Sir Philip's Folly (The Poor Relation Series Book 4) (13 page)

A Regency rout was not an elegant affair. The purpose of it was to invite as many people as possible and cram as many people as possible into one house. Success was ensured if it were called “a sad crush.” Their carriage lined up with the other carriages waiting to draw up outside the Macleans’ house. Coachmen fought with each other for positions, carriages inched forward; outside, the rain began to fall, sad, steady rain which drummed on the carriage roof.

Arabella began to fret that the party would be over by the time they arrived, but when the carriage finally drew up at the house, Arabella, looking out, saw the rooms filled with guests, for all the curtains were drawn back, as they always were at a rout.

Holding her skirts high so that they would not be soiled by the wet pavement, Arabella scurried indoors beside her mother. They left their cloaks in an ante-room and then joined the long queue on the staircase who were waiting to go above-stairs to pay their respects to the hostess. People trying to get up shoved and jostled and people trying to get down shoved and jostled. One lady trying to get down was pushed from behind and fell forward and the people in front of her tumbled forward also, down into the hall like so many dominoes. One lady lay on the hall floor with her skirts above her head, exposing her bare bottom. The men in front and behind Arabella caused more fuss by trying to get a better view.

The air was suffocatingly warm and redolent of sweat, unwashed bodies, and all the latest scents on the market—Suave, Sans Pareille, Vento’s Italian Water, Cannes and Miss in her Teens. There was also a strong smell of musk from the pastilles that a great number sucked to counteract the smell from their rotting teeth.

Gradually Arabella became used to being openly stared at. By the time they reached the drawing-room, she was feeling crumpled and jaded. Lord and Lady Maclean were standing by the fireplace.

“And this is your daughter,” cried Lady Maclean. “Beautiful. Quite beautiful. Such tales we have heard,” she added archly. “We heard you were a prisoner.”

“I had a touch of the fever and had to be confined to my room,” said Arabella to her mother’s infinite relief.

“You will break hearts,” said Lord Maclean.

Arabella and Lady Carruthers moved away to talk to the other guests before beginning the battle downwards again. They were immediately surrounded by gentlemen. Arabella, at first startled and then gratified by all the compliments and attention, began to glow. Lady Carruthers was experiencing the novelty of being the centre of a group of adoring courtiers, and although their interest was obviously not in her, it was miles better than being isolated. For the first time she realized properly that her daughter was first-class bait. While Arabella chatted easily, maintaining the fiction that she had been ill, her eyes occasionally glanced this way and that, looking for the tall figure of the earl. But there was no flash of blue eyes or glint of guinea gold hair. Beginning to feel a little cast down again, she accepted an invitation from Mr. Fotheringay to go driving in the Park the following afternoon.

They finally said their goodbyes and joined the crowd going down the stairs, where Arabella discovered the other horror of a London rout, which was standing on the doorstep for half an hour waiting for the carriage to be brought round.

“That went very well,” said Lady Carruthers graciously. “I am glad now that I decided to take you about.”

“This ball,” said Arabella cautiously, “that is to be held in the hotel…?”

Lady Carruthers manufactured a yawn and affected boredom. “Oh, I suppose we must attend.” And a happy Arabella was diplomatically prepared to leave it at that.

“Faith, an early night at last,” said Lady Carruthers when they arrived at the hotel. “It is only midnight. But a good night’s sleep will refresh me. We must order a wardrobe for you. It is a pity I gave you permission to go driving with young Fortheringay, for you will need fittings. Fotheringay is all very well, but you can do better.”

Arabella waited impatiently until her mother had retired for the night. Would there be anyone above-stairs in the sitting-room? Would the earl be there?

At last unable to wait any longer, she scampered up the stairs, knocked at the sitting-room door and opened it. The room was dark and shadowy, lit only by the red gleam from the dying fire.

She was reluctant to leave, reluctant to believe that the evening was over.

She moved into the room, the train of her dress whispering over the floor. She thrust a taper between the bars of the grate and lit the candles on the mantelpiece and stared at her wavering reflection in the glass. A drowned face stared back at her from the old mirror.

She gave a little sigh and then went to the piano. Holding the taper, she lit the candles in their brass brackets, then sat down and began to play.

