Seven

Verity waited while her landlady’s footman knocked at the door of Olivia Townsend’s home in Berkeley Street. The door opened. A tall gray-haired butler looked down at them. He would have been imposing if he hadn’t been swaying visibly, with the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat undone. The scent of brandy wafted down to them.

Verity’s escort looked at her, scandalized. Verity ignored him and mounted the step to the threshold. “Miss Verity Sinclair to see Miss Townsend,” she said.

The butler moved back, allowing them to enter. Verity’s shoe crunched on something as she walked in. There were bits of shattered crystal in the corners of the entry hall, she noticed. A chain dangled high above, where a chandelier would commonly hang.

“If you will follow me,” said the butler, articulating carefully. Walking behind him up a curving staircase, Verity was glad that he held the handrail. If he tripped, he would undoubtedly take her tumbling down with him. The man opened a door on the upper floor, gestured her through, and said, “Miss, er, to see you.” He shut the door on Verity’s heels, leaving her to face what seemed to be a crowded drawing room.

Olivia came forward, holding out her hands. “Verity!”

“‘Why, what’s the matter, that you have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?’” declaimed a girl of fifteen or so who stood by the hearth. She held a book rather close to her eyes.

“Is that beastly stuff supposed to cheer me up?” interrupted a boy of perhaps ten, reclining on a sofa at the side. One of his arms was in a sling.

“You don’t deserve cheering up,” replied the reader. “Not after wreaking havoc.” She savored the final words like a connoisseur sipping a fine wine. “And it’s Shakespeare!”

A tall, square-shouldered woman rose from a chaise and moved languidly forward. “Mama, this is Miss Verity Sinclair,” Olivia said. “I told you about her. Verity, my mother.”

Verity bobbed a curtsy. “Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Townsend.”

Her hostess greeted her with a sweet, if lazy, smile.

“And that is my dramatic sister Beatrice,” Olivia continued, indicating the girl holding the book. She pointed at the boy with the sling. “My reprehensible brother Peter.” The boy made a dreadful face at her. “My sister Selina and brother Gerard.”

Verity guessed that the latter two were about eight and five. They were bent over a board game and barely acknowledged her arrival.

“And that is the lot of us, except the oldest,” Olivia finished. “Winthrop is away at school.”

All of the Townsend brood resembled their mother, sturdy and dark-haired, except Olivia. “I’m the image of my father,” said the latter, seeming to read Verity’s expression. “Everyone remarks on it. Winthrop is the same.”

Mr. Townsend must be a rather small, slender man, Verity thought. She wondered if his wife dwarfed him.

“We don’t stand on ceremony here,” drawled Mrs. Townsend, returning to her chaise.

It seemed an understatement. In any household Verity had ever visited, children this age would be in the schoolroom.

Selina reared back and whacked Gerard over the head with a throw pillow. He retaliated by pelting her with game pieces.

Mrs. Townsend laughed. “Barbarians.”

“Get a pillow of your own,” Peter urged Gerard. “You’ll soon run out of ammunition.”

No one looked at all self-conscious, Verity noticed. She would have been mortified at such a scene in her own home. She couldn’t even imagine a parallel at Dean Sinclair’s staid residence. Of course, she had no brothers or sisters.

Selina and Gerard swatted at each other with pillows for a while. Peter cheered them on. Beatrice paged through her book. Mrs. Sinclair laughed at them. After a bit, as the shock wore off, it began to seem rather…refreshing.

“Come out of this bedlam,” said Olivia then. “We’ll go to my room, where we can hear ourselves speak.”

Beatrice made a move as if to join them. Olivia put her off with a gesture, and the younger girl looked hurt. But only briefly. She returned immediately to her book.

“I suppose you think you’ve entered a madhouse,” said Olivia as she led Verity up another flight of stairs.

“Oh, no.”

