“Do not allow anybody, particularly Alvanley or his cousin, Mr. Landon, to take any liberties,” Lord Bertridge said.
“They think they are so full of wit,” Lady Easton said, “but the danger is, they may drift into dangerous territory in pursuit of it. Further, whatever occurs at that dinner will be much talked of, as it always is. Do not be a subject of gossip.”
Lord Bertridge practically recoiled at the mention of gossip. “Nothing can kill a lady’s chances faster than an unfortunate story making the rounds. And, of course, it would reflect on the family.”
“Reflect poorly,” Lady Easton said.
Miss Upton had only smiled and said, “But I do not go alone. Lord Easton will be there to chaperone.”
Lady Easton nodded, but it was a very slight nod, indicating she did not have much faith in her lord at this particular moment in time. She looked at the clock and said, “He is late.”
Bramley was certain Miss Upton suppressed laughter at that comment. What on earth was amusing about being late?
He was a sane man trapped in a madhouse.
*
Richard had watchedMiss Upton and his uncle leave for Alvanley’s dinner. He and his aunt had done their best to warn Miss Upton, but he did have the feeling that she’d not taken them at all seriously. She should have, she might well be walking into a wolves’ den. Who were the other ladies to attend? Were they respectable? He did not approve of Alvanley and even less of his wastrel cousin Mr. Landon. Who knew who else would be at table.
He really believed that Miss Upton needed to be protected, as she was not very inclined to protect herself. She was at once too innocent and too forward—a lethal combination.
As well, she did not seem to have the first idea of how she appeared when she left the house, lovely in that fantasy of a dress, her hair effortlessly swept up, her color high and her eyes bright. She was a magnet for every rake in town.
And what of his uncle? When Lord Easton had finally come down the stairs a full three minutes past the time, he’d laughed off his aunt’s scoldings about it. Then he’d really laughed off her warnings about Alvanley. He’d kissed his wife’s cheek and turned to Miss Upton. “Come, Caroline, it is time to escape the magistrates’ grips.”
Who were the magistrates? Was it meant to be him and his aunt?
It was ludicrous that anybody should think that of him. He was not the enforcer of laws. Yes, he of course was careful in his dealings and wished those around him to be equally careful. But that hardly made him the Sheriff of Nottingham!
He felt himself tightly wound, his fists were clenched and he would like to box somebody at that moment. He did not like the feeling. It was familiar to him, as he’d often felt it in his youth and it still came to him from time to time. As a boy, he’d been in an almost constant state of it whenever he was not away at school—it would fade and then he’d be subjected to something that would bring it on again.
On his birthdays, year after year, his parents never remembered, though they used it as a promise often enough. They would do this or that on his birthday. He was eight when he finally concluded that all that would ever happen was that he’d get an extra biscuit at tea, and that was only courtesy of the cook. Twice while he’d been at school, they’d forgotten to send a carriage at term end and he’d spent a humiliating few days with the headmaster. Once, they’d set the house on fire and promptly saved themselves, looking surprised to find him also on the lawn. Perhaps the worst of it was the way they often looked through him, as if he was not there at all.
In those days, he’d wanted to rage until the house fell down around them all. He’d never raged though, it would have been too like his parents and their ungovernable emotions. One moment they were madly in love, the next they were trying to scratch each other’s eyes out, the next they were drunk and loudly proclaiming their adoration, and the next they were throwing books at one another. How many mornings had he come down the stairs to find empty decanters strewn everywhere and a room nearly destroyed? He had vowed he would never be like them and so he had placed his rage in a secure box and never allowed it to see the light of day.
The box that constrained his temper had held steady all these years because he’d created a life that allowed it to be so. If one were careful and arranged things in an orderly fashion, one’s box need not be disturbed. Or, if it was disturbed, one could retreat to one’s orderly house in the country to restore calm once more. He’d managed the London seasons just that way, enjoying the entertainments and then when he occasionally found it all too much, shutting the door on Portland Place. And yet, ever since he’d arrived to Brighton he had seen the box shaken and the lock rattled. There was nowhere to retreat to, as the house itself was turmoil.
