Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (30 page)

Antonia’s grandmother, Augusta Mary
Fitzstuart, the Countess of Strathsay, had turned fifty-one a month
back. Ordinarily this circumstance would not have bothered her. She
was still considered a beautiful woman, had not one grey hair in
her flaming curls, and her voluptuous figure was not to be scorned.
She appeared younger than her years, kept long hours, and never
tired of taking a new lover in the long intervals she did not see
her one true love. The fact she was grandmother to a beautiful
young woman had never crossed her mind, until the girl was thrust
upon her.

She lived a lifestyle considered by more
than a few of the ton to be outlandish for a woman of her years;
the more prudish going so far as to condemn her as a common harlot
for fornicating with her widowed brother-in-law, Lord Ely. He was
the man she should have married thirty years ago, and now legally
could not, the law such as it was. They had been lovers for more
than twenty years. He would be in London tonight, in this room, and
although she could not wait to see him again after an absence of
four months, she was apprehensive of his coming. For that she
blamed her granddaughter. The girl she also blamed for the fault
she now found with her face. She wished she had never set eyes on
her.

Her incestuous relationship—in the eyes of
Church and State—with the Earl of Ely had never caused her a
sleepless night. Having Antonia under her roof had caused her more
sleepless nights than she cared to remember. It was not that the
girl was the slightest trouble. She kept much to herself and spent
a good deal of time in the company of her uncle Theo, Lady
Strathsay’s only son. So there was nothing to complain of in that.
She was not vain, or over modest, spiteful or childish. She had a
ready tongue and was too educated for her own good, but that was
the fault of the girl’s father. It was the fact she was not the
least nuisance that proved a constant worry. That, and the girl’s
likeness in form to herself.

She should have been flattered to discover
her only grandchild had inherited her unusual emerald-green eyes,
famous breasts, and cream complexion. There was no denying such a
marked resemblance. Lady Strathsay wished she could deny it, and
ignore it. And as if this wasn’t enough to send her scurrying to
her paint pots and powder, there was the number of gentleman
callers who kicked their heels in the foyer of her Hanover Square
residence. And not to see her. All came to pay calls on her
granddaughter. It gave her the headache. It so reminded her of her
own youth. Yet, whereas she had welcomed the attentions of suitors
and still did, Antonia was indifferent to them all. It was Lady
Strathsay’s sinking belief her granddaughter would not have cared
in the slightest had no gentleman ever called to see her.

She was about to speculate on the reasons
for this odd behavior when a scratch on the boudoir door disrupted
her thoughts and she sat up on an elbow, signaling to her black
page to answer it. A footman gave her Mr. Percival Harcourt’s card
and she shooed him away, ordering the visitor to be sent up at
once.

“My dearest lady, as always I am at your
feet,” exclaimed Mr. Harcourt as he swept into the room and
presented the Countess with a magnificent bow. He pocketed a
scented handkerchief and kissed the hand she held out to him. “You
never fail to dazzle me!”

“You never fail to flatter me, my dear boy,”
she said. “I like it. The young men of today are not quite as
attentive as they ought. It is a shame. A modern tendency I
deplore. But you, my dear Percy, are of my generation in thought,
though perhaps not in dress. What is that you have about your neck?
One hopes it is dead.”

Mr. Harcourt tittered and held out the large
sable muff which was suspended about his neck from a ribbon, and
rested on the silk burdash tied about his waist. “’tis but a muff,
my lady. The weather is frightful. Positively dreadful! I am forced
to wear cotton gloves to bed all this week for fear of chaffed
hands. There is an awful north-east wind and snow is predicted.
Theo tells me in a letter I had from him yesterday that the man on
the land predicts snow for all this week, and I’d believe the
farmer before a Cit any day!”

“Snow? I do hope the boy returns from Treat
before that eventuality,” said Lady Strathsay and indicated a
spindle-legged chair opposite her chaise longue for Mr. Harcourt to
perch on. “He’s been there a fortnight or more. God knows what he
is up to for Roxton. Some building project or draining of a lake or
some such nonsense. Why he should bother when there is no
indication the Duke is to return to London any time soon, I know
not!”

“Very true, my lady. We all expected his
Grace at Christmas-time. That is the usual time he opens his house
in St. James’s Square. But the knocker is still off the door. Not
even Theo has had word, well, not in an
informal
way.”

