The Outrageous Debutante
- -
- 100%
- +
The two ladies exchanged smiles, their differences reconciled.
‘Let us go and discuss the matter with your father. Who, you will notice, has absented himself from all this.’ She waved her hand in an expansive gesture at the chaos around her feet, then handed her list with great willingness to one of the footmen. ‘And then, dear Thea, when we have some funds at our disposal, perhaps a stroll down Bond Street would be in order.’
On the following afternoon Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux and her daughter, with Agnes Drew discreetly, if a trifle smugly, in attendance, applied the knocker to Lady Beatrice Faringdon’s imposing establishment in Berkeley Square. Expected, they were admitted and ushered into the lady’s withdrawing room.
‘Drusilla. My dear.’ Lady Beatrice surged to her feet with a rustle of the puce damask that shrouded her opulent figure and clashed uncomfortably with her fading red hair. ‘And this must be your daughter. Theodora.’ She held out a hand in greeting, then halted, the hand falling to her side, and raised her lorgnette to deadly effect. She did not need to apply the lens as her eyesight was perfect. But the gesture was guaranteed to make an impression. She levelled the glass at her friend’s daughter, surveyed her with a critical thoroughness from head to foot, and drew in a breath.
‘Well. Caro Lamb, as I live and breathe!’
Which unwise comment was guaranteed to bring about a distinct pause in the proceedings. Lady Caroline Ponsonby, as she was before her marriage to William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, was a spoiled capricious beauty whose appearance, behaviour and wild, tempestuous affair with Lord Byron some years previously had scandalised a notoriously decadent society.
Theodora took it upon herself to reply, with the politest of smiles, before her mother could intervene. But there was a noticeable edge to her voice and a glint in her eye, which might be interpreted as a challenge to their hostess. ‘I hope that my upbringing has been more respectable than that of Lady Melbourne. It is certainly not my intention to distress my relatives by my outrageous behaviour or to take the town by storm in quite the same manner as that unfortunate lady. I would consider it exceptionally bad ton either to fly into a fit of rage in public, or to attempt to slash my wrists with broken glass.’
Lady Beatrice actually coloured at the implied set-down.
‘Forgive me, my dear girl! Drusilla! It was not my intention to be so ill mannered. It is just … The hair, you understand. So fair … and so short. And so slender a figure. A mere fleeting impression, I do assure you.’ She thought for a moment and raised her glass again. ‘You have not been ill, have you?’
‘Of course she has not.’ Lady Drusilla stepped into the breach with calming words, a gracious smile for Lady Beatrice and a narrowed glance toward her daughter. ‘We have travelled extensively in recent months in Arabia to see some of the archaeological sites. Theodora found it expedient to cut her hair. The sand is a great trial, you understand, and not kind to long hair. Theodora is always excessively healthy!’
‘Of course. Forgive me, dear Drusilla …’ Lady Beatrice almost gushed.
‘And is nothing like poor Caro Lamb.’
‘Indeed no. My wits must have abandoned me.’ Lady Beatrice managed to recover her air of self-assurance and smiled with a trifle more warmth at the young lady who still regarded her with the coolest of expressions. ‘And so charmingly dressed. I remember seeing Lady Melbourne in the most inappropriate gowns—if you could call them that—with not a stitch on beneath them, I warrant. Little wonder that she always looked as if a brisk breeze would demolish her. Some of the young girls today …’ Lady Beatrice shook her head and brought her thoughts in line. ‘But that is of no account. I am so delighted to see you again. Come and sit. And you, Theodora. How long is it since we last met, Drusilla?’
‘Far too long to contemplate!’
The difficulties over, the three ladies sat, the two older ones intent on catching up over a dish of tea. Their paths had not crossed since school girls at Miss Felton’s Academy for Young Ladies in Bath. Drusilla Hatton, as a daughter of wealthy parents, had even then nursed ambitions to travel and experience for herself what life could offer. Beatrice had been destined for a Season in London and as advantageous a marriage as she could achieve. The two girls had parted with many tears and protestations of undying loyalty. They would keep in touch. But they had not. And so of necessity the ladies had grown apart.
