Mistress in the Regency Ballroom: The Rake's Unconventional Mistress / Marrying the Mistress

She was a beauty, too, once he’d got close enough to see: tall and athletic, and undeserving of the ‘schoolma’am’ he’d taunted her with. Now he would have to find a way to put things right, if only for the sisters’ sakes, his first try having been justifiably rejected. He sighed and stood up, dropping his gown to the floor. The thought of seeing the bubbly twins again did not, for once, give him any particular pleasure.

His chance came quite unexpectedly at church next morning when the two Misses Binney asked him if he could find the time, just once, to attend their supper party in the company of his brother and sister-in-law. ‘It’s several months since you’ve been,’ Miss Phoebe Binney complained, touching his arm with the tip of one gloved finger. ‘You brought Mr Brummell with you last time, remember. Such an interesting man, and such good company.’

‘Dear Miss Phoebe,’ said Rayne, taking her hand between his own, ‘I remember it well, and so does he. But I usually return to barracks on Sunday evening ready for work in the morning.’ From the corner of his eye he could see the tall plume of dark blue feathers on a velvet hat moving towards the west door, and he knew that, if he stayed talking to Miss Phoebe, his chance would be lost.

‘Oh, dear. Then you won’t be able to get to know our latest addition to Richmond’s talent, will you?’ Miss Phoebe’s eyes searched, pausing at the vicar’s latest captive. ‘Miss Boyce, you know. Bart Waverley has promised to bring her with him again. Such a bright star. Her father was Sir Leo Boyce, the architect of those magnificent…Well, of course. Your parents are neighbours, are they not?’

But Rayne’s refusal had already begun to veer like a weathervane towards acceptance. ‘I can return to barracks early tomorrow, Miss Phoebe. Thank you, I look forward to this evening.’ Surrounded by several other females, the plume was fast disappearing down the path towards the lychgate, leaving Rayne in little doubt about the reason for the haste.

The terraced three-storey building on Maids of Honour Row facing the Green was well known to the Richmond set as one of the most popular literary salons outside London, not only for its attraction to ‘blues and wits’, but as a place of political neutrality where complete freedom of speech was actively encouraged. The home of the two elderly Misses Binney, both of them highly intelligent and well educated, its guest lists were noted for assembling people of all ages and experiences, the only requirement being that their manners must be impeccable and that they must contribute to the evening with at least a modicum of cleverness. Needless to say, an invitation to one of their ‘supper parties’ was an honour few ever declined and, as the best society hostesses were celebrated for their brilliant repartee, the contribution of women to the discussions, whatever the subject, was treated with due seriousness.

When Rayne arrived with Lord and Lady Elyot, the drawing room already buzzed with conversation, and the first notes of a song on the piano, followed by a voice, then laughter, made them smile even before the door closed behind them. Heads turned with greetings, absorbing them into the pool of black and grey, ivory and amber, the blue-white flash of diamonds and the wink of a quizzing-glass.

‘Ah, Rayne, old chap. Come over here and tell us about…’

Courteously, he nodded, but preferred to wait a while. This was not the kind of place to which he would normally have come to pursue a woman, nor was he quite sure why he’d accepted the invitation so optimistically when Miss Boyce was unlikely to give him the time of day, let alone engage him in conversation. She was not his type anyway; he preferred his women friends to be affable and accessible, not needing too much effort on his part and certainly not as enraged as she had been by his kiss, even if the reason behind it was controversial. Unsurprisingly, she was a complete innocent and more than likely to stay that way if she was as determined as she appeared to be to redirect her social life. A seminary, of all things. Why, with the blunt Sir Leo had left her in his will, she must be one of the best catches of the decade, but for her non-conformity.

‘Eccentricity is all the rage these days,’ murmured a sweet voice in his ear. ‘There are plenty of them about, if you think on it.’

Rayne smiled. ‘Amelie, my dear, what are you talking about?’

Slipping an arm through his, Lady Elyot squeezed gently. ‘You know well enough what I’m talking about, brother-in-law dearest. I’m talking about the one your eyes could not keep away from in church this morning. The one who sits over there in the corner talking to Miss Austen. It’s not like you to be so hesitant. Nor, come to think of it, was it like her to dash off without coming to speak to us. I don’t suppose she was the reason you changed your mind about delaying your return to Hampton Court, was she?’

