Desperate Duchesses (11 page)

Charlotte had a low opinion of her sister’s intel igence, and this question did not improve it. How could she—Charlotte

—have forgotten that bal ? ’Twas the one at which she fel in love with Barnabe Reeve. Though he’d never asked for her hand, and left London shortly thereafter, she hadn’t forgotten.

There was a cacophony of noise around them as carriages unloaded and footmen shouted. May was dressed most becomingly in blue, with moderate hoops. Charlotte, who prided herself on being elegant, was resplendent in sprigged silk.

Unfortunately, the best they could hope for in terms of compliments were words like
becoming
and
resplendent.
It was a far cry from the bal when Charlotte danced al night with Lord Barnabe Reeve, dance after dance, certain she would be married within months.

“Let’s enter, shal we?” she said, adjusting her drape of Anglican lace around her elbows. “We have a duchess to see!”

But in fact the first person they saw was not the duchess, but the duke.

“He’s glowering,” May whispered, as they approached the receiving line. “I cannot think why Her Grace returned from Paris. They cannot be happy together.”

“Perhaps she was tired of France. I’ve heard that it can be miserably hot in the summer.”

“There
must
be something more to it,” May murmured, with the kind of intensity that suggested she would spend the entire night talking of nothing else.

“Good evening,” the duke said, bowing before them.

They curtsied.

“The duchess has made her way into the bal room,” the duke said, looking glacial y disapproving. “I know she wil be most happy to see you, Miss Tatlock, Miss Charlotte.”

“Goodness,” May whispered as they hurried past him. “He couldn’t be more forbidding, could he? Is that Vil iers on the other side of the room? It can’t be. He never speaks to Beaumont.”

“He might know the duchess…How interesting
that
would be!”

“What?”

Sometimes May was quite dense. “If Vil iers made a set at Beaumont’s wife,” Charlotte said patiently. “Vil iers hasn’t a mistress at the moment, has he?”

“Who would know? The only thing that man real y cares about is chess.”

“I know, but he seems to cut a wide swathe through the female half of the
ton
in between matches.”

“He’s so rude!” May said. “I simply can’t abide him.” She plumped up her hair. “Perhaps I shal grant Muddle two dances tonight. Here he comes.”

Charlotte groaned inwardly. Her older sister final y had a beau, Horace Muddle. I’m happy for her, she thought. I’m happy for her.

Why not be happy? They are both muddled and muddling; they wil live together in happy muddlestown. And I shal live—

She turned away. One of her friends was hailing her from the side of the room, so she smilingly made her way over to sit among the young matrons, al of whom were her age and spent an inordinately large amount of time discussing their offspring.

At least to Charlotte’s mind.

But not tonight.

“Did you see what she’s wearing?” Lady Hester Vesey asked immediately.

“I haven’t seen her at al . She had left the receiving line and Beaumont was irritably doing the honors on his own.”

“There she is,” Hester breathed. “Over to the right.”

Charlotte took care not to appear to be staring. She straightened her wrap, and smiled at an acquaintance to the left, and then let her eyes drift in the other direction.

The Duchess of Beaumont had dressed her hair very high in a mass of curls, marked by jeweled flowers. She was exquisitely gowned, so much so that Charlotte felt slightly faint with envy. Her gown was lemon-colored Italian silk, the petticoat puckered al over and sewn with roses.

“Do you see who she’s talking to?” Hester whispered.

“Ah,” Charlotte said, her eyes narrowing as the duchess laughed. “It’s Delacroix. I thought she had left him in Paris.”

“He fol owed her.”

“Did you hear that her brother has moved into Beaumont House with his child?”

Charlotte’s eyes opened at that. “I’m amazed the duke would al ow such an irregularity.”

“It’s got everyone talking again about who the mother could be. Lady Piddleton claimed yesterday that she knew for a fact it was Mary Strachey’s child. But then there’s others who say his mistress took off for America and left him with the babe.”

“America? That seems unlikely.”

“Wel , that’s what everyone says. I can’t imagine why he didn’t simply stow it in the country like any decent man would do.”

“I’ve never seen him with Mary Strachey.”

