The Scandalous Life of a True Lady (13 page)

The secretary took dinner with Simone, but he appeared more dour and disapproving than ever. He most likely believed she had sold her soul to the devil for a chance at the thousand pounds, and that after spouting her pious drivel about honor and self-respect. So Harry had not taken his assistant into his confidence about their new arrangement, which gave Simone a small sense of satisfaction. Mr. High and Mighty Harris did not know everything after all. He took his seat at the table without holding her chair, then paid more attention to his food than to her. He hurried through the meal as if he could not wait to be rid of her company.

The devil take the secretary, Simone told herself. She had enough to worry about without his scowls and his silence. Why, she was glad he was not going with them, according to Sally.

Yet before she left the room, leaving him to his solitary coffee or port or poison, for all she knew or cared, Mr. Harris handed her a folded sheet of paper. On it was a replica of the Richmond Maze, with the center clearly marked, and the proper path to it drawn with red ink. Now she stood a chance!

“Why, thank you. That is too kind of you, sir.”

He grunted and waved her away before she could ask how he came upon a key to the maze or why he was helping her.

Likely the man was wagering on the outcome, she decided, or he’d never have bothered.

More assistance came from Daniel Stamfield, who admitted he was betting on her. She wanted to ride again the next morning, but he thought they should go somewhere quiet, so they could talk. “Harry suggested a museum. No one I know goes there.”

“I do, taking all my students to them, when I was a governess. The children adored getting out of the classroom, and I thought they might learn history better, seeing it in person rather than merely in books.”

Daniel did not look happy, so Simone mentioned that she had never been to the gardens at Kew. They were near enough to walk, if Daniel could secure them admission.

“I can’t. Stuffiest old board of directors in charge, I swear, but old Harry can do anything. I’ll have the pass by noon. Oh, and maybe you ought to wear the veil again. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I was poaching on Harry’s preserves or anything.”

So they went to Kew in the afternoon. Simone wore a new walking gown of figured muslin, with a matching spencer that was trimmed in fur, against the slight chill. She wore a cottage bonnet with a veil and carried a parasol to hide more of her appearance.

Daniel shocked her by knowing the names of many of the plants and shrubs in the extensive gardens. “I’m a countryman, don’t you know?”

No, all she’d heard of him was how he was a wastrel, a gambler, a drinker and sometime brawler. None of that showed today, as he treated her as carefully as the tender flowers he admired. For such a big man, with such a bad reputation, he was remarkably gentle, guiding her across muddy spots and away from curious gardeners. Mr. Stamfield was yet another riddle, a thankfully well-informed one.

“Made an effort, don’t you know, to scout the terrain for you.”

“You went to Richmond? I already have a map of the maze.”

“I didn’t mean literally. That’s just army talk for gathering information.”

Simone knew about his former career, but not any specifics. “Were you on the Peninsula? Did you serve with Mr. Harris or the major?”

Daniel stumbled, almost walking into her parasol. She closed it now that they were out of view of the workmen.

“We need to talk about the competition,” he said when he recovered, “not boring old history.”

He added pages to her store of data, gathered from the betting books at the gentlemen’s clubs. Anyone with two shillings in his pocket—or with good enough credit—was making wagers on the ladies’ chances. Simone, Noma, that is, was a dark horse, an unknown. Her name was not even mentioned. He himself had placed his money on Harry’s companion.

“I wouldn’t tell ’em a thing about you, not even your
nom de guerre
. That’s for going to war, you know. We’ll keep the odds high that way, for a bigger payoff. They all think I’m backing Harry because we’re cou—close. I’ll wait until the day you all leave, then increase my bets. If we win big, I’ll buy you a bracelet.”

“If we win big, I won’t need you to buy me a gift. But I do hope you do not wager more than you can afford to lose. The contest is not going to be a legitimate one, from what I understand.”

“Oh, Harry won’t let much cheating get by him. A matter of honesty, don’t you know.”

She knew the major had an obsession with the truth, but she did not see how that could translate into keeping the contest fair.

