Chapter Nine
Lady Wentworth bustled from her townhouse in Mayfair the moment Henry halted the landau in the drive. She descended from the lofty stairs like the hounds of Hell nipped at her heels. The shadows cast by her sprawling townhouse stretched ominous fingers toward her. A footman dashed in her wake.
By the time she reached the side of our conveyance, her breast heaved with the force of her pants, and sweat beaded on her brow. She fanned herself with her hand, clutching her waist. I often called her Lady Semelparity, since her beauty had bloomed and died long before I was born, leaving behind a screeching husk eager for attention.
“You,” she gasped, pointing a finger directly at me.
Trepidation crawled up my spine.
She turned her attention to Papa, though Mother sat to my left. Lady Semelparity knew who in my family paid the most mind to propriety.
“I can’t believe your audacity,” she wheezed. “To attend my luncheon when your light-skirt of a daughter was up to the Lord only knows what at the church today!”
I trembled. The clop of horses’ hooves hailed the arrival of a second carriage to our rear. I chewed on the inside of my cheek to keep from turning around to catalogue the person to witness my redressing. That Lady Semelparity conducted herself in such a way in public was unforgivable, regardless what she thought of me.
I clasped my hands so tightly on my lap that my knuckles cracked. Papa’s expression turned murderous. Just leave, Papa. Please. We should have returned straight home after church and stayed there.
Papa opened the landau door with a violent thrust of his palm. He stomped from the carriage. Mother pushed me to follow. I don’t want to. I longed to evaporate into the squabs and pretend I was anywhere else. When I stumbled onto the cobblestone, I landed heavily on my ankle. Hissing under my breath, I hobbled out of the way for Mother to disembark.
Papa wore a stony mask even more petrifying than when he lost his temper. His eyes blazed with such fury I feared he would set Lady Semelparity alight with his glare. Mother stepped stiffly beside him, her expression venomous.
“What did you call my daughter?” Papa asked. His voice was low and lethal.
Lady Semelparity recoiled by a step. “She is out of control.”
Her words mirrored Papa’s lecture from this morning too closely. I winced.
The carriage door next to us slammed shut. I jumped. I pressed my hand to my heart to quell its ferocious pounding as a man strode to join the argument.
“What is this slur against Miss Annesley’s good name? She is angelic.”
My mouth dropped open at the vehemence in his voice. Was Scandent defending my honor? He was the very last person I’d imagine to have soft or chivalrous feelings toward anyone.
He turned his head to address Lady Semelparity, and I confirmed his identity. That was indeed Sir Scandent, impeccably dressed in midnight-blue breeches and waistcoat, his mop of hair hanging unfashionably in his eyes.
“For shame,” he said to Lady Semelparity. His voice was so low and admonishing, my cheeks nearly flamed with guilt, and I wasn’t the object of his scolding. When he gestured toward me, I tried to camouflage myself into the side of the carriage, with no luck.
“You’ve known Miss Annesley for years. Do you truly think she’s capable of the kind of crass behavior the rumors bandy about?”
I bit my tongue to keep a straight face. Just what did the gossips say about me, exactly? I feared it was much worse than Papa had let on.
Scandent continued, “Don’t tell me you believe those crippling tales of her. They were clearly concocted by the wild imaginations of matrons who have nothing better to talk about.”
Considering he had purportedly started some of those tales, that was rich.
Lady Semelparity hesitated. Tendrils of doubts wormed into her expression, as if she’d only now stopped to consider the validity of the rumors over which she would eject my company.
“But the scandal rag…”
Scandent laughed. “You put stock in a man who is too frightened to attach his name to the caricatures he draws? He is grasping at straws. That image could have been of anyone.”
With so many prominent freckles? I didn’t believe that.
Giving Lady Semelparity one last, withering glare, Scandent turned on his heel and strode toward me. He offered his arm. “May I escort you inside, Miss Annesley?”
How could I say no after he’d put his reputation on the line by defending me? I slipped my hand onto his forearm. He tucked it firmly into the crook of his arm and led me past Lady Semelparity.
She didn’t try to stop us. If she gaped for much longer, she would catch flies on her tongue.
We mounted the steps to the grand house with care. Acting the true gentleman, Sir Scandent slowed his pace to mine. As the shadow of the manor crossed over my face, I stared up at the magnificent edifice. Three stories tall, but the most magnificent aspect of it was the grounds. Lady Semelparity was one of the wealthy few in London to afford a yard and extensive garden. Although our townhouse resided only a few streets away, our neighbors hemmed in close on either side, and we only had room for a tiny enclosure in the back.
