Little Coquette (11 page)

“Yes, of course.”

“Excellent! Don’t try to tell me there is not a romance brewing there!” This was more good news. She knew it was a match long hoped for at Trevelyn Hall. Nessie was in such a state of euphoria, she almost forgot to write to Sir John congratulating him. Of course, he would have been formally notified already, and would make plans to return to London, even if he had to come on a litter.

At nine-thirty, Lydia asked the butler to send a footman out to find a hansom for her. She drove directly to Maddox Street and admitted herself with the key she had taken that morning. It was eerie and frightening in the flat alone. Darkness had not fully settled in on this June evening, but the light was dim. Long shadows reached out at her from every corner. Strange, furtive sounds suggested someone lurking in their depths. She lit lamps in every room to lighten the gloom and looked around for any signs of intrusion. Everything was as she had left it.

She went into the bedchamber and searched the bulging clothespress for a domino. It was somewhat disconcerting to discover that Prissie’s domino was a brilliant red. It made her feel like a scarlet woman. The mask that accompanied it was of black feathers with bugle beading around the edge. It was the kind that was held to the face on a wand, rather than attached by a band. When she was dressed with the mask covering her upper face, she lifted the domino hood over her head and went next door to call on Sally.

“What a turn you gave me!” Sally cried. “I could have sworn you was Prissie.” Sally’s domino was royal blue, with a matching mask. “Did you hear from Prissie?”

“No, nothing. How do we get to the party?” Lydia asked.

“Sometimes we walk. It’s not far, just on Oxford Street, but tonight Joe will be dropping by for us. That’s a fellow Mary knows—drives a hansom. He often stops here at night around this time to see if any of us girls want a drive anywheres. Mary’s fellow plays the horses. She gives Joe tips. He made twenty quid last month. More than he makes on his hansom.”

Lydia was glad she had a mask, for she felt extremely self-conscious loitering on the street corner with two lightskirts in the gathering darkness. They were so much a part of the scene in this neighborhood that they attracted little attention, none of it hostile. Any stray gentleman who passed lifted his hat and called, “Good night, girls,” in a friendly way. Some of them offered a lift. The girls answered saucily.

“Does your ma know you’re out alone?” the one called Mary shouted to a noble stripling who darted past in his curricle and whistled at them.

Lydia was relieved when the dilapidated hansom cab drew up beside them and the girls swarmed in. Mary, the most outspoken of the bunch, insisted on sitting on the bench with the driver and even took the reins, which she handled like a first-rate fiddler. By the time they reached the Pantheon, darkness had fallen.

Lydia had heard rumors of the Pantheon but had never been there or expected to be. She was surprised at the elegance of the place, when it had sunk into such disrepute that any lady who valued her good name dared not pass through its portals. It was a huge, sprawling building of fourteen rooms lavishly decorated in the Italian style. She goggled about at the somewhat faded grandeur of an enormous rotunda, a colonnade topped with a glazed dome, frescoes, stuccos, marble pillars, statuary, and glowing vases that held lamps inside.

After she had taken in the setting, she began to notice the noise and din and stench of wine and cheap perfume.

“We have a parlor abovestairs,” Sally told her. The girls climbed the staircase to a private parlor that looked out on the ballroom, where the dancing was already in progress. At this early hour, it had not yet become very indecorous. Lydia studied the girls below with interest to discover how she ought to behave. She observed that they all walked with the same inviting wiggle to their hips and tossed their heads and hands about. They appeared to have three modes of expression: pouting, smiling invitingly, and laughing more loudly than a lady would. It seemed a lightskirt was not allowed the luxury of frowning or scowling, if she wished to find or keep a patron.

Lydia leaned over to Sally and said, “Do you see Dooley here?”

“Not yet. You don’t want to waste your time on the likes of him, Nance. There’s Tommy Beerbaum. He’s just given his girl her congé. Smile and he might come up.”

A few gentlemen approached their table. As each of the girls except Lydia had a patron, they tried to direct the men’s attention to their unattached colleague.

“Here’s fresh goods, just up from the country,” Mary said, tossing her head to Lydia, who blushed behind her mask and refused to dance with the dangerous-looking roué.