He looked down at her, catching the teasing in the lustrous dark eyes, remembering the time, nine years ago, when he and his brother had first seen her in Rundell and Bridges choosing silverware, both of them wanting her, as most men did. Even after bearing three children, she was still a stunningly lovely woman, gentle and compassionate, whose love had tamed his brother’s wild heart as no other woman could have done. Rayne trusted her opinion as much as his brother’s.

‘Nonsense,’ he said with a sideways grin. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? You’ve met her then, have you?’

‘Well, of course I have, love. I was one of the first people she contacted about opening a seminary in Richmond when there are already six others, not to mention all the boys’ academies. As a member of the Vestry, I was probably in the best position to discuss the idea with her, and had she not proposed to make hers different from the others in many ways, I’d not have been so encouraging. Besides, I know her mother, as you do.’

‘What ways?’

‘Subjects about which young women of a marriageable age seem to know so little these days. The art of conversation, for one. That’s sadly neglected by so many mamas. She takes them on visits to places of interest, to art galleries and studios of the leading painters, visits to the House of Commons to hear debates, to the theatre and the royal palaces. She wants them to learn better riding and driving skills, too.You’d be surprised how many young women are unable to ride really well,’ she added, waving to a friend across the room.

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ he said.

‘I believe she has a lot to offer that others don’t. We have Kew just across the park and I’ll lay any odds that half her pupils’ parents have never been to see the gardens, let alone the succession houses. She intends to teach them how to keep household accounts, and to plant a herb garden, and to cook with them.’

‘To cook? What on earth for?’

‘Seton dear, you’re so old-fashioned. What do you expect a wife to do these days? Stand around like a gateau and simper?’

‘Gateaux don’t simper, dear Amelie. And I think it sounds like an expensive exercise, since you ask.’

‘Ah, but Miss Boyce is no fool. She knows one cannot start such a venture on a shoestring, but don’t be supposing her fees are anything like the usual. Nothing but the best for Miss Boyce’s pupils. She had the house extended and refurbished before she moved in, and her pupils are from Richmond’s best families. Colonel and Mrs Lindell’s daughter is one, the vicar’s eldest daughter is another, and Sir Mortimer Derwent’s girl, too. Oh, and Sapphire Melborough from up on the Hill.’

‘Mm…’ said Rayne. ‘Interesting. Quite a handful.’

Whether he meant the entire package or Sapphire Melborough alone, Lady Elyot did not ask, though she might have been able to guess. ‘With her connections,’ she said, ‘she’s had no problem attracting the right kind of client. How do you find Lady Boyce these days? Has she tried to interfere with your friendship with the her twin daughters yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘She will.’

‘She’ll only try it once, Amelie.’

‘Oh, so you’re not so keen, then?’

‘There are plenty of other fish in the sea. Lady B. is a shark.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘but some will be harder to catch, I believe. Like the elder Miss Boyce.’

‘Hah!’ said Rayne, laughing off the suggestion. ‘I wouldn’t even know which bait to use to catch that one. I leave her to the literati, m’dear.’

Lady Elyot withdrew her arm, responding to her friend’s repeated beckoning. ‘Well, you do surprise me, Seton dear. I would not have thought you were too old for a challenge as lovely as that. Stay with the safe twins, then. You can hardly miss there, can you?’ She drifted away before he’d realised he’d forgotten to ask her who the Miss Austen was, talking so earnestly to Miss Lettie Boyce. But her taunt rang in his ears rather like a warning bell, overlapping the cheery male greeting behind his shoulder.

‘Seton, good to see you here. Having an evening off?’

He was aroused from his reverie just in time to catch the remains of a smile on Bart Waverley’s attractive face that had been directed, not at him, but at Miss Boyce, who had clearly been heading in his direction until she saw who he was about to address. Then she had smoothly stopped by the side of Baron Brougham, the Member of Parliament who was talking to Sir Joseph and Lady Banks, greeting all three with a kiss to both cheeks, turning her back upon the two who watched.

‘Oh, that looks rather like a cut to me,’ said Mr Waverley with a laugh. ‘I wonder what we’ve done to deserve that.’

‘I cannot imagine,’ said Rayne. ‘Who is the lady in the corner, Bart? Did I hear the name Austen correctly?’

