Chapter Ten
Clara’s decree that he not call again irritated Adam profoundly for two days. Not only was his desire frustrated, but also his conviction that he was making progress in his quest for the whole truth about his father.
On the third morning after their ride, he hit upon a way to share her company again. He arranged to meet with Langford and Brentworth later that day.
The bottle of port that they all shared was half-finished before Adam proposed to Langford that he host a garden party at his house. They sat in the card room at White’s, losing money to each other on this rainy evening, making the lamest of wagers on ridiculous things.
“Here I thought you wanted us to get together in the spirit of friendship, and instead you had ulterior motives. May I say, as directly as is polite, that if you have need of a garden party, you must host it yourself, Stratton.”
“He can’t,” Brentworth said after tipping his glass to his lips. “If he hosts it, he cannot spend all his time flirting with Lady Clara.”
“I have no ulterior motive,” Adam said. “Nor did I even suggest he invite Lady Clara.”
“Not yet. It was coming soon, though,” Brentworth said.
“Self-interest was the furthest thing from my mind. Indeed, the idea came to me because Langford keeps complaining about being hounded by those mothers. If he hosts a party and does not invite the two young ladies in question, it should put all the talk to rest.”
“Talk? What talk?” Langford sat up straight, suddenly alert.
“Oh. You have not heard. What a faux pas on my part to refer to it.”
“Do not castigate yourself, Stratton. He was bound to come upon it eventually,” Brentworth said.
“Come upon what? Speak plainly, one of you.”
“There is talk that Miss Hermione Galsworthy expects a proposal before the Season is out,” Adam said. “Very soon, actually. It is said—”
“Her mother is only stirring gossip in the vain hope that I will rise to the bait. These women are relentless. Well, I won’t have it. I will—”
“It is said,” Brentworth repeated, “that at the Fulton ball you kissed her. Behind a potted palm, no less. Really, Langford, if you are going to misbehave, try to find more discretion.”
Langford blanched. He drank a long swallow of port.
“Well, did you kiss her?” Adam asked. “If you are going to allow the enemy to compromise you like that, I will have to reconsider the respect I give your advice on strategy.”
“I did not kiss her . . . She . . . kissed me.”
Brentworth leaned in and made a show of being perplexed. “How ever did that happen? She is half as tall as you. Did she climb up on a chair, grab you by the ears, and plant a big kiss on you? Pretend to have a cinder in her eye, then steal a kiss when you bent to check?”
Langford scowled at him.
“You can see the brilliance of my idea,” Adam said. “Have that little garden party, but do not invite her or that other one whose mother is probably plotting how to thoroughly compromise you now that the stakes have risen and time is of the essence.”
Langford narrowed his eyes on Adam. “Perhaps I will. I should also leave Marwood and his family off the guest list, so no one misunderstands my interest in his sister.”
“I care not if you invite Marwood. As for his younger sister, your brother Harry will want her to be there, I am sure. He seemed quite taken by Lady Emilia when we all called at Marwood’s house that day. Since she will need a chaperone, you can also invite her grandmother—”
“No.”
“Or her older sister.”
Brentworth grinned. “Nicely done, Stratton.”
“Langford may be the prince of seductions, but I pride myself on being a king at extricating myself from their consequences.”
“That is better than Brentworth, who has become the emperor of having no fun.”
“Why do you say things like that? You know very well that it isn’t true,” Brentworth said.
Langford gave Adam a man-to-man look. “There was a fine party late last summer. Brentworth here deigned to attend. Only once he arrived he made us all promise not to encourage gossip about it later.”
“I did not think in these unsettled times that it would benefit the realm to have every drawing room and coffee shop abuzz about lords chasing naked Cyprians in the forests of the Lake Country during a game of satyrs and nymphs.”
“The gossip is half the fun. If you did not approve, you should not have come and enjoyed yourself so much.”
