Scandal in the Regency Ballroom: No Place For a Lady / Not Quite a Lady

‘Indeed he has.’ The Viscount was enthusiastic. ‘It’s what’s keeping us all up now, the hope we can get at least two outings in while the weather holds.’

‘I really do not understand the attraction,’ Bree said doubtfully, still uneasy that they would try and race. ‘I expect you all have beautiful rigs and very fine teams.’

‘That’s just the point.’ Lansdowne caught the end of his whip neatly round the handle in a way that had Bree itching to learn the trick of it. ‘We spend the money, but is it our horses and our well-balanced rigs that make us drive well? How do we know? If we take a stagecoach, which, forgive me, is not built to the same standards, and have to take pot luck with teams that are not bred for looks or speed, then the man with the better skills will be obvious.’

‘It’s more of a challenge, then?’ Bree could think of one gentleman who more than lived up to it.

‘That’s right,’ Lansdowne agreed cheerfully. ‘Tell me, do you drive, Miss Mallory?’ Once she had recovered from the inexplicable coughing fit, Bree was able to assure him that she was capable of managing a phaeton or a curricle, and to convince herself that admitting to being able to handle the reins of a park carriage did not brand her as a hoyden who drove coaches.

She had enjoyed her drive with the Viscount. Then this morning Georgy had arrived in her barouche to ask whether Bree would like to visit Ackermann’s Repository with her to chose some prints. It has seemed only courteous to agree, although that made a second day when she would be absent from the Mermaid.

‘I’ll show Rosa around, settle her into the office,’ Piers had promised firmly. ‘You go and enjoy yourself.’ Really, if she had not known better, she would have thought Piers and Rosa were in a conspiracy to give her a holiday.

Georgy was intent on buying enough images to make a fashionable print room out of a closet between her dressing room and her husband’s, but the necessity to buy what seemed like hundreds of prints from the shop did not distract her from the lure of fashion magazines, a stack of which were now waiting, oozing temptation, on Bree’s bedside table.

It seemed strange to have a female friend, especially one as au fait with society as Lady Lucas. She seemed to have forgotten that Bree was single and cheerfully chatted of the latest crim. con. scandals, her falling out with her husband over her milliner’s bill and her scheme to put him in a better mood by wearing a quite outrageously naughty négligée she had just purchased.

‘It is the sheerest pink lawn, with deep rose ribbons and lots of lace, which makes it look as though it is quite decent until one moves and then—oh la, la! Charles is going to be beside himself.’

Bree thought of what effect such a garment might have on Max and found the very thought brought a blush to her cheeks. It also brought a very unwelcome tingling feeling in all those places he had kissed and she tried to calm herself by thinking how very unflattering such a garment would be to her complexion in pink. Deep blue, on the other hand …

‘And how is Dysart?’ Georgy demanded, uncannily echoing her train of thought as they sat back in the barouche and regarded their morning’s shopping with satisfaction.

‘I have no idea. I saw him briefly the day after the ball when he called, but that is all.’

‘Really?’ Lady Lucas frowned. ‘How provoking. I would have thought he would have asked you out driving at least once by now.’

So would I, Bree thought.

‘I am convinced you should marry him,’ her companion added chattily.

‘What!’ Bree sat bolt upright and shot a glance at the backs of the driver and groom sitting up in front of them. ‘I am quite ineligible, even were his lordship interested.’

‘Oh, I know I said you had better settle for a younger son,’ Georgy said airily, ‘but now I know you, I think you would do marvellously for Dysart. You have so much more élan than I could have hoped for—you could carry it off.’

‘But I do not want—’

But Georgy was in full flow, although this time she lowered her voice. ‘If anyone can mend his broken heart, I am sure you can.’

‘His what?’ One thing Max Dysart did not appear to be afflicted by was a broken heart. Anyone less lovelorn she had yet to see.

‘They say he fell in love ten years ago and she would not have him, and now he holds the memory of her, for ever frozen, in his heart.’

‘That is a horrid image,’ Bree said robustly. ‘And, in any case, ten years is a long time. Why, he was hardly more than a boy then. Now he’s a man.’

‘Yes, but ten years ago, he withdrew from society!’ Georgy whispered, her voice thrilling. ‘In the height of the Season, he vanished off down to Longwater. That must have been when it happened.’

