Glancing quickly around the room Althea’s grandmother searched for acquaintances who possessed eligible sons or grandsons. “Ah, there is Lady Carstairs, whose mother was at school with me. Eugenia is now too frail to leave the country, but she writes to me regularly. Her letters continually bemoan the fact that her grandson still has not found someone possessing the qualifications he considers necessary in a wife. Perhaps Althea does. Come, Althea.”
Before her daughter-in-law had a moment to respond, the dowager steered her granddaughter toward a handsome, dark-haired matron wearing a strikingly elegant robe of black satin over a white petticoat.
“But, Grandmama, there is really no need for me to meet another eligible suitor,” Althea protested as they threaded their way across the floor.
“There is, if the mother of one is standing next to Lord Battisford. Besides, your mother would question any other reason for deserting her. And you have no cause to worry, for Eugenia’s grandson is a complete misogynist and even more of a confirmed bachelor than the Marquess of Harwood is reputed to be.”
Althea was too busy inspecting the foppish older gentleman standing next to Lady Carstairs to notice her grandmother’s sharp eyes focused on her cheeks where the faintest tinge of color appeared at the mention of the Marquess of Harwood. Presumably this man in absurdly tight satin knee breeches, shirt points so high he could not turn his head, and an enormous emerald ring was the Lord Battisford they hoped to introduce to the marchioness.
“Your Grace.” Lady Carstairs smiled at them as they approached. “I am delighted to see you. Mama will be so glad to hear that we met. And of course, everyone who is anyone has heard your granddaughter’s praises sung everywhere. I only wish my George were here to make your acquaintance, but ...” Lady Carstairs shrugged with all the resignation of a mother who had tried unsuccessfully to interest her son in the beauties of a score of Seasons.
“And how does your mother go along?” The dowager shifted ever so slightly so that her words carried easily to the plump man Althea had already identified as their quarry.
“She is well enough, thank you, though she tires very easily, and finds herself prostrated by even the slightest excitement.”
“I miss her company sadly. There are so few old friends left. I am glad to see the Marchioness of Harwood over there. Of course she is a good deal younger than I, but her mother-in-law was also at school with me. It hardly seems any time at all that she was taking the town by storm, yet now she is the mother of a grown man and a widow. It is good to see her here, for she is far too lovely and charming to bury herself in the country. And I am sure it will be no time at all before men are fighting to pay her their addresses again—such style, such elegance, and, if I recall, one of the most graceful dancers Almack’s has ever seen. The man who wins her will be the envy of everyone, I am sure.” The dowager smiled slyly as the plump white hand of the man next to her groped for the ornate quizzing glass hanging around his neck and stared through it at the marchioness.
“But now you must excuse us, for I see my daughter-in-law looking to see where we have gotten to. Do give my regards to your mother.” The dowager smiled at Lady Carstairs and began a slow stately progress back toward Althea’s mother.
“Grandmama, I had no idea you knew the Marchioness of Harwood’s mama-in-law.”
“I did not know her; I said that she was at school with me. Just because I do not seek to, er,
influence
people the way your Mama does, does not mean that I am not perfectly capable of it when called upon to do so. Now, if I do not miss my guess, Lord Battisford is already seeking out someone who can introduce him to the marchioness. And where he goes, Sir Digby Cricklade is sure to follow, for there is enormous competition between the two of them. Neither one can bear to let the other steal a march on him. There. See. What did I tell you? The tall, thin man over there looking daggers at Lord Battisford is Sir Digby.”
Althea glanced out of the corner of her eye to see Lord Battisford accompanying a hatchet-faced dowager in purple satin in the direction of the marchioness. “Grandmama, do let us stop and see what happens.”
“Your mother will wonder what has become of us, but mark my words, Lord Battisford, who considers himself a veritable caper merchant, will be leading the Marchioness of Harwood to the floor in no time.”
Althea paused as they approached a knot of people in animated conversation, and using them to screen her from the duchess’s view, watched gleefully as her grandmother’s predictions came true. “You are absolutely correct, Grandmama. I could positively hug you.”
