Falling in Love With English Boys (7 page)

“Oh, nonsense,” I managed to reply brightly. As if they were just words like any others. Yet I played them again and again in my head through supper, which I could scarcely eat for nerves.

He was true to his word. At the first strains of the quadrille, he was there to lead me onto the floor. He has a poet’s hands, narrow and elegant, and meant to clasp objects like a pen without so much as bending the feather.

For the first several turns we exchanged more of those elderly, expected words. How well the musicians played. How pleasant to be on the floor when it is not overly crowded. How unfortunate that the quadrille is not a longer dance. I liked that exchange very well. He asked how I was finding London, if town houses such as this one did not seem overly cramped when compared with the splendour he had heard was Percy’s Vale.

Then: “I have been looking forward to just such a moment in your company,” he announced. “I seek an angel of mercy, Miss Percival, and wonder if you might be she.”

“Mercy?” I answered. “Have you done me a disservice, sir? You have not yet trodden on my toes.” Oh, to be Elizabeth Bennet now. It is near impossible to be clever at the moments when it is most important!

He did smile. “Well, at this moment, I may say only that my disservice is to Beauty. My most recent attempts at verse have been pale, ill-nourished things. Give me sustenance, Miss Percival, and I shall compose.”

I must confess I am still not entirely certain of his meaning. Was he speaking of my beauty? Did he require words? Or perhaps a tea cake? How I wish I had a friend whose counsel I might ask! Even if Annabel and the Miss Goodwins were not so far away, they would have no answer for me. None of them have ever met the likes of Mr. Thomas Baker. There was something in his very, very blue eyes that teased, and I was terrified that no matter how I replied, it would be wrong.

“I am not an angel,” I squeaked, and promptly tripped over my own feet.

He steadied me. “Even better,” he replied, and the dance was over. He led me from the floor. “I believe we are not finished with each other yet, Miss Percival.”

I did not mind in the least when he led Miss Stuart into the next set. It was, after all, her house. And her brother—a nice enough fellow if one does not mind his being extremely short—was right there to request the dance.

I would have floated, had he not turned the wrong way twice and stepped on my toes once. Then I was paired with Charles for one turn (he pinched me, as he has done every time since we were made to practice our minuets in the nursery), and Nicholas for another (smug beast, all he said was “Solved the riddle yet?” before swanning off back to the overblown earl’s daughter with whom he was partnered). When I looked again, Mr. Baker was nowhere to be seen.

Yes, Nicholas, you arrogant toad, I have solved the riddle. And my Season shall
not
end in “Disappointment.” Not while I have the brains and breath and nicely pink cheeks to prevent it. I am going to be a smashing Success.

Mr. Stuart kindly offered to fetch me some rum punch. As I waited, I tried not to look as if I were looking for anyone. I certainly did not mean to eavesdrop, but could not help but hear the conversation of two gentlemen behind me. I expect half of Grosvenor Square heard them.

“Where has Fenwick gone?” the first demanded.

“Off to hunt at Almack’s,” came the reply. I became quite interested then. “His cupboards are bare and the doors close at eleven. Fellow’s got to feed himself somehow.”

“Good Lord, why there? The drink is miserable and the food worse!”

“Not that sort of food, you noddy, nor that sort of hunt.”

“Ah. Of course. Poor Fenwick.”

More food that . . . well, wasn’t. I could not make sense of their words, and certainly cannot see why anyone should pity a friend with an entrée into Almack’s. I envy them so.

I noticed then that a small group of gentlemen were leaving through the far door. My heart quite literally dropped when I spied a shock of bronze curls among them. They were truly leaving. In that moment, I realised that several familiar persons remained absent from the party: Miss Hartnell, the Miss Quinns, Mr. Troughton. Just the sort of well-heeled, impeccably connected sort one would expect at Almack’s. I had been too preoccupied to realise they had never arrived. No doubt they would soon be joined by the others, quitting a secondary entertainment for a better one. I should have recognised the Almack’s required dress on half the gentlemen: black coats and white breeches.

I watched them go, chattering happily all the while: Mr. McCoy, Mr. Tallisker. Mr. Baker. A flock of magpies, ending the party for me, flying where I could not.

I cannot decide whose company I find more
objectionable: Lord Chilham’s or Sir Nicholas Everard’s. They were both in attendance at the opera tonight, Chilham a guest in our box and Nicholas might as well have been, he spent so much of the performance there. I should have liked to have sat beside Papa, but he took the seat behind me, and when I looked back after the overture, it was empty. “Important matters,” he said vaguely when I quizzed him upon his return at the end of the opera. “Trust me, Katherine, I left you in the most worthy of hands.”

I would have been happy to send Nicholas off to be less than charming elsewhere. But that would have left me alone with the odious Chilham. He sat to one side of me, smelling of vinegar and looking like a frog with his tight green coat and bandy legs. He would not cease with his constant suggestions. I should accompany him to view the antiquities at the British Museum. The stone pots are most exquisite. I should raise my shawl and sit farther from the curtain lest there be a draft. I should no doubt prefer to be home with a nice book (to which I very nearly replied that I would no doubt prefer to be home with a nice cold if it meant being away from him). I should allow him the liberty of choosing those books most suited to a young lady of my stature.

Chilham: “May I suggest Crabbe?”

Nicholas, who thankfully has always smelled pleasantly of forest: “Katherine does not care for poetry unless it is composed to the perfection of her toes.” I resisted the urge to kick him in the ankle.

