Her Ladyship's Man (8 page)

"For the hundredth time, yes," Lady Charlotte mumbled around a mouthful of hairpins. "You look quite dashing in it, too, so kindly stop quibbling. You told me yourself you had no desire to look like an aging schoolgirl, and I can assure you that in that gown there is no possibility anyone shall mistake you for a mere deb."

That was so, Melanie thought, studying her reflection with a worried frown. The gown was white,
as was the custom set by the patronesses at Almacks, but there all similarity to the gowns usually worn by debutantes ended. Fashioned out of silk, the gown clung lovingly to her curves, displaying her femininity in a manner which Melanie found faintly shocking. The rounded neckline exposed her neck and shoulders, and was cut low enough so that the gentle swell of her breasts was clearly visible.

She turned slightly, and the hundreds of sparkling rhinestones which had been carefully sewn to the bodice and slim skirts exploded into a dazzling display of pure fire. A ribbon with more rhinestones attached to it tied beneath her breasts, giving the impression she was dressed in a shower of diamonds. Even the aigrette in her hair was ablaze with rhinestones, and Melanie knew she had never looked lovelier. Perhaps, she brooded, nervously fingering the skirts of her gown, society would not be as horrible as she had feared it would be.

"There." Lady Charlotte stepped back, eyeing her granddaughter with pride. "You look like a fairy princess. I vow there won't be a man there tonight who won't fancy himself madly in love with you!"

"Thank you, my lady," Melanie said, turning to give her grandmother an impulsive hug. "May I say you are also looking quite attractive? That is a new gown, is it not?" She studied the fashionable ball gown of black satin with relief. She had been secretly fearing her grandmother would appear at Almacks in one of the gowns she had brought with her from the country and which had been out of fashion for more than fifty years.

"Edwina made me wear it," Lady Charlotte replied with a childish pout. "She said it was just what Lady Catherine might wear. Do you like it?"

"It is quite fetching," Melanie assured her, not asking who Lady Catherine might be. Her grandmother had developed Miss Evingale's habit of mistaking the characters in their beloved novels for real flesh and blood people. Lady Catherine was doubtlessly some heroine out of one of the books they devoured with such glee. "I also approve of your turban, ma'am. Most dashing."

"That was my idea." Lady Charlotte reached up to give the white plume adorning her black turban a loving pat. "I decided my wigs looked odd without those lovely polonaises, and I must own it is far more comfortable. Perhaps I shall wear them more often."

"That might be wise," Melanie approved, guiding her grandmother from the room and down the stairs to where the others were waiting for them. "And another new gown wouldn't go amiss either," she added, images of weaning her eccentric grandmother from her outmoded wardrobe tugging at her mind.

Both her father and Mr. Barrymore were loud in their praises of her new gown, and there were tears in her father's eyes as he pressed a kiss to her gloved hand.

"If only your beloved mother were alive to see you tonight, my dearest," he said, gazing upon her with loving pride. "I have never seen you looking so lovely."

"Thank you, Papa." Melanie blinked back tears of her own, deeply touched by her father's words. Her eyes drifted over to Davies, who was standing beside her maid, her cape of deep purple velvet draped across his arm. Although his face was carefully devoid of any expression, she thought she de
tected a flash of masculine appreciation in his hazel eyes, and she turned quickly away.

"I am in agreement with your father, my lady," Mr. Barrymore said, giving Melanie a low bow. "You are indeed a vision to behold. Those amethysts are new, are they not?"

"Yes, a gift from my grandmother to celebrate my first evening at Almacks," Melanie answered, rubbing a finger across the chain of glowing purple stones that circled her neck. A small circlet of amethysts and diamonds was clasped around her slender wrist, while two large teardrop stones dangled from her ears.

"May I presume upon your good graces and bespeak a dance, my lady?" Mr. Barrymore continued, his blue eyes filled with admiration. "I dare say your card will be instantly filled once the other men catch a glimpse of you."

"I should enjoy that, Mr. Barrymore," she answered with a genuine smile. Despite the disparity in their ranks, she had never looked down upon Mr. Barrymore, and often danced with him in Washington. He was not a graceful dancer, but he was at least an adequate one, which was more than could be said about the other partners she had been forced to endure in the name of diplomacy. "May I be so bold as to remark that both you and Papa are looking quite handsome?"