“But pray do not or your Mama will accuse me of being a bad influence on you—encouraging undignified behavior.” The dowager’s black eyes twinkled. “Though I must admit that I myself have never enjoyed an evening at Almack’s half so much. Perhaps there is something to this marriage mart notion after all. It is rather amusing, is it not?”
“Only if you are the matchmaker and not the match. It is all very well for those women who would like nothing better than to have a man look after them. But I would rather look after myself.”
“I know you would, dear, but truly, it isn’t at all practical. A young woman cannot live alone.”
“Perhaps not, but she could live with a companion.” Althea fixed her grandmother with a speculative look. “You are not all that happy being under Papa’s thumb.”
“I would not say that, child. He is a most dutiful son who provides me with all the comforts ...”
“But he is an old stick who does not pay the least attention to what would make you happy. If he did, you would be at home in your garden now instead of accompanying us from one ball to another.”
“But he is entirely correct in maintaining that it is my duty to see you well established,” her grandmother acknowledged with a look that Althea could only characterize as self-conscious.
“He has Mama to do that. There is not the least need to drag you all over London. You dislike the crowds and the noise as much as I do, and you miss the gardens at Clarendon as much as I miss the horses the dogs, the sheep, and oh, all the animals. And even though you have your garden at home, you know you would be happier living in a simple cottage rather than the stuffy formality of Clarendon, but Papa simply could not bear to have a Beauchamp living an existence that some might label eccentric.”
“Your papa has a very strong sense of family pride.” It was a weak defense, and they both knew it.
“Somehow I shall fix it, I promise you. And it will not be because I marry some duke,” Althea vowed fiercely.
“That would be a pity, dear.”
“Surety
you
do not want me to marry someone who will increase the glory and the consequence of the Beauchamps?”
“Not necessarily, but I would like you to find someone whom you could truly love, who would love you and appreciate you in return, someone who could share your life and enrich it.”
“The way Mama loves what Papa’s fortune and family did to establish her as a leader of the
ton,
or what Mama’s beauty and elegance did to make Papa the envy of everyone?”
“No!” Even Althea was surprised at the emphatic note in her grandmother’s voice. Until this moment Althea had not really considered that the Duke of Clarendon’s coldly formal relationship with his wife might be a source of disappointment to his mother.
“Not
like that. You never knew your grandfather.” The dowager smiled reminiscently and a tender expression softened the strong lines of her aristocratic countenance. “Harry was a wild harum-scarum lad, ripe for any sort of mischief. How he could have produced a son like ... Well, that is beside the point. We must get back to your mother.” The dowager looked across the floor to where the Marchioness of Harwood and Lord Battisford were gracefully executing the figures of a quadrille. “At least we can say that we have done some good work this evening.”
“Yes.” Althea only wished that the Marchioness of Harwood’s son were here to witness the success of their scheme. She had told herself that a cynical bachelor such as the marquess would avoid Almack’s as if his life depended on it, but that still did not keep her from scanning the crowd for the tall athletic figure of a scornful observer surveying the scene with the cynical detachment of one who was more than familiar with the follies of mankind in general and the
ton
in particular.
Chapter 14
She would never know how much it had cost him not to go to Almack’s. As a matter of fact, Gareth himself could not believe that the first thing he thought of when his eye caught the date at the top of the
Times
as he drank his morning coffee was that it was Wednesday, a day no incomparable would be anywhere but Almack’s.
He grinned as he remembered his last conversation with Althea and the teasing twinkle in her eyes. Did she ever look that way with anyone else? Surely not, or she would never have earned her nickname, the Ice Princess. And what was the Ice Princess doing now? Had she confided her absurd plan to her grandmother? Not that he objected to having his mother married off. To have another man catering to her whims and incessant demands for money and attention would virtually solve all his problems, but Gareth seriously doubted that there was a man in Christendom foolish enough or long-suffering enough to put up with the Marchioness of Harwood.
