A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (2 page)

“A radical? My dear fellow. My poor, dear Richard.”

Mr. Julius Norreys stretched out his legs in front of the fireplace and admired himself. His pantaloons pleased his eye, well-fitted, spotless, and of a charming apricot shade against the other men’s sober fawns, but he could not help comparing his Hussar half-boots to Richard’s Hessians as he stood by the mantelpiece. His boots were merely excellent; Richard’s were a work of art. Subdued art, of course, restrained art, the grave classical art of the Doric column that had no use for the intricate complexities and curlicues that were the style of the day. Richard achieved in his person a perfection of plainness that London had not seen since poor Mr. Brummell’s departure. Julius wondered, not for the first or the fiftieth time, what it would take to lure Richard’s valet into his own employ, and whether Richard would ever speak to him again if he achieved it.

“Working in a political bookshop. A nest of dissenters, democrats, and atheists.” Richard, usually an abstemious man, was on his third glass of brandy. “His employer is a well-known Jacobin rogue.”

“Dear heavens, Richard.” Dominic Frey spoke from the fireside chair opposite Julius, eyes shut, face lined with tiredness. Silver was beginning to thread the black curls over his temples, and he lolled with the half-empty glass in his hand tilted at a careless angle. “I might have ordered your cousin’s arrest at any day. That would have been awkward.”

Dominic worked in the Home Office trying to keep seditionists under control, lest they set the country aflame. Julius admired his industry, from a distance, but had the least possible interest in subversive booksellers. He didn’t have much interest in Richard’s long-lost relatives, truth be told.

They were at Quex’s, a select club and gambling hell discreetly bankrolled by Richard in return for the exclusive use of its private upstairs rooms and the absolute discretion of Mr. Quex. This was where the little set known as the Ricardians met: Lord Richard Vane, his boyhood companion Dominic Frey, and their select, if oddly assorted, group of friends. They numbered only three this evening since the Season was in full swing, with balls and routs every night. Julius should have been at Lady Hertford’s
conversazione
now, in fact, but Richard had requested his presence, and a night away from the heat and whirl of perfumed bodies in endless waltz had seemed a relief.

He was, however, beginning to wonder what Richard was up to.

“So what’s your purpose for this fellow? How will you get rid of him? Who
is
he, precisely?”

“The son of my cousin Alexander Vane, who married beneath him.” Richard gave a grimace of distaste. “He eloped with a radical agitator’s daughter.”

“Good Lord. How is it I didn’t know of that?”

“It was, what, twenty-five years back,” Dominic said. “Richard and I were about ten at the time, so you must have been no more than a babe in arms. Demanding nips and tucks in your swaddling clothes, I imagine, and wailing if your rattle wasn’t the right shade of pink.”

“Twenty-five years ago I was four,” Julius informed him, with a withering look.

“I beg your pardon. You were repainting your wooden soldiers in a finer style.”

“In any case, there was a great to-do,” Richard said. “Alexander went on to become a full-blown seditionist. He spent years on the Continent, sowing anti-Bonapartist sentiment. At least he had the decency not to use our name. He passed as Alexander Gordon, using his wife’s surname.” That meant nothing to Julius, but Dominic’s pained expression suggested it was notorious to those who cared. “His father, my cousin Gideon, disowned him at the time of his marriage, but it seems Alexander wrote to tell him of the birth of his son.”

“Where is Alexander now?”

“He died in Paris, some years back.”

“Hanged?” Dominic made a feeble gesture with his empty glass, indicating that he was too exhausted to move.

Richard came over with the bottle and poured him a healthy measure. “Cholera.”

“That’s a blessing. And you’ve been looking for this missing grandson ever since?”

“Hardly. I wasn’t aware of his existence until Gideon informed me last week that I had an unknown cousin, while asking for my help in tracking him down. It appears young Harry is something of a slippery fish.”

“Used to evading the law, I expect.”

“Thank you, Dominic.” Richard returned to lean on the mantel. “But it seems to have been habitual caution at work rather than a particularly guilty conscience. I set Cyprian on the matter, to make sure Gideon had the right man. He fed Harry gin and got him talking, and he says— Julius, you look positively apoplectic.”

