Sheri Cobb South (8 page)

“Lord Waverly.” Lady Helen acknowledged his presence with a regal nod. “I was under the impression that you considered balls a deadly bore. What brings you here? Are you dancing attendance on Miss Pickering, or have they stopped taking your vouchers at White’s?”

Waverly bared his straight white teeth in a grin, but the steely look in his eyes told her she had struck too close to the mark for the earl’s comfort.

“As you have no doubt deduced, I am up the River Tick,” he confessed. “But at least you need not fear a similar fate, my dear. I understand your husband is a paragon of virtue. He neither gambles nor takes snuff, but spends each day from dawn to dusk in the noble pursuit of Mammon—unless, of course, he is favoring the membership of White’s with his enlightened views on the governing of the Empire.”

Lady Helen unfurled her spangled Chinese fan and raised it to her mouth to hide a yawn—a gesture which somehow called attention to her ennui rather than concealing it. Lord Waverly knew her well enough to recognize a deliberate set-down when he saw one, and grinned appreciatively.

“But I should never dream of boring you. May I hope that, in the absence of your husband, you will condescend to accept your humble servant as a suitable partner for the quadrille which is about to begin?”

“Since Mr. Brundy’s virtues thankfully do not extend to sitting in his wife’s pocket, I should be pleased to accept your generous offer,” replied Lady Helen, and allowed the earl to escort her onto the floor.

Once it became known that Lady Helen was back in circulation, and with no sign of her husband in sight, she found herself much in demand. All her former suitors came flocking back to be abused by her waspish tongue, and she had the satisfaction of seeing Captain Wentworth and Sir Toby Granger-Hughes almost come to fisticuffs over the privilege of leading her in to supper.

Her return to favor did not go unremarked by Emily, Lady Randall, who observed with a furrowed brow Lady Helen’s re-emergence.

“Really, David, I cannot but think it shabby of Mr. Brundy to neglect his wife so,” she remarked to her cicisbeo when the figures of the quadrille brought them together long enough to converse.

“Nonsense, my dear,” scoffed Lord David. “Most of the married couples here hardly dance together at all. ‘Tis one of the strongest arguments a lady might make for remaining single,” he added with a charming smile.

Indeed, one of the
only
such arguments, she wanted to say, but refrained. “But they have been married less than two weeks,” she pointed out. “Surely matters have not reached such a pass in so short a time.”

“Emily, how old were you when you learned to dance?”

She blinked, taken aback by the seeming
non sequitur.
“I don’t recall. My governess taught me a few simple steps when I was nine or ten, so that I might join in the Sir Roger de Coverley at Christmas, and then Mama hired a dancing master for me when I was sixteen, the year before I came out.”

“When Mr. Brundy was nine, he was taken from the workhouse and chained to a power loom twelve hours a day,” Lord David informed her bluntly. “By the time he was sixteen, he was being groomed to take over the business.”

Emily’s dark eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Then—?”

Lord David nodded. “Precisely. He never learned to dance. And though he takes a perverse sort of pride in his humble origins, he is surprisingly self-conscious about his lack of social graces. Shed no tears for Lady Helen, my dear. She accomplished a major
coup
in getting him here tonight at all.  But if you wish it, I shall run the negligent bridegroom to earth.”

“No, no, do not embarrass him on my account,” Emily protested, but Lord David had already taken himself off in search of his friend.

He located his quarry in the library, where Mr. Brundy and Colonel Pickering were in the midst of a lively debate.

“—I can’t ‘elp but notice, Colonel, that while Mrs. More is all for improving the moral character of the poor, she has little to say about raising their economic status.”

“I believe Mrs. More feels the poor should learn to be satisfied with their station in life,” replied the colonel.

Mr. Brundy nodded. “I suspect most of the Quality would agree —provided that none of
them
should ‘ave to occupy that particular station.”

“Touché,
my friend,” laughed Colonel Pickering. “May I quote you on that?”

“If you wish, but I’ve a feeling it won’t win you many friends at White’s.”

“No matter. The Old Guard needs shaking up every now and then, and you’re just the man to do it.” The colonel paused, struck by sudden inspiration. “I say, Brundy, have you ever thought of standing for Parliament?”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” protested Lord David, choosing that moment to make his presence known. “If he were to challenge me, he just might win.”