‘Well, who was she?’ Bree demanded. Max’s words at the ball came back: What would you say if I told you that I had a secret that would scandalise society? No, it couldn’t be that. A broken heart was sad, but not a scandal.

‘I have no idea,’ Georgy said, breathless with the excitement of a mystery. ‘But you can unfreeze his heart …’

‘Yuck! I shall do no such thing, even if I were capable of it. And even if it were frozen, which I am sure it is not.’

‘Then why has he not married?’

‘Because he has not found someone he loves enough.’ And when he does, he is going to court them properly, not promise to take them driving and then forget all about it!

‘You are horribly sensible,’ Georgy grumbled. ‘Just like darling Charles.’

‘Think of the négligée,’ Bree whispered to distract her, and was rewarded with a gurgle of laughter and a quick hug.

Now Mr Latymer had called to take her out in his high-perch phaeton. It was a more showy vehicle than Lord Lansdowne’s, but she did not feel Mr Latymer’s pair was the equivalent in quality of the Viscount’s match bays, so honours so far were even.

On hearing that she had been in Hyde Park yesterday, Mr Latymer had offered to take her again, or for her to name her choice, congratulating her when she decided on Green Park. ‘So much more tranquil,’ he observed, turning in out off the hubbub of Piccadilly and skirting the reservoir with its promenaders.

‘This is delightful. I have walked here often, of course, but I had not realised how pleasant it is for driving—so much less crowded than Hyde Park with everyone on the strut.’

‘Do you keep a carriage, Miss Mallory?’

‘No. Not in town. When we are at home in Buckinghamshire, then I drive a gig.’ She regarded Mr Latymer from under the shelter of the brim of her bonnet. He was not as good-looking as Lord Lansdowne, with dark looks which bordered on the sardonic, but he had an edge about him that was quite stimulating, she decided. It wasn’t in anything he said, more in the way that he said it. Sometimes he could deliver a compliment with a glint in his black eyes that made her suspect this was all a game to him. It certainly put a girl on her mettle.

‘Would you care to drive now?’

‘Why …’

‘Unless you are unsure about driving more than a single horse.’ He made it sound like a challenge.

‘Oh, no, I can drive four in—’ Oh, Lord!

‘Four in hand, Miss Mallory? What a very unusual skill for a woman.’

Drat, double drat! ‘Farm wagons,’ she improvised hastily. ‘Only at a walk, of course, for fun, in the summer.’

‘Ah, I see. For a moment there I thought you were going to tell me you could drive a stagecoach.’

Bree fought the temptation to look at him and try to read his expression. ‘Goodness, what a shocking thing to suggest, Mr Latymer!’ She laughed brightly. ‘But I would like to try a pair—under your guidance, of course.’

‘Certainly.’ He pulled up and began to hand her the reins. They both saw her gloves at the same time.

‘Oh, bother. I should have worn something more sensible to come out driving.’ Bree regarded the almond-green glacé kid gloves ruefully. ‘I bought them this morning, and could not resist. But I will surely split or stain them if I try to drive.’

‘Why not take them off and wear mine?’ Brice Latymer stripped off his gloves as he spoke. ‘They’ll be too big, of course, but the leather is very fine. They should protect your hands.’

‘Thank you.’ She really ought to refuse until another day when she could come prepared, but the temptation of the quiet park in the sunshine was too much. ‘Oh, dear, I knew I should have bought a larger size.’ Bree tugged, but the thin leather clung tenaciously to her warm skin.

‘Let me. I think you need to pull finger by finger.’ Mr Latymer wrapped his reins around the whip in its stand and shifted on the seat until he was facing her. ‘Give me a hand.’

Obediently Bree held out her right hand and sat patiently while he caught each fingertip in turn, tugging the tight leather a fraction at a time. Finally the glove slid off and he caught her hand in his own bare one. ‘There, you see? Patience and care.’ He began on the other.

It was, she realised, a very intimate act. He was having to sit close, her hand held in his while he used the other hand to fret at each fingertip. He made no move to touch her in any other way, nor did he say anything the slightest bit flirtatious, but Bree was visited by the realisation that he was finding this an arousing experience. There was colour on his cheekbones and his breathing was slightly ragged. She swallowed, her own colour rising.