“Of course you do. With my raucous brood of brothers and sisters. And Cranford off somewhere watering the wine and filching the brandy. We call him our bibulous butler. But this is how we are. Mama married my father to escape a direly strict family. She says she was never so happy as when they cast her off entirely. She teaches us the proprieties, of course, but she vowed to let her children do as they pleased at home, and generally we do.” Olivia smiled down from an upper step. “Papa was raised without any manners at all in a dreadful slum. Instead of learning polite behavior, he became very, very rich. He says that caring what other people think is like locking on your own manacles.”

Verity felt dazed at this spate of personal information. “You don’t worry that people will…object?”

Olivia laughed, sounding remarkably like her mother. “Oh, I’m exaggerating for effect, as Beatrice would say. Generally I behave. Last fall in Northumberland I spent several weeks as chief toadeater to an earl’s daughter.”

Verity shook her head. “You did not.” She couldn’t imagine her unconventional new friend in such a role.

“I assure you, I did.” Olivia opened a door off the upper corridor and led Verity into a bedchamber.

Verity stopped short, dazzled by a riot of multicolored silk. Long swaths of the fabric draped the ceiling and walls, the bed and the two long windows. Scarlet, cobalt blue, emerald, gold, too many hues to count. “Oh!”

“Do you like it?” asked Olivia. “They’re saris—the things women wear in India. Papa brought them back. I think they’re lush!”

“They’re astonishing.” Verity felt as if she’d stepped into a fairy tale.

“Would you like some? I can get all I want from Papa.”

“Oh! Thank you. Yes.” Not that she’d be allowed to drape her room in this way. Not yet. But when she had a house of her own, she’d do as she liked.

“Splendid,” said Olivia. “You can leave your bonnet on the bed.”

Inspired by the household’s free spirit, Verity untied the ribbons and tossed her hat onto the silken coverlet. Her pelisse followed with a flourish.

“Come and sit.” Olivia plopped down in a brocaded armchair beside the fireplace. Verity took its mate on the other side. “Now we will plot,” she added. “I’m sick to death of being meek.”

“No one would call you meek,” replied Verity.

The other girl looked pleased. “I shall see that they don’t. This is my London season. Well, my first, anyway. I intend to make it epic.”

Verity nodded. She felt just the same. She wanted to grasp every chance for some adventure.

“And I’ve decided that Thomas Rochford shall be my project.”

“Your… What do you mean, project?”

“I’m going to make him fall in love with me. Only think what a triumph!”

“You want to marry him?” Verity asked.

Olivia laughed. “No, no. In due time I shall find an extremely amiable husband with tub loads of money who wants to spoil me utterly. I only want to…enslave Rochford.” Olivia nodded. “Yes, that’s the word. Enslave.” She seemed to taste it on her tongue.

Verity was fascinated by the idea. Olivia was full of thoughts that Verity had never had.

“Even Emily Cowper will envy me if I have Rochford languishing at my feet. I’ll be famous!”

“But how will you manage it?” Verity asked. “It’s difficult even to speak to him.” She frowned. “And he didn’t seem the sort of person to languish.”

“That’s why I need a good plan. And your help.”

“Mine?”

“Yes. I require a truly bold friend. Like you.”

“You think I’m bold?” Verity was flattered.

“Of course you are. Look at the way you rallied ’round when I stopped Rochford in the park. While Emma drooped as if she might faint. She’s far too timid.”

“But what do you expect me to do?”

“We shall see. I wanted to be certain you were on my side first.”

“Yes, but—”

“Splendid!” Olive leaned back with a pleased smile. “Is it true you’re to sing at Carleton House? At one of the prince’s receptions?”

“You heard about that?”

“It’s the latest on-dit. So it’s true?”

Verity nodded. “He… The invitation said it was a private party. Quite exclusive.”

“You’ll be famous,” Olivia crowed. “How lucky you are.”

“Do you think so?” Verity was happy to have her opinion confirmed. Everyone else had seemed to have doubts.

“Of course. Every girl coming out this season is trying to distinguish herself somehow. You hardly had to lift a finger.”

“It’s not quite that easy. We have to prepare a program of songs.”

“You and Lord Randolph Gresham.” Olivia’s eyebrows worked up and down. “So handsome. Hours alone bent over a steamy pianoforte?”

The phrase made Verity laugh. “Mama sits with us as we rehearse.”