“It was not a matter of approval, but of discretion. I know that word is not in your vocabulary, but it is worth learning.”
“Discretion be damned.”
“So you always have said. Since your indiscreet behavior is not saving you from those mothers, and indeed is being used against you, your reputation does you neither credit nor benefit. I, on the other hand, am amazingly free of such feminine tactics. Which of us has managed this more wisely, do you think?”
“He scares them,” Langford said to Adam. “The face he wears while he suffers their blandishments has even the most ambitious mother shrinking away. He is called the Most Ducal Duke now. It is not intended as a compliment.”
“If it keeps schoolgirls from throwing themselves at me at balls, I’ll live with the title.” Brentworth shook his head. “A potted palm? What did you think was going to happen when the little flirt lured you there?”
Langford flushed again. “Well, I have no intention of hosting a garden party. I would be made a laughingstock. They are for old ladies to host.”
“Since Langford here is too stubborn to see the salvation that your plan offers, I will do it, Stratton, and save him in spite of himself,” Brentworth said. “My garden is far nicer anyway.”
“I have a very fine garden,” Langford said.
“Brentworth’s is better,” Adam said. “You will come, however, and pay a lot of attention to the girls invited, so no one concludes you indeed have formed a tendre for Hermione Galsworthy.”
“I will come, as long as you understand that I will not attend on Marwood’s younger sister,” Langford said. “Let my brother Harry flirt with her, if he even knows how.”
“I do not want you to attend on any of Marwood’s sisters,” Adam said pointedly.
“A week hence, then,” Brentworth said. “There will be no potted palms, Stratton, but the garden is replete with obscuring shrubbery suited to your purposes. I trust you will make good use of it. Discreetly.”
“I told you that my plan was not for my sake, but Langford’s.”
“Ah. Of course. Forgive me, I forgot that part.”
* * *
“I still say you need a footman,” Jocelyn muttered into Clara’s ear while setting down the refreshment tray.
Clara ignored her. In three days a housekeeper would take over duties such as serving tea and coffee to guests and answering the door. Another woman would clean. A third would cook. Her household was expanding in a satisfactory manner as far as she was concerned.
The one hole in the list remained the coachman and groom. She would attend to them, then buy a carriage and pair. Perhaps she would purchase a riding horse as well. She had so enjoyed galloping along on Galahad.
Her thoughts quickly moved from the galloping to other activities in which she had indulged that day, as they had too often since parting from Stratton. She would not mind so much if those memories engendered revulsion or at least self-castigation. Unfortunately instead she found herself well flushed and aroused before she summoned a more appropriate reaction and also reminded herself that he may well have ulterior motives.
That brief romantic lapse had been enjoyable, but she hoped Stratton did not misunderstand or attach any special meaning to it. If he did, she would have to remind him of her views about marriage. A few kisses and caresses were harmless enough, but she would not allow any man to own her, which was what marriage meant.
She locked those thoughts away now lest one of her guests comment on her color. Fortunately they busied themselves accepting cups of tea or coffee from Jocelyn and nabbing little cakes with their fingertips.
“The printing will be finished tomorrow and the subscribers’ copies will go in the mail by week’s end,” Althea said. “Clara met with our delivery women on Monday, and each will come by and receive the copies she will bring to the bookshops to which she attends.”
Lady Farnsworth, black-haired and steely-eyed, balanced her cup and saucer in one hand while perusing a proof of the journal with another. “It is certainly the most impressive volume so far. I think the order of the entries gives it a certain gravitas without appearing so weighty as to bore one silly.”
Lady Farnsworth’s own essay came first in that order. She was one of their contributors who used her real name, and a political report by the widow of a baron did lend gravitas to the journal. As politically minded as any man, Lady Farnsworth might not be received by the finest ladies, who disliked her growing eccentricity, but it was said the smartest men welcomed her company. As to her social standing, she had long ago become outspoken in her opinions on what she called the tribal oddities of the ton. Well into the autumn of her life, she had ceased caring who liked her.