‘Here it comes.’ The second glove slid off, the fragile kid insubstantial in his hand. Bree found she could not take her eyes off it; it seemed like a crushed leaf. Latymer lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. ‘Such a very hot little hand.’

‘Good afternoon.’ A deep voice had Bree jerking her hand out of Latymer’s grip and sitting bolt upright, her cheeks scarlet. ‘Undressing, Miss Mallory?’

She gasped. Of course, it just had to be Max Dysart regarding her with raised eyebrows from the back of a very fine black gelding.

What the devil is she doing, letting Latymer make love to her in the middle of Green Park? He’ll be starting on her garters next. Max recognised the look of heavy-lidded concentration—Latymer was hunting, whether Bree in her innocence knew it or not. However, dismounting, dragging him out of the phaeton and punching him, while it would be satisfying, was not acceptable behaviour in public parks, especially as Bree was showing no signs of distress at his actions.

The gelding sidled, picking up his mood. Max steadied it with hands and the pressure of his thighs, without conscious thought.

‘Mr Latymer was lending me his gloves as he was kind enough to offer to let me drive, and I was foolish enough to come in the most impractical ones imaginable.’

Max fought a brisk battle with his own temper, and won. He had made no claim on her—if one discounted a scandalously indiscreet kiss—and he had no right to be jealous if he found her in a public place with another man. But it was damned hard to be rational and fair about this when the other man was Brice Latymer, whom he trusted about as far as he could throw him.

‘I was not aware that you wished for driving lessons, Miss Mallory.’

‘Hardly lessons, my lord, although I am sure Mr Latymer will be able to give me many useful pointers. Is it not kind of him to remember his promise to take me driving? Lord Lansdowne did as well, and Lady Lucas.’

Hell, I promised to take her driving too! And she’s furious that I haven’t, Max realised with a flash of insight. Is that just pique, or is she disappointed? He should be apologetic that he had forgotten; instead, he cheerfully heaped coals on the flames to see if that produced a reaction.

‘Yes, most thoughtful of them,’ he agreed cordially. ‘You see how much fun you are having since you began to follow my advice, Miss Mallory?’ He tipped his hat to her, and nodded to her companion. ‘Latymer. Enjoy your drive.’ He turned the gelding’s head and cantered off towards the park entrance, fully conscious of two pairs of eyes glaring at his back.

‘Advice?’ Bree was conscious of Brice Latymer’s own hostility, even through her own chagrin. There was something between the two men, something she had noticed, but not given any thought to, in the inn yard in Hounslow. Whatever it was, Max had not liked seeing her with Mr Latymer. Infuriating man. It would serve him right if she set out to make him jealous.…

‘Advice?’ Latymer repeated.

‘Er, yes. He suggested that I … that I get out more, spend less time at home looking after things.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Brice Latymer’s voice was silky. ‘How right he was, of course. But then, Lord Penrith specialises in being right. Now, if you would care to try my gloves?’

Chapter Eleven

The next day brought three invitations to parties from ladies Bree had met at the Dowager’s ball, a note from Georgy asking if she was going to Lady Court’s soirée, because, if so, could they go together because Lord Lucas would not be at home to escort his wife, and a slim package.

‘Goodness, look at these.’ Bree pushed the invitations across the breakfast table to Rosa. ‘We need more gowns, don’t you think? I haven’t got anything suitable for full-dress occasions.’

‘And I certainly have not. Do you intend to accept them all?’

‘I think so. I expect we will get weary of frivolity soon, but it is fun at the moment. So long as you are not finding it too much to go out in the evenings on top of working at the Mermaid.’

‘I enjoy it.’ Rosa spread honey on her roll and took a bite. ‘I am finding it very stimulating, and it is interesting to be working with adults. I do have a list of questions, though, if we could go through them before I go to the office. Unless you need me this morning?’

‘No, although we should go shopping, but I do not mind—morning or afternoon are both fine for me.’ Bree picked up the package and reached for her bread knife to slit the seals.

‘I’ll go this morning, then. Did I tell you I have solved the mystery of the fodder bill? Someone had put all the use of oats into the corn column and the … Goodness, what lovely gloves.’

‘They are, are they not?’ Bree stared at the fine calfskin gloves, perfect for a lady to drive in, with delicate punch work on the backs and dashing cuffs. They were strong, but as soft as butter when she stroked them.

‘Did you order them?’

