Evelyn Richardson (7 page)

“Hallo, Julian,” he greeted him, his amiable face lighting with pleasure. “Hear you've become an ape leader this Season. Don't do it, my boy. M'mother was in a rare tweak all last year trying to pop off Susan.”

Julian tried vainly to conjure up a vision of this damsel, but having been abroad much of the time, gave up.

Sensing his difficulty, Bertie came immediately to his friend's rescue. “A nice little thing, Susan, but a bit on the mousy side.  You wouldn't remember her.”

Looking at his friend's open but undistinguished countenance, Julian could readily believe this.

“Get your niece betrothed quickly,” continued Bertie. “Mother found someone for Susan directly, and we were much more comfortable after that.”

Julian smiled, “I shall keep your advice in mind, but I shall have very little to do with it. Lady Streatham is taking Kitty under her wing.” The marquess handed his cape to the servant at the door and ordered a bottle of port from another who rushed up to attend to their wishes. “I shall leave everything in her capable hands and lend my presence only when absolutely necessary. I would be exceedingly grateful to you, Bertie, if you would come support me tomorrow at the first fulfillment of my guardian duties at Lady Richardson's ball.'' Lord Mainwaring rarely asked anything of anybody, but this time the look he directed toward his friend was definitely beseeching.

“Certainly, Julian, but Lady Richardson's ball is the opening event of the Season. Everyone will be there. It should not be so onerous a duty as all that.”

The sardonic curl of the marquess's lips and the arrogant lifting of heavy dark brows were eloquent testimony to this gentleman's expectations of such an evening.

“Oh, don't be so damned high in the instep, Julian! Such an evening can be quite entertaining. And not everyone there will be on the catch for you. I tell you what, my boy, it would do you a great deal of good to encounter some woman, any woman, who is not after you for herself or her daughter.”

A distinctly cynical look settled on his friend's handsome features. “It may surprise you, Bertie, to hear that I have met such a female, but I don't find prudes any more attractive than I do the most rapacious mama or her daughter.”

“Whoever was it?” Bertie questioned, agog to discover the identity of one female who had not fallen victim to Mainwaring's fortune, social position, attractive harsh-featured countenance, or reputation as a perpetual bachelor.

“It was Lady Frances Cresswell,” was the unwilling reply.

“Fanny, a prude?” Bertie gasped. “Upon my word, she must have been more shattered by her father's death than I thought.''

“You know Lady Cresswell?” Julian asked, wondering at the same time if he had been entirely fair in labeling the lady in question a prude. After all, it was only on the basis of Kitty's description of her learning and his own single experience of estate matters that he had decided she must be a bluestocking. In his experience, most bluestockings were shocking prudes, among many other equally unattractive things. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had been rather hasty in assigning her this trait. No prude would have spent a minute unchaperoned in the company of any man, let alone a man of his reputation, in the library or any other room. Lady Frances had spent fully half an hour alone with him trying to put him in his place, without showing the least sign of discomfort. It was true that she objected to Snythe on moral grounds, but her opinion of the slimy agent was no more censorious than his own. A true prude would have dropped her eyes, blushed, and meekly given in to any of his wishes instead of standing her ground, cheeks flushed, and eyes looking directly and angrily into his own. Not only had she not been meek, she had gotten the better of their encounter. No, he admitted ruefully to himself, whatever Lady Frances was, she was not a prude.

Bertie had been watching the variety of expressions flitting across his friend's face with interest. He would have given a great deal to be able to read them accurately, but, being the good friend he was, contained his curiosity, merely volunteering, “I knew her father.”

Julian's patent disbelief in the friendship between one of London's most dedicated dandies and a scholarly recluse forced Bertie to defend himself. “Dash it all, Julian, you needn't look at me as though I'm a half-wit. If you knew the least bit about these things, you'd know that it takes more than a tailor to make someone an arbiter of fashion. It takes exquisite taste, my boy, and exquisite taste demands long and careful cultivation. I first met Cresswell in Greece when I was on the Grand Tour and he and Elgin were convincing the Greeks to sell them bits of the Parthenon. He knew a devilish lot about Grecian art and had some very interesting aesthetic ideas of his own besides. He took me home to see some of the objets he'd collected on his travels. We became quite friendly and I visited him and his family fairly often while I was there. Frances was only a child at the time, but mature beyond her years, and she used to join us and listen to our discussions.”

