Talk of the Town (12 page)

“What difference does it make who she was? He had one, and that’s what you wanted to know, ain’t it?”

“No, I must know who she was.”

“If you ever find out, give her my compliments, for she was a real lady.”

“Then she can’t have been Mrs. Pealing.”

“Lady Standington was the name I mentioned.”

“Now Pealing. She has remarried twice and been widowed. Why do you say she was a
real
lady?”

“Lord, boy, she could have had your father for the snapping of her fingers. He was mad for her; and where would you be now if she had, eh? He told me himself he meant to divorce Agnes and leave the country with his lover. Felt he had to tell me that much, for I was to be in charge of looking after everything while he was gone; but he never told me her name, just in case she wouldn’t go through with it. Well, maybe he didn’t mean to divorce your mother—but leave her anyway, which is possibly even worse. But whoever the woman was, she had the sense and breeding and charity to turn him down. And did it in such a way that she made him ashamed of himself. He went back home and straightened out.
You
had something to do with it. Your being a son pleased him no end, and I daresay he took pains to give
you
no notion of his scarlet past. He was always afraid you might have developed his streak of foolishness.”

“It can’t be that damned Pealing creature!”

“I see no reason for you to traduce Lady Standington’s name. She was a very nice girl. If that fool of a Standington had stood by her and run Ansquith through instead of dragging his wife through the divorce court...
He
was a fine one to take exception to her having a
cicisbeo.
He was after everything that wiggled, so long as it wore a skirt. An awful man he was. Jealous as a green cow, and proud, too. I just remembered something that might help you.”

“What?”

“That lady George was after—she liked blue.”

“Oh, God! Why did you have to go and remember that.”

“He had a ring he was trying to give her. I don’t believe she ever accepted it. Well, I know she didn’t, for I saw it sitting on Bess’s finger on her next birthday; but it was a sapphire, and he said in a fit of poetry that it matched the lady’s eyes, and it would match her gowns, for she wore a deal of blue. Lady Standington wore a lot of blue. Now
that’s
what it was made me think it was her.
That’s
what it was,” he repeated, triumphant at this feat of memory.

St. Felix arose, feeling an old man. His father— that cardboard saint he had been revering all these years—was just flesh and blood like the rest. But mixed with his anger and disappointment was a little pity. Poor father, to have met Daphne after he was married and saddled with a nurseryful of children. Countess Standington, he corrected himself! But everyone said they resembled each other in Mrs. Pealing’s youth. He could not say, never having yet met Mrs. Pealing.

“Thank you, Uncle. I think I’ve discovered what I came to. I hope the gout isn’t too painful.”

“Bah, pain. I care nothing for that. It’s this damned lying around in bed that kills me. It’s what you’ve got to look forward to, my boy. Runs in the family. Got your father and it’ll get you.”

This reminder of mortality naturally did nothing to lighten St. Felix’s spirits. “Do you come to Bess’s party?”

“Not her tea party. I don’t much care to hear geese cackling, but you can tell her I’ll be at her ball, if I ain’t dead. She might drop around to see her old uncle once in a while. It wouldn’t kill her.”

“I’ll tell her.”

He left, to consider how to silence the blackmailers, for in spite of the recent shaking of his world, he did not wish to see the family name trailed through the mud. He was now rather eager to meet Mrs. Pealing. He had glimpsed her in her carriage but had no idea of her face. He frowned, imagining Daphne Ingleside’s face grown old and fat. He began to feel it might not be impossible to procure a voucher to Almack’s for the young lady, as the Prince Regent and Beau Brummell were both on visiting terms with her. In any case, he felt that it was imperative to see her; and for this reason he came down off his high horse and went to his sister’s tea party the next afternoon.

He went early and immediately asked his sister, “Has Miss Ingleside not got here yet?” His quick view of the six persons present had already told him the answer.

“She isn’t coming. I told you I had a note turning it down.”

“She’s coming.”

“Have you been to see her again, Dickie? I thought we agreed that you would have nothing more to do with her.”

“Complications. It is now imperative that I have a great deal to do with her. I’ll speak to you later, and if any of the patronesses from Almack’s are to be present, butter them up well. We have a favour to request.”

“Lady Sefton is coming. I asked Lady Melbourne, but she is throwing a do herself tonight and is sending her daughter, Countess Cowper, in her place.”

