The Dreadful Debutante (6 page)

Mira had temporarily forgotten about Lord Charles. She saw the River Thames from Westminster Bridge. She saw the Temple Bar, and then they bowled along Fleet Street and up Ludgate Hill past the mercers’ shops to St. Paul’s Cathedral. When the marquess reminded her that her drive in the Park would be expected to be over and that she should return, she heaved a sigh of disappointment.

“So soon? Do you go to the opera tonight, my lord?”

“Yes, my chuck. Catalini is singing. I hope you will be able to hear her above the chatter of society.”

Mira glanced up at him shyly. “Will you dance with me at the opera ball?”

He hesitated. He had not intended to attend the ball after the opera. “I am sorry,” she said quickly. “That was forward of me. How can you find a bride if I keep making demands on you?”

“I am sure a dance with you will not stop me from looking at other pretty ladies,” said the marquess. “Very well. One dance. But you must try to attract some beaux.”

“I think if I cannot marry Charles, then I would rather not be married at all,” said Mira.

“May I point out to you again that you are not in love with Lord Charles.”

“How can you tell?”

“Love is not all gladness and happiness, my innocent; it can be a type of suffering. Were you in love with Lord Charles, you would have gone to the Park, longing for every moment you could have a sight of him, hoping against hope that he would notice you or that my presence would make him jealous.”

“Then you have been in love?”

“At my great age it would be a miracle had I not been.”

Mira wanted to ask him whether he had actually been in love with his wife, something she had quickly learned in her short stay in London was highly unusual. Marriage was a trade, your fortune to match my fortune, your lands to join my lands. Love had little to do with it. He was not
that
old, about somewhere in his early thirties, or so she had overheard her mother saying.

They drove back in amicable silence. He was just helping her down from the carriage when the Markhams’ butler approached them. “If you would be so good as to step upstairs to the drawing room, my lord. My master is desirous of a word with you.”

“Now what’s this about?” the marquess asked Mira.

“Perhaps Drusilla, who was behind us, saw us driving in the opposite direction of the Park and reported it to Papa.”

His face cleared. “Oh, that is of no moment. There is nothing shameful about driving a lady about London in an open carriage. We have done nothing we ought not to do.”

But when he walked into the drawing room behind Mira, he stared about him, suddenly worried. Drusilla was there, as was Lord Charles. Lord Charles was looking stern, and Drusilla had an air of gleeful anticipation. Mr. and Mrs. Markham had stern faces.

“Pray be seated, my lord,” said Mr. Markham. “We have just received some distressing news.”

“If it is distressing news, I prefer to stand in order to hear it.”

“As you will. We have received a report that you went on a curricle race to Sands Hill and that Mira here, dressed in boys’ clothes, acted as your tiger.”

Before Mira could speak, the marquess said with chilly haughtiness, “And you
believed
this?”

“My lord, I could not do else. It was a most reliable source.”

“Namely?”

“Mrs. Gardener.”

A look of contemptuous amusement crossed the marquess’s handsome face. “Mrs. Gardener is the most malicious gossip in London.” He assumed an air of patient reason, like a weary parent talking to slightly backward children. “My attentions to Miss Mira have, you must be aware, caused a certain amount of jealousy. I have never heard a more ridiculous story.”

He received help from an unexpected quarter. Drusilla, sure now that the story was all lies, was still smarting over Mrs. Gardener’s description of how she, Drusilla, had been humiliated at the ball by assuming the marquess wished to dance with her when the invitation was for Mira.

“
I
never believed a word of it,” she said.

“But it is such an
elaborate
story,” said Mr. Markham, still plainly puzzled. He swung round to Mira. “Is there any truth in this rumor?”

“I wish there were,” said Mira ruefully, and the marquess could not help but admire her acting ability. “I should like that above all things, to masquerade as a tiger. But did you go on a race, my lord?”

“Yes, Miss Mira, and with a most recalcitrant tiger. My own had disappeared, and this urchin approached me in Grosvenor Square and offered his services. He was competent enough, but he brawled in the inn yard with one of the other tigers, and I had to cuff his ears.” He turned to Mr. Markham. “If you ask any of the gentlemen who were on that race with me, you will find they will support my story of the fighting tiger. Can you imagine your daughter fighting in an inn yard?”

Mr. Markham gave a reluctant smile. “My apologies. I should not have believed such a tale.”

“But where did you go this afternoon?” demanded Drusilla. “We did not see you in the Park.”

“I drove Miss Mira to Westminster Bridge instead to look at the river, a harmless occupation and quite conventional. Now I would like to take my leave.” Haughty disdain was back on the marquess’s face, alarming Mr. and Mrs. Markham, who had no wish to alienate this lord, who had been so kind as to bring the unruly Mira into fashion.

“Please, my lord,” said Mr. Markham, “you must understand our concern. The story seems fantastic now, but at the time it had the ring of truth because it was just the sort of thing Mira might once have done.”

Mrs. Markham felt that things were getting worse and that her husband was being unusually clumsy in even suggesting that Mira could be a hoyden.

The marquess appeared to relent. “I shall see you all at the opera tonight. I have promised Miss Mira a dance.”

But when he left them and reached the street, his face was grim and set. He drove straight to his mother’s. The dowager marchioness preferred to live in a little town house of her own in South Audley Street, claiming that she felt lost in the large family mansion in Grosvenor Square.

He mounted the stairs and entered his mother’s drawing room. She had been sleeping in an armchair by the fireplace, but came awake with a start when he marched into the room. He tossed his hat into a corner and sat down opposite her.

“Mama, that Gardener female saw fit to call on the Markhams and regale them with the story of Miss Mira being my tiger. It could have originated only from you or Lady Jansen.”

