Once Upon a Wager (12 page)

“Beauty don't last!” cried Lord Archibald Higgins. In his mid-sixties, Higgins was one of the ton's more decrepit roués. He had already buried three wives and was said to be on the hunt for another. “I'd rather see what her dowry looks like.”

Billingsly, who was a self-styled romantic, took offense. “You may either come with us to Hatchard's, or stay here and read
The Times
. I hardly care. All I know is that the Regent himself is agog over the girl. He was at her presentation to the Queen Mother the other day, and he has declared her the most glorious thing in all of Britannia.” He was shouting to be heard over the din. “Prinny vowed that if he were twenty years younger, he would throw over Princess Caroline herself to marry the girl.”

That comment brought several derisive snickers. “That's hardly a ringing endorsement,” Alvanley laughed. “He'd marry you to be rid of Princess Caroline.” The Regent's marriage was famously miserable. The future King George fell in love as often as he fell into debt, and his wife had been carrying on notorious affairs abroad for years.

Alec, though, was losing patience with the entire exchange. Didn't any of these gentlemen have more pressing concerns? He had no interest in debutantes, no matter how beautiful. He'd made his choice. But then someone else called out, begging for the girl's name, and Benjamin turned toward him, his expression mischievous, which was never a good sign.

“Her name is Annabelle,” Marworth said. “Annabelle Layton.”

But of course.

“I've no interest in joining you,” Alec said, his tone uncharacteristically short as he waved aside a footman who'd hurried forward with his top coat, hat, and gloves.

“Really? Still smarting, are we?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” He'd put the entire episode at The Bull's End last month behind him.

“Do you know something about the girl we don't?” Asquith interrupted.

Alec sent him a shuttered look. “She was a childhood acquaintance, nothing more.” And he had put away childish things.

“Well, then,” Benjamin announced with a smile. “I'm off without you. I'm eager to see the luminous Miss Layton again. I have met her before, as you'll recall.”

At that, several of the other gentlemen came forward, anxious for more information, and Marworth led them out of White's, like Goethe's Pied Piper.

• • •

“Don't I remember a library at Astley Castle?” Aunt Sophia asked idly, as she admired one of the jaunty new hats that had just been delivered from Mrs. Bell's millinery shop on Upper King Street. There were boxes all over her aunt's elegant boudoir.

“Yes, but it is filled with Father's books on lepidoptera, and one can only read so much of that,” Annabelle replied. “At Hatchard's, there were books on culture and history, geography, and the sciences. I've never seen so many volumes. And I was very surprised to see so many fashionable men wandering among the stacks. Several of them were discussing Mrs. Radcliffe's novels.”

“That sounds suspicious,” Aunt Sophia said, turning from her hat. “None of them approached you, I hope, while Lisette waited outside?”

“Only Lord Marworth, but we have been introduced. He was one of Gareth's friends from Oxford.”

“Ah, Marworth … I'm tempted to forgive him anything.”

Annabelle could guess why. With blond hair, the brightest of blue eyes, and perfectly symmetrical features, he was perhaps the second most handsome man she'd ever seen. Unfortunately, he'd shared some unpleasant news with her. “Lord Marworth mentioned that Lord Dorset is staying here in London for the Season. Do you think it will be possible to avoid seeing him?”

“London is far smaller than you suspect, my dear, at least the part we will frequent. Do you really wish to miss any of it?”

“I suppose not.” London was far too glorious. She'd enjoyed their time in Bath, but it couldn't compare to the capital, which coursed with life and vibrance. And of course, they'd gone shopping. Repeatedly. She had been measured and fitted by Madame Boucheron, the ton's most exclusive modiste. They'd gone to Harding Howell & Co. for gloves, R. Willis for shoes, Grafton House for parasols and silk stockings, Mr. Arpthorp's shop on High Holborn Street for delicate underthings. She had so many beautiful new gowns on order that a separate bedchamber here at Marchmain House would be needed to hold them all.

The house itself was no less beautiful. A large Georgian structure looking out over Grovesnor Square, it was such an impressive residence that Annabelle was just now becoming accustomed to it.

