The Poor Relation

The Poor Relation

By

Margaret Bennett

Published E-Book: April, 2013 by Margaret Anne Bennett Feuerbacher

London, 1812

There it was again, that feeling of anticipation--a premonition, if you will--that something momentous was about to happen.  Chloe experienced it earlier when she first walked into the brightly lit ballroom of the Marquis of Clairmont’s Berkley Square townhouse.

“Look over there
, oh, but do not actually look, Miss Woodforde!” cried the young woman sitting next to her, all in the same breath.  “See those two ladies by the front door.  They are Lady Sally Jersey and Lady Emily Sefton, patronesses of Almack’s.”

Chloe Woodforde sat up straighter, taking in this grand affair, the come-out ball for the Marquis’s lovely young daughter, Lady Sarah.  It boasted being a sad crust, the talk of the Season for, with few exceptions, the guest
s were of the highest echelons of society.  She was there strictly because of her great aunt, Lady Sophia Milbanke, an eccentric, dowager baroness who had been an old school chum of Lady Clairmont’s mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Clairmont.

With a nervous laugh behind her lacy fan, Chloe’s new friend added, “I hear, for all its exclusive company, Almack’s is excessively dull, and that they serve only stale cakes and tepid lemonade.  Can you imagine such an august place frequented by the
haute ton
being so miserly?”

No, thought Chloe, she co
uld not as she had never been, nor was she likely to become, a part of that illustrious set.  For several minutes, she studied the doyennes, two of the seven arbiters who decided if an individual’s blood lines were exalted enough to be included among their elite group.  As the two elegant women moved along the sidelines of the dance floor together, Chloe noticed how people stepped aside, being overly careful not to obstruct their progress, before she turned back to her young companion. 

A pretty brunette,
Amy Sansbury possessed a naturally cheery disposition, and whose unexpected company Chloe found refreshing compared to what she was used to, which was mostly conversing with her aunt’s elderly cronies.  Like herself, Amy lacked both title and fortune, two prerequisites needed to guarantee any young lady a successful Season among the
ton
.  Amy, however, did possess connections.  Her mother was a second cousin to the Marchioness of Clairmont, one of London’s foremost political hostesses, and, therefore, doors were opened to her.  Amy had married a military officer, currently testing his skills in a game of piquet in one of the anterooms set aside for just such amusement.

At first, Chloe had been intrigued by
Amy Sansbury since she had declined dancing with several gentlemen who had solicited her hand, feigning tiredness.  However, by the time the third set had formed, the young bride confided in Chloe that she was actually
enceinte
and thought it best to leave off any robust exercise.  Chloe, who at four and twenty was considered on the shelf, thought her new friend very young and not a little silly but still enjoyed her company.

Usually, Chloe chose to sit with the chaperones and dowagers since she found it less
embarrassing than standing amid the debutantes, waiting to be asked to dance.  Not that she ever stood for long, at least, not in the beginning.  Her clear hazel eyes reflected a quiet intelligence, and with a creamy complexion and honey gold hair, set off tonight by an apricot silk gown her aunt had given her, she presented a pleasing if not remarkable figure.  Yet, once her situation became known, a penniless relative with no prospects playing companion to a dowager baroness, few of the London bucks requested a second dance.

“
Oh, do look who has arrived, Miss Woodforde!” exclaimed Amy, elbowing Chloe to gain her attention.  “My Thomas has told me all about him.”

“Who?” inquired Chloe, though she suspected she knew.  She had recognized the distinguished middle aged couple belatedly entering the ballroom as Lord and Lady Gordon Howard.  They were acquaintances of her great aunt, and Chloe was aware of Lord Howard’s involvement with the Foreign Office, as was everyone who followed England’s progress in the war against France.  Directly behind them
was a beautiful blonde, dressed in a clinging pale pink silk gown that shockingly resembled the color of flesh with a décolletage that nearly caused Chloe to blush.