“Oh, pooh. No chance even to steal a kiss?”

Even as Verity shook her head, the thought took hold of her. The scene ignited her imagination—the music ending, him bending near, the touch of his lips—and a bolt of heat shot from her cheeks…downward. Her breath caught. She wasn’t going to settle for a country clergyman, but surely she could flirt with one. He sang so beautifully. A stolen kiss was such a delicious idea.

“Aha!” said Olivia.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing in the world,” her friend replied with a wicked grin.

Verity pretended not to know what she meant.

“Speaking of kisses, I’ve just played the funniest joke,” Olivia added.

Her sparkling eyes and impish smile were infectious. “What?”

“I sent Miss Reynolds a huge bouquet.”

“The girl in the park?” asked Verity, puzzled. She’d thought Olivia disliked her. And why would she send another girl flowers?

“The same. And I put in a mooning note that hinted the flowers came from Charles Wrentham. If only I could be there when she reads it!”

Verity tried to work this out in her head. “But if she should speak to Mr. Wrentham…”

“I know,” crowed Olivia. “I wonder if I can arrange it? Somewhere I could watch.”

“He’ll tell her she’s mistaken.”

“And assume she’s hoping to entrap him, which she certainly is.”

“Won’t that would be rather humiliating for her?”

“Exactly,” replied Olivia with a nod. “And Miss Frances Reynolds will be taken down a peg, as she richly deserves. You may take my word for that.”

Since she didn’t know anything about Miss Reynolds, Verity had no other option. But even if Olivia was right, the bouquet seemed a mean trick.

When Verity and Olivia came downstairs a little later, they found a new caller in the drawing room. She looked familiar, and when Lady Hilda Stane was introduced, Verity realized why. Emma’s younger sister resembled her in many ways.

“We’re going up to my bedchamber,” said Beatrice, tugging the other girl’s arm. “And you are not invited.”

Olivia and her mother merely laughed.

* * *

Randolph was adjusting the angle of the drapery to exclude the sun when his mother entered the music room on Friday afternoon. “I thought I would sit with Mrs. Sinclair today,” she said. “I don’t want her to feel neglected.”

He was torn. Conversation would divert the lady from her chaperone’s duties. But he would feel more self-conscious under his mother’s observant eye. She would notice, as he already had, that he’d been anticipating this rehearsal more than a glittering ton ball. “She seemed quite content with her embroidery the last time,” he said.

The duchess merely smiled.

Randolph silently conceded. One didn’t argue with that smile. Not after the age of seven or so, when the futility of it had sunk in.

Miss Sinclair and her mother arrived soon after, and Randolph felt an odd sort of shock when his singing partner entered. Of course he remembered her perfectly well—the bright hair, pretty face, and frankly delectable figure. But the impact of her presence was greater than the sum of those details. He felt as if the room had grown a little brighter, its outlines a bit sharper.

Mrs. Sinclair followed the duchess over to the sofa in the corner and sat down. Randolph led the younger woman over to the sheets of music laid out on the table between the windows. “I thought we should try the songs in the order we discussed,” Randolph said.

“To see how the whole program works,” she replied.

“And if we need to change the sequence.”

“So that the whole makes the perfect impression.”

Randolph nodded. They fell into this automatic harmony, he thought. Over music. If nothing else. He took up the sheets, went to sit at the pianoforte, and they began.

It was just as before. When they started to sing, they seemed to enter a different realm where all was in tune. Depending on the mood of the piece, they could be spritely, tossing harmonies back and forth like skilled lawn-tennis players; affecting, hovering together on a tremolo of tears; or searingly sensual, once again rousing Randolph to a pitch he’d never experienced before. He knew that singing was an intensely physical act—the control of the breath, the shaping of the notes, and the projection of sound. But he’d never been aware of it in this reciprocal way, with a partner who matched him at every turn. It set him afire.

The quiet conversation in the corner, the room, the city all dropped away. He lost himself in the depths of Verity Sinclair’s blue-green eyes, the movements of her lips, the sway of her torso. As the last refrain of the final song died away, he started to reach for her.

