Authors: Elsie Lee
“That is your estate in Kent, is it not?” she observed, stepping lightly down from the phaeton.
“Yes. How came you to know of it?” he asked, surprised.
Charlotte was equally surprised. “You told me,” she reminded him, “when I asked where you had found valley lilies for Emily’s bouquet so early in the season.”
“Why, so I did! Must I confess?” he smiled ruefully. “Cargill—my head gardener—is instructed to dispatch flowers daily during the season. I dislike the formal florists’ arrangements.”
“Yes, they are dreadfully stilted—but what very large greenhouses you must have to provide such a supply!”
“I believe they are, although it is some considerable time since I have inspected them. Now you put me in
mind of it,” the duke frowned thoughtfully, “I wonder if any of the plants I’ve brought from foreign parts have survived.”
“What sort of plants?”
“Principally Oriental or from the tropics—there is something called the paw-paw, much used in the West Indies, and a number of orchids grown in Mexico.” On impulse, “Should you like to see them, if any still live?”
“Very much!”
His grace had no more than a vague notion of sending a carriage for her, escorting her through the succession houses, and returning her to London after a light nuncheon. The vicar and his wife would provide propriety; they ought to be asked for a social visit, anyway. But to Julian’s intense amusement, he found all arrangements taken out of his hands. In a matter of seconds, Miss Stanwood had converted his idle suggestion into a party composed of herself, Lady Stanwood and Emily. However little the duke might rate Miss Emily’s interest in his greenhouses, Sharlie had no doubt that all was intended as a distinguishing attention to her sister.
“How delightfully it all comes about,” she exclaimed. “I collect the drive is no more than an hour, we may easily reach you by one, which allows ample time before we must start for home. I am sure it will not be too tiring for Emily, and a day in the country—there is nothing to equal it. How kind it is in you to think of it!”
“Your pleasure is my pleasure, Miss Stanwood,” he said gracefully. “All that remains is to discover if there is anything worthy of the trip to be seen in the conservatories.”
Having thus provided himself with an escape, the duke went off the following day. He was half-minded to send word that nothing had survived, but it would have been a monumental lie, and even if Sharlie never learned, Julian couldn’t bring himself to it. So far from dying, all his exotics were burgeoning riotously under Cargill’s expert fingers. Sharlie would like to see them, and the devil with Miss Emily! On the other hand, caution raised its head. Nothing led him to suppose Lord or Lady Stanwood shared Charlotte’s idea, yet might it not occur to them if the ladies were invited to view one of his grace’s estates? Throughout his excellent dinner, plainly dressed in the country style, the duke pondered deeply.
The solution came to him with the strawberry tarts. Sharlie had saddled him with a party—he would expand it in such a way as to remove any notion of Miss Emily as principal guest. It may have been the brandy, but by the time Julian was seated at his desk to pen the invitations, he was feeling naughty! Lord Stanwood was specifically included in the note to Park Street, and it was suggested he accompany Miss Stanwood on their riding horses; should Sir Geoffrey be in town, he would be welcome to join the party. Lady Inverclyde was begged to be so kind as to take up Princess Esterhazy in her carriage, and Lady Jersey was asked to bring any escort she currently favored. Sir Eustace Gayle was requested to accompany Lady Stanwood and Miss Emily in their carriage, and a final note went to Mr. Brummell.
“Dear George—if you care to view my divertissement, pray ride out to Bascombe beside Miss Stanwood on Monday next. Yours, etc. Imbrie.”
He then filled out his list with such of his neighbors as should be recognized by the Duke of Imbrie, begging them to bring their older children who might enjoy an
al fresco
picnic. When he laid aside his pen, Julian felt pleased with himself. Miss Stanwood should see his succession houses; he would pay off all arrears of social duties, and Miss Emily would be lost in the crowd. He rang the bell, and had just affixed the last wafer when Stepan entered.
This was Julian’s Figaro, except that he was Greek rather than Italian and a much more general factotum than Herr Mozart’s. Initially the duke’s English staff had viewed Stepan with shock, but after eight years they were used to his exotic appearance. He might look alarmingly wild, but it was observed that he served his grace with loving competence. Where Julian went, there also was Stepan. There was nothing he could not, or would not, do for his master, from cooking a stolen Portuguese chicken to renting a furnished villa for a month of dalliance in Sicily. After wandering about the world, he spoke a smattering of many languages, but alone with Julian, they used Greek.