As the two ladies set to reminisce, Thea let her thoughts wonder, listening with only half an ear to the less than exciting doings of her parent at the Academy in Bath. What could they find to talk about that was of interest after all these years? It all sounded desperately dull and hedged about with restriction and parental expectations. She hid a yawn with considerable expertise. It reminded her of the worst of formal diplomatic receptions where nothing happened to relieve the tedium and no one had anything of moment to say after the introductions had been made. Thea fervently wished that she had found another occupation for the afternoon—until a stray comment from Lady Beatrice caught her attention.
‘You had a sister, I remember. A year or so older, at school with us. Mary, I think.’
Thea’s eyes snapped to her mother’s face.
‘Yes. You have a good memory.’
I did not know that my mother had a sister! Why did I not know? Lady Drusilla’s reply was smooth enough, and yet Thea sensed the slightest of hesitations, a hint of reserve in her voice. She turned her attention fully.
‘Does she live in London?’ Lady Beatrice went on to enquire.
‘No. Mary lived her whole life in the country. And is now dead. Some years ago.’
‘I am sorry. Did she perhaps have family?’
‘Yes. Two … two children. But we had not kept in touch. There was … an estrangement. Her marriage was not an easy one. I was not made welcome in her house.’
‘You need not tell me about difficult marriages …’
The conversation moved on, leaving Thea to wonder about this branch of the family of which she was completely unaware.
The visit drew to a natural close when the ladies ran out of events and people to recall, criticise and chuckle over.
‘As you know, we do not expect to remain long in London.’ Lady Drusilla drew on her gloves in preparation to making her departure. ‘But it is my wish to see my daughter married. You were kind enough to offer to ease our entrée into London society. I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently, Beatrice.’
‘It will be my pleasure. At the end of the week I have an invitation to Lady Aston’s drum. All the world and his wife will be there, I expect. It has been my intention to get up a small party—just family and close friends, you understand. I am expecting my nephew Nicholas to arrive here from the country any day—that is, if his recent correspondence rings true. But he is a difficult boy to pin down, with a mind of his own, and getting him to put in an appearance in town is more aggravating than you could possibly believe …’ Lady Beatrice shook her head and huffed in indulgent irritation at the vagaries of her wiful relative. ‘But that aside—you, my dear Drusilla, must come as my guest. It will be the perfect opportunity for you. And for Theodora to make some acquaintances.’
‘We shall be delighted.’ Lady Drusilla rose to her feet. ‘It is my intention to entertain from Upper Brook Street, but we are not yet fully settled, as you might imagine.’
‘Perhaps I might suggest—’ Lady Beatrice cast another assessing glance towards Thea, who stood demurely beside her mother as if the visit had provided her with nothing but delight ‘—the matter of suitable dresses for dear Theodora. Not that she does not look charming. But …’
They both eyed the lady in question as if she were a strange object from antiquity.
‘I thought she looked particularly fetching this afternoon.’ Lady Drusilla stood back to take in the overall impression created by a high-waisted walking dress with long tight sleeves and a ruched hem in an eye-catching emerald and cream stripe.
‘Yes. There is no question of that …’ Beatrice was quick to soothe. ‘But not quite in the way of a débutante.’
Lady Drusilla gave a little sigh. ‘I have to admit that my daughter is not perhaps quite in the way of the usual débutante! I fear that it is my fault.’
‘How old are you, my dear?’ Lady Beatrice asked.
‘I am twenty-one, Lady Beatrice.’ Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Thea could not prevent herself from adding, ‘I fear that I have no control over that unfortunate situation.’
‘Mmm.’ The lorgnette came into play again. Lady Beatrice came to a rapid and sensible decision. ‘Well. We will not allow it to be a problem. Perhaps we should say that Theodora made her curtsy to the Polite World in Constantinople. I am sure there were any number of official functions there which she attended.’
‘Indeed she did. She helped me entertain on numerous occasions. She is perfectly versed in how to go on in such circles, so I have no fears on that account.’
Thea set her teeth against being talked over and around in such a fashion but, more amused than discomfited, allowed the ladies to continue their plans.
‘She will need some suitable dresses. With a less—shall we say, exotic flavour. I am not sure what it is, but … Such a vibrant shade with such intricate decoration is not quite suitable for a young girl …’
‘Very well. I bow to your judgement. Perhaps tomorrow morning we should visit the modistes in Bond Street. If you could recommend …?’
