Authors: Barbara Metzger
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Victorian, #Regency, #Historical Romance
A Loyal Companion (8 page)
They didn't move fast enough to miss hearing Lady Atterbury's instructions to her butler before the door was closed: "Marston, we are not at home to Major Conover. Or Lord Warebourne. Whatever the scoundrel chooses to call himself."
A dog with a bad reputation is given a wide berth. Or shot.
S
ome things are better left unknown. Like the meaning behind the expression "It's a dog-eat-dog world." We know such things exist, but we do not have to speak of them, no more than we would explain the origin of "hangdog look," at least not in polite company. Shame, either personal or collective, does not need to be aired in public. For once, I agreed with Lady Atterbury when she commanded Miss Sonia to have nothing more to do with Major Conover—Lord Warebourne, and then refused to say why. "The details are too sordid for your ears," she said.
Human youngsters are forever asking why. Why can't they fly like birds, why can't they breathe underwater like fish? How in a badger's backside can anyone answer that? Why must they stay away from silver-tongued strangers with shady backgrounds?
The answer is usually "Because I say so."
This answer seldom satisfies anyone.
Every fox cub ever born has been told not to look under a hedgehog's skirts, and every fox cub ever born has had a swollen snoutful of prickles. Forbid a lass to step out with a rake and a rogue, she'll elope. It's been that way since men started falling off the edges of the earth, looking for the unknown. Danger, forbidden fruit. Think of Eve. Everyone blames the snake—they aren't my favorites either, right down there with tapeworms—but Eve was just young. Curious and contrary and a bad dresser.
Anyway, Miss Sonia always did have a soft spot for the underdog.
"Suffice it to say, Sonia, I would not be doing right by you or the Harkness name if I permitted you near a blackguard like Darius Conover. Or Warebourne, though he shames the title."
"But, Grandmama, I am sure I have read his name in the dispatches. He is one of our own brave soldiers. Surely he deserves better than this Turkish treatment. And he took care of Fitz and brought him home. I am in his debt, Your Grace, and cannot dismiss him so cavalierly."
"Write him a letter," the dowager snapped, rapping Sonia's fingers with a teaspoon. "Then have nothing more to do with the knave, do you hear me, missy? That is all I am going to say on the subject. Drink your tea."
So Sonia asked Blanche.
"The new Lord Warebourne?" Blanche asked, her eyes wide. They were pretty hazel eyes, when she took them out of a book. The two girls were best of friends now, and Blanche had lost most of the gruff cover to her shyness. They were on their way back from Hatchard's when Sonia startled her companion with the question. "However did you get to meet him? He's not accepted anywhere."
"I know he's scorned by society; what I want to know is why. As for meeting him, he brought Fitz home. He seemed sad and tired and overburdened with cares. I'd like to help him."
Blanche shook her head. "But, Sonia, he's not a pigeon with a broken wing or a kitchen maid needing your encouragement to see the tooth drawer. I don't think there's anything you can do, except make mice-feet of your own reputation."
Sonia's chin rose. "If you don't tell me, I'll ask the servants."
Blanche shrugged. "The original scandal happened years ago, at least five or six. Everything would have blown over by now, except that the girl he ruined was well placed, and he came back from the wars." Blanche could feel Sonia's impatience, so she got more specific. "The girl was Ansel Berke's sister Hermione. Lady Rosellen's sister, too, of course, although I think she was not long married to Conare at the time. Anyway, Hermione was found to be breeding, and she claimed Darius Conover was the father. Darius denied responsibility and refused to marry the chit."
"Perhaps he wasn't the father?"
"Who's to say? But the whole coil could have been kept quiet if he had married the girl anyway. Or if Berke had just sent her off to Ireland to have the babe. Instead Berke challenged Conover to a duel, so naturally Hermione's name became a byword. Again, things might have been settled if Darius took the usual path, but he didn't. He would not accept Berke's challenge, saying the chit wasn't worth dying for, or fleeing the country for if he killed Berke, or losing his commission over. Conover had just signed up, I think, and Sir Arthur was very strict about his officers not dueling."
"That sounds very intelligent. Dueling is barbaric."
"Yes, but Berke didn't see it that way. He'd thought to force Darius to marry Hermione one way or t'other. So he called Conover a coward, and still Darius would not fight. Ansel Berke convinced everyone that Conover acted without honor. You have to know the store men set on honor, so Darius was cut. At first his brother Milo kept the worst of it away. He was the Earl of Warebourne, after all, but then his wife was breeding and he stayed in the country. And then Hermione killed herself."