“
Cyprian,
” Julius repeated. “The best valet in London since Robinson, the man who puts that extraordinary shine on your boots, and you make him serve as an amateur Bow Street Runner. Good God, Richard. You don’t deserve your valet. Tell him to come to me when he tires of your absurd demands and I shall reward his genius appropriately.”

“If you make an attempt on my valet, I shall call you out,” Richard informed him. “And Cyprian would not permit your waistcoat at any price.”

Julius glanced down at his chest with some satisfaction. His waistcoat, in satin of a delicate pink hue shot with apricot streaks and embroidered with silver thread, was a masterpiece. It flattered his slim build, its dawn shades complemented his pale blond hair delightfully, and best of all, it caused almost physical distress to his friends.

“So what’s the fellow like?” Dominic asked. “Harry, I mean. How bad is he?”

“Nervous as a cat. And needs to be turned into a gentleman, the poor wretch.”

“A terrible fate,” Julius drawled. “My heart bleeds.”

“Do have some human sentiment,” Dominic snapped. “How the devil can some uneducated radical mix in the society of gentlemen without making himself and his sponsors a laughing-stock?”

“He’s not that bad,” Richard said. “His father had a proper upbringing, after all, and his mother was well educated for a woman of her station. But he needs to be taught to comport himself in society. His grandfather wishes him to make a good match.”

“And you’re confident he’ll be acceptable?” Dominic asked doubtfully.

“He’s a Vane.” Richard’s tone made it clear that no other consideration need apply. “And handsome enough, though he lacks stature.” Richard towered over the other Ricardians, standing a good three inches above six feet with a well-set pair of shoulders, and he accordingly attached what Julius considered a quite misplaced importance to a man’s build. “In any case, Gideon’s a wealthy man. If Harry is to be his heir, he’ll take, no matter his current disadvantages. But I should prefer him to acquire sufficient town bronze to make himself not just creditable but, er…”

“Desirable?” Julius suggested.

Richard gave him a repressive look. “His marriage is none of my concern, but his manners must be. He is, after all, my cousin.”

Julius imagined Richard walking through Hyde Park, arm in arm with some unshaven
sans-culotte.
“Very wise,” he agreed. “How mortifying if you procured him a voucher for Almack’s and he called for the Patronesses to be guillotined. Well, you will have your work cut out.”

“Indeed, the task will require a skilled touch. Your glass is empty, dear boy, may I charge it for you?”

Richard was definitely leading up to something. Julius narrowed his eyes. “Tell me you don’t propose to lend him Cyprian.”

“Good God, no. Actually, I hoped you would do it.”

Julius blinked, startled. “I? Do what?”

“Teach Harry how to comport himself. How to dress. Help him find his place.”

“Make your revolutionary into a gentleman? Bear-lead a radical cub?
I?
”

Richard ignored the incredulity in Julius’s tone. “The boy has been cheated out of his birthright for years. He needs to claim his proper place without being embarrassed by his past—”

“Ruined by it, more like,” Dominic said. “
Must
he be launched into London society, Richard? Have you considered the consequences of this to your family? Do you even know what he’s been up to in that bookshop?”

“It’s Gideon’s choice,” Richard said. “Harry’s grandfather is determined to make him claim his place without loss of time, and he holds the purse strings. He intended to push the poor fellow into the
ton
without any preparation, but I objected.”

“I should cursed well hope so,” Dominic muttered. “You can’t simply drop a seditionist into society—”

“He is not a seditionist. He had involuntary associations with undesirable parties in his childhood, that’s all. And there is no reason for anyone to know of his past outside this room and my family. We merely need to ensure that Harry’s form and manner come to match his birth, and, I fear, quickly.” Richard winced. “Gideon wishes him launched at the beginning of the Little Season.”

“But this is impossible,” Dominic said. “You want Julius to inculcate gentlemanly habits into a gutter revolutionary by
September
?”

Julius nodded forcefully. “I couldn’t agree more. Why you imagine I am suited to this task—”

Richard’s deep voice came in over both of them. “Because you have exquisite manners, when you choose to apply them, and excellent taste, in your way.” Dominic opened one eye to shoot a glance at the offending waistcoat, and closed it again with a wince. “You will be able to teach Harry how he should conduct himself. And to help preserve his past from becoming common knowledge.”

“I will grant you that he stands in dire need of tuition,” Julius said, fighting a determined rearguard action. “But I see no reason that I should be his teacher.”