“I don't know how I can ever thank you, Aunt Sophia, for all that you have done. You have incurred so many expenses on my behalf. I've written to Cousin Estrella asking about my allowance, but she has not written back.”

“Don't mention that woman's name. I find it impossible not to frown when I hear it, and I refuse to wrinkle on her account. Don't concern yourself with funds. I need something to spend my money on, and I'm having the most marvelous time. Your presentation at St. James Palace was a triumph.”

She'd made her formal debut just a few days ago in an elaborate gown encrusted with tiny seed pearls and delicate crystal beads. The enormous skirts and long train required for court dress had been a challenge, and the deep and prolonged curtsey she'd made to the queen had taxed her leg, which still occasionally weakened under a direct assault. Annabelle had been convinced that her fanciful headdress of ostrich feathers would list under its own weight, possibly taking her head along with it.

“Thanks to Lisette, my coiffure would have held fast in a hurricane.”

“My maid is a marvel, but with the Season upon us, you will need your own lady's maid. I've taken the liberty of hiring one for you. I would have done so in Bath, but I had a very specific person in mind, and it has only just been arranged. She will be arriving here tomorrow. I hope she will prove a pleasant surprise.”

With a mysterious smile, Aunt Sophia returned her attention to the boxes from Mrs. Bell's shop.

• • •

They were sitting together in the breakfast room the following morning when Canby announced the arrival of Miss Mary Stevens, formerly of Nuneaton. Following close behind him was a diminutive figure with bright red hair beneath her mobcap and familiar green eyes.

“Mary!” Annabelle gave her aunt a grateful smile before standing up to grasp Mary's hands warmly.

“Miss Annabelle, I hope you're not upset to see me. When I received Lady Marchmain's note through the placement service for ladies maids, I could hardly believe my eyes.”

“I'm thrilled to see you. How could you believe me to be anything else?”

“But I left under such an awful cloud. You'd barely recovered from that terrible accident.”

“Your grandmother needed your help, Mary. I've always been glad you were able to go and care for her. I hope she's well?”

“My grandmother, miss?”

“I know you were urgently needed. Mrs. Fritchens said it was an attack of pleurisy. Oh dear … she did recover, didn't she?”

Mary flushed. “She is well, Miss Annabelle. I thank you for asking.”

“That's wonderful news. I have so missed your company, and this is such a wonderful surprise. Will you mind working with me again?”

“I never wanted to leave. I'm so glad to see you recovered.”

She grinned at that. “I'm happy for it, too.”

As the afternoon continued, and Mary settled into Marchmain House, Annabelle was indeed happy. Granted, she was nervous about the upcoming Season, and about whether or not she would make a fool of herself, but she was beginning to regain a measure of her confidence. A number of men had asked her to dance at the Assembly Rooms in Bath. And time and again, she'd danced.

• • •

The next afternoon, Aunt Sophia sat beside her, sublimely elegant in a pale green and light sarsnet riding dress that was the first stare of fashion. Annabelle was also turned out in the latest of styles, as the coachman turned the sumptuous Marchmain barouche onto the crowded bridle path known as Rotten Row in Hyde Park. She wore a white jaconet muslin dress with a short jacket in sky blue and a white willow bonnet ornamented with a wreath of flowers. She also wore matching sky-blue gloves and half boots. With her Boucheron creation and Mary's help, she'd never felt more elegant.

The Row was a scene unto itself. Conveyances of every size and shape lumbered along the route, while men on horseback rode alongside, pausing occasionally to greet friends and acquaintances. From dowagers to debutantes, not to mention soldiers in their showy uniforms, there were people everywhere, smiling and bobbing their heads to the left and to the right, as if they were participants in a puppet parade.

“In many ways, this will be your first introduction to the haute ton. I'm eager to see their faces when they catch a glimpse of you.” Aunt Sophia briefly bowed her head and smiled as an elaborate open carriage carrying two women rolled by. The women reciprocated, and then turned to look rather fixedly at Annabelle. She smiled demurely, as Aunt Sophia had mentioned she must. The moment passed, and they moved on.

