Elisabeth Kidd (16 page)

“You have the direction wrong, William. It was at Holbourn—the
Daffy Club, to be precise, where anyone may be fleeced at the card table. I
believe you are not acquainted with these ladies, Byng. Allow me to present them to your notice.”

This done, a congenial exchange of conversation ensued among the
members of the party, during which Lord Alvanley grew cheerier and Mr
Byng ogled the young ladies. Alvanley claimed to remember Antonia
very well—causing that lady to wince slightly—informed Isabel that she
was the image of her mother at the same age and at her prettiest, and
succeeded in slipping in an oar with Mrs Curtiz as well, while Byng’s
aristocratic canine took a notion to rub shoulders with the viscount.

Miss Fairfax smiled at this spectacle, which Mr Byng took as encour
agement to him to engage that lady in a one-sided conversation, consisting mainly of his heavy-handed flattery. She tolerated this frivolity for several
minutes before comprehending that Kedrington showed no disposition to
come to her rescue. It was some time before she was finally able to
extricate herself on her own, but she did so deftly and wasted no time in
breaking up the other couples, although she did not succeed in dismissing
Lord Alvanley and Mr Byng until they had seen the ladies home.

When the two dandies at last parted from them in Mount Street,
Antonia accused Lord Kedrington of deliberately prolonging the interview.
He denied any such intent, explaining that he had only wanted to give
her the opportunity to “steer her own course,” as she had professed
herself capable of doing. Imogen, overhearing this, enquired then—much
to Antonia’s delight—after the progress of his own coming-out.

“I trust, my lord, that you have not been worn down by the exigencies of fashionable life?”

Kedrington smiled appreciatively and assured her that he took care not to allow his dissipations to overcome his judgement, and to drink a glass
of warm milk before retiring each night.

“I expect,” Antonia added, not about to let him off so easily, “that his
lordship must be inundated with nosegays and passionate billets from all
the young ladies who have become enslaved to his charms.”

“I assure you, ma’am, several have gone so far as to offer to throw
themselves into the Thames for love of me. I do not understand how you
can continue to refuse to join them, although I have informed you that
you will be quite out of the mode if you do not do so.”

“But I don’t know how to swim!” Antonia objected.

“Miss Fairfax, I regret to inform you that you have no sensibility!”

In vain did Antonia profess herself ready to perform such offices as to
turn pale at his snub, or to go into raptures at his smile, or even to give
up gaming and dueling for his sake.

“I draw the line at tearing my hair out, however—particularly after
Monsieur Antoine has so carefully arranged it for me!”

Mr Gary, who until now had succeeded, albeit with difficulty, in restraining his mirth, finally gave up the struggle. Kedrington threw up
his hands.

“It is apparent that my dazzling career is fast coming to a crashing
conclusion. I shall take my leave of you ladies while some shred of illusion still remains to me. Octavian, if you wish to reinstate yourself in
my good graces, you will remove that idiotic grin from your face and come along with me to pay a call on my Aunt Hester. You know that I
rely on you to tear me away—that is, to remind me of the appropriate
moment to take my leave of her. Ladies, we bid you a good day!”

On the afternoon following their first exposure to London in the
season, the ladies of the Fairfax household and Miss Cloris Beecham—
who, for the sake of maintaining her lead in social sophistication, had aroused herself at an unaccustomed hour and hastened to Mount Street
after the scantiest of breakfasts—were seated in the gold drawing room engaged in a variety of activities of the sort which could be accomplished
with a minimum of concentration.

“Oh, look, Antonia!” exclaimed Isabel, who was seated cross-legged on
the window seat and examining through her spectacles the inscriptions
on the calling cards that had appeared in great quantities on their hall
table that morning. “This one is from an earl!”

“There is also a marquess somewhere in the collection,” Antonia said, unimpressed.

“No, he is only the eldest son of a marquess, heir to the title,”
Mrs Curtiz corrected her, not looking up from the flounce she was
mending.

“What a pity there are no available kings or princes,” Antonia lamented.
“One would think that with all the notables in town at present, there
would be at least one to shower Isabel with diamonds.”

“Countess Lieven had on a
magnificent
diamond tiara at last week’s
Carleton House fete,” Clory said, helping herself to another slice of the
toast which had been sent for on her account. “I saw her go by in her
carriage. Imogen says the Princess of Wales wears diamonds as big as
robin’s eggs
.”

Isabel turned wide-eyed to Mrs Curtiz. “Is that true, Imogen? I’ve
never seen such large ones. Are they beautiful?”

“No, my love, they are cold and unapproachable. Don’t blame Caroline
for taking what she can get in place of real affection, but you ought rather
to have, one day, a medium-size emerald or ruby, I think.

“I had a ruby once,” she continued reminiscently. “It was given me by
a king. Only a Bedouin king, to be sure, and goodness knows how he
came by it.”

“Will you show it to me?” Isabel asked.

“I wish I were able to do so, my dear, but it was lost a short time
afterward when our caravan overturned in a flooded wadi. I never saw the king again, I’m happy to say. I don’t know how I should have broken the
news to him, poor little man.”

Everyone laughed at this except Cloris, who considered it thoughtfully
for a moment, concluding, “Well, I daresay
I
should not care for diamonds,
either. I’m sure I could be happy with cream teas and muslin sheets and a reliable modiste.”

“You are a flighty baggage,” Mrs Curtiz scolded her.

Cloris smiled knowingly. “At least, whatever man wins me will get
precisely what he bargained for. There will be no surprises on my
wedding night.”

