“Who on earth is Clara?” Hetty sighed.
“My hen, of course. You don’t imagine I would name her something ridiculous like Geraldine, do you?”
At that moment, their father burst into the drawing room. Lord Tolliver was the embodiment of every loud, well-fed uncle at a country wedding. His face was round and perpetually flushed, framed by a pudgy neck that always seemed eager to spill over the edges ofhis cravat. He could only be described as a generous man – a description that was, in truth, as much a matter of waistline as spirit. He had inherited his title through sheer chance (his long-forgotten second cousin falling off a horse), and that single stroke of fate had set the course for much of his eccentricities, along with his cheerful disregard for aristocratic convention. Where his peers walked with composure, Lord Tolliver bellowed and boomed and once tried to auction off the family crest to fund an experimental hot-air balloon. “By Jove, is that a chicken? What a fine-looking fowl!”
Lottie shifted the bird, presenting it with a flourish. “This is Clara, Papa. Nell won her in a game of whist.”
“Aha! Whist!” Lord Tolliver exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “That is how we shall get all the best poultry around here, then. Who needs farmers when we have a properly skilled Tolliver at cards?”
“At least someone in this house appreciates my talents,” said Nell.
“My dear girl!” said Lord Tolliver. “Why, I think we ought to make a habit of it! Perhaps we shall hold a card tournament. The prize, of course, will be a most exotic creature. A parrot from the Indies, perhaps! Or better still, an ape from Africa! Think of it, my dear girls! A house full of fascinating creatures and artifacts to rival any noble collection in the kingdom!”
Nell’s eyes lit up. “An ape from Africa? I say, Papa! We should host the first annual Tolliver Menagerie Ball. Guests may mingle with the animals, and perhaps even purchase a new pet to take home. It would be utterly memorable, don’t you think?”
“I believe that might raise a few eyebrows among our more refined acquaintances, Papa,” said Hetty. “Society approves only of the dullest, most proper pets, such as lapdogs that wheeze and canaries that shriek. I daresay an ape may prove somewhat lessen vogue.”
“Proper pets!” Lord Tolliver bellowed. “Utter rot! My dear Hetty, nothing worth having in life is ever proper! What is the use of a dog or a canary when one might have a parrot that demands sherry at breakfast and recites Greek poetry?”
“Greek poetry?” came a voice from the doorway, sharp as a hatpin and twice as disapproving. “The only utterances that dreadful bird ever makes are the sort that would send the vicar’s wife into a faint, thanks to your son’s most unhelpful sense of humour.”
Lady Tolliver swept into the parlour in a flurry of silk and righteous despair. Her dark hair was arranged in a chignon of such astonishing rigidity that one might wager it impervious to cannon fire, and her gown – an ambitious shade of emerald adorned with peacock feathers – clung to her figure with the hopeful defiance of a woman once declared the Incomparable of her Season and determined to remain so, regardless of time, fashion or circumstance. “I have said it before and I shall say it again – this house shall be the end of me. There shall be no such ball, and no such exotic animals. My nerves, which have already endured the strain of five daughters, cannot be expected to survive a menagerie! I shall be forced into early retirement in Bath – or worse, Margate! And you know what the sea air does to my constitution!”
Lottie, who had gone quite pale at the sight of her mother’s emerald plumage and rapidly escalating monologue, executed a swiftretreat, shuffling the chicken behind her skirts. She cast a beseeching glance at Nell, who returned it with a conspiratorial smile. With the ease of a seasoned mischief-maker, she took Lottie’s elbow and began shepherding both girl and hen towards the door with a level of decorum wholly unsuited to the situation.
Hetty and her mother exchanged a long-suffering glance as the sound of stifled laughter and clucking receded down the hallway.
“Yes, quite right, my dear,” Lord Tolliver chuckled, rocking back and forth on balls of his feet. “No apes just yet. But I must away – I’ve reason to suspect that my manuscript on hieroglyphs has been mislaid by the black cat with the crooked tail. I am convinced it is no ordinary feline.”
“Very well, dear,” Lady Tolliver said, sweeping past him. “Do try not to tear up the floorboards this time.”
He vanished with a cheerful hum, and Lady Tolliver gave a magnificent sigh. She collapsed into her favourite chaise, reaching for her embroidery. “One cannot so much as thread a needle in this household without hearing of parrots, poultry, or pyramids. You are all conspiring to unseat my reason. Truly, I am owed a statue.” She patted the cushion beside her. “Now, Henrietta. We must turn our thoughts to your second Season, which is, I remind you, galloping towards us like the Four Horsemen.”
Hetty schooled her features into attentiveness, though she was sure her eyes must betray her despair. Across the room, Mari calmly sank behind her book, as though to say:this is not my affair.
