Jane Austen Made Me Do It (10 page)

“
B
y the by, Jane,” my mother observed from her comfortable chair by the fire, “your disreputable Lord Harold has
again
brought disgrace upon all his noble family.”

“Indeed, ma'am?”

“From this account in the
Morning Gazette
, I conclude that he has met a man in a duel—and been wounded for his folly! It is conjectured that his lordship's opponent is already fled to the Continent, in expectation of Lord Harold's death.” She peered at me over the edge of her newspaper. “You do not seem excessively cut up at the intelligence! Have you given over your
tendre
for the villain?”

“My respect for his lordship is undiminished,” I replied. “I
have merely learnt not to credit every
on-dit
the papers may chuse to publish.”

My mother's eyes narrowed. Tho' a woman blessed with a fund of absurdity, she is capable of exercising considerable wit when one least desires it—and our enforced tête-à-tête of recent weeks has redoubled her attentions to myself. My father having passed from this life in January, and my sister being absent nearly two months on an errand of mercy to our friend Martha Lloyd, I have enjoyed little society beyond Mrs. Austen's. Such a picture of female devotion ought to prove inspiring—but has been cause for exasperation.

“Fighting over a lightskirt, I daresay,” my mother sniffed; “some brazen Cytherean the papers could not mention. Ah, well—it is all as I predicted. His lordship is a rogue not fit to darken the threshold; and I suppose there's not the
least
chance of you getting him now. When I consider, too, of the opportunities that have been thrown in your way! And so recently as last week! Every possible attention paid you in Laura Place—the most
distinguishing
notice—and it shall all be for naught, once his lordship is dead!”

“Forgive me, ma'am.” I set down my needlework and pressed my hand to my eyes. “I have the headache—and believe I shall take a turn in the Gravel Walk. The fresh air will do me no end of good.”

Impossible to explain that I could put a name to both the duelist and the Cytherean; nor to admit that I had witnessed the affair of honour, in the early hours of yesterday morning.

A walk was certainly in order, if I were to preserve my sanity; but my steps turned toward Laura Place, and the man who hung between life and death, in the great curtained bed of the ducal household.

•  •  •

The mad episode began with a gilt-edged card of invitation, bearing the Dowager Duchess of Wilborough's direction. The honour of my presence was begged in Laura Place Sunday evening—to celebrate the betrothal of Her Grace's granddaughter, Lady Desdemona Trowbridge, to the Earl of Swithin.

Lord Harold Trowbridge, that notable Corinthian, Admiralty spy, despoiler of maiden hearts, and general Rogue-About-Town, is Lady Desdemona's uncle and the Dowager Duchess's second son. He has honoured me with his acquaintance, and with his confidence in several affairs of a mysterious and deadly nature. I will confess to a decided partiality for Lord Harold's society—he may be dangerous, but he is never
dull
—and in such a season of enforced boredom, I leapt at the opportunity to meet with him again—in a suitable gown of dove grey sarcenet, trimmed with black velvet bands about the sleeves and bodice, as befitted my mourning state.

Torn between gratification and disapprobation—convinced that all gaiety must be foresworn in respect of my father's death—my mother very nearly forbade my attendance in Laura Place. Wild horses, however, should not have kept me away; I should have been forced to dose Mrs. Austen's soup with laudanum, and slip out of our lodgings while she snored unawares. In the end, however, hopes of the Gentleman Rogue triumphed over my mother's anxiety for my reputation; and to Laura Place I was to go.

“Only do not be drinking too much of Her Grace's claret, Jane,” she warned, “for it heightens your colour unbecomingly. You are in only passable looks as it is.
Lemonade
will stand your friend.”

I had been in Laura Place on several occasions—for a rout, a game of charades, and the unmasking of a murderer—and expected
to find a crush in respect of Lady Desdemona's impending nuptials. Her Grace had collected a genteel party of but thirty persons, however, most of them members of the Trowbridge and Swithin families. It was with an unaccustomed shyness, therefore, that I dropt my deepest curtsey to Eugènie, Dowager Duchess of Wilborough; felt Lady Desdemona's arm slip about my waist; and turned to find the Gentleman Rogue performing his most elegant bow.

“My dear Miss Austen,” he murmured. “You can have no idea how much pleasure this meeting brings. I have a thousand things to say to you! But they will keep until you have greeted your friends, and taken a glass of wine.”

I had not had a glimpse of Lord Harold since the turn of the year; had received only a kind letter of condolence at my father's death—and then, silence. Word of his exploits occasionally reached the London papers, in the most veiled terms. I caught wind of him at Gibraltar, consulting with Nelson; knew that he had dropt down to Portugal, at the request of the Emperor; and read that he had danced at Devonshire House with Desirée de la Neuve, a celebrated French soprano who had taken the
ton
by storm.

I paid my respects to the Earl of Swithin, happy possessor of Desdemona's heart; enjoyed a bit of raillery with her brother, the Marquis of Kinsfell, whose neck I had saved from the noose; and observed at a respectful distance no less a prince than the Duke of Clarence, his jovial Royal face already shining with heat and good will. Fortified by Her Grace's excellent wine and even more amusing conversation—for there is nothing like an actress for all that is engaging, whether she be seventy years or no—I found Lord Harold once more at my side.

“Miss Austen—may I present Mademoiselle Desirée de la Neuve to your acquaintance?”

She was exceedingly lovely—just the sort of black-haired beauty the Gentleman Rogue cannot resist, with a queenly carriage, a stunning décolleté, and a damask complexion. None of your insipid blond beauties for his lordship, I thought with resignation; only a diamond of the first water should do. I managed a smile as I performed my courtesy, and said, “This is indeed an honour! I hope we may have the pleasure of hearing you sing this evening?”

