Lord Clayborne's Fancy (15 page)

“I think Clayborne does not join you for the card party this evening?” she asked Rebecca in the privacy of the latter’s room.

“No, he has other plans, I believe.”

“Frantley seems to think that he will be at Vauxhall Gardens tonight.”

“I see. It may be necessary for me to cry off from the card party to stay home with you this evening, since you will be feeling mawkish, perhaps with the putrid sore throat.” She smiled at Mary. “I feel sure Meg will not mind being accompanied by Turnip, and Turnip will enjoy it tremendously. I think you should be in bed, Mary, though there seems no need to call in the doctor. I shall be with you shortly.”

For some time Rebecca sat in her room frowning with concentration. It was vexing at times such as these to be without a brother. She had no wish to flout convention or even safety to the point of attending the Gardens unescorted, but her mission precluded asking the escort of even one of the captains, devoted and obliging as they were. She had a hooded domino and a blond wig which would render her unidentifiable in the dusk, but she could not go alone. After pondering the matter for some time without reaching a satisfactory conclusion, she went to Mary’s room.

“Grimms has already informed Turnip of my indisposition, and I have sustained a visit from her,” Mary snorted. “I only just now rid myself of her by telling her that I was drowsy and needed some sleep.”

“In a while I shall send word that you are not to be disturbed and that Turnip is to accompany Meg this evening. Mary, I cannot see how I am to manage it. I dare not ask one of the young men to accompany me, but I do not feel I can go alone.”

“Well, of course I shall come with you.”

“No, no. I could not allow that, and it would do no good. Two females together would be little better than one at Vauxhall. You have not perhaps met some schoolboy in London who could lend a deaf ear?”

“Nary a one, Becka. But I shall not allow you to go alone. Besides,” she said frankly, “I am not willing to miss the adventure.”

“I fear there will be little amusement in it for me.”

“But you have been at Vauxhall before, and I have not. I have never seen the fireworks and I really should like to,” she pleaded.

“Hmmm. I begin to see a possibility,” Rebecca mused. “You are considerably taller than I but not so developed as yet. I wonder what discarded clothes we might find in the attic.”

Mary’s eyes rounded with wonder. “You would dress me as a man? Oh, I cannot thank you enough!”

“I should not do it. No, I will not do it,” Rebecca said firmly.

“You would not be so cruel. I would be a perfect young man. Becka, I would be eternally grateful to you.”

“It is not fair to you, Mary. What if we were discovered? Clayborne may be too preoccupied to notice, but there could be others of our acquaintance there.”

“But, Becka, I know practically no one in London. Only the captains, and if we should run into them I am sure they could be persuaded to keep our secret.”

“Yes, I’m sure they could. Perhaps no harm would come of it. It would depend entirely on how much you could really look like a man,” her sister temporized.

“Then let’s go immediately to the attic and see what we can find.” Mary jumped up eagerly from her sick bed.

“Wait. We must think it through. How shall we get to the Gardens without anyone knowing?”

“We shall take a hackney carriage, of course. With me to escort you no one will think a thing of it. It will not be difficult to slip out of the house,” Mary assured her. “I do it all the time.”

“You do? Where do you go?”

“Oh, just to the stables. But there is no harm in it.”

“Clayborne would not like it,” Rebecca warned her.

“Does that matter?”

“Yes,” her sister sighed. “It matters to me. But it shall remain our secret.”

“Then let’s go to the attic. We’re wasting time,” Mary said impatiently.

In the attic Mary was first to come on a trunk of Clayborne’s more youthful dress. She held up a waistcoat of the most shocking color and design and burst out laughing. “He must have looked the veriest quiz in this. Shall I wear it?”

“Certainly not. We are trying not to attract attention, you will remember.”

Eventually they found a dark blue superfine dress coat with covered buttons which fit Mary to admiration, along with a plain waistcoat and a pair of buff-colored breeches. They added a pair of much darned white silk stockings and considerably scuffed black pumps. Their most treasured find, however, was a woman’s wig of indeterminate age and color. Rebecca hastily departed to find a scissors and then set to the serious business of cropping the wig into a style à la Titus.

