Chapter Three
Corbyn had readied himself for Almack’s under the suspicious eye of his valet. Farber might be his valet now, but he had been his batman for some years prior. They had lived in close quarters and Farber probably knew him better than anybody.
Farber was also exceedingly intelligent and spoke several languages.
His father had run a school for boys and Farber had taken full advantage of the education.
He had not, however, wished to follow in his father’s footsteps as a headmaster.
He’d sought out excitement and landed in Corbyn’s regiment.
He became rather renowned for being able to slip into any place, look like he belonged there, and not give himself away with an accent.
In that way, Farber had supplied the regiment with invaluable information.
Though he was a valet now, he still sought out excitement on his own time.
He was a natural observer and gatherer of information.
There was probably not a house on Portland Place that he could not reveal the innerworkings of.
He seemed to be welcomed through the servants’ entrance and into their halls.
Corbyn did not mind it and was often fascinated by the information his valet brought back, though he had warned him not to meddle with any of his neighbor’s female servants.
As Farber was very observing, he was probably wondering why Corbyn was going to Almack’s. As a usual thing, he was offered a voucher, paid for it, and then avoided going. It was a stuffy evening with not even a good glass of claret to make it more tolerable.
Farber sighed quietly and said, “Almack’s.”
“All right, I’ll tell you why I am going to Almack’s, though I suspect you’ve already guessed.”
“A wife.”
“That is what I hope.”
“I suppose it’s not a bad thing.”
“I am gratified that you approve.”
“Careful who you pick though.”
Corbyn raised his brows. He could not imagine what Farber would know about the ladies of the ton.
“I only say, whoever you hitch your horses to will be around forever. No changing your mind later. Lords can’t use the time-honored tradition of selling a wife if things become too uncomfortable at home.”
Corbyn smiled. He was well aware that the practice still existed in some places as one of those places had been his own village.
The grocer had led his wife by a halter to the center of the village and sold her to a farmer.
As the wife and the farmer already had a child together and were wild for one another, and as the grocer wished to be rid of her, it was all done in jolly good humor.
The three of them had bought drinks all round in the tavern.
The magistrate had been aware of the impending sale and had turned a blind eye.
He’d no interest in being beaten about the head by villagers who had come to see the sale take place.
It might not be legal in the eyes of the courts, but it was perfectly legal in the eyes of the village.
“If you make a mistake, the best you could do is send her away,” Farber said. “She’s here when you are there and then she’s there when you are here. Though, she’ll be a countess. I bet she complains about it. Loudly.”
“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Farber put the last touches on his neckcloth and ended his sage advice with, “If she mentions any relations high placed in the church, like a bishop, God forbid, run the other direction. You’ll not be happy with an Amen, glory to God type.”
Corbyn did not answer, though he found amusement in the idea that Farber had managed to put “bishop” and “God forbid” in the same sentence.
Almack’s was just as he remembered it, though he could not remember exactly when he’d been there last.
Of the patronesses, Lady Sefton spotted him first. He was glad of it, she was an amiable lady and would not go into swoons over how long it had been since he’d attended.
Lord Harrelston,” she said cheerfully, “I am glad to see you. I do hope you come with the intention to dance? Our card room is rather full of disgruntled older gentlemen who were dragged here by their wives, you would not like it.”
As he had come to be introduced to eligible ladies, he certainly did mean to dance. There would be nobody in the card room to tempt him. He nodded. “I would not, as a single gentleman, irritate the patronesses in such a manner.”
“Do I hear in that statement a hint that this may be the year you settle?”
“Perhaps. If the right lady is found. By the by, I had a chance meeting with Lady Beatrix Bell on the street the other day, she is the daughter of the Earl of Copperstone. Might I be put down on that lady’s card?”
“Certainly. She has not even arrived yet and I do not think she is widely known, so you will likely have your pick. What is your preference?”