“Come in and have a drop of brandy with us, Lord David,” exclaimed his host, but as he reached for the open bottle, his welcoming expression turned wary. “Don’t tell me my wife has noticed my absence and sent you to fetch me!”

“Not at all,” Lord David assured him. “I come on behalf of Ethan’s wife, not yours.”

The book on Mr. Brundy’s lap fell to the floor as he rose to his feet. “ ‘elen? Why? What’s the matter?”

“Emily is convinced you are neglecting Lady Helen shamelessly. I, on the other hand, think she is enjoying herself far more than is proper for a bride of two weeks. She hasn’t sat out a dance since Lord Waverly stood up with her for the quadrille.”

Mrs. More and her theories forgotten, Mr. Brundy set his glass down with a thud and made his excuses to his host, then set his feet in the direction of the ballroom. He reached his destination while a waltz was in progress, and thus discovered Lord Waverly clasping Lady Helen in an embrace more intimate than any her own husband had as yet enjoyed. They made a very pretty picture as they whirled about the floor with practiced grace, both tall, slender, and elegantly costumed, but Mr. Brundy, waiting impatiently along the wall, took no pleasure in the sight. He might have been much heartened to know that, even as she smiled up at her partner, Lady Helen was covertly scanning the crowd for the one face noticeably absent amongst the crush.

At last the lilting strains of the violins came to a halt, and Lord Waverly led Lady Helen back to her chair, where her next partner, Sir Toby Granger-Hughes, was waiting to claim her. No sooner had she laid her hand on Sir Toby’s arm than it was snatched away by her husband, who drew it firmly through the crook of his elbow.

“Time to go, me dear,” he said in a voice which brooked no argument. “Gentlemen, I bid you good night.”

Lady Helen held her tongue with an effort while they collected their cloaks and quit the glittering house for the gaslit street.

“Pray tell me, Mr. Brundy, just what do you think you are about?” she demanded, fairly quivering in outrage.

“I consider meself a reasonable man, ‘elen, and you will find me a tolerant—nay, even an indulgent!—’usband, but I’ll not stand idly by while me wife makes me the laughingstock of London,” he informed her roundly.

“You don’t do yourself justice, Mr. Brundy,” she replied sweetly. “You were the laughingstock of London long before you married me.”

The drive back to Grosvenor Square could not be deemed a congenial one. Lady Helen being sunk in what, in a lesser female, would have been called a pout. She dared not voice her grievances, however, or the oaf beside her might think she had
wished
him to sit in her pocket all the evening long. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, but there was a wide gulf between sitting in her pocket and spurning her company altogether. Did this vulgarian not know that he was supposed to dance attendance on her so that
she
might spurn
him?

Of course he did not. One of the most galling aspects of this unequal marriage was the fact that Mr. Brundy failed to recognize its inequality, or if he recognized it, certainly failed to acknowledge her superior status. Yes, it was high time Mr. Ethan Brundy of Manchester was made aware of the inferiority of his position—and she, Lady Helen Brundy
née
Radney, knew just how to put him in his place.

Chapter 6

The force of his own merit makes his way.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
King Henry the Eighth

While his wife plotted his downfall, Mr. Brundy, all unknowing, called in Harley Street and sent his card up to Emily, Lady Randall. Within minutes, her ladyship’s butler returned to request that he wait upon her in the green saloon. Mr. Brundy was duly ushered to this chamber, where he took a seat on a striped satin chair and mentally rehearsed his speech while he awaited her ladyship’s pleasure. He was relieved that she was willing to receive him at all, for although he had seen her often enough in Lord David’s company, his own acquaintance with her could hardly be called intimate.

Still, he needed a lady’s assistance, and he was more nearly acquainted with Lady Randall than with any other lady in London, with the arguable exception of his wife. He was not at all certain as to the propriety of such a visit, but if, as Lady Helen had insisted, it was acceptable for married women to be squired about by gentlemen other than their husbands, then surely calling upon a widow, even a young and pretty one, in broad daylight could not be so heinous a crime. At any rate, he had not long to debate the matter before Emily wafted into the room in a cloud of lavender jaconet muslin.