It was soon obvious that she would have no peace until she stood up with someone, so when a shy young gentleman called Bob invited her, she stood up with him.

Sally whispered in her ear as she left. “Wasting your time! He’s still at university. Anyhow it’s just as well you’re with a gent, for there’s Dooley.”

Lydia gave a violent start. “Where?”

Nancy pointed to the ballroom below them. “The fellow in the dark green jacket. Leave it to Dooley not to bother with a masquerade costume. Unless he’s masquerading as a gentleman. In that case, he ought to have hid his face.”

He was easy to spot, as most of the men wore dominoes and masks. Lydia had been expecting some dark-visaged, oily, ugly man. She was surprised to see Dooley was handsome, or had been, once upon a time. A closer look showed the signs of dissipation around his eyes and mouth. He was tall and elegantly thin, about forty years of age, to judge by the silvering at his temples.

When she accompanied the man called Bob belowstairs, she strolled past Dooley, wiggling her hips and tossing her curls in the approved manner in hopes of gaining his interest. She succeeded, though it was Prissie’s crimson domino and black mask that caught his attention. The musicians were taking a respite. The dancers stood around the floor in groups, talking, laughing, flirting. She noticed Dooley was watching her, and when she stood up to dance, she tossed an inviting smile at him over Bob’s shoulder.

Bob was easy to handle. This trip to the Pantheon was his first foray into the demimonde. He was surprised at the ladylike manners of the lightskirt.

“I thought you girls would be ... different,” he said, smiling a question at her.

The remark brought Lydia to horrified attention. Her interest in meeting Dooley had put that aspect of the masquerade out of her mind. She must be more careful when she was with Dooley. She felt little doubt she would meet him soon. He seldom took his eyes from her.

She was unaware of the gentleman in the black domino and mask on the balcony, searching the ballroom of waltzers for her. He was one of a group, all similarly outfitted. Beaumont studied the room for a quarter of an hour; he even watched the woman in the scarlet domino with some interest, and still didn’t recognize her. In frustration, he finally appealed to Sally.

“That’s her in the red domino,” Sally said, pointing below. “Why she ever bothered wasting her time with Bobbie Osgoode when Lord Haswell was after her I’ll never know. I told her Bobbie was still a student.”

Beaumont looked and gave a leap of recognition. Good God, the fair charmer was Lydia! And playing her role so well, he hadn’t recognized her. When had that poker-backed girl learned to wiggle? And tossing her curls about like a female to the muslin born. A smile twitched his lips as he hurried belowstairs. The couple had joined the waltz by the time he reached them. Within thirty seconds, he was tapping Bobbie Osgoode on the shoulder.

“Sorry, old boy. This lady is taken. Miss Shepherd,” he said, drawing her into his arms. She felt a little thrill of pleasure at this masterful gesture.

“Oh, I say!” Osgoode exclaimed, looking to Lydia for help.

“Sorry, Bobbie,” she said, to avoid a ruckus. “I didn’t think you would come to a place like this, Beaumont,” she said as he spun her off. He couldn’t see her upper face, but he noticed that her smile had dwindled to petulance. She didn’t seem to be dancing with the same abandon as before either. Her movements were stiff.

“That shows how little you really know me. I, on the other hand, am not at all surprised that Miss Trevelyn, daughter of Sir John Trevelyn of Trevelyn Hall, is here, and on the very night of her papa’s elevation to Cabinet Minister. Wouldn’t the scandal sheets like to get hold of this!”

“You know perfectly well why I’m here!”

“What I don’t know and greatly dislike is why you chose to keep it a secret from me. I thought we were working together. Are you keeping something from me, Lydia? Have you discovered something to Sir John’s discredit—about Prissie’s murder, I mean?”

Her gasp of shock told him this wasn’t the reason for her secrecy. “Of course not!” she said.

“Then why did you sneak off here behind my back?”

She felt guilty about fooling him, and her guilt soon turned to anger. “I knew you wouldn’t let me come!”

“Let you?” he asked. “I am not your papa. How could I prevent you? What I could and did do is come to protect you. Or young Osgoode, whoever required protection,” he finished, scowling at her.