Clara and Althea had decided Lady Farnsworth’s reports alone would give the journal credibility and had been delighted when their invitation to write for Parnassus had been accepted. At least they might stifle any criticism that a journal full of apparently anonymous writers might well be the work of only one person.
“I am more impressed by how well the printer engraved the drawings I had made,” Lady Grace said. She wiped her delicate fingers on a linen, lest the sugar in the cakes mar her impeccably designed silk ensemble. Lady Grace always wore garments that made Clara envious, and her tall, willowy form enhanced those fashions perfectly. Add her delicate face, very dark hair, and a rosebud mouth, and other women might be excused for hating her. “He will include those pages correctly, I hope.”
“We have seen the first copies off the press, and he has handled it expertly,” Clara said. Those pages had cost a pretty penny. She could not deny that an essay on fashion was much enhanced by drawings of those fashions. If Parnassus ever had to pay its own way, however, that might be a luxury it could not afford.
“It all appears in order,” Lady Farnsworth said, setting the proof aside. “You have outdone yourself. I daresay we should be toasting with something more celebratory than coffee.”
“I have no ratafia, regrettably.”
“What do you have?”
Althea gave Clara an impish smile. “Yes, what do you have? Surely there is something here for medicinal purposes.”
“I suppose there may be some sherry. Jocelyn, see if you can find the sherry and four glasses.”
Jocelyn had no trouble finding it since it lived in a nearby cupboard where it might be removed easily, illness or not. Indeed, Clara kept some glasses right there with it.
Lady Farnsworth took the decanter and poured herself a full glass before passing it back to Jocelyn. The maid did the honors for the rest of them.
“Oh, look, you published another one of Mrs. Clark’s poems. I am so glad,” Lady Grace said. She still reviewed her own proof, spread on her lap. “Oh, my, this one is rather pointedly satirical.” She read while she sipped. Little laughs punctuated her concentration. “Is her name really Mrs. Clark?”
“It is.”
“There are thousands of Mrs. Clarks in London, so she might as well use it,” Lady Farnsworth said. “A name like that is as good as being anonymous.” Unlike my name, which is known far and wide and takes courage to use, she might as well have added, since her comment included that implication.
“Will we do another volume before the Season is out?” Lady Grace asked. “I ask so that I know whether to make notes as I attend the parties.”
“I would like to try and publish every other month, if we can manage it,” Clara said. “Now that I am living here, I can bring in some help more easily, so it does not all fall to Althea and me.”
Lady Farnsworth’s eyebrows arched high. “You are living here?” Not much surprised Lady Farnsworth, but from her tone this had.
“I moved here last week.”
“Is that wise? I mean, a woman alone . . .”
“I am not alone and will be less alone as the servants I hired start coming.”
“Your grandmother cannot have approved, not that she approves of much anyway.” Lady Farnsworth never hid her dislike of Clara’s grandmother. The two of them were of the same generation, and Clara surmised there had been some unpleasantness between them in years past.
Lady Grace giggled. “I think it is safe to say she did not. I am correct, am I not, Clara? But our Clara is courageous, and I say brava! If my brother were not so malleable, I would be tempted to do the same.” She set down her glass. “I must take my leave now. I look forward to receiving my copy, Clara. You and Althea have a fine journal there, and it will be all the talk.”
She stood. Lady Farnsworth unburdened herself of her refreshments and stood as well. “That will not be all that is the talk,” she murmured.
Once Clara saw them out, she returned to find Althea flipping through one of the proofs.
“We outdid ourselves, if I do say so, Clara. However, every two months may be too ambitious.”
“We will not know until we try.”
“We will need more contributors, however. If you publish that frequently, it cannot always be the same names and voices.”
“Then I will find new ones.” She spoke confidently, not sure how she would do that. “It is difficult to expand the subscriptions unless there is a regular publishing schedule, so if I am serious about this I need to consider what it will be.”
