The Golden Season (10 page)

“Not so surprising, surely?” Ned replied. “As a naval captain, one might expect me to make use of the weapon most likely to hit true.”

“Weapon? I didn’t realize we were engaged in combat,” Smyth drawled, looking amused. “I thought we were conversing.”

Ned smiled. “But I have been made to understand that in Society all conversations are skirmishes.”

Smyth laughed. “Very true, Captain. But tell me, just what weapon are you most likely to employ in a verbal skirmish?”

“The one least familiar to my adversary,” Ned replied.

“As you have done?”

Ned inclined his head while around him the men fell into confused silence and Smyth lifted one sculpted eyebrow. Borton suddenly grinned.

“
Tact
,” Borton burst out like a schoolboy who suddenly thinks of the answer to his tutor’s question. “Why, Ned’s referring to tact, Smyth! You said it yourself.”

Snickers and laughter rippled through the group as they realized Borton was right.

Smyth’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tensed before relaxing. “I concede the hit, sir. Well done.” The admission was gracious, but no accompanying geniality reached his eyes. “Kind of you to handle this affair with young Harry for your brother,” he continued.

Ned let his assumption stand. It served his current purpose to let this dandy think Josten’s fortune was intact. No one need know that he was paying Harry’s debt out of his captain’s share of the prize money from a ship he’d captured in the waning days of the war.

When Ned did not reply, Smyth shrugged, the amusement he’d expected to have at Ned’s expense not materializing. “At your convenience, then.”

“The funds are available to you now, sir,” Ned said.

“Really?” Smyth asked. “Well, this is an unexpected boon. Indeed, this may just be my lucky day. Perhaps you are a talisman, Captain.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. My luck has been vile of late, but you’ve changed that with a few words. Why, I’ve half a mind to tow you around as me good luck charm.” The words were ludicrous, amusing, and subtly offensive.

Borton flushed.

Ned did not bother replying. Once he left Boodle’s, he was unlikely to ever exchange words with Smyth again.

“’Pon my rep,” Smyth said when the silence had gone on too long, “I
will
take you with me and you’ll want to go, too. For I intend to do you a good turn for the good turn you’ve done me.”

“And what would that be?” Ned asked, growing bored with the fop’s affectations.

“I heard you inquire after Lady Lydia Eastlake.” The muscles in Ned’s back tensed, as did his biceps. He would take it much amiss if this popinjay said something untoward about the lady. Lydia Eastlake would doubtless laugh at such misplaced chivalry. And that was all it was: the reflexive impulse to protect, engendered in boyhood by a family who always needed protecting from themselves and then further honed during his years as a captain in His Majesty’s navy. It wasn’t anything more personal. How could it be? He’d not even properly met the lady. He smiled.

Smyth misread his smile. “Ah, as I suspected. Most natural thing in the world,” he said with heavy patronization. “She
is
Lady Lydia Eastlake after all. Admired, emulated, and unattainable.” He smiled himself. “No. I’m not surprised you are interested in her based on the images you’ve seen. But I warn you, an image is not always a proper representative of a person.”

“What do you mean?” Borton asked, frowning.

“She’s a bit unconventional, something of a scapegrace, truth be told. Oh, not so anyone protests. She is Lady Lydia, after all.” He paused, his brows climbing inquiringly. “I am sure you’ve heard . . . you
do
know about her companion, don’t you?”

“Pardon me?”

“Her companion. Mrs. Cod. No one would tolerate her except that Lady Lydia treats her like a pet, so we all do. Seeing how Lady Lydia not only sets fashion but
is
fashion, it’s surprising we don’t all trail mad thieves in our wake. Personally, I’d prefer a dog. Might pee on the rugs but at least it wouldn’t steal the china off one’s hostess’s table, eh?”

His remark did not invoke the sniggers he clearly anticipated and Smyth’s eyes studied the group of men with subtle contempt. Ned barely noted it; he was busy considering on Smyth’s words.

Lydia Eastlake had a thief for a companion? Ned did not give Smyth’s words much credence, but whatever truth there was in the claim suggested an unexpected dimension to Lady Lydia’s character. Smyth was gazing at him expectantly, clearly waiting for Ned to thank him for his favor. “I see, Mr. Smyth. Thank you for being so . . . illuminating.”

