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“Oh, hush!” said Lady Brompton, but she giggled. “How unkind of you, Georgiana!” When she smiled at me in that conspiratorial way, she suddenly seemed quite young. How had she come to marry that fat old man?
“Unkind, maybe, but true!” The lady in yellow (such an unflattering color, even by candlelight) told me, lowering her voice, that at the last soirée where Miss Fairfax performed, her husband had fallen asleep and started snoring loudly.
“That can’t happen today,” Lady Brompton assured me. “After all, we have the extraordinary, mysterious Count Saint-Germain among our guests. He is going to delight us later by playing his violin, while Lavinia can hardly wait to sing to the accompaniment of our dear Mr. Merchant.”
“Well, you’ll have to make sure Mr. Merchant gets plenty to drink first,” said the lady in yellow, giving me a broad smile and showing her teeth without a moment’s hesitation. I automatically smiled just as broadly. There, I’d known it! Giordano was nothing but a stupid know-it-all!
Both ladies were acting much more naturally than I’d expected.
“Such a difficult balancing act!” sighed Lady Brompton, and her wig trembled slightly. “Too little wine, and Mr. Merchant won’t perform on the pianoforte at all; too much, and he breaks into song himself—improper sailors’ ditties. My dear, do you know Count Saint-Germain?” she asked me.
That brought me down to earth at once, and I instinctively looked around. “I was introduced to him a few days ago,” I said, gritting my teeth to keep them from chattering. “My foster brother … er, knows him.” I caught sight of Gideon standing near the fire in the hearth, talking to a slender young woman in the most beautiful green dress. They looked as if they’d known each other for a long time. She was laughing so much that you could see her teeth. They were lovely teeth, too, not rotten stumps with gaps in them, which was what Giordano had tried to persuade me all teeth looked like at this period.
“Isn’t the count incredible? I could listen to him for hours on end when he tells his tales,” said the lady in yellow, after informing me that she was Lady Brompton’s cousin. “I particularly enjoy the stories he tells of France!”
“Yes, those spicy stories,” said Lady Brompton. “Not for the innocent ears of a debutante, of course.”
Searching the room with my eyes for the count, I found him sitting in a corner, talking to two other men. From a distance, he looked elegant and ageless, and as if he had sensed that I was looking at him, he turned his dark eyes on me.
The count was dressed like all the other men in the salon—he wore a wig, a frock coat, rather ridiculous knee breeches, and funny buckled shoes. But unlike the others, he didn’t look to me as if he came straight out of some costume drama on film, and for the first time, I realized fully what I’d landed myself in here.
His lips curled into a smile, and I bowed my head courteously, while I felt I had goose bumps all over. I had difficulty suppressing an instinctive urge to raise my hand to my throat. I didn’t want to go putting ideas into his head.
“Your foster brother is a very good-looking young man, my dear,” said Lady Brompton. “Contrary to the rumors we have heard.”
I took my eyes off Count Saint-Germain and looked at Gideon again. “Yes, you’re right. He really is very … good-looking.” The lady in green seemed to think so, too. She was just straightening his cravat with a flirtatious smile. Giordano would probably have murdered me for such behavior. “Who is the lady who’s fl—who’s talking to him?”
“Lavinia Rutland, the loveliest widow in London.”
“But there’s no need to feel sorry for her,” the primrose-yellow lady added. “She found consolation long ago in the arms of the Duke of Lancashire, much to the duchess’s displeasure, and at the same time she’s developed a taste for rising young politicians. Is your brother interested in politics?”
“I don’t think they’re talking politics at this precise moment,” said Lady Brompton. “Lavinia looks as if she’d just been given a present to unpack.” Once again, she looked Gideon up and down. “Well, rumor said he had a sickly constitution and a stout, clumsy figure. How delightful to find that rumor was wrong!” Suddenly a horrified expression crossed her face. “Oh, but you have nothing to drink!”
Lady Brompton’s cousin looked around, saw a young man standing near us, and nudged him in the ribs. “Mr. Merchant? Make yourself useful, please, and bring us two glasses of Lady Brompton’s special punch. And a glass for yourself, too. We want to hear you perform today.”
“And this is the enchanting Miss Penelope Gray, Viscount Batten’s ward,” said Lady Brompton. “I’d introduce you more thoroughly, Merchant, but she has no dowry to speak of, and you are a fortune-hunter—so I can’t indulge my passion for matchmaking with you two.”
Mr. Merchant, who was a head shorter than me—like many of the men in this room, in fact—didn’t look particularly insulted, but made a gallant bow and said, staring hard at my décolletage, “That doesn’t blind me to the charms of such a delightful young lady.”
“I’m … I’m glad for your sake,” I said uncertainly, and Lady Brompton and her cousin burst out laughing.
“Oh, no—Lord Brompton and Miss Fairfax are advancing on the pianoforte!” said Mr. Merchant, rolling his eyes. “I fear the worst!”
“Quick, our glasses of punch!” ordered Lady Brompton. “No one can endure this fully sober!”
I sipped the punch hesitantly at first, but it tasted wonderful. It had a strong flavor of fruit, a touch of cinnamon, and there was something else in it, too. It made me feel nice and warm inside. For a moment, I was perfectly relaxed, and I began enjoying the sight of this beautifully candlelit room full of well-dressed people. Then Mr. Merchant made a grab for my décolletage from behind, and I almost spilled the punch.
“One of those dear, pretty little roses slipped out of place,” he claimed, with an insinuating grin. I stared at him, baffled. Giordano hadn’t prepared me for a situation like this, so I didn’t know the proper etiquette for dealing with Rococo gropers. I looked at Gideon for help, but he was so deep in conversation with the young widow that he didn’t even notice. If we’d been in my own century, I’d have told Mr. Merchant to keep his dirty paws to himself or I’d hit back, whether or not any little roses had really slipped. But in the circumstances, I felt that his reaction was rather—discourteous. So I smiled at him and said, “Oh, thank you, how kind. I never noticed.”
Mr. Merchant bowed. “Always glad to be of service, ma’am.” The barefaced cheek of it! But in times when women had no vote, I suppose it wasn’t surprising if they didn’t get any other kind of respect either.
The talking and laughter gradually died away as Miss Fairfax, a thin-nosed lady wearing a reed-green dress, went over to the pianoforte, arranged her skirts, and placed her hands on the keys. In fact, she didn’t play badly. It was her singing that was rather disturbing. It was incredibly … well, high-pitched. A tiny bit higher, and you’d have thought she was a dog whistle.
“A refreshing punch, isn’t it?” said Mr. Merchant, topping up my glass. To my surprise (and rather to my relief), he was now unashamedly groping Lady Brompton’s bosom, on the pretext that she had a stray hair lying there. Lady Brompton didn’t seem bothered; she only called him a naughty rogue and tapped his fingers smartly with her fan. (So that’s what fans were really for!) Then she and her cousin took me over to a sofa upholstered in a flowery blue pattern close to the windows and sat me down between them.
“You’ll be safe from sticky fingers here,” said Lady Brompton, patting my knee in a motherly way. “Only your ears will still be in danger.”
“Drink up!” her cousin advised me. “You’re going to need it. Miss Fairfax has only just begun.”