"Oh my. The poor young woman."
"And Conover's hopes of being received in London were destroyed with her. They say he threw himself into the Peninsular Campaign to try to regain his honor, volunteering for hazardous assignments, making daredevil rescues."
"Surely that must have proved he was no coward, at least."
"I daresay it did. That would have turned the tide, too, especially after Milo Warebourne and his wife, Suzannah, were both lost in a carriage accident without leaving an heir. An eligible, wealthy earl can be excused many a youthful indiscretion."
"Except?"
"Except Berke would not let the matter rest. Nor would his other sister, Rosellen, whose husband, Preston Conover, Lord Conare, is incidentally next in line to the earldom. I think Lord Conare would not be upset if Warebourne is convinced to return to the perils of war. Conare has Prinny's ear, and Rosellen the Almack's hostesses', so your major's case is next to hopeless. Forget him."
"But what about the children? I should think Lady Rosellen would want Lord Warebourne received if only for their sakes. What will happen to them if they can never take their places in society?"
"What has that to do with Rosellen? Haven't you seen she cares for nobody but herself?"
Sonia nodded, dreading the time she would be consigned to the arctic lady's chaperonage.
"There's another thing," Blanche recalled, "and it's about the children. When Darius came home on injury leave, he stopped at Conare's place in Sussex to visit with his nieces. Neither Preston nor Rosellen were there, naturally, since they are always in London or Bath or at some house party. Darius scooped the little girls right out from under their care, saying they weren't taking proper charge of the children."
"Good for him!" Sonia exclaimed. "And much better for the children. Just think, leaving those dear little girls for the servants to raise!"
Blanche frowned. That's how she was raised. "Anyway, Lady Conare took it as an insult. I heard her saying so to your grandmother. They are thinking of petitioning the Crown to have themselves named as guardian instead of Warebourne, on grounds that he is not morally fit."
"That's outrageous. Why, anyone could see he loves those children." Actually, Sonia had seen right away that he knew as much about little girls as she knew about steam engines, but she, at least, was willing to give him credit for trying. "And as you say, Rosellen cannot claim affection for the children."
"No, but the Warebournes left a vast, unentailed inheritance to their children. Whoever gets them as wards gets to control that money for a long time. So you see, there is every reason to keep Darius Conover discredited."
"I see that the so-called polite world is an evil place of manipulation, greed, and ambition. Why, one man's life is being ruined for a crime he might never have committed, and three little girls will be ostracized for no wrongdoing of their own at all!" Sonia stamped her foot. "Well, I don't care. They were good to Fitz, and now I have to repay the kindness. That's how I was raised. I shall stand their friend."
Blanche almost dropped her books. "Don't be a ninnyhammer, Sonia. You'll be ruined. And you can't have thought; you're so good, you think there's good in everyone. What if he really is a cad?"
"What if he isn't? You cannot expect me to take the word of Rosellen. I'll
have to know Lord Warebourne better to decide for myself. I certainly owe him that much."
Blanche sighed with relief. "That's fine then. He'll never be invited to ton affairs, so you'll never see him again. And not even you would think of calling on him at home. Would you, Sonia?"
"Of course not, goose." But there was nothing to stop her from walking her dog in the park.
Fancy that, Sonia thought after one simple inquiry, Ware House was just
across the square from Lady Atterbury's. She might have seen the Warebourne children in the park any number of times, if she'd been looking. Now that she was, she decided to leave nothing to chance. She sent her footman, Ian, over to find out when the girls were usually taken for a walk. She met them and their nursemaid at the gate closest to Ware House.
The nursemaid had no fault to find with Sonia's taking the children off. The brats finally stopped whining and moping when they saw the dog; Miss Randolph was obviously a lady; and that handsome red-haired footman had a fine line of Irish blarney that fair turned a girl's head. Besides, her employer would never know. The major had not come out of his library since bringing the children home yesterday without the dog. A fine job that'd been, too, trying to stop all the crying and screaming so she could get some rest before her evening engagement with the head groom. Some fine lady wanted to play with Meg Bint's charges, she had Meg's blessings.
At first the girls were uncertain of Sonia, considering the scene at her house yesterday. Fitz's exuberant greeting quickly had them laughing and babbling like old friends, especially when Sonia fetched some gingerbread from the tapestry bag at her feet and suggested they sit on the bench awhile to catch their breaths.
"There," Sonia told them, "now we can be comfortable. I was so sorry that I didn't get to thank you properly for taking care of Fitz yesterday. I didn't even catch your names. I am Miss Sonia Randolph, and this, of course, is Fitz."