‘Miss Jane Austen. She’s staying here with the two Misses Binney. Lives over at Chawton. Shall I introduce you?’

‘Yes, if you will. She looks like a homely sort, and I feel a bout of charity coming on.’

‘Then a word in your ear, old friend. A little less of the condescending manner. Miss Austen and most of the ladies here could give you an intellectual run for your money any day of the week, so if you start off in patronising mode, you’ll find yourself tied up like a bull in a pen. Just be warned.’

‘Thank you, Bart. What is Miss Austen’s forte?’

‘Writing,’ said Mr Waverley. ‘Even Prinny is one of her admirers.’

‘Good grief. Then I’d better tread carefully.’

‘The trouble with you, Seton, is that you’ve never fished in deep waters, have you? Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

With the metaphors becoming increasingly visual, Rayne and Mr Waverley waded through the company to reach Miss Austen, only to find that they had been beaten to it by both Lady Elyot and Mr Lawrence the court painter, both of whom had been waiting in line for the chance to speak with her.

Nor was it quite as easy as he had thought to capture a few moments of Miss Boyce’s time when she was surrounded by artists and poets, publishers and politicians, writers, actors and musicians and, in one case, a painted scent-drenched playwright who seemed desperate to hold centre stage until Miss Phoebe and Miss Esme, her sister, drew him kindly towards the supper table, still declaiming King Lear. Rayne eventually discovered her standing with her back to him, listening intently to Mr William Turner talking about his latest tour of the northern counties, a small untidy man whose strong Cockney accent was at odds with those who asked questions of him.

Among others, Miss Boyce wanted to know what his plans were for the Royal Academy Exhibition. ‘You only presented one painting last year, Mr Turner. Will there be more than one this year?’

He obviously knew her, fixing her with an impish glare down his beaked nose, rather like an outraged gnome. ‘Virgil,’ he said. ‘Begins with a D.’

‘Dido?’ said Miss Boyce, promptly. ‘Dido and Aeneas?’

The amusement and applause was as much for the master’s pretend-anger as for Miss Boyce’s sharpness, but he scowled and shook her hand, telling her she had no business to be guessing in one. Then, because there was some turning and teasing, she saw who stood behind her and allowed the ravishing smile to drain away, edging past her friends with a quick look of annoyance over her shoulder, which, Rayne suspected, may have been partly to do with the fact that a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles rested halfway down her nose.

Striding away towards the supper room, she attempted to outpace him, but was prevented by a group of chattering guests who hesitated, then parted to let her through, allowing Rayne to meet her on the other side of them. ‘Miss Boyce,’ he said, ‘may I help you to some supper?’

Rather than move her spectacles up, she tilted back her head to look down her nose, just as Mr Turner had done a moment earlier. ‘Help, Lord Rayne?’ she said, scanning his figure like the proverbial schoolma’am with a tardy child. ‘Help? Why, no, I thank you. Your assistance, I seem to remember, comes at the kind of price I’m not prepared to pay. Go back to your gaming tables and whatever Sunday-evening company you usually keep. You seem to be out of your depth here.’

‘You look even better with spectacles than you do without them,’he replied, refusing to flinch under the lash of her tongue.

‘And you, my lord,’ she said, removing them with a haughty flourish, ‘look much better without them.’

‘You flatter me, ma’am.’

‘No, do I? I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to.’

‘Still way up in the boughs, I see. Isn’t it time you came down?’

‘To your level? Heaven forbid. I fear I should be trampled on.’ Tucking her folded glasses into her reticule, she turned away, heading once again for the supper room.

Rayne’s own brand of cynicism would, at times, have been hard to beat, but this woman’s meteoric put-downs would have silenced most hardened cynics. He followed on, more slowly, watching the swing of her hips under the charcoal-grey beaded half-dress over pale grey satin, the low-cut back and peach-skin shoulders, the long wisps of moonlight-blonde hair escaping from her chignon to curve into her graceful neck. Needled, curious, perplexed, he followed her to the array of food, not sumptuous, but plentiful. But it was not easy to identify the tiny pieces of something, the squares of something else, rolls and balls garnished with greenery, jellies and glasses, and a confusion of cakes.