“Quarterly would be acceptable.”
Clara trusted Althea’s judgment. That her friend now advised more cautious growth meant it was a path to be taken seriously.
Althea reached for one of the cakes. “Lady Grace is so funny. She grabbed one of these right away, but we had to listen to her say oh, I shouldn’t three times while she ate it. I wish women would not do that. Either enjoy the sin or don’t commit it, I say. And having embraced the sin, do not fret later about how it might make you stout.”
“Sin freely or not at all, you mean.”
“Exactly. Perhaps I will write my next essay about that. It is a viewpoint women need to hear.”
Clara wondered if Althea would only discuss eating cakes in that essay. Knowing Althea, probably not. Other sins would come into her argument. Althea was nothing if not logical and consistent.
“Is that how you live, Althea? Do you sin freely?”
“The evidence is that I do not sin at all. You did not see me devouring your cakes today.”
“I am not talking about cakes.”
Althea turned her whole body in Clara’s direction. “What are you asking me?”
Althea was probably Clara’s closest friend now, but she found she could not say what she meant.
“Are you asking me if I have had affairs, Clara?”
“Of course not. That would be rude and bold.”
“But you would not mind if I confided in you, correct?”
“Please do not. I should never have blurted that.” She leaned forward and grasped the sherry decanter. “Rather suddenly this looks appealing.”
“Do not apologize. You are curious. As am I. I wonder why this topic is of interest to you now.”
Clara drank rather more of the sherry than was normal for her. It gave her something to do while she found a way out of this conversation.
“Have you contemplated taking a lover?” Althea asked. “Is that the real reason you moved here, or at least one of them?”
“I have no need of a lover. At least not now. I simply wondered if as women mature, they find their views on such matters changing.”
“Most definitely. If yours are changing, you are not unusual. We are not girls anymore.”
So there it was. She was not unusual to find herself indifferent to the rules with which she was terrorized as a girl. Not unusual to be fascinated by pleasures long denied her. She supposed part of the change was that she now had much less to lose.
“Of course,” Althea continued, “your situation is not quite the same as mine. I am a widow. You are not. That does make a difference. I am sure that you understand that.”
“Too well. No one would raise her eyebrows on hearing you had set up your own household, I am sure.”
“I doubt eyebrows would rise more than a fraction if I took a lover, as you wondered. You, on the other hand . . .” Althea reached over to give her hand a gentle squeeze. “It is the curse of the unmarried woman, I suppose. All those notions about virtue and innocence hang on such women forever. Even Lady Farnsworth, who prides herself on her liberality, would not approve if you took up with some man. Nor would he escape unscathed after taking advantage of you.”
I cannot claim he took advantage. I would like to, but I cannot.
Jocelyn came in to take away the tray. Before reaching for it, she removed a letter from her apron pocket and handed it to Clara.
Althea had risen to prepare to leave, but she halted when she spied the letter. “It looks important. Superior paper and a very fine hand. And postpaid.”
Clara opened it so she could satisfy both of their curiosities. “This is odd. I barely know him.” She handed the letter over to Althea. “The Duke of Brentworth has invited me to a party next week. A garden party.”
“He is said to have the finest in town. Garden, I mean. What is this here about your sister?”
“He cannot invite her directly since she is not out, but he has included her in my invitation. If I tell her, she will insist on going, so I will have to as well.”
“Your grandmother could chaperone if he invited your whole family.”
“I will find out if Brentworth invited my entire family. Nothing I have heard about the man suggested he would voluntarily suffer Grandmamma’s presumptions, but he may have invited her all the same.”
“If not, you must do the duty, for your sister’s sake.”
“If I must force myself, I suppose I can manage it.”
Althea laughed and gave her a kiss good-bye. Clara read the invitation again and wondered if Madame Tissot would have one of her new dresses finished in time.