The sound of applause recalled him. The duchess was clapping enthusiastically, leading Mrs. Sinclair to join her. “Bravo!” declared the former. “You really are very talented, both of you.” She smiled at Randolph. “My artistic son.”

The pride in her eyes warmed him and brought him back down to earth. The descent was jarring, and a relief. He’d nearly thrown propriety right out the window. It was also an intense frustration. He rose and managed a humorous bow.

Verity put a hand on top of the pianoforte, afraid she might lose her balance. It was hard to breathe, even though she’d had no trouble while she was singing. With the music gone, she was dizzy with…aftereffects. She’d thought, there at the end, that Lord Randolph was going to pull her into his arms and indulge in the kiss that she’d now pictured a hundred times. She’d been more than ready, longing for his touch, until the burst of applause reminded her that a kiss was impossible.

“How nice to be able to make music like that,” said her mother.

Verity stared at her. Could she really not have noticed that her daughter had been practically ravished before her eyes? It seemed so. Mama looked…complacent, practically smug. She looked like a woman whose tedious job is nearly done. Ah, Verity thought. Mama saw these rehearsals as courtship and expected an offer momentarily. Followed by a post chaise home to Chester and resumption of her comfortable, provincial existence. Verity resolutely didn’t glance at Lord Randolph. She didn’t want her life signed, sealed, and wrapped up in cotton wool. She just wanted that kiss.

Refreshments arrived. The cakes were luscious, but Verity hardly noticed despite her weakness for sweets. She struggled to make light conversation when her mind was still elsewhere, until one of her mother’s remarks called it back.

“With your interest in female education, perhaps you’ve seen the works of Mary Wollstonecraft?” Mrs. Sinclair asked the duchess.

“I believe I’ve heard the name,” Lord Randolph’s mother replied.

“As have I,” he said. “A rather unusual woman, wasn’t she?”

“Her life was unorthodox, as her detractors are all too ready to point out. And of course I cannot condone all her actions. But do we judge male philosophers on the basis of their private behavior?”

“It depends,” said Lord Randolph.

“Some of them crow about their bastard children,” Verity’s mother declared.

“Mama!” Verity glanced at the duchess. She didn’t look shocked.

“Females aren’t to say these things,” Mrs. Sinclair added thoughtfully. “At least not in company. And that is part of the problem. Mary Wollstonecraft believes, rather fiercely, that women should be educated and have the same fundamental rights as men.”

“Men don’t all have the same rights,” replied Lord Randolph. “Many have very few. What does she consider fundamental?”

And with that, the two of them were off on a spirited discussion of the nature of rights and responsibilities and the necessity of set societal roles. They gestured; they interrupted each other; they frowned over complicated points. And they showed no signs of stopping any time soon. As the conversation surged back and forth, Verity was amazed by two things. First, here was another person who could be swept away by ideas as easily as Mama. And second that Lord Randolph debated her mother without condescension. He spoke, in fact, as if she had an equal right to an opinion, as long as it was well reasoned. Mrs. Wollstonecraft would have been immensely gratified.

Verity met the duchess’s eyes. She seemed genuinely amused. “Birds of a feather,” the older woman murmured. “Your mother has been rather quiet up to now. One might have assumed, mistakenly, that she had little to say.”

“Mama is a…not a wolf but more like a crow, or a cat, in sheep’s clothing.”

Before Verity could worry that their hostess would find this remark odd, the duchess laughed. “I like that,” she said.

Then, at the same moment, Verity’s mother and Lord Randolph stopped talking and looked self-conscious. “I tend to go on and on,” said the latter.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Sinclair.

“Not at all. It was very interesting.”

“Well, I was interested, but my family says I often take a point too far.”

“So does mine,” declared Lord Randolph, with a droll glance at the duchess. He turned to smile at Verity’s mother.

The comradely look they exchanged was touching, even as it increased the sense of danger Verity felt around Lord Randolph. This man kept throwing out new, beguiling facets. He was terribly difficult to resist. But resist she must. “Were you always musical?” she asked him, to change the subject.

