The Faculty Office had a gossip in its ranks. Simon had been forced to divulge the name of his bride in his application for the license, and it seemed somebody had let slip the news. Not four hours after he received the license, a threat arrived—traveling quietly, in an unsealed letter delivered by an urchin. It found Simon at a restaurant in the Strand, where he was sharing a bottle of port with Harcourt.
You’re a madman. I am warning you: these shenanigans will not be tolerated. You are long past due for your comeuppance.
The author was too much of a coward to sign his name, but Simon recognized the penmanship. Over the years, he had received countless letters from his guardian recorded in Grimston’s cramped hand. At first, he’d even read some of them. Later, he’d discovered what an excellent substitute they made for kindling.
He smiled as he refolded the note. Of all the many advantages that would accrue through marriage to Nell Aubyn, Grimston’s displeasure would be one of the sweetest.
“I can’t get over it.”
Simon glanced across the table at Harcourt. “I can see that.” Harcourt was doing a very poor job of recovering from the news. “His compositions are quite shocking,” he added, straight-faced. “I suppose I can’t blame you.”
Harcourt blinked. “The … oh, yes. Quite.” On the way to the Strand, he’d accompanied Simon on a brief stop at the studio of a promising, if unconventional, young violinist by the name of Gardner. “Those, too,” Harcourt said with a tentative nod. “Very … vigorous.”
“Crude, you mean.” Gardner sawed his bow as though trying to break his instrument in half.
Harcourt hesitated. “I don’t … really care, to tell you the truth. I’m still stuck on the other matter.”
“Goodness. It’s been nearly an hour since I broke the happy news.”
Harcourt shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face. He was a blue-eyed redhead with the coloring to match, but at present, he looked even paler than usual. “Look here, you’ve had almost five weeks to come to terms with the idea that she isn’t dead. I recall the girl tumbling about in her pinafore on our lawn at Hatby. My mother took to bed for a fortnight after she disappeared.” He grimaced. “I believe she made my father interrogate the entire staff, lest he discover one of them harboring hidden intentions with regard to the nursery.”
“The great servant purge of 1872,” said Simon. “I believe an entire generation of nannies was scarred by it.”
Harcourt frowned. “But you must remember her, too. You were at Paton Park that summer, weren’t you?”
“No,” Simon said. “Not that summer.”
“But I recall letters from you. That was the summer you were thrown from a horse during a steeplechase, broke your collarbone. Am I imagining this?”
Simon sighed. That summer he’d come up with a hundred lies in his letters to friends. Rushden, infuriated with him for some reason Simon could no longer recall, had exiled him to some gloomy estate in Scotland. He’d escaped his escorts at the train station in York and managed to get to his parents’ home. When they’d promptly plotted to return him to the earl, he’d fled yet again, to London.
The paltry sum in his pockets hadn’t lasted four days.
It had been a lonely and bitter journey back to Paton Park, where Rushden and the countess had awaited him. Adolescent boys could muster a great deal of angst, and the realization that he was incapable of fending for himself—that no choice remained but to run back to Rushden with his tail tucked between his legs—had felt at the time like the blackest blow life could deliver.
It occurred to him now that at the same age, Nell had been working half-days at a box factory. Or so she’d claimed during one of their breakfasts together. In his shoes, she would have known exactly how to fend for herself.
The thought absorbed him. When Harcourt cleared his throat, it took Simon a considerable effort to muster his wits for a reply. “Yes, the steeplechase. I must have forgotten about that.” He remembered very little of that summer but the depth of his rage. It had driven him to a variety of stupid things—including an impossible jump for which he’d not forgiven himself for years. He’d suffered a broken collarbone, but his horse, Jupiter, had not been so lucky.
Rushden had insisted that Simon fire the bullet that ended Jupiter’s suffering. It was one of his only decisions that Simon, looking back, could respect.
“But you must have met her at some point,” Harcourt said.