Mademoiselle de la Neuve was plainly indifferent to my pleasantries, however; she merely inclined her head and saved her charms for Lord Harold.

“Mon dieu!”
she breathed, so low as to draw him near. “Dear Aunt Eugènie keeps her rooms so very hot, is it not? I am always on the point of fainting. If you would be so good, 'Arry, as to procure me a glass of lemonade—”

So the toast of the
ton
called the Dowager her aunt, did she?—And was on such terms with the Rogue as to call him
Harry
?

I will confess to a swelling in my bosom that ill-became one so recently bereaved. My eyes followed Lord Harold as he sought the supper tables; watched the elegant figure vanish into the dining room—and turned with effort to the Incomparable before me. But she had long since dismissed the little dab of a female in fusty mourning, in favour of a gentleman better worth pursuing—whose air and address proclaimed the man of Fashion. He was a stranger to me, perhaps thirty years of age and exceedingly handsome; but something in the inclination of his head, the quirk of his lips, and the way his eyes roamed over the figure of Mademoiselle, proclaimed the accomplished rake.
Heat
was once more the subject of conversation.

“Her Grace lives in a veritable furnace, winter and summer,” he said smilingly. “A rheumatic complaint, I believe. Allow me to escort you to the balcony,
ma chère
, before you swoon.”

I stared after them, utterly unconscious of Lord Harold's return, until he said into my ear—“A glass of lemonade, Jane? For I perceive that it is no longer of Desirée's desiring. If you will forgive the pun.”

“Thank you, my lord, but I detest lemonade.”

“Well done.” He set the offending glass upon a side-table. “When the ducal cellars are opened, drink nothing but the most noble vintage. And now I think you should pretend to feel the flames my mother has so obligingly fanned. Flutter your eyelashes a little and stagger, Jane, if you will.”

Puzzled, I obliged. His lordship supported me—his long, elegant fingers burned unwittingly into my arm. I cannot deny the effect his touch has upon me; it is perpetually electric.

“Observe,” he murmured. “There are
two
sets of French doors giving out onto the balcony; and we might be profitably disguised by the draperies shielding the nearest. The Witch, I believe, has disappeared with Harcourt through the farther set of doors. What did you make of her, by the by?”

“The Witch?” I repeated. “If you would refer to Mademoiselle—she is all that is lovely, my lord. And … forgive me if I wound you
 … calculating
.”

“You perceived, then, that she sent me off on my errand, the more readily to slip away with Lord Cecil?”

“Then you should not be following them. It is hardly gallant in you, my lord. She is young, and must be forgiven for … for …”

“Finding a vicious gamester more appealing than an elderly roué?”

“I should never describe you thus!” I whispered fiercely. “Acquit me of such an insult!”

“Your good opinion—and your better sense—are the very reasons you are with me tonight, my dear.”

I wondered if Lord Harold intended me to witness his
shame—his sacrifice upon the altar of unrequited passion—from some perverse desire to mortify himself. A leaden band tightened below my heart.

“My lord—let us go into supper. There is no need—”

“There is every need,” he whispered. “For if I do not mistake, Jane, we are about to witness an act of treason.”

The Duchess's balcony gave onto the garden, and despite the torches set into niches at intervals, was quite dark. It was also distinctly chilly, April in Bath being like every month in Bath—much given to rain. Hardly the time or place for a romantic assignation, therefore; yet here on the balcony the ravishing Frenchwoman and her amorous rake were established, oblivious to discomfort as well as convention.

Lord Cecil Harcourt crushed the lady in his arms; from my position in the sheltering draperies, I could just discern the white shape of her dress and darker silhouette of his head—could discern, as well, his hand slipping inside her bodice.…

Lord Harold advanced, as lightly and soundlessly as a cat; and despite my conviction I should far rather be elsewhere—I followed. It was impossible to do otherwise; his lordship held my hand firmly in his grasp.

“Desirée,” the Rogue said, “pray give me that interesting missive Harcourt has just thrust down your dress.”

The pair of lovers nearly jumped out of their skins; Mademoiselle uttered a strangled cry of
“Salaud!”
and the gentleman stepped backwards, his eyes shifting from Lord Harold to myself.

“What the Devil do you mean by this, Trowbridge?” he demanded. “Would you expose Mademoiselle de la Neuve to the censure of the entire party?”

“Apparently
you
would not hesitate,” his lordship returned easily. “If you must behave like a scrub, Harcourt, do so in an Abbess's
house, rather than my mother's. The missive, Desirée darling—the
billet-doux
this shocking court-card has seen fit to tuck into your bodice. Give it to me at once.”

Tho' he spoke in an undertone calculated to pass for pleasant conversation, should any of the Dowager's guests stumble upon our picturesque, there was an edge of steel to his tone that was unmistakable.

Mademoiselle clasped her hands protectively over her bosom, her dark eyes flashing. “You are jealous,
hein
? You play the fool,' Arry. I do not like these rages! They are not
English
.”

“The paper, Desirée. Or must I summon the Duke of Clarence to fish it out of your stays?”

With a movement so swift I barely saw it, Mademoiselle de la Neuve raised her hand and struck Lord Harold a stinging blow to the cheek. He remained immovable; he did not deign to acknowledge the hit; but Lord Cecil Harcourt was galvanised to activity. He thrust himself between the Frenchwoman and the Rogue.

“Sir, you trespass too far!” he muttered between his teeth. “Honour and reason will not bear such an insult. I beg you will name your Seconds.”

Lord Harold smiled. For an instant, his glittering gaze met mine. “I should never betray such shockingly bad
ton
at my niece's betrothal party, Harcourt. I shall wait upon you tomorrow. If you are still in Bath.”