Harking back to his visit to Cresswell Manor, Mainwaring couldn't remember anything distinctly, but cudgeling his brains, he did dimly recall an impression of lightness and elegance which had given a clue to the artistic interests and eclectic tastes of Lord Cresswell.

Bertie continued, “When they returned, I visited them down at Cresswell. Not long after, Lady Cresswell died and Frances took over the care of the twins. At times she seemed little older than they were, ready to engage in any romp from tree-climbing to punting on the lake. Well, at any rate, she certainly didn't seem as though she were eleven years older. Lord, I remember one night when she dressed up as the headless horseman reputed to haunt the district. She had us all quaking in our boots, what with her bloodcurdling yell.” He chuckled heartily at the memory. “No, Frances never cared two pins about what anyone else would mink.”

Julian, who had found it difficult to picture Lady Frances Cresswell as anything but self-possessed, certainly had no difficulty agreeing with his friend on this last point, but confined himself to remarking, “Well, you'll have a chance to judge for yourself. She's to be one of my cousin's party at the Richardsons' ball. It is one thing to partner Kitty, simpering miss that she may be. After all, she is my niece, but I draw the line at Frances Cresswell. She and I have nothing to say to each other, and if I know Elizabeth, she'll consider me at least as responsible for amusing Kitty's friend as I am for squiring Kitty herself. Be a good fellow, Bertie, and do the pretty for me with Lady Frances.” Lord Julian Mainwaring rarely felt the need to ask a favor of his fellowmen, but there was a distinctly cajoling note in his voice.

“Always happy to oblige a friend, Julian, always happy to oblige,” Bertie agreed good-naturedly, relieving his friend of the unpleasant task, which had intruded on his thoughts at the most inauspicious moments. That settled, they could turn their minds to the contemplation of an excellent bottle of port and several games of whist before going in search of more enlivening entertainment onstage and off at the opera.

Chapter Eight

Lord Mainwaring was not the only person looking forward with some misgiving to the Richardsons' gala. Kitty, though highly excited at the thought of her first ball, was beset by all the ordinary fears of a young lady making her first entrance into the adult world of fashion. Would she know how to go on? She had been able to dance delightfully with Ned and her dancing master, but performing complicated steps with one's brother in one's own empty drawing room was a good deal different from executing them with a total stranger in a crowded ballroom under hundreds of critical eyes. Would she be pretty enough to attract the attention of anyone at all? Fortunately her brown eyes and shining brown curls were in vogue, brunettes being all the rage at the moment. What would she ever say to everyone? She was confiding this rapidly increasing list of worries to Lady Frances as the two awaited the arrival of the dressmaker at the Cresswells'. This was the final fitting for both of them before the ball, and Kitty had begged to be allowed to try on her gown at Lady Frances' in order to have the benefit other opinion as well as general moral support. Naturally she wore the requisite white of one making her come-out, but with rose trimmings designed to bring out the enchanting color in her cheeks, and emphasize the rich color of her eyes. Lady Frances, by her choice of dove-gray silk, claimed her position as a woman midway between maiden and dowager. She had been kept from further declaring her ineligible status—with a delicate lace cap—by the vehement protestations of both Kitty and the dressmaker.

“Madam is far too young for such a thing. A cap is only for someone who no longer has any possible claim to youth—not one as young and elegant as Madam. It would be a crime to cover up Madam's lovely golden hair with such a thing!” The seamstress was scandalized that anyone would welcome the advent of maturity.

Kitty, far less tactful, added, “Frances, if you wear that dreadful thing, no one will ask you to dance.” When Frances finally made it clear that such had been exactly her intention, she was reminded in no uncertain terms of her promise to Lady Streatham to take care of Lord Streatham and Lord Mainwaring. This recollection, coupled with memories of other balls and other partners, caused her serious doubts about the wisdom of coming to London at all. Then she remembered Lady Streatham's merry face, her strictures concerning Lady Bingley and her cronies, and comforted herself with the thought that perhaps things would be different now that she was several years older, virtually her own mistress, and acquainted with more people than she had been before. At any rate, having stood up to something as threatening as Lord Mainwaring in a rage, she couldn't let the mere idea of dancing with him and other supercilious partners put her in a quake. This was a salutary recollection, as it brought to mind her first encounter with him. He had called her a bluestocking, and the remark, unjust though it was, still rankled. All thoughts of the matronly cap were banished and she resolved to get out the famous Cresswell set of baroque pearls to add to her éclat.