He ran his fingers down the side of the bottle that sat between them. “A few times. Very briefly.” He’d first met the twins while visiting Paton Park on a holiday from school. He recalled being unable to figure out which was Cornelia and which was Katherine. In retrospect, he had a good guess. Nell had been the one who demanded candy from him. Kitty had been the one who’d thrown her doll at his head when he’d admitted he didn’t have any.
“Is she much changed, then?”
“She was five years old at the time,” Simon said dryly. “Put your mind to it.”
“No, but what I mean is …” Harcourt shifted in his seat. “You say she was lodged in the rookeries. Does it show?”
“Do you imagine that it wouldn’t?”
“I simply—” Harcourt fumbled. “I wonder if she managed to retain any of her upbringing. Surely she can’t be … like the rest of them?”
Simon found himself wordless. It wasn’t the absurdity of the question that gave him pause as much as the revelation it forced on him. Though Harcourt had been raised in privilege, he was well traveled and broad-minded. If he imagined that Nell’s high origins might have allowed her to float through her upbringing unaffected, then the majority of their peers would not only imagine but expect it of her.
What a pity. Over the last few weeks, her attitude toward her tutors had transformed. The results of her enthusiastic efforts were awkward; from Bethnal Green to Mayfair was a very large leap. But Simon had calculated that all she required was a rudimentary ability to avoid offending those persons who might be tasked to judge her fitness as Lady Cornelia.
Harcourt’s questions now forced him to reconsider the matter. Reclaiming her inheritance would not guarantee restitution of all the privileges her birth should have safeguarded. Kitty Aubyn moved through the world assured of her welcome in it. Nell, on the other hand, would never find it easy to belong.
Surely she can’t be like the rest of them?
Of course she could.
He tried to reason with his own uneasiness. Her fortune would go far to soothing any troubles her new life might cause her. She had no interest in the social circles that might disdain her want of savoir faire. Why should she? He’d learned at a young age that some men’s approval was not worth the price it required.
His silence was causing Harcourt to squirm. “Dash it, Rushden, you know what I mean. Bethnal Green! It’s the wretchedest fever den in London, I expect!”
“Surely not,” he said flatly. “I believe that honor must go to Whitechapel.”
The waiter appeared, clearing his throat to discreetly draw their attention. Simon took the bill, ignoring his friend’s complaint as he reached into his jacket for his billfold.
“I was meant to get this!”
“Be at ease,” Simon said. “My fever-den bride will soon put my worries to rest.” He laid down a note and looked up into Harcourt’s wide-eyed regard.
“You mean to do this, then? Truly?”
Good God. “I assure you, I will not invite you to make Lady Cornelia’s acquaintance until I’m convinced that she carries no contagions.”
Harcourt hissed out a breath and sat back. “Ho, old fellow—I didn’t intend—”
“No, of course not.” He paused, feeling uneasier yet. How absurd to take offense. Harcourt spoke of Nell Aubyn as a dreaded last resort because she was the last resort. “Forgive me. My mood is uncertain.”
Harcourt hesitated. “Dare I ask why?”
He picked up the letter from Grimston, giving it an indicative flick with his thumb before tucking it into his jacket pocket. “Minor irritations,” he said. “Nothing more.”
The stairs loomed before Nell, promising a long and winding descent toward the checkerboard floor of the lobby.
“Harmonic poise!” Mrs. Hemple called up. She was waiting at the base of the stairs beside St. Maur, and the low neckline of her fine, dark gown revealed two extraordinarily large surprises. Strange society, this, in which a girl couldn’t flash her ankles but a woman of sixty prepared for polite company by donning a dress that bared half her bosom.
“We’re waiting,” St. Maur said dryly. “Breathless, etcetera.”
A smile twitched Nell’s lips. She’d wager he was breathless with boredom. This was the fifth time she’d come down the stairs toward him, and she was determined to do it without tripping this time. Dinner was waiting and her stomach had started to growl.
