My Wayward Lady
by Evelyn Richardson
"And a good thing too." A lopsided grin tugged at one corner of Lord Chalfont's mouth, softening its grim expression. "They are not ready for a spitfire such as you."
"Spitfire!" Harriet was indignant. "I am no such thing. Why, I am just—"
"A milk-and-water miss," the marquess continued smoothly with only the faintest touch of irony. "A milk-andwater miss who throws herself into the defense of a group of people most gently bred young ladies do not even know exists, or at least do not admit to knowing exists. No, Lady Harriet, that won't fadge. Why you're as ardent a spirit as Brougham himself, perhaps more so. The government should count itself lucky you are a woman. You would make mice feet of poor Parliament in a day were you to be elected to its august membership."
A reluctant chuckle escaped Harriet. "I should certainly try," she admitted, "but even though I cannot, I feel that someone should. And I can think of no one better than you. After all, you never seem to have the least regard for anyone's sensibilities, and—"
"Whoa, there, my girl." The marquess held up an admonishing hand. "How can you say such a thing after our perfectly unexceptionable waltz the other evening? Why I was a model of decorum and gentlemanly behavior."
"Which I never would have guessed existed in you had I been left to form my impressions of your character after our first few encounters."
Lord Chalfont shrugged and grinned. "I had to discover more about you. You were so confoundedly prim and proper 147
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that the only thing to do was to throw you off your guard which, I might add, was impossible to do."
"Precisely what I am talking about. Just proceed the same way in Parliament as you did with me and you should do very nicely," Harriet retorted.
"If I am not called out first."
"You
were the one who implied that your life was lacking in challenge and adventure."
Adrian raised one well-shaped hand in a gesture of defeat.
"Touché. You have made your point, my fiery friend. I shall endeavor to see what I can do to throw myself into the political fray. In the meantime, I have kept you here long enough. Your family will begin to wonder where you are."
"I very much doubt it. Papa, as usual, is buried in the library. Charlie is mounting guard duty, but he lives in the barracks anyway. And Elizabeth and Aunt Almeria are closeted with the dressmaker. Besides, they are quite accustomed to my frequent comings and goings and pay them no heed."
"Yes. I should think that where you are concerned, expecting the unexpected is a very useful maxim," the marquess replied in a teasing tone. But for all his bantering air, he was reflecting quite seriously on how lonely her existence must be. An intelligent, energetic woman in a society that preferred decorative, passive ones—not that she was not decorative with the tendrils of flame-colored hair escaping from the severe coil she had wound at the nape of her neck to cluster around the animated face with its enormous dark blue eyes.
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Adrian himself had often felt isolated and set apart from his fellows by his refusal to follow blindly the accepted views of his class, but at least in the army, with danger and privation breaking down many of the artificial barriers that existed among men in the fashionable world, he had been able to discover like-thinking men and enjoy their companionship.
Lady Harriet, he suspected, had never known such companionship, even with her brother. Charlie was well enough in his own way—Lord Chalfont had dealt with his type of officer often enough—eager, lively, courageous to a fault, and likely to have more bottom than sense. In short, Charlie was a man who preferred action to thought. Harriet was worth twice her brother for it was obvious even to the most casual observer that it was her serious reflections on things that led her to action rather than the other way around. Oddly enough, Adrian found himself wishing that he could provide such companionship for Harriet. They were two of a kind, after all, but friendships like that simply did not exist in the world they inhabited. They might exist between brother and sister or cousins perhaps, but never between a man and a woman who were unrelated but happened to be of a like mind. As Alicia's image flashed before him. Lord Chalfont thought grimly that certainly such friendships did not often exist even between husband and wife. A delicate cough brought him back to the scene at hand. "I beg your pardon, I—"
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"Was woolgathering again. I seem to have this soporific effect on you, my lord." Harriet's tone was apologetic, but her eyes were dancing.
"Not at all. Quite the opposite. In fact you cause me to reflect a great deal on things, which in my case, tends to inhibit conversation. I am rather slow-witted, you know, and must think carefully before I reply."
"What a bouncer!" Harriet laughed. "And what momentous considerations have caused such a thoughtful state? I wonder." Harriet, who had posed the question half in jest, was surprised to observe a grave, almost uneasy look cloud the marquess' customarily mocking expression. Whatever had he been thinking of? she wondered. It was most unlike the glib Lord Chalfont to be at a loss for words, much less hemming and hawing awkwardly as he was doing at the moment.
"Well," he paused and fixed her with a glance that was half rueful, half questioning, as though he were at a loss as how to proceed. Then, he seemed to decide something and plunged quickly ahead before he could change his mind. "You see, I was thinking that you must be rather lonely what with being so unlike the other vapid young ladies one finds frequenting the
ton,
and that you must find yourself wishing you had someone who shared your views, someone you would enjoy talking to. I find that I am often in the same position myself."
"You!" The idea of the dashing Marquess of Kidderham suffering from lack of companionship appeared ludicrous in the extreme. Why, if the reactions of the inhabitants of the 150
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Temple of Venus were anything to go by, he was more likely to be afflicted with an excess of company rather than too little. "How can that be? Why wom—er, people, fall all over themselves to be with you."
Adrian grinned at her slip. "That is not the same thing as true friendship. Lady Harriet, and well you know it. But this discussion has gone far enough. I feel myself getting on dangerous ground. For all that you think your family pays little attention to your whereabouts, I am sure they will start to notice if you are gone too long, not to mention your longsuffering maid who, I observe, is hovering near the front door ready to rush in and protect you at a moment's notice." With a flourish the marquess closed the door to the schoolroom behind them and, offering her his arm, escorted her to the waiting hackney, then saw them off as they clattered toward Bond Street and Madame Celeste's.