Chilham, trying to get a glimpse, I suppose, of my feet, nearly leaning into my lap: “Well, as long as it is not that romantical drivel every man and his valet seems to be spouting these days. Terrible for the female mind.” He leaned farther.

Nicholas: “I quite agree. Stop squirming, Katherine. You are not a child and you are spoiling the show.”

As if anyone actually pays attention to the opera. Who on earth would want to? People in the pit below jostle each other, sing along badly, and watch those of us sitting above. We watch each other. I was nearly certain I had spied Mr. Tallisker in a box to our right. And where he is to be found—

Chilham: “A lady’s mind is so much better turned to matters of deference and obedience.”

Nicholas: “Give me back my glasses, Katherine. I need them.”

He most certainly did not. He could at least have pretended that he wished to view the stage. Instead, I know perfectly well he was gazing at the ladies in the box opposite ours. One was the earl’s daughter from last night. She has spots. I could see them perfectly even without opera glasses. When I suggested he might have a much better view from his own seat next to his mama, he had the gall to laugh. Then he guided my chin until I could see his mother. The seat beside her was occupied by a woman of her own age, with a rather sweet face.

Nicholas: “Maria Sefton. Patroness of Almack’s, you know.”

Chilham: “Allow me to lend you my glass, Cousin Katherine.”

It was cold and slightly slippery. It gave me a very good view of the nicest of the patronesses, the one most likely to give a ticket to a desperate debutante. As I watched, she rose, kissed Lady Everard on the cheek, and wandered off. I tried to follow her progress. Without meaning to at all, I caught the eye of Miss Hartnell. She smiled very prettily at me. She insists on doing that. I still do not like her.

Mama did not wish for me to go to the Bellinghams’. She says they are a stupid couple, with stupider friends, and that their balls are overcrowded, uncontrolled, and attended by persons with whom an intelligent woman does not want to associate. She would not say more, but simply announced that we would not be attending.

I pestered Charles until he told me that the Bellinghams, while quite accepted among High Society, run with a “fast” crowd, including the Prince of Wales and his mistress. I have not yet seen the Prince, but two of his brothers were at the theatre last night. I was terribly disappointed. Both are fat with enormous whiskers. I know the Prince is fat as well, but he is, for all purposes, the King while his father descends deeper into his madness, and a king is a king.

Mama has met the Prince on several occasions. She says he put her in mind of an Arabian lamp: shiny, beautifully decorated, and not nearly bright enough for the job at hand. Papa and the Prince belonged to the same club for some years. Papa thinks him a splendid, fun fellow, and once lost his diamond cravat pin to him in a game of hazard. I do not know why Mama was so incensed; it was merely a piece of jewelry.

I, as Mama has frequently asserted, am more than bright enough when I decide to be. I wanted to attend the ball. Why should I not? Besides, I overheard part of yet one more row between Mama and Papa. She was obviously commenting on my immaturity and pale-lamp tendencies; he retorted that I am “eighteen, a woman, and more than ready for the responsibilities expected of a young lady in her place.” I would have rushed in and kissed him, but did not want to give away that I had been eavesdropping.

As he said, I am eighteen. I know, as Papa so clearly does, that I am more than mature enough to decide what I shall wear, which parties I shall attend, and with whom I will associate. So when I told Charles that he must accompany me to the Bellinghams’ tonight, as Mama had taken to her bed, I did so without the least guilt. After all, I was not lying. She was indisposed; I could not very well go alone.

Charles was rather cross with me, as I took a very long time to get ready. He’d intended to meet several of his fellow Hussars at some silly gentlemen’s entertainment. But he had promised me first that he would escort me to the ball, and he does not break a promise. His regiment will have all of him soon enough. Charles is rather splendid, and I would say the same even if he were not my brother.

The carriages were so tightly crowded in the Bellinghams’ street that it would have taken us less time to walk from our house. But I was wearing my new yellow silk dress and had spent an hour being certain my hair curled just so. I would not have either mussed, so Charles had no choice but to tolerate the hackney ride. Once there, I was nearly overwhelmed. Everything not moving in the house was draped with red fruits and gold chains and rather hungry-looking vines. Guests filled the halls and spilled from every doorway. I have never seen such bright colours and jewels on a gathering—ladies and gentlemen alike; with the many crystal chandeliers, it was nearly blinding.

“God help me,” Charles groaned, and flagged down a footman with a tray of champagne. He downed his in a swallow. I would not be so crass. Champagne is delicious and must be savoured,
“Well, come on, then,” he grumbled, and pulled me through the crowd. There were more footmen everywhere, and more champagne.

Charles pointed out people as we passed. Yet another of the King’s sons. A Russian duchess, an Italian prince. Beau Brummell, famous for being famous, and whose criticism of a lady’s appearance may consign her to the social netherworld. Lord Gratham, who had married a great heiress and was suspected of driving her to insanity with laudanum. His mistress, Charles whispered, was reputed to be slipping bits of arsenic into his whisky decanters. I do love my brother.

I confess I merely gawked for the longest time.Then I spied the Miss Quinns with Mr. Eccleston. They all appeared quite pleased to see me. Soon, we were quite a jolly group, joined by Mr. Tallisker and Mr. Davison, who were so gallant as to make certain I danced my fill and was not without champagne. How merry we all were! Charles went off to drink with his friends, leaving me delightfully un-spied-upon. And then, none too soon, Mr. Baker appeared.