The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (21 page)

“Countess Czerny is a charming woman. A distant cousin. I enjoyed making her acquaintance in London at the end of the season.” Let Celia make of that what she would.

She took the hint and ran with it. “I wish you joy. And now I think we should rejoin the party.” Jerking to her feet, she shook out her skirts, leaving a small book on the bench. “Oh, that’s mine . . .”

He beat her to it. “No,” he said, checking the spine lettering of
The Genuine Amours
. “I believe it is in fact mine.” He stowed it in the pocket of his coat and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Celia looked mutinous, but what could she do? She’d been caught, not only reading a most unsuitable book, but also lending it to Minerva Montrose, the innocent seventeen-year-old daughter of her recent hosts. On the other hand, the Montroses were unconventional and for all he knew Miss Minerva had been reading Aretino in the schoolroom, most likely in the original Italian.

He looked forward to finding the bit about the rat.

Chapter 25

The tyranny of affection is hard to withstand.

M
andeville had an apparently unlimited capacity to absorb people. Each day, usually in the afternoon, new guests arrived and the great hall bustled with their accompanying servants, luggage, and sometimes pet dogs and birds. Then they were shown to their rooms, and seemed to disappear into the fabric of the building, leaving the mansion graceful and serene. Only when large numbers assembled in one place did one get an impression of a crowd. At dinner in the state dining room Celia was always stunned to see dozens of people accommodated at the endless table.

Feeling hot and sticky after the day outside, she was passing through the hall on her way to a wash and change of clothing. She glanced without much interest at an arriving party, not expecting to see anyone she knew. A gentleman of advanced age was guided through the massive front door on the arm of an upper servant. Despite his years the man possessed an air of great elegance. Judging by the deference he attracted, he was someone of importance. The Duchess of Hampton herself came out to welcome him and could be heard expressing gratified surprise at the honor of his visit.

Joining in the veneration was another new arrival, a raven-haired beauty who appeared to be his traveling companion. Celia wondered idly if the gentleman was a high-ranking nobleman, another duke perhaps, and she his granddaughter. She was certain she’d never encountered the lady during her London season; she wouldn’t have forgotten the combination of exquisite features and perfect figure dressed with a level of sophisticated good taste to which Celia could never in a million years aspire.

She had almost skirted the activity in the hall and reached the stairs when an uistakable figure entered from the other end. Given the recent revelation of her feelings, it gave her no pleasure to be instantly aware of that dark imposing presence, the buzz in her head, the jolt of excitement beneath her ribs at the sight of him.

Tarquin made straight for the newcomers and took the lady’s hand. The pair of them presented a picture of supreme modishness and perfect
ton
. The limber grace of his bow, the refined curve of the lady’s wrist as she raised it for his kiss brought an uncomfortable pricking to Celia’s eyes. She looked down and saw a small raspberry stain on her bodice. She’d been wearing a soiled gown for much of the day and she hadn’t even noticed.

Sniffing and blinking hard, she surveyed the scene below through a mist of unfallen tears. At least Tarquin hadn’t lingered over the lady. All his attention was now on the old man who relinquished his servant’s arm and transferred his weight to Tarquin’s. In a flash she saw the resemblance. Not so much in feature, though they shared the aquiline nose and commanding height. Tarquin’s dark handsomeness contrasted with the still-thick white hair of the other. But though the old man was frail, his posture was almost as straight as the younger’s and there was an indefinable similarity in their stances.

“Who is he?” she asked one of the lady guests who stood a few steps below her.

She hardly had to wait for the answer. Tarquin wore his rare smile and a look of affection she’d seen only in the days of Terence Fish. “Lord Hugo Hartley,” came the reply. “I am amazed. I do not believe he has left London in decades. Something important must have happened to bring him to join his nephew here.”

“And the lady?”

“The Countess Czerny.”

T
arquin was summoned to Lord Hugo’s room thirty minutes before the dinner hour. His uncle had rested from the journey and, while his valet completed his toilette for the evening, they exchanged remarks on the continuing struggle between the king and his estranged wife and the prospects for the coronation. But these days Hugo preferred reminiscences of the past to speculation on a future he might never see. From the man who had been like a grandfather, even a father to him, Tarquin never minded hearing the same old stories.