“Ride up to London tomorrow morning, deliver these and ask immediate answers to Grosvenor Square,” the duke said tersely. “Come back when you have them.”
“
Ne, ne
.” Stepan examined the directions. “There will be six.”
“Take four bunches of flowers to leave with the ladies. Give these,” extending the local notes, “to the stableboy for delivery any time tomorrow, and ask Mrs. Witchett to step in to me now.”
“
Ne, ne
,” Stepan said again. “A party? That is good, we have not had one in a long while.”
So long a while that Mrs. Witchett was in a pelter to learn she must prepare a picnic luncheon for twenty or more guests on Monday. “There will be ladies and some young people—you will know what to prepare, and I will have the exact number tomorrow,” Julian smiled. It did not occur to him there might be refusals. When Imbrie gave a party, nothing but death or a Royal command (considered by many to be synonymous) would keep anyone away. Having dispatched the invitations, Julian put it out of his mind; Stepan would do the rest.
But just as Sharlie had no notion of Julian’s machinations with Beau Brummell, so the duke had no suspicion of his factotum’s. The stabling for No. 10 Grosvenor Square adjoined that for No. 10 Park Street, and since John-groom was a Stanbury man long known to Maria, Stepan had glimpsed Miss Stanwood’s maid early in the season. To his initial admiration of her fresh face was swiftly added a deep interest in her mistress. Stepan was well used to the duke’s female companions, but in his experience they were never so young and unsophisticated. Nor had his grace ever allowed a woman to handle his blood-cattle, let alone offering instruction. Stepan had suffered a severe shock the first time his employer relinquished the ribbons, and made haste to ripen his acquaintance with Maria.
Thus when Stepan rode away from Bascombe, he had not four, but five bunches of flowers. After obeying the duke’s instructions, he boldly presented himself at the rear door of Park Street and asked for Miss Stanwood’s maid. By now, he was on calling terms, Mr. Robsey having assured Mr. Beamish that there was no harm in the duke’s man. This was reinforced by Anatole, Lady Stanwood’s chef, who wouldn’t have cared whether Stepan was a rapist so long as he talked French.
“
Entrez, entrez
.” Anatole threw open the door genially. “
Alors, ca marche? Du cafe ou un petit verre? A he,
you bring flowers! It is a courtship?”
“One has one’s hopes,” Stepan shrugged. “In any case, with my master’s interest in this household, it is necessary that I should know the maid to the young ladies. I will have a
cafe noir, merci
.”
An hour later he left, possessed of all the current gossip of Park Street. Lord Wrentham was considered a certainty for Miss Stanwood; Viscount Pelham had a slight edge over the Earl of Dawlish for Miss Emily, but Beamish revealed a dark horse. “Mr. Bigglesworth—only a younger son, but I understand there is money and a considerable property from an uncle, which must compensate for the lack of title,” the butler said austerely. “A very pleasant young gentleman, a recent entry to the lists but coming up fast!”
The Duke of Imbrie was thought to be principally a friend of Lord Stanwood, and valued only as adding consequence to the young ladies. Stepan blandly agreed that his grace was not one easily to drop the handkerchief—and was heartened by a swift side glance from Maria. Patently she agreed with Stepan’s secret hunch—so much so, that, as soon as he’d left, Maria took her flowers up to Charlotte’s room. “From the duke, miss. That foreign man brought them.”
“How sweet they smell,” Sharlie breathed deeply. “Put them in Miss Emily’s room, Maria.”
“Stepan said they were for
Miss
Stanwood.” “Nonsense, he’s confused the names. Of course they’re for Miss Emily.”
“I don’t think so,” Maria insisted. “I think perhaps they are some of the flowers you are going to see.”
Sharlie took a closer look. “Perhaps you’re right, Maria. I don’t recognize those white blossoms. What a delicious scent!”
“Fair goes to your head, don’t it, miss.” Unobtrusively, she set the vase on a table. It was still there when Charlotte came up for an afternoon bonnet, but when she opened Emily’s door, meaning to transfer the flowers, that room was so full of nosegays another vase would be too much. She returned it to her own chamber; Emily would never miss it, and the perfume was irresistible. It quite made up for the faint disappointment of learning that others had been asked to Bascombe, although as the guests were identified, Sharlie could not entirely understand what the duke was about.