“Lady Jersey and the Princess Lieven are supercilious snobs, but unfortunately, we must cozy up to them. They are patronesses at Almack's, and we'll need to secure you a voucher. I'm rather surprised to see them together, actually. The princess cannot abide Lady Jersey. The woman never stops talking. And don't let Lady Jersey's haughty demeanor fool you. Her mother is scandalous, and a former mistress of the regent to boot.”

“You are up on the latest gossip, Aunt Sophia, despite our brief time here. I'm very impressed.”

“If you look discreetly to your left, you'll see Viscount Petersham in all his glory.” The most astonishing high-perch phaeton was rolling by. It was a study in unrelieved brown from the carriage to its matched horses and livery, even down to the clothes of the man who drove it. He was wearing a brown top hat; a brown coat, vest, and gloves; and rather fantastical trousers that ballooned out about his legs, only to nip back into his boots. They, too, were brown, like his eyes, which were watching her with a shocked expression. Annabelle quickly looked away. Ladies she must smile at, but not men she didn't know.

“The viscount is trying to gain the favor of a certain widow, a Mrs. Mary Browne.”

“No doubt he has her attention,” Annabelle said, caught somewhere between awe and amusement. “He certainly must be given high marks for creativity.”

“Now quickly, to your right, you'll see George Brummell and Lord Alvanley. Brummell—the one with the elaborate cravat—is the undisputed arbiter of fashion in society. He'd rather hang than be seen in Petersham's get-up.” Aunt Sophia smiled in acknowledgment to both of them, as Mr. Brummell raised an elaborate quizzing glass and gazed intently at Annabelle. Eyes wide, he tipped his hat before moving on. “I hear he is on the outs with the prince regent. Not a good place to be when you have expensive tastes but empty pockets.”

“I've never seen anything like this. I feel like we're all on display.”

“Indeed, you are. I must say things are going even better than I expected, and I had very high expectations.”

“But all we have done is ride through the park and look decorous.” The ways of the ton would take some getting used to.

“You must trust me, my dear. The young women coming out this Season are suddenly far less sanguine about their prospects. And that's a good thing. Jealousy, at least when you have inspired it, can be marvelously invigorating.” Aunt Sophia leaned toward her, lowering her voice. “By the way, unless I am mistaken, Lord Dorset is heading toward us.”

Annabelle's breath caught in her throat. She'd prepared to be polite and nothing more, but she couldn't help but remember the angry and dismissive words he had last spoken to her. And of course, she'd said much in the same vein.

He was less than forty feet away, handling the reins of a phaeton with ease as he spoke to a lovely brunette who sat beside him. The woman was neatly attired in a rose-colored riding suit, and while Annabelle found herself unaccountably curious about the stranger, she found it even more difficult to look away from Alec. He wore a bottle-green jacket fitted to showcase the breadth of his shoulders. Handsome, traitorous man.

As if sensing her gaze, he glanced up, and even at this distance, she could see his jaw clench. His eyes were flat as he studied her, and then he turned away, speaking to his companion. Irrationally, she felt a stab of disappointment. “I don't believe Lord Dorset will acknowledge us, Aunt Sophia.” She'd looked forward to showing him how very little she cared about being in his good graces.

“Nonsense. He is a gentleman, and you must stifle your resentment. It will do you good to be seen in his company. The Carstairs are haute ton, the very best kind.”

• • •

This was the very worst sort of surprise. Had he known she would be here, Alec would never have come. As it was, a perfectly satisfactory afternoon was about to be spoiled. A carriage carrying Annabelle and her aunt was headed this way.

He'd learned quite a bit about Lady Marchmain since his return to London in the last few weeks. After all, how better to avoid someone—or her niece, for that matter—than to learn her habits and haunts? He'd made discreet inquiries, only to find there was almost nothing discreet about the woman. She'd lived abroad any number of years, changing husbands as often as most women changed their bonnets. To be fair, each of the men had died unexpectedly, but that only made the countess more scandalous. She lived precisely as she pleased, answering to no one. And now Annabelle was her protégé.

“My dear Miss Fitzsimmons,” he said. “The sister of an old friend is approaching in the next carriage. I should stop to offer my greetings.”