Talk of the Town (16 page)

“Is there someone you want me to meet,
at last?”
she asked eagerly.

Between these two, “someone” was understood to mean a prospective bride. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is."

“Bring her here. We can have a much better visit in the country. Now, sit down and quit that pacing like a tiger and tell me all about her. I suppose she’s pretty.”

“More than pretty. Beautiful.”

“What is her style? Is she a blonde or brunette?”

“She is a brunette, much in the style of the Countess of Standington in her youth, I am given to understand,” he said, as an introduction to her identity.

His mother revealed very little trace of emotion, though he discerned a slight blanching of the cheeks. “Oh, yes, she was very pretty. How do you come to know of her, Dickie? She was long before your time.”

“The girl is Countess Standington’s, now Mrs. Pealing’s, niece,” he admitted.

“I see,” his mother said in a weak voice. “How nice.” She looked closely at her son and knew from his quizzing glance that he was aware of at least some part of the truth.

“I know about Papa and Countess Standington,” he said. “It is unfortunate, but really, you know, all that past history has nothing to do with Miss Ingleside and myself. I was not aware of it when first I met her.”

“Who told you?”

“I had the story from Uncle Algernon,” he replied, only half truthfully.

“I didn’t know Algie knew. We kept it hushed up as well as we could; but if anyone could weasel it out of your papa, it would be Algie. He was rather sweet on her himself at onetime. I don’t suppose he told you
that.”

“No, but I suspected as much. Do you dislike the idea very much?” Dickie ventured.

His mother smiled resignedly. “She wasn’t the worst lady in the world,” she admitted.

“The worst in your view, however, I suppose?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Your papa might have fallen into worse clutches. An actress or someone of that sort..."

“Like Perdita, you mean?” Dick suggested with a tentative smile.

“You know that, too, do you? And your father trying so hard to keep all that from you. Well, it wouldn’t have been hard to discover. Everyone knew about her. She’d have snapped him up fast enough if he’d ever offered, though of course it was never marriage he had in mind with that one. Countess Standington could have married your papa if she’d wished it. I don’t know why she didn’t. She loved him, and he was infatuated with her. She might have ruined the reputation of this whole family, and I owe her some debt of gratitude that she chose not to do it. So you are dangling after her niece, eh? The family was good enough. The Countess’s father was made an earl when he was quite old. He was only the nephew of Lord Basford and never thought to inherit, but old Basford’s son got himself killed in a duel, though they put about it was a hunting accident and her father came into the title. Now, how exactly is Miss Ingleside related to this aunt—is it a direct relationship or through one of her husbands?”

“Mrs. Pealing’s sister is her mother. Her father is Sir James Ingleside, a baronet from Wiltshire. Quite unexceptionable, I believe.”

“I’ve heard of the family. But why do you not bring her here, Dickie?”

“That wouldn’t do, Mama,” he said, and went on to explain the murky waters into which his beloved had pitched herself by her involvement with the aunt’s book and her flouting the Patronesses of Almack’s.

“The Countess was always a fool, but I never knew her for a demmed fool till this day,” the mother said angrily. “How did she come to allow her niece—but it is all of a piece. Why didn’t
you
stop her?”

“Have you ever tried to stop a whirlwind?” he asked.

“Like that, is she? She sounds to have a deal more spirit than her aunt. But she has her looks, you say?”

“Others say so. I see absolutely no resemblance myself, and if Daphne ends up looking like that blue-haired lady, I shall divorce or starve her.”

“You never mean Effie has run to fat?” the Duchess asked in a joyful tone.

“Fat as a flawn, and her hair dyed blue.”

“I am dying to see her,” his mother admitted, quite cheered to hear that her competition had aged in so unattractive a fashion. “Very well, I’ll go. We’ll have the pair to our ball, and Bess must do the same.”

“Bess refuses.”

“Ha, we’ll see if she refuses when I threaten to cut her out of my will. The mother’s portion is not entailed, you know,” she informed her son.

“Perhaps you would drive with her—Daphne, I mean—in the Park and let it be seen she has your approval. I think that would bring the Castlereaghs and possibly Lady Melbourne and a few of the
grande dames
into line.”

