The Cinderella Debutante (16 page)

If he refused Sneyd’s request, at best his reputation would be in tatters and he would have to flee the country.

At worst he would swing on the gallows.

If he agreed and tonight did not go exactly as planned, he would also be forced into a long, if not indefinite, exile as a result of the ensuing scandal and his role in it.

He groaned and covered his face with his hands.

Whether he helped Sneyd or not, he could find himself alone and penniless abroad with the delights of London lost to him for good. He was inordinately fond of his life here despite his constant lack of funds. The prospect of losing it filled him with dread. And he couldn’t even contemplate dangling from a noose at Tyburn.

There seemed no way out and yet alongside his desire for self-preservation there lurked a warped sense of honour. His conscience baulked at putting an inexperienced girl at the mercy of Julius Sneyd. He also felt partly responsible for bringing matters to this point; after all, he had told Sneyd about Belinda Sinclair in the first place. She could have no comprehension of what lay in store once she was behind closed doors with that monster. Even Sir Oswald found it difficult to listen to Sneyd’s more despicable exploits. He didn’t want to see any ill befall the older sister either, whose self-containment and poise he had come to admire. The consequences that followed this evening would affect her too.

His mind weaved and toiled, hoping for inspiration to strike and suggest some action that might disrupt the carefully made arrangements. Suddenly he alighted on an idea which might tip the scales away from Sneyd and in a small way redress his cowardice for agreeing to be part of this scheme.

He heaved himself from his chair, crossed to his bureau, removed a sheet of paper and began scribbling a letter. When he had finished, he sealed it with a wafer and mopped the perspiration from his face. He then rang for his servant. When he arrived, Sir Oswald gave him a guinea and told him to ensure that the letter reached Lord Devlyn wherever he was to be found in London that Saturday afternoon.

***

Lucy’s previous uncertainty had resolved into quiet determination. It was no use complaining that this task had fallen to her. She simply had to deal with it. She also had selfish reasons for preventing Belinda meeting Sir Oswald; they could all end up as social outcasts, ruined by association.

Despite her reluctance to involve anyone else, in the end Lucy found it impossible to depart for Vauxhall without advising Lady Gainsford. The few lines she scribbled gave Lucy some comfort. If, having sent this letter, the evening passed off uneventfully then only Lady Gainsford would know and the worst outcome would be embarrassment for letting her imagination run riot.

After asking Stanton to see the note was delivered, she began dressing with little enthusiasm. Belinda was in high spirits when they set off in Mrs Wimpole’s carriage. Her step-sister was disappointed they were not to enter the pleasure gardens by the water gate but she chattered incessantly, ceasing only to listen to Annabel’s rapt description of Vauxhall’s attractions.

“The first time I saw it, I was never more entranced in my life! So many ladies of fashion, so many handsome gentleman, and the fireworks and orchestra so fine as to defy description!” cooed Annabel, as the musty smelling coach bumped towards its destination.

“You must leave some surprises for our guests and allow them to judge for themselves,” said her mother. “Lucy may find Vauxhall a dead bore.”

Mrs. Wimpole’s face was barely visible in the gloomy interior, but Lucy could see she had applied face powder and rouge lavishly. The result was both tragic and comic and reinforced Lucy’s poor opinion of Mrs. Wimpole, as did the amount of décolletage she was showing. Annabel had not used rouge, but Lucy believed her gown had been dampened to cling to her curves.

“If you do, don’t lecture me about my behaviour or the people I choose to become acquainted with,” snapped Belinda. She turned to Annabel, adding, “I am not prudish like Lucy. She has always been stuffy, just like Papa who disapproved of every penny I spent on gowns and other necessities—”

“He rarely prevented you from buying anything,” interjected Lucy, stung by this unwarranted criticism of her father. “You know he only tried to instill in you a sense of economy and taste.”

“I suppose he was not
trying
to be unkind, but I hate being scolded! I don’t need consider if a purchase is wise or not, only if it will please me and although I won’t have full access to my fortune until I marry, my quarterly allowance is generous.”

