Barbara Metzger (13 page)

“Do you like to read, Mrs. Ott?” Sydney asked. “The reason I inquire is that my sister is really not interested, and I should like to visit the lending libraries more. I wouldn’t think of going by myself, but my sister often needs our abigail, and I hate to take the household staff away from their tasks. I thought that perhaps if you were ever going, that is, if you do not think I am too forward ...”

“Not at all, dearie, not at all. Why, I said you could count on old Bella Bu—Ott for anything. And I love to read. Ain’t that a coincidence? It’s my favorite thing, right after cooking. Lawks-a-mercy, I haven’t had a good read since I don’t know when. Why don’t we go right now? I have the carriage outside, with m’driver and footman.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t impose,” Sydney said, but she was glad to be refuted. She was delighted that this new colleague not only shared her interests but could quiet Aunt Harriet’s carping about a chaperone. A respectable older widow with servants and all ought to satisfy the strictest notions of propriety. Even the outré Lord Mayne would be satisfied that her reputation was well protected.

The servants weren’t quite what Sydney would have selected for a genteel household.

“Just ignore ‘em,” Bella advised as she saw Sydney pause at the doorstep. “I try to. You might say my husband left them to me. Their names are Chessman and Rand, but I call ‘em Cheeseface and Rarebit. You can see why.”

Chessman held the carriage door. Actually he hid behind the carriage door and Bella had to shout to him to close it once they were inside. He had a powdered wig and a lead-whitened face, and his livery had a large sash around his thin middle. (The undertaker reported that the dead footman had been caught in his master’s bedroom.) The coachman did have rabbity teeth hanging over his lower lip; otherwise he was bundled head to toe in coat, boots, cape, hat, and muffler. Sydney could not even tell what color hair the man had, and he was so small she wondered if he had the strength to manage the horses. Oh, well, she thought, they were going only a few blocks.

Actually, they were going to Bella’s house in Chelsea. Since Sydney had not been condemned in the ton for her part in the prizefight—and the Ottos never knew how big her part was—and Lord Scoville seemed to be cooling off toward the sister, Bella’d had the knacky notion of kidnapping the chit. Everyone knew Mayne stood by her servants through the boxing match; he was certain to ransom the gel.

“I ain’t going to hire no witness to drive the coach,” Bella said, “so which of you is going to do it, the runt or the milksop?”

The milksop won, the runt drove ... for the first time in fifteen years, and badly. In a few blocks of the lending library, Randy scraped the side of a standing carriage, ran over a small delivery wagon, and wrapped one of the wheels around a lamppost. Sydney suggested they get out and walk. There was nothing for it but to acquiesce, so Bella got down and informed the driver that she would take a hackney home, dear boy, not to worry. As soon as Sydney’s back was turned, Bella buried her reticule about an inch deep in Randy’s scalp.

“Coming, dear,” she called, grabbing Chester’s sleeve before he could shab off, now that the day’s plan was abandoned. “And you better stick like glue, pudding-heart,” she spat at him. “Someone’s got to pick out my damn books.”

* * * *

The trip could not be counted a success by anyone, especially Bella Bumpers Ott. If Sydney thought her new friend a trifle odd, Bella’s reading tastes confirmed the supposition. Sydney found Miss Austen’s latest work and her favorite Scott ballads while Mrs. Ott checked out
A
Gentleman’s Guide to Rome
and
Statistical Configurations of Probabilities.
And Sydney would rather spend the rest of her days inside the house than put one foot inside the carriage again.

The next time Mrs. Ott called, with a poppy seed cake and an invitation to visit the Tower, Sydney refused, though she would dearly have liked to go. Winifred never wanted to accompany her; she feared the place would give her nightmares.

Trying to salve Mrs. Ott’s feelings, for she could see the older woman was screwing her face up to cry, Sydney offered a box of chocolates, each piece wrapped in silver paper. “Please, ma’am, will you do me the favor of tasting one of these candies? I ask because you are such a fine cook, and I value your judgment. You see, this is an old recipe from Little Dedham. The church ladies make them for Twelfth Night. Perhaps you’ve had them before? No? How strange. Anyway, my housekeeper and her sons are thinking of going into the confectionery business, and I thought I would help them along by soliciting an expert opinion. Not that I intend to have anything to do with the sales, of course.”