“Amazing that I should have outlived King George,” Hugo said, his voice distinctly smug. “We were exact contemporaries, you know. Born just weeks apart in 1738. I knew him as a boy and attended him at
his
coronation. He was always a dull dog, you know, and priggish. Whoever heard of a straight-laced Hanoverian? After he married I avoided Court.”

“Didn’t he approve of your clothes?” This question always provoked a response. Lord Hugo had been a dandy for over sixty years, since before the term was invented, or so he claimed.

“As to that, I can’t say. He always dressed soberly but in those days we weren’t afraid of colors.” He sighed. “No one has ever accused me of failing to dress à la mode but I find modern taste sadly plain. Look at us both. All in black like a pair of crows.”

“In your case a robin redbreast.”

Hugo eyed Tarquin’s chaste white waistcoat with displeasure and ran an approving hand over the embroidered scarlet satin of his own. “I don’t suppose,” he said on a sigh, “that I shall live to see satins and velvets or gilt embroidery and heavy falls of lace return to fashion. I’m sorry I shall never wear pink again.”

For the first time he could remember, Tarquin felt impatient with Hugo’s conversation. He wished they could talk about something other than clothing and gossip. There’d never been any point discussing the state of the nation, or the business of his estate. Hugo would merely wave it aside with a flick of the wrist and a well-turned witticism on the horrors of rural economy. Come to think of it, Tarquin had often been guilty of the latter himself.

He refused to be diverted any longer. “Are you going to tell me what unprecedented event brings you out of Mayfair for the first time in twenty years?”

Hugo withdrew his hand from the ministrations of his valet who had been buffing his nails. He nodded at the man who bowed and left the room in silence. Probably listening from the dressing room next door. Bennett had been in Lord Hugo’s service longer than Tarquin had been alive. He sometimes wondered about the exact nature of the relations between master and servant.

“Hand me that letter, if you please, dear boy.” He gestured to the mantelpiece, accepted the folded sheet, then bade Tarquin be seated. “A few days ago I had a letter from Lady Garsington who heard from Lady Amanda Vanderlin who had the news from her brother Lord Blakeney. Let me read part of it.”

Tarquin knew what was coming. The extent of Hugo’s correspondence made it inevitable he’d hear something.

“ ‘According to Blakeney your nephew had taken it into his head to rusticate. He is in Shropshire, staying at the childhood home of Lady Iverley. Since Lady I. is expecting to be brought to bed (strangely soon after her marriage I may add, but more on that later) it is odd she should be entertaining guests. Most curious is that Mr. C. arrived in company with a young lady, a Miss Celia Seaton. I don’t understand why your nephew, my dear Hugo, should be concerning himself with a young lady of such negligible connections. I know nothing about her at all, aside from her brief appearance in London under the aegis of Lady Trumper, no very great recommendation I am sure you agree. For all I know the girl may have fallen from a tree. These things may be misrepresented at a distance, yet Blakeney seemed to think your nephew on terms of some intimacy with Miss S.’ ” Hugo lowered the paper. “Well?”

Tarquin refrained from swearing out loud and tried to shrug it off. “I confess myself astonished that Blakeney should have read so much into the bare fact of my staying in the same house as Miss Seaton.”

“And now, I gather from the duchess, you are both staying in this one, invited by Blakeney. I was surprised, and naturally pleased, to find you at Mandeville. But why is Miss Seaton here if there is no connection between you?”

“There wasn’t enough room at Wallop Hall.”

Hugo knew him too well. He merely raised his eyebrows, folded his hands, and awaited the truth. Tarquin considered what portion of the long, involved tale to impart. He wasn’t in the habit of keeping secrets from Hugo, but he didn’t see the point in distressing the old gentleman with the tale of his attack and subsequent memory loss. He must have been truly concerned to have traveled so far in the summer heat. Tarquin felt a quiver of terror that the unwise journey might have damaged Hugo’s frail health.

Whatever his own feelings about Celia, he didn’t want Hugo to think the worst of her. Although Hugo was been like a father to him, he couldn’t confide in him as he had to Sebastian. Sebastian didn’t deal in simplistic moral judgments. Neither did Hugo, to be fair. How could he with his socially unacceptable, not to mention illegal, tastes? But his great-uncle was old and had become hardened in his attitudes, which had something of the poacher-turned-gamekeeper. Tarquin was reluctant to expose Celia to the harsh light of his opinions.

“I won’t go into details without betraying a confidence. Let me just say,” he equivocated, “that I was able to assist Miss Seaton when she found herself in an awkward situation, and escorted her to Wallop Hall.”

