Birds of a Feather (4 page)

“Oh.”

“I will keep track of your dance partners. But do not accept any invitations without asking me first.”

Harriet shivered.

“Relax,” she advised. “Everyone else knows the rules, so there should be no trouble. The important thing is to think before you speak.” She had nearly reminded her to keep Wicksfield’s dilemma a secret, but they were pulling up to the door. Harriet was likely to blurt out the last thing she had heard.

The ballroom was impressive, more than making up for the long delay in the receiving line. Lady Ormsport had draped pale pink muslin in great swags to lead the eye toward masses of flowers that rivaled the most luxuriant gardens. The ostentatious decorations increased Harriet’s excitement. Joanna shuddered, foreseeing disaster unless she settled the girl down.

“Keep your expression calm,” she murmured as they plunged into the crowd. “Try to look as elegant as this room. Walk slowly and keep your hands close to your body.”

Harriet stopped a moment, then moved on at a more sedate pace. Most of the guests were too engrossed in gossip to note their passing.

“Fosdale had been dead a fortnight, but they didn’t receive notice until after the ceremony,” a gentlemen was saying as they passed.

His companion snorted. “I’ll wager ten pounds that Lady Glendale held up the letter so the wedding could proceed. She wanted the chit off her hands so she could concentrate on finding wives for her sons.”

“Ten pounds it is. She would never have opened a letter addressed to another.”

Ignoring Fosdale’s death, Joanna followed Lady Wicksfield toward a less crowded corner across the ballroom. She had already heard the tale from Harriet’s maid. But the other information was new. Who was Lady Glendale? Would her sons be acceptable suitors for Harriet’s hand? She again rued her ignorance of noble families. With no information beyond the woman’s title, she had no idea of her place in Society. Her husband could be anything from a knight to a marquess.

“Why are they frowning?” whispered Harriet.

“They are discussing a death. Their smiles will emerge in a moment. Always match your expression to the topic under discussion. Just remember that smiles should never widen into grins. Restraint is important, for the prevailing fashion is boredom. By controlling your expression, you can also control your impulses, thus presenting a proper image to the world.”

If only she had remembered that earlier. By controlling her impulses, she could have avoided the embarrassment of dashing in front of a carriage.

She let Harriet chat with Lady Thurston’s daughter while she scanned the crowd. A few girls wore revealing gowns such as the countess had wanted for Harriet, but they were accompanied by avid mothers who were actively shunned by the most elegant gentlemen – a reaction that increased Joanna’s determination to hide any hint of desperation. Harriet’s fragile beauty must stand on its own.

At least Lady Wicksfield spent most of her time with Lady Thurston and other old friends. The countess could easily become one of the matchmaking mamas that eligible men avoided.

Joanna’s own tactics seemed to be working. Within minutes, Harriet was surrounded by gentlemen they had met at earlier gatherings. Some introduced friends. As the crowd grew, other gentlemen stopped to see who was raising such interest. Most of the newcomers were barely out of school, but some were older, raising hope for finding a good match despite their late arrival.

Yet the very size of Harriet’s growing court made Joanna nervous. She knew nothing about these gentlemen except that they were accepted by Society. But mere acceptance was insufficient. Harriet needed a husband who cared for her.

Lady Wicksfield was no help. She rarely looked beyond the title and fortune she used to judge worth. Lady Thurston was little better, and her determination to snare the wealthiest lord for her own daughter made her assessments suspect. At least one gentleman she had recommended had a reputation for lechery and gaming.

By the time Harriet joined the first set, Joanna was brooding in earnest. How was she to discover the truth about any suitors when all of Society hid behind social masks? She chatted with some of the other chaperons, eliciting comments on Almont, Parkington, and a dozen others. Three sets later, she was more confused than ever. No two opinions matched. Everyone had different criteria for accepting or rejecting suitors.

“Mr. Wethersby wishes to drive me in Hyde Park on Wednesday,” said Harriet when that gentleman escorted her back to Joanna’s side at the conclusion of a reel. Lady Wicksfield had long since abandoned them.

“She would be delighted to drive with you, sir.” Joanna smiled to remove any sting from her next words. “But she is already engaged to drive out that day.”

“Perhaps Thursday?” he asked.

