Authors: Amanda Scott
Mollie had been given a good deal of food for thought, and she heartily wished she had someone she could discuss the matter with. Briefly she considered asking Lady Gwendolyn’s advice, but the notion occurred only to be discarded. Lady Gwendolyn might sympathize with her younger brother, but she would no doubt recommend confessing the whole to Hawk and taking the consequences. Lady Bridget would say the same thing. Mollie herself had more than one urge as the week passed to lay the matter before him. Her husband had proved upon several previous occasions to be a fair man, and she did not think he would treat Ramsay harshly. Moreover, there was still doubt in her mind regarding the fairness of the game in which Ramsay had lost such a sum, and Hawk was in a better position than she was to investigate that portion of the mess. On the other hand, if she applied to him, she would incur the wrath of her young brother-in-law, and she would also prove to everyone’s satisfaction that a mere woman could not manage successfully without a man’s assistance. At the very least, she decided, she ought to give herself time.
Accordingly, she racked her brain for the next four days. She even considered asking Hawk to deposit a further five hundred pounds in her own account, knowing that despite Ramsay’s insistence that he would not take money from her, he would scarcely refuse if she simply handed it to him. But Hawk would demand an explanation, and he would want precise details. He would never be fobbed off with some glib tale or other.
By Thursday Mollie was no nearer an answer. Her only consolation that night as she left the dinner table with the other ladies was that since Ramsay had chosen to dine with young Hardwick and d’Épier was drinking port with Hawk, Lord Bathurst, Monsieur de Lieven, Prince Nicolai, and the other gentlemen in her dining room, the two were not out gaming together. Gathering her wits with an effort and more thankful than ever to have the comfortably placid Lady Bridget to aid her with her numerous guests, she turned her attention to minor last-minute arrangements for the entertainment.
Since Miss Aisling was to play the harp for them later, Mollie sent for a footman to help her set it in position. The piano likewise was opened, and a branch of candles set to light the music. As she turned away from that task, she found young Albertine de Staël waiting to speak with her. Smiling at the child, she thought it really was too bad of Mr. Brummell to insist upon referring to her by such an odious nickname. Albertine had done nothing to merit the rudeness of being called Libertine and was, in fact, a prim and amiable young lady. However, she was her mother’s daughter, and the dandy set had no use for literary or political persons. Madame de Staël was both. Moreover, Mollie told herself shrewdly, the woman was an acknowledged genius, something mere men could not be expected to tolerate in a female.
The girl smiled shyly. “Pardon, my Lady Hawkstone, but your dinner was most pleasant.”
Mollie replied politely and then expressed the hope that Albertine was enjoying her stay in London.
“Oh, yes.” She hesitated, lowering her lashes. “I sat next to Prince Nicolai this evening, you know. He has a pretty face, has he not?”
Mollie chuckled. “He has at that.”
“It does not signify in the slightest, however,” spoke a faintly guttural voice behind them. “The prince is not for you,
mon petit chou.
” Madame de Staël laid a gentle hand upon her daughter’s shoulder. “His title is an empty one and his prospects are questionable,” she said. “Go away now,
enfant,
and make your curtsy to Lady Sefton. I wish a word with our so charming hostess.”
Albertine excused herself obediently, and Mollie found herself alone with Madame de Staël. “I hope you do not think I was matchmaking, madame.”
“Do not puzzle yourself, my lady,” her guest replied graciously. “The child is young. She will allow herself to be guided by her mother. And it will not be into the arms of such as the Russian.”
“You say his prospects are unknown, madame? I should think, placed as he is, that he has a brilliant diplomatic career ahead of him.”
“He is capable, not brilliant, and though he obtained his position with Monsieur de Lieven through influence, the fact that his mother was French will impede his progress.”
“French!”
“Yes, and though the family were royalists, and she is now deceased and the lands confiscated by the Empire, still it is considered wisest to have no feet in the enemy camp, lest a toe or two be trodden upon.”
Mollie was not sure she followed Madame de Staël’s reasoning, but she could scarcely ask her to explain more fully when other ladies were waiting to claim her attention. Nevertheless, the information cast a different light on his highness. She had assumed before from his numerous medals and his air of consequence that his family was both wealthy and influential. But she could think of no reason for Madame de Staël to say the things she had said if they were not true.