Of course. Sydney had the profit margin figured to the ha’penny, a list of every sweet shop in London and the outskirts, a plan to promote them through the ton, and a schedule whereby she and the Minches could produce enough bonbons and still see Winifred through the Season.

“Delicious,” Mrs. Ott pronounced. “What’s that in the center, eh? Blackberry cordial, you say? Clever, but I think it could use a drop more, maybe a smidgen of rum. Do you think your friends would accept my help? I love to putter in the kitchen, and I
do
like to see the lower orders improve themselves.”

* * * *

The next few days were busy ones, experimenting and tasting. Sydney fell into bed each night, more exhausted than she would have thought, but at least she no longer dreamed of blue eyes that raged like a wild sea and smiled like a placid lake.

The general’s man, Griffith, was the designated sales force. The Minch brothers were too recognizable; no one must suspect the Lattimores were in trade. Griff brought free samples to some of the shops and chatted with the proprietors while they tasted. He, too, couldn’t wait to reach his pallet.

Sworn to secrecy, Trixie took some home to Lady Windham, who declared she hadn’t had such a good night’s rest in years, and ordered a dozen boxes from her favorite tart shop to give to her friends.

In no time at all Sydney was up to her dimples in orders. Mrs. Ott mixed the rum-flavored chocolate. Willy and Wally poured the heavy vats into molds. Mrs. Minch filled the centers with the blackberry cordial syrup. Sydney and Trixie wrapped each piece in its silver twist. Winifred lettered signs to go with each package:
CHURCHLADIES
’
CORDIAL
COMFITS
AND
COMPOSERS
. Griff delivered the boxes. Sydney did the books. She figured they would start to see a profit over the initial outlay for materials in a week or two.

The candies kept selling, the money kept coming in, and Bella kept pouring more and more laudanum into the vats.

Chapter 13

The Marriage Mart

“What do you mean, I have to go to Almacks?
The
match was a draw, remember? All bets were off.”

Forrest admired the high shine on his Hessians. “Didn’t you drive my bays?”

“But, but, you asked me to!” Bren sputtered.

“And now I am asking you to go to Almacks. Think how happy the duchess will be. Furthermore, they are saying in the clubs that Miss Lattimore will be making her debut appearance there tonight. Surely that’s incentive enough to suffer knee smalls for one evening.”

Bren wore a long face. “She don’t like me. She ain’t even home most of the time, at least not to me. When she is, she’s sighing over some drooling mooncalf and his mawky rhymes. I thought we were getting along fine at first.”

“So I deduced,” the viscount replied dryly, having been forced to sit through his brother’s rhapsodies on Miss Lattimore’s infinite charms. Bren had not
quite
drooled. “I see Miss Sydney’s fine hand at work there. She wants better for her sister.”

“I suppose you mean Scoville,” Bren conceded disconsolately.

“Not just that. I, ah, may have mentioned to Miss Sydney your difficulties with those gambling debts.” He held up his hand to still Bren’s protests. “I didn’t know I’d ever see her again, or that she’d take my ill-advised words so much to heart. I’m afraid Miss Sydney thinks you are a hardened gamester.” Forrest wasn’t about to tell his brother what she thought of himself!

“But it was only that one time! Well, maybe a time or two before, but that coil wasn’t my fault. I’ve hardly wagered since!”

“Try convincing Miss Sydney of that.” Forrest’s cynicism came from long experience.

“Well, she don’t think much of you either.”

“Miss Sydney’s mind is particularly tenacious. She’s a difficult female to reason with. In fact,” he went on with a frown of reminiscence, “she’s a difficult female altogether. Nevertheless, it is also her first time at Almacks, and I would appreciate your making her feel comfortable.”

“She’s more like to spill the punch bowl over my head. If you care so much, why don’t you go do the pretty with the girl?”

Forrest grimaced. “Can you imagine what would happen if I had even one dance with her? The gossipmongers would have the banns read! That’s why I haven’t called in Park Lane myself.”

“And I’m not quite the social lion, so it’s fine to sacrifice me, right? Hang it, Forrest, the chit’s got less sense than a carp. She’s just as liable to tie her garters in public or wear the general’s uniform.”

“Or dance with the servants. That’s why I want you to go and look after her.”

Brennan considered his options, then nodded. “I bet she dances like an angel.”

“Mischief? I mean Sydney?” Forrest briefly imagined the heaven of having her in his arms.