Lydia was much struck by his reply. That he could not stop her had never entered her head, despite the fact that he had no control over her. She realized she had become such a slave to the notion of male dominance that she hadn’t even questioned it. Men made the rules and women obeyed, or if they disobeyed, they did it by chicanery.

“I thought you might tell Nessie,” she said.

“As I told her about your trip to Maddox Street, you mean?” he asked, offended.

“Well, if that is how you feel, then I’m sorry, Beau. And I’m glad you’ve come, for I’ve found Dooley, and truth to tell, he looks a deal more dangerous than Osgoode. I would be happy if you would be nearby. And just how did you know I would be here?”

“That would be telling,” he said, and laughed.

“You called on Sally this evening!”

“I did not, I promise you,” he said with an easy conscience. He had paid his call on Sally in the morning.

“Well, in any case, you can’t dance with me now; Dooley has been casting leering looks at me and is just waiting for his chance to join me.”

“Which one is he?”

“The rather handsome roué in the green jacket.”

Beaumont felt a pronounced qualm when he saw the cut of Dooley’s jib. The man had the undefinable air of one who lives by his wits, and doesn’t much care who he hurts in the bargain. “He’s too much for you to handle. I’ll have a go at him.”

“I don’t think you’re his type, Beau,” she said, and walked away. He followed her off the floor.

“I doubt you are either. He won’t be interested in a girl who holds herself like a poker.”

Lydia looked back at him over her shoulder and resumed what she considered the walk of a lightskirt.

“Better,” he murmured. “But your superior bit o’ muslin don’t wiggle. She sways.”

She suddenly felt his hand on her hip, not lightly, but holding firmly. She turned and directed a cold stare at him. She knew she couldn’t rant at him with Dooley watching, and his bold grin told her he knew it, too.

“Do it more slowly, Nance,” he said, his fingers moving down over the swell of hips to her derriere. She was outraged at his daring to take such familiarity with her. “The same motion, but more slowly, with feeling. And smile. He’s looking.”

Her eyes glittered dangerously above her frozen smile. “If you don’t get your hand off my bottom, Beaumont, I shall slap your face.”

“Is it just my imagination, or are we beginning to sound like an old married couple?” he asked.

She continued swaying forward.

“There, that is much better,” he said in a voice suddenly husky. They reached the edge of the room and stopped. Lydia removed his hand and pinched it as hard as she could.

Beaumont chewed a grin. “Temper, temper, my pet. You are doing just fine for a tyro. I notice the chin is a centimeter lower as well,” he said, looking down at her. “Now tilt it—just so.” He caught it with his fingers and lifted her head. His dark eyes gazed into hers, which were sparkling with annoyance and something else—amusement, was it? For a long moment they simply stared at each other; then his head inclined slowly to hers. She waited until their lips were only an inch apart; then she stepped back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. Her voice was breathless.

“Trying to convince Dooley of your assumed calling. Look around you.”

A glance about the room showed her many couples were taking advantage of the dark corners to enjoy an embrace.

“I wouldn’t want him to think I’m taken,” she said, and walked away, leaving him standing alone feeling foolish. He watched as she swayed in Dooley’s direction, and Dooley came forth, smiling like a tiger, to greet her. Without speaking, he put out his hand, and she accepted it.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, lifting a black eyebrow in question.

Lydia looked into a pair of diamond-hard eyes, world-weary and dissipated. She did not think this man would be infatuated with an inexperienced greenhorn, fresh from the provinces. A more sophisticated sort of lightskirt would appeal to him.

“What makes you think you will have it now, sir?” she asked with a cool look.

“I have at least the pleasure of looking.”

“A cat may look at a queen,” she riposted, and walked on.

Dooley walked a pace behind her. “You didn’t turn him off for no reason,” he said. “Come, my pretty. I have champagne waiting at my table just for you.”

“Do you read minds, then, that you knew I’d be here?”

“That’s it,” he said, and placing her hand under his elbow, he piloted her abovestairs to a private box.

Beaumont watched with a sinking heart. Then he hurried after them.

The champagne was brought to the box and Dooley poured two glasses. He touched his glass to hers and said, “To the future.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Lydia said, adopting a common accent. “What’s your name, then, mister?”

“First, my dear, what is yours?”

“You can call me Nancy.”