“That is agreeable.” At least Harriet had remembered to ask – or Wethersby had reminded her. The man was too young to be a serious suitor, but Harriet’s appeal was working. She relaxed slightly.

Wethersby left to find his next partner. Half a dozen eager sprigs converged, hoping to claim a spot on Harriet’s dance card. But only waltzes remained, which made her card effectively full. Harriet had not yet received permission to perform that step.

Mr. Singleton had just left to procure lemonade when a ripple of laughter drew her eyes to a nearby cluster of gentlemen. In its center, her rescuer gestured with a quizzing glass, his face reflecting weary boredom.

“Shockingly shatter-brained,” he pronounced with a sigh. “Though not as blind as I first thought. She uttered the word
dog
while pointing to a member of that species. Such a pity she hadn’t learned the word
horse
. They are so much easier to spot.”

Another laugh rippled through the crowd.

Joanna froze. Odious man! He was deriding her, turning her into a laughingstock. She had thought him chivalrous, but this was downright cruel. What would happen if he recognized her?

His eyes wandered lazily around the ballroom as he waited for the laughter to subside. Her first inclination was to duck, but sudden movement would draw his attention. She could only hope that he hadn’t looked closely at her – gentlemen rarely noticed servants unless they had improper designs on them. It was a fact she must remember now that she had embarked on a life of servitude. But her looks were so average, she should not be in danger. Unless he had noted her height. A quick glance around the ballroom brought relief. There were half a dozen ladies as tall as she.

His gaze paused assessingly on Harriet, then slid on with no flicker of recognition, allowing her to breathe again. She was one of the few people who wore spectacles in public, needing them if she was to adequately watch Harriet, but he had not connected her to the woman he was holding up for sport.

“’Twas Lady Barkley’s Maximillian – again,” he said on another long-suffering sigh. “That makes twice this week I’ve had to return the creature.”

“As have I,” remarked a man whose shirt points nearly reached his eyes. Billowing Cossack trousers obscured his legs.

“And I,” chimed in a sprig.

“As has each of us, I expect,” added Lord Almont. “If anyone is shatter-brained, it is Lady Barkley. Maximillian spends more time on the town than most gentlemen.”

“He ruined a most refreshing toddle by rumpling my favorite coat,” intoned Joanna’s rescuer. “I had to summon a carriage.”

Joanna turned her back, determined to concentrate on Harriet. But she remained uncomfortably aware of him. If she had thought him elegant this afternoon, his appearance tonight was breathtaking. His cravat was an artistic masterpiece arranged in a style she had seen nowhere else. His dark blue coat clung so tightly that it must have required several assistants to ease him into it, yet it did not seem to hamper his movement. Every muscle of very shapely legs was on display under ice-blue pantaloons that exactly matched his eyes. Silver embroidery on his white waistcoat glistened with every gesture. Despite moderate shirt points and a single fob, he immediately cast every other gentleman into the shadows. Only his quizzing glass hinted at ostentation, its handle encrusted with blue gemstones.

“Why does everyone hang on his words?” asked Harriet, nodding toward the speaker.

“That is Lord Sedgewick Wylie,” Mr. Craven informed them, appearing surprised that anyone must ask. “He is the most powerful man in London.”

“Like the Regent?” Harriet sounded breathless with awe.

“Socially, he is more powerful than the Regent,” he said, smiling. “He can elevate a nobody or ostracize an Incomparable. He wields more authority than even Brummell did, for there is nothing about him that one can criticize. He does not drink or game to excess and has never been rakish. His knowledge of fashion and style is unmatched, as are his manners and breeding. And he possesses one of the larger fortunes.”

“He sounds quite frightening.” Harriet batted her lashes.

Mr. Craven stepped closer in protection. “You needn’t fear him, my dear Lady Harriet. No one could ever find fault with you.”

Joanna frowned, so he retreated to a more seemly distance.

“Are you sure?” Harriet asked.

“Even Lord Sedgewick would adore you,” Mr. Craven assured her. “Though that is typical of his power,” he added, nodding toward the gentlemen, who were now debating who had rescued Maximillian more often. “There is not a man in London who cares a whit for that plagued dog. It looks like a mangy rat and has a hideous disposition. But it belongs to Lord Sedgewick’s dotty aunt, so we all trip over our feet to keep it from harm. A perilous undertaking. It escapes a dozen times a day and has bitten more than one captor. It nipped a hole in my favorite coat only last week.”

