Pretty Polly (12 page)

As the duke was helping Verity down from the carriage, he took the opportunity to say, “You do not look very well, Miss Bascombe.”

“I feel dreadful,” said Verity candidly. “I drank too much champagne too late last night.”

“Wicked Miss Bascombe, to succumb so easily to the fleshpots of London. I had thought you made of sterner stuff.”

“Well, Your Grace, as you can see I am not, and feel likely to die.”

“We shall have hock and seltzer and you will soon be recovered.”

“What are you talking about?” cried Charlotte.

“Restoratives,” said the duke. “I am recommending hock and seltzer.”

The drink worked like a charm. Verity felt a warm glow taking the queasiness out of her stomach. The duke was amused by the transformation. Miss Bascombe’s skin glowed with health once more, and her black eyes sparkled. Lord James caught a warning look from the duke and correctly interpreted it as a reminder that he was to appear interested in Verity at this stage of the outing. He reluctantly wrenched his eyes away from Charlotte’s beautiful face and said, “I feel sure you are a lady of many secrets, Miss Bascombe. You are not perhaps one of those wicked novelists?”

“Not I,” said Verity.

“But you like to write?”

“Not at all,” said Verity uncomfortably. “I am supposed to be keeping a diary of all I see in London
to read to my friends at our sewing circle back at Market Basset, but I regret to say I have not even begun.”

“And have you had many fascinating experiences?”

“Oh, yes,” said Verity. “London is full of things to see and do.”

“And is there anything you have not seen which you would like to visit?”

“Yes, I would like to see the mint. They have just moved the mint, you know, from the Tower to Tower Hill. There are presses designed by the engineers Boulton, Watt, and Rennie, which, I believe, are steam-driven and able to strike coins at the staggering rate of a hundred a minute!”

Lord James looked amused. “But what of Almack’s? The opera? The opening dinner at the Royal Academy?”

“Most enjoyable,” said Verity. “But new inventions are intriguing, are they not?”

“Hardly a feminine interest.”

“Being a female does not mean that one is mentally defective, Lord James.”

He colored angrily, then remembered he was supposed to flirt with her and said, “I find beauty such as yours allied to brains somewhat intimidating, Miss Bascombe.”

“I am not clever at all,” said Verity in surprise, “and my looks are nothing out of the common way.”

Lord James looked crossly at the duke, who was murmuring things to Charlotte on the other side of the table. It was too much to ask of him! Dalliance with Miss Bascombe was about as easy as wading through a sea of mud.

“You must trust me to be your looking glass, Miss Bascombe.”

“Very prettily said, my lord,” said Verity, “but I
am afraid my opinion of my looks is still the same, much as I long to believe you.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” he said sententiously, casting a longing look in Charlotte’s direction.

“Perhaps,” said Verity. “But it must be very pleasant to be as beautiful as Mrs. Manners because then one can take all compliments at face value.”

He brightened visibly. “Mrs. Manners is divinely fair. Have you known her long?”

“We attended the same seminary in Bath,” said Verity. “This visit is the first opportunity I have had of seeing her since I was there.”

“And has she changed?”

“As to character, no,” said Verity. “But her beauty is much greater.”

He smiled at her warmly, thinking that Miss Bascombe certainly made up in loyalty and friendship what she lacked in charm.

As they returned to the carriage, Verity was irritated with herself. Lord James was supposed to have come on this outing to further his acquaintance with her. She, Verity, had received many fulsome compliments from some of her admirers in Market Basset. She had responded to them in the correct flirtatious manner. But love had never spoiled any of her conversation with gentlemen before and she had to admit to herself ruefully that she was wishing both Lord James and Charlotte at the devil. She reminded herself sternly that she had promised to support Charlotte in every way, and languishing after a handsome duke who was well above her touch was hardly the right way to go about it.

Verity had to confess that the duke seemed to be enjoying Charlotte’s light prattle and was answering
in kind as they bowled along the sunny road to Richmond. Lord James’s behavior was beginning to puzzle Verity more and more. He paid her compliment after compliment, but his eyes kept straying to Charlotte when he was not trying to catch the duke’s eye, almost as if he were begging permission to do something.