Mary was remarkably pleased with the results, as she knew immediately that she would not be recognized either for herself or for a female. Adopting a haughty demeanor and wielding an imaginary eyeglass, she imitated Clayborne’s most top-lofty expression perfectly. Rebecca could not help laughing, and Mary exclaimed,       “We shall carry it off to perfection!”

“So we shall. If you really wish to go, Mary, I mean to allow it, though I know I should not,” she admitted sadly.

“Cheer up, Becka. There is not the least chance of my being recognized. You need only look to your own costume now, and lift me one of Clayborne’s cravats—or maybe several of them. I shall need to get the hang of it. By Jupiter, I can hardly wait!”

Though she could not share her sister’s enthusiasm, Rebecca was satisfied with the disguise. And as the hours passed with nothing to mar their plans she began to feel more confident. When Meg and Miss Turnpeck had taken just one more look-in on dear Mary, and assured Rebecca that there was no need for her to remain home, for the housekeeper was certainly competent, she dismissed them with a not entirely fictional headache of her own, and waved them off.

She walked casually into Clayborne’s room, the memory of her previous visit painfully close, and returned with three crisp white cravats over her arm. Although this had been a narrow escape, for Clayborne arrived just after her departure to dress for the evening, she was unshaken. When she had heard him leave the house, she proceeded to Mary’s room and they put their plans into practice.

Chapter Eleven

Rebecca and Mary arrived at Vauxhall Gardens while there was still some daylight, but found that the ticket office could hardly be distinguished in the gathering gloom. Mary was appalled at the five shillings six pence she was forced to disperse for each of them, but Rebecca urged her on to the semi-dark, narrow boarded walks leading to the gardens.

“Lord, Becka, they obviously intend to kill off the less hearty,” Mary declared in a soft imitation of Clayborne’s accents. “Why is it so badly lit, and everything painted so dark?”

“Just wait a moment and you will see,” her sister replied as they rounded the last bend.

When they arrived at the gardens themselves, Mary exclaimed, “Fantastic! I had no idea it would be like this.”

Tinted lamps shone everywhere, music was pervasive and thousands of elegantly clad people were strolling along by little temples with pillars and arches. A concert could be heard from the Rotunda with its huge bronze chandelier, but the young ladies avoided the area. They passed a specially constructed theatre where a tightrope dance was about to begin and wandered down numerous paths throughout the grounds—these often rather dark and obviously frequented by amorous couples.

When they did not find Clayborne and Lady Hillston, they drifted back toward the terrace where the reenactment of the Battle of Waterloo was taking place with its multitude of men and horses, gunpowder and shot. Mary could not resist staying until the French were banished in smoke and flames. She felt incredibly free in her breeches, strolling along totally unembarrassed.

Aware of her sister’s fascination, Rebecca pointed out the cascades of water, the tumblers, and the sword swallowers. Couples were seated in half-darkness in the decorated wooden arbors, and Mary gallantly offered to treat Rebecca to the refreshments, to be served on silver plate and waited on by men in scarlet livery, but her sister plucked at her sleeve and led her on toward the Dark Walk.

They passed the galleries opening onto the gardens, brilliantly lighted and raised some five feet above the ground, built in Italian style. The tables were decked with silver, and the sight and scent of flowers filled the air. Mary was intoxicated by the swirl of activity about them, but Rebecca pressed her on to the quieter areas, sure that she was more likely to find Clayborne in one of the sylvan grottoes than in a supper box.

“I see them, Mary,” Rebecca finally whispered. “I wish to stay close behind them to hear their conversation, but we must be ready to bolt at any moment. On no account must Clayborne recognize us, so should there be any danger of it, I will fling my arms about you and you must appear to kiss me passionately.”

Mary giggled and mimicked Clayborne. “My lady, it shall be my pleasure.”

As Clayborne was approaching them, they turned aside for a moment before they began to follow. Lady Hillston was dressed much as Rebecca—and numerous other ladies, for that matter—in a domino which enveloped her, and whose hood made it difficult to recognize her. The hood, unfortunately, kept slipping back as she laughed up at Clayborne, and each time he would readjust it.

“Always so proper,” mocked Mary.

