Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (24 page)

The hall had eventually opened onto an
octagon and a magnificent double staircase that led, she soon
discovered, up to the state apartments. Because of the crush of
people, it took over an hour to ascend to the first floor (added to
the two hours it took for their carriage to inch its way through
the clogged streets to the front door in the first place).
Cassandra learned that the entire reason for this expedition was to
be greeted by their host, walk from one room to the other in an
orderly procession, and then leave again. There would be no
dancing, no card playing, and very little in the way of
refreshments. Marcus called it a rout. Cassandra called it asinine
and couldn’t wait to get home to tell Marcus that the Prince Regent
had later ordered Carlton House torn down because it wasn’t
magnificent enough for him.

After a few minutes spent waiting to see the
Regent, who had already deserted his post at the top of the stairs
in favor of a comfortable chair in the drawing room (his corset was
probably giving him the devil, Peregrine whispered into Cassandra’s
ear), Aunt Cornelia announced in stentorian tones that she was in
need of inspecting one of His Highness’s innovative water closets
or else there’d be no accounting for what tragedy might befall them
all on the way back to Grosvenor Square.

And so Cassandra had found herself trailing
after Aunt Cornelia, who seemed to know her way around the large
building. Marcus and Peregrine were left to do their best to waylay
one of the wandering servants and procure some wine before they
were pushed into the next room and down the staircase again, into
the street.

Cassandra and Aunt Cornelia elbowed and
squeezed their way back through the overheated rooms and the throng
of jeweled, perfumed, and elegantly attired denizens of High
Society. Cassandra became increasingly aware that although their
clothing was of the finest and their jewels dazzling to the eye,
there were several of the
haut ton
who probably had little
more than a nodding acquaintance with soap and water.

Now, with Aunt Cornelia’s mission
accomplished, Cassandra was more than happy to locate Marcus and
Peregrine and escape all this Regency grandeur before she
suffocated. Hanging back momentarily, she took another quick peek
at herself in one of the many mirrors that lined the withdrawing
room. She adored the gown Marcus had chosen for her this evening
and delighted in the way the soft, blush-pink muslin gown flattered
her figure. She had become increasingly aware of her figure since
last night, when Marcus had called it “perfect.” She raised a hand
to her throat, touching the triple strand of pearls he had
presented to her this afternoon and knowing that if she were to
lose them in this crowd she’d never forgive herself.

Once assured that the diamond-encrusted clasp
still held tight, she turned to follow Aunt Cornelia, only to
realize that the woman was nowhere in sight. All around her were
fleshy arms, suffocating scents, elaborate headdresses, and enough
feminine chatter to drown out any polite attempt to call Corny’s
name.

For the first time since being introduced to
the soft ballet-type heelless slippers that were an everyday part
of her wardrobe, Cassandra longed for her old, uncomfortable high
heels, for she wasn’t tall enough to see over the heads of the
dozen or so women who clogged the hallway that led back to the main
rooms. Great! Now she’d done it, she thought, hopping up and down,
hoping to see a familiar face. How was she ever supposed to locate
Corny or Marcus in this crowd? She was lost, cut off from the only
people she knew, and she hadn’t the faintest idea how she’d ever
get back to Grosvenor Square.

As she moved forward, trying to appear
nonchalant and faintly bored—Marcus’s prescription for looking as
if she belonged and not calling attention to herself—and keeping a
wary eye out for Aunt Cornelia’s distinctive purple plumes, she
felt a hand close over her forearm. “Marcus?” she asked, whirling
about hopefully.

“‘Marcus’? Why, my dear girl, has your
association progressed to the informal? I had no idea.”

Cassandra felt her heart, and her hopes,
plummet to her toes. How could she have forgotten? She did know
somebody else in London. “Good evening, Lady Blakewell,” she said
quietly. “How nice to see you again.” Yeah, right. About as nice as
walking stark naked into her shower stall, only to come face to
face with a cockroach big enough to be sporting a saddle!

Lady Blakewell, her immense girth draped in a
red low-cut gown that looked as if she had hidden the Pillsbury
doughboy in the bodice, leaned close enough to Cassandra that she
could see the scum on the woman’s crooked front teeth.
“
Alone,
my dear? How enterprising of dearest Cornelia
Haskins to allow you off the leash. Is this how she plans to launch
you—setting you loose to strike up conversations with gentlemen in
the hope notoriety might gain for you what your breeding does not?
Oh, not that Walton’s isn’t an unexceptionable enough ancestry, but
he hasn’t a feather to fly with, and all the
ton
knows it.
Or has that so clever Peregrine prevailed upon dearest Marcus to
provide a dowry?”