Lord and Lady Wentworth possessed a townhouse to rival some country houses.
As Scandent steered me into the house proper, he leaned his head toward mine. “You do need to practice discretion, my dear. We’ll have to work on that, won’t we?”
A frisson of disgust climbed up my spine. I tried to pull away from him, but he pinned my hand firmly to his arm. I couldn’t remove it without making a scene. My eyes adjusted slowly to the shadowy interior of the front hall. Twin staircases climbed to either side, with a hall disappearing straight ahead. The butler coughed politely into his fist and bade us to follow him.
Fortunately, the hall proved too narrow to allow us to comfortably walk side by side. Scandent dropped my arm and motioned for me to precede him. “After you, Miss Annesley.”
Ever the gentleman—at least while in company.
Although the butler didn’t appear to be paying attention, I inclined my head toward Scandent anyway, out of politeness. “Thank you,” I murmured, and hastily followed the butler.
The moment I slipped into the sparsely lit hallway, Scandent crowded me from behind. “I much prefer the view from the rear.”
My cheeks flamed so hot they nearly shed light. Sir Scandent backed away, but I was acutely aware of his stare throughout the jaunt toward the back. When I glanced over my shoulder, I spotted Mama hastening to catch up as she entered the manse. She must have lingered to speak with the hostess.
I likely didn’t want to know what had been said.
The butler led us through the back door and into the radiant sunshine beaming down. Sunspots propagated on my vision, but I didn’t dare stop. Scandent might claim my attention once more. The chatter of the other guests swelled on the breeze. I searched for a friend.
Given the sudden hush at my arrival, I doubted I would be able to find a single friendly face in this cluster. Twitters erupted as I passed a tussock of mixed matrons and their younger-than-autumn-snow daughters. I bit my cheek. No reaction must show. Rose had drummed that cardinal rule into me since our come-outs. It was potentially the most useful thing she’d ever taught me. I kept my face barren of emotion while straining my ears to catch their words.
They babbled far too excitably to be discussing the age-old topic of my lack of marriage offers, which meant they, too, had heard the gossip or seen the caricature. Wonderful. Now I was the ton trollop. So much for salvaging my reputation. Judging by the hostile glares I faced, it couldn’t be done.
“Francine.”
Rose sauntered to my side. Beyond her, some debutantes, all in pastel colors, rooted themselves in the rows of chairs readied to one side of the French doors. Most people buzzed in groups around the garden. A good many men flocked to the long table where luncheon was already laid out.
Rose clasped my hands, drawing my attention back to her. She frowned as she eyed the door I’d just emerged from.
“Did you arrive with the Cheswick nephew?”
I grimaced. “In a manner of speaking. It’s a long story.” One I didn’t care to think about, let alone repeat.
“No matter,” she said with a shrug. She tugged me forward by her hold on my hands. “I have the best news. Come. Let’s sit down.”
I followed her as she cut a swathe to a spot near the front of the chairs. At her urging, I sat. “Why are the chairs here?”
Rose released one of my hands to wave hers in the air. “Lady Wentworth’s niece is something of a virtuoso. Don’t you want to hear the news?”
Her enthusiasm was infectious. I couldn’t help but match her grin and lean closer. “What news?” Anything at all would lift my spirits, right now.
She beamed. “Everyone is talking about you.”
Anything but that, at least. I let out a long-suffered sigh. “I know, Rose. That bloody caricature.”
“Don’t think about the caricature.”
“Don’t think about it?” My head spun. “How can I not? Papa near about disowned me when he saw it.”
“You’re blowing it out of proportion. You’re forgetting the Infamy Illustrator also drew about me. It didn’t permanently scar my reputation, and it won’t yours.”
Judging by my reception here today, it already had. “You married Hartfell shortly after that illustration emerged.”
“You’ll be marrying someone shortly, too.”
I wondered how she could possibly sound so optimistic about the notion when I had a clear lack of suitors to contend with.
“How can you say that, Rose? No man wants to marry a woman caught kissing someone else.”
I glanced warily for signs of our other friend. If Mary caught wind of that particular escapade, she would box my ears as a prelude to the musical entertainment. Curiously, I didn’t spot her. This luncheon was exactly the sort of event her sponsor would goad her into attending.