“Bess and Lawrence must be made to toe the line. They are more connected with Society these days than I am.”

For an hour the two sat with their heads together discussing tactics, and when Richard left, his mama immediately set her abigail to packing trunks for a longish sojourn in the city. She’d go early and be there for Bess’s ball, too, as she was to make the devilish trip anyway.

The Duchess of St. Felix went to her mirror and observed her face with an intensity she had not bothered with in years. She had not aged so badly. She wished her husband were alive today to see his beloved countess turned to fat and blue hair, while his wife, whom he had never half appreciated, retained a good, straight, thin figure and hair that was still black at the back, though the front had turned a nasty salt-and-pepper colour.

She knew George had never loved her, but he was a sensible man as a rule, and she had been shocked when he said he meant to leave her. He had been temporarily insane and Dickie was clearly in the same state. Best to go along with him, or heaven only knew what folly he would commit.

* * * *

The lack of letters to Wiltshire following this episode in the eventful visit to London was put down to the rigours of the Season, but the rigours were not of the sort imagined.

“Very likely she is off to some great country house for a visit with Brummell and the Prince of Wales and is too busy to write,” Lady Mary sighed happily. The absence of communication was an excellent omen. Effie had never written much when she was busy with her great friends.

Sir James looked at her and shook his head. “No, it is this St. Felix that has got her head in such a whirl she forgets to write to us. I have been checking on him—he has an excellent character. Related to the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“He can’t help that, dear,” Lady Mary consoled him. “There are clergymen in every family if you dig deep enough. Why, I have a second cousin who is a dean in London, and your younger nephew is studying to take orders.”

“Thirty years old—just the right age,” Sir James continued.

“Only fancy Beau Brummell giving Effie a blue rose,” Mary rambled on. “I hope she kept it to press."

James realized it was pointless talking to his wife.

Chapter 11

Effie stuck to her guns that the only
course open to Daphne and her was to run off
to Bath. A careful reckoning of her bank account, coupled with the fact that Prinney’s holiday Pavilion being at Brighton might take the social set there, had tipped the scales in Bath’s favour. Daphne was resolved they should stay in London and brazen it out. She spoke repeatedly of their own party and at last convinced Effie that they should remain in the city till that date was past.

“Nobody will come,” Effie warned her niece. “But we’ll stay close to the house in the meantime and prepare for it as though it were to take place. Such a waste of food, but I shan’t order much. Just one or two dozen lobsters and a case of champagne, and I must have Cook make up chantillies for the ladies. Such a sad, scrambling do. I used to throw much finer parties in the old days. There was never a lack of guests. Everyone begged to be let in and went to such shifts to wangle a card.”

“If we are to rusticate in Bath, I shall want to take some books with me,” Daphne decided.

“My dear, there is a fine circulating library there, on Milsom Street. But what you must do is notify Mrs. Wintlock you are leaving town. Odd she hasn’t come by before this.”

“She has been cross with me ever since I refused to go to Almack's. She did not like to take Stephanie when it was myself the vouchers were given to. I told her I have a cold.”

“I wish you had told the Patronesses the same thing. That would have saved all this bother of preparing for a party that ain’t going to take place.”

“It will take place, if you and I have to sing and dance with each other.”

“That is just what we will be doing, I have no doubt. I think St. Felix might come, if you would let me give him a card.”

“What, when he has never done a thing to entertain us but come here and complain? I should think not. You gave his sister one, and we shall see whether she makes any use of it. She turned her cheek on us, like all the others at the Deitweiller’s party.”

After a moment’s silence, Daphne reverted to her interest in taking some books with her despite the excellent library at Bath. Her real aim was to get on to Bond Street and gauge exactly how violent was the reaction against herself and Effie. Meeting people in singles or twosomes might be more friendly than confronting a whole roomful. If it seemed possible that some of their friends were still friends, she hoped to remind them of the party and try by degrees to reestablish herself and Effie. “I like to read in the carriage,” she said. “It will be a long trip, and reading helps to pass the time.”

