Improper Ladies (28 page)

She laughed again. “If it is not, it should be! But come with me, young rascal. We have been standing here for too long, and there are guests I would like you to meet.”

As she took his arm to lead him into the fray of her company, Michael took another glance at the book before tossing it back onto the table.
A Lady’s Rules
—they were everywhere.

“A lady should always try to avoid discussing such matters as finances and politics.”

—
A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior
, Chapter Two

 

“
T
he morning post has come, ma’am,” Molly announced, putting a small silver tray down on Rosalind’s desk.

Rosalind glanced up from her writing, automatically sliding a blank sheet of vellum over her notebook. It was not that she didn’t trust Molly—it was simply instinct. She was working on the new edition of
A
Lady’s Rules
, which her publisher had been trying for weeks to get her to begin. She had to preserve her anonymity as A Lady.

“Thank you, Molly,” she said, and reached for the sheaf of letters.

“Would you like your luncheon in here, ma’am, or in the dining room?” the maid asked.

Rosalind did not need very long to make
that
decision. It was much too gloomy to eat all alone in the spacious dining room. During the term, it was full of people, students practicing their table manners under the watchful gaze of the teachers, their talk and laughter ringing out. During the holiday, it was silent.

“In here, please, Molly. I am going to try to work through the afternoon.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Molly bobbed a curtsy and left the office, closing the door behind her.

Rosalind sorted through the post. There were a couple of missives from her teachers, on their holidays in Bath and Lyme Regis. A few notes from parents inquiring about future places at the school for their daughters. A scribbled, blotted note from Uncle Silas at his country home.

And one frighteningly official-looking letter from the bank in London. The one Allen had borrowed money from.

Rosalind stared down at the green blob of wax on the heavy white vellum. As she stared, the wax shifted, twisted, until it looked like a yawning, gaping,
biting
tiger’s jaw. Poised to swallow her, and her comfortable world, whole.

She slid a letter opener under the wax wafer, popping it open, and unfolded the sheet.

It was short, polite, and to the point. Mr. Richards, one of the managers of the bank, would very much appreciate an appointment with her and Mr. Silas Lucas, to discuss recent loans made to Mr. Allen Lucas. Sincerely hers, etc....

Rosalind dropped the letter to her desk. The skin around her eyes tightened painfully at the thought of having to meet with some
bank manager
. It sounded, well, less than respectable. Not something a lady should have to face. It reeked of financial ruin. She took off her wire-framed spectacles and rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

Blast Allen anyway. He had no right to put her through this. This was the fault of Lord Morley, and others of his reprehensible ilk. If not for their influence, Allen would be quietly studying, not running up debts.

What was she going to do about this mess?

 

The Thoth Club was crowded on this Wednesday night, thronged with gentlemen freed at this late hour from their duties of escorting wives, sisters, and sweet-hearts to the dreaded Almack’s. Brandy was liberal, the billiards room full, the card tables surrounded by players and observers.

Michael sat in one of the comfortable wingback chairs by the fireplace, a glass of port cradled in his hands, watching the hum of activity. He himself had just passed an evening in respectable society, escorting Violet and Aunt Minnie to a small musicale. Not, thankfully, to Almack’s—Vi was still too young for its hallowed portals—but still heavy with propriety. Now Violet was left with Aunt Minnie and her cronies in Minnie’s drawing room, and Michael was here, in this masculine sanctuary.

Sanctuary? Strangely, it felt like a mere extension of the outside world.

Michael sipped at his port, and tried to decipher why this place, which had always been a place of enjoyment and escape for him ever since he helped to found it, should feel so cold tonight. He had always enjoyed the Thoth Club. It was full of members with an artistic or literary bent, not like politically minded Whites and Brooks, or sporting-mad Boodle’s. There was always discussion of Byron’s latest volume or Turner’s newest canvas to go along with the cards and drink. Even the food was not half bad.

