Her Ladyship's Man (7 page)

"We'll go to Bond Street," Lady Charlotte decided, ignoring her granddaughter's flashing eyes. "With the season not three weeks away, we've not a moment to lose! Order our carriage, and we shall leave at once!"

Watching her grandmother shop put Melanie in mind of a conquering army on the march; she swept all before her. Having wormed the name of the most sought-after modiste in London from the daughter of an old friend, Lady Charlotte swept into the salon demanding the attention she felt befitted a lady of her rank and advanced years.

"But of course the young lady must have a new wardrobe," the seamstress, a Madame Philippe, gushed, her almost black eyes moving over Melanie with patent eagerness. "And I quite agree with my lady that the insipid fashions of the young girls will not do. We shall design a whole new look for her,
quois?
I shall give the matter my personal attention."

"Of course you shall," Lady Charlotte said, clearly expecting no other answer. "We shall start first with the dress she will wear for her presentation at Court. It must be white, of course, but I want it to look like something a grown woman would wear." She settled back in her chair while Madame and her assistants rushed about to do her bidding.

Melanie spent the next several hours standing in sullen silence while various swatches of fabrics in
a rainbow of colors were held against her for her grandmother's approval. Despite the excesses in her own dress, Lady Charlotte possessed a fine clothing sense, and Melanie had to concede that many of the fabrics and patterns she picked out were the same she would have chosen had she any say in the matter.

"I still don't see why I must be presented," she muttered as she was jabbed with yet another pin. "With the king so ill, it hardly seems the proper thing to do."

"Goose." Lady Charlotte gave a derisive snort. "If the
ton
won't let that tiresome little Corsican interfere with the season, whyever should they let a trifle like a mad king stop them? Besides, it is to Queen Charlotte and Prinny you will be making your bows. Actually, I think we ought to be grateful it is poor King George who has lost his reason. Only think of the difficulties if it had been the queen? You would be forced to be presented to that loose-living Caroline, and a fine farce that would have been!" She gave a delicate shudder. "We might as lief introduce you to a Covent Garden abbess!"

After hearing that treasonous bit of speech, Melanie kept her lips firmly sealed, not even objecting when her grandmother ordered up a dozen new silk gowns in the most stunning shades. Finally Lady Charlotte had had enough, and ordered Madame to have the gowns delivered by the end of the month.

Once their business with Madame Philippe was complete, the marchioness ordered the coachman to drive them to Ackerman's Repository on Oxford Street. The large emporium, which occupied several buildings, had opened a few years earlier, and Lady Charlotte was eager to explore its many delights. Even Miss Evingale, who usually detested
shopping, expressed a desire to visit the famous arcade, an interest which was easily explained when she began speaking of all the titles said to be available.

"What sort of books?" Lady Charlotte demanded, bending a suspicious frown on the other woman. "Not improving books? I can't abide the prosy things. If I want to know what God thinks, I shall ask Him when I see Him."

"Oh, I'm sure they have some of those," Miss Evingale said, her loud sniff letting her opinion of that form of literature be known. "But as it happens, I was referring to
real
books, my lady—novels."

"Can't say as I've ever read a novel," Lady Charlotte confessed, relaxing against the soft velvet squabs of the coach and readjusting her wig. "But so long as they ain't dull as ditchwater, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to buy a dozen or so of the things."

Ackerman's was filled with customers in search of bargains, and while her grandmother and companion perused the ceiling-to-floor bookshelves, Melanie drifted over to a counter to inspect some fine Indian silks newly arrived from Calcutta. She was about to ask the clerk for the price of a particularly lovely paisley shawl when she was accidentally jostled from behind. She turned around, the apology she had been about to utter dying on her lips as she recognized the other woman.

"Mrs. Mason, what a delight to see you!" she cried, extending a gloved hand in welcome. "I trust you and your family are well?"

But rather than returning Melanie's warm greeting, the older woman drew back, her dark eyes snapping with dislike as she glared at her. "Well!" she exclaimed, her round face purpling in anger. " 'Tis a fine thing when decent people are accosted
in public by the likes of you! I quite wonder that you should have the brass to even show your face!"