“Cloris!”

“Oh, you know what I mean! Think now—is there anything any of you
could tell about me that would surprise anyone? I do as I please, and people accept me or they do not. I do not ask for the moon.”

“I expect Lord Geoffrey would give it to you if you did,” Antonia
suggested slyly.

“Oh, I shall certainly break it off with him,” Clory informed her. “He
is forever offering to do such things,
demanding
to be allowed to prove his
devotion to me, although why he thinks going off to missions in foreign climes would prove any such thing, I’m sure I don’t know. He is becom
ing a dreadful bore.”

“You are cruel,” Isabel said in defence of the much-maligned Lord
Geoffrey. “I’m sure I am very sorry for him!”

“I tell you what, Isabel Fairfax,
you
are too soft-hearted! Apart from
his being heir to that old stickler Danesmere, you must know, his mama
is quite
determined
that Geoffrey should marry as soon as possible so
that she may have grandchildren to be a comfort to her in her dotage. He is therefore convinced that he is
ripe
for marriage, and failure in his
efforts to achieve it only frustrates him the more. I don’t know how many
ladies he has proposed to already, but don’t you be the next, Izzy, for you
will in all likelihood be too sorry for him to refuse him!”

With that, Cloris rose and licked the last of the strawberry jam from
her fingers. “Izzy, dear, would you care to accompany me to Owen’s? I have only just this moment remembered that I have some lace on order there, which I may need for my ball gown.”

“Do go along,” Mrs Curtiz advised before Isabel had the opportunity to
say whether she wished to go along or not. “It’s a lovely day, and the air
will do you good.”

“Oh, you and Antonia must come as well,” Cloris insisted. “Afterward
we may drive by the Pultney Hotel and ogle the Russians.”

“A splendid idea! I don’t believe I’ve seen a Grand Duchess before.”
Mrs Curtiz broke off her thread and folded her mending neatly into her
basket. “Antonia, do you not care to join us?”

Antonia had remained in her chair, observing the street outside the
window. Cloris eyed her speculatively.

“I met Lord Kedrington on my way here this morning,” she remarked offhandedly. “He was coming out of the churchyard down the street—of
all the unlikely places—and he promised to be at Lady Sefton’s soirée next
week. I must say, it was very provoking of him to tell me he never attends
Almack’s, when in fact he goes all the time—or so Fanny Mercer tells
me—but one cannot help but forgive such a wickedly attractive gentle
man
anything
, can one?”

Antonia frowned, piqued as much at being misunderstood—she had in
fact been wondering if Mr Gary might call before Isabel left the house—as
by Clory’s references to the viscount. But with that lady’s sharp eye on
her, she made an effort to smooth her forehead and smile serenely, as
befitted a worldy aunt of her years.  Unfortunately, Clory had by this time
joined Antonia’s vigil at the window, and while she was drawing on her
gloves and speculating as to who that dumpy woman across the street
with the shrieking orange pelisse might be, an unfamiliar curricle came into view from around the corner of South Audley Street.

“Oh, look, there is a much more attractive sight, indeed. How is it that
handsome, broad-shouldered young men like that never drive past my
window? Oh, but he is not going past at all—he is stopping at this very
house! Who in the world...?”

She stopped to stare, with dawning comprehension, at Antonia’s rap
idly colouring face. “Why, Antonia Fairfax, you sly thing. I do believe you
have been found out in a secret amour! He must be a secret, for I am sure
I
have never seen him before. Wherever did you find him?”

“That will do, Cloris,” interposed Mrs Curtiz, pulling her inexorably
away from the window and toward the door, clucking like a mother hen. Cloris said no more, but winked back at Antonia as she went out the door, and Antonia knew she would speedily get to the bottom of the mysterious stranger. Before following her friends out, Isabel bent to kiss her aunt’s cheek and whispered, “Don’t mind Clory, love. I know how it
is.”

“Thank you, darling,” Antonia said, smiling up at her. “But—I cannot
help but think she is right about Lord Geoffrey, Isabel. Do you not
agree?”

Isabel did not answer directly, saying only, “Please don’t worry about
me,” before turning away.

This answer had precisely the opposite effect on her aunt, but Isabel was gone before Antonia could press her further. A moment later she
could hear, over Isabel’s more subdued greetings, Clory being simply
enchantée
to make Charles Kenyon’s acquaintance, and when Charles
was at last ushered into the drawing room, Antonia looked up at him
with a mingling of delight and apprehension.

He had not changed. If anything, he was more handsome than before.
Tall and fair, he wore a pair of grey-and-white-striped pantaloons with a
fawn coat that did little to minimise his broad shoulders. His cravat was neatly tied, and of a pale yellow colour that gave his costume a foreign
look, at variance with the general impression of solid English respectability.
It was this aspect which disconcerted Antonia a little—his stolidness. He
looked scarcely the dashing hero her memory had made of him.

But his smile was the same—slow and unexpectedly charming. As
Charles came forward, carrying a delicate bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley
in his hand, Belding discreetly pulled the door to behind him, and
Antonia was aware of a girlish confusion that caused her to take a step
backward and look warily up at him. He laughed. He had a pleasant, low
laugh that matched the vibrant baritone of his voice, which, as it had
always done, sent a chill up Antonia’s spine. She had forgotten that voice.

“I have just been introduced to a Miss Beecham,” he said, thoughtfully
removing some of the awkwardness from the moment by transferring it to himself.