Tonight, though, he felt oddly—restless. He did not want to play cards, or talk about poetry, or do any of the things that usually sufficed to while away a pleasant evening. Ordinarily it was all amusing enough, even if not profoundly satisfying. Tonight, though, it was just not enough. He briefly considered visiting the home of a most obliging golden-haired courtesan, but not even that appealed to him.

He should leave, go back to his lodgings and write. In his own world of words and fantasies, time could often fly past on silvery wings. That was sometimes the only thing that could satisfy him, the ephemeral zone of art. It was far, far beyond the shallow pastimes of gaming, horse races, balls—even blond courtesans. Tonight, though, he felt that even poetry could not fill the hollowness at the very center of his being.

So he just sat there, sipping at the glass of port, watching the activity of the club swirl past him.

The front doors opened, letting in a burst of cool evening air and a flurry of new arrivals. They were laughing brightly, talking too loudly—obviously, they had begun their carousing long before coming to the club.

Among them was Allen Lucas.

“Morley!” Lucas cried upon seeing Michael. He handed his cloak and hat to the footman, and staggered across the room to collapse in the chair next to Michael’s. He paid no attention to Michael’s obvious solitude, gesturing for a port of his own.

“How are you this evening, Lucas?” Michael asked, and put his half-empty glass down on the nearest table. Apparently, alcohol was going to be of no use to him this evening.

“Very well indeed. Haven’t seen you since that day at m’sister’s school.” Lucas tossed off his first drink, and poured out another from the decanter. He loosened his elaborately fashioned cravat. “I didn’t know your sister attended the Seminary.”

“Oh, yes. Lady Violet enjoys it there very much.”

Lucas snorted. “I daresay she does. All the girls just
worship
Rosie.”

“Hm,” Michael murmured noncommittally. He really did not want to think about Mrs. Chase this night. Lately, every time he closed his eyes he saw her disapproving face, her blue eyes watching him with disappointment. He did not know why that should be; he had only met the woman twice in his life. And neither encounter had been what could be called auspicious. But there it was—he
had
been thinking of her, and he wanted to escape it.

And now here was the woman’s very own brother, sitting down right across from him.
I need a distraction
, he thought.

Fortunately, he was saved from hearing any more about “Rosie” by the arrival of two of Lucas’s cronies, Lord Carteret and Mr. Gilmore.

“Good evening, Morley!” Gilmore said, helping himself to the port. “Damn shame you didn’t come out with us earlier.”

“Oh, yes? Where did you go?” Michael replied, not deeply interested in the answer. But as long as the silly puppies were here, they might as well keep him entertained.

“We were at Lady Lovelace’s rout,” Carteret said, with a small hiccup. “And she threw us out!”

Now, that was a bit interesting, Michael thought. Lady Lovelace was not a woman generally known for being a high stickler, so this trio must have done something rather naughty indeed. “She threw you out?”

“Tossed us right out on our ears,” Lucas said, laughing into his port.

“Why?” Michael asked. “What did you do?”

Carteret leaned his elbow lazily on the edge of the mantel. “She said we were breaking the rules.”

The rules!
Of course. Michael gave a bitter little laugh. Only something as ridiculous as “the rules” could get three such harmless pups expelled from the Lovelace rout. They were spreading like a virulent weed over Society, choking out any trace of individuality, any spark that could possibly enliven dull
ton
events.

“She said that the rules forbid a gentleman from being intoxicated in front of a lady,” Lucas said indignantly. “We were hardly
foxed
! How could one be, on that weak stuff Lady Lovelace serves?”

“And when I tried to tell a simple joke to Lady Lovelace’s daughter, the silly gel squealed like an affronted mouse, and ran off to tell her mama,” added Gilmore. “It was just the one about the opera dancer and the clock at St. Sebastian’s ...”

“Lady Lovelace pulled out a copy of
A Lady’s Rules
and spouted off something about tasteless anecdotes,” said Lucas.

“Tasteless!” Gilmore cried. “That was my very best joke. It always gets a laugh.”

“Hm.” Michael studied the flames leaping in the grate, as the three young men went on muttering about their “shabby” treatment at the hands of Lady Lovelace.

