Emily Hendrickson (12 page)

“One of the footmen has been bothering her.”

“How dreadful! But…she is merely a child,” Chloe cried in horror, understanding the implications even if she was a supposed innocent. Country girls heard and saw things if their eyes and ears were not closed.

“She is twelve, milady. Old enough in spite of her size.”

“I must do something. Why, it could kill her to become in the family way. Grandmama would surely put her out on the streets. What would become of her then?” Chloe looked at Ellen with concern for another girl, not so terribly much younger than herself.

“Precisely, milady,” Ellen said, returning to her reticent manner.

“Oh, mercy. What could I do with her? I need help, but who?”

And then Chloe thought of Mr. St. Aubyn. Since they were helping each other to escape unwanted marriages—for Chloe knew her aunt well enough to guess what it was that she desired—perhaps he might assist here as well?

If she chanced to see him at the Kitteridge affair she would seek his counsel. He might be termed a scoundrel, but she just knew that buried beneath that fashionable facade was a heart of sorts. All she had to do was to find a way to reach it.

Surely she might manage that?

Chapter 7

The Kitteridge affair would be pronounced a glittering event of the first water. Not only did Brummell stop in to view the assembled merrymakers, but the intriguing Lady Chloe Maitland attended. By the evening of the party word of her positively wicked little sketches had filtered through the ton, the news spreading like a grass fire.

When Chloe entered the vast ballroom, she immediately became aware of heads turning in her direction, ladies’ faces half-disappearing behind suddenly raised fans, and the elevated quizzing glasses of nearby gentlemen.

“Pay them no heed, my dear Lady Chloe,” Mr. Brummell said close to her ear with his usual attitude of ennui. “Any new thing excites their curiosity. No doubt you will be besieged by ugly matrons and fat, pompous men to have their sketches done. Shall I show you how to depress their encroaching ways? I fancy you need a lesson or two, not accustomed to being a Lion of Society.”

She turned to meet his amused gaze with a look that was quite dubious. “Lion? Scarcely that, sir. I suspect curiosity is closer to the truth. Perhaps novelty or oddity might express their impression as well. However, since I do not own one of those odious quizzing glasses, I shan’t be able to mimic you.”

“God forbid! Never ape another’s clever little tricks. Invent one of your own.” He tucked his glass away in a pocket, the dull gold chain looped down as a soft accent to his austere attire of dark blue coat, black pantaloons, and white waistcoat topped by a restrained cravat.

“My own! Well, and I should like to know what there is left?” she said in an amused undertone, for the Marquis of Hammersleigh approached. He was disgustingly obese, as pompous as could stare, and dangled his ornate gold quizzing glass from the pudgy fingers of his badly gloved right hand. His beak of a nose protruded over a petulant mouth, and beady eyes stared avidly at Chloe as though she were a tender morsel to consume.

“He reminds me of a Christmas goose,” she confided to Brummell before remembering she ought not say such outrageous things.

“Ah, Hammersleigh,” Brummell said with unctuous smoothness. “Lady Chloe was just telling me she intends to do you as a Christmas goose.”

“By Jove, that is a clever snippet to relate.” His corset creaked violently as he bowed over her hand and he actually beamed a smile at her. “Purbrook insisted that you would snub me. Wait until I tell him. Do you require your victim to sit for you. Lady Chloe?” he inquired in seeming seriousness.

Chloe found her voice and said in an indignant huff, “I had not planned…” She halted in mid-spate when nudged by Brummell. Darting a glance at him, she caught the faintest shake of his head. “But then, you so marvelously fit the image.” Where had those shocking words come from? Oh, she was turning into the veriest wretch.

“Oh, by Jove, how delicious. I see you possess great wit as well as beauty, Lady Chloe.” In an aside to Brummell, with a voice that may have been intended to be confidential but reached Chloe’s ears quite clearly, he added, “Shame to let all that talent be sent into rustication by Twisdale. Her fortune, you know,” he concluded with a solemn nod.

Chloe listened in furious silence until the obnoxious man left, whereupon she glared up at the premier gentleman of London. “I was under the impression you were about to teach me how to get rid of that sort. I do not consider that a lesson!”