Rebecca felt the numbness invade her again and allowed Mary’s arm to encircle her waist for support. This served the additional purpose of making them appear simply another enraptured couple who blended in with their surroundings. When they had drawn almost close enough to overhear, Rebecca hesitated momentarily, then went resolutely forward.

“Ah, Jason, I believe that was Lady Standand we just passed, and not with her husband, I’ll be bound,” Lady Hillston was saying. “And there are the fireworks. Quite remarkable. I should like to have such a display at Winthrop Manor one day. Could you procure such a thing for me?”

“I haven’t the least idea. I could enquire if you wish,” Clayborne answered.

(Mary gasped as a display of Roman candles, girandoles, and gillockes lit the night sky. She missed a bit of the ensuing conversation between her brother-in-law and his partner, but her sister was not distracted.)

“Do so. I have in mind to retire there next week, as Gerald’s mother has gone off to visit her younger son in the north. You will join me at Winthrop Manor?”

“I cannot,” he told her. “My wife and her sisters are here with me in town.”

“Send them back to the country.”

“I must go with them when they leave.”

“Nonsense. You have often enough been away from that wretched country seat of yours.”

“I have promised my wife that I will be available while her sisters are visiting.”

“Then send them about their business. I dare say you have had them on your hands quite long enough.” When Clayborne did not respond, she went on coaxingly, “It will be like old times, Jason, having you with me. Do not fear for gossip from the servants. I can handle that.”

“I cannot come.”

“You mean you will not come!” She stamped her foot angrily. “What do you fear? That naive little chit you married has not the least bit of worldly wisdom. She with her great blue eyes and trusting smile! I doubt she even knows of my existence.”

“Does that annoy you, Alexis?” Clayborne asked smoothly.

“Of course not,” she cried, and then continued in a softened, sensuous coaxing. “You were not so stiff-rumped in the fall.”

“I should have been, God help me,” he retorted.

“But you were not,” she said with satisfaction. “You have not forgotten the night of the Standands’ ball, or the picnic to St. Albans, I’ll be bound.”

“No, I have not forgotten. I tell you, Alexis, there will be no more such episodes.”

“And what of tonight?” she asked, turning abruptly to face him, and causing Rebecca and Mary to halt quite unceremoniously in each other’s arms. Lady Hillston reached out a small white hand to caress Clayborne’s brow, cheek and lips. He did not respond in any way and her face clouded momentarily. Then she stood on tiptoe, pressed her body against his and kissed him. Gently he put her aside and said, “There will be no more, Alexis. I met you tonight so that I could say that, so that I could explain.”

“I want no explanations! Of what use are they now? Six years ago they wagered at White’s as to who would get me, you or Gerald. You were favored, but he had the better title and more money, and I married him. And I will do just that again. Yes, I will find another man with more than enough to offer me. What can you offer me? Nothing! You have become quite stodgy, Jason, you know that? You are not the fierce young man who offered me your undying love. And you are not the wild Corinthian dashing about the countryside changing inn signs and driving a stagecoach (Mary’s attention was recaptured) when you were disappointed in my marrying. How I would laugh when I heard the stories of you kicking up such a storm! And poor old Gerald would look sick when I told him of my desire for you. Stupid man. He was such a chicken-heart, he dared not even answer me.”

Her laugh rang out and caused other strollers to stare; Clayborne automatically pulled her hood forward again. She shook his hand off, threw back the hood and glared up at him. “I shall spend the next six months of mourning profitably, Jason. You should not be surprised to hear of my engagement next spring,” she taunted him.

“I shall not care, Alexis,” he replied calmly. “I will take you home now.”

“Never! I am staying to enjoy myself. I have been caged for months with that old biddy and her long-toothed daughters and tonight I mean to kick up my heels, with or without you. Be on your way, Jason. I have no further use for you. I shall join Major Frome’s party over there. Surely they will prove more lively company than you.”

Flushed with annoyance, she stalked away, leaving him looking pensively at the path at his feet for some time. Finally he shook himself visibly, sighed, and strolled off without a backward glance.

“What a witch!” Mary exclaimed involuntarily when Clayborne was out of sight.