***

The earl had gone to the rout after Arabella had left and heard on all sides about London’s newest beauty. Mr. Fotheringay was bragging loudly that he had stolen a march on them all. So the miracle had happened. The awful Sir Philip had said he would get Arabella out and it seemed he had succeeded. The earl did not stay long. He had walked, despite the rain, being too countrified to submit to fashion and arrive in a carriage. There had been many eligible misses at the rout and yet he had not spent much time with any of them. He would need to start searching in earnest for a wife. But the evening had been dull. If he had gone to that odd hotel sitting-room, perhaps he might have been able to dance with Arabella… But Arabella was now out and Arabella would be flirting and dancing with every man in London. Immersed in his thoughts, he took a short cut down a dark alley leading through to Bond Street and almost did not see the two thugs who were set to waylay him until it was almost too late. As it was, he came to his senses and drew his sword-stick. He fenced and feinted on the slippery cobbles, keeping his back to a wall, avoiding the blows from the cudgel of one and making sure the other had no opportunity to creep round behind him.

At last he thrust the blade into one man’s arm and swung round looking for the other. But the wounded man’s companion had fled. The earl walked on. This was London. Full of footpads and smells and posturers and silly little misses.

He marched into the hotel and up to his apartment where his man relieved him of his wet hat and greatcoat. “And clean my sword, Gustav,” said the earl. “There is blood on it.”

“Have we been attacked, my lord?”

“Yes, an everyday occurrence. No, I am not yet ready for bed.”

He hesitated in the middle of his sitting-room. He wondered if the poor relations were still awake. It would be fun to find out how Sir Philip had achieved the miracle, even though the thought that he himself had refused to help Arabella still made him feel shabby.

He left his apartment and climbed the stairs, hearing, with a lightening of the heart, the jaunty strains of a waltz.

He looked in at the sitting-room door. Arabella was playing the piano. He crossed the room quietly and stood beside her. She glanced up and her fingers stumbled into silence on the keys.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“Gone to bed a long time ago, I think,” she said. “Oh, such wonderful news. I have been to a rout this evening.”

“So I understand. I arrived at the Macleans’ after you had gone. Come and sit down in front of the fire and tell me how Sir Philip achieved such success.”

She sat down on the sofa next to him, hardly able to believe that he was here with her and seeing her in all her finery. “It is vastly amusing, now I think about it,” said Arabella. “After Mama had left this afternoon, Sir Philip sent Letitia, Miss Tonks, with instructions that I was to brush my hair down and wear a white dress and stand by the window and look down into the street. This I did. Then I saw a large group of men, all looking up. Sir Philip was there among them. When Mama arrived, they all began to boo and hiss. Then Sir Philip called on Mama and said the story was about Town that she had been keeping me confined and that unless she did something about it, her reputation would be ruined. He even said”—Arabella stifled a giggle—“that if she did not repair her reputation, then she could not attend the ball, as they had the good name of the hotel to think of. So I was put into one of Mama’s very best gowns, as you can see, and taken to the rout.

“It was not what I expected. There were a great number of men who said very pretty things to me, and a Mr. Fotheringay is to take me driving tomorrow. But it was such a crush, and no cards or music or dancing or refreshments, only push and shove to get in and push and shove to get out. Why does one have to go to these affairs?”

“To see and be seen,” said the earl. “And why is Mr. Fotheringay, he of the large nose and oily hair, favoured above all others?”

“He was the first to ask me, don’t you see? So many invitations and compliments, I was quite bewildered.”

“I am sure you will be engaged to be married before I,” he said easily.

“Have you… have you met anyone?”

“No, not yet. But I shall. London is thin of company, but there is enough.”

“It is all so sordid,” muttered Arabella, tracing the pattern in the worn Persian rug with one little kid slipper. “Why cannot people fall in love like they do in books?”

“Oh, romances.”

“Not only romances, but in Shakespeare and in other great works of literature.”

He smiled into her eyes. “So you believe in love?”

She looked back at him defiantly, tilting up her chin. “Of course.”

Her lips were very soft and pink. He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the mouth. “Then I hope you find your heart’s desire,” he said. A lump rose in her throat. She got quickly to her feet. “The hour is late, my lord,” she said. She dropped a low curtsy. “Your servant, my lord.”