“That last before supper,” he said. He might have taken the first, as that was an age-old mark of interest, but when he wished to know more about a lady, the supper was far preferable. He and the lady could stop paying attention to their steps and put all their attention on each other.
He’d had a near miss last season. At Lady Wellerton’s ball, he’d been rather bowled over by Lady Rose’s looks, but an extended conversation had cured him of it.
Lady Rose had passed on every dish available but for the fricasseed chicken.
She had a very long list of foods she would not eat, which would have been fine as people did have their own particular oddities and preferences.
But then she explained that she could not bear to even look at this long list of food she did not like, so they must never be on the table.
Corbyn was not prepared to go forward eating fricasseed chicken every night because it was one of the few meats his bride could stand to look at.
Lady Sefton left him as she had several cards to arrange. He made his way over to Lady Racinda. She was a matron he’d known well over the seasons and she was very like Farber—she seemed to know the business of everybody in Town.
After greeting her, he said, “I have heard that the Earl of Copperstone’s eldest daughter is launched this year.”
He did not know how casual that sounded, but he was interested to know what she might have heard. There was something very attractive about Lady Beatrix, even when she was flinging herself over a horseblock.
“Ah yes, Lady Beatrix. There is another girl at home, Lady Caroline. Though she is still in the schoolroom. I understand Lady Beatrix is a comely girl. I imagine she’s had a thorough education. Her governess is said to be a dragon.”
Corbyn smiled. Miss Sprite.
“I suppose Lady Beatrix will attend this evening, though who knows how long she’ll drift in the marriage mart. I understand her father and mother have some sort of long ago made arrangement, though I do not know the details of it. It’s not you, is it?”
“No, I know nothing about it. She is engaged, then?”
Lady Racinda tapped her chin. “I do not think so. I think it is more a case of parental hopes. Very common thing, sometimes it comes to pass and sometimes it does not. Young people can be headstrong, you understand. Well, I am sure I will find out more about it as the season advances. I’d be interested in knowing the identity of the gentleman. ”
Corbyn would be interested to know too. Lady Caroline had asked him if he knew Lord Chester. Certainly, it could not be him. What mother and father would ever wish to put their daughter into the hands of that rogue?
As he was wondering about that, Lady Racinda said, “There is the earl, so that must be Lady Beatrix. Tall, very pretty. I like a tall girl, there is something elegant in it. Not that I would say anything against a lady being on the short side of things. Finella Fernsby, you know.”
Of course, Corbyn and everybody else in Town did know.
To everybody’s surprise, the Duke of Greystone had wed Miss Fernsby.
She was the daughter of a newly-made baron and was noticeably on the short side of things.
It was said the lady was very genial and so perhaps they ought not have been surprised by the match.
The Duke of Greystone was very genial too.
Corbyn followed Lady Racinda’s gaze. Indeed, as he had recalled, she was very pretty.
She was dressed far more elegantly than when he’d seen her in a simple muslin and tippet on Bond Street.
Her pale yellow dress had a shimmering overlay that was lovely.
Her hair was done in a more sophisticated manner than Miss Sprite would likely approve of.
“I suppose you will like to abruptly leave my side and make yourself known to the lady?”
Corbyn laughed. “You are always very perceptive of people, Lady Racinda.”
“Off you go, then.”
He bowed and hurried over. “Lady Beatrix,” he said.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Beatrix had experienced some ups and downs over the past two days. The downs had been a little more extreme than the ups, to say the least. The momentous dinner to be introduced to Lord Chester had finally arrived. He was very urbane, and darkhaired, which had been a surprise.
Beatrix had felt out of her depth. She had felt a little childish, as if she did not have anything interesting to say for herself. She’d begun to imagine all the sophisticated and witty ladies that gentleman must know. How could she measure up?
And that’s when she made a rather large mistake. She’d claimed she’d found the book Fanny Hill to be very good. She still did not know what it was about, but from what she could gather there were only old copies floating around and the church had denounced it.