Second Season (10 page)

“I collect Lord Stanwood provided another?”

“Of course, but
then
he said Geoffrey wasn’t fit to teach me, and probably he isn’t. The F.H.C. won’t have him,” with a glance for the duke’s blue and yellow striped waistcoat, “as I expect you may know.”

“Well, no, I didn’t, but I am not on the board of admissions,” he said apologetically. “Should you like to drive, Miss Stanwood?”

“Of all things! But papa says there is no point in it as yet. It would mean an extra carriage and horses. Our London stabling is already crowded, but at Stanwood he is too often from home to take time for instruction.”

The duke was undermined by her wistful expression.
“Would he accept me for your tutor, d’you think, Miss Stanwood?” The glowing face turned to him, the breathless reverential “
You
!” caused that faint quiver in his pulse. “Why not?” he smiled. “I doubt I’ll need do more than assure myself your hands are firm. Never tell me you do not already know the placement of the reins, and which are the leaders, which the wheelers.”

“Of course, but there is a wide difference between knowing and doing,” she pointed out reasonably. “I’ve all to learn in proper management of the whip, for instance. Oh, would you
really
?”

Reining in before No. 10 Park Street, “Yes, Miss Stanwood, I really would,” his grace smiled. “Next week? I’ll send you word when I see how my engagements fall out, and hope you may be free at a similar time.”

“How absurd you are!” Sharlie scoffed as he handed her down. “Your grace knows full well I’d excuse myself from any commitment except the Drawing Room presentation—but that does not arise until next month.” She spared a tiny nod and smile for his groom before ascending to the front door, where she extended her hand with a sparkling flash of eyes. “It was so kind in you to take me with you today, I have not words to tell you how much I enjoyed it. Thank you.”

“It is rather I who should thank you, Miss Stanwood.” The duke bowed over her hand as Beamish swung open the door, “And mind you save the waltzes for me! Until tonight...”

CHAPTER V

It could not exactly
be said that Mr. Brummell was a part of the Stanwood Court. Rather, he was its unobtrusive
deus ex machina.
Throughout the season he flicked the
ton
with an occasional admiring comment on Miss Stanwood’s elegance of dress. “Her taste is unerring for the colors to suit her: green, purple, bronze-browns. Superb! One grows tired of the insipid pastels, too often they indicate an equal insipidity in the wearer.” Her wealth of russet hair drew his approval also, as well as its simplicity of styling.

“What you really mean is that it has no styling,” she told him mischievously.

Mr. Brummell laughed. “Perhaps I do, and a great relief it is to see a young lady as Nature made her, Miss Stanwood. I commend your wisdom, for in this instance, Nature has done a most superior job. You could not well improve upon it by the curling iron.”

“No, I can’t,” she chuckled. “My hair has a will of its own, and no matter how it is cropped, feathered or pinned, it comes apart in mid-evening, until it is drooping despondently for all the world as though I had been retrieved from a storm by the kitchen cat!”

The Beau did not always solicit a dance, but he never failed to make his bow and exchange a few words with Miss Stanwood. While he was polite to Miss
Emily, his smile was so vague that one was not certain he recalled her name. Sharlie half-wished he might just once ask her to stand up with him, although Emily had no need of his public approval. She was still the Incomparable of Incomparables, with more beaux, bouquets and invitations than she could attend. It seemed she had no preference as yet, but distributed her favors evenly among all comers.

In time it occurred to Charlotte that the Beau was a good friend of the Duke of Imbrie. Whether he was aware of the duke’s interest in Emily, or merely suspected, Sharlie thought the Beau’s approval was intended to establish the duke’s future sister-in-law. Upon meeting Mr. Brummell in the Row, when he abandoned his companions and turned to accompany her, Sharlie asked daringly, “Are you being so very obliging as to bring me into fashion, sir?”

“Surely, that would be unnecessary if not impossible,” he returned urbanely. “You have made your own fashion, Miss Stanwood. I merely follow like the proverbial moth to be scorched in your flame.”

“Oh, what a whisker!”

He smiled and inquired if she had enjoyed the Florida Gardens. “I saw you yesterday—with Imbrie, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes, he is so kind as to undertake my driving instruction,” she confided. “Is it not good of him? Papa gave me
such
a lecture on my good luck that I was in a terrible quake, but however, all passed off well enough for a first attempt.”

“I don’t doubt it. We shall soon be seeing you on the Promenade, dashing along in great style.”

“No,” she shook her head regretfully, “papa thinks me too young for my carriage this year, but that does not matter. First I must learn all I can, and ten to one the season would end before I felt confident. I will
not
be a whipster, there are too many already. The duke agrees, although he predicts I shall need very little beyond practice, which he promises I may have with his own teams.”

“Ah? And which does he offer for your lessons?”

“The bays for the moment. They are easiest for a novice, but after one more lesson, I am to try the chestnuts ... and when he thinks me ready, I
may
be allowed to drive the greys!” Miss Stanwood’s eyes were awed. “Is it not kind of him?”