Cassandra had once asked Sheila Cranston how
she got rid of people who seemed to feel it their duty to make her
life miserable by questioning her lifestyle. This had been an
important question both for Sheila, the aspiring astronaut, and
Cassandra, who wanted to live alone in Manhattan. Cassandra had
always argued with the people, which seemed to get her nowhere,
while Sheila somehow got the busybodies of Edison, New Jersey, to
see her point. “I don’t know why you bother talking to them,
Cassie,” Sheila had said. “Why should I let some jerk give me grief
about wanting to orbit the earth with a bunch of men in a tin can?
What do
I
say to them? Well, I’ve always found a simple
‘fuck off’ to work pretty well.”

But that was Sheila, and Sheila wasn’t
standing smack in the middle of the Prince Regent’s private home,
being leered at by the most vicious gossip in all of London. If
Cassandra had learned anything since her first two meetings with
Lady Blakewell, it was to keep her mouth shut —much as she longed
to take a page out of Sheila’s book and tell the old bitch to go
screw herself. She’d have to try for a little of Marcus’s sort of
mild arrogance.

“Dear me, I have no idea what provisions have
been made for my future, Lady Blakewell, although I imagine you
might apply to the marquess for an answer if you wish. Or would you
like me to present your comments and questions to his lordship and
have him get back to you?” she inquired sweetly, opening the fan
that hung around her wrist and beginning to wave it in front of her
face while she watched the older woman flush with anger and
frustration. This wasn’t so bad, this business of putting people in
their place by politely calling their bluff. “But, no matter.
Perhaps you can help me. I’m afraid I tarried too long in the
withdrawing room, and now I seem to have misplaced dearest Miss
Haskins.”

“Of course I shall help you, my dear child,
although I must tell you that, in this sad crush, we shall be lucky
to locate either Miss Haskins or the marquess, who have doubtless
already been carried away by the tide. You must allow me to offer
you my carriage.” Lady Blakewell’s smile oozed malicious delight,
and Cassandra was sure the woman would have the news of the
Marquess of Eastbourne’s lax care of his guest spread all over
Mayfair by tomorrow morning. But she was desperate, so she allowed
the woman to steer her in the direction everyone else seemed to be
going—like lemmings mindlessly heading for the cliffs.

They had traveled through one large drawing
room and entered another before Lady Blakewell steered Cassandra
toward a tall, blond, handsome man dressed in the height of
fashion—rigged out in exactly the bright hues and ornate trappings
of starched, too-high neckcloth and flashing jewelry that both Beau
Brummell and Marcus Pendelton so wisely shunned.

“Reggie! Look what I have found,” Lady
Blakewell called, pulling Cassandra forward and making her feel as
if she were some sort of prize the old woman had just discovered in
a box of Cracker Jacks. “It is Miss Kelley, whom the Reverend Mr.
Austin and I have told you so much about. Marcus has misplaced her,
the naughty boy. Isn’t this above all things wonderful?”

Reggie struck a pose, then ran long, thin
fingers down the length of black grosgrain ribbon hung around his
neck and lifted the gilt-edged quizzing glass suspended from it to
his right eye. Still holding on to the glass, he trailed his eyes
over Cassandra, then lifted his chin, looking extremely bored.
“Just so, madam. And I had so hoped you had located refreshments
somewhere in this great barn. What do you propose to do with her
now that you have found her?”

“Reggie, don’t be difficult,” Lady Blakewell
simpered. Yes, Cassandra decided, the woman was positively
simpering. It was disgusting to watch. But the older woman
recovered herself shortly and introduced Cassandra to her nephew,
Reginald Hawtrey, whose belated bow was impeded only slightly by
the corset he wore in order to obtain a wasp-thin waist.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,”
Reginald said, leering at her as if contemplating how she might
taste if he were to take a bite out of her. “Would you like me to
bring you into fashion, Miss Kelley? I shouldn’t wish to brag, but
I have that power. One word from me and you will become the pivot
of the Social Season. Lamentably, you are not blond, which is this
year’s color, but I shouldn’t think I would have trouble
surmounting that little shortcoming. Now, if you were to be a
redhead—” He shuddered, as if that possibility was too much to be
borne.