Rose pinched the back of my hand, catching my attention. “I’ve decided to take a leaf out of Mary’s book, so I’ve been spreading a rumor lauding that you have a suitor.”
Dread tightened the muscles in my back. My shoulders ached.
I shook my head. “Why would you say that? I thought you wanted to preserve my reputation.”
Rose flapped her hand. “Oh, I do. Trust me. But it will be to your benefit for others to know that you are being courted.”
“Courted by who—Julian?” He was the only man I might have been seen with recently. “He isn’t courting me.”
Despite our kiss. A renewed tingle swept over my lips at the reminder. It didn’t matter if he felt the same pull to me as I did to him. He had a fiancée, one he seemed resolved to marry. I’d never wanted to marry anyone, anyway.
You never wanted to kiss anyone before, either.
I smothered that small annoying voice.
Rose said, “It doesn’t matter who the suitor is, as long as it is known you have one.”
“I don’t understand.”
She let me stew. She slowly adjusted a stray curl by her ear. With a twinkle in her eye, she confided, “Men always want what they can’t have.”
“Which is…me?”
“Exactly.” She beamed. “I have no less than seven potential suitors lined up for you. I’ve broken them down into groups. Those I believe are serious but sluggish in their actions, those most likely to make an offer before the end of the Season, and those simply interested in the thrill of the chase.”
“Why include the last?”
She extended a finger in emphasis. “They can be useful tools to prompt the others into making an offer.”
But I didn’t want a husband to begin with. Was marriage truly the least objectionable recourse? Perhaps Mary had the right of it, and I was better off ruined. I needed time to think on the matter, and I had precious little of that.
“Do any of them meet my father’s standards?”
“No,” Rose admitted. “I refuse to consider that abominable Cheswick nephew. But two of them have considerable income of their own. One is third in line for a title, and the other soon to be second in line.” She crossed her hands over her slim stomach.
“In fact,” she said slyly, “you’ve danced with my first choice more than once.”
I shook my head ruefully. “We are wasting our time if Papa refuses them all.”
“Not necessarily,” she said slowly. “Have you considered marrying without your father’s consent? You’re old enough not to need it, and I doubt he’ll disown you. Not his only daughter.”
If I did that, Papa might withhold my dowry. I didn’t much care for the money, but I didn’t like the idea of causing such a rift in my family.
I hedged. “I’d rather not go against Papa’s wishes if I can help it.” I didn’t want to hurt Rose’s feelings. Not after all her efforts to help me.
“A last resort,” she said. “He might change his mind.”
He hadn’t in the past five years. I didn’t see why he would do so now.
Rose’s face brightened. “Here comes your first suitor now.”
I glanced around, spotting Hartfell immediately. An easy feat, when he loomed head and shoulders taller than everyone else crowded around him. In his wake trailed another young man, Mr. Johnstone. One just as tall, but leaner and with a darker coloring than Hartfell. A hawk-like nose, fashionable, short-clipped side whiskers, and beady eyes lent him a formidable air. Coupled with the fact he never spoke more than a word at a time and I’d yet to see him smile, despite entertaining several dances with him, I lowered him to the bottom of the list of marriageable men.
One notch above Julian, come to think of it.
And yet he crowned Rose’s list. I sighed. “Mr. Dendroid?”
“I beg your pardon?” Rose shook her head, aghast.
“It means tree-like. Because he’s tall and thin and…” I waved my hand as I searched for the right word. Finding none, I concluded with, “…birchy.”
“Plenty of young women find him handsome.”
I wasn’t one of them, though he wasn’t displeasing to the eye, exactly. His demeanor, more than his appearance, wilted my enthusiasm. His arch expression sucked the gaiety from the air rather than rejuvenating the reservoir of wonder the world had to offer. Like—
Don’t think of Julian.
I shook my head to eradicate the thought. “He’s the very last man I’d think of as a suitor.”
She shrugged. “I did mention you’ve danced with him before.”
“Only because you forced him to.”
“Nonsense.” Rose flapped her hands, as if she could brush away my concerns so easily. Maybe she could.
She leaned closer. Her eyes glittered as if she was about to confide a secret. “He’s had a tendre for you from the start.”
I choked back a laugh. “Is that so?”
“Certainly.”
She overlooked my sarcasm. No doubt on purpose.