His mother sat up straight, blinking in alarm. “It was not I!” she exclaimed. “Would I, your mother, spread such a story about? Do you think I want you to marry a rowdy little chit like this Mira? And that is what you may have to do if this is believed.”

“I scotched it. But that means that Lady Jansen is the culprit.”

“Oh, but she is such a dear lady and the soul of discretion. I thought she would make you the ideal wife. No, no, one of the servants must have been listening at the door.”

“Which untrustworthy servant would that be?”

“I do not know. John, the footman? But he has been with you some years now, and your butler is above reproach.”

“Then we come back to Lady Jansen. I do not wish you to have anything further to do with that woman, nor do I wish you to introduce me to any more females. Should I choose to marry again, then I am perfectly capable of finding my own bride.”

“To be sure,” said his mother weakly, “I was only trying to help.”

“Don’t!”

The dowager marchioness looked sulky. “Your dear father would never have spoken to me in such a way. But, yes, yes, when Lady Jansen calls, I will not admit her.”

Lady Jansen prepared herself with great care for the opera that night. She felt sure the marquess would be there. The gossip she had spread would already be working. Little Mira Markham would be in such disgrace now that her parents, in order to protect the reputation of the elder, beautiful daughter, would be forced to return Mira to the country. She thought constantly of the marquess. He had looked on her with approval. When his mother had at first slyly suggested she might be a suitable bride for her son, she had been interested, but only because of the marquess’s wealth and title. But when she had met him, she had realized that here was the man of her dreams. Her passionate and voluptuous nature, which had never been allowed to blossom in an arranged marriage or among the strict rules and taboos and shibboleths of London society, smoldered away dangerously. She had never taken a lover as had some other widows.

Her opera gown of gold tissue, she thought, lent her a stately but seductive air. She turned this way and that before the long glass, trying to shrug off a bright little image of Mira. The girl was positively plain with those Slavic cheekbones.

She summoned her companion, one of those sad, indigent females who eke out an existence chaperoning such as Lady Jansen. Her box, Lady Jansen knew, faced that of the marquess across the opera house. She was sure her golden gown and diamond tiara would catch his eye.

As she had little interest in the music and liked to make an entrance, she planned to arrive at the first interval, unaware that her poor companion was looking forward so much to hearing Catalini sing and that music was the one consolation in her rather miserable existence. Her name was Mrs. Anderson, the Mrs. being a courtesy title, for Mrs. Anderson was in her forties and had never married, the fate of so many of little looks and less dowry.

That Mrs. Anderson, who was small and mousy, was capable of hate would have surprised Lady Jansen very much, but Mrs. Anderson did hate her employer for the many little indignities and cruelties she was subjected to. She was wearing a gown that Lady Jansen had grown tired of. It was a merino gown of red-and-white stripes, which Mrs. Anderson considered vulgar but wore because the material was good, and also it was warm.

Mrs. Anderson knew all about Lady Jansen’s hope of snaring this marquess and had been with her on calls that day when she had set out to ruin the reputation of some chit called Mira Markham. Mrs. Anderson did hope that Mira Markham had somehow survived the damage done to her reputation, for she was eager to see this spirited girl who dressed as a boy and went on races. Mrs. Anderson admired spirit, having very little of that commodity herself.

They arrived at the opera house exactly in time for the first interval. Mrs. Anderson sat down quietly at the back of the box, blinking a little in the glare of lights from the huge chandelier that hung in the middle of the theater.

Lady Jansen sat waiting impatiently for callers. After a few moments she took out a pair of opera glasses and leveled them on the marquess’s box. It was empty. She swung it along the boxes and then stiffened. The marquess was in the Markhams’ box. She could just make out his golden head above the press of men crowding around the Markham sisters. They all seemed to be laughing a lot.

She slowly lowered the glasses at the end of the interval, for as the callers left, she could see Mira quite clearly. What had happened? Then she sat back and forced herself to be patient. The gossip, which usually spread like wildfire, had obviously not reached the Markham parents yet.

The opera began again, and she fidgeted impatiently while little Mrs. Anderson gave her soul up to the music.

The next interval was no better. This time she saw the marquess rise and leave his box only to reappear in the Markhams’ box. She swung her glasses angrily about the other boxes until she located that famous gossip, Mrs. Gardener. Good. It was only a matter of time.

For his part the marquess had made a very amusing story about the “lie” about himself and Mira. He then suggested to the other callers in the Markhams’ box that they all invent some really horrendous lie about Mrs. Gardener and spread it about, and the laughter rose loudly when Mira offered that they suggest that Mrs. Gardener’s magnificent head of white hair was actually a wig and dare people to take tugs at it.

And all the while Mira laughed and joked, she had a dismal awareness that she was telling lies. Her green eyes flew from time to time to the marquess’s face, seeking reassurance, but he looked blandly back, and she did not know that he was well aware that the real source of the gossip was sitting in the opera house at that very moment.

Lady Jansen fantasized about the marquess all through the last act. He had not called at her box because he did not know she was present, or so she persuaded herself. She should have arrived at the beginning of the performance. But there was always the opera ball. He would ask her to dance. She would float in his arms. She would fascinate him with her conversation, surely so mature and wise compared to that of Mira Markham. Like most rather stupid, humorless, and selfish people, Lady Jansen prided herself on her own wisdom and sound good sense. Men did not like a bluestocking, admittedly, but she was firmly convinced that a good figure and gentlewomanly wisdom were a nigh irresistible combination.

She was relieved when the “tiresome” performance was over and one of the finest voices in the whole of Britain and Europe was finally silent.