Daniel said, “Well, you don’t need to worry about the equestrian event. The only competition is Madeline Harbough. She used to be Maddy Hogg, a bareback rider at Astley’s before she became what they call a Pretty Horsebreaker. Pretty gals on horseback exercising Thoroughbreds in the park until they catch a gent’s notice. She’s Ellsworth’s mistress now, and as fat as he is. She might know a few tricks, but you can outrace her.”

“Doesn’t that depend on the horse I am riding? Again, Lord Gorham can mount his lady friend on the fastest goer in his stable and leave the plodders to the rest of us.”

“Hm. That’s a good point. I’ll talk to Harry about bringing a few of his own mounts down.”

Simone did not know if the handsome bay gelding was fast or not. She knew a few tricks, too.

Daniel went over some of the other events, as he knew them. The singing contest would be no contest, everyone agreed. Not one bet got placed against Claire Hope in that category, but Sir Chauncey Phipps’
chérie amour
was with the Royal Ballet, so she was getting good odds for the dancing.

Dancing? Simone had no ballet training, and could not possibly perform in front of an audience.

“Oh, I doubt Gorham will let Claire lose that one so quickly,” Daniel told her as they inspected the medicinal herb garden. “He’ll pick a quadrille or a waltz, or something with partners. He and Claire have been dancing together for years. I saw them once at the Cyprian’s Ball.”

Simone’s heart sank. She knew all the steps, but Major Harrison on the dance floor? With his hunch and his hobble and his cane? Good lord, they’d finish last at that.

“I heard,” Daniel went on, “that Gorham is considering billiards as one of the trials. Claire is said to be a dab hand at it.”

“I have never played.” Simone was reconsidering her enthusiasm for the competition altogether.

“Well, you mentioned archery. There’s sure to be a round of that.”

“I’m quite good at that.” Then she recalled how long it had been since she’d practiced. “Or I used to be.”

“Target shooting?” There was hope in Daniel’s voice.

She only used her grandfather’s old pistol a few times, until her scholarly father confiscated it.

She sank down on a nearby bench, not concerned about soiling her gown on the mossy seat. “I haven’t got a chance.”

Daniel sat beside her and patted her hand. “Of course you do. You’d get my vote for most beautiful.” He blushed, but she leaned over and kissed his cheek anyway. “Thank you.”

“And best dressed. From what I hear, some of the females are complaining that their gowns won’t be ready on time.”

“Mine will.” They shared a smile.

“Well, there might be poetry reading. I heard half the women can’t read, so you’re bound to outshine them there, too, or if Gorham chooses a game of Questions and Quotes. Claire considers herself a literary type, don’t you know. She holds salons and that kind of rot. You’re bound to have all the answers. A governess ought to know her Shakespeare, I figure.”

She sighed. “Yes, but I understand that two of the women are actresses. They’ll know the plays too.”

“What about cards?”

“I can play chess.” She’d beaten her father. Twice. She sighed again, louder.

“Well, you’ll just have to make a good showing at the other events. They’re all worth points, don’t you know. The prize goes to the overall winner, but the betting is for second and third place, too.”

“No one thinks Claire Hope can lose, do they?”

“Of course they do. Of course she can.”

Then Daniel, who shared Harry’s talent, or the family curse, scratched his neck, where a rash had suddenly appeared. “Must be from one of the plants.”

Chapter Eleven

The carriage arrived to take Simone and Sally to Richmond precisely at eleven, as Mr. Harris had said it would. Not a moment earlier, not a moment later, fiend seize the punctilious prig. He did not even come to see them off.

Simone wasted time, checking the baggage, running back inside to make sure nothing was left behind, looking into the hamper Mrs. Judd had handed them, filled with enough food for a week’s journey, not the short trip to Richmond, then leaving directions for the grooming of the cat, to the housekeeper’s disgust and the coachman’s impatience.

Well, the housekeeper was always annoyed with the cat and Simone, and the coachman was always crotchety. Harold sat on the driver’s bench, his hat pulled low, his muffler tied high around his neck, the reins in his hands, ready to go. The coach was different from the one that carried her to Kensington, and the chestnuts pulling it had matching white socks while the other team had none. This carriage was still well-appointed, but larger, darker, more undistinguished; the horses were still well-bred, and looked to Simone’s critical eye to be equally as sweet-going as the others.