Ever conscious of the proprieties, Benice stood and made a curtsy, her dignity somewhat marred by the crumbs that fell off her lap. Sonia took no notice. "We are pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Randolph," Benice solemnly recited as if from memory. "And we are the Conover sisters of Ware House. I am the oldest, so I am Miss Conover, but you may call me Benice."
"Very prettily done," Sonia congratulated, causing the pale child to blush with pleasure.
"My middle sister is Genessa, but we call her Gen. Gen, make your curtsy!" The minx in the middle crammed the last of the gingerbread in her mouth and bobbled up and down, grinning. Sonia grinned back and handed over a napkin.
"And that's Baby. She doesn't curtsy yet. She doesn't talk much, either. She used to talk more, before…" The child's voice faded and her smile disappeared altogether. "Her name is Bettina. Uncle Darius says she's too old to be called Baby, so he calls her Tina. That's what our father called her." Benice's lip trembled.
"I'm sure you must miss your father ever so much. I miss mine, and he's only in Berkshire. He always called me Sunny. Do you think you might do that, so I don't feel so lonely?"
Three heads nodded somberly, then Gen asked, "What about your mother? Ours is gone to heaven with Papa."
"Mine is there, too. Maybe they'll meet and be friends, just like us. What do you think? Meantime," she said, changing the subject, "I brought you some gifts, just to say thank you from Fitz. I didn't quite know what you would like, so I hope I chose correctly." She reached into the carpetbag. "This is for you, Benice," she said, pulling out a tiny gold locket on a chain. "See, it opens. I put a snip of Fitz's hair inside—from his tail, where he won't miss it—so you won't forget him. Of course, if you have a beau, you might put his miniature there," she teased. Genessa hooted, but Benice was smiling through her blushes, and asked if Sonia would please put it on for her. "I'll wear it always, Miss Sunny. It's beautiful."
"And, Gen, this is for you." It was a bilbo-catch toy, a wooden ball meant to be caught in the wooden cup tied to it with string. "Topping!" Gen shouted, running off to try it.
The littlest Conover was jumping up and down on the bench, yelling, "Me. Me."
Sonia laughed. "I wouldn't forget you, Tiny! Here." She pulled out a little stuffed pillow in the shape of a dog, with buttons sewn on for eyes and nose, and a ribbon around its neck for a collar. "Mimi!" the baby cooed, hugging the pillow to her.
Then Sonia had Fitz do some of his tricks, to show what a smart dog he really was, even if he did get lost and run over. Fitz sat and lay down and rolled over, he shook hands and barked and fetched. He went right at a hand signal, left at another, and concluded with his bow, head lowered between his legs. The children, and a few passersby, applauded happily.
"Can we play hide and seek?" Gen asked. "Blackie was the best finder."
So the little girls ran squealing behind trees and under benches, and Fitz and Sonia made believe they couldn't find them. Then they played blind-man's buff, with one of the napkins as blindfold, and, finally, a lively game of tag before it was time to go.
"Do you think you might come tomorrow?" Sonia asked, and three dark heads nodded vigorously. "At the same time?" More nodding. "Maybe your uncle will join us." Three little girls shook their heads no.
"He says he doesn't want to go anywhere, only back to the army," Genessa confided.
"And he stays in the library, throwing books," Benice fretted.
"Oh dear. Perhaps he would come if you tell him that I need to consult with him about Fitz's leg. What do you think?"
They all grinned. They thought it just might work.
Tag, hide-and-go-seek… cat and mouse?
S
ometimes I envy Tippy the turnspit. Granted, her life is narrow, lived entirely between the kitchen and Cook's bedchamber, but she is too small to face the world on her own anyway. Her responsibilities are no bigger than her short little legs. Her kind has it easy now that there are enclosed stoves, so she has two jobs. By day she has a few hours on a wheel. The scenery is boring, but she says she uses the time to compose verse. By night she is a foot warmer. How hard could that be? She has none of these anguished decisions I now face. No one's future hangs on her actions. Nowhere does she feel the Great Dane's torment, unless it's to baste or not to baste.
I am torn. I have been wrong in the past about Major Conover. He does have a title, he is well to pass, and he did not accept a reward for bringing me home when we both know I found my own way. But he is still an outcast and he still smokes. Furthermore, he throws books. A desecration!
Worse, there is an alarm going off in my head. It's clanging Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella. Aristocratic humans have wet nurses, so ladies don't even have to see their babies, much less care for them. Stepmothers have no bonds whatsoever, neither blood nor milk; they don't have to love their adopted children at all.