“Indeed it is. You must be exceptional, Miss Stanwood. Imbrie does not trust his cattle to other hands in general.”

Lord Wrentham joined them at that moment. He was looking
determined,
and since all hope of more confidences was ended, the Beau gracefully excused himself to return to his friends. He was extraordinarily abstracted, however. There were those in London who called the Beau a callous egotistical upstart and roundly condemned his arrogant hot-and-cold here-and-thereianism, but when he chose, Mr. Brummell was a solid friend. He’d known Julian Voss since Eton days, liked Imbrie better and better each time they met as adults. He’d been sincerely sorry at the death of his wife, and wickedly amused at the efforts of matchmaking mamas on Julian’s rare appearances in London. In common with Lady Inverclyde, he had never thought Imbrie would remarry.

“I wonder if I was wrong?” the Beau asked himself, and probed the question the next time he encountered Julian at Boodle’s. “Hear you’re teaching Miss Stanwood to drive. Is she an apt pupil?”

“Incredibly! Got two of the lightest hands I’ve ever seen,” Julian said cordially. “I hear you’ve set the
ton
in a dither over her.”

“Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes. She had a thin time of it last season, poor girl—undeserved, I think. She’s not the standard society miss, like the younger one, but it seems a pity for her to be so completely overshadowed. If you’d heard her, Beau—saying Emily’s success makes up for every snub or humiliation,” Julian laughed, “and she hasn’t a notion that Miss Emily is a total vacuum!”

“Is she? That’s certainly not true of Miss Stanwood.”

“Lord, no, she’s a positive refreshment, isn’t she?” Julian chuckled. “You’ll not let this go farther, Beau—on your honor?”

“On my honor,” Brummell nodded, his eyes sharpening.

“Well, then—for some reason Miss Stanwood has decided that I am interested in her sister!”

“Good God!”

“Exactly—but only conceive the absurdity, Beau: everyone in London is trying to marry me, except Miss Stanwood. SHE is trying to marry me to her sister. Lord, I haven’t had so much fun in years!”

“So that’s it. I wondered why you were hanging about town for so deucedly long. Is the sister aware of this?”

“Not she! In fact, that’s the cream of it, George. She’s becomingly flattered to dance with me, it increases her consequence—not that she’s at all above herself, she’s as sweetly honest as Miss Stanwood—but, George, BUT she hasn’t the wits of a flea. The platitudes, the bromides, the tired little society comments—she has them all; it passes belief, I assure you. I can tell she considers me the generation of Lord Stanwood, hasn’t a notion of her sister’s design, and to cap all,” Julian’s shoulders shook with mirth, “I strongly suspect the man she secretly favors is the least suitable of all her beaux!”

“Who?”

“You’re on your honor, Beau,” Julian reminded him warningly.

“I am,” Brummell assured him. “It’s your divertissement, I wouldn’t dream of inserting a finger. Who’s the dark horse?”

“Captain Sir Eustace Gayle.”

Brummell’s eyes widened. “Not old Barney’s son? Lord, if he hadn’t dropped dead, he’d have been sold up. But—a mere captain? There can’t be any money, the Stanwoods won’t hear of it.”

“I doubt they will, in more ways than one. I shouldn’t think he’d ever ask permission to address Miss Emily, he must know he’d instantly be forbidden the house. All the same, he’s madly in love with her or I’m a Dutchman, and I’m certain she’s far from indifferent.”

“What a fascinating tangle it is,” the Beau drawled lazily. “I must and will hear every detail, old boy. It’s the price of my silence. I recall you had always the knack of getting involved in romantic adventures even at Eton.”

“As for that, you were never behindhand. Who was it that convinced Mrs. Robinson her Clara should be allowed to marry the linen draper’s assistant because it would mean cut rates for clothing?”

“Lord, if I hadn’t forgot that—and it was how I squared my account before m’father came to hear of it,” the Beau chuckled. “All the same, I fancy it was you who pointed out the parlay to me, Julian. In those days, I was an innocent. I could never have worked it out for myself.”

“Hah! You’ve made up for lost time very rapidly.”

“Naturally, with such an example as my guide,” Brummell agreed blandly. “Details, if you please.”

“I have none, it’s only a sixth sense. Sir Eustace rescued Miss Emily when her horse bolted in the park. Aside from lack of fortune, he’s perfectly acceptable anywhere: well-mannered, good birth, with the added dash of Peninsular service,” Julian shrugged. “He runs tame in Park Street, rides with Miss Stanwood each morning, walks or drives with Miss Emily and her mother on the Promenade—but I notice, George. I notice that whoever goes short of a dance on Miss Emily’s card, it is not Sir Eustace. It is most often Sir Eustace who sits beside her at a musicale or the theatre, who conducts her to supper. Somehow he is always
there,
to one side if not her engaged partner or escorting Miss Stanwood as a party of four.