‘I shall do more than recommend, dear Drusilla. I shall be delighted to accompany you …’
And so it was all settled. Theodora would make her curtsey at Lady Aston’s drum, tastefully dressed, as far a possible, à la jeune fille.
The ladies parted in complete accord and satisfaction.
‘Why did I not know of your sister? That I have cousins?’ The two Wooton-Devereux ladies strolled home along Park Lane, parasols angled to shield their skin from the rays of the sun.
‘The subject never came up.’ Thea detected the slightest of shrugs as her mother replied. Nor was she fooled by the bland expression on her face.
‘Mama!’
‘We—Mary and I—were estranged,’ Lady Drusilla explained further. ‘I found it … painful. As I told Beatrice, we had had no contact for many years.’
‘But you knew that she had died.’
‘Yes. It was reported in the Morning Post. When we were in Paris.’
‘I just thought you would have mentioned it—the fact that there were members of the family whom I had never met.’
‘I suppose that I did not see any reason to do so. I had no intention of picking up the connection with that side of the family. There was nothing more sinister than that, I do assure you, Thea. Such estrangements happen in families. You have only to look at your father’s cousin. He has not spoken to his own son for the best part of a decade.’
‘I see.’
‘Mary and I simply did not get on.’
Thea let the matter drop, but did not forget it. And it struck her some time later that during the whole of Lady Drusilla’s explanation her eyes, usually so direct and forthright, had never once met those of her daughter.
Chapter Three
Lady Beatrice finally gave up on appearances, closed Miss Austen’s Emma, which she had been assured was most refined and enjoyable, but over which she had been yawning, and allowed her eyes to close. After an exhausting morning spent choosing a new pair of evening gloves to wear at Lady Aston’s drum, Lady Beatrice desired nothing more than to settle on to a comfortable sofa in a quiet parlour with the shades drawn and rest her eyes. She certainly had no intention of being at home to visitors. Instead, within minutes, she found herself playing hostess to Judith, who arrived in a flurry of energy to discuss with her mama their new friends. And then, following quickly on her heels, Lord Nicholas Faringdon.
‘Nicholas. I had quite given up hope of seeing you this week. When did you arrive?’ Lady Beatrice stretched out her hands in sincere pleasure, but did not bother to struggle to her feet. ‘Ring the bell, Judith, for tea.’
‘Would I dare ignore your summons, Aunt? I came yesterday evening.’ Nicholas strode across the room to where his aunt was seated, raised her hands and kissed her fingers with rare grace. ‘You look in excellent health, as ever.’
‘Never mind my health! Let me look at you.’ But she smiled almost girlishly at her nephew’s elegant gesture as she surveyed him from head to foot. It was a relief to see him in town rig. For although he was no dandy and might have rusticated at Burford for over a year, there was nothing of the unfashionable country squire in the gentleman who graced her withdrawing room. The close-fitting coat of dark blue superfine, with all the hallmark of Weston’s exquisite tailoring, was unexceptional. As were the pale biscuit pantaloons, polished Hessians and the sober but tasteful waistcoat. His neckcloth had been arranged with meticulous attention to detail. Altogether, a Man of Fashion.
‘Very fine!’ was the only comment she made. ‘My letter was not in any way a summons. Merely a request. And, yes, you have been ignoring my advice for any number of years. Ever since you attained your majority, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘I was not aware that I was so disobliging.’ Nicholas turned to drop a light kiss on his cousin’s cheek. ‘Judith—and how is the heir to the Painscastle acres?’
‘Giles is in excellent form. You must come to visit us, of course.’ She patted the seat next to her. ‘It is good to have you here Nick. We had thought you were becoming buried alive at Burford. Don’t tell me that you have a young lady there who lures you into rural seclusion.’
‘I shall tell you no such thing.’ He showed his teeth in a quick smile, refusing to be baited.
‘So you don’t have a lady who is the object of your gallantry to while away the winter evenings?’ She laughed, slanted him an arch look, glinting with mischief. ‘I cannot believe that the ladies of Herefordshire are so blind to your charms. No cosy armful tucked away in the depths of Aymestry?’
‘Judith! Such levity! It does not become you.’ Beatrice frowned, rescued Nicholas and steered the conversation into the area of her own choosing. An area no less full of subtle—or not so subtle—suggestion.
