“I am doing nothing of the sort, Mama,” Penelope returned. “I am sitting and conversing quietly.”
“Your colour is too high, and you have been up far longer than you were permitted,” Lady Bellston said, advancing into the room.
“I was quite explicit.”
Jasper rose, though whether from habit or an instinct to escape notice, he could not have said. “Mama, I assure you—“
“You may assure me of nothing,” she interrupted, not unkindly, but with a composure that admitted no debate. “You ought to have sent her up to rest half an hour ago.”
Penelope gave an indignant sound. “I am not a parcel to be sent, Mama.”
“At present,” Lady Bellston replied, taking her daughter lightly by the arm, “you are very much a charge to be managed, and I shall do so whether you approve or not. Now—upstairs to lie down. I shall have some tea sent up.”
Penelope trotted obediently from the room, but not without a loud sigh that reminded Jasper of another young lady.
When the door closed behind her, Lady Bellston turned to her son. “You must take more care. Penelope does not feel her limits until she has already exceeded them.”
“I had not thought—“
“No, you had not. Her spirits will carry her farther than her constitution allows. If we do not manage her with some consistency, you may find that the next time you are called to this house, it is not for conversation, but to lay flowers upon her dead body.”
“I apologise, Mama. You may depend upon my being more careful in future.”
His mother nodded, and then drew a breath, as though setting one matter aside only to take up another no less pressing. “Your father spoke of you this morning at breakfast, and I find I am not surprised by the nature of his concern, for he observes—as do I—that you have reached an age at which a gentleman ought to possess some notion of his direction, and yet you appear content to defer the question indefinitely.”
Jasper resisted the urge to sigh as his sister had done, for it was not a new reproach. Indeed, it had been delivered in somany forms, over so many years, that it no longer possessed the power to startle—only to weary. He had, at various times, attempted to meet it: to take an interest where expected and apply himself to becoming, if not precisely what his father wished, then at least something approaching it. Yet the effort had never quite sufficed. There was always some deficiency—too little seriousness, too much levity, a judgment that did not align. It was as though he were perpetually almost, and never entirely, what was required.
It was a curious thing to consider, particularly after Penelope’s pronouncement not moments before that he shaped himself, however subtly, to meet the expectations set before him. He did so easily in every other sphere, but the one person he could not succeed in satisfying or understanding was his father… and now, quite possibly, Miss Tolliver. She, too, refused to be met on any terms he understood.
“You will be the next earl,” his mother continued, “and with that inheritance comes not merely title, but responsibility. It will not wait upon your inclination, nor accommodate itself to a life arranged entirely for ease and diversion.”
He inclined his head slightly. “I do not mean to disregard it,” he said at last, though the words sounded, even to himself, insufficient.
His mother regarded him, measuring his assurance and finding it, likewise, wanting. “No, you rarelymeanto do anything of the sort. That, I think, is precisely the difficulty.”
There was nothing to be said to that. She seemed to accept it as the conclusion of the matter, and with a decisive nod, turned and quitted the room.
Almost, and never enough. Jasper exhaled and scrubbed a hand across his jaw.
And here, dear reader, we arrive at a truth not often spoken plainly: that a gentleman, when confronted with theuncomfortable suspicion that he is not, in fact, equal to the role laid out for him, is afforded a most convenient refuge in diversion. Where a lady must sit with her thoughts, refine them, master them, and be judged by them besides, a gentleman may simply ignore them.
I should like to see Miss Tolliver tonight,Jasper thought to himself.
She, at least, required nothing of him that he understood well enough to fail at—and, perhaps more importantly, nothing he had yet been asked to become. Yes. That would do exceedingly well. For if he could not, at present, be what he ought—he might, at least, enjoy some laughter with a beautiful young lady.
Chapter 9
There were few places in London as rife with opportunity for mischief as the theatre. To some, the chandeliered halls and velvet-draped boxes of Drury Lane were hallowed ground: temples to art and refinement. In Jasper Deverell’s experience, the theatre was less a haven for moral improvement than a sumptuous playground.
Which was precisely why, when the Earl of Langley—now tragically ensnared in a lifelong state of stiff-jawed honour and marital duty—mentioned he would be escorting his troublesome sister-in-law to the theatre that evening, Jasper invited himself along with the easy impunity of an old friend.
He had imagined a very agreeable night of entertainment: Miss Tolliver’s low laughter behind her gloved hand, and perhaps a smuggled bottle of champagne shared from the neck. Perhaps a moment when Langley’s attention drifted to the stage and a certain young lady’s hand wandered across the velvet armrest between their seats.
Reality, unfortunately, proved far less obliging.
As Jasper stepped into the polished foyer of the Theatre Royal and accepted his ticket from the usher with a languid smile, he read the inscription with dawning horror:
Private Box—His Grace the Duke of Morleigh.