“Of course you don’t,” Dominic said. “How long since you lifted a finger for anyone or anything, four years? You are letting a perfectly good mind rot away from disuse, and it’s about time you took on some sort of occupation before you become nothing more than a tailor’s mannequin.”

Julius was speechless for a second. He and Dominic sparred continually, but this was well beyond the usual. “What the devil’s got into you?”

“Well, this is a ludicrous situation.” Dominic sat up, clapping his glass on the arm of the chair with such force that the brandy splashed. “One cannot create a gentleman out of whole cloth and wishes. I
know
these people. Some wretch brought up in the filthiest byways, full of bile and anarchy and Godlessness—”

“My cousin,”
Richard said.

“He can’t do it,” Dominic said flatly. “It’s not possible, and if it were, it would require the efforts of someone who actually took an interest in the fellow. Not Julius Care-for-Nobody, who is dedicated to nothing but the cut of his coat.”

“You may go to perdition,” Julius said, incensed. “Of course I could do it.”

“I’ll wager you can’t.”

“We will not wager, because I have no intention of embarking on this ludicrous enterprise. But if I
were
to wager—”

“Ha!”

“Enough, both of you,” Richard cut in. “Julius, I appreciate your reluctance but I must ask this of you. I do, I fear, require your aid.”

And thus was Julius’s fate sealed.

The price of membership in the Ricardians was to act in one another’s interests, and at Richard’s direction. Richard was the heart of their group, the man to whom everyone came with entanglements or dilemmas. Julius did not have entanglements, but it was in Richard’s arms that he had wept four years ago, Richard who had introduced him to the others, Richard who had given him this little haven where his wounds could scar over in understanding silence. When Richard asked for his assistance, Julius had no choice but to give it.

He didn’t have to be pleasant about it.

“Very well,” he snapped. “But I consider this a gross imposition. I suppose he’s some ghastly scarecrow.”

“Harry? He has a neat form and a well-turned leg, and he seems a very obliging young man.”

From anyone but Richard, to anyone but Julius, this would have been a carrot to go with the stick. Most of the Ricardians would have a deal of use for an obliging young man with a well-turned leg, or rather a pair of them to lie between. But Richard’s morality was too stern for any such implication. Harry Vane would doubtless be as much in the petticoat line as any other young fellow, and frankly, Julius didn’t care either way.

“A neat form, you say. That will doubtless make up for the seditionary background and lack of manners.” Julius sighed, letting his head knock gently against the chairback. “How charming. But, as ever, you decree and we leap to obey, mere slaves to the Vane command.”

Richard smiled. “Let us rather say, a Vane hope.”

“
Vanitas vanitatum,
all is vanity.” Julius held up his hands in surrender. “Very well, Richard, have your will. I shall play Pygmalion, and your lout will be my Galatea. I shall carve a beautiful form from the clod and bring him to life, and I accept no responsibility whatsoever for the consequences. Dominic, you mentioned a wager.”

Harry sat, ill at ease, on the thickly embroidered chair. The needlepoint work stood in stiff ridges, making the upholstery harsh and uncomfortable. He’d feel its patterns imprinted into his skin for hours afterward.

Lord Gideon Vane, his grandfather, sat opposite, watching him. He had a fringe of white hair encircling a pink scalp, long fingers that he liked to steeple, shrewd eyes of faded blue. His coat was the severe black of deep mourning, his linens spotless. Harry felt, as he had from the beginning, scruffy, poor, and entirely out of place.

The clock ticked.

“Richard said he would be here at eleven o’clock,” Gideon observed. It was twenty-five minutes past the hour. Harry was torn between fear and hope that his older, intimidating, titled cousin wouldn’t come at all.

It had been a fortnight since Lord Richard had walked into Theobald’s and claimed his cousinship; a very long fortnight indeed. Harry would not have supposed that becoming a gentleman would be like this: sitting with an old man in a huge old house, undergoing hours of interrogation about his past, his travels, his beliefs. Gideon, as he insisted Harry should call him, hadn’t mentioned his dead son by name even once, speaking of him only as “your father.” Death hadn’t softened his anger about Alexander’s path in life. Harry wasn’t surprised. Seated in the gloomy magnificence of this house, he couldn’t imagine how his father had dared to defy the authority of years.