Authors: The Dashing Debutante
Alexandra regarded Letitia sympathetically, entering fully into her friend’s feelings. Disliking any sort of restrictions being placed on her own behaviour, she knew how frustrated Letitia must be feeling. Regarding her thoughtfully, she said, “Why don’t you write a letter to Mr Winters, and arrange an “accidental” meeting with him at a ball, or something of that nature?”
Letitia shook her head despondently. “If I wrote George a letter, and asked a footman to deliver it, he would in all likelihood be suspicious, and hand the letter over to Cousin Amelia. I cannot even begin to imagine her ire! There is absolutely nothing that I am able to do.”
An idea, a very daring idea, began to take shape in Alexandra’s mind. Her blue eyes began to sparkle, and, if John had been present, he would have recognised what he called “Alexandra’s-getting-into-a-scrape-look.” Jumping up from the chaise-longue where she was seated, Alexandra paced to the window, then came back again. Stopping beside Letitia, she said in an excited voice, “I have a plan — a marvellous idea. I shall deliver a letter from you to Mr Winters!”
Letitia looked at her in astonishment. “
You
will, Alex?” she said. “But — it is impossible. You are as closely chaperoned as I am. How would you possibly give your Grandmama the slip?”
“My brother, John, when he was a young boy, often used to come up to London in order to visit Dr Wainfleet. During these trips, he stayed with Grandmama. He mentioned to me once that he had left some of his clothes here. I think they can be found in the attic.”
“What on earth has that to do with anything, Alex?”
“Don’t you see Letty? I shall dress up as a youth, slip quietly out of the house through the servant’s entrance, make my way to Mr Winters’ lodgings, and deliver the letter to him personally. Where does he live, by the way?”
“In Ryder Street, off St James’s Street. But Alex, you cannot do that! If you are discovered, you will be ruined!”
“I shall not be discovered, Letty. Grandmama rises late in the morning — near noon. She will not miss me if I slip out early in the morning. I can go to Ryder Street and return without her knowing anything about it!”
Hope began to brighten Letitia’s eyes and, jumping up, she embraced her friend. “Dearest, dearest Alex, if you will do this for me, I shall be forever in your debt. Thank you. Oh,
thank
you!”
“Not at all, dear Letty. I am pleased to be able to help you,” Alexandra said, smiling. “It will be a wonderful adventure! Let us only hope that I can carry off this masquerade effectively. Write the letter now, and I shall contrive to deliver it tomorrow morning.”
Alexandra rang for Leighton, and after requesting him to bring the necessary writing materials to the Morning Room, she curled up on the chaise-longue and discussed the finer details of her daring plan with Letitia. It promised to be a most exciting escapade, but one that Alexandra knew her grandmother would condemn as being utterly foolhardy. But headstrong Alexandra, having set her mind on doing something, rarely considered any unfavourable consequences that might result from her actions. Her mind was made up, and nothing, absolutely nothing, had the power to change it.
The next morning, Alexandra rose early. She was, as yet, still accustomed to country hours and had maintained the habit of waking early, finding the late hours kept by the
ton
rather difficult to adjust to. She dressed quickly, donning the boy’s raiment she had found in one of the trunks in the attics. Regarding herself in the mirror, Alexandra grinned, curtsying mockingly to the slim boy reflected there. Chuckling softly, she stuffed her hair into a cap, then crept silently out of her room, down the servant’s staircase, and left the house via the servant’s entrance.
Digging her hands into the pockets of her britches, Alexandra gave a little skip as she headed towards St James’s Street, confident in the knowledge that no member of the
beau
monde
would be about at such an early hour. Glancing casually across the square, however, she froze. Standing outside Stanford House was a curricle and four, the restless bays held in check by Stanford’s tiger, Jimmy — who was staring directly at her! Alexandra’s heart leapt to her throat as she hurried on. She fervently hoped the tiger had not recognized her. Jimmy had accompanied his master when the Duke had taken Alexandra driving in the park the previous week, and would therefore know his master’s companion if he saw her again. But, refusing to give way to panic, Alexandra firmly reminded herself that a servant would never even begin to equate the elegant Miss Grantham with an errand boy. Her disguise was impenetrable!