And then she quickly left the room. He could still smell her light perfume. He could feel her lips. He should not have kissed her. But she was worth more than a fellow like Fotheringay!

***

Arabella herself came to that conclusion the following day. Mr. Fotheringay drawled, Mr. Fotheringay talked about horseflesh and hunting, Mr. Fotheringay talked endlessly about his pet subject, which was Mr. Fotheringay, so that by the time he returned Arabella to the hotel, she was feeling quite desperate, particularly when her mother greeted her with a pleased smile and said that young Fotheringay would do very well after all and she had not expected to have her daughter off her hands so soon. In order to get rid of this beautiful daughter, attractive bait though she was, Lady Carruthers had obviously made up her mind that life would be more comfortable with Arabella married.

So in the dining-room that evening, it was the mother who flirted with the earl when he stopped at their table and the daughter who studied her plate of soup as if she had never seen anything quite so interesting in her life and barely looked up.

“Such a handsome man,” sighed Lady Carruthers. “And did you mark the way he looked at me? Would you not like such a handsome father, my dear?”

“Yes, Mama,” said Arabella, thinking privately that to be jealous of one’s own mother must really be plumbing the depths of moral depravity.

Lady Carruthers was going to the play with a Mrs. Banks, an old friend. Arabella pleaded a headache. She felt wretched, and the only person she could think of who might be able to help her was the awful Sir Philip.

***

Neither Mrs. Budge nor Mr. Davy were in the sitting-room that night after dinner. Sir Philip was in a foul mood because Mrs. Budge had said she was going to sleep, but when he had tried the door of her room, he had found it locked, and now, with the absence of Mr. Davy, he feared that the man was either in there with her or out somewhere with her and he felt sorely betrayed.

Miss Tonks, too, was silent and depressed. But Arabella was determined to get help, so after sitting next to Sir Philip and thanking him very prettily for having helped her, she said, “I would beg you to help me again, sir, for you are the only person I can turn to.”

Sir Philip’s mood immediately lightened. He loved praise, and praise from such a pretty young thing was doubly welcome. He patted her hand and said, “What is the problem? I will see what I can do.”

“It is Lord Denby, as usual,” said Arabella. “Thanks to you, Mama took me out to the Macleans’ rout, but he did not arrive until after I had left.”

“Routs aren’t the place for courting,” put in Lady Fortescue. “Never could stand them. As crowded as Bartholomew Fair, and every bit as noisy.”

“But a great many men paid me compliments,” went on Arabella, “and a Mr. Fotheringay invited me to go driving with him this afternoon, which I did.”

“Fotheringay’s a loose fish,” said Sir Philip, picking at his false teeth with a goose-quill.

“Exactly,” cried Arabella. “But Mama wants me off her hands and thinks he would do very well. But there is worse to come.”

The colonel smiled on her indulgently. “Go on.”

“After Mama had gone to bed I came up here, looking for company, but you had all gone to bed, so I began to play the piano. Lord Denby came in. He said he had heard about Sir Philip’s success and wanted to know how he had done it and so I told him. He said I would be engaged before he was and laughed at me because I said I believed in love. Then he kissed me.”

“He should not have done that, Arabella,” exclaimed Miss Tonks. “Not the
thing
at all. But surely that means he has some tender feelings for you.”

“But that is the problem! It was a casual, indifferent embrace, the kind an uncle will give to a niece.” Arabella clutched Sir Philip’s coat-sleeve. “You
must
help me. You must! Please! You must do something to make him look on me as a real woman.”

“Now, then,” admonished Lady Fortescue, “I cannot see what Sir Philip can possibly do.”

“Ho, you can’t, can you?” demanded Sir Philip. “Lay you a wager I can.”

Lady Fortescue’s black eyes sparkled. “Very well, Sir Philip. If you succeed in bringing about a match between Miss Carruthers and Lord Denby, we will pay Mrs. Budge’s bills.”

The colonel looked alarmed. “I say, that’s not fair.” He meant that as they had been going to pay Mrs. Budge’s bills to make up for financing Mr. Davy trying to get rid of her, it was hardly fair that this should be the subject of a wager.