“I’ll admit I wouldn’t have thought he’d the brains for it—he’s a pleasant chap, but no indication of a furnished cockloft. However, he’s as much at home in Park Street as a relative—all of which allows him to dance attendance on Miss Emily without comment!”

The Beau’s lips twitched. “Lord, what a lovely mess of porridge! Doesn’t Miss Stanwood realize?”

Julian shook his head, “If anything, she looks on him as her admirer, they share a passion for horses. No, I fancy she hasn’t noticed.”

In this he underestimated Sharlie. It was true that in the bewilderment of finding herself a Personage, her mind was occupied. Further, from never having thought of Sir Eustace as anything but a new friend, it did not immediately occur.to Charlotte that another girl might view him differently. Lady Stanwood had indeed determined his lack of fortune, but was reassured by her daughter’s blithe rejoinder, “Yes, isn’t it a pity! It is why he’s anxious for reassignment, in the hope of gaining his majority, you know. He can talk of little else.”

On her side, Charlotte talked principally of Emily’s success, and it was some time before she was aware that this topic stood next to Wellington in his interest. Once awakened, she was stunned by the portents, and being Charlotte, she inquired bluntly, “Eustace, are you in love with Emily?”

“I am that,” he admitted. “Head over heels at first sight, you well know it.”

“Does she?”

“For what d’ye take me?” he asked indignantly. “Not a word have I said, nor ever will. Tis every way impossible, I’m aware and ye needn’t remind me, Sharlie. Sure, I’d not so disturb the little darling. She’ll make a grand match to suit her, and I’ll go back to Spain, that’s all.”

“You’re disturbance enough just
being
here! I mightn’t know someone was in love with me until it was spelled out, but Emily doesn’t need words,” Charlotte fretted. “Oh, dear, I wish you’d get your assignment, Eustace. You’re dreadfully in the way.”

“ ’Tis only an occasional dance or a drive,” he pleaded. “Ye’d not deny me the sight of her.”

“No, I suppose not, but you’re very
unsettling.
How can she fix her mind on a ‘grand match’ when she’s looking at you, Eustace? I must tell you she was all but engaged, I’m in daily expectation of a formal offer to papa, and now...”

“Sure, I’ll not interfere,” he protested. “I’m only one of dozens dangling after the little sweetheart.”

“Yes, but you’re the handsomest,” Sharlie said crossly. “Why is it that the larger the fortune, the uglier the face?”

It was not entirely true, she thought, when the Duke of Imbrie handed her into his phaeton that afternoon. In fact, she had grown so accustomed to the heavy flaring eyebrows and black-a-vised countenance that she no longer saw them. The black eyes were expressive, sometimes serious and sometimes twinkling, but always quick with intelligence. The deep voice ranged from sharp command to dulcet badinage that made her laugh, for she took his compliments no more seriously than Eustace’s, and his smile was particularly sweet.

He was still no comparison to Eustace for looks, and Emily could not be blamed if she preferred Prince Charming. Lady Stanwood had no overweening ambitions for her daughters. Good birth, social acceptability, and some money there must be, but otherwise they were free to marry where they gave their hearts. All that troubled Sharlie was the fear that unsuitable Eustace might prevent Emily from recognizing the superiority of the duke.

It took his grace no more than five minutes to comprehend Miss Stanwood’s involved discourse concerning her sister’s future. “You are too apprehensive, I feel sure. Miss Emily is very young, let her enjoy her conquests,” he said soothingly. “It will be time enough for her to make her choice next year. She may do even better with a second season, like yourself.”

“The cases are not similar,” Charlotte pointed out, annoyed by his obtuseness. “Emily couldn’t possibly do any better than she is doing now, and if no one makes a push to fix her interest, a second season will turn her from an Incomparable into a Citadel who is rated too self-consequent—and you know she is not!”

The duke was hard put to restrain a guffaw, but he repeated his soothing prediction of a successful alliance for Miss Emily and changed the subject. “Here is a good stretch for practice. Do you care to take the ribbons, Miss Stanwood?”

“Oh,
yes,
thank you.” For the best part of an hour, she tooled back and forth, obeying his instructions earnestly while the duke divided his attention between her progress and her pretty eagerness to learn. She was more than a refreshing change from convention. In her friendly spontaneity and unguarded remarks there was no hint of the vulgar or under-bred. Miss Stanwood was certainly young in years, but his grace sensed a lively mind anxious for stimulus. Upon several occasions she had lured him into descriptions of his travels, and all her questions showed an informed interest. In fact, Miss Stanwood—
Sharlie,
as he called her mentally—piqued the duke’s curiosity. She was not blue, but somewhere she had gained more than the usual education for females. He thought that not the least part of the divertissement was his acquaintance with her.

“Last lesson for this week, I fear—I must go out to Bascombe for a few days,” he said when they were returned to Park Street.