Cassandra was fascinated in spite of herself.
From his impeccably curled (and probably dyed) hair to his
elegantly embroidered waistcoats (he wore two), to his red-heeled
shoes, she knew she was standing face-to-face with her first
honest-to-God Regency dandy. Give him a silk shirt, a gold chain,
and a leased Mercedes and he could be any of the lounge lizards she
avoided on her infrequent visits to Manhattan’s singles bars. The
guy’s ego was nearly as big as the gold buckles on his shoes.

“Oh, Mr. Autry,” she gushed in her best
Scarlett O’Hara imitation, deliberately batting her eyelashes at
him as she fanned herself frantically, “you’d do all that for
little old me? I’d be ever so grateful, truly I would.” She turned
to face Lady Blakewell. “How fortunate I am, dear madam, to have
been rescued by such a kind lady as yourself. Just think—Marcus has
been fretting without reason. Why, with Mr. Autry to introduce me,
I shall have no worries whatsoever. Isn’t that true, Mr.
Autry?”

“That’s
Haw
trey, Miss Kelley,”
Reginald responded. Something in his not unintelligent blue eyes
alerted her to the fact that she hadn’t exactly dazzled him with
her show of naive adoration. Perhaps purposely mispronouncing his
name had been taking things too far.

Cassandra giggled and pressed her fan to her
lips. “Oh, silly me,” she said, casting her gaze about the crowded
room, still hoping Marcus would come riding to the rescue but
beginning to doubt it. Fighting his way through this unending river
of people would be like trying to navigate upstream without a
paddle. “
Um,
could we possibly leave now? Perhaps Marcus and
the others are waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and then
you will be spared the chore of giving me a lift—I mean, a
ride
back to Grosvenor Square.”

Reginald exchanged glances with his aunt
before smiling at Cassandra, making her flesh creep. How could a
man be so basically handsome, yet positively ooze oily
pseudosophistication? “I am your servant, Miss Kelley—but I must
beg a favor before I move so much as an inch from this spot. You
will drive out with me tomorrow afternoon, won’t you? We must begin
planning if I am to make you the sensation you deserve to be. Isn’t
that correct, Aunt Agnes?”

Lady Blakewell clapped her hands like a
gleeful child who had just been offered her very own Barbie doll.
“Correct indeed, you dear boy. Oh, I knew it the moment I saw Miss
Kelley again. She is perfect for you Reggie—or am I wrong, and it
is only my wishful thinking that sees the twinkle of attraction
winking at me from your eyes?”

Cassandra’s smile became strained as she
looked from aunt to nephew. Something was wrong; she could sense
it. Lady Blakewell was too interested in her, and the nephew’s
attitude was so patently false that even he seemed to be having
difficulty keeping up the charade. She saw him glance at a petite,
blond-haired young thing who was discreetly waving in his
direction, then he reluctantly looked back at her.

“Perhaps Miss Haskins and the marquess have
other plans for me, Mr. Hawtrey,” she said, beginning to feel
desperate as she scanned the crowd, inwardly cursing Marcus for not
mounting a white charger and coming to her rescue. Didn’t he know
what kind of trouble she could get into? Hadn’t he told her often
enough that she still didn’t have all the “town polish” he would
like her to have before agreeing to set her loose in society? How
pleased he’d be that she had proved him correct.

And then she saw him. Not Marcus, but one of
history’s more interesting Regency characters, one she had seen
portraits of, and she forgot everything except the possibility of
meeting the man in the flesh. “Oh, look—isn’t that Lord Byron over
there? Yes! It has to be Byron. Mr. Hawtrey, you simply have to
introduce us!”

His quizzing glass coming into play once
more, Reginald Hawtrey turned his head (but carefully, for his
shirt points were so high and so starched that a quicker pivot
might end with his slicing off an ear), then looked back at
Cassandra. “Go out driving with me tomorrow, Miss Kelley,” he said
with the convincing air of a used car salesman swearing to the
sterling mechanical condition of a six-year-old Yugo, “and I shall
introduce you to the world—starting with my dear friend Byron.”