I do not think Miss Sonia could ever be an evil stepmother, but how much love is there to go around? I know I grew fond of my "Blackie's" family, but I only truly love Miss Sonia. Of course, I am a good dog; I do not expect such devotion from mere humans.
Miss Sonia was growing fond of the Warebourne girls. Wouldn't she feel guilty about loving her own children better? Worse, what if there was not enough love to share so many ways? Benice, Gen, and Tina needed so much, perhaps Miss Sonia wouldn't care about having her own babies? I could have been flattened by a barrel for nothing!
No, I dare not take a chance. 'Twas better to nip this relationship in the bud now, than have to nip a butt later. I will play with the children when we meet in the park. I will play with them so hard and so rough, we'll never be allowed near them again. They'll all thank me someday.
Sonia took an inordinate amount of time selecting an outfit to wear to go for
a romp in the square with her dog and some children. Goodness, she chided
herself, she wasn't trying to fix Lord Warebourne's interest or anything, she just wanted to be friends with the man. Besides, he mightn't even come. She finally selected a rose-colored walking dress with its fuller skirt and higher neck than many of her new clothes. She pinned a bunch of silk violets under the brim of her chip-straw bonnet, and tied its pink ribbons along her cheek. She took her maid along with her as well as Ian, the footman, so she broke no minor rules, on her way to break major ones. She also brought a ball, so Fitz and the girls could play on their own. She sat on a bench near the Ware House side of the little park, Fitz at her feet, and waited.
He came, following slowly behind the excited children, who immediately ran laughing and tumbling after Fitz and the ball. Darius bowed stiffly, then took a seat on Sonia's bench, as far from Miss Randolph as possible without toppling off. He did not look in her direction. To a casual observer, they would appear chance-met strangers enjoying the day. Ian stepped behind a tree with the nursemaid, Meg, but Maisie Holbrook very properly kept vigil from the next bench over, keeping Miss Randolph quite in view if not exactly in hearing, while she mended a bit of lace in her lap.
Sonia studied the major while he observed the noisy game of catch. He seemed even more careworn today than she remembered, older, harder. He sat rigidly erect, military fashion, only his injured leg angled for comfort. Sonia could feel his disapproval and wondered if she had made a mistake, asking him to come where he had no wish to be. She never meant to add to the officer's discomfort.
She was about to call to Fitz, to leave Major Conover to his solitude, when he frowned, then spoke, still without looking at her. "The dog does not seem to be in a decline, Miss Randolph. He hardly favors the leg at all."
Sonia looked to where Fitz was barking and jumping, chasing the ball. "No, sir, and I am sorry the children told you such a bouncer. I did want to thank you properly for saving him, however, and to apologize for that scene at Atterbury House."
"No need, I am sure." He cleared his throat. "Miss Randolph, I appreciate your attention to the children. They are in alt over their new friends. I don't know which impressed them more, your kindness or Fitz's repertoire of tricks. Now they won't be so miserable until I can find them a puppy of their own. Or a kitten. There is some disagreement among the ranks, so the decision is still pending. I do thank you, ma'am, but this"—holding his hands out to encompass the park, the bench, his own presence—"was not well done of you. You must be aware by now that I am not fit to be in your company. I heard your own grandmother make that plain."
Sonia raised her chin. "I make my own friends."
"You are very young and foolish, then."
"I am eighteen, and old enough to know when someone has done me a great service. Fitz means the world to me, you see."
"He is a lucky dog to win such affection." He stood to leave. "Still, I cannot let you—"
"Please, don't go yet," she pleaded. "At least tell me how you found Fitz. The children's tale was all full of brave derring-do, mixed in with monkeys and schoolboys and opera singers. That sounds like quite a bumblebroth, even for Fitz."
Darius could not resist the appeal in her voice. He made the mistake of turning to her. Deuce take it, he knew he shouldn't look at those blue eyes, or catch a hint of those adorable dimples. Or note how the pink ribbons of her bonnet brought up the tinge in her velvet cheeks. And those silly violets nestled in gold curls. Gads, he loved violets. He was lost. He'd tell her about the dog's addlepated exploits, then he'd leave. For good.
The telling of the story, the vegetables, the herring, the scattered newspapers, softened the major's features and even brought a twinkle to his brown eyes. Sonia was pleased to see the years and worries slip away. She was also happy to have her own instincts confirmed: He was a good man. Sonia couldn't begin to imagine Lord Berke or any of his friends stopping for a half-dead dog, much less soiling his hands to help the filthy animal.
"I truly am in your debt," she said.