Lady Strathsay caught the note of censure in
the young man’s voice and frowned. “You need not tell me my son is
slavishly devoted to that
roué
. So degrading for a man about
to come into an earldom. But he refuses to give up his position as
the Duke’s major-domo until such time as his claim to the Strathsay
title is verified by King and Parliament.”

Mr. Harcourt was somewhat surprised. “I
thought—that is—there is a will, isn’t there, my lady?”

Lady Strathsay smiled thinly. “Let’s not
fadge, Mr. Harcourt. Of course Strathsay left a will. What papist
would not? Nor leave this world without confessing all to his
squalid little priest. I suppose he had to make amends for his sins
or he’d be denied the last sacrament or rites, or whatever it is
priests perform on a dying man’s last breath. Throw buckets of holy
water on them possibly. That Strathsay could have done with; the
water, that is. He was never one to wash or scent his person. God
knows I can still remember it all!

“Here is our tea. Sam, pour out for Mr.
Harcourt. It’s bohea, you know, and blended for me by a little man
on the Strand.” She shifted to adjust the shawl which had slipped
off her white shoulders, her conversation barely lagging. “Where
was I?—Oh, Strathsay! At least he had the decency to put matters to
rights on his death. If it hadn’t been for his papist conscience I
still maintain he’d have gone to the grave denying Theo as his own.
Conscience and vanity both. Men are such vain creatures. To leave a
son and heir to carry on the name is all-important to them. And
after Strathsay proclaiming Theo a bastard for twenty-seven odd
years is it small wonder the poor boy’s claim is questioned?

“James never did have any other children
after Theo was born; not even bastards. I suspect the pox put an
end to that. Not that it interfered in any way with his abilities
under the covers. Oh, no, Mr. Harcourt. That was the only thing I
admired about him in the end. Well, it is the only fond memory I
have of him—Oh dear, you’ve spilled tea on your lovely
canary-yellow breeches! Tea too strong, my boy? Sam, fetch a cloth
for Mr. Harcourt.”

The page dashed out of the room and Mr.
Harcourt was glad for the diversion. He fumbled with the tea dish
and mopped a knee of his satin breeches with a dainty handkerchief.
He should not have been surprised by the Countess’s ramblings. Her
affairs were legion, her reputation notorious, and her blunt speech
legendary. Above all she was the most vain creature he knew and her
jealousy of her granddaughter was so blatant as to be pathetic. He
had not come to visit the grandmother, but the granddaughter. Yet
he was wise to the fact a visit to the younger without first
visiting the elder would not have been politic.

“Blended on the Strand did you say? How
interesting, and how very good this tea is, my lady,” he said
frowning at the dark spreading stain on his breeches. “And I
shouldn’t worry yourself about Theo’s claim. The King will put his
signature to it without hesitation. Especially with Roxton and the
Lords behind him. And he is Strathsay’s heir after all. There’s no
disputing that!”

“I believe you are right,” said her ladyship
with a sigh. “You can imagine the strain this has put on me. What
with this inconvenient period of mourning and having Antonia to
stay…” She picked up the hand-mirror to gaze at her reflection. “I
will turn positively old I know it!”

Mr. Harcourt did not take the hint, so eager
was he to defend Miss Antonia Moran. Thus he did not give Lady
Strathsay the reassurances she craved from her gentlemen callers
that she was still as beautiful as the first flowering of her
youth. It annoyed her, but he did not see this, saying with a
little laugh peculiar to him when faced with an awkward
situation,

“Miss Moran must be a comfort to you at such
a trying time, my lady. To have a granddaughter to give you every
attention and to look upon her who is not the slightest trouble
must be a blessing.”

Lady Strathsay tossed the mirror aside and
viewed the young man and his absurd muff with disfavor. “Comfort?
Antonia? Mr. Harcourt, it is plain you have not the slightest idea
what a trial that girl is to me! To have responsibility for an
eighteen-year-old girl who is pursued by every gentleman in London
like hounds to a fox can hardly be called a comfort! She may have
inherited my great beauty, but she is not like me in the least. She
positively shrinks if a man so much as ogles her breasts from a
distance. And what is the good of that? It is my belief that inside
that beautiful shell is an ugly girl! Ah! I can do nothing with
her—Dear me, Mr. Harcourt, my blend of tea certainly does not agree
with you. Your face is the same shade as your scarlet frock. Sam,
fetch Mr. Harcourt a glass of burgundy.”