She straightened her shoulders and placed one gloved hand on the banister. The heavy knot of her hair weighed down her skull, pulling her chin up to the proper angle. With her free hand, she hooked up a loop that unobtrusively shortened the skirts of gold silk. The unforgiving boning of the corset held her spine straight, and the tight sleeves ensured her arms maintained a pleasing bend as she descended.
As she reached the first landing, Hemple chirped, “Attention to the turn! Gracefully, now!”
“All I ask is that she doesn’t break her neck,” St. Maur said in an undertone.
“She must master it,” Mrs. Hemple said cheerfully. “Monsieur Delsarte considers stairs an excellent test of harmonic poise.” Every day this week, she’d put Nell through various exercises from Delsarte’s System of Expression: first the serpentine movement, then the sinking wrist and the rotation of head in various attitudes.
Descending a staircase was more complicated than Nell had ever known.
But as she glided around the turn and reached the safety of the final descent, she finally felt light on her feet—untroubled, at long last, by the yards of silk. Since a lady wasn’t meant to look too pleased with herself, she directed her smile toward St. Maur. In a close-fitting black coat and starched white cravat, he made a very convincing object for a girl’s admiration.
He smiled back at her, while in the periphery of her vision, Mrs. Hemple’s frown became apparent. “Gravity,” she warned. “Do not grow overconfident.”
Just this once, Nell ignored the instruction. St. Maur’s expression told her how well she was doing. His own smile was fading but his eyes did not leave her face. Smart lad; Nell knew she looked smashing: this shining gold gown was lovely. What cause for gravity? She was mastering the stairs, a gorgeous man was ogling her, and the dinner ahead was bound to be delicious.
As she reached the lobby, she laughed, and so did St. Maur. “Neck intact,” he said as he held out his arm. “Well done.”
Mrs. Hemple sniffed. “Your lordship, you agreed that practice would benefit Lady Cornelia. Please do not skip the formalities now she has reached the lobby. You might have asked for the pleasure of her escort, in reply to which she would have made a verbal acceptance before taking your arm. That’s how it’s done, you know.”
Nell met St. Maur’s eye again. “Oh yes,” he said. “I do know.” He gave Nell a quick smile as he released her. Taking a precise step backward, he sketched a lithe bow. “My lady,” he said. “May I have the pleasure?”
He was only following the script, but the rich timber of his voice on that single word—pleasure—made Nell’s mind go briefly blank. What a wicked smile he had.
“My lady,” Mrs. Hemple prompted.
She blinked. “By all means,” she said, and took St. Maur’s arm.
The table looked like a miniature hothouse, so many bowls of flowers and ferns that a girl couldn’t reach for her wineglass without encountering foliage. At intervals, small lamps covered by colorful shades cast a rosy glow over the snow-white tablecloth. Tonight’s formal dinner was an exercise to prepare her for debuting into society. Nell had doubted the necessity until she’d caught sight of the place settings: seven pieces of silverware flanked each plate.
“You’ve not touched your oysters,” observed St. Maur. He sat at the head of the table, Nell at his right, Hemple at his left.
“They’re raw,” she said. Everybody knew oysters were tastiest—and safest—fried to a crisp.
“That wasn’t by oversight,” he said.
“Vulgar,” Mrs. Hemple sang. “It is not your place to make observations on your host’s menu. Now, do have an oyster. Once one has accepted a course, one must take at least three bites; otherwise, one casts doubt on the dish.”
Nell looked at the quivering lumps on her plate. She’d no wish to spend the night hanging over a chamber pot. She braced herself with a sip of wine, white and sweet, and then another—muttering a silent prayer of thanks when the footman came by to collect her plate.
“Saved,” St. Maur said, too softly for Mrs. Hemple to catch.
“Fry them,” Nell muttered. “I beg you.”
Mrs. Hemple clapped her hands together. “Small talk? Excellent! His lordship and I will demonstrate its proper substance and nature for you.” Clearing her throat, she turned toward St. Maur. “My lord, do you enjoy the theater?”