"Thank you, my lady." Mr. Barrymore's chest swelled with visible pride. Both he and the earl were dressed in black velvet evening coats and white silk breeches, their starched cravats tied with precision. Her father wore one of his many citations pinned to his jacket, and a large gold signet ring adorned his finger. Mr. Barrymore wore no jewelry at all, save for a small diamond winking from the
folds of his snowy cravat, but still he managed to look a trifle more elegant than her father. But then, she realized with a flash of insight, he often did.

Since Lady Charlotte was Melanie's chaperone it was decided they could dispense with Miss Evingale's services for the evening, a decision her companion greeted with amazing tolerance. She wished them a pleasant good evening, and after adding her gushing words of praise to the others', she went skipping up the stairs, an ever-present Gothic clutched protectively to her bosom.

As there was just the four of them, it was decided they would take the duke's carriage, and all too soon they were pulling up before the sacred portals of Almacks. Standing in the line which was forming on the carpet walkway in front of the famous club, Melanie felt a wave of uncertainty wash over her.

What if society didn't like her, she brooded, nervously wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. What if she did not take? She wouldn't care so much for herself, but she couldn't bear the thought of disappointing her father. He seemed so concerned she should do well.

"Ready, my dear?" the earl asked, laying a protective hand on her bare arm.

Melanie gave him a quick smile, firmly pushing her disquieting fears aside. She covered his hand with hers, giving it a loving squeeze. "Ready, Papa," she said softly, her small chin raising with unconscious dignity as they began climbing the wide marble staircase leading to the Assembly Rooms.

"Are you quite certain you wouldn't like a cup of punch, Lady Melanie?" Sir Christopher Whitney
asked for the third time in as many minutes, his gray eyes studying her face with puppylike adoration. "I would be more than happy to fetch it for you!"

"Well, perhaps a small cup," Melanie relented, more out of a desire to be shed of her eager suitor's presence than out of any real thirst for the sickly sweet orgeat which was the only refreshment offered by the patronesses. "Thank you, Sir Christopher."

"I won't be but a moment," he promised, his eyes taking on the fanatical glow of a young Galahad about to set out in search of the Holy Grail. "Wait for me here."

After he departed, charging his way through the crowd like a Hussar, Melanie drifted over to the corner, where her grandmother was holding court on the Dowager's Bench. Shortly after her name had been called out by the club's major domo, the marchioness had settled down for a coz with her oldest and dearest friends, her duty apparently complete as far as she was concerned. When she saw Melanie standing before her she shot her an angry scowl.

"And pray why are you wasting time standing here?" she demanded, lowering her voice to a low rumble. "You won't catch yourself a beau by hanging about me. Off with you now." She gestured toward the center of the room with her fan.

"My apologies, Grandmother." Melanie refused to be cowed by Lady Charlotte's less than cordial welcome. "I came only to see how you were doing, and whether or not you required anything to drink. It's monstrously hot in here."

"I am doing fine, thank you, and should I require anything, I am more than capable of having one of
the footmen fetch it for me," the marchioness informed her querulously. "Now, hurry back to your young buck before that hussy Amanda Cummings succeeds in taking him away from you. She's been casting cow eyes at him all evening!"

Melanie glanced over one slim shoulder, her eyes colliding with a pair of dark brown eyes sparkling with obvious malevolence. The younger girl's rather large nose came up haughtily, and she turned away with a toss of her brown curls. "If she wants Sir Christopher that badly, she is more than welcome to him as far as I am concerned," Melanie replied, turning back to her grandmother with an amused smile. "He is much too young for me."

"He's a good three years older than you,
and
the heir to a comfortable estate in Kent," Lady Charlotte informed her snappishly. "You could do better, I admit, but you could also do worse. Now, get back to him before that vixen snatches him away from you."