Lord James was waiting eagerly for the moment when he was supposed to switch his attention from Charlotte to Verity. As they strolled under the trees through Richmond Park, he thought it would never come. The duke and Charlotte were walking ahead, laughing and joking. Verity had taken herself firmly in hand and was behaving toward Lord James just as a young miss ought. She talked of balls and parties and people in society. But he answered her in an abstracted sort of way, then seemed to remind himself of something and paid her another compliment, stunning in its praise but insulting in the halfhearted, abstracted way in which it was delivered.

They returned to the carriage and went on to an inn situated at the edge of the Thames. The duke called for iced champagne, as the inn boasted its own icehouse. Verity drank sparingly, but Charlotte drank a great deal, her eyes glowing.

Then Lord James saw the message in the duke’s eyes and heaved a sigh of relief. He jumped to his feet. “Charles has had too much of your attention, Mrs. Manners,” he cried. “Pray walk with me a little and we will look at the swans.”

Charlotte, elated at having two titled men competing for her favors, thought it would do the duke no harm to have a little competition and graciously agreed.

Verity and the duke were left alone together.

“My friend seems much taken with you,” said the duke.

“I do not think so,” said Verity, “although he is going to great lengths to make that appear to be the case. I wonder why?”

“Miss Bascombe! You cannot rate your attractions so low.”

“When Mrs. Manners is about, I can and do.”

“What an awkward sort of female you are, climbing trees, bristling up at compliments, and writing other people’s letters for them.”

Verity choked on her champagne. He waited politely until she had recovered and said, “You must think me a great fool if you believe that I thought those letters came from Mrs. Manners. She could not possibly have written them, but you most certainly could.”

“You must not tease Mrs. Manners with this,” said Verity.

“I would not dream of it. But to tease you, Miss Bascombe, gives me a great deal of pleasure.”

They fell silent. The water chuckled past and the sun sparkled on the little waves.

They were sitting in the inn garden under an ash tree. The shadows of the leaves fluttered across Verity’s face.

“Well,” she said reluctantly, “Mrs. Manners has difficulty in writing letters. Quite a lot of people do, you know. So, yes, I wrote them, but they were really from her.”

“And did you not stop to think such behavior deceitful?”

“No. Had Mrs. Manners not been interested in communicating with you, yet I had gone ahead and written the letters just the same—that would have been deceitful.”

“But I was cleverly wooed in print and came hotfoot
to London to meet my charming correspondent.”

“I did not mean to do wrong,” said Verity. “You loved her once.”

“I thought I did, yes. Had Mrs. Manners written herself, then I am sure her letters would have betrayed that she was simply interested in becoming my duchess.”

“You are too hard.”

“Not I! She would not have even troubled to commiserate with me over my recent bereavement. You did. Who did you lose?”

“My mother.”

“I thought the writer spoke from experience, but I was led to believe that Mrs. Manners had been shaken by the loss of her husband.”

“Oh, I
am
sorry,” said Verity. “Can we not forget those wretched letters?”

“We can try,” he said with a charming smile. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to know why you instructed Lord James to pay court to me and then gave him permission to give up and go after Mrs. Manners.”

His eyes glinted with amusement as he looked at her. “I think I shall tell the truth. I wanted some time alone with Mrs. Manners so that I could make up my mind once and for all about the author of those letters. Then I wanted some time alone with you. As you see, it has worked to a nicety. Lord James is enjoying the company of Mrs. Manners and I have found my letter writer.”

“I thought we were not going to talk about those letters.”

“Ah, but I had to in order to give you a truthful explanation. Do you hope to marry, Miss Bascombe?”

“You are blunt. There is no other career open to a gently bred female.”

“And yet you have not really answered my question. The truth, Miss Bascombe!”

The truth was that if she could not marry him, then she really did not think she wanted to marry anyone.

“I am comfortably situated at home, Your Grace, and am fortunate in that I have no need to marry. Papa is trying to force my hand by saying that he means to marry again himself. That is because he fears for me. He thinks any woman who does not marry and have children is doomed to unhappiness.”