"No, I think I am in yours." Darius smiled and gestured to where Fitz and his nieces were frolicking. The ball long lost, the dog and the girls seemed to be taking turns rolling in a mud puddle. Then they went wading in the decorative fountain, splashing water on an irate matron with a beady-eyed mink tippet draped about her neck. Next Fitz took Baby on a ride through the public flower beds, scattering blossoms for the older girls to make into neck chains and hair wreaths. "I have never seen them so happy."
"And I have never seen Fitz behave so badly. Goodness, he knows he's not supposed to go near the fountains or the gardens. I'm sorry about the little girls' clothes, Major. I don't know what's got into Fitz these days. Perhaps it's spring fever. I'll just whistle him back before someone calls the Watch." Fitz was now digging a hole in the soft dirt with his powerful front legs, spraying debris on the girls and a clerk who hurried past, cursing. Benice found a stick and came to help dig. Gen and Tina just used their hands.
"No, leave them. I've never seen the girls act so… childishly. Especially Benice. They don't laugh enough." Just then Fitz turned and nosed Baby right into the hole. Darius laughed out loud at the stunned expression on the little girl's face.
"Nor do you, I think," Sonia murmured. She hadn't meant him to hear, and blushed when he turned back to her.
"Miss Randolph, you are very kind. Your compassion does you credit, but you mustn't let your tender heart lead you astray. For your own sake, I must go. I can see you have a strong will under that sweetness, but you must not exercise it on my behalf. I am not a charity case." He spoke gently, to discourage her, not to insult the enchanting young miss. "Truly I do not need your sympathy."
Sonia stared at the reticule in her lap. "I had hoped to enlist yours." She untied the strings and withdrew a white envelope and handed it to him. "Tomorrow night is my come-out ball. I wish you would come."
Darius looked at the envelope and read his name neatly inscribed, Major Darius Conover, Lord Warebourne. He laughed harshly. "Haven't you heard anything I said, Miss Randolph? Not even the title will keep me from being tossed on my ear."
"Not at my ball, my lord, not if I invite you myself. I am acquainted with so few people, you see, I should like to have someone familiar there. Everyone else will be Grandmother's friends."
"Deuce take it, my girl, you'll know fewer and fewer if I sit in your pocket. You'll be cut by them all."
Her lips formed a determined line. "I am not asking you to sit in my pocket, my lord, just to stand my friend. One dance is all I wish."
He gave that same humorless laugh. "I cannot even dance, Miss Randolph, with this blasted leg. A fine figure of fun that would make of us, were I to try and fall on my face in front of you and half the ton."
"I am not permitted the waltz yet, so I shall not be dancing every dance, even if I am asked."
"Even if you are asked? Are you fishing for compliments, Miss Randolph? You are beautiful, charming, and well dowered. There will be bucks and beaux lined up along the sidewalks of Grosvenor Square just waiting to ask you!"
Sonia's face was as pink as the ribbons on her bonnet. "I never meant to be so forward, my lord, truly I did not. I just do not know many of those… bucks and beaux, and thought I might be more comfortable sitting out a waltz with someone I know. I'm sorry. It was very improper of me to ask."
"Miss Randolph, your being here in the park with me is improper, and you dashed well know it. Your handing me an invitation your guardian didn't issue is deucedly irregular. Asking a gentleman, and I use the term loosely, for a dance would set you beyond the pale. I am beginning to think there is the heart of a hoyden under that demure exterior," he said sternly, until he caught the beginnings of her dimples. "Are you really comfortable sitting with me?"
She nodded.
"Every other respectable female goes off in a swoon if I half nod in her direction. Why aren't you afraid?"
She countered his question with one of her own: "Do I have any reason to be afraid?"
"Beyond fearing to be tarred with the same brush? No, Miss Randolph, you never need to be afraid of me. Never."
"There. I knew Fitz wouldn't befriend a bounder." She called for the dog and turned to leave, kissing the muddy children and giving Darius one last brilliant smile. "Will you at least please consider the invitation?"
He nodded. That was all he could do, considering Miss Randolph's smile turned his brain to mush.
Darius did contemplate the invitation as he carried two exhausted, grimy children home. Blister it, where was that wretched nursemaid anyway? Benice could hardly drag his cane, while he suffered along with both Gen and Tina in his arms. Gen was smiling at him, which was worth a walk to the Isle of Wight. He knew he had Miss Randolph to thank for that, and again considered the engraved card. He thought about the ball, picturing Miss Randolph twirling in some lucky devil's arms, laughing up into some fortunate chap's eyes. Then he thought what a wretched mull he'd made of his life. Heaven seemed to be waiting just out of reach behind a locked door, and everyone but Darius Conover had the key.