“How delightful!” said Mrs Wimpole. “Mr. Wimpole died suddenly, leaving us with barely enough to support ourselves in a genteel manner. Most inconvenient. Ah, look! We have arrived in Bridge Street.”

They got down from the coach and Mrs Wimpole paid the entrance fee, a figure that Lucy considered extortionate, before they entered the gardens. The crowds were already making their way to the principal grove through colonnades illuminated with thousands of lamps. The orchestra was in a kiosk at the centre of the gardens and Mrs Wimpole pointed out the supper pavilion, several impressive fountains and the secluded paths which led off the main walks.

As it was past 8 o’clock, the concert had already begun and they stayed for the first act, after which a bell rang to announce the Grand Cascade could be viewed. A curtain rose to reveal this amazing display, consisting of a miniature rural scene with a cascade, watermill, bridges, coaches and other vehicles passing across the stage. It was all remarkably lifelike, and Lucy could see why people would visit many times just to view the spectacle.

After the curtain descended, Mrs Wimpole directed them to the supper-box she had reserved. It was in an excellent position, near enough to the orchestra to hear the music but far enough away to allow conversation and to view the whole grove.

Thus far the behaviour of Mrs Wimpole and her daughter had been unexceptional, and although their manners were not as polished as Lucy might have liked, they had not committed any transgression.

But just as she was beginning to relax a little, two gentlemen and two ladies entered their box. Mrs Wimpole, who had obviously been expecting them, introduced Mr Seymour and his wife Fanny, and Sir Antony Harben and his sister Patricia.

They proceeded to partake readily of the wafer-thin ham, chicken, biscuits, and other sweetmeats. Lucy looked on in dismay. None of them were respectable. More than that, their dress, manners and behaviour were vulgar. Their laughter and ribald humour grew louder as they consumed glass after glass of the infamous Vauxhall rack punch. Even Belinda was in awe of this new and distinctly wild company, but she joined in with the laughter that followed Mr Seymour’s outspoken and lurid admiration of her figure.

Sir Antony, who since his arrival had been leering at Lucy through his quizzing glass, suddenly murmured in Lucy’s ear,

“Are you amused by my friend? You seem such a sober little puss and yet I sense a passionate soul beneath that prim exterior.” He stroked his finger along her bare arm.

Lucy flinched away. “You are too familiar, sir!” she hissed. “I have no opinion on your friend, other than finding his manners, and yours, too familiar. Pray keep your hands to yourself and your conversation more respectable.”

Sir Antony only gave a lascivious laugh. “I see I am to enjoy this evening. I must thank Honoria Wimpole later for introducing us.”

A giggling Annabel announced the fireworks were about to begin and they needed to see them. Angry colour burning in her cheeks, Lucy rose, ignoring Sir Antony’s mocking grin and bow, and hurried to Belinda’s side. She had no intention of losing sight of her step-sister.

They walked across the grove with Mr Seymour and his wife by now indulging in such lewd behaviour as to make Lucy blush. Lady Patricia complained in a slurred voice that she hoped the fireworks would have improved since she thought them damned paltry on her last visit. With the increasingly shameless conduct of Mrs Wimpole and her friends, Lucy decided they must leave. But Annabel and Belinda began whispering urgently and as the first fireworks began to explode to gasps of astonishment from the crowd, Belinda slipped away and headed towards one of the walks. Lucy followed and was a short distance behind her when Sir Antony barred her way. He lurched towards her.

“And why are you in such a hurry, my pretty? There’s no need to leave now – the entertainment has just begun and I’ve a mind to know you better—”

His stale, punch-laden breath wafted in Lucy’s face before she felt his wet, loose mouth on her face, searching for her lips.

Fighting down her revulsion, Lucy brought out the fork she had smuggled out of the supper box and hidden in the folds of her gown. She jabbed it with all her might into Sir Anthony’s thigh. He crumpled to the ground with a cry of agony, clutching his leg, and she stepped over him. Picking up her skirts she broke into a run.

Panting, Lucy reached the walk which was dimly illuminated by the lights hung around the colonnade. She could still see Belinda a little way ahead and she hurried on until she reached her.

She swung her step-sister around by the arm. “Belinda! I know what you are about and I’ll not allow you to meet Sir Oswald.”