“Good. I’ll give Emily a go. She is always susceptible to flattery.”

“Especially from handsome gentlemen.”

They parted, and for the next three-quarters of an hour, St. Felix’s eyes only left the entrance way to scan the crowd for patronesses from Almack’s. He was polite to Lady Sefton and fawning towards Countess Cowper, who took very well to his buttering up.

Bess went to him once and said, “I don’t believe she can be coming. And Brummell stayed away, too. He told me he would be here, the beast.”

There was a little ripple of excitement, and several heads turned to the door. Beau Brummell sauntered in, a picture of sartorial elegance, though he wore the simplest outfit possible, with no jewelry except a plain gold ring. His well-cut coats and carefully tied cravats were the envy of every aspirant to fashion. He dressed with care and style, and once he was dressed he forgot his clothing and turned his mind to being entertaining.

“Thank God, he is come,” Bess said, breathing easier. “Who is the
ravishing
creature with him?”

“Miss Ingleside,” her brother replied.

“Dickie, you never told me she was an Incomparable! If that is how the Pealing looked in her youth, I shouldn’t blame Papa if he
did
succumb to her.”

She sailed forth to make the King and Queen of Absurdity welcome and to introduce the young lady to any of those present who had not already the pleasure of her acquaintance. With Beau Brummell at her side making the conversation sparkle, Miss Ingleside appeared to great advantage to Countess Cowper; and when Lady Sefton had her alone a minute to discover she was the daughter of Sir James Ingleside of the Wiltshire Inglesides and the granddaughter of Lord Basford, Earl of Basford, the portals of Almack’s were in a good way to opening for her. There was the Pealing to be overcome, but a well-to-do Mrs. Wintlock of whom no harm was known proved to be an acceptable chaperone. That Miss Wintlock, too, must be provided a voucher was no problem; the girl was on the verge of receiving an offer from Lord Henry Viddington, young son of a good family.

“You know nothing to the young lady’s discredit, Emily?” Lady Sefton enquired of Countess Cowper.

“No, no, quite unexceptionable. Mama has asked her to a rout this evening. Of course, it must be made clear her aunt is not to come with her. A little touchy that, but Mrs. Pealing understands these things. She has been around long enough and, if she is in doubt, Beau will straighten her out.”

“I’ll give her a voucher before she leaves, then. My, such a crowd around her. I’ll have to wait.”

“I notice St. Felix is interested. He has hardly taken his eyes off her.”

“And
you
off him. Take care, Emily. Yes, the girl is a charmer. One cannot but wonder that she chose to make her bows from Mrs. Pealing’s home,” Lady Sefton remarked.

“It is the Wintlocks who are actually presenting her. Odd she doesn’t stay with them.”

“But then La Pealing’s company would be more entertaining. Prinney was to call, you know. I bet Lady Hertford is in the boughs.”

“Oh, she went with him,” Emily said. The affair was being closely followed in the Melbourne circle. “But I doubt she will the next time.”

Miss Ingleside made a most favourable impression, and despite his most assiduous observation, St. Felix could not get near her without an unseemly jostling, which he did not care to undergo. He waited his chance for a private word, which did not come till she was on her way out the door, with Beau Brummell at her side. While Bess said goodbye to Beau, Daphne turned to the Duke with a pert smile.

“Did you forget to tell everyone, including yourself, to stay away?” she asked.

“I must speak to you.”

“You are speaking to me.”

“Alone.”

“You have discovered from your flirt how she wishes her name spelled? Just tell me whether it is to be the English or French version. We don’t require solitude for that.”

“About my father’s past.”

“I doubt you can tell me much I don’t know about that.”

“I don’t want the story printed. What is the price for your silence?”

“We have already discussed it. It is a voucher to Almack’s. And, really, I begin to think you are getting off too lightly, for Lady Sefton was not at all put out at the newness of my family. She called me ‘dear’ twice and said I reminded her of Miss Gunning, which is a compliment, I was given to understand. She married two dukes.”

“I’ll see what I can do. It will be very difficult—they are strict. Perhaps Countess Cowper might be persuaded.”