Smyth looked taken aback. “Oh. Oh, no.
That
ain’t the favor I was going to do you. Consider that bit gratis. No. I have something much better in mind.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Smyth ignored him. “I know for a fact Lady Eastlake will be dining al fresco next Saturday at Lady Pickler’s house. The Pickler is preparing to set her daughter on Society and if the daughter is anything like the mother, Society had best beware.

“It will be a dead bore, of course,” he drawled. “Lady Pickler is the worst sort of stiff-rumped bully, but she and the Almack harpies are thick as thieves and should you offend by refusing, you might as well sip arsenic because from then on you will be dead to the highest Society.

“Only the cream of the
ton
is tolerated,” Smyth went on, and the languid dismissal of his gaze made it clear he doubted any of those standing nearby would be on the guest list. “But say the word and I will secure an invitation
and
the opportunity to meet our legendary Lady Lydia. Why, I’ll introduce you myself. We are friendly.” He pursed his mouth together in a mocking moue. “Oh, please allow me to do this thing?”

Smyth was welcome to whatever pettiness he plotted, for Ned would not refuse the chance to see Lady Lydia again. He meant to discover if her eyes were really the color of a martin’s wing, if she would feel as light on the dance floor as she had in his arms when he’d caught her from tumbling off the ladder, and if her smile was as quick and breathtaking and inviting when she was not posing as someone she wasn’t.

“Captain?”

“Yes,” Ned said. “Thank you.”

“Oh, no, my dear Captain, ’tis I who thank you. You shall have the invitation, I promise.” He motioned toward the betting book still lying open on the seat of Borton’s vacant chair. “May I take it back to the library? I’d like to enter a wager.”

“Of course,” Borton said, leaning down and closing the book. He handed it to Smyth, who received it with an enigmatic smile and sauntered off.

“He didn’t used to be like that,” Borton said, watching him go. “There was a time I rather liked him. But his grandfather’s been squeezing him between his thumb and forefinger for years. He feels fiercely his lack of antecedents. Society is growing much more select these days. I believe he took up with the dandies to increase his consequence and now he seeks to impress them.”

Borton shook his head worriedly. “You shouldn’t have accepted his invitation. He only means to make sport of you to his friends.”

“Oh, I know,” Ned said.

“Then why ever did you agree?”

Ned smiled. “Why, to meet Lady Eastlake. What else?”

 

Back in the library, Smyth bent over the betting book. Beside him stood Prince Carvelli. Smyth finished writing and signed his name with a flourish and turned the book for the prince’s signature. It read:

“
La Belle Assemblee
has named the newest shade of the Season ‘Eastlake
beaux yeux
,’ ” Eleanor informed Lydia on their ride over to Lady Pickler’s in her ducal carriage. She eyed Lydia’s newest gown—as it would happen, a purple one—sardonically. Lydia chuckled.

“Come now, Eleanor. I am not so enamored of my own reflection as that. I simply asked for a heliotrope-colored gown.”

“Well, you are in marvelous looks,” Eleanor declared. “I hope you realize your gown is responsible for adding to my sins.”

“How so?”

“Envy. I am loathsomely envious.”

“I am certain you will overcome such unworthy sentiments as soon as you remember that circumstance makes it imperative that I show to advantage whilst you show to advantage simply out of habit.”

“Blatant flattery,” Eleanor declared. “Nonetheless I will accept it as my due.”

“Eleanor is right,” Emily roused herself from her corner of the carriage to say. “You look most dashing, Lydia.”

There were shadows under the older woman’s eyes. Lydia suspected Emily was not sleeping well. Not that she ever did, but Lydia’s decision to seek a spouse had clearly awoken troublesome memories for Emily. Lydia had reassured the older woman that she would not share in Emily’s fate, but though Emily understood this objectively, she explained that what one knows and what one feels are not always the same things.

“Thank you, dear,” Lydia said.

“You are certain to attract much admiration,” Emily said. “You will have an offer by nightfall, I am convinced.”

Emily’s determined effort toward optimism made Lydia smile, but it soon faded. If she could just convince herself this husband hunt was a kind of sport, like fox-hunting or searching for June strawberries. But every time she sat down to consider possible candidates, she ended up wondering about the unknown gentleman from Roubalais’s.

