Vixen in Velvet (29 page)

Some of the fête’s earlier arrivals were watching, too, and word was already beginning to travel round the gardens.

Meffat made a shamefaced exit. Theaker swaggered out as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

When they were out of sight, Clevedon said his goodbyes. He was eager to be home, Lisburne knew, to report the evening’s events to his wife.

“I do wish Lady Gladys had been there to see it,” said Flinton as they turned back toward the fête and its growing crowd. “She’s always maintained there was something fishy about the business.”

“There to see it!” Geddings said. “I should hope not. I blushed to hear some of Theaker’s remarks. Shocking language. Unfit for mixed company.”

“Doubt Lady Gladys’d turn a hair,” Crawford said. “She’s surely heard worse. Father a soldier and home like a military encampment, hasn’t she said?”

“Lord Boulsworth can make a sailor blush,” Hempton said. “That includes the King, or so I’ve been told.”

The King had entered the Royal Navy as a midshipman and spent a segment of his early life at sea.

“Lady Gladys will hear about it soon enough,” Bates said.

“Everybody will hear about it,” Lisburne said. Even before Foxe’s special edition appeared on Sunday morning, the Great World would be buzzing about the shocking disclosures, and the cruel way Theaker and Meffat had taken advantage of a young mother’s desperation.

Swanton’s display of outrage wouldn’t do his reputation any harm, either.

“I’ll wager five guineas those two will be on their way to Dover before dawn,” Bates said.

“Before midnight,” Hempton said.

A short period of betting ensued regarding precise times of departure—until Herringstone pointed out that it would be impossible to ascertain exactly what time the two would flee London.

That they would bolt for the Continent was not in dispute.

By Sunday, if not before, Theaker and Meffat would find all doors closed to them. Should they appear on the street, their former friends would cross it to avoid them. Wherever they went, they’d meet with the cut direct. They’d be fools to remain in London.

Despite Dulcie’s taunt, no one needed lawyers, as Leonie had pointed out early in the planning stages. She was, after all, a businesswoman, first, last, and always.

“Without friends, they’ve no credit,” she’d argued. “Without credit, they can’t remain in London. Every tradesman with a working brain keeps track of the bankruptcies and scandals. I certainly do. I like the idea of those two men spending time in a damp, dirty cell—but I think Lord Swanton would rather do without the publicity of a slander trial.”

True enough. All the same, Lisburne was deeply sorry to see Theaker and Meffat go with all their teeth intact. Especially Theaker.

But it was done, and Leonie was satisfied, and she’d stood to lose most.

Lisburne looked about for her.

Bates followed his gaze. “Where’s Swanton got to, I wonder?” he said. “You’d think he’d hang about to say bon voyage. Or throw bottles at their heads. Or at least rotten vegetables.”

When Lisburne had last glimpsed his cousin, the two women were towing him through the side door. “Probably gone off to find a quiet place where he can compose an ode to redemption or revelation or the death of illusions or some such,” he said.

“If I were Swanton, I’d hide,” Valentine said. “When word of his wild avenger performance gets about, he’ll have to fight off the women with a whip.”

“There you’re wrong,” said Hempton. “It’s his delicate sensibilities they love. Now he’s shown he has ballocks like the rest of us, they’ll have to take him down off the pedestal and treat him like anybody else.”

“Stuff!” Crawford said. “If you think so, you know nothing about women. Did you forget that they cruelly abandoned him when he was falsely accused?”

“Not all of them,” Flinton said. “Lady Gladys said it was a hoax or a madwoman.”

“All but her, then,” Crawford said. “But the others’ll be back, all weepy and conscience-stricken—and if you think women mind a man having ballocks, you need to make yourself a reservation at the asylum.”

Betting ensued.

Lisburne left them to it, and set out to find Leonie.

D
arkness had fallen, and Vauxhall’s thousands of lamps were lit. The orchestra played. Some visitors danced. Others ate. Most of the children had been herded to entertainments near the other end of the gardens, where they’d have a prime view of the fireworks.