It was true that their behavior had not been all that it should have been, Michael admitted. Drinking too much and telling questionable stories to young ladies was
not
the done thing. But they were harmless young men, and had meant nothing by it. Their behavior had surely warranted their being taken outside by Lord Lovelace into the fresh air to sober up, but
not
being tossed publicly out of the soiree.

“It is those blasted rules,” Gilmore said, echoing Michael’s own thoughts. “Ever since Lady Jersey and the other patronesses started touting them all over the place, everyone is wild to follow them to the exact letter.”

“It’s dashed hard,” Lucas complained. “I can never remember all of them at once, so I’m always bound to break at least one.”

“But one
has
to follow them,” said Carteret gloomily. “If one wants to be accepted. As dull as all those routs and balls are, I want to be able to attend them. That is where all the pretty girls are, and my father would cut off my allowance if I didn’t do my duty there.”

“We just have to try harder to remember the rules,” said Lucas.

Here
was the distraction he sought, Michael realized.

They all fell into a maudlin silence, broken only when Michael said quietly, “Not necessarily, gentlemen.”

The three of them turned in concert to stare at him, three pairs of eyes wide.

“What do you mean, Morley?” asked Lucas.

“Well, you say that a person cannot be accepted in Society unless he follows all these rules,” Michael said, and tapped thoughtfully at his chin with his steepled fingers. “Yet it seems to me that the people who have commanded the most attention, indeed the adulation, of the
ton
have been anything but rule followers.”

The trio brightened, leaning toward Michael avidly to hear what he might say next. “You mean like you, Morley?” Lucas asked.

Michael laughed. “I was thinking more of Byron, or perhaps Beau Brummell, who made his own rules and everyone followed
them
. These men, and others like them, would never have slavishly followed any rules in some book. Why, this lady will not even put her name on her own book! How much importance can her rules truly have, if she won’t even own up to them?”

Gilmore appeared most confused. “You mean we should write our own book of rules and get people to follow them?”

“I don’t think I could write a book. Not bright enough, y’know,” Carteret added doubtfully.

Michael almost groaned in exasperation. No wonder he was restless, if these bacon-brains were the only people he had to converse with! But somehow he felt he had to persuade them, to save at least three helpless souls from more mindless rule-following. “No, I do not mean write your own rules. I mean forget about rules entirely. If we follow common courtesy, and our own instincts, we will be fine. If you go a step beyond, and follow a different path, you will be admired.”

“Like you, Morley,” Lucas insisted again. “The ladies love it that you never do what is expected.”

“They
did
love it,” Gilmore said, his voice slurred from the great quantity of port he had consumed. “But I haven’t seen you out much of late, Morley, and you weren’t at the Lovelace rout tonight.”

“That is because he did not
choose
to waste his time at such a dull place as Lady Lovelace’s rout!” Lucas cried. “She would have given her right arm to have him there, as would every Society hostess. Morley is right. Some people are above the rules.”

Michael had rarely had champions in his life, and never one as unlikely as Allen Lucas. But it was rather touching all the same.

“The lady who wrote the book says
no one
is above the rules,” Gilmore insisted.

“No one is above courtesy, perhaps,” said Michael. “But no one should slavishly follow someone else’s commands.”

“I would wager that not even
you
can flout the rules and still be accepted, Morley,” argued Gilmore. “They are too popular.”

Lucas leaped to his feet to face Gilmore, his face flushed a deep red. “And I would wager that Morley will
always
be accepted, no matter how many rules he breaks! I wager fifty pounds.”

“Done!” Gilmore answered.

Carteret glanced between them, laconically gleeful at the quarrel.

Michael studied the three of them in silence, tapping his fingertips on the arms of his chair. The wager was completely ridiculous, of course; Michael had outgrown betting on such silly matters years ago. But the rules had irked him, probably more than they should have. He hated seeing everyone, especially his sweet sister, behaving like such wooden soldiers, marching in the cause of rigid etiquette. It reminded him too much of his father.