Perhaps he should just leave. He might retreat to his estate, where all was calm and peaceful. He would spend his evenings on the back lawn with a few candles lit, a book, a glass of brandy, and Edgar by his side. He would look up occasionally and see the stars above and the faint lights of a tenant cottage in the distance. Sometimes, if the wind were right, he might catch muffled laughter from the tenant’s children. Those sorts of evenings had always acted as a panacea, the remedy after his box had been shaken in London.
So much was right at his estate, and so much was wrong here.
*
Lord Alvanley’s rentedhouse being also on the Steyne, it would be no trouble to walk. However, Lord Easton said it would be the sort of thing that would make them the target of wit. He could not say how, exactly, but it might be something along the lines of arriving on foot like peddlers. Alvanley was a friend of Brummel’s and had adopted some of his attitudes regarding standards. It was Lord Easton’s understanding that Brummel was currently on the outs with the Prince and most definitely not in town. He was not sorry for it, as he found that gentleman to be a poser of the highest order who did not believe half the things he said. Furthermore, Alvanley’s wit was far more amusing because it did not have the same meanness or bite to it. Alvanley might gently bruise, but Brummel drew blood.
Caroline was not sorry Mr. Brummel had absented himself from the Regent’s circle. All England knew that that gentleman could reduce a lady to tears by one disapproving look at her person. It was not so much the man’s disapproval that would cut, but how talk of it would spread. Her father had told her of an instance when Lady Felicia had arrived to a ball in a rather elaborately decorated gown and Brummel had commented,It is a dress, I suppose. The baron said the poor lady had been shaken and tearful. Caroline had no wish to test herself against that over-critical fellow.
Alvanley’s house was well-appointed, having been taken for the summer months from some lord or other from the north who had grown bored with the place. What made it stand apart, though, was not its accoutrements but its atmosphere. Caroline had noticed it as soon as they had entered the drawing room—it was decidedly lively.
Perhaps she noticed it so distinctly because it was everything Lady Easton’s house was not. It was loud and it was jolly, rather than quiet and ordered.
Lord Easton took her round and she met the Prince once more, but this time accompanied by a lady he introduced as Mrs. Fitzherbert. Of course, Caroline was aware of who she was, but was not over-shocked to know it. There were unhappy marriages all over England and on occasion one of those unhappy persons sought solace elsewhere. She neither approved nor disapproved and was only grateful to have come from a home in which the gentleman did not wander.
Caroline had traveled with her father enough to have seen the desperate gambits of some middle-aged married ladies attempting to gain his attention, but the baron never wavered as he loved his wife. He had once told Caroline, though she was sure he should not have, that men who wandered might well bring a disease back to their wives. That, he would never do.
She had curtsied low to Mrs. Fitzherbert, giving the lady as much due as she would give the Prince’s real wife. In truth, Mrs. Fitzherbert probably deserved more, if reports of the Princess’s behavior could be believed. Caroline’s show of respect seemed to please both the Regent and his companion. The Prince pointed out that Mrs. Fitzherbert lived next door to Marlborough House, Lord Easton’s current accommodations. Caroline had nodded and smiled and prayed there would be no suggestion to call, as Lady Easton would certainly go mad over it.
Another thing Lady Easton would not care for was that there were so few ladies in attendance. It was only herself, Mrs. Fitzherbert, and a certain Mrs. Jordan. If Caroline had not been particularly shocked to encounter Mrs. Fitzherbert, she could not quite say the same for Mrs. Jordan. The lady was an actress and long-time mistress of the Duke of Clarence. The duke himself was not present and Caroline could not make heads nor tales of it. Shedidknow what Lady Easton would make of it and it would be nothing anyone would care to remember hearing. Lord Bertridge would have a few things to say about it too.
