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“What I don’t understand is why she doesn’t send Adderley about his business,” Clevedon said.
“Tall, fair, poetic-looking,” Longmore said. “He knows what to say to women. Men see him for what he is. Women don’t.”
“I’ve no idea what’s in Clara’s mind,” Clevedon said. “My wife and her sisters will want to get to the bottom of it, though. It’s their business to understand their clients, and Clara’s special. She’s their best customer, and she shows Marcelline’s designs to stunning advantage. They won’t want her to marry a man with pockets to let.”
“Are they in the matchmaking line as well, then?” Longmore said. “If so, I wish they’d find her someone suitable, and spare me these dreary nights at Almack’s.”
“Leave it to Sophy,” Clevedon said. “She’s the one who goes to the parties. She’ll see what’s going on, better than anybody.”
“Including a great deal that people would rather she didn’t see,” Longmore said.
“Hers is an exceptionally keen eye for detail,” Clevedon said.
“And an exceptionally busy pen,” Longmore said. “It’s easy to recognize her work in the Spectacle. Streams of words about ribbons and bows and lace and pleats here and gathers there. No thread goes unmentioned.”
“She notices gestures and looks as well,” Clevedon said. “She listens. No one’s stories are like hers.”
“No question about that,” Longmore said. “She’s never met an adjective or adverb she didn’t like.”
Clevedon smiled. “That’s what brings in the customers: the combination of gossip and the intricate detail about the dresses, all related as drama. It has the same effect on women, I’m told, as looking at naked women has on men.” He tapped a finger on the Spectacle. “I’ll ask her to keep an eye on Clara. With two of you on watch, you ought to be able to keep her out of trouble.”
Longmore had no objections to any activity involving Sophy Noirot.
On the contrary, he had a number of activities in mind, and joining her in keeping an eye on his sister would give him a fine excuse to be underfoot—and with any luck, under other parts as well.
“Can’t think of a better woman for the job,” Longmore said. “Miss Noirot misses nothing.”
In his mind she was Sophy. But she’d never invited him to call her by the name all her family used. And so, even with Clevedon, good manners dictated that Longmore use the correct form of address for the senior unmarried lady of a family.
“With you and Sophy standing guard, the lechers and bankrupts won’t stand a chance,” Clevedon said. “Argus himself couldn’t do better.”
Longmore racked his brain. “The dog, you mean?”
“The giant with extra eyes,” Clevedon said. “ ‘And set a watcher upon her, great and strong Argus, who with four eyes looks every way,’ ” he quoted from somewhere. “ ‘And the goddess stirred in him unwearying strength: sleep never fell upon his eyes; but he kept sure watch always.’ ”
“That strikes me as excessive,” Longmore said. “But then, you always were romantic.”
A week later
“Warford, how could you?”
“My dear, you know I cannot command his majesty—”
“It is not to be borne! That creature he married—presented at Court!—at the King’s Birthday Drawing Room!—as though she were visiting royalty!”
Longmore was trapped in a carriage with his mother, father, and Clara, departing St. James’s Palace. Though court events bored him witless, he’d attended the Drawing Room, hoping to spot a certain uninvited attendee. But he’d seen only Sophy’s sister—the “creature” his mother was in a snit about. Then he’d debated whether to sneak out or to hunt for an equally bored wife or widow. The palace was well supplied with dark corners conducive to a quick bout of fun.
No luck with the females. The sea of plumes and diamonds held an overabundance of sanctimonious matrons and virgins. Virgins were what one married. They weren’t candidates for fun under a staircase.
“Odd, I agree,” Lord Warford said carefully. Though he’d given up being outraged about Clevedon’s marriage, he’d also long ago given up trying to reason with his wife.
“Didn’t seem odd to me,” Longmore said.
“Not odd!” his mother cried. “Not odd! No one is presented at the King’s Birthday Drawing Room.”
“No one but foreign dignitaries,” Lord Warford said.
“It was a shocking breach of etiquette even to request an exception,” Lady Warford said, conveniently forgetting that she’d told her husband to commit a shocking breach of etiquette by telling the King not to recognize the Duchess of Clevedon.
But it was up to the husband, not the son, to point this out, and years of marriage had taught Lord Warford cowardice.
“I could not believe Her Majesty would do such a thing, even for Lady Adelaide,” Mother went on. “But it seems I’m obliged to believe it,” she added bitterly. “The Queen dotes on Clevedon’s youngest aunt.” She glared at her daughter. “Lady Adelaide Ludley might have used her influence on your and your family’s behalf. But no, you must be the most ungrateful, undutiful daughter who ever lived. You must jilt the Duke of Clevedon!”
“I didn’t jilt him, Mama,” Clara said. “One cannot jilt someone to whom one is not engaged.”
Longmore had heard this argument too many times to want to be boxed in a closed carriage, hearing it again, his mother’s voice going higher and higher, and Clara’s climbing along with it. Normally, he would call the carriage to a halt and get out, and leave everybody fuming behind him.
Clara could defend herself, he knew. The trouble was, that would only lead to more quarreling and screaming and messages for him to come to Warford House before she committed matricide.
He thought very hard and very fast and said, “It was clear as clear to me that they did it behind the scenes, so to speak, to spare your feelings, ma’am.”
There followed the kind of furiously intense silence that typically ensued when his parents were deciding whether he might, against all reason and evidence, have said something worth listening to.
“What with the aunts and all, the Queen would be in a fix,” he went on. “She could hardly snub Clevedon’s whole family—which is what she’d be doing, since the aunts had accepted his bride.”
“His bride,” his mother said bitterly. “His bride.” Sh
e threw Clara the sort of look Caesar must have given Brutus when the knife went in.
“This way at least, the deed was done behind the scenes,” Longmore went on, “not in front of the whole blasted ton.”
While his mother stirred this idea around in her seething mind, the carriage reached the front of Warford House. The footmen opened the carriage door, and the family emerged, the ladies shaking out their skirts as they stepped out onto the pavement.
Longmore said nothing and Clara said nothing but she shot him a grateful look before she hurried inside after their mother.
His father, however, lingered at the front step with Longmore. “Not coming in?”
“I think not,” Longmore said. “Did my best. Tried to pour oil and all that.”
“It won’t end,” his father said in a low voice. “Not for your mother. Shattered dreams and wounded pride and outraged sensibilities and whatnot. You see how it is. We can expect no peace in this family until Clara finds a suitable replacement for Clevedon. That’s not going to happen while she keeps encouraging that pack of loose screws.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Make them go away, will you, dammit?”
Countess of Igby’s ball
Saturday 30 May 1835
One o’clock in the morning
Longmore had been looking for Lord Adderley for some time. The fellow having proven too thick to take a hint, Longmore had decided that the simplest approach was to hit him until he understood that he was to keep off Clara.
The trouble was, Sophy Noirot was at Lady Igby’s party, too, and Longmore, unlike Argus, owned only the usual number of eyes.
He’d become distracted, watching Sophy flit hither and yon, no one paying her the slightest heed—except for the usual assortment of dolts who thought maidservants existed for their sport. Since he’d marked her as his sport, Longmore had started to move in, more than once, only to find that she didn’t need any help with would-be swains.
She’d “accidentally” spilled hot tea on the waistcoat of one gentleman who’d ventured too close. Another had followed her into an antechamber and tripped over something, landing on his face. A third had followed her down a passage and into a room. He’d come out limping a moment later.