It was a long time before the gentlemen joined them, as Mollie had predicted it would be, and she was beginning to get a headache from all the feminine chatter. But the men came in at last, and Mr. Brummell, invited along with Lord Alvanley and several others among the dandy set to help Mollie make up her numbers, strolled up to her, flicking open his snuffbox with his left thumb and taking a pinch. Closing the box again with his left index finger, he put the pinch of snuff on the back of his left hand, lifted it gracefully to his nostrils, and inhaled delicately, then flicked away imaginary residue from his coat with his handkerchief. Mollie had seen him go through the procedure dozens of times, but the grace and flair with which he accomplished the ordinary movements fascinated her. Brummeil moved to restore the snuffbox to his pocket.
Prince Nicolai, suddenly appearing beside them, held out his hand. “An elegant piece, Mr. Brummell. May I see it?”
“Indeed, Highness,” responded the Beau in a bored voice.
“Exquisite, but there appears to be no hinge.”
“I thay, Brummell,” Lord Alvanley demanded, peering over the prince’s arm, “is that the Lawrence Kirk box you had from Fribourg and Treyer?”
“It is.” Brummell was watching as the prince turned the box over in his hand. “Even the Regent could not discover the trick of it, Highness.”
“Damned if I can open it,” Nicolai said, frowning. “Your pardon, my lady.”
“That’s quite all right,” Mollie said. “May I try?” Reluctantly he gave it to her, and she examined it. She had seen the Beau open it, so she knew it could be done, but she could find no hinge or clasp. When Alvanley demanded a turn, she gave it to him, watching carefully to see if he would be more successful.
His lordship, with a small, mischievous grin, reached into his pocket and extracted a pen knife. When his intention became clear, Brummell protested vehemently.
“My lord, allow me to observe that’s not an oyster but a snuffbox!”
Hawk approached them as the laughter was fading into chuckles, and Mollie quickly explained what had happened. Grinning, Hawk turned to Brummell.
“I understand your lucky sixpence has had its effect, George.”
“Aye, that and changing my game to hazard,” the Beau confirmed. “Fact is, Mildmay, Pierrepont, Alvanley, and I had a fantastic run at Watier’s and we mean to celebrate. You’ll all be receiving proper invitations for a fancy-dress ball at the Argyle Rooms.”
“Oh, Mr. Brummell, we shall be delighted to attend,” Mollie assured him.
“Inviting Prinny?” Hawk asked,
sotto voce.
“No, that we will not,” replied Brummell, lifting his chin. “I am out of charity with him at the moment, as you well know.”
“He won’t be pleathed,” Alvanley put in anxiously.
“Well, he had best not raise a dust over it,” Mr. Brummell said severely, “or I shall be forced to bring the old king back into fashion.”
Chuckles greeted this sally, and Hawk turned to Alvanley. “How is your courtship proceeding, my lord?” The chubby little man winced expressively.
Sir James Smithers, overhearing the question, clapped Alvanley on the back. “He’s a success. Chit follows him everywhere. At Almack’s last night she said
his
face was prettier than Jersey’s!” There was more laughter at these words, since Lady Jersey’s eldest son was considered to be one of the handsomest men in town, while poor Lord Alvanley had little to recommend him other than his title, his charm, and his propensity for living well beyond his means.
“Good Lord, Mollie,” Hawk said just then, close to her ear, “what is that Aisling wench about?”
She twinkled up at him. “Did you not request a harpist, my lord?”
“You wretch! You know I did no such thing.” But his eyes twinkled back at her. “Getting your own again? I apologize for this,” he added, still speaking in a low tone, though the others had moved away to find seats for the forthcoming entertainment, and Mollie was amused to see Madame de Staël maneuvering young Albertine away from Prince Nicolai to a seat beside Alvanley. But Hawk’s apology made her look at him sharply.
“Why do you apologize, sir?”
“Because I’ve put together a pretty rum lot, sweetheart. Good notion of yours to invite the dandies. Adds leavening. Surprises me that Brummell would condescend to grace such an affair, though.”
“He has even agreed to read a poem, sir,” she informed him saucily. Then she grinned, demanding to know if he doubted her ability to entice anyone she chose to her entertainments.
He put two fingers beneath her chin. “If I had doubts on that score, my girl, I’d have described myself as astonished, not merely surprised.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “I hope your game is a successful one, my lord.”
