Authors: Highland Fling
“I know that, of course, but I hold no brief for Deverill and I hope you and Maggie are both sufficiently aware of the danger to mind your tongues. Lydia is another matter.”
“Tell her then.”
“No, for I would only put the notion into her head, and once it’s there, she would be quite unable to hold her tongue. She probably has said nothing as yet. Her thoughts seem to dwell only on possible spells being cast by Lady Ophelia Balterley.”
“I’ll do what I can to watch her at Ranelagh,” James said, “for all the good it will do.”
Rothwell was grateful to him, and had cause the next day to hope James would have more success than he anticipated, for, when the earl met with Sir Dudley Ryder at the office that gentleman used near the House of Commons chamber, to report on his visit to the Highlands, the news Ryder had for him was not reassuring.
When Rothwell explained that he had uncovered no impending threat to British peace in the central Highlands, and then deftly and rather hastily turned the subject to London Jacobites, Ryder said with a sigh, “Charles Stewart’s departure ought to have ended all that, but a few of his more dedicated followers have been a bit of a nuisance, and a few outraged fools in Parliament, who ought to know better, keep looking for Jacobites under their beds. Thus, the official position is still that support for the Pretender equals treason to the Crown, and will be punished by death. No one has actually been executed yet, but that doesn’t mean no one will be.” He paused, and when Rothwell did not reply, he added, “You passed very quickly over your exploits in Scotland, my friend, but you must know I am curious to know if I was right when I said your people might be smuggling whisky. You did not say what you learned about that.”
Rothwell smiled. “You may take it then that there is nothing to say.”
“Or nothing you wish to say?”
“As to that, there is one thing I should have told you at the outset of this conversation. I am married.”
“Good lack, you certainly should have told me! But how can this be? Who is she, and why in the name of all that’s holy did we hear nothing of your impending nuptials?”
“You and my stepmother,” Rothwell murmured, “ought to get on far better than you do. Both of you have very suspicious minds.”
“Lady Rothwell does not approve?”
“She does not. You see, I married MacDrumin’s daughter.”
Ryder’s eyebrows shot upward. “I comprehend now why you are so interested in London’s attitude toward Jacobites, my friend. Guard her well.”
“I intend to do so, but there is no cause for concern there. Her father was never successfully implicated.”
“Not implicated, perhaps, but he was certainly suspected. What of your delightful sister? Does she approve this marriage?”
“She does,” Rothwell said, “but that brings to mind another small point that I intended to raise with you. How well are you acquainted with young Lord Thomas Deverill?”
He was watching Ryder closely when he asked the question and was satisfied when his friend seemed to hesitate before replying. The hesitation was small, no doubt unnoticeable to someone who did not know Ryder very well, and his tone was perfectly calm and self-assured when he said, “I know who he is, of course—the Marquess of Jervaulx’s younger son—and I think you have mentioned him to me before. He is the young idiot who has been making such a cake of himself over Lydia, is he not?”
“You know perfectly well that he is, although he seems to have found a new quarry for the moment. You disappoint me, Ryder. It would have been much better to say you knew him well, a perfectly simple statement of fact and not nearly so damning.”
“What are you saying, Ned?” He looked uncomfortable.
Instead of answering directly, Rothwell said thoughtfully, “I think you should encourage him to return to the Continent to extend his … shall we say his grand tour?”
“Good lack, why should I do any such thing?”
“You see,” Rothwell said gently, “Deverill was the only one who knew of my stepmother’s intended return to London.”
“Was he? I should have thought she would tell her servants at least.” When Rothwell remained silent, Ryder grimaced. “I suppose your people have standing orders always to keep your London house in readiness for your arrival.”
“They do. Nor would I accuse you of quizzing my servants, in any case. Has he been your mysterious source all along?”
“Curse you, Ned. Even between these walls I do not mean to gratify you by saying any more, but I will do what I can to keep him out of Lydia’s way. Though if another young woman has drawn his regard, perhaps there is no real cause to do so now.”
“That young woman is said to be quite intelligent,” Rothwell said evenly. “I doubt she will encourage anyone as idiotic as Deverill pretends to be. Moreover, his behavior upsets Lydia.”