As the clock struck eleven that evening, he actually considered, for one crazed moment, donning knee breeches and going. The thought that his mother and several other determined matchmakers would suffer apoplectic fits if they saw the Bachelor Marquess entering those sacred portals made it almost attractive enough for him to succumb to temptation, but reason rapidly reasserted itself and he sauntered off to Brooks’s instead.
The card room was relatively thin of company, which was just the way he liked it. Those crowding around the green baize tables were the dedicated card players who could not be lured away by more convivial forms of entertainment. Gareth was lucky enough to arrive just as someone left the Duke of Portland’s table, but even faced with that formidable adversary he still found the play flat and the competition tepid. And despite the fact that he arose one thousand pounds richer, he found it all completely uninteresting. Stifling a yawn, he nodded to the rest of the company and sauntered home.
Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps an evening at Almack’s would have been more enlivening after all. He wondered if that determined matchmaker, the Duchess of Clarendon, had allowed her daughter to escape to the card room or if she had kept her dancing with eligible partners the entire evening.
Poor Althea. He really did sympathize with her. Irritating as his own mother was, she never actually dared to order him around in public as he had occasionally observed the duchess doing. His mother cajoled and sighed dramatically, but his word, when he chose to assert it, was still law. The consequences of ignoring his mother’s wishes could be unpleasant, but he did have more control over his own life than Althea did. Small wonder that she wished to win a fortune and take control of her own destiny. Not for the first time that day, he wondered how she was faring with her schemes.
Though he did not go so far as to appear at Almack’s, Gareth did seize the first opportunity to catch a glimpse of Althea at the Countess of Carmarthen’s rout. Carmarthen House in Pall Mall was as impressive a structure as York House or any of the others along the broad avenue. Though it could not compare in magnificence with the nearby Carlton House, it was a certainty that all the fashionable world would be beating a path to the splendid residence of the popular countess. In fact, Gareth was rather surprised that his mother had not demanded his escort to such an important function, but he soon forgot this odd departure from her usual routine when he entered the brilliantly lit ballroom. Even Althea, striking as she was, would not stand out in a crowd of such magnitude.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the dance floor in the center, Gareth slowly made his way around the perimeter of the ballroom looking in vain for a tall, slender figure surrounded by a crowd of admirers, but he had no success. Had she already escaped to the card room?
He was about to press in that direction when his eye fell on another woman flanked by admirers. His jaw dropped for the briefest of moments before a slow grin spread across his face. Clever girl. She had managed it. Gareth had no doubt that the knot of elderly gentlemen vying with one another to capture his mother’s attention were all somehow acquainted with the Dowager Duchess of Clarendon. He recognized the chief competitors. Sir Digby Cricklade and Lord Battisford, who stood in the favored position at the marchioness’s right hand. So, Lord Battisford was the reason that Gareth was free to come and go as he pleased without having his mother dragging on his arm as she pointed out this heiress or that highly eligible young lady.
There was no doubt about it. Lady Althea Beauchamp was a woman of her word. She had taken his mother off his hands as she had said she would. How successful would she be at freeing herself from her own parental interference? Gareth paused on the threshold of the card room and let out a sigh of relief as he caught sight of a dark head, the simply arranged braid threaded with pearls, at one of the tables in the room. She was here after all.
Then he stiffened as he recognized the identity of the man lounging negligently in the chair across from her, a wolfish smile twisting his lips as he languidly surveyed the cards in his hand. It was Sir Montague Rochfort.
A frisson of disgust ran down Gareth’s spine. He should have known that sooner or later that noted plucker of innocent pigeons would appear once Althea had established her reputation as a card player of some skill. Gareth frowned as he eyed the man. Cheating rustics in the hells of St. James and Pall Mall was one thing, but would he be bold enough to try it in this company?
Gareth made his way around the room toward the table as unobtrusively as he could, taking his place in a shadowy corner where he could observe the play without being seen. He could not ever remember feeling so tense or so helpless as he did now. There was no way to warn Althea, and one could not call a man a Captain Sharp without ample proof. Even then, it was grounds for a duel.