“
That
means nothing,” Hester said, with irrefutable logic. “Her acquaintances are legion, as it says in the Bible, or at least it says something like that. Your sister is looking very intimate with Muddle.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said. “I’m hoping for a wedding in the family.”

“Next we must turn to you,” Hester said comfortably. “It’s never too late!”

Charlotte silently ground her teeth. “I live in hope.”

“Wel , that might be—”

But whatever bit of wisdom Hester was going to offer was swept away as her husband bowed before her and bore her off onto the dance floor, ignoring her protests. “There’s a chess game brewing between Corbin and Vil iers,” he told her. “I’m not missing that, so we’re having our dance now.”

Charlotte sighed. There was nothing very appealing about the marriages she saw around her, but it was hard not to long for a spouse anyway. She sat stil and tried to look as if she wasn’t alone. You’d think she’d be used to it. A few chords sounded

…a polonaise was beginning.

Suddenly a pair of polished shoes stopped before her. “If you please?” A gloved hand paused before her face…she looked up. It was the Duke of Beaumont.

“Your Grace,” she said, rising and curtsying deeply.

“Miss Charlotte. May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

Her heart skipped a beat. Of course, he was a married man, but he was so dreadful y handsome. She rose and placed her hand in his. A moment later they were gravely pacing down the dance floor. Charlotte resisted looking about to see whether anyone had noticed she was dancing with the host.

Instead she looked up at him. Of course, he was famously short-tempered, and it would be foolish of her to provoke him.

But then he achieved such remarkable things in the House of Lords.

She had two choices: they could engage in twenty minutes worth of silent dancing, or she could speak. He clearly considered his duty to end with the dance itself. “I read the description of your recent speech in the House of Lords, Your Grace.

”

He looked marginal y more awake. “In the
London Gazette
? I’m afraid that the majority agreed with the opposition, more’s the pity.”

“Are you quite certain that you are right about Mr. Fox’s intent to make the East India Company accountable to commissioners?”

“Am I certain that it’s a blatant attempt to seize the Company’s wealth for themselves? In a word: Yes.” He didn’t look very pleased by her question anymore.

“I mention it because I was greatly struck by the wording of the actual bil . I am in sympathy with your wish to force an election, but should not companies be accountable? Someone must look over their shoulders, Your Grace.”

“The Whigs look over the Company’s shoulders only to seize its wealth.”

“How hard it is to tel the difference between an anti-corruption measure and greed,” Charlotte said. “It did occur to me—”

She stopped.

“What occurred to you?” He looked interested, bending down slightly, and Charlotte’s heart thumped again. “Curses, we’re going to the end of the measure,” he said. “Don’t forget your thought.”

A moment later they were reunited. Charlotte looked at him over their raised hands. “You understand that I have only read the accounts in the
Gazette
.”

“They have been fairly accurate, which is unusual.”

“I thought that perhaps you might emphasize the question of treason in your next speech,” she said. “As I understand it, you are trying to drum up support against Fox. But if I were you, I would swing this particular discussion to support
for
the King, rather than antagonism
against
the Secretary of State. Fox is so very popular.”

His eyes narrowed. “I suppose I could. But Fox is the problem and he absolutely must be removed.”

“Tel the House of Lords that anyone who votes for the bil would be regarded as the King’s enemy. Don’t even mention Fox.”

For a moment he lost his step in the measure and then recovered. “Miss Charlotte, I’m grateful indeed that I asked for this dance.”

Charlotte’s heart sped up again. He drew her to the side of the room. “Did you have a chance to read the debate published in the
Gazette
between Lord Temple and Fox?”

Roberta knew that she should be in the bal room. She knew that al she had to do was walk down that last flight of stairs and she would enter the buzz and hum that was drifting through the house. She had been dressed for at least forty minutes.

The problem was that her dress was al wrong. She stared at herself in the mirror again. “You wil be a perfect
jeune fille
,”

Jemma had told her that morning. “We’l dress you very simply, some rosebuds here and there, a strand of pearls.”

“I don’t want to be a
jeune fille
,” Roberta had protested.

But Jemma had been firm. “I realize that you are a Reeve at heart. But your first appearance in the
ton
must be as an exquisite bud of young innocence. Later you can show your true colors. After you’re married.”