St. Maur gave Nell a wink before turning to Hemple. “Why, yes, I attend quite regularly. And you?”
“I fancy myself an enthusiast,” Mrs. Hemple said with a girlish bat of her lashes. “To wit, I recently enjoyed Mr. Pinero’s newest play. Perhaps you saw it? Sweet Lavender is the name.”
“Indeed,” said St. Maur. “A work of great wit. Who can forget the immortal line: ‘Where there is tea, there is hope’?”
Mrs. Hemple turned expectantly toward her. “You see how it is done.”
Nell rolled her lips inward. “Oh, aye,” she said. “I’m agape with interest.”
St. Maur snorted.
“Mind you don’t come off as pert,” Mrs. Hemple said sharply. “And please be mindful of your diction! Now if you will please attempt an exchange with his lordship.”
Nell nodded and turned toward St. Maur. He sat back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. “Do you like the theater?” she asked.
“Not the theater!” Mrs. Hemple cried. “You must never ask a question which may expose your … lack of experience. Avoid questions of the theater until you have attended it. The weather, my lady, is always a wise choice. Or … let me see …”
“Literature,” St. Maur said. “Lady Cornelia can speak marvelously on Shakespeare.” He lifted his glass to her.
A flush of pleasure spread through her—intensified by Mrs. Hemple’s evident surprise. With a smile at the old lady, she said to St. Maur, “Have you read—”
“I do not recommend literature,” Mrs. Hemple cut in. “In this day and age, all manner of rubbish is printed.”
“The weather, then,” Nell said through her teeth. “How pleasant the weather is today, don’t you agree?”
“It rained,” Mrs. Hemple said.
Nell felt herself begin to scowl. “And what if I like the rain?”
The opening door saved her from Mrs. Hemple’s reply. A footman came around to serve a creamy soup that smelled of mushrooms and divinity. But he dispensed the portions so stingily that Nell could almost see through the bisque to the bottom of her bowl. “A bit”—more, she was going to say, but from the corner of her eye she saw St. Maur shake his head.
Once the soup was dispensed, another footman distributed glasses of sherry. After his exit, Mrs. Hemple spoke. “One does not ask for more soup,” she said as Nell lifted her spoon. “Or more of anything, for that matter, but particularly not for soup. A full bowl would be very vulgar.”
One taste and Nell knew this was the stupidest rule she’d heard yet. The soup tasted of heaven, of rich cream and cunning, savory spices and the tenderest mushrooms ever grown on God’s green earth. “Maybe,” she said after swallowing, “since this is only practice, we could ask for more—”
“Absolutely not.”
Nell glanced at St. Maur, but with a slight shrug, he ceded the ground to Mrs. Hemple. Smart man: he wasn’t wasting time talking with soup like this in front of him.
Nell went for another mouthful.
“My lady! Do not place the spoon into your mouth!” Mrs. Hemple looked shocked. “You sip from the side of the spoon, never from the tip!”
The best food in the world couldn’t hold up under all these pointless rules. “The spoon does its job either way, I expect!”
“Practice,” St. Maur murmured. “Practice and patience. She’s correct. One drinks soup from the side of the spoon, though God knows why.”
She normally drank soup by picking up the bowl and setting it to her mouth. The technique had the happy effect of warming one’s hands to boot.
But she saw in St. Maur’s level gaze a reminder of her own goal, and her determination to succeed at it. On a deep breath, she forced herself to make her dainty way through the thin inch of ambrosia. Once finished, she reached for a large swallow of sherry.
“Don’t drink that until the soup is removed,” Mrs. Hemple hissed.
Nell set the glass down with a thump. What nonsense was this? “Why did they bring it out if it’s not meant to be drunk?”
“These rules have no logic to them,” St. Maur said. “Were they logical, anyone might deduce them, and then how could we know whom to invite to our parties, and whom to shun?”
The trace of irony in his voice placated her. She sat back, eyeing the service door, willing the footman to reappear.
