Chapter Two #2
Mr. Feldstaffer had never in his life dropped a piece of tableware. Not even a fork had ever escaped his grip. Just now, a serving dish full of roasted potatoes had hit the carpet. Of course, never in his life had he heard a young lady claim that Fanny Hill was very good.
It could not possibly be true that she’d read it.
For one, a copy of a book such as that would never be found in the Earl’s household.
For another, Lady Beatrix did not even go into the earl’s library alone to choose her books, she was always accompanied by Miss Sprite.
And for another, if Miss Sprite had ever laid eyes on such a book she would have burned the whole house down to get rid of it.
Certainly, Lady Beatrix had not read it. It was all but assured she did not even understand what it was.
The only person who seemed at all amused during the ensuing silence was Lord Chester. Mr. Feldstaffer had no doubt that fellow had read Fanny Hill. It was probably the only book he had ever bothered to read.
“Lady Beatrix, might I inquire which part you liked the best?” Lord Charles asked laughing.
“Stop talking,” the dowager said to her grandson.
“Beatrix?” the earl said.
As the footmen hurriedly picked up and disposed of the ruined potatoes, Lady Beatrix said, “Goodness, I can see there is something wrong with it but I do not know what. I heard Lady Mellon’s footmen talk about it and it sounded sophisticated.”
“It’s sophisticated, all right,” the dowager said.
The countess nodded vigorously. “Now we see what’s happened. Beatrix, never recommend a book you actually do not know anything about.”
“What is it about?” Lady Beatrix asked.
“Nothing!” the earl said. “It is about nothing.”
Mr. Feldstaffer covered the bowl of ruined potatoes with a cloth to hide the evidence of the calamity. Though, he could hardly be blamed for it, considering.
Through the sheer force of will of the countess and the dowager, the conversation was turned to more usual subjects. The rest of the dinner went as smoothly as one could hope for after Fanny Hill had been mentioned at table.
After the ladies retreated to the drawing room, Mr. Feldstaffer was left to observe the earl, the viscount, and the baron over their port.
He had often noticed that it was usually women who kept a conversation going, and this was no different.
Especially when the gentlemen did not know each other well and did not have any history together or know what they had in common.
They eventually settled on discussing horseflesh in the time-honored tradition of gentlemen who have no idea what to talk about.
When they gave it up after one glass, they found the ladies at their tea. Lady Beatrix was practically rushed to the pianoforte to play. Mr. Feldstaffer presumed the gentle piece by Handel was meant to showcase her talent and wash away any memory of Fanny Hill.
Finally, they left and the countess escorted Lady Beatrix above stairs. Mr. Feldstaffer could not imagine what that conversation might be like. He further could not imagine what Miss Sprite would have to say when she found out about it.
Whatever it had been, the family seemed much subdued the following day.
Mr. Feldstaffer was certain the real danger had not even occurred to them.
They were busy fanning themselves over the inappropriateness of their innocent daughter claiming to have read, and liked, what was deemed blasphemous by the church.
Mr. Feldstaffer knew better. Shocking statements, and that had been shocking, were like blown dandelions sending their seeds on the wind.
If even one person repeated what they had heard it would travel far and wide.
The footmen had been warned to keep their mouths closed, even with their relatives in other houses.
Especially Johnny, as he was in the habit of swearing his brother to secrecy, while his brother could not keep a secret to save his life.
But there were so many other ways it might get out. The baron, or his father and mother, might have a discussion about it, overheard by a groom or housemaid, and off it would go. Lords and ladies had little understanding of how news traveled through the town.
Mr. Feldstaffer knew though. If it got out, it would not be too long a time before one of his fellow butlers got hold of it.
He soothed himself by remembering that before he’d left last season, he’d told his fellow members of The League that things were bound to go wrong. There must be some satisfaction to be found in “See? I told you so.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Lord Chester had suffered through one of the longest evenings of his life.
It had begun with ratafia, which he’d been forced to drink down after the earl had bragged of his Tartarian cherries which were supposed to be superior to everybody else’s Tartarian cherries.
Ratafia in general was not to his taste, but this particular one was revolting.
Whoever had concocted it had got carried away with the Tartarian cherries.
The evening had ended with Lady Beatrix banging on the pianoforte while they all looked on as if it held the slightest interest. He could not get out of that drawing room fast enough.
Fortunately, he’d insisted on riding his horse so he was not trapped in a carriage with his mother and father and whisked back to Portland Place.