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Determinedly avoiding the disapproving eye of the everwatchful Rose, Harriet leaned back in the carriage and tried to collect her disordered thoughts. From Rose's pained expression, Harriet could clearly see what her maid thought of the licentious Marquess of Kidderham, but she herself was not so sure.
How could a man who was truly as debauched as his patronage of the Temple of Venus would seem to indicate, be so disgusted at the thought of leading the comfortable and uneventful existence of a wealthy man of fashion? It did not fit somehow. And the last bit of their conversation gave her even more pause. How could a man who was apparently satisfied with the companionship of Mrs. Lovington's ladies understand so well how alone and isolated Harriet often felt; and, furthermore, why would he care that she felt that way?
It was all certainly most confusing, and not only to Harriet. The marquess, too, had seemed oddly ill at ease with his own observations and had hurriedly ended their conversation as though somehow he had revealed too much of himself to her. However, there had been sympathy in his eyes and a warmth of understanding in his voice that had drawn her strangely to him. She, who preferred the quiet life of the country and her own intellectual pursuits, should have had little or nothing in common with a man who haunted the dens of iniquity—no matter how fashionable the dens were—in the 152
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metropolis, yet she felt closer to him than to most of the people she had yet encountered in London. How very odd. Enough of such useless speculation, my girl, Harriet scolded herself. You have more important things to occupy your mind than a Bond Street beau, things such as discussing with Madame Celeste the possible employment of Fanny as a new assistant.
This was going to be no easy task as Harriet well knew, for she could see that Madame Celeste, a woman of the world who was wide awake on every suit, would not easily be deceived as to Fanny's previous credentials. Harriet racked her brain for a story convincing enough to pass off on the shrewd modiste, but with no particular success. Unlike many of her peers, she abhorred dissimulation, and therefore found it extremely difficult to concoct a likely background for one of Mrs. Lovington's ladies.
It was imperative to rescue Fanny, and soon, from the Temple of Venus. Despite the rage and frustration that had overcome Harriet as she had tackled Sir Neville, she had been clearheaded enough to read the man's character and she knew that despite Mrs. Lovington's prohibition against his returning to the Temple of Venus, he would find some way to come back and punish Fanny for the trouble she had gotten him into. The only solution, therefore, was to make sure that Fanny was somewhere else when he decided to do so. It was a problem. There was no denying that, and Harriet was no nearer concocting an acceptable story for Fanny when she entered Madame Celeste's exclusive establishment than she had been when she had first started thinking it over that 153
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morning as they had made their way to the Temple of Venus. In the bandbox at her side was a stunning spencer that she had had Fanny make up to demonstrate her skills as a seamstress. Finally laying down a piece of Uriing's net that she had picked up to examine while composing her thoughts, Harriet begged a private word with Madame Celeste herself. Dismissing her assistants, the proprietress led Harriet to a small room at the back of the shop and begged that her patroness be seated. It was not unusual in itself for a fair customer to request to be alone with Madame in order to broach some delicate business, but Harriet did not seem the type who would wish Madame to direct a bill to a wealthy protector or, as certain fashionable ladies did, to a gentleman other than their husband. No, Madame thought as she waited patiently for Harriet to speak, this particular customer's request was bound to be something quite out of the ordinary. And it was. Madame's carefully painted face remained impassive as Harriet, swearing her to me strictest confidence, recounted Fanny's story, unembellished by any false details. After all, Madame Celeste was someone who had seen a great deal of the world and, though she assumed an air of strictest gentility, Harriet felt that a woman who had made her way in the metropolis successfully enough to have her own shop in Bond Street, must know something about life below the select portion of society with which she now dealt exclusively. Harriet had been entirely correct in her judgment that the truth was likely to be far more persuasive than any fiction she could come up with. The former Alice Higginbottom had been most fortunate in her seducer, for the marquess of Moresby 154
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had been a truly kind man and genuinely fond of the young housemaid who had been the object of his affections, and he had set her up to make her own way in the world when they had parted company. However, Madame Celeste was well acquainted with other girls who had fared far worse, girls who had been utterly ruined instead of being given funds to become their own mistresses. She listened sympathetically as Harriet spoke of Fanny's latest misfortune, nodding her head grimly as she replied, "Yes. Even here we have heard of Sir Neville's nasty reputation. No woman of any breeding would have anything to do with him. But much as I would like to help you, I do have my own reputation to consider and I must be assured of what she can do before I can consider taking on this unfortunate young person."
Harriet produced the spencer which was of canary gros de Naples richly ornamented with primrose satin. Madame took it from her and walked over to a corner table where a small, grimy window allowed in a bit of daylight. Turning the garment over and over and inside and out, she examined the workmanship carefully and critically, frowning as she did so. Harriet held her breath as she tried to read the proprietress's expression.
At last Madame returned to her. "It is done neatly enough. Is the design her own?"
"Oh yes," Harriet replied, trying not to sound too eager.
"And she made it up for me most expeditiously."
"I could use an extra pair of hands"—Madame began slowly—"but only as the most junior of my assistants, mind 155
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you, and only executing other people's designs. I will have no prima donnas here. I have the other girls to think of."
"Oh certainly. I understand perfectly and Fanny is well aware of that. She only wishes to escape her imminent danger and will be most grateful to have some way of earning her keep."
"Not that she cannot rise if she is a good girl and works hard." Madame Celeste continued to examine the spencer which was truly exquisitely done. "You must warn her that there will be none of the socializing to which she is undoubtedly accustomed at Mrs. Lovington's. Only the most senior of assistants is allowed any contact with our distinguished customers. As to the question of lodging which would undoubtedly arise, she could most likely find it with Mary, one of my newest assistants. I believe her mother takes in lodgers."