Sonia and Fitz, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, made two stops on her way out of the park. First she checked with the flower girl to make sure lots of violets were on order for the ball. Most of the flowers and greenery for the formal arrangements were coming from Lady Atterbury's favorite florist, but Sonia saw no reason her friends shouldn't profit from the party, too. The pieman was already providing a quantity of gooseberry tarts to augment the Atterbury kitchens.
Sonia's last stop was by the bench of the silver-haired man feeding the squirrels, where she sat down before the elderly gentleman could struggle to his feet. Fitz sank to the ground next to them. A squirrel ran right over the snoring dog, and he didn't move. Sonia took another card out of her reticule and handed it to the old man.
"I already got one, missy," he rasped.
"I know, and I already got your refusal. I am hoping you'll reconsider and accept this one." She proceeded to tell him why. He shook his head no. She teased and cajoled until he nodded yes, then she kissed his cheek and went home humming a waltz.
So much for the best-laid plans of mice and mongrels.
T
onight I stand guard like Cerberus, watchdog of the underworld, I wish I had three heads like mighty Cerberus, to keep better vigil at the ball. Marston, the butler, defends the front entry against indignity, calling off the guests' names and honorifics with resonant cadences. I have been assigned the rear garden. I was told, "Fitz, you stay outside tonight." That is a lot of responsibility. I patrol the yard to make sure no intruders come over the walls. I watch the lantern-lighted paths to guarantee no young couples go beyond the line. I pace the balcony outside the ballroom to keep rakes from taking advantage of the darkness and a miss needing fresh air. Mostly I try to keep sight of Miss Sonia as she dances and strolls about, meeting this handsome youth, smiling at that likely lad, granting a quadrille to a paragon in puce satin.
I wish Muffy were here. She could imitate a wig and sit atop one of the footmen's heads and guard the refreshments. Tippy assures me there are always leftovers, but this is my first London ball. I admit I am nervous.
I am not apprehensive that Miss Sonia will not "take." She has been considered an Incomparable since the receiving line. From the drawing room window I hear Miss Sonia discussed in glowing terms, thank St. Francis. She is described as no niminy-piminy girl, but not too coming either. She has fresh charm, not airs and affectations. She is just right, and her dowry is nothing to sneeze at either. We are a success. I am worried, however, that she will be taken with the wrong man. Lady Atterbury says that the
crème de la crème of society is here tonight. What if its dregs arrive, too?
I wonder if he will come, this lord who would be a soldier. If he likes Miss Sonia, he will come, because he wants to be with her and because she asked. If he likes her, though, he won't come, lest he hurt her chances and disturb Lady Atterbury. More complications. Sometimes I think my life would be easier if they were like trout, the females laying their eggs in one place and the males coming there to leave a token of their affection before going about their own business.
Major Conover or not, tonight is a turning point. I can feel it in my belly. Maybe that's the wine I tasted with Ian earlier, just to make sure it hadn't turned. But Miss
Sonia's beau ideal might be here tonight. He might be kissing her fingertips this very minute, while I make fog-breath on the glass doors. Rats!
Still, I am curious about this diversion they call a ball, a toy, a plaything. I am trying to understand what they find so entertaining about cramming four hundred people in space for three, standing on line for hours to shake someone's hand, having their feet trod upon, their names vilified behind their backs, and their heads muddled with champagne. They gamble beyond their means, and they dance like performing bears.
At first the men are in groups on one side of the room, and the women on the other. Then some of the braver lads ask the most well-favored lasses for the set. Lady Atterbury and her friends go around forcing other gentlemen to take the floor, but some of them escape to the card room or the balcony to blow a cloud—incidentally obscuring my view. Some of the girls are therefore left without partners, so they take up positions around the perimeter and pretend they are just another flower arrangement.
When the music begins, the dancers all follow the same patterns and movements. Everyone to the right, everyone to the left, as if they are being herded by a Chopin-loving collie. The waltz is different, but of course, the young ladies, the ones in whose honor the ball is thrown, cannot take part. They sit and watch their older sisters and widowed aunts snabble the most dashing bachelors while they are left with sputtering striplings.
I am intrigued to see the elite at play. Are they having fun yet?
Lady Atterbury was pleased. Not even Sally Jersey or those other rattlepates from Almack's could find fault tonight. Every surface of Atterbury House gleamed, the staff was superbly and unobtrusively efficient, the refreshments extravagant. The dowager had expected no less.