"Yes, my lady." Melanie knew her grandmother too well to waste her time in useless debate. She returned to the alcove where Sir Christopher had left her before setting out on his quest. A small settee had been placed there next to several drooping palms, and she sat down with a grateful sigh. She had been dancing for several hours, and her slippers were beginning to pinch her feet. Deciding she would be more comfortable if she loosened them a bit, she bent down and began unlacing the ribbons.

". . . true, then?" A woman's voice came drifting from the other side of the potted palms. "How simply shocking! Is Jarvis quite certain? Cedric is a member of the Privy Council, and he's not heard a word of this, I am sure. He tells me
everything
."
She stressed the last word heavily, indicating it would not go well for the unknown Cedric were he to do otherwise.

"Oh, yes." A second woman began speaking, her voice fairly dripping with malicious delight. "I heard him telling Lord Thorne that 'tis the talk of Whitehall!"

Melanie's ears pricked up at the mention of the Foreign Office. Papa hadn't mentioned anything about a scandal, she thought, surreptitiously scooting to the other side of the settee so that she could eavesdrop with greater comfort. This was so exciting, she mused with a sudden flash of irreverence, just like those silly Gothics her grandmother and Miss Evingale were forever reading. All it lacked was a swooning heroine and a dark-eyed, mysterious hero!

"Well, 'tis his daughter I am sorry for," the first woman said with a heavy sigh. "Poor child, I suppose she will be ruined once the scandal is known?"

"Quite ruined," the other woman answered with relish. "She will most certainly have to retire from society, and naturally marriage is out of the question. What gentleman would want to join his name to the daughter of such a man? Such a pity, really, for she is very beautiful."

Ah, there was the heroine, Melanie thought, her eyes sparkling with silent laughter. Perhaps if she waited long enough, the hero of the unfolding drama would also make himself known. She leaned closer, hoping to learn more.

"Will he be arrested, do you think?" The first woman was speaking, making no effort to hide her eager interest. "He deserves it, and to be hung, too, if even half the talk is true! Imagine, one of our
very own selling us out to the French! It quite makes one wonder what is becoming of our world."

Melanie's amusement with the conversation vanished at this whispered comment. It was one thing to laugh over a potential scandal involving cards or a ladybird, but it was quite another when the safety of the nation was at risk. The other woman had mentioned Whitehall; surely she could not be implying that a diplomat had betrayed his own country, she brooded, appalled at the very thought. She would have to tell Papa at once.

"Oh, he will swing, I am sure of it, once they have the evidence they need." Melanie heard the women's skirts rustling as the two rose to their feet. When she next heard them, their voices were fading as they moved away from the alcove. "They have already recalled him from Washington and it won't be long until he is clapped in irons. Poor Lady Melanie, one may only wonder what will become of her then."

"Here you are, my lady." Sir Christopher appeared before her, a cup of punch in his hand. "I am sorry to have been so long, but Lady Jersey wished to speak with me, and you know what she is like once . . . my heavens, Lady Melanie, are you quite all right? You are as pale as a ghost!"

"I—I am fine, Sir Christopher," Melanie managed to say, her shaking voice and pale cheeks giving lie to her assurances. "I am just a trifle overheated."

"Yes, it is as hot as the very devil in here," he agreed vaguely, thinking that her face was rather white for one claiming to be suffering from the heat. Still, a gentleman never questioned a lady's word. Then, as if just remembering the cup in his hand, he thrust it at her. "Here, you must drink
some of this," he urged, spilling some of the contents onto her skirts. "I am sure it will help."

Melanie stared down at the milky beverage, trying to control the wave of nausea that washed over her. Calling upon her inner strength, she raised the cup to her lips and forced down a small swallow. God above, she thought, struggling to control her emotions, whatever was she going to do? Someone was accusing her father of treason!

"It went quite well, don't you think?" Lady Charlotte asked some three hours later as the carriage wended its way home. "With any luck we shall have you safely leg-shackled within a fortnight, m'girl."

"Yes, Grandmother," Melanie replied dully, her eyes closing as she laid her throbbing head on the back of the carriage. The preceding hours were all a blur to her, and she had no idea what she had said, or to whom she had said it. She knew she had danced, and smiled, but her actions were those of a sleepwalker caught up in the most horrific of nightmares from which there was no escape.