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“You don’t care for his poetry, yet you came back with Lord Swanton to London for the release of his book,” she said. “That’s prodigious loyalty.”
He laughed. “A man ought to stick by his friend in hours of trial.”
“To protect him from excited young women?”
“That wasn’t the original plan, no. We’d prepared for a humiliating return. The reviewers were savage. Didn’t you know?”
“I’m not very literary,” she said. “I look at the reviews of plays and concerts and such, but mainly we’re interested in what the ladies are wearing. I rarely have time for the book reviews.”
“He’d had a few of the poems published in magazines before Alcinthus and Other Poems came out,” he said. “The reviewers loathed his work, unanimously and unconditionally. They lacerated him. They parodied him. It was a massacre. Until he saw the reviews, Swanton had been on the fence about coming back to London when his book was unleashed on the general public. After that, the choice was clear: Return and face the music or stay away and be labeled a coward.”
“I had no idea,” she said. “I was aware that his lordship had returned to London when the book came out because everybody was talking about it. Certainly our ladies were. I haven’t heard that much excitement since the last big scandal.” The one Sophy had precipitated.
“We’re still not sure what happened, exactly,” he said. “We arrived in London the day before it was to appear in the shops. We had a small party, and Swanton was a good sport about the rotten reviews—he doesn’t have a high opinion of himself to start with, so he wasn’t as desolated as another fellow might have been. We made jokes about it at White’s club. Then, a few days after we arrived, we had to order more copies printed, and quickly. Mobs of young women were storming the bookshop doors. The booksellers said they hadn’t seen anything like it since Harriette Wilson published her memoirs.”
Harriette Wilson had been a famous courtesan. Ten years ago, men had paid her not to mention them in her memoirs.
“Lord Swanton seems to have struck a chord in young women’s hearts,” she said.
“And he’s as bewildered as the critics.” Lord Lisburne looked out of the window.
At this time of year, darkness came late, and even then it seemed not a full darkness, but a deep twilight. Tonight, a full moon brightened it further, and Leonie saw that they must have crossed Westminster Bridge some while ago. She saw, too, the muscle jump in his jaw.
“Sudden leaps to fame can be dangerous,” he said. “Especially when young women are involved. I should like to get him back to the Continent before . . .” He trailed off and shrugged. “That crowd tonight troubled you. The one at the lecture.”
“When I see so many people crowded together,” she said slowly, “I tend to see a mob.”
A moment’s pause, then, “That’s what I see, too, Miss Noirot. I should have remained and stood guard. But . . .” He paused for a very long time.
“But,” she said.
“I had a chance to steal a pretty girl from the crowd, and I took it.”
Leonie and Lord Lisburne arrived in time for the concluding event of the poetic evening when, according to the program, Lord Swanton would debut one of his recent compositions.
As Lord Lisburne had predicted, the crowd had thinned. Though the hall remained full, the men had moved out of their cramped quarters along the walls and into seats in the back rows. The galleries no longer seemed in danger of collapsing.
While she and Lord Lisburne paused in the doorway, looking for a place to sit, what looked like a family group bore down on them. He drew her back and, either out of courtesy or because he wasn’t in a hurry to join the audience, made way for the departing family. When the other gentleman thanked him, Lord Lisburne smiled commiseratingly and murmured some answer that made the other man smile.
That was charm at work, charm of the most insidious kind: humorous, self-deprecating, and disarmingly frank and confiding.
Leonie well understood that type of charm. Her family specialized in it.
She of all people knew better than to let it work on her. The trouble was, it truly was insidious. One was drawn closer without realizing. One believed one had found a true intimacy when what was there was only a masterful imitation.
She lectured herself while he led her in the direction the group had come from, to the recently vacated seats at the far end of the rearmost row.
Though she’d prefer to sit closer to a door, for an easy escape, this was preferable to any place she’d have found for herself earlier. With reduced crowding, air could circulate, and when the doors opened for departing audience members, cooler night air drifted in.
Having a large, strong male nearby—even the kind who was dangerous to a woman’s peace of mind—helped keep her calm, too.
Since she truly didn’t want to listen to the poetry, and it was unintelligent to dwell too much on the large, strong male, she let her attention drift about the room. She counted twenty-two Maison Noirot creations. That was a good showing. Maybe writing the article for Foxe’s Morning Spectacle wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
Among the ladies in Maison Noirot dresses were Lady Clara and— Oh, yes! Lady Gladys Fairfax had worn her new wine-colored dress! A victory!
Leonie smiled.
Her companion leaned nearer. “What is it?” he whispered.
She felt the whisper on her ear and on her neck. Thence it seemed to travel under her skin and arrow straight to the bottom of her belly.
“An excess of emotion from the poetry,” she murmured.
“You haven’t heard a word Swanton’s uttered,” he said. “You’ve been surveying the audience. Who’s made you smile? Have I a rival?”
Like who, exactly? Apollo? Adonis?
“Dozens,” she said.
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” But his green gaze was moving over the crowd. She watched his survey continue round the hall, then pause and go back to the group sitting in the last row, as they were, but to their right, nearer to the doors.
“Clara,” he said. “And Gladys with her. I never saw them when we came in, thanks to the gentleman desperate to drag his family away. But there’s no more room on that side, in any event, and so we’re not obliged to join them—oh, ye beneficent gods and spirits of the place! Well, then . . .” He tilted his head to one side and frowned. “Not that I should have known Gladys straightaway.”
He turned back to Leonie, his green eyes glint
ing. “She isn’t in rancid colors for once. Is that your doing?”
Leonie nodded proudly.
He turned back again to look. “And there’s Valentine, roped in for escort duty, poor fellow.”
Lord Valentine Fairfax was one of Lady Clara’s brothers. Unlike Lord Longmore, who was dark, Lord Valentine was a typical Fairfax: blond, blue-eyed, and unreasonably good-looking.
“He’s been here the whole time, unfortunate mortal,” Lord Lisburne said. “Whiling away the hours weaving luscious fantasies of killing himself, I don’t doubt. Or, more likely, Val being a practical fellow, his dreamy thoughts are of ways to kill Swanton without getting caught.”
“If the men dislike the poetry so much, why do they come?” she said.
“To make the girls think they’re sensitive.”
She smothered a laugh, but not altogether successfully or quickly enough. A young woman in front of her turned round to glare.
Leonie pulled out a handkerchief and pretended to wipe a tear from her eye. The girl turned away.
The audience wasn’t as hushed as it had been earlier in the evening, when Leonie had peeked through the door. Though many occupying the prime seats on the floor sat rapt—or asleep, in the men’s case—others were whispering, and from the galleries came the low hum of background conversation that normally prevailed at public recitations.
The increased noise level didn’t seem to trouble Lord Swanton. Someone had taught him how to make himself heard in a public venue, and he was employing the training, his every aching word clearly audible:
. . . Aye, deep and full its wayward torrents gush,
Strong as the earliest joys of youth, as hope’s first radiant flush;
For, oh! When soul meets soul above, as man on earth meets man,
Its deepest, worst, intensity ne’er gains its earthly ban!
“No, dash it, I won’t hush!” a male voice boomed over the buzz of the audience.
Leonie looked toward the sound. Not far from the Fairfaxes, a well-fed, middle-aged gentleman was shooing his family toward the door.