“I can certainly not accuse you of not
trying
to persuade her. If my name were Amy, I think I should not have cared for your attentions to her this afternoon.” In fact, even as Daphne she was not entirely pleased with his behaviour.

“She is a married woman! If you are intimating I was carrying on a flirtation..."

“Much that would bother you St. Felixes! In your heart of hearts, I think you demand some sort of ineligibility from your women. Married ladies, divorcées, actresses.”

“Blackmailers?” he asked with a sneering smile.

“I didn’t mean that!” she said angrily.

As they talked, it was Lady Sefton and not Countess Cowper who approached them with the cherished voucher in her hand. “A ticket to our little party Thursday evening, Miss Ingleside. I hope your chaperone—you will see it is Mrs. Wintlock’s name on the card—will bring you. And her daughter, of course. It is for the three of you.”

“How very kind of you, Ma’am,” Miss Ingleside said, accepting the ticket with a smile. With a flourish of her fingers, she waved them under St. Felix’s nose. “It seems we must reconsider the price of silence. Like candles and green peas and everything else, it is going up. What was impossible has turned out to be so extraordinarily simple, I begin to wonder whether I shouldn’t ask for the moon.”

His talk with Lady Elizabeth terminated, Beau turned to offer Miss Ingleside his arm. St. Felix bit back some angry rejoinder and said, “I’ll call on you tomorrow, Miss Ingleside, with your permission.”

“Miss Ingleside has promised me her afternoon,” Beau said, patting her hand in a proprietary manner that inflamed his grace.

“In the morning, Miss Ingleside?” Richard asked.

“Yes, you may bring that—thing to me in the morning. On a platter of course!” she reminded him.

Beau looked surprised. “Is it a cake you speak of?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Brummell, a pie.
Humble pie
,”
Daphne smiled.

Richard glared at her with murder in his eyes. “I’ll be there,” he said.

“The pleasure will be all yours,” Daphne answered, and with a wave of her little gloved hand that still held the voucher, she was off.

It was a long while before the last visitor had left the tea party and the brother and sister could get down to serious discussion. “She wasn’t so bad,” Lady Elizabeth began. “What I can’t understand is why the girl ever lowered herself to become involved in this underhanded business of the aunt’s, for she might have been accepted without such a trick. Very charming, and she has got the Beau right under her thumb. He
never
was serious about any girl, Dickie, in all the years he has been on the town.”

“No mother with a pittance of mind would let him dangle after her daughter. He is amusing, of course, and has a certain
ton;
but his breeding is not what anyone of good blood would care to take into the family, and he has no fortune to speak of.”

“Still, there are wealthy widows and rich old spinsters aplenty who would have snapped him up fast enough had he ever looked twice at them. He has been unsusceptible till now, and I think it the biggest item of the Season that he is caught at last.”

“Caught? Caught by a blackmailer who is bearleading him into buying her silence by this show of gallantry!”

“Pooh! Everyone knows Beau is a clerk’s son with no money to speak of. He can’t be paying her not to tell what everyone knows already. It is not that.”

“I don’t know what she may have on him; he may be doing it for a lark. He threatened last year to bring the mad old King into fashion, and may have decided on Miss Ingleside, instead; but that is nothing to us.”

“Brother, you are as blind as a bat. Beau is in love. Miss Ingleside is the very lively, intelligent young girl for him. They are as well suited as wine and cheese.”

“She’s not that big a fool; but, in any case, it is nothing to us. I have been to see Uncle Algernon.”

“I should go, too. How horrid, having to visit him only because he is laid up with gout. We never bother with him when he is well, nor he with us. I don’t see that I should have to drag over to Belgrave Square only because he soaks up wine like a sponge and makes himself sick with it.”

“It is not the opprobrium of sick visits I refer to. He told me about Papa and the mysterious woman.”

“Really! Who was she?”

"Mrs. Pealing."

“It can’t be true! How can we keep them quiet? Dear Mama—to have to go through that again. And Larry—this will reflect on him!”

“It will reflect on the whole family, and we must put a muzzle on them.”

“Yes, certainly. How much? We’ll have to get our sisters to join, Dickie. They’ll want thousands, and I don’t see why you and I must bear the whole burden. Betty’s husband is rich as a nabob, and Alice’s expenses are very small, living in the country year round. We’ll all go shares. Did they give you any indication of how much they are asking?”