The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (36 page)

David smiled humorlessly. “Indeed, but I can only deduce that he has not done so. Therefore, as a Mann-Formsby—”

She snorted under her breath, which did
not
amuse him.

“As a Mann-Formsby,” he said again, raising his voice, then lowering it when several nearby dancers looked curiously in his direction. “As the head of the Mann-Formsby family,” he corrected, “it is my duty to apologize when a member of my family acts in a dishonorable manner.”

He’d expected a quick retort, and indeed, she opened her mouth immediately, her eyes flashing dark fire, but then, with an abruptness that took his breath away, she seemed to change her mind. And when she finally spoke, she said, “Thank you for that. I accept your apology on Clive’s behalf.”

There was a quiet dignity in her voice, something that made him want to pull her closer, to entwine their fingers rather than merely to hold hands.

But if he’d wanted to explore that feeling more closely—and he wasn’t certain he did—his chance was lost when the orchestra brought the waltz to a close, leaving him standing in the middle of the ballroom floor, bending his body into an elegant bow as Susannah bobbed a curtsy.

She murmured a polite, “Thank you for the dance, my lord,” and it was clear that their conversation was at an end.

But as he watched her leave the ballroom—presumably off to wherever it was she’d been going when he’d intercepted her—he couldn’t quite shake the feeling—

He wanted more.

More of her words, more of her conversation.

More of
her
.

Later that night, two events occurred that were very odd, indeed.

The first took place in Susannah Ballister’s bedroom.

She could not sleep.

This would not have seemed odd to many, but Susannah had always been the sort who fell asleep the instant her head hit the pillow. It had driven her sister batty back in the days when they had shared a room. Letitia had always wanted to stay up and whisper, and Susannah’s conversational contributions never amounted to anything more than a light snore.

Even in the days following Clive’s defection, she had slept like the dead. It had been her only escape from the constant pain and turmoil that was the life of a jilted debutante.

But this evening was different. Susannah lay on her back (which was odd in itself, as she much preferred to sleep on her side) and stared up at the ceiling, wondering when the crack in the plaster had come so much to resemble a rabbit.

Or rather, that was what she thought about each time she determinedly thrust the Earl of Renminster from her mind. Because the truth was that she could not sleep because she could not stop reliving their conversation, stopping to analyze each of his words, and then trying not to notice the shivery feeling she got when she recalled his faint, somewhat ironic smile.

She still could not believe how she’d stood up to him. Clive had always referred to him as “the old man,” and called him, at various times, stuffy, haughty, supercilious, arrogant, and damned annoying. Susannah had been rather terrified by the earl; Clive certainly hadn’t made him sound very approachable.

But she had stood her ground and kept her pride.

Now she couldn’t sleep for thinking of him, but she didn’t much mind—not with this giddy feeling.

It had been so long since she’d felt proud of herself. She’d forgotten what a nice sensation it was.

The second odd occurrence took place across town, in the district of Holborn, in front of the home of Anne Miniver, who lived quietly alongside all of the lawyers and barristers who worked at the nearby Inns of the Court, even though her occupation, if one could call it that, was mistress. Mistress to the Earl of Renminster, to be precise.

But Miss Miniver was unaware that anything strange was afoot. Indeed, the only person to make note of the occasion was the earl himself, who had instructed his driver to take him directly from the Worth ball to Anne’s elegant terrace house. But when he ascended the steps to her front door and lifted his hand to the brass knocker, he found he no longer had any interest in seeing her. The urge was, quite simply, gone.

Which for the earl was quite strange indeed.

Chapter 2

Did you notice the Earl of Renminster dancing with Miss Susannah Ballister last night at the Worth ball? If not, for shame—you were the only one. The waltz was the talk of the evening.

It cannot be said that the conversation looked to be of the amiable variety. Indeed, This Author observed flashing eyes and even what appeared to be a heated word.