This settled, Frances decided to reward herself with a trip to Hatchard's to purchase Waverly, which had not been available in the country. Kitty was also fond of Scott despite her propensity for more frothy romances, and she was easily persuaded to accompany her. They set off in the carriage with Wellington. The little dog seized every opportunity for a ride, though he was still leery of the great amount of traffic in the city and much preferred sitting on the box next to John to dodging among the wheels of the throng of vehicles, avoiding the heavy hooves of cart horses or the wickedly quick ones of the highly strung prime bits of blood belonging to the Corinthians. From his perch he could sniff the gratifying variety of city smells and survey the scene with detachment while still attracting the attention of admiring ladies in passing carriages, who never failed to exclaim over his engaging countenance. All in all, he was in a fair way to preferring London to the country.

The tempting array of books catering to every taste and fancy banished all thoughts of the ball that evening from the minds of Kitty and Frances as they browsed happily among elegant gilt volumes. So engrossed was Frances that she failed to, notice an exquisitely garbed elderly gentleman next to her, poring over a book of engravings of scenes from classical antiquity. As she stepped back to get a better view of the shelves above her, she bumped into him, rousing him from his absorption. “I do beg your pardon, sir.” As she paused to frame a further apology, recognition dawned. “It's Monsieur le Comte de Vaudron, isn't it?” she hazarded, hoping that her memory served her as well as it usually did.

The gentleman regarded her quizzically for a minute before an answering smile broke. “Cèst ma chère Fanny!” he exclaimed, kissing her hand with Gallic fervor.”

“How delightful to see you!  But what are you doing in London, sir? I had thought you were still in Greece. Thank the merciful heavens you did not return to France as you were planning to when we last saw you.” The questions and concern in Frances' face betrayed a warmth and fondness not usually present in her manner to those outside the immediate family.

The count laughed gaily. “Always the curious one, eh, my Fanny? I am staying with Lord Elgin. Originally I helped him to transport his precious marbles here from the Parthenon, but I have remained here to add my influential friends' pleas to his in order to make your so-stuffy government purchase them for England. Of course, it is very difficult. You English, the Cresswells and Elgins excepted, are not a cultured race. These treasures will be wasted on such a nation of shopkeepers, but at least they will be safe from barbarians and vandals. Not that I do not appreciate this nation of shopkeepers. After all, so far they have saved all Europe from ce monstre Napoleon— definitely a man of genius, but genius run mad with power. And I personally have cause to be grateful to these shopkeepers. Long ago I recognized that my own countrymen, whatever their talents in the more refined aspects of life, have no head for finance or politics, so I brought my money to your English bankers and businessmen, whose acumen now permits me to live like a human being.”

Frances interrupted this elaborate explanation to ask, “But what of your estates, your lovely chateau? Were they all destroyed in that revolutionary madness?”

“Ah, my child, who knows? News is so difficult to come by, and so unreliable. Whether they exist or not is a matter of indifference to me because they were no longer mine.” Seeing Frances' look of horror, he hastened to reassure her. “I saw what that stupid Louis and the rest of his crowd were doing to the country. As you know, I never felt comfortable with the life of the so-called ancien regime. That is one of the reasons I left France—that and my wish to study the classical cultures. I left the management of the estate to my nephew Claude. He was a greedy young man and I knew he could be counted on to keep it productive. Soon I realized that he was beginning to consider my lands his own, so I merely formalized it by exchanging them for the family treasures he possessed. He cared nothing for historic tapestries, paintings, jewelry, furniture, but I loved them. He thought he had gotten himself a bargain, poor boy, but I have no doubt it's all gone, and he with it. The way he treated his peasants, I am certain he would have been one of the first to be consumed in the rage of the Revolution. Still, I do not wish such a horrible fate on anyone. Claude was not a particularly cruel man, just unenlightened and rather self-centered, as so many of those people were.” He sighed and turned to her. “But, Fanny, tell me of yourself.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “I was so very sorry to hear about your poor papa, but he and your mother were so very close, such a well-matched team of students, that I am certain, in spite of you wonderful children, his life must have been lonely after she died. He was a brilliant and amiable scholar, and so was she—perhaps the dearest friends I ever had.” He fell silent. “And how do you and Cassie and Freddie go on? You are all still my mischievous little devils, non?”