‘Now, tell us—how is Henry? And Eleanor. We have not heard for some months.’
‘Hal is very well.’ Nicholas leaned back and prepared to do his bit for family news and deflect any personal comments from either his aunt or his cousin. ‘And he is now in possession of a thriving business, it seems. They have moved into the house. Eleanor said she was delighted to have her own front door at last. Her letter was full of furnishings and decorations as I recall. Hal’s pockets will have to be bottomless if she is to have her way.’
‘Eleanor is in an interesting condition, I believe.’
‘Yes. She is. They are very happy.’
‘As they deserve to be.’ Beatrice nodded. ‘What a blessing it was that they escaped the toils of that truly appalling man Edward Baxendale.’
Baxendale!
The name would have twisted Lord Nicholas’s lips into a snarl if he had not been sitting in the civilised surroundings of Lady Beatrice’s withdrawing room. Even now, after two years or more, it had the power to heat his blood and fill him with immoderate fury.
Sir Edward Baxendale had claimed that the marriage of Eleanor to Nicholas’s eldest brother Thomas was illegal, and thus her baby son not, as all believed, the Marquis of Burford, but stained with the stigma of illegitimacy. He’d presented his own wife Octavia, with diabolical cunning, as Thomas’s true wife, the true Marchioness of Burford. Since Thomas had died in a tragic accident, the shocking tale had cast the family into instant scandal, only salvaged by the efforts of Nicholas and his brother Hal proving that Eleanor’s marriage to Thomas had indeed been valid and Baxendale nothing but a malevolent trickster. Hal had then declared his love for Eleanor and, with typical highhandedness, taken her and the baby off to New York. But all could so easily have been a disaster if Baxendale had triumphed. So much pain deliberately inflicted by the greed of one man. No wonder Nicholas detested Sir Edward with every sinew in his body, every drop of blood.
By sheer effort of will, Nicholas forced his muscles to relax, his hands to unclench, as Lady Beatrice continued with her social catechism, unaware of the impact of her chance comment.
‘And Tom. He will be more than three years old now.’
‘Four more like. Time passes. Eleanor said that Hal was teaching him to ride.’
‘Do you think they will ever return?’ Judith asked a little wistfully.
‘No. I do not. I think Hal’s life is there in America.’
‘And the estate?’ Disapproval was clear in Beatrice’s tight-lipped mouth. She simply could not accept that the young Marquis of Burford should be allowed to live in America, far from his family, his land and his responsibilities. It was beyond anything. ‘What will happen to it? It is all very well—’
‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas broke in before she could get into full flow. This was not a new situation over which they disagreed. ‘That is for the future. For the present it is carefully administered. I shall not permit anything other. What Hal will choose to do is entirely his own concern. And nothing to do with me—or, with respect, with you, Aunt Beatrice!’
Which statement, Lady Beatrice decided with something akin to shock, was certainly guaranteed to put her in her place!
‘No. And of course you will act in the best interests of the family. I would expect no less and I intended no criticism of your trusteeship.’ Beatrice controlled her concerns, leaned over to pat his arm. ‘There is no point in discussing it further. Forgive me, Nicholas.’ With respect, indeed! Now here was a novelty! ‘Now, since you are here at last, perhaps you can escort us to Almack’s one evening.’ She hesitated only momentarily before launching in. ‘There are some very pretty débutantes this Season.’
‘I am sure there are.’
‘One or two are quite exceptional. Sir John Carver’s daughter, for instance.’
Nicholas raised his hand, turning a stern gaze on his aunt. His eyes, often so friendly and full of laughter, had the quality of ice. As had his voice. He may as well, he decided, nip this in the bud immediately. ‘Aunt Beatrice, I wish that you would not. I am perfectly capable of selecting a wife for myself without any help from you, when I decide that I wish to marry. I agree with you that I should consider it, but it will be in the time of my choosing, as will be the identity of the lady who I eventually ask to become my bride. Do we have an understanding?’
There it was, laid out for her. Beatrice stiffened at the snub, taken aback for the second time since Nicholas had entered the room. She had forgotten that her nephew was no longer a young and impressionable boy. It was so easy to forget when he was the youngest in the family. But the years had moved on and he had put her firmly in her place twice within as many minutes with a perfect exhibition of suave, cool—and implacable—good manners. Beatrice took in the stern mouth, the austere features, and wisely retreated.