Without a word, he took the plate from her hand, placed a selection of bite-sized delicacies upon it and gave it back to her, poured two glasses of lemonade and bade her follow him. ‘This way,’ he said, as if he could sense her relief. He found a vacant sofa beside a table and waited for her to be seated before he asked, ‘May I?’

She glanced at the space beside her as if to estimate how much of it he would need, then she nodded, refusing to meet his eyes, taking the lemonade from him with a mechanical ‘thank you’, and placing it on the table. ‘Is this all for me?’ she said, looking at the plate. ‘Where’s yours?’

‘I wondered if we might share it,’ he said, watching for her reaction.

She made a small involuntary move backwards as if trying to steel herself for something very unpleasant. ‘I have suddenly lost my appetite,’ she said. ‘And anyway, such a gesture would be taken to mean that I have accepted you as a close friend, which is very far from the truth, my lord. If it were not for the fact that you are known to be on good terms with my sisters, I would not be sitting here with you like this. Certainly not sharing a supper plate. Mr Waverley usually does this for me.’

‘I accept what you say entirely, Miss Boyce. So may I suggest that, for the time being, you pretend that I am Mr Waverley?’

Dipping her head with a genteel snort of laughter, she turned her dark grey eyes to him at last. ‘Lord Rayne, my imagination is in perfect working order, I assure you, but there are some things it would find quite impossible to tackle. That is one of them.’ As she spoke, her eyes found the black frockcoat and white breeches of her friend, resting there affectionately. ‘Mr Waverley’s manners are faultless,’ she said. Picking up one of the tiny squares of pastry, she placed it absently in her mouth, still watching until, catching her companion’s amused expression, she realised what she had done. Instantly, she stopped chewing and blinked.

‘There, now. That wasn’t difficult, was it? Having vented some of your spleen, you’ve found your appetite.’

Swinging her head away, she finished the mouthful. ‘Fudge!’she snapped. ‘I have not vented my spleen, as you put it, in years. In fact, I’m not sure where it is, so long has it been unvented. Here, have one of those. They’re quite good. But don’t take it as a peace offering. You may be the bees’ knees with my sisters, my lord, but if they knew what I know, they’d not be so convinced that you’re as gentlemanly as all that.’

‘Yet you have agreed to sit and share supper with me,’ he said, taking two of the tasty pieces.

‘Don’t be bamboozled by that,’ she said.

‘Why not? Is it not true?’

‘Because,’ she said, taking another piece and studying it, ‘there is a limit to the length of time I can stay blue-devilled, that’s why. I have rarely had reason to hold a grudge against anyone, so I lack the practice. I suppose it’s a form of laziness, but I find the effort not worth the reward. I might have been able to keep up a high dudgeon for a few more weeks if there were not so many people known to both of us who would wonder why I insisted on being so uncivil to you. Which I could.’ The piece disappeared into her mouth at last.

‘Oh, I have absolutely no doubt of that, Miss Boyce.’

‘But,’ she munched, ‘I should find it so tedious to explain. Naturally, I can accept that men of your…experience…may become confused from time to time about who to bestow good manners on, and who not to. That’s not the problem. The problem is that when one is on the receiving end of shabby behaviour, one tends to take it personally. If I’d known you had such an aversion to women like me, my lord, I would never have ventured near the parade ground yesterday. Not in a million years. And had I known that your tolerance extends only to women of my sisters’ sort, pretty, gregarious women, you may be sure I would have taken my pupils round to the back entrance. So, you see, it’s not so much that I’ve decided to forgive and forget how insulting you can be towards some women and mannerly towards others, depending on who is watching, but that I really cannot be bothered with people of your sort. The world is so full of really interesting people to spend time with, don’t you agree?’

Taking the glass of lemonade, she downed half the contents in one go, replaced the glass on the table and, withdrawing her spectacles from her reticule, replaced them on her nose. Then, treating him to an innocent wide-eyed stare, she rose. ‘Thank you for sharing your supper with me,’ she said sweetly, and walked away to join a group, linking her arm through one of them like a favourite niece.

Leaning back, Rayne let out a silent whistle like a head of steam being released. ‘Whew!’ he murmured. ‘The lady is certainly not stuck for words, is she? I think there may be more work to be done here, old chap, before this episode can be closed.’