“A thousand pardons, my lady. It was just too delicious to let pass by. I promise I will do better. On the other hand, you may have to either continue your wicked little drawings or go into seclusion. I trust you overheard our pompous friend’s remark?”

“I do not intend to marry Lord Twisdale.”

“Good. I liked your firmness of manner when you said that. I suggest you continue with the drawings, in that event. Twisdale has absolutely no sense of humor.” He looked beyond Chloe as another man approached.

“Are you corrupting the ears of a delicate female, Brummell?” Mr. St. Aubyn said when he confronted the pair, leaning slightly on his ebony cane with the clouded amber handle that was all the rage these days.

“Not in the least. I
was
going to give her lessons in how to depress an encroaching mushroom.”

“Instead he trapped me into doing a sketch of Lord Hammersleigh as a Christmas goose.” She gave St. Aubyn a repressive look, trying not to smile at him. Could a man possibly appear more appealing than Mr. St. Aubyn, with his charming manner and the devilish gleam in his eyes?

St. Aubyn looked after the man and struggled not to laugh. “He does fit the image, I must say.”

“Oh, you are as wicked as I am,” she fumed in soft accents, for another star of Society approached where Chloe appeared to be holding court—Brummell to one side and St. Aubyn on the other. No girl could have been in more stellar company.

“Lady Cowper,” Chloe said, suddenly subdued. She liked this lady and felt a trifle sorry for her, for she had overheard tales regarding that dear woman’s life.

“So you see me as a meek little lamb, do you? Well, perhaps I am,” Lady Cowper said with a smile. “Are not a great number of women? For after all, what else can we be?” She gave Chloe a searching look.

There was not a single thing Chloe could think of to say in reply. She had based the drawing mostly on the name connection—Emily having been a Lamb prior to marrying the fifth Lord Cowper. But there was also the thought that she meekly tended her much older husband. A friend had revealed that Lady Cowper rejoiced when the earl came home drunk, as he talked more to her then than at any other time.

They chatted briefly before Lord Palmerston claimed the lovely Emily for a Scotch reel.

“And now for that much-needed lesson,” St. Aubyn declared.

“Actually, I suggested that Lady Chloe continue her drawing,” Mr. Brummell said with a perceptive look at his friend St. Aubyn.

Chloe could feel Mr. St. Aubyn tense at these words and she wondered why it mattered to him what she did.

“And why should she?”

“Twisdale has not the slightest sense of humor, you know,” Mr. Brummell said blandly as he raised his quizzing glass when a matron went by wearing the silliest evening cap Chloe had ever viewed.

“Oh my,” Chloe whispered behind her fan.

“Spangles, gauze, feathers, and satin all in one creation?” cried Brummell softly. “By Jove, I think I need a restorative. How would you depict her? A peacock?” He dangled his quizzing glass from his sublimely gloved hands while watching Chloe.

“No, I fear I have assigned that bird to Sir Augustus Dabney,” Chloe said, following her confession with an engaging little giggle.

“Yes, he is, I agree,” St. Aubyn chimed in as though wishing to supplant Brummell in the conversation.

“I am off to sample the delights of the buffet,” the Beau declared. “Then it is White’s for me. Shall I see you there later, St. Aubyn?” Brummell paused before his departure.

“Perhaps. I have a bit of business to take care of first.” St. Aubyn stood, feet planted firmly at Lady Chloe’s side and looked to take root there. He handled that cane with the air of one who would not hesitate to beat off an approaching intruder with it. There was something most assuredly protective in his attitude.

“Indeed.” Brummell bowed slightly to Chloe with a sagacious look on his face, then wandered off toward the dining room.

“I need to discuss something with you,” Chloe said, recalling the problem of her grandmother’s scullery maid. Tender-hearted Chloe could not bear to think of that poor little scrap of a girl being hunted by an upper-servant. It would be difficult for the girl to refuse a superior. He could easily report her for some infraction of the house rules and Rose would be fired. But there was a limit to what Chloe might attempt, and that was why she needed Mr. St. Aubyn’s help.

“I am at your service. Twisdale giving you trouble?”

“Not at the moment. No, our scullery maid needs a refuge for the nonce. Do you know how I could spirit her away from the house into a safe place where she will not be troubled by an importuning footman?” Chloe dared to touch St. Aubyn’s arm with a gentle hand, her eyes pleading with him to understand.