At first she was annoyed with the floral arrangements, banks of daisies and ferns in the ballroom, baskets of violets on each table in the supper room. Common, the dowager decided, wrinkling her patrician nose. And just like her goosecap of a granddaughter, flaunting her humble country origins. Lady Almeria sent upstairs for another diamond brooch to join the three she already wore, next to the ruby and diamond parure, the blinding tiara, and the eight rings. Heaven
forefend anyone mistake the household of Her Grace, the Duchess of Atterbury, for a woodland meadow. Then various matrons came to compliment the dowager on how cleverly the decorations reflected her granddaughter's fresh charm. Just the right touch, Princess Lieven enthused, for a miss not yet jaded by the Season. A joy to see a gel bright as a daisy, Emily Cowper congratulated, so sweetly friendly and lively, not like one of London's delicate hothouse blooms. Lady Atterbury commended herself on her excellent taste and grasp of the social niceties. She also graciously accepted credit for her granddaughter's appearance. Yes, the chit did the Harkness name proud tonight.
Madame Celeste had done the impossible: created a white gown that wasn't white. The slip of a satin underdress was white, but the skirt, which began right under a minuscule bodice, was covered with three layers of tissue-thin net in three shades of blue. The gauzy mesh floated at Miss Randolph's feet, changing colors to reflect the dancing lights in her blue eyes. The white bodice was embroidered all over with forget-me-nots, the center of each flower a pearl. Sonia wore Lady Atterbury's gift of pearls and, in her fair curls, a sapphire butterfly sent by her father for the occasion. George had sent the matching earbobs, and her younger brother, Hugh, arriving barely in time for the dinner before the ball, brought her a gold filigree fan.
"Bang up to the nines, Sunny," he told her approvingly as he led her out for the first dance. "Never thought you'd hold a candle to Catherine, but demmed if I didn't have my blunt on the wrong filly. Your dance card is already filled, and you have the blades lined up two-deep to fetch you a lemonade. By George if you ain't a success. Little Sunny with her dirty face and skinned knees and mare's-nest hairdos. Who'd have thought it?"
Sonia chuckled. "Thank you, I think. I just wish Papa was here to see it."
Hugh looked quickly to make sure she wasn't getting weepy on him. No, Sunny was a Trojan. "He'd just grumble about the expense and disappear into the card room anyway. Then he'd brag to everyone for days how you looked fine as five-pence."
"In case I didn't mention it earlier, you are looking very fine yourself, Lieutenant, in your handsome new dress uniform. In fact, I can see the hopeful mamas ringing Grandmother now, waiting for their chances."
Hugh missed his step and nearly trod on Sonia's toes. "Sorry, but hang it, Sunny, I ain't going to dance with every fubsy-faced chit in the place. Just because Pa got himself leg-shackled and George is under the cat's-paw don't mean I have to do the pretty all night. I'm no hand at this blasted dancing anyway. Now, put me on the parade grounds…"
"Just one dance, Hugh, with one particular friend of mine, Lady Blanche Carstairs. She hasn't many partners yet, and I do not want her to be unhappy at my ball. Besides, you'll like her. She's a good listener."
Sonia was pleased, later, to see Hugh return from the card room to escort Blanche down to supper. She herself went down with Ansel Berke, as earlier arranged. She laughed, she flirted, she was having a wonderful time at her own ball. Sonia made friends with the other debutantes, happily distributing her leftover suitors among them for the remaining dances. She met so many charming gentlemen, she couldn't keep their names straight, although Lord Wolversham
impressed her with his knowledge of farms and crops and sheep. She sat out one
of the waltzes with the good-looking marquess, listening raptly, sending more than one gentleman hurrying to change his bets at White's.
Not till long after the supper dance did Miss Randolph betray the least nervousness, and then only by frequent glances toward the ballroom door. No one else noticed her distraction, she hoped, as she fluttered her fan and discussed the weather and the king's health with her latest partner.
He wasn't going. He was in his dress uniform, hastily tailored to compensate for the weight loss from his injury, but he wasn't going. The formal sword lay polished in his hand, ready to be strapped to his hips, but Major Conover was not going to buckle it on. He'd sooner walk through the French lines than walk across Grosvenor Square to Atterbury House. A carriage would save his leg, but get him there sooner. No, he put the sword down. Again. His batman, Robb, was like to skewer him with it if he didn't decide soon. "Deuce take it!" Darius stormed. Robb hurried to remove the sword from the major's reach. Then they heard the pounding at the door.