The black boy left the room as the Lady
Strathsay’s good friend, the Lady Paget, entered it, almost
colliding with the little man. She side-stepped him with a sweep of
her hooped petticoats and laughed when he made her a quick clumsy
bow and disappeared. Her large brown eyes alighted on Mr.
Harcourt’s odd attire and the stain on his breeches with the merest
flicker of recognition. She held out her hand to him and sat
uninvited on the chair opposite the chaise longue. Mr. Harcourt was
quick to kiss her fingertips and resume his seat. Lady Paget
wondered what the fop was doing ensconced with her friend, and if
he shaved his eyebrows to achieve such a perfect arch.

“My dear Gussie,” she said sweetly, “I
expected to find you with a man, but not one as young as this!
Richard given his marching orders, my love?”

“Dear Kate! Out of sorts?” responded Lady
Strathsay with a hollow laugh. “Dick was here only this morning.
Perhaps I will send him to you. After all, John is down from Ely
for the whole of this week, so I really don’t know what is to be
done with poor Dick. Shall you amuse him for me?”

“Not I! Besides, I told you. He has that
young shrew Anne Yarmouth—a mere judge’s wife, so I am informed—to
keep him occupied. Terrible of him to stoop so low. I feel for you,
my dear, I really do. How do you do, Mr. Harcourt? Ready for an
evening of theatre and Mr. Garrick? Your pink carriage is
absolutely charming.”

Mr. Harcourt’s mouth had been working for
some time, ready to deny any implication Lady Paget might care to
throw at him concerning his visit with Lady Strathsay. But with the
mention of his pink carriage he beamed with pleasure. “Do you truly
think so, my lady? Will Miss Moran be impressed?”

“The whole of town is talking of your
carriage, Mr. Harcourt. Do go to the window and have a peek,
Gussie. It’s attracting quite a crowd in the square. This rôle of
chaperone you’ve allotted me is a new one,” said Lady Paget, waving
a fan of latticed-worked ivory. “I really have no idea what I am to
do with my charge, Gussie. Where is she?”

“Being dressed in a gown I selected, but I
doubt it. She will wear one of Maurice’s creations as always.” Lady
Strathsay glanced at Mr. Harcourt who had tottered to the window.
“Percy, shall you go to the Theatre Royal with your tea stain?”

“My lady? The tea stain!” he gasped. “No. I
must call for a new pair of breeches!” He stumbled to the door in
his haste, muttering to himself, “I hope Patrick can ready another
pair of canaries…”

Both ladies laughed at his back. Lady Paget
saying: “That boy is absurd! I don’t know how he came by that stain
but it only adds to the effect. I wish you hadn’t got him to go and
change.”

“I do believe he was clumsy with his dish
when I happened to mention Antonia’s wonderful breasts. Or was it
when I confided Strathsay’s abilities under the covers? Whatever!
Young men of today are so full of affected sensibilities, Kate. It
must carry over into their love-making, don’t you think?”

“Possibly. You would know better than I.
Young men bored me when I was young. I am not likely to think any
better of them now. How old is Dick?”

“Too young. They always are.”

“Shame on you, Gussie! And with your
granddaughter under the same roof, too!” Lady Paget watched her
friend frown and look disagreeable. “It still bothers you?” she
said in some surprise. “Not after all these years of living as you
pleased.”

“A tinge. A sign of age, my dear. John’s
visit bothers me. The others, they are nothing, as you know. And I
am discreet, as always. Morbidly so with Antonia the floor below
me. John is different. He won’t abide skulking about corridors and
whispers and such. Well, he never has had to in twenty years, so
why should he start now? And all to protect Antonia’s
sensibilities!”

“You underestimate your granddaughter, my
dear. What little I know of her makes me think she is aware of a
great deal more than you give her credit for,” said Lady Paget.
“Good God, she lived with Strathsay and was left to fend for
herself at Versailles, too. And if that wasn’t a good introduction
to vice in all its forms, there was the weeks spent at Roxton’s
Paris residence to complete her education.”