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Privately, she thought the girl’s looks should carry the day. Judith, in a ball dress of white crêpe with velvet ribbons spangled with gold, and her hair in a myriad of loose curls confined by a ribbon with a bow over her left eye, was a vision to please even the most exacting critic. If only she would be a little conciliating!
The evening began badly. Mrs Scattergood was so much taken up with her own and Judith’s toilet that she had no glance to spare for Peregrine. It was not until the carriage that bore all three of them was half-way to King Street that she suddenly discovered him to be wearing long pantaloons tightly strapped under his shoes.
She gave a muffled shriek. ‘Perry! Good God, was there ever anyone more provoking? Peregrine, how dared you put those things on? Oh, you must stop the carriage at once! No one – no one, do you understand?
– not the Prince Regent himself ! is admitted to Almack’s in pantaloons! Knee-breeches, you stupid, tiresome boy! You will ruin everything. Pull the checkstring this instant! We must set you down.’
It was vain for Peregrine to argue; he did not realise how inflexible were the rules at Almack’s; he must go home and change his dress – and even that would not do if he came to Almack’s one minute after eleven: he would be turned away.
Judith broke into laughter, but her afflicted chaperon, bund ling Peregrine out into the street, assured her it was no laughing matter.
But when the two ladies at last arrived at Almack’s it did not seem to Judith that the club was worth all this to-do. There was nothing remarkable. The rooms were spacious, but not splendid; the refreshments, which consisted of tea, orgeat, and lemonade, with cakes and bread and butter, struck Miss Taverner as being on the meagre side. Dancing, and not cards, was the object of the club; no high stakes were allowed, so that the card-room contained only the dowagers, and such moderate gentlemen as were content to play whist for sixpenny points.
Lady Sefton, Princess Esterhazy, and Countess Lieven were the only patronesses present. The Austrian ambassador’s wife was a little roundabout lady of great vivacity; Countess Lieven, reputed to be the best-dressed and most knowledgeable lady in London, looked to be clever, and almost as proud as Mrs Drummond-Burrell. Neither she nor the Princess were acquainted with Mrs Scattergood, and beyond staring with the peculiar rudeness of the well-bred at Miss Taverner, she at least took no further interest in her. The Princess went so far as to demand of her partner, Sir Henry Mildmay, who the Golden Rod might be, and upon hearing her name, laughed, and said rather audibly: ‘Oh, Mr Mills’s Milkmaid!’
It was left for Lady Sefton to come forward, which indeed she did, as soon as she perceived the new arrivals. Several persons were presented to Miss Taverner, and she presently found herself going down the dance with Lord Molyneux, her ladyship’s son.
She had not heard Princess Esterhazy’s comment, but she had caught the expressive look that went with it. There was an angry lump in her throat; her eyes were more than usually brilliant. She looked magnificent, but so stern that she put Lord Molyneux in a panic. The sight of Mr John Mills in conversation with a lady by one of the windows did nothing to soften Miss Taverner’s mood. Lord Molyneux felt nothing but relief when the dance came to an end, and having led her to a chair against the wall escaped on the pretext of procuring a glass of lemonade for her.
It still lacked ten minutes to eleven, but although people were continuing to arrive there was no sign of Peregrine. Judith guessed him to be only too glad of an excuse not to come, for he did not care to dance, but she had never felt more lonely in her life, and hoped every moment to see him walk in.
Mrs Scattergood, having met with several of her friends, was deep in conversation, but broke off suddenly to dart up to her charge. ‘Mr Brummell!’ she hissed in Judith’s ear. ‘Do pray, my love, hold yourself up, and if he should speak to you I implore you remember what it may mean!’
The very mention of any dandy’s name was quite enough at this moment to fan Miss Taverner’s wrath to a flame. She looked anything but conciliating, and when she turned her eyes to the door and observed the gentleman who had just entered, an expression of undisguised contempt swept over her face.
A lady in a purple turban adorned with an aigrette bore down upon Mrs Scattergood, and drew her aside with so much condescension that Judith would hardly have been surprised to learn that it was Queen Charlotte herself. She turned away to enjoy to the full her first sight of Mr George Bryan Brummell.
She could scarcely forbear to laugh, for surely there could be no greater figure of fun. He stood poised for a moment in the doorway, a veritable puppet, tricked out in such fine clothes that he cast the two gentlemen who were entering behind him in the shade. It could not be better. From his green satin coat to his ridiculously high-heeled shoes he was just what she had expected him to be. His conceit, evidently, was unbounded. He surveyed the room through his quizzing-glass, held at least a foot away from his eye, and went mincing up to Princess Esterhazy, and made her a flourishing bow.
Judith could not take her eyes from him; he was not looking her way, so she might permit herself to smile. Indeed, the wrath had died out of her face, and given place to a twinkling merriment. So this was the King of Fashion!
She was recalled to a sense of her surroundings by a quiet voice at her elbow. ‘I beg pardon, ma’am: I think you have dropped your fan?’
She turned with a start to find that a gentleman whom she recognised as one of the two who had entered behind the Beau was standing beside her, with her fan in his hand.
She took it with a word of thanks, and one of her clear, appraising looks. She liked what she saw. The gentleman was of medium height, with light brown hair brushed à la Brutus, and a countenance which, without being precisely handsome, was generally pleasing. There was a good deal of humour about his mouth, and his eyes, which were grey and remarkably intelli gent, were set under a pair of most expressive brows. He was very well-dressed, but so unobtrusively that Judith would have been hard put to it to describe what he was wearing.
He returned her look with something of drollery in his eyes. ‘It is Miss Taverner, is it not?’ he asked.
She noticed that his voice was particularly good, and his manner quiet and unassuming. She said with decided friendliness: ‘Yes, I am Miss Taverner, sir. I don’t know how you should recognise me though, for I think we have not met, have we?’
‘No, I have been out of town this week,’ he replied. ‘I should have called, of course.Your guardian is a friend of mine.’
This circumstance was hardly a credential in Miss Taverner’s opinion, but she merely said: ‘You are very good, sir. But how came you to know me?’
‘You have been described to me, Miss Taverner. I could not mistake.’
A flush stole up into her cheeks; she raised her eyes and looked very steadily at him. ‘By Mr Mills, perhaps, sir?’
One of his mobile brows went up. ‘No, ma’am, not by Mr Mills. May I ask – or is it an impertinence? – why you should have thought so?’
‘Mr Mills has made it his business to describe me in so many quarters that it was a natural conclusion,’ said Judith bitterly.
‘Indeed!’ He looked down at her rather penetratingly. ‘I am such an inquisitive creature, Miss Taverner. I hope you mean to tell me why you are looking so very angry,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘I should not, I know. But I must warn you, sir, it is not the fashion to be seen talking to me.’
Both brows went up at that. ‘On the authority of Mr Mills?’ inquired the gentleman.