While she would have liked watching Theaker and Meffat’s ignominious departure, Leonie thought it best to get Mrs. Williams and Swanton away from the others. And if she was perfectly honest with herself, she didn’t relish hanging about that lot of men, given what Theaker had said.

Swanton went with the two women meekly enough—or dazed, was more like it. Apparently, he was as astonished with himself as others were. He accompanied Leonie and Mrs. Williams without protest to a supper box, and only stared at the menu blankly until they gave up on him and ordered.

The thin ham brought to mind Lisburne’s joke the other night. The wine was rather ordinary. But she was hungrier than she’d realized, and relieved, actually, to be with two people who required nothing from her, including attention.

Swanton ate what was put in front of him, though he did so in an abstracted manner.

Mrs. Williams reviewed her own recent performance, and imagined aloud the ways in which one might transform it into a play. The business at the end, when Lord Swanton leapt onto Theaker, would have an audience on its feet, she maintained.

“I wonder your lordship doesn’t write for the stage,” she said.

“I’ve tried,” he said. “But I haven’t the talent for plays. My mind’s too plodding and studying. My touch is too heavy. But you, Mrs. Williams, ought to write. The rest of us needed only to stand silent like the Greek chorus. Clevedon had the most lines, but he’s used to making speeches. But you—improvising as you went along . . .” He shook his head. “For a while I was so caught up in it that I forgot—plague take it! There’s Lady Bartham and her daughters. I forgot that half the world would be here tonight.”

For a moment, listening to her companions, Leonie had forgotten, too.

Not everything this night was playacting. The children’s fête was genuine enough, and many of its sponsors would have begun arriving soon after the doors opened. Before long, news of Theaker and Meffat’s disgrace would be making the rounds of the supper boxes and travel along the walks. Because of the charity fête, Vauxhall would hold a larger than usual proportion of the Upper Ten Thousand.

Mrs. Williams looked about her. “Do you know, in the circumstances, I think it politic to make myself scarce,” she said, and quickly suited action to words.

Meanwhile Lord Swanton summoned the waiter. As soon as he’d paid for their meal and offered a distracted farewell and thanks, the poet made himself scarce as well.

When they’d both moved out of sight, Leonie made her leisurely way toward the festivities. Lisburne, she knew, would be with the other men. Since her shop had been implicated in the scandal, people would understand her taking part in Theaker and Meffat’s exposure.

But beyond that, she’d be most unwise to let herself be seen in Lisburne’s company. After tonight’s events, she could expect her customers to start returning. Best not to jeopardize that by arousing suspicions that her participation in the unmasking wasn’t purely a business matter.

She had to trust Tom Foxe to resist printing Theaker’s insinuations about Lisburne and her. But Foxe owed her a great favor. Rarely did he get to actually witness the beau monde’s inner workings.

She supposed she ought to go home. But the last time she’d been to Vauxhall, she hadn’t been able to enjoy it.

She could indulge herself for a little while. It was early yet, and since this was a charity event, at higher prices, the chances of encountering drunken riffraff . . .

The sound of familiar laughter broke her train of thought.

It came from nearby, but it was hard to pinpoint. She had paused near the orchestra, which was playing at the moment. Many people were dancing.

She saw Lady Gladys waltzing with Lord Flinton.

Leonie walked a little nearer to the dancing.

Her ladyship looked very well, in a shade of copper not all women could wear successfully. As she’d done time and again, Marcelline had created the illusion of a smaller waist, this time with judicious use of a V-line above and an upside-down V below, where the robe opened over the dress. Pretty embellishments softened the severity of the lines.

Equally important, though, was Lady Gladys’s mien. She carried herself with confidence and good nature. Her face would never be pretty but her smile was, as was the sparkle in her eyes.

Lord Flinton seemed to be captivated.

Leonie had dressed elegantly, of course, for tonight’s performance. Knowing she looked well always increased her confidence. More important, one must advertise the shop’s wares whenever possible. But she’d never had a chance to watch her protégée at a social event. And so she made herself inconspicuous, in the way she and her sisters had learned to do, and slipped in among the bystanders to observe her and her sister’s handiwork.