But it was undoubtedly
the lady’s escort to whom Amy Sansbury referred.  He was tall, which lent him a commanding presence, with broad shoulders and chest that tapered to slender hips and long muscular legs. Besides his size, Chloe noted thick dark brown hair was fashionably clipped and combed back to expose a sun-bronzed complexion.  He was impeccably dressed, all in black except for his white linen and white, satin embroidered waistcoat.  In the pristine folds of his cravat rested an enormous, rectangular cut emerald that reflected the candlelight from the crystal chandeliers.

“Who?”
Amy Sansbury echoed incredulously.  “Why, the Viscount Camden.  Have you never heard of him?  He is a renowned rake.  Of course, he has been out of country for the past few years,” she knowingly informed Chloe while sitting straighter in her chair to better see him advance to the dance floor with the sophisticated beauty on his arm.  In an awed conspiratorial tone, Amy whispered, “Spying!”

“Really
, a spy?”  Chloe coughed in her gloved hand to cover a laugh.  Anyone who was out of the country for any length of time during these turbulent years with Napoleon terrorizing the continent was instantly accused of being a spy for the Crown.

“
Well, Thomas did not say he was a spy exactly,” admitted Amy, “but he did say the Viscount has been of great service to the Foreign Office.”

“
Thomas?” asked Chloe trying to follow Amy’s train of thought.

“Yes, my husband, Capt
ain Sansbury, and I overheard some of Thomas’s friends say that he is quite dangerous,” the younger woman continued, unaware of Chloe’s skepticism.  “He does have that certain aura about him.”

“Aura?” asked Chloe, now truly puzzled.

Amy threw Chloe a look of disbelief over her obtrusiveness.  “Surely you must agree that his unusual coloring and extraordinary dark eyes make him a most sinister figure.”

Yes, Chloe had to admit that the
gentleman’s eyes were exceptional.  They looked almost black, she thought, and penetratingly cold under dark bushy eyebrows.  He was not handsome, but his square jaw and hawkish nose lent him an appealing, virile appearance, reminding her of a buccaneer.  She understood how women would be easily drawn to such a strong countenance.  Despite her better judgment, she couldn’t keep from asking, “The lady with him, who is she?”

“La, that one!”  Amy
remarked flippantly.  “She is Mrs. Judith Palmer, a widow now, but three years ago it was the talk of the Season when she married Joshua Palmer.  He was a positively ancient old codger who conveniently up and died for her within six months.  Disgusting,” she said self righteously, shaking her head.  “He was very rich and must have left her well off, for she always dresses in the latest fashions.  It all seems so vulgar, does it not?”

For the sake of argument, Chloe nodded.  But observing the beauty gliding around the ballroom in the arms of the fascinating Viscount Camden, it was easy to understand why a woman might accept and even encourage a match
with an older gentleman, especially if she had only her beauty to barter for a husband.  Chloe had once found herself in a similar situation, though it had not been one of her choosing.