Melanie's cheeks flamed at such rude treatment. She had met the Masons in Washington, where the older woman's husband had been employed by the Foreign Office, and the two families had shared the same ship on the return to England. She had never cared for the woman and her encroaching manners, but she had always treated her with cordial respect, a courtesy Mrs. Mason was obviously not willing to accord to her.

Aware that the woman's strident voice was attracting an unwelcome amount of attention, Melanie decided to stage a strategic retreat. "I am sure I have no notion what you mean, Mrs. Mason," she said, her small chin coming up proudly. "I was but offering you a civil good day; my apologies if I have intruded." And she turned and walked away, her lips tightening at the buzzing whispers that followed her.

She found her grandmother and companion still poring over titles, and tersely informed them she had a headache and wished to leave. Miss Evingale was instantly solicitous, slipping a comforting arm about Melanie's shoulders and guiding her out the door. Even her grandmother seemed concerned, her violet eyes thoughtful as they took in Melanie's glittering eyes and slightly flushed cheeks.

"You are looking a bit feverish," she declared once they were safely settled in the carriage. "I shall have Cook prepare you a purgative once we are home."

Melanie was silent on the brief journey to Mayfair, her initial anger slowly giving way to confusion. Whatever did Mrs. Mason mean by her preposterous accusations, she brooded, her
expression faintly troubled as she studied the flow of carriages and horses moving past their window. It was obvious that she had meant every word she had spoken, for the animosity emanating from her had been quite genuine. But why should she hate her so? What had she or, indeed, any member of her family done to deserve such rancor? That was the question for which there seemed to be no answer.

Over the next two weeks Melanie was kept too busy to brood over Mrs. Mason's cryptic remarks. At first she'd considered telling her father of the incident, but in the end she decided against it. Papa was highly protective of her, and she didn't want him taking out his anger on the malicious woman's poor husband. Besides, no one of importance had witnessed the incident, and she thought it best to let the matter drop.

Another reason she hesitated confiding in her father was that he seemed so distracted of late. His appointment from Castlereagh had finally come through, but rather than being assigned a new post abroad, he had been given a position as a liaison between the Foreign Office and the Cabinet. He had an impressive title, he told Melanie with a sad smile, but that was all that could be said of the appointment.

Lady Charlotte had settled into the household, and she and Miss Evingale had grown as close as two inkleweavers. They spent hours closeted away in the marchioness's rooms reading the latest offering from the Minervian Press, and Melanie discovered she now had two determined romantics plaguing her.

"I think Edwina has the right of it," Lady Charlotte declared one afternoon as they were sitting
down to tea. "That Davies is as handsome as any of our other heroes. Can't imagine why he insists upon posing as a butler."

"Perhaps because he is a butler," Melanie replied resignedly, thinking she really had to do something to control Miss Evingale's vivid imagination. This wasn't the first time she had taken such a fanciful notion into her head. In Washington she had developed the notion that Mr. Barrymore was really the long-lost son of a nobleman, and she'd spent several weeks mooning over the embarrassed assistant until Melanie was forced to speak sharply to her.

"Hmph." The marchioness gave a loud snort as she helped herself to the cream cakes. "As if I ever saw a butler that was as tanned as a native! If you wish to claim ignorance, I suppose there is nothing I can do about it. But do not think I shall not say I told you so when he is proven to be a duke or some such thing."

There was an uncomfortable silence as the others devoted their attention to their plates. Melanie thought she detected a gentle twinkle in her papa's gray eyes, while Mr. Barrymore's brows were puckered in a frown. Doubtlessly he was remembering Miss Evingale's foolish accusations, she thought, and gave him an encouraging smile.

"And how are you enjoying London, Mr. Barrymore?" she asked encouragingly, hoping to set him at his ease. "Were you able to visit with your friend Mr. Allen?"

"Only briefly, I fear," he answered, shooting her a grateful smile. "We seemed destined never to be in the city at the same time for more than a few days. I had barely unpacked my bag before he and Lord Penning set out for the country. But I was
able to spend a quiet evening with him at his club before he left."