“More and more you convince me, damn you,” Ryder said with a sigh. “He won’t go to the Continent, says it don’t amuse him anymore, but perhaps I can induce him to go home to Cornwall for a few months, at least until this last burst of fury dies away.”
Satisfied, Rothwell turned the subject again and thought no more about young Deverill until he encountered him at the Ranelagh winter ridotto the following night.
On Friday night the Chelsea Road, which was the main approach to Ranelagh Gardens from London, was so thronged with chairs, carriages, and pedestrians from St. James’s Park who had joined the cavalcade on the road at Buckingham gate that the bumpy journey took twice as long as it should have. By the time the two carriages bearing Rothwell’s party arrived at the gate, where a guinea for each occupant was demanded for passage into the gardens, Maggie was regretting her decision to wear a warm cloak over her gown and silk domino, and feared there would soon be rivulets of perspiration running through the dusting of powder her new maidservant had applied to her complexion.
When the carriages paused at the gate, she gasped in delight at her first view of the garden’s interior. Directly in front of them was a huge round building with lighted windows around the top story that made it look like a giant’s lantern. Around it, paths and the carriage drive were lighted by lamps swinging from poles and tree branches, and people strolled along them despite the cool night air. The sound of French horns echoed on the wind from the river, and an orchestra was playing nearer at hand.
Staring in wonder, Maggie said, “Are all the public gardens in London like this one?”
Lydia chuckled. “No, indeed. Vauxhall is more a woodland paradise, but amusements there all take place out of doors, so it is for summer only. Ranelagh is only a vast assembly room set in a pretty garden, but we can enjoy it all year. Look, we are driving toward the Thames now, and you can see the lights reflected in the water and hear horns from the barges. If some people,” she added with a speaking glance at Rothwell, “had not been so concerned about taking a chill, we might have come by barge tonight, and we could have been dancing by now.”
“That is Ranelagh House on the left,” Rothwell said as if he were merely taking up the thread of her narration. “It was the home of the man who left the gardens to the city of London. The main entrance to the Rotunda is there on our right.”
The carriage door was opened a minute later, and the steps let down. James and the dowager joined them from the other carriage, and Maggie soon found herself inside the huge building she thought looked like a giant’s lantern.
Lydia caught her eye and, speaking close to her ear in order to make herself heard above the din, said, “’Tis like an enchanted palace, is it not?”
Maggie nodded, though she would not have chosen such a description. They were in the middle of a vast amphitheater at least fifty yards in diameter, its painted and gilded decorations as bright and gaudy as they could be. A double tier of boxes separated by ornamented pilasters lined the walls. In the center stood a magnificent orchestra platform, its elaborate canopy rising all the way to the roof, and the whole scene was lighted by a vast number of candles enclosed in crystal glasses.
Groups of persons attired either in fancy dress or in silk dominoes, and wearing or carrying loo masks, were seated in boxes or strolled in a veritable parade, circling the orchestra. The magnificent fabrics, gold and silver lace, lavish embroidery, and precious stones of their colorful costumes added much to the splendor of the scene. All manner of refreshments appeared to be within call—although Maggie had heard James say earlier with some bitterness that there would be nothing to drink except tea—and music vied with noisy conversation for predominance.Maggie’s eyes were dazzled and within minutes her head felt giddy from the din. She had the odd notion that more than one orchestra was playing and that no one else inside the huge chamber was paying heed to the music at all.
For a time it seemed as if the merrymakers had come merely to drink fine imperial tea or to walk in a circle round the room, looking at each other, and being looked at in return, but once Rothwell got his party settled in the box he had reserved for them and Maggie had sipped a bit of her tea, she was able to sort out the activity around her more rationally. Whether it was that the sides and ceiling of their box helped reduce the din from the central part of the room, or just that her senses had stopped reeling, she did not know, but she could hear a man singing and saw that a number of persons actually appeared to be listening to him, apparently undisturbed by the incessant conversation.
“I do not think much of this tea,” Lady Rothwell said suddenly, her commanding tones carrying easily above the noise. “It is no more than weakly flavored hot water.”