To forestall any more of Amy Sansbury’s gossip, she made her excuses, saying she really must check on her aunt, and rose to make her way along the sideline of the dance fl
oor to the double doors that led out into a wide hall.  There she encountered the Marchioness of Clairmont in conversation with Lady Howard, but since they knew her only as Lady Milbanke’s companion, neither paid her any attention.  So she continued on to the card room.

~~~~~ 

“Such a crush, Adele,” said Lady Agatha Howard to her hostess.  “You must be proud of your Sarah.  Definitely an Incomparable, like her mother was.”

The Marchioness of Clairmont let out a delighted laugh.  “At the risk of sounding conceited, I must agree.  Oh, but if you only knew the migraines I have had to endure over this ball.  I am glad my other two are boys.  They are so much easier to deal with.  I simply let Clairmont lecture them.”

“My own Elizabeth will be making her come-out within a scant few years, and you may well be forewarned that I will be petitioning your help.”

“Gladly, Agatha, as long as you expect nothing more of me than advice.”

Lady Howard glanced about the nearly deserted hallway, then said, “Gordon expressly sent me to find you, Adele.  He wants to be sure you have invited the Viscount Camden and his current interest, Mrs. Palmer, to your house party next week.”

“Tell me, Agatha, do you have the slightest inclination of what this is all about?  Clairmont will not give me a clue.”

“None, for Gordon has also been as closed as a clam.”

“I have no objections to hosting Camden, naughty man though he may be,” the Marchioness confided to her friend.  “He has always acted the perfect gentleman, being very courteous towards me.  But I cannot say the same for the merry widow.  Our dear Sarah will be going with us, so we may all take advantage of a much needed rest after all the hustle and bustle of this past month.  But between foisting Mrs. Palmer and those other two gentlemen on me—and
one of them is French, of all things—I can only wonder where Clairmont has his head.”

“It does sound as if they are plotting something?” mused Agatha Howard, a slight frown marring her otherwise smooth brow.  A beauty in her own right, she regarded her friend through knowing, though troubled, blue eyes.

“To complicate matters, that horrid harpy, Edwina Reaves, overheard me earlier talking with Judith Palmer about Clairmont Court and wrestled an invitation out of me for herself as well as her son.  What a miscellany of guests I will have, none whom I particularly like, with the exception of you, of course, Agatha,” she concluded, giving an expressive shudder of her petite frame.

“Why not salvage your sanity by including a few others?” whispered Lady How
ard in her friend’s ear just as Lady Sally Jersey, who was known for her nose for gossip, came toward them.

~~~
~~ 

Meanwhile, Chloe had little trouble locating
her Aunt Sophia, as she was highly cognizant of Lady Milbanke’s two main interests, strong drink and cards.  The former was the reason Chloe resided with her great aunt, who stoutly refused to acknowledge that she was old enough to have a grand niece.  “Tell no one of our true relationship, child, else you’ll be sent packing,” the dowager baroness admonished her more than once. 

When it came to the pasteboards, t
his diminutive and deceptively frail looking woman was a regular Caption Shark and unaccountably played none better than after she’d tossed off several glasses of strong spirits.

Entrenched in the first parlor, the baroness was totally engrossed in
a game of whist.  One look at her aunt’s flushed face, and Chloe stifled a groan.  In her late fifties, with wispy silver curls stuffed under a Belgium lace cap, Aunt Sophia’s normally pale, though often heavily rouged, cheeks were enhanced from having imbibed far more than was good for her.  As usual, it had not affected her playing, evidenced by the substantial pile of chips resting in front of her. 

Going to stand behind her great aunt, Chloe looked down at the hand the
baroness was holding and blinked.  Good heavens, the old dear held nearly all face cards.  Dutifully, Chloe stood by while the baroness played out her hand.  Then after a few minutes of play, with a high tittering laugh, she hauled in another pile of chips from the center of the table to the edge where they were unceremoniously deposited into her bulging reticule.

“Aunt Sophia, we really must go,” prompted Chloe, knowing even as she spoke it was going to take much more than a request to pry her
great aunt out of the chair. 

“Yes, yes, child, in a few minutes,” came the expected reply.  It was the only sign the old baroness gave that she’d heard
Chloe as her pale blue eyes remained focused on the deck of cards in the center of the table.

Lady Milbanke’s partner, an elderly gentleman well into his sixties with
sparse, shaggy gray hair and a white mustache, observed Chloe through his wire rimmed glasses that tended to enlarge his kind gray eyes.  Smiling at her, he amiably asked, “Ah, Miss Woodforde, must you leave yet?”

“I am afraid so, Sir Morley,” she replied with a
wry grin at her tipsy aunt.  “It is growing quite late.”

Checking his gold time piece hanging on a chain pulled f
rom a pocket in his puce waistcoat, he said, “So ‘tis.  We’re into the wee hours of the morning already.”  Raising his short, slightly stout frame out of the chair, he came around and took Lady Milbanke’s arm and assisted Chloe helping her aunt out of her chair.  “Come, come, Sophia.  Your niece has the right of it.”