‘No. I think they must be a present.’ Bree drew on the right one, flexing her fingers. ‘They are silk lined, what luxury.’

‘Who from? Oh, look, there is a card.’ Rosa caught it up and passed it to Bree.

Max! ‘Oh. They are from Mr Latymer.’

‘My dear, you cannot possibly accept them. Not from a gentleman.’ Rosa ran one finger down the back of the left glove and sighed regretfully.

‘Why ever not? I could accept a fan or handkerchiefs, could I not?’

Her companion coloured up. ‘Gloves are more … intimate.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Bree pulled on the other glove and smiled appreciatively as she turned her wrist to admire the effect. ‘They are hardly underwear!’

‘Oh, dear, how can I put this?’ Rosa glanced round and checked that the maid was not in the room. ‘There is a certain symbolism about gloves. And shoes. You have to insert part of your body into a tight fitting …’ She came to a halt, unable to explain further. ‘Cinderella,’ she added, rather wildly.

Light dawned. ‘You mean, like sex? Good heavens, I had no idea.’ No wonder Mr Latymer was getting hot and bothered and Max had been so frosty when he saw Mr Latymer slowly stripping off her gloves in Green Park. ‘How am I supposed to know that?’

‘You aren’t. I’m supposed, as a good chaperon, to warn you.’

‘I’ll have to send them back, won’t I?’

‘I’m afraid so. With a polite note saying you appreciate the gesture, but you are unable to accept articles of apparel.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Bree sighed and folded the gloves back into their wrapping paper before any butter got on them. The door banged open and Piers bounced in. ‘Good morning, Piers.’

‘Morning. Good morning, Rosa. Bree, I’ve finished all my Latin. I got up early. Now, say I can go down to the Mermaid with Rosa this morning?’

‘If you can bounce about like that, and you’ve finished all the tasks set you, then you ought to be going back to school,’ Bree said, feigning severity.

‘I’m tired, really.’ Piers drooped unconvincingly into a chair next to Rosa. ‘I’m just being brave. What’s for breakfast?’

‘What you see! If you want anything else, then ring for it. Oh, and there’s a letter for you.’

‘Who from?’ Piers forked up the last of the bacon and stuck it inelegantly between two slices of toast.

‘Uncle George, I think.’ Bree squinted at the handwriting as she passed it over. ‘Not his usual tidy hand.’

Piers put down his toast and slit the seal. ‘Yes, Uncle George it is.’ He read steadily, taking occasional bites of bacon, then stopped eating, his hand still in mid air.

‘Piers, for goodness’ sake, if you can’t mind your manners for me, do think of poor Rosa with your breakfast waving about under her nose,’ Bree chided.

‘What? Sorry, Rosa. Look, Bree, this is da—I mean, very odd. The old boy doesn’t sound himself at all. He rambles on about the farm, not saying anything of any purpose. Then he asks if we are all right and the business is doing well. And then he says what a good thing it is that I am growing up and can manage my half of the company, and that’s a great weight off his mind. And then there’s something scrawled, which I can’t make head nor tail of.’ He passed the sheet back and Bree peered at it.

‘Neither can I. He’s crossed the sheet to save paper.’

Rosa got to her feet. ‘I will go down to the Mermaid—you will want to discuss this in private.’

‘No, please don’t. You are one of the family.’ Bree flashed her a worried frown. ‘I don’t understand this at all. Rosa, can you read this? You might be more used to bad handwriting.’

‘It looks like, never forgive myself. Excuse me, but is Mr Mallory an elderly gentleman? Could he be becoming confused? It does happen.’

‘He is only sixty-five,’ Bree protested. ‘Oh, dear, perhaps I had better go down and see him.’

‘Me too.’ Piers perked up.

‘Either you are well enough to go back to Harrow or you are still convalescent and must stay here and help Rosa with the business. I can take the Aylesbury stage—Mr Hearn’s Despatch goes daily from the King’s Arms.’ Bree frowned and looked at the clock over the mantel. ‘It goes at two o’clock, I think. It’s only at Snow’s Hill at the end of High Holborn,’ she explained to Rosa. ‘I can go up tomorrow, spend the night and get the morning coach back if it is just a false alarm.’

