Cook was right—there was no accounting for lords and ladies. Who would believe they went about courting in such a manner?
*
Balthazar rarely foundhimself in the position of not being quite able to account for his actions. He found himself in that situation now, though.
He had just tapped the roof of his carriage and it had come to a stop, a few buildings down from the Lyceum.
Lady Rosalind had mentioned that she and her sisters would attend a Frenchwoman’s exhibition of waxed figures at that theater. Not a thing that would usually interest him.
He had certainly not planned on going—he was meant to be on his way to White’s.
However, he could not resist being entertained by Lady Rosalind. Or Miss Mayton for that matter, as long as that lady was not attempting to eat a slice of lemon cake in his vicinity. And then, he would be further amused to have a look at those sisters—one had just taken up painting and was a regular Holbein, one fancied herself treading the boards as Desdemona, and another wrote odes to hay.
The doors were to open at two o’clock and it must be past time by now.
He exited the carriage and followed a stream of people heading toward the doors.
Handing over a shilling and six, he made his way into the large foyer.
“Your Grace!”
He turned toward the sound, knowing perfectly well who it was—Miss Mayton. He suppressed the urge to laugh. The lady could attract the attention of a crowd at a fish market.
Miss Mayton, Lady Rosalind, Lady Beatrice, and three younger ladies all looked at him smiling. He made his way over.
“I thought you should hear me, Your Grace,” Miss Mayton said.
“I believe nobody has missed it, Miss Mayton,” Balthazar said. “Lady Beatrice, welcome back to Town. Lady Rosalind, how do you do?”
Done with the niceties, Balthazar waited to be introduced to the allegedly talented younger sisters.
“Duke,” Lady Rosalind said, “these are my younger sisters—Lady Viola, Lady Cordelia, and Lady Juliet.”
“Charmed,” Balthazar said, executing a very formal bow for this collection of young ladies.
“Your Grace,” Lady Juliet said, “we understand you attended Lady Hightower’s musical evening. I imagine you were bowled over by Rosalind’s performance. She calls it a travel through the world of music.”
Balthazar attempted to keep his expression neutral lest he allow a smile to escape. A travel through the world of music, indeed. It was certainly a trip through something. “I had not known the style had a name.”
“Rosalind’s playing is ever so thrilling,” Lady Cordelia said. “We never know where it’s going.”
“I certainly did not,” Balthazar said.
“All the girls are so creative and talented,” Miss Mayton said.
“Ah, yes,” Balthazar said. “Lady Cordelia, I believe you have a penchant for Othello?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. But only the very end where Desdemona very elegantly dies.”
“And Lady Juliet is the poet?”
“Poetess,” Lady Juliet corrected, “I write odes to what I see, to capture their essence.”
Balthazar nodded gravely. “Ode to Hay,” he said. “And Lady Viola, I understand you are a gifted painter.”
Lady Viola nodded in the affirmative and said, “Mind you, I am very new to it. But the brush does feel very natural in my hand.”
Balthazar bit his lip to stop from laughing. All over England, ladies were taught to be modest. They were never to own any particular accomplishment. If one were a great proficient at the pianoforte, one must claim only a glancing acquaintance with it. If one were particularly skilled at drawing, one might only dismiss one’s work as dabblings, and only a pleasant way to pass the time.