The earl departed soon after the dance, but Miss Ballister remained for several hours thereafter, and was witnessed dancing with ten other gentlemen before she left in the company of her parents and sister.

Ten gentlemen. Yes, This Author counted. It would have been impossible not to draw comparisons, when her sum total of partners prior to the earl’s invitation was zero.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN
’
S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
,
28 J
ANUARY
1814

T
he Ballisters had never had to worry about money, but neither could they have been called wealthy. Normally this did not bother Susannah; she had never wanted for anything, and she saw no reason for three sets of ear bobs when her one pair of pearls matched all of her clothes quite nicely. Not that she would have refused another pair, mind you; she just didn’t see the need to spend her days pining for jewelry that would never be hers.

But there was one thing that made her wish her family was older, wealthier, possessed a title—anything that would have given them more influence.

And that was the theater.

Susannah adored the theater, adored losing herself in someone else’s story, adored everything from the smell to the lights to the tingly feeling one got in the palms of one’s hands while clapping. It was far more absorbing than a musicale, and certainly more fun than the balls and dances she found herself attending three nights out of seven.

The problem, however, was that her family did not possess a box at any of the theaters deemed appropriate for polite society, and she was not permitted to sit anywhere other than a box. Proper young ladies did not sit with the rabble, her mother insisted. Which meant that the only way Susannah ever got to see a play was when she was invited by someone who did possess a suitable box.

When a note had arrived for her from her Shelbourne cousins inviting her to accompany them that evening to see Edmund Kean perform Shylock in
The Merchant of Venice,
she had nearly wept with joy. Kean had made his debut in the role just four nights earlier, and already all the
ton
was abuzz about it. He had been called magnificent, daring, and unparalleled—all those wonderful words that left a theater lover like Susannah nearly shaking in her desire to see the production.

Except that she hardly expected anyone to invite her to share their box at the theater. She only received invitations to large parties because people were curious to see her reaction to Clive and Harriet’s marriage. Invitations to small gatherings were not forthcoming.

Until the Worth ball on Thursday night.

She supposed she ought to thank the earl. He had danced with her, and now she was considered suitable again. She had received at least eight more invitations to dance after he had left. Oh very well, ten. She had counted. Ten men had invited her to dance, which was ten more than had in the entire three hours she’d spent at the ball before the earl had sought her out.

It was appalling, actually, how much influence one man could exert over society.

She was certain that Renminster was the reason her cousins had extended the invitation. She didn’t think the Shelbournes had been consciously avoiding her—the truth was, they were distant cousins and she’d never known them very well. But when an opening had come up in their theater party and they needed another female to even the numbers, how easy it must have been for them to say, “Oh yes, what about Cousin Susannah?” when Susannah’s name had been so prominently featured in Friday’s
Whistledown
column.

Susannah didn’t care why they had suddenly recalled her existence—she was going to see Kean in
The Merchant of Venice
!

“I shall be eternally jealous,” her sister Letitia said as they waited in the drawing room for the Shelbournes to arrive. Their mother had insisted that Susannah be ready at the appropriate hour and not keep their influential relatives waiting. One was supposed to force prospective suitors to cool their heels, but not important relations who might extend coveted invitations.

“I’m sure you will find an opportunity to see the play soon,” Susannah said, but she couldn’t quite restrain her somewhat satisfied smile as she did so.

Letitia sighed. “Maybe they will want to go twice.”

“Maybe they will lend the entire box to Mother and Father,” Susannah said.

Letitia’s face lit up. “An excellent notion! Be sure to suggest—”

“I shall do no such thing,” Susannah cut in. “It would be beyond crass, and—”

“But if the subject comes up…”

Susannah rolled her eyes. “Very well,” she said. “If Lady Shelbourne should happen to say, ‘My dear Miss Ballister, do you think your family might possibly be interested in using our box?’ I shall be sure to answer in the affirmative.”

Letitia shot her a decidedly unamused look.