“No, Miss Winifred Lattimore. I’d be surprised if your scapegrace even knows how to dance. Well, I think I’ll toddle over to Park Lane this morning and see if Miss Winifred will speak to me. If she’ll give me a dance or two, I’ll go. Otherwise, bro, you’ll just have to face the music yourself. Literally.”

* * * *

The man Griffith turned Bren away at the door with a surly “The ladies are not at home this morning.” Having come this long way, Bren decided to step around back to the kitchen—he knew the way well enough—and check on Wally and Willy.

The place looked like some mad scientist’s laboratory. A large order had come just this morning, of all days, when they needed to get ready for Almacks! The girls were so sleepy, Mrs. Minch insisted they all had to rest that afternoon so they would be at the top of their form for the big evening.

Even Sydney was ordered to nap.

Sydney had not wanted to go, naturally, to face another evening of sitting in little gilt chairs along the wall, pretending she didn’t care. The assembly also promised a gathering of society’s most exacting hostesses. One foot wrong and a girl might as well join a nunnery.

Sydney was so tired she couldn’t possibly remember all the rules Aunt Harriet had been drumming into her head. For once Sydney and her aunt agreed on something: the fear that Sydney would land them all in the briars. Lady Windham decreed, however, that the Almacks patronesses would take Sydney’s refusal as a personal affront.

“So you’ll attend, girl. You’ll sit still and keep your mouth shut. You’ll wear white like every other debutante and you won’t complain about the music or the refreshments or the partners found for you.”

Now, that was an evening to look forward to! First Sydney had to rush them through this latest order, if they had enough boxes and Trixie didn’t eat all the profits, claiming she was just checking to ensure consistent quality. Everyone else was working double time, and thank goodness for Mrs. Ott, who was keeping those vats of chocolate coming. One more batch and they could all—

“Oh, no, not you! Get out! Don’t look!” Sydney shouted. Mrs. Minch tried to hide the molds with her wide body, and Winifred turned as white as the huge apron she wore. Trixie giggled.

“Too late, brat,” Lord Mainwaring announced, stepping farther into the kitchen. “If you didn’t want anyone to see, you should have kept the door closed. ‘Sides, I didn’t cry rope on you over the Islington fiasco, so you should know I’ll keep mum. It looks like fun. Can I help?”

He was right, it was too late. Winifred was already offering him a candy and showing him her neatly lettered signs.

“Perfection!” he declared, and everyone but Sydney cheered. She wasn’t sure if he meant the bonbon or Winnie. “And if they are good for the nerves,” he went on, “I’ll send some home to my mother, who could certainly use a composer. She’ll tell her friends and you’ll have a whole new market.” Then he happily took his place next to Trixie, wrapping the candies in their silver paper.

Trixie licked her fingers and giggled again. She was giddy with Mrs. Ott’s whispered suggestion that she take some boxes into Almacks, where the food was so scarce; she was thrilled to be doing something her mother would hate; she was in alt at sitting beside Lord Mainwaring. She was drunk.

* * * *

Almacks was supposed to be dull, but this was absurd! Everyone sat around yawning. Aunt Harriet was dozing in a corner with some of her friends, leaving her daughter Sophy, Lady Royce, to watch out for the younger ladies. Sophy had long decided that her status as a young matron entitled her to a degree of license unknown while she was under her mama’s thumb. She further considered her freedoms doubled since her husband was abroad with the Foreign Office. Tonight she was more concerned with disappearing to the balcony with hard-eyed older gentlemen than in finding partners for her sister Beatrix or her cousin Sydney. Winifred’s card, as a matter of course, was filled within minutes of their entry to the hallowed rooms on King Street.

Lady Royce was too busy pursuing her latest dalliance to stop Trixie from accepting a waltz without permission from one of the patronesses, but no matter. The lady patronesses were just as logy and disinterested in platter-faced chits as Aunt Harriet. Her good friend Lady Drummond-Burrell was actually snoring. Without the doyennes and dowagers pushing them to their duty, the younger men formed groups of their own on the sidelines or in the refreshments room, discussing the latest curricle race to Bath.

So Sydney sat in her white dress until Winnie brought over one or another of her surplus coxcombs, or some young buck took the chance she might know something about boxing. Sydney fervently declared it the most barbaric sport imaginable, which ended those conversations fairly quickly.