"Yes, I had heard Penning had left the city," the earl said, nibbling on a piece of Mrs. Musgrove's sherry cake. "And rather odd I thought it, too, given the messages out of Washington. With war imminent, one would think the P.M. would want him close at hand. Ah, well"—he shrugged his shoulders—"as I have discovered, there is no understanding the workings of the government."

"Are matters so grave, then?" Mr. Barrymore asked, his expression troubled. He was dressed in a new jacket of blue velvet and a pair of cream-colored pantaloons, and he looked every inch the English gentleman.

"I fear so, although I hear little gossip closeted away as I am," Lord Terrington admitted with a heavy sigh. "But from what I have heard, it seems Parliament will be considering a declaration of war by the end of the debating session."

This talk of war silenced even the irrepressible Lady Charlotte, as they considered the hardships another war would bring. After a few moments had passed in silent reflection, Melanie stirred herself to ask about the vouchers for Almacks which had arrived that morning.

"Are you quite certain it is all right for me to attend?" she asked, setting her teacup aside. "I won't be presented until next week, you know."

"Of course it's all right!" Lady Charlotte fairly bristled with indignation. "I am the Marchioness of Abbington, and if my name is not enough to lend you countenance, there is your own title to be thought of. I should like to hear anyone, even that baggage Sal Jersey, say one word against you!"

"Actually, it was Lady Jersey who helped secure
Melanie's voucher," the earl pointed out with his usual diplomacy. "Although I am sure she did so only to oblige the prince."

"Yes, the world knows how obliging Sal can be when it comes to Prinny," Lady Charlotte sniped with malicious pleasure. "One may only wonder what this world is coming to when two such notorious females as Sally Jersey and Lady Hertford set themselves up in judgment of others."

"Lady Abbington!" The earl regarded his mother-in-law with horror. "I pray you will keep such talk to yourself! I would not wish my daughter to suffer for your vicious tongue."

"Pooh, when all the
ton
knows those two possess the morals of a Jezebel," the marchioness grumbled, stuffing another cake into her mouth. "But I suppose you are right; 'tis best not to say aloud what one may think privately. Heaven knows it would take only the merest breath of a scandal to ruin a girl's chances."

"I have also received a voucher for Almacks," Mr. Barrymore volunteered unexpectedly. "My mother's distant relation, Lord Marlehope, was kind enough to secure one on my behalf, and I must own I am a trifle nervous."

"Nonsense," Melanie said briskly, thinking how closely his trepidations mirrored her own uncertain feelings. "I have seen you at several Embassy functions, and you have always carried yourself well. You will do fine, I am sure."

The talk soon turned to the upcoming season, and while her father and Lady Charlotte exchanged remembrances of past seasons, Melanie fell into a contemplative silence. She had been telling the truth when she had praised Mr. Barrymore, she realized, studying the amber depths of her tea. The
man possessed the skills and charm of a seasoned diplomat, and his blond good looks and noble bearing gave him the air of a true aristocrat. In America he had often been mistaken for a member of the nobility, a misapprehension she noted he was always quick to correct.

She smiled slightly, remembering his mortification when he heard the fairy tales Miss Evingale had been spinning about him. He had been red-faced with embarrassment as he denied any knowledge of what she was talking about, and she had believed him at once. But looking at him now, she found herself wondering if perhaps there wasn't the smallest bit of truth in Miss Evingale's accusations. A moment later she was shaking her head in gentle disgust.

What on earth ailed her, she wondered, relieved no one was privy to her foolish musings. Evidently all this talk of heroes and secret identities was beginning to affect her reason. Next she would be thinking Davies the victim of a scheming uncle, she decided, taking care to hide her amusement as she turned her attention back to the conversation at hand.

Chapter Five

"F
or heaven's sake, child, will you please stop squirming?" Lady Charlotte snapped as she painstakingly pinned the sparkling aigrette atop Melanie's jet-black hair. "However am I to get this wretched thing on straight with you hopping about like a flea? Now, hold still!"

"I am sorry, Grandmother," Melanie said, doing her best to sit quietly as the marchioness finished her self-appointed task. "But I am so nervous, I am not certain I can stay still. Are you quite certain this gown is acceptable?"