Just then their butler appeared in the doorway. “Miss Susannah,” he said, “the Shelbourne carriage is parked outside.”

Susannah jumped to her feet. “Thank you. I shall be on my way.”

“I will be waiting for you,” Letitia said, following her into the hall. “I shall expect you to tell me everything.”

“And spoil the play?” Susannah teased.

“Pish. It’s not as if I haven’t read
The Merchant of Venice
ten times already. I
know
the ending. I just want to hear about Kean!”

“He’s not as handsome as Kemble,” Susannah said, pulling on her coat and muff.

“I’ve
seen
Kemble,” Letitia said impatiently. “I haven’t seen Kean.”

Susannah leaned forward and placed an affectionate kiss on her sister’s cheek. “I shall tell you every last detail about my evening. I promise you.”

And then she braved the frigid cold and walked outside to the Shelbourne carriage.

Less than an hour later, Susannah was comfortably seated in the Shelbourne box at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, avidly gazing about the newly redesigned theater. She’d happily taken the seat on the farthest edge of the box. The Shelbournes and their guests were chattering away, ignoring, as was the entire audience, the farce that the acting company was performing as a prelude to the real performance. Susannah also paid no attention; she wanted nothing more than to inspect the new theater.

It was ironic, really—the best seats in the house seemed to be down in the pit with all the rabble, as her mother liked to put it. Here she was in one of the most expensive boxes in the theater, and a large pillar partially blocked their view. She was going to have to twist significantly in her seat, and in fact even lean on the ledge just to see the performance.

“Be careful you don’t fall,” murmured a low, male voice.

Susannah snapped to attention. “My lord!” she said in surprise, turning to come face to face with the Earl of Renminster, of all people. He was seated in the box directly next to that of the Shelbournes, close enough so that they could converse over the gap between the boxes.

“What a nice surprise,” he said, with a pleasant and yet slightly mysterious smile. Susannah rather thought all his smiles a touch mysterious.

“I’m with my cousins,” she said, motioning to the people next to her. “The Shelbournes,” she added, even though that was quite obvious.

“Good evening, Lord Renminster,” Lady Shelbourne said excitedly. “I didn’t realize your box was next to ours.”

He nodded his greeting. “I haven’t had the opportunity to see very much theater recently, I’m afraid.”

Lady Shelbourne’s chin bobbed up and down in agreement. “It’s so difficult to make time. We all have such busy schedules this year. Who would have thought so many people would find themselves back in London in January?”

“And all for a spot of snow,” Susannah could not help commenting.

Lord Renminster chuckled at her quiet joke before leaning forward to address Lady Shelbourne. “I do think the play is beginning,” he said. “It has been charming as always to see you.”

“Indeed,” Lady Shelbourne trilled. “I do hope you will be able to attend my Valentine’s Day ball next month.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he assured her.

Lady Shelbourne sat back in her seat, looking both satisfied and relieved, then resumed her conversation with her best friend, Liza Pritchard, who Susannah was now absolutely convinced was in love with Lady Shelbourne’s brother, Sir Royce Pemberley, who was also sitting in the box.

Susannah rather thought he returned the sentiment, but of course neither one of them seemed to realize it, and in fact, Miss Pritchard appeared to be setting her cap for the other unmarried gentleman in attendance, Lord Durham, who was, in Susannah’s opinion, a bit of a bore. But it wasn’t her place to inform them of their feelings, and besides they, along with Lady Shelbourne, seemed to be conducting a rather involved conversation without her.

Which left her with Lord Renminster, who was still watching her over the gap between their respective theater boxes. “Do you enjoy Shakespeare?” she asked him conversationally. Her joy at having been invited to see Kean’s Shylock was such that she could even manage a sunny smile for
him
.

“I do,” he replied, “although I prefer the histories.”

She nodded, deciding that she was willing to carry on a polite conversation if he could manage the same. “I thought you might. They’re rather more serious.”