‘Of course. I would not dream of interfering in your affairs, my boy—’
‘Yes, you would. But I ask that you do not. I would not wish to feel obliged to refuse your kind invitations. And I will if necessary.’ He was clearly not prepared to compromise over this. ‘I am sure that you take my meaning?’
Oh, yes. She took his meaning very well—and realised that she must reassess Lord Nicholas Faringdon. She raised her hands and let them fall in her lap. ‘Of course. I will do nothing that you do not wish for, Nicholas.’
‘I should be grateful, Aunt.’ He deliberately changed the subject. ‘So, how is Sher? I have not seen or heard from him for well over a year.’
Lord Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon. Undoubtedly the black sheep of the otherwise impeccable Faringdon family. And the bane of Lady Beatrice’s life.
‘My son Joshua is still in Paris.’
‘Is he well?’
‘I presume.’ The response from the less than doting mama was tight-lipped. ‘All we hear is scandal and gossip.’
‘He has a new mistress,’ Judith added with an irrepressible twinkle. ‘An actress, we understand.’
‘I think that is not a subject for my withdrawing room, Judith. Joshua will go to the devil in his own way. There is no need for us to show interest in it. Now … did you know that Simon has been to Newmarket? One of his horses is expected to do particularly well on the Turf this year …’
The conversation passed into calmer waters, Nicholas turning to Judith for news of Simon and the promising stallion.
Beatrice watched the pair as they sat at ease, reliving old times, discussing friends in common. It was time Nicholas married. He needed a family. Not merely the responsibility of the estate—God knew he had enough of that!—but responsibility for a wife and children. He had been too long pleasing himself. He needed someone to ruffle his equilibrium, to shake his self-confidence. It appeared that he could be as difficult and opinionated as all male Faringdons. Look at Henry. A law unto himself, taking himself and Eleanor and the child off to New York without a word to anyone! And as for her own dearest husband, now long deceased, and her son … whom she did not even wish to contemplate. They were all the same—excessively handsome with all the charm and address in the world, but all with that fatal streak of arrogance and self-worth. And Nicholas, to make matters more difficult, had that cool reserve which was difficult to shake. When that had developed she did not know, but the aura of cold detachment and control coated him with a hard brilliance.
At least Judith was easy to deal with—she was like an open book! Beatrice watched with affection her daughter’s expressive face as she laughed at some comment from Nicholas. That was from her side of the family, of course, just as much as the red hair and green eyes. Nicholas was a Faringdon from his dark hair and equally dark brows to his toes of his polished boots. And he needed someone who would challenge his intellect and keep him on those toes—give him something to think about other than farming and cattle and such.
She watched, tapping her lorgnette against her lips as she studied him, the lad whom she had known from birth and had watched grow into this spectacularly handsome young man. Even tempered, easy to converse with, but underneath … Well, they said still waters … She was quite sure that he could acquire a bride with an arch of those expressive brows or a crook of his finger. But not any débutante would do. He needed someone to stir him out of his complacence. He was too much in the habit of going his own way with no one to question his decisions or his opinion.
Lady Beatrice blinked as the thought slid so simply, so effortlessly into her mind, the image as clear as an etching on crystal. Now there was an interesting prospect. Beauty. Money. Excellent breeding. But also strong-willed, independent, outspoken and … Well! What could be better?
‘Nicholas …’ She interrupted the exchange of news between her nephew and her daughter. ‘Will you be very busy during your stay in town?’
‘Nothing out of the way. I have an appointment to see Hoskins. My tailor will no doubt see me. Friends, of course. I have no definite plans. Why?’
‘No reason.’ Her smile was pure innocence. ‘Perhaps you would care to attend a number of social engagements with us? An extra gentleman is always valuable in a party. And you dance so well.’
‘Why not? Since you are concerned to flatter me …’ His tone and demeanour had reclaimed their habitual warmth, the chill forgotten. He saw nothing suspicious in Beatrice’s bland smile and innocuous request, believing that he had made his opinions on the matter of marriage quite clear. Why should he harbour suspicions? And it would be good to circulate in society again.