“How awful!”

Mr. Singleton returned, bearing lemonade.

Joanna sighed. Harriet had captured another heart, though Mr. Craven was too young for marriage. As was Mr. Singleton, who also gazed rapturously into her eyes. Yet she now wondered if they were as acceptable as she had thought. Maximillian was sweet and gentle, so what had Mr. Craven done to incite attack?

Keeping an ear on their discourse, she turned her eyes back to Lord Sedgewick. She had heard of him, of course. His name arose in nearly every conversation. The premier dandy of London. The ultimate arbiter of fashion. The man who could make or break Harriet’s Season.

She shivered.

If she had known his identity, she would have fainted dead away. Why did it have to be Lord Sedgewick who had witnessed her lapse? Would he blame Harriet for her chaperon’s idiocy?

Nothing underscored the gulf that separated her from the polite world more clearly than admitting yet another misunderstanding. After listening to the awe that accompanied every mention of his name, she had imagined him cloaked in brilliant colors, bedecked in jewels, and strutting about with his nose in the air whenever he left off preening before mirrors. Only now did she realize her error.

If Lord Sedgewick was the ultimate dandy, then his following must encompass those who stressed understated elegance and absolute cleanliness. An important point, she realized as Lord Wiversham strode past, reeking of musk that failed to hide the fact that he never bathed.

But despite Lord Sedgewick’s reputation, her opinion of him had sunk. A true paragon would not hold her up to public ridicule, no matter what her station. It called his supposedly exquisite manners into question.

As he paraded about the ballroom, she wondered what other mistaken impressions she had formed. Lord Sedgewick was not the only one displaying manners inferior to those she had observed at less exclusive gatherings. Ladies, especially marriageable girls, fawned on him, flirting outrageously and boldly stepping out to block his path. Since he wielded so much power, why did he not chastise such unseemly antics?

Yet she could understand their desperation. The Season was advancing. Girls without suitors feared failure, so they cast aside their demure façades. And not just with gentlemen. More than one glare had been directed at Harriet for attracting a court despite her late arrival. Those whose admirers had defected made little attempt to hide their irritation.

But Lord Sedgewick could keep them in line if he chose to exercise his power. Few would dare to cross him. Recipients of his nods and bows nearly swooned in delight.

A crowd of sprigs trailed in his wake, copying his gestures. If he raised a quizzing glass, they followed suit. If he smiled, so did they. A mild compliment could bury its recipient under a wealth of gushing praise from the sycophants – all meaningless.

His posture reflected the condescending arrogance she had sensed that afternoon. His chest protruded, the effect enhanced by an elevated chin and a discreet ruffle cascading down his shirtfront. When added to his stiff carriage and unsmiling face, it gave him all the hauteur of her father’s prize goose.

She stifled a giggle, for he led a gaggle of equally officious goslings.

* * * *

Sedge smoothed his expression into the
ennui
that would hide his irritation. For years, he had derived amusement from watching Society’s antics. Human nature intrigued him, and London provided an excellent laboratory for observing it closely.

But this Season was not providing the usual entertainment. The ever-present flock of sprigs dangling from his coattails annoyed him. The importuning chits more closely resembled grasping harpies than innocent maidens hoping to catch his eye. Even gossip no longer appealed. Who cared whether Lady Alderleigh’s affair with Devereaux was nearing its conclusion, or that Blackthorn had converted the very conservative Harlow to the cause of reform, or that Mr. Lastmark was hopelessly enamored with the already-betrothed Miss Lutterworth?

Yet each of these stories would have amused him just two months ago.

Perhaps his dissatisfaction arose from spending those months with Randolph and Elizabeth. After enjoying so many intellectual discussions, Society chatter seemed flat. And being subjected to their simmering passion left him feeling lonely. Resuming his fatuous London façade had been more difficult than ever before.

It did not help that he knew his mother was right. At one-and-thirty, it was time to set up his nursery. Yet finding a congenial wife loomed as an impossible quest. He wanted what Randolph had found – the peace, the passion, the personal completeness that Elizabeth brought to his friend’s life. Yet how could he find such a wife? Seeking help was impossible. His mother would redouble her pressure if she knew of his capitulation. Just having Elizabeth around had increased her determination.