Lady Inverclyde and Princess Esterhazy were welcome additions; Lady Jersey was less so, for having chosen Viscount Pelham as her escort, and the discovery that Sir Eustace was to accompany Lady Stanwood was a decided facer. “Surely, you cannot accept? It would not be in your power to be absent from the War Office.”
“Faith, and they’d be glad not to see me for a day,” he returned cheerfully. “I’ve naught to do but run errands. ’Tis sick of my face they are.”
Charlotte debated refusing to ride, saying she preferred to go by carriage, which would leave no place for Eustace, and for two days Fate played into her hands: Lord Stanwood regretted he was engaged. “Damned if I want to ride fifteen miles in order to look at some dashed flowers, Nelly ... don’t know why you do.”
“Sharlie has rather set her heart on it,” his wife answered placidly. “You know her interest in conservatories, Robert, and it appears Imbrie has a number of exotic plants. I don’t doubt she’ll cajole the gardener into giving her seeds and cuttings for MacLean.”
“Probably, but it’s not the outing I fancy. Take the girls and make my excuses, Nelly.”
Lacking her father as escort, Charlotte must go in the carriage, and let Eustace ride if he insisted on coming—but her sigh of relief was frustrated by a polite note from Mr. Brummell.
No more than Miss Stanwood did the Beau
know what
Julian would be about, but the implication was that she was wanted at all costs, and on horseback. “Hmmm,” said Brummell to himself, and lazily excused himself to the Prince Regent for Monday. “Imbrie, you know, sir—we were at Eton together—and there’s nothing so fascinating on the Calendar, after all. Why don’t you do some work for a change—sign some laws or receive some deputations or something? I shall be back in ample time for whatever’s afoot for the evening, sir. You’ll not miss me.”
His Highness pouted slightly, but reluctantly conceded (under the Beau’s expert cajolery) that there were indeed tasks that could not be shared by his friend George. Yes, he might as well get them out of the way, Monday was as good a day as any other, and he applauded George’s loyal friendship for an old schoolmate. Accordingly, Miss Stanwood was neatly trapped—for Mr. Brummell cleverly dispatched his note to
Lady
Stanwood, who instantly wrote back that she could answer for her daughter’s pleasure in Mr. Brummell’s company upon this occasion.
Informed of the arrangement, Charlotte was moved to heated protest. “Mama, you did not! Oh, how could you?”
“Why should I not?” Lady Stanwood raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “If you have taken Mr. Brummell in aversion you should have told me.”
“No, no, of course I haven’t. He’s quite delightful and one cannot wonder the Regent makes a pet of him,” Sharlie returned impatiently, “but mama, if I ride to Bascombe, it leaves a place in the carriage for Eustace.”
“What of it? Don’t tell me you’d rather drive than ride? I think it very pretty in Imbrie to arrange an escort. He must have guessed your father would fail.”
“You don’t understand, mama,” Sharlie said desperately. “Eustace is in love with Emily.”
That did give Lady Stanwood pause. “I thought he was
your
beau, riding every morning,” she exclaimed. “Are you
sure
?”
“I’m sure. He won’t say anything to her, he knows he’s ineligible.” Sharlie repeated the conversation, ending, “Don’t you see, Mama? Imbrie is trying to fix his interest with Emily. Why else are we asked to Bascombe? And she likes him, Mama, but because he’s too mature to be dangling, I don’t think she realizes her chance, and he isn’t apt to make a push without some encouragement. If only we’d not made Eustace into a family friend!”
Lady Stanwood reflected briefly. Her reading of the situation with Imbrie was quite different from her daughter’s. In fact, Sharlie would have been astounded to learn that her mother nursed a growing suspicion that Imbrie’s real interest was in
Miss
Stanwood. Since Lady Stanwood was as shrewd as she could hold together, she was playing her cards extremely close to the chest. A very shy bird was the Duke of Imbrie, and she wanted him for Charlotte, but in the suppressed excitement of watching Sharlie, Lady Stanwood had taken her eye from Emily. Charlotte’s revelation was a distinct jolt.