Hugo nodded in satisfaction. “Then nothing has happened to change your intentions with regards to Julia.”

“The countess and I have no kind of understanding. If you recall I left it to you to make the arrangements, to negotiate an arranged marriage in fact. Very French. I am not sure why I did so and I fear I may have been drunk.”

“Not even a little jug-bitten. You acceded to my wishes because of the great respect you have for your elders.”

“Have you offered for her on my behalf? I don’t know how these things work.”

“We have spoken.”

Tarquin’s temper frayed. “For God’s sake, Hugo, stop being so damned opaque. Am I obligated to marry the Countess Czerny?”

“Respect, my dear boy, respect.” Perhaps realizing he’d pressed too far, Hugo shook his head. “There is no agreement.”

Relief was preceded by a momentary pang of cowardly regret. If he really were engaged to Julia then he could stop worrying and dismiss his continuing, and most inconvenient, attraction to Celia.

“How did she happen to come here with you?”

“Julia called on me the morning I had the letter. She immediately offered, the dear girl, to accompany me here.”

“And a damned bad idea, too. Why you decided to leave London on account of such a rumor, I have no idea.”

Hugo smiled smugly. “I could tell she was disturbed by the report and asked a good many questions about Miss Seaton, none of which I was able to answer. I do believe she was jealous. You made quite an impression there. I am pleased to give you both the opportunity to further your acquaintance. There’s nothing like a country house gathering to foster intimacy.”

An intimacy Tarquin now felt loath to advance. What did Countess Czerny mean, encouraging an elderly gentleman to run around the country in this heat? If the noble lady was truly in pursuit of him, killing Uncle Hugo was not the way to endear herself. Between the two of them they’d managed to make the idea of his marriage to Julia seem quite unpalatable.

He wished he’d never set eyes on either Julia or Celia. He wished he were a hundred miles away.

Good God. He’d rather be in Yorkshire.

Chapter 26

Dismiss the follies of your youth and hope others are equally forgetful.

C
elia climbed the stairs determined to look her very best that night.

So Tarquin Compton thought it didn’t matter what she wore! She’d show him. If she could win the admiration of William Montrose, then there had to be
one
gentleman among the many at Mandeville who would flirt with her and she was going to find him. Without fooling herself that she could compete with the luscious countess, she would keep her pride intact as Tarquin demonstrated his intentions to the world.

“I’ll wear the green crepe and satin,” she told Diana’s maid who awaited her with hot water and the implements of the hairdresser.

She half expected Chantal, with her very definite opinions on the proper attire for any occasion, to argue, to urge her to save the most elaborate of Diana’s altered gowns for the grand dinner party and ball planned for later in the week. But Chantal seemed distracted, though she arranged Celia’s hair and helped her into her stays, petticoats, and gown with her usual efficiency.

Then she asked for permission to return to Wallop Hall for the night. “I am concerned for milady. Four days without me and she will look like
une bohémienne
. Lady Felicia’s maid will help you undress.”

By no stretch could Celia imagine Diana resembling a Gypsy, but she gave her permission readily enough. It mattered little how she appeared when she went to bed, just as long as she looked acceptable now.

Better than acceptable, she decided as she practiced an alluring smile in the looking glass. With a light step and a determined heart she descended from the guest wing, ready to show Tarquin Compton exactly how little she cared for him.

He was one of the first people she encountered when she entered the rotunda, the customary pre-dinner meeting place. While not expecting him to appear bowled over by her beauty, she’d hoped for some reaction. Instead he seemed on edge, not quite the arrogant and overconfident dandy.

“Miss Seaton,” he said. “Allow me to present you to my great-uncle Lord Hugo Hartley.”

The old gentleman acknowledged her curtsey with a polite reserve that disappointed her. She hoped Tarquin might have spoken kindly of her to his uncle. Though come to think of it, why should he? Just because they’d enjoyed a period of amity and even rapport that afternoon, didn’t mean he’d forgiven her. For all she knew, he’d told Lord Hugo the whole shocking story.

“I see our cousin, the Countess Czerny,” Lord Hugo said. “Please fetch her while I make Miss Seaton’s acquaintance. If, that is,” he said, giving Celia a glimpse of his charm, “she doesn’t mind keeping an old man company.”