St. Maur leaned forward. “For our next discussion of the weather, I may introduce the topic of thunderstorms—but only because I like you, you understand.”
She managed a thin smile.
“Your lordship,” Mrs. Hemple began in aggrieved tones, just as the door swung open again.
Seeing her chance, Nell lifted her glass—saying, as her tutor fixed her with a frown, “They’ve come to clear the course!”
“Only a sip,” Mrs. Hemple said. “With a new glass for every course, you will not wish to become tipsy.”
Good God. Nell couldn’t think of a better state in which to pass this dinner. But by sheer dint of effort, she kept the smile on her face and returned her glass to the table after a single—very large—sip.
Next came the fish course. “The fork,” Mrs. Hemple instructed when Nell picked up the knife to debone her fillet. “When in doubt, whenever possible, one uses a fork. The spoon is somewhat vulgar, the knife definitely so.”
Then what in bloody hell was it doing on the table? Gritting her teeth, now, Nell picked up the fork and began to pluck out the tiny bones. One popped off her fork and went flying away. Neither St. Maur nor Hemple seemed to notice—although when she took another peek to be sure, the corner of St. Maur’s mouth twitched suspiciously.
The beef course—little round patties cooked in a buttery sherry sauce—restored her good cheer. By God, she’d do and say anything if she could eat like this every night. Spoons were vulgar? She’d swear never to touch one again, as long as this stuff—lay-ree-doo-vo, Mrs. Hemple called it—appeared nightly on the table.
Her plate nearly clean, Nell had moved on to the accompanying vegetables when Mrs. Hemple struck again. “No, my lady! That is asparagus!”
Nell looked up. “Aye—yes,” she amended, “so it is.” And she meant to eat it. It was slathered in butter and cream sauce. The kitchen wouldn’t be having it back.
“One doesn’t eat the stalk,” said Mrs. Hemple.
Still giddy on the flavor of the tenderest meat she’d ever tasted, Nell stared across the candlelit table at a woman who’d clearly eaten more than her fair share in this life. “That’s … nonsense.”
Mrs. Hemple’s large bosom swelled. “It is good ton. One eats the tips of the asparagus, no more.”
Nell turned toward St. Maur. “I want the stalks.”
He lowered his fork back to his plate and considered her squarely. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll never tell.”
A sharp breath gusted out of her. She wasn’t a child to be humored. But she supposed that was how she was acting. These lessons were for her benefit, not theirs. Heart sinking, she cast her own fork to her plate.
It clattered, causing Hemple to perk up like a dog on the scent of rubbish. “One doesn’t—”
“Make a noise,” Nell sighed. “I know. Quiet as mice, we lot.”
Mrs. Hemple sat back, visibly mollified.
And so it went for the next half hour. One did not butter her bread. One did not use a spoon save when one simply did not use a fork, as in the case of pastry; then, of course one used a spoon, otherwise how would one capture the sauce?
“Do not eat the cheese,” Mrs. Hemple instructed. “Only the fruit.”
“With a fork,” Nell predicted wearily. “Or—no, a spoon.”
“Indeed not. Use your fingers! Really, my lady, did you not read the books I provided? No, not like that—your hand should not close completely around the grape. Yes, very good. Now return the seed to the plate very discreetly.”
One didn’t fold one’s napkin at the conclusion of the meal. “Lay it beside your plate as it falls,” said Mrs. Hemple. “And now we shall leave his lordship to his port and cigars, and withdraw to the drawing room for coffee and pleasant conversation.”
Nell, having just let go of her napkin and turned away, stopped dead in her tracks. No, no, no. She’d surrendered the asparagus stalks. She’d resigned herself to a fifth of a bowl of soup. She’d looked longingly on but not touched the fine, creamy cheeses. She’d managed to restrain herself from eating her peas with a knife; she’d not even tipped the pastry bowl to her lips to capture the last sips of raspberry liqueur. Another minute of this and she’d—she’d—
“I think that’s enough for one night,” said St. Maur. He’d risen as they had and now, suddenly, was taking her arm. “That will be all, Mrs. Hemple. Thank you.”