Alexandra was unaware that the gentle sway of her hips, emphasized by the tightly fitting britches, and her graceful carriage, gave her sex away as surely as if she were attired in one of her own gowns. To the perceptive viewer, the lithe figure hurrying across the square was certainly no youth.
Alexandra had just left the square, and was congratulating herself on her narrow escape, when she felt an iron hand clamping down on her shoulder. Spinning around in alarm, she found herself looking up into the formidably angry face of the Duke of Stanford. Paling with fright, Alexandra tried to jerk herself free, but the Duke, without a word, firmly grasped her elbow and marched her back to her grandmother’s house, through the servant’s entrance, and into the library on the ground floor. She flushed angrily as the Duke subjected her person to a scathing appraisal. The silence stretched into eternity before he demanded ominously, “What, Miss Grantham, are you doing masquerading as a boy?”
Alexandra clenched her fingers tightly, but her nervousness did not show in her voice as she said firmly, “I do think that is my own business, your grace.”
“It is not,” the words came like gunshot. “When I promised to bring you into fashion, it was on condition that you abandon any hoydenish behaviour that you may have indulged in, in the past. What are you doing in that ridiculous getup?”
In the face of such controlled anger, Alexandra’s bravado began to slip a bit, but she lifted her chin and replied, albeit rather shakily, “I am not at liberty to tell you, my lord Duke. Suffice it to say that I have reasons of my own.”
“I strongly recommend that you tell me the truth, Miss Grantham, or you will find the consequences of your refusal to comply — shall we say — undesirable.”
Alexandra started at the unmistakable threat in the Duke’s words and, in the process of doing so, dropped Letitia’s letter which had been clasped tightly in her hands. The Duke’s eagle eyes alighted on it and, before she could retrieve it, he picked it up and broke the seal.
“That is a private letter, your grace,” Alexandra said in a panic-stricken voice, but the Duke paid no heed to her, and proceeded to peruse the sentimental words of love that Letitia had written to her swain. Raising his head, he looked directly at Alexandra, saying in a decidedly sardonic voice, “It seems as if I have mistakenly accredited you with sense, Miss Grantham. I am aware of my sister’s shortcomings in that area, but I had thought that you, at least, had a modicum of intelligence.”
Alexandra flushed angrily. “Perhaps you, my lord Duke, would define helping a friend as “senseless”, but I certainly do not!”
“I define “helping a friend” to ruin, Miss Grantham, as not only senseless, but extremely irresponsible,” the Duke said shortly. “George Winters is no more than a cad — a fortune hunter who exists on the fringes of society. No doubt his exclusion from Polite Society has made my impressionable sister see him in a romantic light — but he is nothing more than a reprobate.”
“How can you be so sure that Mr Winters is no more than a fortune hunter, your grace?” Alexandra challenged. “From what Letty has told me, he seems to be a most admirable man.”
The Duke regarded Alexandra steadily. “It is common knowledge that George Winters has, in the past, attempted to elope with at least three other young heiresses. His attempts came to naught — but not through lack of trying. He is a scoundrel, and certainly
not
a fit suitor for my sister.”
“Oh,” Alexandra said, in a very small voice. “I...I... did not realise...”
“No, you did not
realise
anything, Miss Grantham,” the Duke cut in icily. “You are so caught up in proclaiming your so-called independence, that you pay no heed to the consequences of your actions. No matter what you may believe, you are not up to snuff — you are no more than a green girl, foolhardy in the extreme. As I have told you before, you cannot go on in London as has been your wont previously. The
ton
sets certain levels of conduct which a young lady must adhere to, to be socially accepted. Neither your grandmother’s consequence, nor mine, could save you from social disgrace if it became known that you dressed up in a boy’s clothes to deliver an illicit letter to a bachelor’s lodgings.”
Alexandra’s eyes sparkled militantly, but she knew deep down inside that what Stanford had said was true. Despondently, she said, “I only wanted to help a dear friend. Poor, poor Letty — she truly seems to love this man...”
“Like many girls her age, Letty is not very wise,” the Duke said, looking pointedly at her. Alexandra barely refrained from grinding her teeth.