They all sat looking at the folded letter as though expecting it to speak and solve the riddle of Uncle George’s odd ramblings. Rosa gave herself a little shake. ‘If we can just go through my list of queries? Then I’ll get off to the inn. Do you still want to go shopping this afternoon?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Bree said with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘I’m sure it’s just a storm in a teacup and I can come back directly. If there are any problems, I’ll write at once and stay down there.’

They worked through a list of queries about the intricacies of the ticketing system, whether it was worth trying a different printer for waybills, how livestock was priced and why turkeys were not carried—’Unless dead’, as Piers helpfully added—and what to do about the unsatisfactory behaviour of one of the ostlers. Then the others departed, Piers quizzing Rosa about the mystery of the fodder bill.

Bree wandered into the drawing room, sank down on the sofa and regarded the empty fireplace blankly, worrying about her uncle. Should she go down today? No, she decided. He might just have been down in the dumps and there’ll be a letter tomorrow saying so. And he’ll be mortified if I go haring off down there because of that. I’ll give him twenty-four hours.

But it would be good to have someone to talk to about it. She felt Piers was too young, and she could hardly burden Rosa with family worries, but what if there was something seriously wrong with him? He was unmarried, a reserved, independent type who would hate it if they had to start interfering in his life, however good their motives and however tactful they were.

If only Max were here. She could talk to him and he would be sensible and sympathetic and help her see it in perspective. No, perhaps not so sympathetic now, not since that stilted visit and the embarrassing encounter in Green Park.

The sound of the knocker sent her to the window. There was a phaeton at the kerb, but she did not recognise the horses. Perhaps it was Max.

‘Mr Latymer, Miss Mallory.’ Peters stood waiting. ‘Are you at home?’

‘Oh. Yes, yes, I am. Peters, show him in and ask Lucy to come down, please. He can wait in here. I just need to get something from the breakfast room.’ After the incident with the gloves she had better be on her best behaviour, and that included chaperonage. Bree slipped out of the connecting door and went to collect the gloves from the table. When she got back Lucy was perched on a hard chair in the corner and Brice Latymer was studying the landscape over the fireplace.

‘Miss Mallory, good morning. I see you have received my little gift.’

‘Please, sit down, Mr Latymer. Yes, it arrived safely. The gloves are delightful, but I am afraid I cannot accept them.’ She held out the package, but he made no move to take it.

‘But the merest trifle, Miss Mallory, please, relent.’ The black eyes held a trace of the heat she recalled from the day before.

‘I must insist, sir. I cannot accept articles of apparel.’ She continued to hold out the gloves until he had no choice but to get up and take them.

Bree knew she was blushing. Knew, too, that he could see that and that he knew that she knew the significance of the gift. It made her feel decidedly hot and bothered. ‘My chaperon is adamant, I am afraid,’ she added.

‘A pity.’ He folded them away into his pocket with a wry smile. ‘Perhaps I can persuade you to come for a drive anyway?’

Bree shook her head regretfully. ‘I am sorry, but I would be poor company today.’

‘My dear Miss Mallory, are you in some distress? What can I do to assist you?’ His black eyes were sharp and interested.

‘A family matter, sir. A relative who seems … unwell. There is nothing you can do, but thank you for your concern.’

‘I can listen,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes that helps. Is it a close relative?’

‘Yes, my uncle. My late father’s brother who lives near Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire.’

‘Mmm?’ He nodded encouragingly.

‘He is the co-owner with my brother of the stagecoach company, and breeds our horses.’

‘And Mr Mallory senior is unwell?’ Latymer prompted, leaning forwards with his forearms on his knees, sleek and elegant. It all seemed so easy, just to confide in him.

‘We had an odd letter from him today. He sounded—I suppose distracted is the word.’

‘How disconcerting. His family is looking after him, I suppose?’

‘No, he is unmarried. I intend to go down to visit him tomorrow. It is probably nothing, but I want to set my mind at rest.’

‘Of course, I can quite see that you would want to do that. Perhaps the burden of the business is too much for him?’

‘I do not think it is that. I … I mean, Piers runs the business, although Uncle George owns half.’

‘You are obviously concerned and a visitor cannot fail to be a distraction from your thoughts.’ He got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Miss Mallory, I will remove myself and hope to persuade you to a drive when you return to town. Good day, and I trust you find your uncle in the best of health.’

Bree said all that was expected and sat down onto her sofa as he left. She really ought to think about what to take tomorrow, and there was Cook to speak to about menus for two days.