When the dance was over, Lord Flinton escorted Lady Gladys back to her chaperons—two matrons who seemed not much older than their charges—and others of their party.

Lady Alda was there, in an unbecoming puce gown that looked horribly like the work of Mrs. Downes’s shop—also known as Dowdy’s—which fancied itself a Maison Noirot rival. As Lady Gladys rejoined her group, Lady Alda made a remark, and Lady Gladys answered with uplifted eyebrow.

Leonie drew nearer, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then Lady Gladys laughed, and whatever she was saying caused the others to gather about her.

Leonie moved closer.

Lady Gladys was reciting a comic poem. She was acting it out, much in the way Leonie had done at the New Western Athenaeum with “The Second Son.”

I have sung to a thousand;

And danced with no fewer;

And sighed in the hearing

Of hundreds, I’m sure.

But my sighs and my songs

Have all failed most outrageously;

Nor have my poor toes

Turned out
more advantageously;

And the season—the season—

It’s nearly all over;

And spite of my schemings,

I can’t get a lover.

To archery meetings

In green have I—

—have I—

She faltered and broke off as a gentleman advanced upon the group. He was a tall, slender gentleman who wore his flaxen hair overlong and dressed theatrically. The hair, as he swept off his hat, was tousled. His coat was a bit rumpled, and Leonie knew his trousers had a rip at the knee, thanks to colliding with the floor when he tackled Sir Roger Theaker.

The orchestra having paused, Leonie could make out some of the exchange, though Lord Swanton’s voice didn’t carry as clearly as Lady Gladys’s did.

But Leonie had no trouble perceiving that he was speaking and everybody else was behaving as though he was a snake charmer and they a basket of cobras. She saw his color rise as he spoke. Something about “do me the honor.” Lady Gladys was blushing, too, the deep pink washing down over her well-displayed bosom.

The orchestra began playing again.

And Lord Swanton led her out into the dancing area.

And everybody who knew them simply stood watching in disbelief as Lord Swanton danced with Lady Gladys Fairfax. For a time the pair was silent. But at last her ladyship said something. His lordship looked at her for a moment. Then he laughed. The bystanders, their friends and family and acquaintances, looked at one another.

Then, by degrees, they made up pairs, and began to dance. All except Lady Alda, who walked away in a huff.

From behind Leonie came a low, familiar voice. “Well, it seems he knows how to further his acquaintance with a girl, after all.”

L
isburne had watched Leonie much in the way he’d watched her at the British Institution. Then, though, she’d seemed to belong. At present, she stood on the fringes of the crowd, and it seemed to him that she stood on the outside looking in, like a shopgirl standing outside a great house where a party was in process.

No one seemed to notice her, which made no sense, even given the extraordinary sight of Swanton dancing with Gladys.

How could anybody fail to notice Leonie? Tonight she wore a blue gown of some silk as light as a cloud. Enormous sleeves as usual, and one of those vast shawl sorts of things that covered the tops of the sleeves and made women’s shoulders seem enormous. It tucked into her belt, which, in contrast to the sleeves and skirt, seemed to circle a waist no bigger than a thimble. She’d tied a lacy thing about her neck, with a bow at her throat and tassels hanging from the corners of the lacy thing. Her coiffure rose in a fantastic arrangement of knots and braids adorned with ribbons and flowers.

A dizzying vision, and the more so because he knew what was underneath. He knew what she felt like under his hands. He knew what her skin smelled and tasted like . . .

But if he thought about that he wouldn’t be able to think at all.

And it seemed he needed to.

Why wasn’t she dancing with the others? She ought to be one of them. One sister was a duchess. The other was a countess.

And she was . . . a lady.

How obvious that had been when she’d stood in the theater with Dulcie Williams.

Dulcie was a decent enough actress, and no doubt did a good job of playing ladies on the stage. She wasn’t vulgar. On the contrary.

But she wasn’t a lady.

Leonie was a lady.

It seemed so obvious now.

That pig Theaker.

Any idea who your pretty vixen is, really? Who any of them are, her and her sisters?

Lisburne had met only two of them but reason told him they must be three extraordinary women.