He glanced around the room, his gaze coming to rest upon the slim figure of Gaspard d’Épier, and he made no attempt to deny the charge that he was playing games. “I hope so, too. You’ve certainly done your part,” he added, grimacing as Miss Aisling tilted the harp and strummed the first notes of an étude.
A poetry reading by another young woman followed the harpist, and then Alvanley and Pierrepont agreed to sing a duet if Mollie would play for them. That was followed by Mr. Brummell’s poem. Since his unkind allusions to Mrs. Hertford were only too transparent, Mollie hoped news of the event did not soon reach either the Regent’s ears or those of his mistress.
Her headache lingered, and the sight of several gentlemen at the rear of the room slipping out, including Monsieur d’Épier, Sir James Smithers, and Lord Breckin, did nothing to reconcile her to her plight. One side of the huge saloon overlooked the rear garden, and Mollie noticed that some thoughtful person had opened one set of French windows near the back of the room. The heavy curtains moved, indicating a breeze. Though the windows gave no egress to the gardens, a full story below, there was a balcony, and it occurred to Mollie that if she could manage to reach it unobtrusively, she might step out there for some fresh air. She was seated near the side of the room, so it was simply a matter of moving slowly enough so that she did not draw every eye toward herself.
Only Lady Bridget paid her any notice as she made her way to the window, but Mollie smiled at her reassuringly and stepped through the curtains, hoping she wouldn’t find the balcony already occupied by some gentleman who had chosen to step outside to blow a cloud.
The balcony was empty, however, and the gentle breeze was everything she had hoped for. There was a light fog, making haloes around the lanterns in the gardens below and giving an eerie quality to the view. Though there were no stars to be seen above, the fog did not entirely obliterate the moon, although it did soften the points of the crescent, making it appear almost as if the moon were melting.
Mollie smiled at the thought, taking a deep breath. A voice from behind startled her.
“Are you ill, my lady?” It was Prince Nicolai, and his tone expressed concern.
Mollie turned to him with a smile. “Not ill, Your Highness, merely indulging myself in a bit of fresh air. It was stuffy inside.”
“Ah.” He moved closer, his handsome face outlined in the shadowy, silver glow cast by the fog-meshed moon. “You are certain you are not ill, Mollie?” His voice was low, and there was a note in it she could not misinterpret.
“Your Highness, I am obliged to you for your concern, but I must return to my guests. I have stayed away too long already.”
“There is no need for hurry,” he said, effectively blocking her way simply by standing his ground. “We can hear the music well enough. A Handel concerto, I believe. Rather amateurishly executed. Good technique but no style, no flair. This sort of entertainment is not what one has been led to expect from you, my dear.”
Startled by the endearment, Mollie nearly informed him that Hawk had commanded tonight’s performance, but a sixth sense stopped her. She was as certain as she could be that her husband did not want it known that he had orchestrated the entire affair. “I attempt to provide for all manner of tastes,” she said simply, taking an assertive step forward and hoping he would move aside. He did not. Instead, his strong hands gripped her shoulders.
“You are a beautiful woman, Mollie.”
“I have not given you leave to use my name, Your Highness, nor have I invited familiarity of any other sort. You will oblige me by ceasing to talk absurdities and by letting me pass.”
“It is never absurd to tell a woman she is beautiful,” he replied smoothly, still holding her shoulders. “Nor is it difficult for a man of experience to know when a passionate woman’s ‘no’ means ‘yes’ instead. I know you want me, Mollie. I’ll prove it to you.” And then, to her astonishment, he pulled her forward, slipping one hand to the small of her back while the other captured her chin, tilting her face up so his lips could find hers. There was nothing seductive about the kiss. Instead, it demanded. Her lips were crushed beneath his, and his tongue immediately sought entrance between her gritted teeth.
When her struggles proved pointless against his superior strength, Mollie drew back one dainty foot, intending to kick him as hard as she could in the shins. Fortunately she recalled in time that her thin satin slippers would afford her little protection and, consequently, altered the position of her leg to bring her heel down upon his instep as hard as she could. He grunted but held on to her, so she lifted her foot again, cursing the pencil-slim skirt that made it impossible to put her knee where she would have liked very much to put it. So intent was she upon her purpose that she was only dimly, peripherally aware of the parting of the heavy curtains behind the prince and the large hand that clamped down upon his shoulder before he suddenly released her and turned abruptly to meet her grim-faced husband.