“He could hardly show his feelings when your father made it known he would reject anyone without a title. Now he has a chance.”
Truthfully, he had as much of a chance with my father now as he’d had before. I’d witnessed a gargoyle express more feelings toward me than Mr. Dendroid.
“Don’t raise false hopes,” I whispered to her. I lowered my voice. Hartfell and his cousin had almost reached us.
“Not false,” she insisted. “He is soon to be second in line to inherit Hartfell. First in line, if the baby is a girl.”
Not a promising position at all, in Papa’s eyes. He was a terrible candidate. What was Rose thinking?
“Stand,” Rose ordered. “And smile.”
I obeyed on both counts. I dipped in a small curtsey as the men approached. Dendroid inclined his head in answer. Not low enough to be on a level with the top of my head.
How would I ever kiss him? Perhaps by stepping on a stool first. I bit my lower lip to suppress a smile.
“Mr. Johnstone,” I said. “I’ve scarcely seen you all Season.”
“I’ve been away pursuing business opportunities.”
“Very promising ones,” Rose added.
“My dear,” Hartfell interrupted, “don’t be bandying about any tales until the deals are signed. It’s bad luck.”
She sent him a winsome smile. His stern expression evaporated like water during a drought.
Rose leaned closer to whisper in my ear. “I daresay those debts Edmund inherited will disappear in a hurry. If not, your dowry will surely cover it.”
Exactly what I wanted—to pay off a man’s debts in exchange for losing my freedom.
The hostess crossed to the front of the room. She raised her hands and called for the guests to take their seats.
“Let’s sit,” Rose said. “It seems the musical entertainment is about to begin.”
We settled into the seats Rose had chosen. Mr. Dendroid settled to my right, Rose to my left, and Hartfell attached to her like usual.
A young woman stood from the front row. She brandished a violin.
Although not beautiful in the classical sense, she radiated an inner vibrancy as she drew the bow across the strings. Her black-as-ebony hair was pulled back into a severe bun. Not fashionable in the least, and it emphasized the pinched narrowness of her face. But she sported no freckles. Her skin, an olive tone, was smooth and unblemished, marred only by the frown of concentration she wore as she wove magic into song. Her smoky brown eyes held a tilt to them, as did the upturn of her decumbent nose.
Lady Semelparity’s niece, if I’d interpreted the gossip correctly, had arrived from Spain for the summer. If she decided to stay for the Season next year, I had no doubt she would be a smashing hit. Married to a lord or even a duke before April.
Envy bubbled to the surface. I leaned toward Mr. Dendroid.
“She plays beautifully.”
“A true virtuoso,” he said.
I couldn’t help but think that if she had been born a man, she would have been composing symphonies rather than playing small concerts to heighten the esteem of her aunt.
His eyes never wavered from the young woman. He seemed riveted.
“I wonder if she feels differently,” I mused.
“What do you mean?”
His brusque tone cut into me like a blade. I risked a sideways glance. A scowl turned down the corners of his thin mouth. His sour expression fit the musician’s. No doubt they would get along beautifully. The pair and their sour-faced children.
“Her expression,” I muttered. “She looks as though she’s playing the most discordant notes instead of the angelic music we hear.”
“She is deep in concentration. The music clearly has swept her to a world of her own making.”
If that was true, it wasn’t a world I cared to visit, given her countenance.
The conversation evaporated. I doubted I could coax more than two sentences out of him at a time. In fact, I felt lucky to have been given that many. All in defense of a sour-faced musician who played with the hand of an angel.
“Excuse me,” I murmured to him. “I must visit the retiring room.”
He let me pass without comment. Rose, deep in conversation with her husband, didn’t notice my absence. I would have one minute alone at the very least. Once she realized I’d left, she would hunt me down and uproot me, insisting on playing my chaperone. No doubt she had plans to socialize for the rest of the afternoon.
I sidled toward the open French doors to the manse. When I reached them, I peered over my shoulder to examine the gathering. Dendroid stared rapt at the performance. Rose and Warren engaged in an intimate whispered conversation. No one else noticed my absence, by their demeanor.
I sidestepped the door and slipped farther into the garden. I didn’t need a chaperone alone among plants. And if someone did happen across me and think me a wanton…well, if Mr. Dendroid was what I had to look forward to in marriage, then perhaps Mary had the right of it, and I didn’t care to keep a spotless reputation, in any case.