“You’ll burn out your eyes trying to read in a jostling carriage with no light.”

“I always read in the carriage,” Daphne persisted untruthfully.

“You can read the memoirs then.”

“I was hoping to get Byron’s
Hebrew Melodies.”

“Oh, well, if you know exactly what you want, it’s no problem. I’ll send a boy down to Hookham’s Library for it.”

“No! No, I also want some fresh air. You have gone to the expense of hiring a team, and we may as well have some use from them. They have not been out of the stable these two days.”

Effie saw that her niece meant to show her face on Bond Street come hell or high water and finally gave in to the extent of accompanying her in the carriage, though she would not dismount. They passed more than one carriage whose occupants were known to them, but no friendly waves were exchanged.

“I told you how it would be,” Effie said glumly. When they reached Hookham’s, Effie remained in the carriage as she had said she would and Daphne was obliged to go alone into the library to procure her copy of the
Hebrew Melodies,
a duplicate of which sat at home on her dresser in Wiltshire.

As she started to enter the shop, she recognized Lady Pamela’s orange hair coming towards her. The lady turned abruptly and crossed the street, very nearly throwing herself under a passing carriage in her haste to get away from Miss Ingleside.

Daphne was angry when she entered the place. She looked around her briskly to see whether she recognized anyone. She did not, which was fortunate as her temper might well have induced her to some impertinence. She was in no hurry to make her selection but, in fact, was determined to dawdle till someone she knew came in.

For ten minutes she leafed through volumes in which she had not the least interest, after which she decided she was wasting her time and left without taking a single book. She was about to step into the waiting carriage when she noticed a small group collected on the street in front of a different shop.

“Hurry up!” Effie called out to her, and as she was on the point of entering, Effie explained the reason for haste. “There’s Lady Melbourne and the Beau looking into that window. We must get away before they spot us.”

“How uncivil you are become. I must say hello to Beau,” Daphne replied and walked to the window that had attracted the crowd, while Effie’s heart sank.

Cartoons and short verses were being put on display, and the mob was surging forward to see the latest lampoon of their Prince Regent. He was depicted by the satirical cartoonist Cruikshank as sitting on a fat cushion amidst the splendid chinoiserie of one of his many saloons, holding court while fawning courtiers, all in kimonos, bowed to him.

‘‘He hasn’t a chance of recovering from this," Lady Melbourne said.

“I think he has caught the essence of our Regent rather well,” Beau drawled, holding up his glass to take in all details and see what might make him think of a sharp comment.

“Good afternoon, Lady Melbourne, Mr. Brummell,” Daphne said, smiling at them boldly.

They both looked at her in amazement, and after exchanging a glance, they both nodded coolly and said not a word.

“Cat got your tongue, Mr. Brummell?” Daphne asked, her ire rising. “Lady Melbourne, have you stolen Mr. Brummell’s tongue?” Lady Melbourne's eyes bulged in shock, but Daphne had already turned back to Beau.

“I should have thought that with Mr. Cruikshank’s cartoon to inspire you, you might get off a witty word against the Prince. But I see I catch you unprepared. Those spontaneous epigrams of yours require some thinking about.”

Beau admired her style and brass in spite of himself. To call Lady Melbourne a cat was famous. “Actually it was the short verses, reputed to be by Lord Byron, that we were perusing,” he said. No brilliant words came to him regarding the cartoon. “I see he has honoured me with a quatrain.”

“And his dog with another,” Daphne commented, glancing at the squibs.

“We must be going,” Lady Melbourne said to her escort, but the Beau was not to let her slur go unchallenged.

“Are you unescorted, Miss Ingleside? It is not the custom for a young
lady
to walk the streets alone in London.”

“I have reason to know one is never safe in London. When her friends cut her, what is to be expected of strangers?”

“You must be careful whom you recognize here,” he returned with something close to a sneer.

“Yes, especially when your own social position is so tenuous,” she said sharply.

“We really must be off,” Lady Melbourne remarked, taking hold of Beau’s arm. “Nice chatting with you, Miss Ingleside.”