Almost a Gentleman (17 page)

"It sounds dangerous," Kate said.

"He seems quite fearless." Phoebe glanced carelessly at some shrubbery in the corner of the garden, as though the gentleman's bravery were a matter of no consequence to her.

She shrugged and turned to face Kate again.

"Well, it's all rather a bother, really. And what's particularly vexing is that he's taken all the planning upon himself. He's set a silly bodyguard on me—there, you can see him through the gate, the huge fellow lurking about in the slouch hat. And I, it seems, must simply wait like a helpless…
woman
to see Lord Linseley again—to… to learn what progress he's made, I mean."

"
Of course
that's what you mean."

Lady Kate Beverredge crooked her arm into Mr. Marston's and led the young gentleman a brisk, silent turn around the garden.

"You're laughing at me, Kate," Phoebe whispered.

"I haven't made a sound."

"You haven't needed to. Well anyway, you'll soon be able to pass judgment upon him yourself, for he'll be asking you to waltz at the Almack's New Year's Ball. At your debut into London Society."

"Ah yes, just two weeks from now. Just thinking of it makes me as nervous and flustered as you are."

"
I'm
not at all nervous or flustered. And I won't have
you
going all fluttery on me either. The Ball's not really even part of the Season, after all; it's just a small, well-bred overture for spring. So if my lady chooses to grace it with her presence,
she
will be bringing distinction to
it
. And she will be a paradigm of aristocratic serenity: calm, collected, and a great success."

"Quite right, dear. Now come inside and see my new ball gown. The modiste says it wants another flounce at the hem, but I told her that Mr. Marston must assess my costume before I agree to any changes."

Kate carried off the gown with understated elegance, standing upright and serene under the Almack chandeliers a fortnight later. Mr. Marston had vetoed any possibility of an additional flounce at the hem: the modiste's creation of deep green velvet was perfect as it was, trimmed with looped ropes of woven gold and edged with tapering points of creamy Venetian lace.

The rich silk velvet draped fluidly past her back and torso, and the raised waist lent a hint of lushness to her bosom, gently rising and falling beneath a heavy gold and emerald necklace. The candlelight sought out matching emerald undertones in the gown's fabric, and Kate's green eyes sparkled as brilliantly as the gold combs in her dark hair, crowned with glossy holly leaves and one splendid ivory camellia at the peak of its bloom.

One could, of course, still discern the marks that smallpox had left on her face. But tonight it was Lady Kate's graceful bearing and not her imperfect complexion that denned her presence. She looked the very ideal of serene, aristocratic complaisance, as though attending this holiday celebration among the
Beau Monde
were but a modest family pleasure—and not, as only Phoebe knew, a wrenching challenge to her will and equanimity.

But
this
time
, Phoebe resolved,
Kate will not lack for partners. Even if its only Mr. Marston who twirls her about the room. Well, Mr. Marston

and Lord Linseley
, she reminded herself, feeling her cheeks grow warm as she allowed herself to think of him for the first time that evening. For Kate had agreed to the plan: Lord Linseley would relay any messages he had for Phoebe while he danced with Lady Kate.

Phoebe had been grateful, during the first hours of the festivities, to be able to concern herself so exclusively with Kate's fortunes. Arriving twenty minutes before Lady Kate, Mr. Marston had promptly disappeared into the crowd to survey the proceedings, to wait for Kate's arrival on the arm of a distinguished, white-haired kinsman, and to watch her offer cordial, respectful greetings to the ball's patroness and the other committee women.

The exchange of compliments hadn't been audible from Marston's corner of the room, but the words didn't matter: it had been abundantly clear from the smiles, the subtle nods and glances, that Kate had found favor with the powerful women who ruled England's premier marriage mart. Even mulish Lady Claringworth had managed to bend her palsied features into the simulacrum of a smile. Marston indulged himself in a barely perceptible shrug: Phoebe hadn't received even that much warmth from her mother-in-law during all her years of marriage to Henry.

She's got them
. Phizz Marston breathed a long, satisfied, and only slightly wistful sigh, much to the bewilderment of the cluster of youths who'd been studying the cut of his new jacket. He grinned at his admirers—"Andrewes, don't you know, Regent Street, devilish expensive and worth every penny,"—and drifted away into the holiday throng.

But the cocky grin faded as Marston strolled out of the youths' line of vision. Tracing a path through the crowd of high-spirited, well-dressed revelers, he seemed alternately to scan the faces about him and to withdraw into himself, as though afraid to encounter the object of his search. If any of his young imitators had seen him, they would have felt a measure of disappointment in their idol's ambiguous behavior; they might even have become troubled or confused by the occasional expression of yearning that flitted across his face. Because this evening—and for no discernable reason—this evening the normally unflappable Phizz appeared—well, there was really no other word for it—quite uncharacteristically
ftuttery
.