Nell found herself overcome with gratitude at the sight of Hemple’s exit. She laid her hand over St. Maur’s where it cupped her elbow. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “Thank you.”
He laughed down at her. “Believe it or not, you did well.”
She let go. “And pigs are flying. No matter. So long as your cook keeps making that beef, I’ll gladly practice till I’m the Queen of the World.”
“How very good to know,” he said. “For such diligence, I think you require a reward.”
“Oh?” Interested, she tipped her head. “So long as it’s not another etiquette manual …”
“You tell me,” he said. “What would you like to do?”
The white ball cracked into the red, sending it spinning into the top pocket. Nell straightened with a broad grin. She had an unlighted cigar clamped between her teeth, and as she cast down her cue, her hand went to the glass of whisky she’d balanced on the table’s edge. “Three more strokes to me,” she said. She plucked the cigar from her mouth and pointed it at his eye. “How’s that feel, laddie?”
“I’m trembling,” Simon drawled.
“As you should be.” She winked at him, then tipped back her glass for a long, unfeminine swig. Simon’s gaze wandered down the line of her throat to the low neckline of her golden gown. The lean, graceful tension of her bare upper arms fascinated him. He regretted the long white gloves that disguised the tender curve of her inner elbow. Uncreative schoolboys might dream of orgies featuring nuns, but the truly precocious dreamed of a woman like this: bohemian and endlessly surprising. Self-possessed and quick-witted enough to keep any man on his toes.
Generally boys grew up to realize that such women existed only in dreams. Finding one in his billiards room somewhat took his breath away.
Her swallow was noisy. She smacked her lips as she set down the glass. He’d invited her to behave without a care for propriety, and she’d spent the last half hour testing the sincerity of his offer. “A dead heat,” she said gleefully.
He retrieved his cue, grabbing a length of sandpaper to roughen the leather tip. “Not for long, of course. But by all means, enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Oh, I expect it won’t be long,” she said comfortably. “You’ll be fouling, this next strike.”
He snorted. “My dear, misguided twit, you’re playing the top scorer in the Oxford-Cambridge matches of seventy-five and seventy-six. I never left St. James’s Hall that I wasn’t carried out shoulder-high.”
“Oh ho, a sharper!” She retrieved her glass to make him a toast. “My sympathies on your coming defeat, then, boy-o. Bound to be bitterer than your whisky.”
He laughed as he exchanged sandpaper for chalk. She was a sharp-toothed tiger wrapped up in silk. “I think I’ll make you pay for that taunt.”
“Will you, now! And what price for your arrogance, me pretty lad?”
He looked up from the chalk, smiling slowly. “I am pretty, aren’t I? High time you noticed.”
Color rose in her face, but she did not look away—not even as she returned the glass to the small shelf behind her and placed her cigar beside it. Eyes remaining on his, she came padding around the billiards table in her stocking feet.
It was he who broke the gaze to look downward, to the white silk stockings that revealed glimpses of the slim shape of her toes. Her small feet flexed gracefully, the arches deep, her ankles trim—she was lifting her skirts higher than her short steps required.
He felt his smile deepen. Oh, he knew what she was on about, here.
As she arrived at his side, the delicate scent of lilies reached him. Somebody, the French maid, had put perfume on her, and it seemed to spread tendrils that twined into his brain and tightened around it, strangling his good sense.
Her breasts brushed his arm as she leaned past him to set the red ball at the billiards spot. “You’re going to lose,” she purred, glancing up at him from beneath her long, dark lashes. “In that dining room, you may know what’s what, but this is my sort of table.”
“Hmm.” He held her eyes, arrested by the glint in them. That glint invited him to commit mischief: she wasn’t the only one intending to misbehave. “Perhaps we should make a wager on it.”