There was a moment of silence. “How did you find out?”

“I found Lord Sneyd’s letter in your room but I won’t apologise for reading it. This is madness! We will all be ruined if you allow your reputation to be destroyed.”

“You are right,” Belinda whispered, a tremor in her voice. “I thought it would be romantic but now I have no wish to meet Sir Oswald for the sake of a silly message which Lord Sneyd can very well give me when he returns to London. C-can we g-go home now? Mrs Wimpole’s friends are not at all the thing.”

Lucy heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank heaven you have realized that, although I wish you had done so sooner!” she said, grabbing Belinda’s hand. “Let us go home before we have to meet Sir Oswald, Mrs Wimpole or any of her dreadful friends!”

They turned back towards the grove, but Sir Oswald emerged from the gloaming to block their path. He bowed.

“Good evening, Miss Belinda. I am pleased you have come – my friend is desperate for you to receive his message.”

“She will do nothing of the sort,” said Lucy. “Let us pass.”

An audible sigh escaped Sir Oswald. “It is unfortunate that you are here too, Miss Sinclair. You leave me no choice but to include you in the communication I am forced to deliver.”

He lifted one hand and Lucy found herself seized roughly from behind, a piece of cloth tied around her mouth and a sacking hood thrown over her head. From the muffled sounds beside her, Belinda had suffered the same fate. Lucy held onto her hand more tightly.

She was half dragged, half pushed along, stumbling onwards for what seemed an eternity, all the while cursed and prodded by her abductors. At last she was jerked to a halt, the screech of wheels and snorting horses announcing the approach of a carriage. The sound of steps being let down followed before the sacking was wrenched off and the cloth untied from around her mouth.

Lucy blinked, relieved at being able to see again, but after a brusque command to “Keep your mouths shut and no screaming, or it will be the worse for you!” both she and Belinda were thrust into the sepulchral darkness of a chaise which already had its blinds drawn. The steps and door were slammed back into place and the carriage lurched violently before moving forward at an alarming pace.

Exitus acta probat

(The outcome justifies the deed)

Alex shrugged on his coat, having spent the last hour relieving his frustrations with a bout of sparring at Jackson’s boxing saloon.

His morning had not been enjoyable as much of it had been spent with his sister. After receiving yet another terse note demanding to know his intentions, he had visited Lavinia to deliver a long overdue ultimatum in person - if she continued to interfere in his life, she and her family would receive no more money.

This had been difficult enough for her to accept, but when Alex told her he intended to offer for Miss
Lucy
Sinclair, her shock and outrage knew no bounds. Brimming with resentment, she reminded him of his ancient lineage, his duty and the idiocy of marrying into such a family. And if he must lower himself to those depths, she had asked tartly, did he not at least have the sense to marry the heiress rather than the penniless sister?

Alex listened to her tirade in silence before replying,

“This is nonsense and you know it. You and your damnable arrogance go too far. You are fast becoming a vicious, conceited shrew and it is not only me who holds that view. Stay out of my affairs! I hope to marry Lucy, if she will have me, and although I would prefer not to lose a sister because of my marriage, I will have no choice if you cannot accept her as my wife and offer her the respect and civility she deserves.”

He had stormed out and arrived at Jackson’s saloon afterwards in an unyielding mood, eager to alleviate his tension. This he had done, even landing an uppercut on Jackson himself after which the famous pugilist had remarked that his lordship was in fine form.

In a mellower frame of mind, therefore, he stepped into the early evening air on Bond Street, where Sir Oswald’s servant was finally able to run his quarry to ground and deliver the note.

Alex opened the letter and read the single sheet. A muscle quivered in his clenched jaw as he reached the end. He said nothing, but placed the note in his pocket and rewarded the messenger with his second guinea of the day before leaping up into his waiting carriage, taking the reins from his groom and springing his horses toward home.

The journey was completed at breakneck speed and his groom, used to seeing his master drive to an inch, whispered “Oh, my Gawd!” under his breath at one point, convinced they were about to lock wheels with a smart phaeton. But Alex avoided the other vehicle by the slimmest of margins and ignored the disgruntled shouts of the shocked driver.