He shook off the flutters, of course, as soon as the orchestra began to tune their instruments. Regaining his composure, he seemed to grow in poise and stature—to spread his shoulders and arch his back as though buoyed up by the waltz's soaring opening chords. Leading Lady Kate to the floor, setting his hand lightly at the small of her back, he swept her into the heart of the dance like a dolphin diving into the crest of a wave shimmering beneath a tropical sun. His rivals and admirers alike could only marvel at the alchemy he'd wrought: of skill and nerve, of muscle and control, and—they felt rather than thought this—of tenderness.

Even Lady Claringworth seemed moved by the spectacle—though it was impossible to tell from her palsied features exactly what she might be feeling. She gestured impatiently to her footman—
here, Trimble, I need a heavier cane to lean upon
. The tall man in livery handed it over while he frowned at the dancers. Absentmindedly, the dowager Lady Claringworth pounded the heavy stick in time to the music.

But if Marston's flamboyance had captured the room's attention, it was Lady Kate's comportment that kept all eyes riveted to the waltzing couple. The lady in green and gold leaned confidently into her partner's embrace and matched his steps with offhand exactitude, her evident delight in movement and music sending arcs of happiness rippling in its wake.

Of course, she's not a pretty woman
, some of the gentlemen thought. But nonetheless, they observed, she definitely has something—a generosity of presence, a perfection of breeding, a finely wrought
joie de vivre
that might be appealing at breakfast or on a country drive in the early springtime. I should like to dance with her, some of the more discerning of these gentlemen thought, or perhaps simply to exchange a few compliments over a lemonade. And after all, some of the more hardheaded of them added, there's that fortune of hers to consider.

Mr. Marston steered his partner toward a sedate corner of the room. Far from the orchestra, an alcove stood like a sheltered tide pool at the edge of the sea of dancers, with only a few older couples twirling about in quiet, decorous eddies.

"You look every bit as perfect as I knew you would. Are you happy, Kate?"

"I believe I am, dear. The ladies have been extremely kind. Perhaps the Polite World is not so fearsome as I thought. And you're most… dashing tonight as well. Is the gentleman we were discussing in attendance yet?"

"I haven't seen him. But as we danced I thought I felt his eyes upon us."

Mr. Marston made a tiny grimace, as though embarrassed by having made such a fanciful remark. Lady Kate's green eyes shone, but her face remained discreet, noncommittal.

"Do you suppose it's possible to feel someone's eyes across a crowded ballroom, Kate?" Phoebe's anxious whisper sounded a bit hoarse.

Lady Kate Beverredge could only catch her breath and nod, having quite suddenly caught sight of two gentlemen some dozen yards away. The darker, handsomer one, whose every glance seemed to burn into Phoebe's arched back—well, there was no question who
that was
. But the gray-haired one, with the medals and the distinctly military bearing—most attractive, she found herself thinking, as she and the military man exchanged a polite nod and a tiny, private smile. But just then the music ceased and it was time to thank Mr. Marston for a most delightful turn on this most festive of occasions.

It wouldn't do, of course, for Lord Linseley to dance with Lady Kate directly after his enemy had done so. But there was no chance of that in any case, for the lady had enough partners to occupy her for the next hour.

Meanwhile, Marston, as was his custom, joked with his cronies and danced with those ladies who might otherwise have been in danger of neglect. He liked to single out a young woman possessing more wit and spirit than the more saleable endowments: money, pedigree, or unusually fine looks. And after a turn around the floor with Marston, many a young lady might find herself in surprising demand for the remainder of the evening. Gentlemen would begin to take notice of her, as though Marston's attention had shone a light on her particular charms.

"And how strange it was," the young lady might muse afterwards. "Because for all his snobbish, critical reputation, I found him quite extraordinarily sympathetic. Almost as though he understood what it's like to be a shabby bluestocking just up from the country, with the family expecting so much of me and Mamma shoving me into this horrid, uncongenial crowd."

They all appreciated his attention, and some—the more astute of them—even heeded his final, whispered words.
You're all right now, Miss So-and-so: quite ready, I think, to swim in these dangerous waters
.

But you must value yourself, my dear. I entreat you, above all things, to remember that.

"May I, Lady Kate?"

"With pleasure, Lord Linseley."

Her voice was noncommittal, her smile bland.
She doesn't trust me
, David thought, taking her hand,
and she won't until I can convince her that I care as deeply for her friend as she does
.