Jem and Sally looked different now too, with darker hair instead of their towheads, and no more freckles. They appeared older, more sophisticated, except for their grins at each other and Simone in their excitement about the trip. Harold squelched that with a bang of his whip handle down on the footrest.

“T’horses,” he growled.

At least he cared about something, Simone thought, finally taking her seat inside the carriage.

Jem shut the door behind her and scrambled up to sit beside the driver while Sarah, which name suited her better than Sally now, helped arrange the hamper, the blankets, and the warm bricks. She was as merry as a mayfly to be going to a grand house, seeing all the Fashionable Impures and their fancy dressers, practicing her skills. They’d have a wonderful time, Sarah was sure, what with all the surprises.

Simone hated surprises. They often ruined plans, and seldom turned out to be what a person wanted or needed.

“Oh, you’ll be happy with some of these, I’d warrant,” Sarah told her, grinning to show where one tooth had been darkened.

Simone had delayed as long as she could, especially since she did not wish to keep the major waiting for them along the route. She told Sarah to open the communicating window and tell Harold they were settled, ready to leave. She thought she heard a muttered, “About time, b’gad,” under the crack of the whip, and they were off.

So she never got to bid the secretary farewell. Nor did he bother to wish them luck, the dastard.

The last she’d seen of Mr. Harris had been last evening when he handed her a heavy silk purse. The coins were for vails along the way, for her personal use, for emergencies, he said. He might have been handing the major’s precious gold to a leper, the way he half tossed it at her without letting their hands touch. He must think the money was payment for services about to be rendered, the wages of her sin.

Let him think what he would, Simone told herself. She’d earn her pay by using her skills and her wits, not her body. She’d help the major with whatever hugger-mugger he imagined, and she’d try to add to the promised hundred pounds with the courtesans’ contest. She knew she could not win the thousand pound prize, but she’d do her deuced best at the preliminary rounds.

The young maid chattered about Simone’s new wardrobe and exclaimed about the passing countryside, while Simone studied her notes. She’d learned just this morning in a note from the major that two of the women expected to attend were French, but she was not supposed to speak that language with them. Mimi Granceaux was known to be Maisy Grant, born in Seven Dials instead of along the Seine, so she was not liable to converse
en francaise
. Joseph Gollup’s convenient was also French. He was a wealthy ship owner; his wife was breeding. So, the rumor went, was Lord Comden’s mistress. She’d be no competition at riding or dancing, but betting was heavy over whether the bachelor baron would marry her or not. And so it went. Simone fretted over the competition and Sarah babbled about everything and nothing. The miles flew by under the horses’ hooves.

All too soon for Simone’s jittery nerves, they reached the inn where they were to meet up with Major Harrison. She and Sarah stepped down for refreshment, while Harold took the coach around back, to rest and water the horses.

Sarah clucked her tongue over the inn yard dirt on Miss Royale’s hems, and brushed at them as best she good while they waited in the bespoken private parlor. “We both need to make a good first impression, that’s what Mum said.”

We need to see if Major Harrison did anything about his appearance, Simone told herself, as he’d promised. If he had not trimmed his beard or found more fashionable garments, all Sarah’s efforts were in vain. Miss Noma Royale would look like his nursemaid or his granddaughter. No, her sapphire carriage dress was too fine for the first; too low cut and clinging for the second. They’d look exactly what they were, May and December, an affair of interest. Bank interest, that was.

Many of the women she’d meet were younger than she was. She doubted few of the men would be older than the major. The first impression they’d make? That of a foolish old frump and his avaricious doxy.

What was she doing?

The same as all the rest of the ladybirds were doing. Only for more money, she thought, and for slightly less shameful work.

Perhaps she could walk back to London.

Jem knocked on the door to the private parlor before she could bolt. Whenever they were done with their cider and scones, he told them, they could leave. Simone forced herself to her feet, thanked the innkeeper, and slowly headed to where the hangman, no, Major Harrison, waited. She raised her chin and stepped out the door. She was going to make her fortune, hers and Auguste’s, see if she didn’t.