Lydia grinned at her. “It is certainly not so flavorful as your prized Bohea, ma’am, but at least there are lemons, and perhaps we can get some sugar for James.” She had taken off her mask and sat viewing the parade of strollers as they passed by the box, nodding and smiling to those she knew and conversing happily with anyone who paused nearby.
Maggie privately agreed with Lady Rothwell that the so-called tea was no more than tepid water to which a few—a very few—tea leaves had been added, but she had begun to enjoy herself, and when Rothwell stood and suggested that they join the strollers, she arose with alacrity to accompany him. James and Lydia being content to sit for a time with the dowager, Maggie picked up the ivory and lace fan Rothwell had given her that evening, and placed the fingertips of her other hand on his arm, thinking how well her soft blue silk domino complimented his outfit of silver-gray and pale pink.
The earl was not wearing a mask, and when he asked her to remove hers she realized that he wanted them to be seen and recognized. In the next hour, a number of persons stopped to talk with them and as he proceeded to make her known to each one, introducing her as not only his countess but the daughter and only child of a powerful Scottish chief as well, she became steadily more certain that he had some purpose in mind that went beyond merely making her known to his friends.
When he introduced her to the Prince of Wales, she was sure of it. The prince was strolling with his wife and members of their extensive entourage. He bowed gracefully over Maggie’s hand after she had made her curtsy, and made her a pretty compliment when he drew her to her feet again. Augusta, Princess of Wales, was also remarkably condescending.
“Did one hear Rothwell say you are from Scotland, Lady Rothwell?” she asked graciously when the prince turned to address a comment to the earl.
“Why, yes, madam, I am.”
“Not from one of the more difficult parts, one trusts.”
Before Maggie could think of a suitable response, Rothwell, who had evidently kept at least one ear on their exchange, said smoothly, “My wife is the daughter of a powerful clan chief, madam. MacDrumin of MacDrumin has done much to stimulate a vastly increased English presence in the Scottish Highlands.”
“Indeed,” replied the princess, “how very admirable, to be sure. You must call upon us at Leicester House, Lady Rothwell. We shall be most pleased to receive you there.”
“Edward, are you mad?” Maggie demanded when they had moved on. “How dared you say such a thing about Papa to her highness!”
“I spoke only the truth, sweetheart, and my purpose was well served. The prince and princess are not always in good odor with the king, but their friendship must always be an asset.”
“Are they indeed your friends, then? I confess, I—”
“I have been known to agree with the prince from time to time. I have also disagreed with him, however, and he does not take kindly to criticism. Nonetheless, I am useful to him and therefore am not to be offended. You see, being extravagant, he frequently finds himself in difficulties to which neither his father nor most members of Parliament can be induced to turn a sympathetic ear. I have, at times, been disposed to be, if not sympathetic, at least more generous than they are. I also sometimes play tennis with him. Good God,” he added, raising his eyeglass and peering across the room, “what is she doing now?”
Following the direction of his gaze, Maggie saw that Lydia had gathered a court of youthful and very exuberant admirers and appeared to be having the time of her life.
“She is just enjoying herself,” she protested when she found herself being propelled hastily back toward their box.
“That chit has no more sense than the good Lord bestowed upon a garden rake,” Rothwell muttered, his words carrying to her ears only because she strained to hear him. “She thinks even less than you do before she speaks, and I don’t want her blurting something we’ll all regret. Moreover, there’s Deverill hovering over her again, no doubt whispering nonsense in her ear.”
“If he is whispering in this din, sir, she does not hear him,” Maggie said. But thinking she understood his reasons for intervening better now than he did himself, she made no further protest, and they made their way through the crowd to the box, where Lydia greeted them with delight and presented the solidly built but elegantly dressed young woman who stood across the barrier from her, with Lord Thomas, as Lady Ophelia Balterley.
Maggie acknowledged the introduction politely and regarded Lady Ophelia with no little curiosity, but there was no way to encourage the young woman to tell them much about herself, for the chatter around them had grown too loud and too merry for such an exchange of politeness to take place. Finding herself momentarily separated from Rothwell by the others, she looked for someone she knew to speak to, and finding no one near at hand, moved toward the box entrance, meaning to go in and sit down.