“Your scullery maid?” Julian said in amazement. Most women he knew did not know the existence of such a creature in their home much less their difficulties.

“I would hide her upstairs but the footman would tell tales, I feel sure—if he did not trap her there to have his way with her. There is nothing like a thwarted male for vengeance, so I have observed,” she concluded with a glance in the direction of Lord Twisdale, who had entered the room a short time before.

“I heard—not to change the subject from your worthy scullery maid—that Lady Twisdale attempted to run away from their country home not long before she died. The man I talked with said the girl seemed dreadfully unhappy.” St. Aubyn absently caressed the handle of his cane while studying the ominous gentleman across the room.

“But no one did a thing about her?”

“She was married to Twisdale. It is not proper nor legal to interfere in a marriage,” St. Aubyn reminded Chloe.

“Married for life,” she said sadly, “which was not long in her case. I should not wish to follow in her steps.”

“God forbid,” Julian said, echoing her sentiment. “Although there are cases when a marriage may be dissolved for one reason or another.”

“I remember reading about the Pouget case some time ago,” Chloe said thoughtfully, referring to the marriage dissolved by the father of the groom because he claimed there was false and imperfect publication of the banns.

“I recall that one. The female involved was older and had most likely tricked the lad into marriage to place her hands on his money.”

“A good many marriages take place so one of the parties may have access to the money of the other,” Chloe said with a glance at her grandmother. The old dragon was making her way around the ballroom with an intent expression on her face. Chloe suspected that she was about to bestow a scold on her granddaughter for spending time with Brummell and St. Aubyn. “I do not give a fig what she says,” Chloe murmured in anticipation of her defense. “I have had the best of company in the entire room.”

Julian smiled, delighted that she viewed him in such a charitable light—even if he was lumped with Brummell. All the women adored that fellow, who seemed pleased to flirt with them yet never offer anything beyond that.

“Your maid. You said you wished help? I shall consider the matter and contact you tomorrow. A drive in the park?” Julian spoke in a rush, for the dowager neared them at a goodly pace.

“Are you trying to bring me into fashion, sir?” Chloe said, fluttering her dark lashes while lightly touching the handle of her fan to her lips, then suddenly dropping it in a rush of confusion.

“And are you sending me messages, you silly girl? Never mind, one day I shall collect all that is due me.”

“Are you to stand there nattering all evening, St. Aubyn, or do you take my granddaughter for a whirl on the floor?” the dowager demanded of him when she reached their sides.

Chloe felt her cheeks flame, for she had believed that it would be difficult for Mr. St. Aubyn to dance, given his continual use of a cane. He surprised her.

“I would like nothing better, Ma’am.” Propping his cane against the wall, he escorted Chloe to the center of the dance floor, whereupon he demonstrated his skill in the quadrille.

It was a new dance Chloe had studied with intensity before trying it. With a partner like Mr. St. Aubyn it proved to be a delight. Small wonder that Lady Jersey had brought this variation from France. Chloe leaped and pirouetted with what she hoped was grace. She observed that St. Aubyn acquitted himself well, even if he did not do the entrechats as perhaps they should be performed. He rose lightly on his toes and looked quite superb to her eyes.

When they returned to the dowager, she sniffed with what seemed to be approval. “Well done.”

“I suspect that Lady Chloe is thirsty, as I am. Might I escort her to the refreshment table, ma’am?” St. Aubyn asked with utmost respect after reclaiming his cane.

“Indeed,” the dowager said, looking bored with the entire matter. She turned away to greet a friend and Julian guided Lady Chloe in the same direction that Brummell had gone earlier.

“I trust you survived all that in good state,” she said with a look of concern.

“My disability is but slight and I only resort to the dependence on a cane when I must.” Julian did not volunteer the source of his affliction. Childhood accidents were of little interest, or so he had discovered over time.

“Lady Chloe,” Sir Augustus demanded, stepping between them and their objective, his quizzing glass in hand, “I am most devastated that you portrayed me as a peacock. A more aggravating, detestable bird I cannot imagine.”

“None of us see ourselves as others do, Dabney,” Julian said blandly, annoyed that the peacock had intruded on what he had hoped would be a few quiet words with Lady Chloe.