Page 26 of The Wallflower Ruse

“Heavens, does he always act so strangely?” Lucinda whispered, looking away.

“No, he’s usually pleasant but in the clouds,” said Miss Cox. “Mostly, it’s the ladies who are intent on him, not the other way around.”

Lucinda made a strangled sound. “Why me?”

Miss Cox snorted. “You’re new and you’re pretty, so why not?”

“Who is he?” Lucinda asked. “His family, I mean.”

“Surely you’re not interested in him,” Miss Cox said. “The only thing to recommend him is his looks.”

“No, but if he’s the least bit eligible, my mother will be. I prefer to arm myself ahead of time.”

“Understood,” Miss Cox said. “Do you suppose he’s writing a sonnet to your eyes?”

Lucinda muffled a laugh. “Dear God, I hope not.”

Mr. Pearce crumpled his paper, made as if to toss it on the floor, then hastily opened it and bent his head to try again.

“He’s of good family, but they’re poor as church mice. One of his cousins is an equerry, the family’s only claim to distinction,” Miss Cox said. “Mr. Pearce is a clerk in a government office, I believe. You know the sort of thing—whoever holds the sinecure does nothing and pays a clerk a pittance to do his job, which also amounts to not much at all.”

“Ineligible, thank heavens.” Lucinda glanced at Restive, who was deftly dealing with the two rivals for his affection. Couldn’t they see he was playing with them? She felt like marching over there herself and telling them what idiots they were, but they were too lust-ridden to listen, much less believe.

Restive caught her eye and winked. She huffed and turned her attention to the two Frenchmen, who were indeed émigrés, although Beaudry had escaped by the skin of his teeth during the Reign of Terror. Naturally, everyone wanted to hear about life under Robespierre. Monsieur Beaudry had known Robespierre well, he said, but that the more power the man gained, the more suspicious he became of everyone around him, until at the last he became dangerously mad.

“That would never happen in England,” Mrs. Spence said firmly.

“I sincerely hope not,” Beaudry said, “for purely selfish reasons, as it is now my home.”

“Have no fear,” Fortin said. “The English temperament is too...what is the word? Phlegmatic. Lacking in passion.”

“That is untrue!” Mrs. Spence cried, reddening. “We are as passionate as anyone!” Something about the way she blushed and put up her chin at Monsieur Fortin made Lucinda wonder. Hmm...was the shabby Frenchman the object of Mrs. Spence’s passion?

“Yes, indeed, and we are simply more in control of ourselves,” Mrs. Haraldson said. “If only the French had been calm and kind to the sans culottes, everything could have been settled quite easily.”

The two Frenchmen shared an incredulous glance. Mr. Haraldson was plainly chagrined at his wife’s foolishness, but he said nothing, merely looking tired. Lucinda decided she liked him and admired his restraint.

Which was all very well, but as far as signs of sedition went, she was getting absolutely nowhere. What a waste of time this evening had proven to be!

The discussion ranged from one topic to another: unfair punishments, workhouses, rookeries, smuggling, the evils of gin, and so on, until their discussion became so loud and acrimonious that Mrs. Haraldson called a halt. Everyone wanted change, effective immediately, but they hadn’t a hope of agreeing on what that change should be.

“Time to calm down, ladies,” Mrs. Haraldson said. “Let’s hear something we all agree on—Mr. Pearce’s delightful poetry. Stand up, dear boy. I see you’ve been scribbling away. Another canto in your masterpiece?”

He stood, clutching his papers to his chest. “No, it began yesterday as a sonnet, and then it became a sort of ode, but so far it is merely foolishness. Definitely not worthy of this salon.”

“To whom is your poem addressed?” Lady Alice asked.

“To the lady of my dreams,” Mr. Pearce said with a sigh, “but it is difficult to write an ode to a lady one has never met. When I began the poem, I did not know precisely who she might be.” He gazed at Lucinda, his blush deepening. “Now, I believe I have found her.”

Restive snorted, and Lucinda shot him a glare. “How utterly charming, Mr. Pearce.”

The poet dropped his worshipful gaze, thank God, and fumbled with his papers. “I hope so, indeed I fervently do, but I must rewrite it, now that I know better...”

“Nonsense,” Lady Alice said. “You may read that to us at next week’s salon, and we shall see how your thoughts and feelings changed from one poem on your fair subject to the next.”

“Next week!” He paled. “But—but I may not be able to attend. I must make the changes tonight, or it will—she will not love me.”

“Now, now,” Lady Alice said. “A reasonable woman—one who prizes intellect over beauty—won’t get upset about little details. Please do read it, for any woman who doesn’t appreciate your poetry is unworthy of you.”