“He certainly was,” the duchess replied. “As soon as he learned to walk, he used to toddle off to the kitchens, demand a set of copper pans, and beat out rhythms with wooden spoons.”

“Mama!”

The duchess laughed at him. “My cook finally protested. Not at the noise. He produced a fine rat-a-tat. But he set the kitchen maids to dancing when there was work to be done.”

“I’ve always thought this story apocryphal,” said Lord Randolph. “I have no such memory.”

“You were too young. I can produce eyewitnesses,” teased the duchess.

“Verity used to sing to our dog at that age,” said her mother, her society manner once again in place. “And to flowers in the garden, and sheep in the meadows. She once sneaked into the choir stalls in the cathedral and joined in during a service.”

The subjects of these reminiscences exchanged a commiserating look. And then as quickly looked away.

“Kindred spirits, I think,” added Verity’s mother with a nod.

The duchess obviously understood where Mama’s thoughts were trending, Verity thought. This wouldn’t do at all.

“Character does seem to form at a young age,” their hostess answered. “My son James, for example, was always mad to go to sea. And now he’s living on his own ship and sailing the globe.”

“Living on a ship?” In an instant, Verity forgot all else. “He travels all the time?”

“He puts in to port now and then,” said Lord Randolph.

“Wherever he’s drawn to explore,” Verity said. “The farthest reaches of the Earth.” A fabulous, perfect way of life unfolded in her mind.

“And for supplies, I suppose,” Lord Randolph said. “Fresh water, that sort of thing.”

Verity leaned forward. “Does he visit you here?”

“He was in England last spring,” Lord Randolph said. “He mustered out of the navy, now that the war’s well over.”

“I missed him!” The words popped out before Verity could censor them. Her chagrin at this lost chance was too strong. Lord James sounded like just the sort of man she was seeking. If only her parents had given in to her persuasion sooner!

“He stayed in one place long enough to meet his wife,” said the duchess. “And then they were off together.”

Verity’s imagined life as a rover fell about her ears. Some other girl had snapped up Lord James before she had the opportunity. It was cruelly unfair. “Oh.” She came fully back to her mundane surroundings with a bump.

Lord Randolph looked irked, her mother perplexed. And it felt as if the duchess’s acute blue eyes could see straight through her, into nooks and crannies that Verity didn’t even understand herself. She needed a diversion. “Shall we see you at the Mellons’ this evening?” she blurted out.

“No.” Lord Randolph sounded a bit curt. “I promised to escort Sebastian’s young sister-in-law, and her new friend, to a play.”

“Beatrice and Hilda?”

“Yes. You’re acquainted with them?”

“I met them at Olivia’s house. I expect you’ll have a…lively time.”

“If I can keep Hilda from disrupting the action onstage, I’ll be satisfied.”

“Or Beatrice from joining it,” Verity said. She’d heard about her friend’s sister’s ambitions.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Verity was aware of the older women watching them. “You’ll miss Herr Grossmann. He’s putting on another demonstration.”

“I do not understand why anyone would allow a stranger to run his fingers over their skull,” said Verity’s mother.

“I think it’s rather like going to a fortune-teller,” replied the duchess. “With another form of divination.”

Lord Randolph cocked his head. “An interesting idea, Mama.”

“People love to hear about themselves. And to have their…foibles dissected. As long as the report is mainly favorable, of course.”

“I do not,” said Verity’s mother. “I see it as pure flummery.”

“I should have said some people,” the duchess said. “I don’t intend to submit to Herr Grossmann’s attentions either.”

“He told Robert all sorts of flattering things,” said Lord Randolph.

“And I’m sure Robert enjoyed it. But even so.”

“What about you, Miss Sinclair? Will you be volunteering?”

He smiled at her—that devastating smile. Verity’s pulse jumped, and she found she was glad he seemed over his pique.

“Of course not!” said her mother. She put down her teacup with a click and consulted the mantel clock. “We should be going, Verity. It’s nearly five.”

“So late! I had no notion.”

In the bustle of departure, Verity managed to avoid meeting Lord Randolph’s eyes. She did not evade a searching gaze from his mother.