“But you do not?”

“I think to be married to someone one does not really care for might be a very great unhappiness. Better to remain single.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I think we are both very fortunate. Here comes our happy couple. Do you attend the Cunninghams’ affair tonight?”

“I do not know, Your Grace. Mrs. Manners says where we are to go.”

“Then I shall ask her. There is to be dancing, you know, and I have not yet had the pleasure of a dance with you.”

Charlotte and Lord James came up to them, obviously well pleased with each other’s company. Verity’s heart gave a little surge of hope. She would rather the duke remained unmarried than watch him propose to Charlotte.

But on the road back to London, the duke once more devoted himself to Charlotte, teasing her and making her laugh. Lord James sat moodily with his arms crossed, staring out at the passing countryside. From time to time, Verity addressed some remark
to him, but he answered her in an abstracted way.

She was glad when the carriage once more swung into Berkeley Square. The day was still sunny and warm, and Gunter’s, the confectioner at number seven, was doing a brisk trade in ices.

Before the gentlemen left, Charlotte said they would be at the Cunninghams’ that evening.

“Very successful, indeed.” Charlotte sighed happily as she made her way upstairs. “A duke and a lord and both for the asking. But a duchess is such a good title, don’t you think, Verity? Verity!”

But Verity had gone ahead to her room, and the slamming of her door was Charlotte’s only reply.

Sir Richard Cunningham was a member of Parliament. Verity hoped that this introduction to political circles would provide her with enough interest to take her mind off the Duke of Denbigh.

But it turned out to be very much like any other London ball held during the Season. Ballroom draped in rose silk, banks of hothouse flowers against the walls, music by Neil Gow and his fiddlers, and catering by Gunter. The ladies simpered and the gentlemen stared. The Cunninghams were parvenus, and a line of improbable-looking ancestors looked down from the walls. Sir Richard had bought portraits of everyone else’s ancestors to claim as his own. There was even a Haitian prince, his brown skin gleaming against a pink silk and gold-embroidered coat of the last century. Harriet wondered how the Cunninghams described him and how they had come by the portrait. Had there been a sale at some embassy? And would the Haitians not have had something to say about a member of their royal household decorating the walls of an M.P.’s home? Verity recognized the prince, having
seen a steel engraving of him in a library book describing his visit to London some forty years before.

She saw Lady Wythe sitting with the dowagers and went to join her. “Why do the Cunninghams have a Haitian prince among their supposed ancestors?” asked Verity.

“Now how do you know they are not really the Cunningham ancestors?” asked the old dowager, looking amused.

“Mrs. Manners told me that their hunt round the salesrooms for ancestors is well known.”

“Yes, for once her gossip is correct. I myself asked them about the prince. Sir Richard became very fidgety and claimed the prince was an American Indian who had once saved his life. Such a liar! No wonder he is in the House of Commons. He gets along famously with all the other liars, hence his popularity.”

“But people in society will cut their own relatives in the street for being too unfashionable. What, then, is the charm of the Cunninghams?”

“Money. Sir Richard has a great many woolen manufactories in the north. He bought his title and favor at court. He lives here in Grosvenor Square and entertains lavishly. He is so vulgar and pushing that everyone feels comfortable about despising him while accepting his hospitality. He makes even the minor gentry feel superior, hence his success. I have noticed, Miss Bascombe, that from the first time I met you, you appear to take these grand affairs in your stride. I would have thought you would have found them quite intimidating after Market Basset.”

“I have been to the assemblies in Bath,” said Verity abstractedly, her eyes searching the room. “It is much the same thing.”

“If you are looking for Denbigh,” said Lady
Wythe, “then you are searching in the wrong direction. He is over there on your right.”

Verity’s head turned to the right as if being jerked round on wires. The duke was wearing a black evening coat. His cravat was beautifully tied, and a diamond pin blazed from among its snowy folds. His knee breeches and white silk stockings showed the strength of his thighs and the muscles in his legs. His golden hair was pomaded and gleamed in the light shed by hundreds of candles. “What a truly magnificent creature,” murmured the countess.