucey must have skulked.

“To my thinking, if Mr. Bates was conversing so amiably with Lady Gladys, she’s made rapid progress,” Leonie said. “He wasn’t wearing the pained smile.”