"Who the devil could that be? Dash it, no one calls for weeks, then someone comes banging in the middle of the night when I am trying to dress. We've been so long without guests in this wretched place, the blasted servants have forgotten whose job it is to open the door. Go get rid of whoever it is, Robby, while I try to make my mind up."
Robb was happy to get out of the way of his employer's impatience. Damned if the major didn't need a good fight to settle him down, he thought. Prebattle jitters, that's what ailed the man. Robb nodded sagely on his way to get the front door. He returned a few minutes later, pale and shaken.
"Well, what was it, Sergeant, a lost traveler or some accident in the square? I hope you got rid of the nuisance, whatever it was. I'm in no mood to—"
"Admiral Cathcart, sir" was all poor Robb could utter.
"What's that, Robb?" The major was recombing his newly trimmed hair, for the fourth time. He was wondering if the gray showed less, now that his hair was in the shorter style currently in favor. "I thought you said Admiral Cathcart. Old fellow must be dead these ten years or so."
"Downstairs, sir. He's downstairs!"
"Admiral Cathcart, who fought with Nelson? Who won so many commendations, they had to make up new ones? Good grief, what's he doing alive? No, I mean what's he doing here?"
"I left him having sherry in the drawing room, Major, but I don't think you should keep him waiting, sir."
"By Jove, I should think not." He snatched up the dress sword and buckled it on as he raced down the stairs. "Admiral Cathcart, in my drawing room."
The elderly man in the drawing room was blinding in his gold braid. He had enough ribbons on his chest to open a shop. Major Conover knew he had never met the silver-haired admiral before, but he had saluted him once. He gazed admiringly at one of the nation's greatest heroes, an old man who fed squirrels in the park.
"Sir, this is a great honor, but…"
"Come to request your escort, young man. Told a lady I'd honor her ball. Don't get out much, though, don't want to make my big appearance lookin' like a dodderin' old fool, leanin' on some pesky civilian footman. Spoil the effect, don't you know. The lady suggested you. Fellow officer and all, even if you're not a navy man."
"So you want me… ?" He looked at the cane in his hand, then laughed. "I am not so steady on my pins, Admiral Cathcart. I think the lady was just using every weapon in the arsenal."
"Aye, bringin' out the heavy artillery. Good tactician, that girl, don't take no for an answer. She seems to want you at her ball. I aim to get you there, short of callin' out the militia. Can't tell you how the chit brightens my day. Least I can do, then."
"But, Admiral, sir, you can't know—"
"I still have my oars in the water, lad. I know it's no easy thing she's askin', but just one dance. You've faced worse."
"Have I, sir?" Put like that, no self-respecting soldier could refuse. The credit of the regiment, the regard of this venerable old seadog, his own honor, were at stake. "You don't leave me much choice."
"Never meant to, soldier. Never asked more of a man than I thought he could give, either. Don't disappoint me. And don't disappoint that little girl's trust either, or I'll have you blown clear out of the waters."
Marston, the butler, did not know whether to filch another bottle of His Grace's port, or just start packing. The ball had been declared a sad crush, which is to say a great success, and then disaster struck. An appearance by the reclusive Admiral Cathcart would be the coup of the season. An appearance by the reprehensible Major Conover would be the end of Marston's career. But the fellow had an invite, in miss's own hand, and the admiral was leaning on the major's shoulder, waiting to be announced. Marston took a deep breath. In loud, ringing tones, he called out the admiral's name and honorifics. Everyone gasped and turned toward the door. In not so loud, barely tinkling tones, Marston announced Major Darius Conover, the Earl of Warebourne. Everyone gasped again. Not another word was said. The orchestra was not even playing, between sets as it was. The crowd on the dance floor parted as the two militarily erect men, neither bowed by age or adversity, made their slow, careful way across the room to where Lady Atterbury held court on a sofa, Miss Randolph by her side.
The general bowed to Lady Atterbury, then turned and made her a formal introduction to "one of our fine, brave lads."
Lady Atterbury could only smile and nod. Sonia made her curtsy, then relinquished her seat next to the dowager to Admiral Cathcart, with a wink. Two chairs appeared alongside, and Sonia gestured to one. "Will you join me for the waltz, sir?" At the major's nod, she gestured to her footman, who signaled the orchestra. A waltz was instantly begun, to the consternation of those who had reserved a contredanse. When Sonia's court had departed to find their own partners, Darius finally took his seat beside her.
"Do you always get your way, minx?" he asked, motioning toward the admiral.
She flashed her dimples. "Was it so terrible?"
"Like walking the world's longest gangplank," he said with a laugh, then fell silent, looking at her.