Over a week had passed since her impromptu masquerade at the pawnbroker’s shop. She’d spent them expecting to hear rumors that she had a sister born on the wrong side of the blanket to a French émigré, one currently working at a jeweler’s in Cheapside. When this didn’t occur, rather than relegating the incident to the past, she found her thoughts returning again and again to the tall, handsome stranger whose solemn mien was belied by the unexpected humor in his blue-gray eyes.

Not that she seriously considered him a potential suitor. That would be absurd on the basis of one brief meeting and under such bizarre circumstances. She wasn’t so green. She was a practical, sophisticated woman.

But . . .
had
he wondered about the shopgirl he’d saved from falling? She only had to close her eyes to feel his strong arms and broad chest. Did he feel her imprint against him? No. Of course not. But if he did, did it keep him awake some nights—

“—be careful, Lydia.”

Eleanor’s voice broke through her reverie like an internal warden. She came out of her musings with a snap. Emily was nestled in the corner of the carriage, her eyes closed fast and Eleanor was regarding her curiously.

“Excuse me?” Lydia managed.

“I commented that the fabric looks delicate, so if you venture into the rose garden, you’d best be careful.”

“I will.”

Though the dress had cost a small fortune (something a month ago Lydia wouldn’t have even known, much less cared about) she was glad she’d ordered it made. Lady Pickler’s was the first proper fete of the Season and she needed to be conspicuous and conspicuously attractive. This gown made easy work of that.

Beneath the overskirt of deep rose jaconet flowed a filmy petticoat of the finest shell-pink muslin ending in four rows of pale green embroidery with a lace-edged flounce. The gown’s long sleeves were banded with darker green satin à la Duchesse de Berri. A wide sash of the same material nestled just below her bosom, accenting the empire waist, while a diaphanous gauze fichu filling in the low-cut bodice gave a cursory nod to modesty. Perched atop her head she wore a green lacquered bonnet decorated with blackberries and fuchsias.

“You’d best hope it doesn’t rain, Lydia,” Eleanor continued. “Lady Pickler will still insist on parading us all down to her bottom garden, by which time you shall be shivering so violently, reports next morning will claim you have ague.

“Take my shawl with you.” Eleanor held out the Kashmir wrap folded on her lap.

“What? And obscure this dress? I should think not. One must make sacrifices,” Lydia replied in an amused voice. Still, she accepted the shawl.

It was unseasonably chill and had been all spring and Emily was sensitive to drafts. Lydia reached across the carriage and gently spread the fine wool over her slumbering companion, then settled back.

“Is she asleep?” Eleanor asked.

“Oh, yes,” Lydia answered softly. “Thankfully. She hasn’t been sleeping well of late.”

Eleanor’s gaze stayed for a long while on the sleeping, motherly looking Emily. “I must admit, Lydia, your decision to engage Emily as your companion was a good one.”

“Thank you.” Lydia appreciated the duchess’s admission. She had not initially approved of Lydia’s new companion. But Lydia had been unable to deny Emily’s polite, hopeless request to remove her from Brislington Asylum. Her appeal had startled Lydia.

In truth, it had frightened her, too. For the first time in her adult life it was borne in on Lydia how much influence she owned and that she could affect things, things both frivolous and important, and that this was not a privilege to be taken lightly. Emily had awoken in Lydia a desire to act.

Yet this sounded nobler than Lydia knew herself to be. It was only part of the answer. Her house was too empty and she needed someone to share it with. Both women saw in each other the family they’d lost.

“I wonder who will be at the Picklers’ this year,” Eleanor eventually mused as they continued at a leisurely pace.

Lydia glanced out the carriage window. They were approaching the outskirts of St. James, where the Pickler family had years ago decided to straddle rustication and urbanization.

The city was slowly encroaching upon them, however, and what with taxes and debt and offers to purchase portions of their property simply too good to refuse, what had once been a fairly large estate had been whittled down to a fraction of its former size. Not to be gainsaid, Lady Pickler had long ago enclosed the remaining lawns with a high stone wall and proceeded to landscape it as though it were still a hundred acres and not ten. Every year brought a new surprise or horror in the little plot of land—depending on one’s sensibilities.