His grace continued, “Letty needs a man who will keep a firm hand on the reins.”
“Next you will be referring to your sister as a highly strung filly, or something of that sort. Women are not horses, your grace!” Alexandra burst out indignantly.
“On the contrary, Miss Grantham, I would say that women have many characteristics in common with horses — thoroughbreds, of course,” the Duke said, ignoring Alexandra’s glare. “Once they have got the bit firmly between their teeth, there is virtually no stopping them. It needs an excellent pair of hands to bring them to a halt.”
“Which you, of course, profess to have,” Alexandra said, sarcastically.
“Which I know I have,” the Duke corrected smoothly.
“Sir, your conceit is outweighed only by your arrogance!”
“And your foolishness, my dear, only by your naiveté,” the Duke said softly.
Alexandra’s eyes flashed, but she did not reply. Turning away from Stanford, she stared out of the window at the empty square, silently berating herself. Her actions, she had to admit,
had
been foolish and irresponsible — and the worst thing of all was that she could not defend them either to herself, or to the Duke for that matter. Impetuosity, she knew, had always been her besetting sin, and it seemed as if she had still not learned to think of adverse consequences that may result from a course of action that she embarked upon. Alexandra sighed, suddenly desperate that the Duke should not think too badly of her. For some reason that she could not fathom, she had begun to care rather deeply about the Duke of Stanford’s opinion of her — a state of affairs that she found both absurd and rather alarming at the same time. To think in that vein, she knew, was to begin to think of the Duke as someone rather more than a casual acquaintance — and that was something that she was simply not prepared to do.
Alexandra turned back to the Duke. “Please don’t be too harsh on Letty, your grace. The whole thing was really my idea... I realise now that I was in the wrong — and I ask you to accept my sincere apology.”
The Duke gave a brief nod, and smiled slightly. “You are forgiven, Miss Grantham — but next time you take one of your hare-brained notions into your head, think before you act.”
Alexandra grinned. “Do you not mean er...“horse-brained” notions, your grace?”
“Brat,” he said severely. “Were you never taught to respect your elders?”
Alexandra shook her head remorsefully — but the Duke saw the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and he chuckled. Looking at her, attired in male clothes, he wondered why she had ever thought she could disguise herself as a boy. It was true that she had managed to successfully hide her gender when she had been involved in her highway activities, but then she had been seated on a horse. When he had seen her walking across the square in those clothes earlier, he had immediately known who she was. They managed to emphasize rather than conceal her femininity and only an innocent like Alexandra would think otherwise, he reflected ruefully.
Clearing his throat, he said, “I suggest, Miss Grantham, that you sneak upstairs before the servants start stirring. I shall leave the way we came in.”
Alexandra nodded her head. Crossing the room, she opened the door, and after making sure that nobody was about, turned to wave at the Duke of Stanford, laughing impenitently as she ran up the stairs to her bedchamber.
Alexandra stared unseeingly out of her bedchamber window, her mind occupied with the events of that morning. Earlier, a rather subdued Letitia had paid her a visit — the Duke had told his sister of George Winters’ previous attempts to elope with other heiresses, something that Letitia had had no previous knowledge of, and the information had severely cast down her spirits. It was most unfortunate, Alexandra pondered, that the Duke of Stanford had decided that morning, of all mornings, to depart early from London in order to make a flying visit to one of his estates. Although, Alexandra had to admit to herself, it was probably all for the best that Stanford had discovered what was in the wind, and had effectively put an end to Letitia’s love affair — George Winters seemed a wholly disreputable kind of man and would have only made her unhappy.
A knock on the door interrupted Alexandra’s reverie. A young maid entered the room. Dropping a curtsey, she said quickly, “Begging your pardon, Miss, but her ladyship desires your presence in the Drawing Room.”
“Thank you Gladys,” Alexandra said absently, and proceeded to make her way downstairs. Entering the well appointed room, she saw a familiar red-headed young man in conversation with her grandmother.
“John!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise! I thought that you were coming up to London only much later in the Season.”
“When I heard that my one and only sister had made such an impression in London, how could I stay away?” John said, grinning. “How do you go on, Alex?”