Chapter Three

Creamy white pages danced with shadows. Hovering like a merlin, the loaded quill point swooped, squeaking on the line, eager to tell what it knew.

Even George Brummell himself would have approved of the cravat, spotless white, perfectly creased against the bronzed outdoor skin around the jaw, touching the dark curl of hair before the ears. One could not tell whether the hair had been combed or not, but the way it rumpled on to the forehead might have taken others some time to achieve. A broad forehead, straight brows, deep watchful eyes, still mocking, a nose neither hooked nor bulbous, a wide mouth without fullness, but showing perfect teeth. Taller than me, for a change, and, I suspect, no padding upon the shoulders. My sisters say he boxes, shoots, fences and hunts, and this I can believe for he has the athlete’s grace and assuredness, thighs like a wrestler’s under skintight white breeches, well-shaped calves. The tables were turned, this time. I was amongst people I knew and liked, at ease and not inclined to sham a confusion I did not feel. I see no need to like him for their sakes, but I will say that, as far as looks go, he must be called a Nonpareil. Would that his manners matched his appearance. My sisters must see quite another side to him, which makes one wonder which side is the right side and which the reverse. Outwardly, some semblance of politeness must be maintained, I suppose. In Miss Austen, for example, I detected no other side than that which I saw her present to everyone, whether they knew of her books or not. Such a delightful lady, well into her thirties, she has asked me to call on her tomorrow before her return to Chawton. To be granted a private meeting—what could be more excessively civil?

As usual, the cathartic labour of love released her pent-up thoughts and tumbled them on to the page, ready for use in another form in the story she had only recently begun. It was work that had to take second place nowadays to the needs of the seminary, still occupying several hours of each day. Apart from the emotional satisfaction of daily creating her own characters and scenes, the financial reward was a bonus she had never anticipated. The Infidel she had sold for £80 to the publisher who had seen in her writing an extraordinary talent, and the first edition had sold out in less than a year, bringing in a reward of £200. That had been more than enough to spur her into the next one, Waynethorpe Manor, just published with a subscription list that took up the first three mottled pages and glowing reviews from The Lady’s Magazine, and even The Lady’s Monthly Museum, usually cautious about what it recommended.

For a woman possessed of such an independent spirit, the delight of being well paid to do what she most enjoyed was a welcome boost to her confidence that had given her the courage to set out along her own path. Her father’s legacy and her uncle’s active encouragement had made it possible. Now she was truly a woman of means, and if that brought with it a certain non-conformity that made her family uncomfortable, then it would have to be so. She could devise her own romances and walk away from them without the slightest loss of sleep.

Her enthusiastic publisher, Mr William Lake, had never met his most popular novelist face to face, however. Not even Letitia could bring herself to talk to him about her work, so Mr Waverley was the one who took her manuscripts to Leadenhall Street, to convey Mr Lake’s comments and to negotiate on her behalf. This had been, so far, a very satisfactory arrangement which meant that, for his services, Bart was usually given his own copies to read before anyone else, and a vicarious share in her wild success. Knowing the author only as Miss Lydia Barlowe, the publisher had agreed that the creator of The Infidel should be known only as ‘A Lady of Quality’, since it was abundantly clear to him that, with a friend of such superior breeding as the Honourable Bartholomew Waverley, that was what she was sure to be. It was not his business, he assured the go-between, to probe any further.

Leaving her young charges to the Monday-morning care of the two elocution, play-reading and singing tutors, Letitia set out alone to the Misses Binney’s house, wearing a favourite but rather worn velvet pelisse of faded lilac, keeping the nippy April breeze out with a swansdown tippet inside the neckline. She had noticed last night that Miss Austen had worn a long-sleeved brown gown trimmed with black lace, an acknowledgement of the death of the Queen’s brother last month.

This morning, the mood had lightened to a white gauze gown under a sleeveless spencer of pale green quilted silk complemented by a soft Paisley shawl and satin slippers made to match. Partly covered by a pretty lace cap, her dark curls framed her sweet face, though, in the daylight, Letitia could see shadows beneath her brilliant eyes and the delicate, almost transparent skin that she understood had once been flawless. Life, she saw, had not passed Miss Austen by without leaving its mark upon her, though she moved with the grace of a much younger woman, her welcoming smile as open as ever.