“Mr. Brundy, an unexpected pleasure,” she said, gliding toward him with both hands outstretched. “Does your wife not accompany you?”

“Er, no,” replied Mr. Brundy as he rose to bow over her hands.

“Do sit down,” she urged, sinking gracefully onto the sofa opposite. “David left but moments ago. He will be sorry he missed you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t share ‘is regrets, me lady,” Mr. Brundy confessed. “To own the truth, I ‘ad ‘opes of seeing you alone to discuss, er, business of a personal nature.”

“Indeed?” Emily remembered Lord David’s misgivings about his friend’s marriage, and her hackles rose. She did not know Mr. Brundy well, but she liked him enough to wish him happy in his marriage—particularly since his unhappiness would make Lord David doubly wary of that blessed institution.

Mr. Brundy cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Lady Randall, I wonder if you would be so obliging as to teach me ‘ow to dance?”

Emily, having learned a small part of Mr. Brundy’s past from Lord David, found something so poignant in the simple request that her sympathies were instantly aroused. Still, one did not learn the complex figures of the quadrille in a day.

“I should certainly be willing to try, Mr. Brundy,” she began cautiously, “but you must be aware that some of the more difficult steps may take months to master.”

“Then I guess we’d best get started right away, ‘adn’t we?” replied Mr. Brundy, much cheered.

Such enthusiasm proved too contagious to resist, and Lady Randall soon found herself caught up in the spirit of the enterprise. Deeming the green saloon too small for their purposes, she led him to the music room at the rear of the house, and here they took their positions in the center of the floor.

“It is a great pity we have no one to play the pianoforte for us, but we shall do just as well by counting aloud. You stand here, Mr. Brundy, and I, as your partner, will stand here,” she instructed him. “Take my hand like so, and step forward and back, forward and back. Very good! Now, reverse.”

Mr. Brundy obediently followed her instructions, but as they remained a proper arm’s length apart at all times, he was at last moved to mutter,
“They
weren’t doing it like this.”

“ ‘They,’ Mr. Brundy?”

“ ‘elen and Waverly.”

Enlightenment dawned in Emily’s dark eyes. She, too, had seen Lady Helen waltzing with Lord Waverly, and thought how elegant the earl had appeared, clasping his tall and slender partner in his arms—a far cry indeed from the man Lady Helen had married. What she had not known was that Mr. Brundy had also been watching—and that he was very much in love with his wife. Emily, reflecting wistfully that Lord David had never shown the least sign of jealousy at seeing her waltz with other men, could not but be moved.

“You must be referring to the waltz,” Emily said gently. “Would you like to learn how?”

“If any man is going to ‘old me wife in such a way,” he said with great deliberation, “it’s going to be me.”

“ ‘Tis quite simple, really. Take my right hand with your left, and place your right hand at my waist.”

“I—I can’t,” protested her embarrassed partner, taking an awkward step backwards.

“Of course you can, Mr. Brundy! People do it all the time.”

“But David—”

“David will not object, believe me,” Emily said with a hint of regret. “Just pretend I am Lady Helen. You do want to waltz with her, do you not?”

His resolution thus fortified, Mr. Brundy took his partner in a stiff embrace.

“That’s the way,” she said approvingly. “Now, begin:
one,
two, three,
one,
two three—very good, Mr. Brundy! We shall have you waltzing at Almack’s in no time.”

“Almack’s?” echoed Mr. Brundy, careful not to lose his count.

“Almack’s Assembly Rooms, on King Street,” Emily explained. “A very select establishment where one may go of a Wednesday night for dancing or cards.”

“Does ‘elen go there?”

“Before her marriage, she could be seen there almost every week.”

Mr. Brundy, minding his steps, merely nodded. In all likelihood, last night had not been the first time Lord Waverly had held Lady Helen in an intimate embrace. Nor might it be the last, either, but from here on out, the earl would no longer have a clear field. He, Ethan Brundy, had not conquered the workhouse only to be bested on the ballroom floor.

“Ouch!” cried Emily, as her partner trod squarely upon her foot.

“I beg your pardon,” protested an apologetic Mr. Brundy. “I can’t think ‘ow that ‘appened.”

“I daresay you are growing tired,” suggested Emily. “Perhaps we had best save the next lesson for another day.”