Roberta sighed. She had dreamed of going to a bal . But it was difficult to pretend to be docile and modest. She tried casting down her eyes again. No one could be innocent who had lived with her father for long. She felt like a fool. A wolf in lamb’s clothing.

Just then the door burst open. “There you are,” Jemma cried. “You look adorable!”

Roberta looked back in the mirror. Her hair had been careful y curled and powdered by the lady’s maid assigned to her.

She was wearing pearls, and there were sprigs of apple blossom in her hair. Her panniers were large enough to be elegant, but not large enough that she would have trouble dancing in them. And she had just a faint shading of pink to her lips and her cheeks. She simpered at herself.

The only thing she real y liked were her slippers: they were exquisite, and pink.

That and the little patch high on her cheekbone.

“You don’t like the way you’re dressed, do you?” Jemma asked, appearing at her shoulder.

“Oh I do!” Roberta said hastily. “It would be most ungracious of me to dislike it, and I promise that I love it. I’ve never looked so wonderful in my life! In fact,” she said in a burst of honesty, “this is the first time I’ve ever worn powder.”

“Itchy, isn’t it? I avoid it whenever I can,” Jemma said sympathetical y, “but one’s hair simply must be powdered on occasion.”

“Truly, I am so grateful, Jemma.”

Jemma narrowed her eyes as she stared at the mirror. “What do you wish you were wearing?”

Roberta knew the proper answer to that. “Exactly what I am wearing! Shal we go downstairs now?”

But Jemma was smiling. “Fancy yourself a
séductrice
, do you?”

Roberta caught another glimpse of the pretty shepherdess in the mirror. “I’m not sure,” she said.

“But you’d like to find out?”

“I don’t think that Vil iers wil be interested by maidenly docility,” Roberta confessed. “He’s not the type to court young girls, is he?”

Jemma laughed. “Absolutely not.”

“So what good is it to wear this clothing? It’s not going to work with him,” she said desperately. “And I don’t care about the rest!”

“You need to fool the
ton
before you take on Vil iers,” Jemma said. “They are invariably sheep-like and once they get a fixed idea in their head, it’s hard to move it. If you act in an innocent and demure manner tonight, that is how they wil see you. Al talk of your father’s companions wil die quickly. Then—and only then—wil you receive invitations to the parties where you wil find Vil iers. He’s downstairs, you know.”

“He is?” Roberta felt a wave of dizziness that spread from her toes to her hair line.

“Succeed tonight and tomorrow morning invitations wil shower on your head. Vil iers wil be at most of them.”

Roberta snatched her gloves. “I am ready.”

Jemma smiled. “Be docile.”

Roberta simpered at her.

“Very good,” Jemma said. “Innocent?”

Roberta cocked her head to one side and gave her a brainless smile.

“Not quite
that
innocent,” Jemma said. “You are obviously quite accomplished at prevarication, though how you learned it while penned up in a house with a poet, I don’t know.”

“There are many opportunities to prevaricate when one lives with a poet,” Roberta said. She walked down the stairs by herself, as the width of Jemma’s skirts did not al ow her to walk beside anyone. “It would not always have been advisable to inform my father of my true opinion of a given poem, for example.”

“Fibbing is an extremely useful sport,” Jemma said. And as if to prove it, she paused just inside the bal room door and introduced Roberta to a group of matrons as a close relative, whom she’d known for years. Then she leaned closer and Roberta caught the word “heiress.”

One of the mothers produced her son, a lanky boy, out of thin air and introduced the two of them. Roberta obediently simpered at Lord Rol ins and set off into the dance.

By an hour later, she felt fairly confident that al of London thought she was an innocent, albeit rich, maiden from the country.

“Which you
are,
” Jemma said in passing. “Remember the eleven peach trees.”

“I don’t need peach trees,” Roberta said. “I’m sure that Vil iers has his own orchard.”

“A woman should always have an auxiliary target, a man in the wings, as it were.”

But Roberta had no man in the wings. Vil iers was everything she wanted in a husband. She glimpsed him briefly, across the room, and her feeling of rightness was almost overwhelming. He was resplendent in a coat extravagantly embroidered with poppies, a cloth that might seem feminine on another man. But his dark, coiled features turned the delicacy to a jest.