“Of course, Uncle,” Tarquin said. “Excuse me, Miss Seaton, allow me to remove this piece of fluff from your shoulder.” This gross insult to Chantal’s diligence was a mere excuse to whisper a quick warning. “Don’t tell him anything. He knows we arrived together but that’s all.” And left her alone with Lord Hugo, who examined her person with a keen eye.

“Allow me to compliment you on your gown,” he said in a light baritone overlaid with decades of courtesy.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“The shade is most becoming to your coloring.”

This drew a gratified smile and a brief curtsey. She could survive this.

“I understand my nephew was able to render you a service.”

“I am most grateful to him.”

“Perhaps you could enlighten me as to the nature of his assistance.”

Celia glanced up at the domed ceiling for inspiration. “I think it would be better,” she said carefully, “if he were to tell you himself. I wouldn’t wish to betray a confidence.”

Lord Hugo’s response was very dry. “I rather thought
he
was loath to betray
your
confidence but I am mistaken. I so often am.”

She searched wildly for Tarquin, or someone, to save her. All she saw were the full-sized statues of naked Greek men that filled niches at regular intervals in the walls of the oval chamber. For the first time it occurred to her they all had tiddly little pillocks, likely having emerged from cold baths. Her lips twitched at the impropriety of the thought in such august company. In any company.

Lord Hugo looked amused. “They all look rather chilly, don’t they?” She made a choking noise. “Standing without a stitch of clothing, I mean.”

“Of course we are enjoying a very hot summer,” she said. “In winter perhaps they are dressed for warmth.”

Lord Hugo smiled. “Perhaps they are. Not in yellow trousers, I trust.”

“Yellow trousers?”

“A dozen years ago there was a most unfortunate rage among the younger set for baggy yellow trousers of a violent hue. Of course young men get these ideas and there’s no stopping them. But I was disappointed in Tarquin. I thought better of him.”

“He must have been very young.”

“You are quite right, Miss Seaton. Only fifteen years old and one must excuse the follies of youth. But this was beyond mere folly, it was a crime.”

Though not certain she had his approval, she warmed to old gentleman and his obvious affection for his nephew. No wonder Tarquin loved him. She smiled at his droll exaggeration, and the mental image of a youthful Tarquin in the silly fashion. It pleased her to think him a mere mortal, capable of sartorial error. “He must have looked absurd,” she said.

“He never bought them. I took measures.”

“Oh?”

“I read him an astringent homily on the occasional necessity of distinguishing between high fashion and good taste.”

“And that worked?”

“I think so, but I left nothing to chance. I had Tarquin’s credit severed at all the best tailors in London until the craze for yellow pantaloons passed.”

She chuckled again but he didn’t join her. He seemed to be regarding her with peculiar concentration, so she stopped and tilted her chin.

“Are you interested in male clothing, Miss Seaton?” His voice turned grave and she understood this wasn’t the real question he asked.

“It isn’t something I know much about, Lord Hugo.”

“Would you improve your acquaintance with the subject if you had the chance?”

“I wouldn’t aspire to such knowledge.”

“Excellent, Miss Seaton. I can see you are a young lady of common sense. Pray feel free to call on me if I can serve you. As my nephew cannot, I mean. He is likely to be otherwise occupied.”

She followed the line of his sight to find Tarquin and the countess exchanging bright chitchat with the Duchess of Hampton. Any illusion of adequacy about her appearance dissipated in the presence of the exotic beauty. There wasn’t a single point of comparison in which Celia came out the winner, not even in height. True, the countess only held an inch or so advantage over Celia, but her stature was enhanced by an excruciatingly modish coiffeur, gleaming curls entwined with a confection of velvet, satin, and diamonds.

Together, the countess and Tarquin presented a picture of fashionable perfection that drove Celia’s spirits down into the soles of her shoes. She was not happy when this ideal couple made their way over to join her and Lord Hugo, who welcomed his dearest Julia with effusive affection.

“Miss Seaton,” the lady said in a voice like a clarinet arpeggio. “I have been wishing to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you,” Celia said.
The feeling is not mutual
, she didn’t say.

“I knew Mr. Twistleton and I was sorry to hear of his death. Pray accept my condolence.”

“My late guardian? You knew him better than I did, perhaps. I only lived with him a short time.”

“He was not, I recall, a man with a great deal of conversation. In fact he made rocks seem eloquent.”

“Did you also know his wife, my mother’s sister?”