“Come now, sit beside me – closer, if you please. Not at that ridiculous distance, Henrietta. How am I to confer my wisdom if youinsist upon lounging like a milkmaid? Invitations are arriving by the hour, and the entiretonis waking from its winter slumber with the singular aim of ensnaring a titled son-in-law. We must be strategic. One can only remain charming for so long before it begins to look like effort, and there is nothing so fatal to a lady’s allure as visible striving.” She clasped her hands with sudden intensity. “Your entire future hangs by a thread, Henrietta – athread– and I simply cannot be expected to manage it alone, not with my nerves in such a state. The doctor has expressly forbidden too much excitement, and I am already surviving on nothing but barley water and lavender salts.” She paused to sigh again. “Now then, I have already marked two most eligible gentlemen. How do you feel about viscounts with gout but excellent prospects? Lord Farringdon does limp, it is true, but so do half the cavalry, and he possesses three sound estates, no meddling mother, and a preference for quiet women.Quiteideal, would you not agree? And then there is Mr Linley, an exceedingly promising young man. Barely thirty, recently come into a considerable inheritance, and certain, they say, to secure a seat in Parliament before the year is out! His connections are impeccable, his future assured, and while he is perhaps a trifle too enamoured of his own reflection, one must not be greedy. One can hardly expectbothfortune and humility in the same man – that would be unnatural.”
Hetty – who had suffered through Lord Farringdon’s lecture on drainage and canal reform at last year’s garden party (a subject he had delivered with apocalyptic fervour and no regard for conversational escape), and who once observed Mr Linley attempting to catch his own eye in a soup spoon – gave a serene smile. She supposed shemight yet join a convent in Spain or perhaps feign a weak constitution and retire to Bath, where she could sigh beside a window, take the waters, and be left entirely alone. Either fate seemed preferable to one spent nodding encouragingly whilst a husband extolled the merits of wheat tariffs or his own jawline. “I suppose I shall have to flip a coin, Mama.”
Lady Tolliver beamed. “There now, how sensible you are. To think, when you were first presented, I feared you might prove difficult. But look at you now – so composed and obliging, my dear! I have every confidence that this shall be a Season full of possibilities.”
“Indeed,” Hetty said sweetly, folding her hands. “Endless possibilities.”
She rose with impeccable grace, kissed her mother’s cheek and crossed the parlour in thoughtful silence. Yet as she passed the sideboard, she paused just long enough to flip over the silver coin resting there, though not for the decision her mother might’ve hoped.
Heads,Hetty thought with a wicked smile.Scandal it is.
She let the coin dance once more across her palm, then set it back atop the sideboard with a brisk little tap. This Season, at least, would not be squandered upon lectures of drainage, canals, or wheat tariffs; such prospects were dreary enough to drive a womanto desperatemeasures. Far preferable, Hetty decided, to embrace the destiny her mother most dreaded: that of a wealthy thornback. As the daughter of an earl and the sister of his heir, she would never want for a roof, nor pin money, nor even the occasional new gown. True, she mustsubmit to a lifetime of dependence upon her brother’s purse and patience, but as brothers went, he was tolerable enough, and Hetty was quite clever enough to steer her pea-brained elder sibling as one might a docile horse.
And what were the pitying glances of matrons or the mutterings of dowagers weighed against the delicious liberty of doing precisely as she pleased? To decline a proposal out of hand, to order the carriage for a whim, to read novels till dawn without a husband demanding the candle be snuffed – such privileges were surely worth a thousand whispered “poor things.” Still, why stop at whispers? Scandal, after all, lent a woman far more notoriety than spinsterhood ever could. Hetty had no intention of passing her life as a wallflower; she meant to be viewed with equal parts dismay and envy. She would never be a dreary spinster consigned to her needlework, but a lady of delightful eccentricity – one whose whims were reported in the scandal sheets and whose company was sought precisely because it promised mischief. Yes, Society might condemn her, but it would never be permitted to forget her.
The only difficulty was that scandals, by their very nature, required accomplices. A lady might boldly declare she scorned matrimony, but unless there was some gentleman upon whom to fix the world’s suspicion, the story quickly lost its savour. If she were to be remembered, she must be observed in the company of precisely the right sort of gentleman – one reckless enough to indulge her whims, but not so foolish as to mistake them for sincerity; one amused by her schemes yet intrigued enough to follow where she led. Hetty’s smiled deepened, for she knew precisely whose assistance she must secure.
Chapter 2
The Earl of Langley sprawled carelessly across the chaise longue, entirely nude but for a lazy smile. His companion – her name eluded him, though he believed it had begun with an M – draped herself beside him, still flushed. She had been lovely, if entirely unremarkable. He took his pleasure – and gave it, when inclined – with all the consideration of a gentleman selecting a third bottle of claret: briefly, indulgently and with no intention of recalling it come morning.
After all, what was there to dwell upon? He had long since perfected the art of such arrangements. It was always he who set the terms, dictated the pace, and departed the moment it ceased to amuse him. Affection was tedious, obligation worse, and Theodore Winslow, Earl of Langley, had no interest in either.