The only interesting moment of the evening was when Lady Beatrix claimed to have thought Fanny Hill very good. As it happened, it was very good. Though, certainly an unschooled girl such as her knew nothing about it. He presumed her mother went through the roof over it after they left.
The rest of it had been by turn, awkward and boring. The awkward had been his mother and the countess acting as two hens and asking him if he remembered Lady Beatrix from meeting her as a small child. Of course he did not. It had been a ridiculous question. The rest of it had been boring.
Lady Beatrix was just what one would expect from a young lady of the ton. Excruciatingly sheltered and tediously boring.
He could see well enough that his grandmother had not appreciated his comments about a child’s memory or lack thereof, even had her words not communicated her feelings.
It was well he had no plan to return home with them, or he was sure she’d have a lot to say about it before she retired for the night.
He’d gone straight to the set of apartments he’d rented for Annie Wister. He knew very well that now she was out of his house, she might have engaged with another pursuer. Or more than one. Even though he paid her, she might take her chances.
Fortunately, she was alone when he arrived. If there had been anybody expected, her maid, who he also paid, would stop delay him at the door while the visitor was hurried out the back.
He’d glanced around, particularly at Annie’s jewel box, but did not see any evidence of gifts that would indicate a serious pursuit.
They’d opened bottles of wine and had a merry evening.
After he’d got what he came for, Annie entertained him for an hour.
She, being an actress, was expert at mimicry.
He’d described the deadly dull dinner, she did a hilarious rendition of an innocent claiming to adore Fanny Hill and a dowager hot under the bombazine over it.
Eventually, Annie drifted off to sleep after her usual drunken tirade about how they should be allowed to wed and how society was a terrible plague that stopped two people from being happy.
He never bothered to explain that he would have never married her, even if society would rejoice in it.
She was charming and very pretty. She was also rather experienced with men, had a drinking problem, and did not have the precise manners of the ton.
Hardly a viscountess would she make. Hardly a suitable mother to his future son and heir.
It was just as easy to shake his head and pretend at devastation over it. Cruel, cruel society.
After she was asleep, he mulled over how to rid himself of Lady Beatrix without his father cutting him off over it.
It seemed to him that the only way to get rid of a lady wishing to be married was to somehow arrange for her to wish to be married to somebody else.
That must be right. He’d never heard of a lady who wished to be married and then about-faced and decided she did not wish to be married.
Her parents would hardly allow her to make such a choice, in any case.
No, it was a matter of who she’d set her sights on.
How to arrange it though? Who to use?
The only possibility of someone who could be used for the purpose was a gentleman desperate for funds.
More desperate than he would be if his father cut him off.
If he were forced to it, perhaps he could live off credit in the Portland Place house for at least a year.
Or he could relocate to his estate and attempt to pull it out of the ashes.
Or he could impose on an acquaintance and move in.
Eventually, he would inherit from his father.
He needed somebody who did not have those options.
Somebody who did not have any future possibilities without a dowry.
Someone who had gone so far as to mortgage their estate.
Someone with a gambling problem who was shortly to either secure a large dowry, or end it all, or fly to the continent to end it all slowly in poverty and disgrace.
Someone like Lord Monroe.
Monroe’s entire situation was not yet widely known.
The ton was aware, of course, that he required a dowry.
There was nothing wrong in that. However, he knew Monroe’s entire situation.
He’d lent Monroe money he was certain he’d not get back anytime soon.
Monroe was only able to attend the season by renting out his house, renting a room in a lodging house in Covent Garden, and living off the difference.
Monroe kept the address a close-held secret to evade his London creditors from last season.
The matrons of the ton had been left with the vague impression that Monroe stayed with him in Portland Place, as he took in the fellow’s invitations.
After all, Monroe could not very well have his correspondence directed to Mrs. Dallway’s Rooms for Upright Gentlemen.
Monroe was an earl, and he was desperate. He teetered on the very edge. He sounded perfect for Lady Beatrix.
All he had to do was make Lady Beatrix desperate too.
Her own problem could not be lack of funds, but the easiest thing to ruin about a lady was her reputation.
A quiet word to his valet about Fanny Hill would do the trick.
Servants were like magpies, collecting interesting bits of information and passing them along.
Once a thing had been passed along enough, it would begin slipping out of the servants’ quarters and into drawing rooms.
All he had to do was set that in motion and educate Lord Monroe on the plan.
He slept very soundly after that.