“I didn’t have that pleasure. My acquaintance with your uncle was slight and confined to a matter of business concerning some jewelry.”

Celia, who knew even less about her uncle’s business than she had of the man himself, murmured a polite nothing. The countess, however, appeared to be more interested in her than was warranted by the slender connection. A sudden thought increased her discomfort in the woman’s presence. If she knew Twistleton, perhaps she also knew about his disreputable brother-in-law. Then she recalled how her uncle had despised Algernon Seaton and warned Celia never to speak of him. Surely he wouldn’t have mentioned him to a mere acquaintance.

“I understand you lived in India,” the countess said, with a friendly smile.

“I understand you lived in Austria,” Celia almost snarled.

She found it impossible to contain her resentment. Probably due to the depressing fact that in the eyes of Tarquin’s uncle she was akin to a pair of yellow trousers.

A stir at the entrance to the room saved her from having to hold on to a ragged semblance of good manners. A pair of furiously bowing footmen had opened both sides of the double doorway.

Tarquin observed the exchange between the two women with apprehension, poised to intervene if things got difficult, when he, too, was distracted by the new arrival. “Good God and Zeus,” he exclaimed in deep disgust. “It’s my aunt.”

The Duchess of Amesbury, though not unusually large, possessed too much consequence to enter through a single door. Brushing aside the greetings of people too sycophantic to treat her with the scorn she deserved, she marched through the assembly, straight for the group of people with the least desire for her company.

“Hugo! Compton! What a delightful little family party! Cousin Julia, and Miss Seaton too!”

Her eyes shone with malice and Tarquin guessed she was aware of his bruited engagement to Julia Czerny. Whether or not she knew about the end of his betrothal to Celia, the duchess was ripe for mischief and there was plenty to be made.

As usual, Celia was the one she could hurt the most, the person with the most to lose.

“Duchess,” he said, grasping her satin clad arm in a vicious grip. “Please come with me. I have something important of a private nature to communicate to you.”

Perhaps because no one ever dared treat her with such indignity, his aunt let him drag her into a corner out of earshot of other guests.

Such submissiveness didn’t last. “Let me go,” she barked.

He dug his fingers into the flesh. “Only if you promise to behave. You will smile, you will nod, and you will listen to every word I have to say.”

“You’ve lost your mind, Nephew!”

“Just ask yourself,
Aunt
, who has more to lose by making a scene in the Duke of Hampton’s rotunda.”

He could see the wheels turn in her malicious brain, considering the fact that at Mandeville she couldn’t terrorize everyone by reason of her rank. In a bout between the Duchesses of Hampton and Amesbury, Tarquin would back his hostess every time, and his aunt agreed.

“Very well,” she conceded with ill grace. “Let go of me. What do you want?”

“Why are you here?” Tarquin countered, relaxing his grip without relinquishing his hold. “Did you learn of my presence here with Miss Seaton and come to make trouble?”

“Certainly not. If you choose to ally yourself with such an insignificant young woman, it’s nothing to me.”

“But you see, aunt, I have not. Or rather Miss Seaton and I have agreed mutually that we shall not suit. We are not betrothed and I do not wish a word of our connection to get out and damage her good name.”

The duchess’s thin lips formed a smile to make a crocodile seem melancholy. “Dear me, Nephew. Are you crossed in love?”

“That is none of your business. You shall not make it your business and you shall not mention it to another soul.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“No, I cannot. But if I hear one word of gossip about Miss Seaton’s brief and unexceptional sojourn under my roof, I shall not rest until I make you the laughing stock of London.”

“Who cares for that?” She didn’t back down easily, but he could hear just a hint of anxiety in her question.

“I think you do, Duchess. I think you care very much. You are a bully and you get your way because people are too weak and perhaps too polite, to stand up to you. I’m not speaking of your inferiors, of course. There’s nothing I can do about your servants other than pity them. But look around the room. Look at this gathering of the very cream of the
ton
.” He watched her obey, calculate the power assembled under the spectacular oval dome. “And then imagine them all smirking at you, whispering behind their fans, repeating the witticisms I have spread at your expense. Do you imagine, Aunt, that there is enough love for you in this room that even one person will refuse to participate in your mortification?”

“Sticks and stones,” she said scornfully. “What is the opinion of anyone to me?”

“If you really thought that, Duchess, I believe I would have more respect for you, but I know you very well. I had ten miserable years under your roof to learn exactly how the mind of a bully works.”