Chapter Six #2
“Dear Dowager,” Lady Thurston said, “you have never attended my little soiree. A newcomer, as it were. Prepare to be amazed.”
“I’m already amazed,” the dowager said as the viscount steered her away.
As it had been every other year, the ballroom was now transformed into an ersatz theater. Sideboards lined the bottom of the room, the theater boxes lined the sides, and Lady Thurston’s stage, just now hidden behind a curtain, was at the top.
The dowager had seen the sideboards and left her family without a word to investigate further. Lord Chester had spotted Monroe.
“I will go and locate our box,” he said to the viscount and viscountess. He strode over to Monroe.
“Lady Beatrix is not here yet,” Monroe said. “I have made some arrangements, though. I got here early and paid off a footman to move the name plaques around. My box is now next to her box.”
“Good work,” he said. “I’ll do my best to talk you up when I have a chance. Douse her with compliments, and perhaps with a hint.”
“What hint?”
“You might hint that word of her mentioning Fanny Hill has begun to go round. Just whispers, here and there.”
“Has it?”
“Not that I know of, but it probably will. The point is, you stand by her. You see? When society disapproves of a lady, who is she to turn to but the gentleman who stands by her?”
“Ah yes, I see.”
“Make it heroic. Even if all the ton turns from her, you will stand firm.”
“I would too, what choice do I have?” Monroe said.
“Good man.”
“Oh God, is that your grandmother?”
He looked over his shoulder, though he hardly needed to. The dowager steamed up to him. “You’ve missed your chance again,” she said. “Lady Beatrix has just come in and now she’s out in the hall talking to some other fellow.”
Monroe shot out of the ballroom. Lord Chester said, “It is not well to appear too eager. Ladies do not like it.”
“How would you know what ladies like?” the dowager said. “I hope you do not go so far as to name your actress a lady. I don’t care what that harlot likes. I’ve got a mind to tell her just that if I knew where to find her.”
He did not answer that. He was only grateful that the dowager did not have a chance in hell of finding Annie.
The dowager ought to be grateful for it too.
Annie Wister was not the type to hear out the complaints of an old bat in black bombazine, especially when Annie was drunk. Which she usually was.
The dowager might find herself very surprised to find a glass thrown at her head. It no longer surprised him when Annie launched one at him, but for the dowager it would be a new experience.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Corbyn arrived to Lady Thurston’s house at just the right time. As he dismounted his horse and handed it over to a groom, Lady Beatrix was helped out of her father’s carriage. She looked a dream in a lilac confection topped by a lovely cream velvet tippet. She really was so pretty.
He strode over and made his greetings to the earl and countess. “Lady Beatrix,” he said.
“Lord Harrelston,” she said with a bob. “We seemed to have had the same idea on when to arrive.”
He nodded. “Such are these entertainments, that it is wise to visit the sideboards for a glass of wine ahead of time.”
“Really?” the earl said. “The last time I came, it was just a bit of blathering about a lack of pin money.”
“Lady Thurston wished for more,” the countess said, “though she did not specify the amount.”
“Ah, as to that…things have gone a little further off course since then.”
Both the earl and countess looked confused by that as they made their way inside. If they wondered if he were exaggerating, they perhaps were swayed that he was not when they caught sight of Lady Thurston.
Her costumes over the years had grown increasingly odd. Last year she’d been dressed for a funeral. This year…well this year she looked rather like a mermaid, perhaps? She was all wild hair and dressed in seafoam green billowing chiffon decorated with paste sea stars.
The earl and countess, and Lady Beatrix too, were gracious in covering what must be their alarm and surprise at the vision. Lady Thurston said this year’s offering was to be entirely unexpected.
Corbyn did not see how that would make it different from any other year. He had not exactly expected Lord Thurston to jump out of a coffin last season.
As they passed into the hall, they were rushed by Lord Monroe.
“Lady Beatrix,” Lord Monroe said. “What a delight that you attend! My prayers have been answered.”
Corbyn raised a brow. Monroe was laying it on a little thick. He glanced at the earl and countess. They appeared positively alarmed.
“I’m not sure “prayers” is really the thing,” the earl said. “Going a bit far, if you ask me.”
Lord Monroe went red in the face. “Just a turn of phrase, Lord Copperstone, I assure you.”
“I see,” the earl said.
“Might I lead you forward?” Lord Monroe said. “I know the location of your box, as it is serendipitously located next to my own.”
As they made their way into the ballroom, Corbyn thought over the very obvious idea that Lord Monroe was a suitor.
It was annoying. He had to admit that he should have realized Lady Beatrix would have an array of suitors.
Why would she not? She was pretty, she was genial, she was an earl’s daughter.
She had everything to offer. On top of all that, there was something in her manner, the way she spoke, the way she laughed at herself, that was very alluring.
Any gentleman would be a fool to pass her by.
So far, he’d just been thinking of what his own opinions and feelings were. That had been stupid. She would have her pick of gentlemen.
Perhaps he would need to be more forward than he had been. He’d only met with her twice and had thought he went at a reasonable pace for a short acquaintance. But Monroe was already running ahead and talking about “prayers.”
He could not read Lady Beatrix’s inclinations. At least, not yet.
Corbyn felt rather foolish in realizing that he’d gone into the season deciding he would wed, as if that was the long and the short of it. What had he thought? That he would just point at the lady he selected and inform her of it?
He’d best send some flowers. He’d best make his interest more clear. Though, he had no intention of alarming her father by claiming to pray about anything.
He turned to the earl. “Lord Copperstone, would you be opposed to me escorting Lady Beatrix to the sideboards to select a wine?”
“Oh, as to that, nothing against it. Though there is Lord Chester. He’s bound to wish to do the same.”
Corbyn glanced in that direction and saw Lord Chester’s dowager shove him forward. Why was the earl pointing out Lord Chester? There was some connection to the family there, he knew. But he could not believe there were any hopes in that direction for a match.
Lady Racinda had told him that Lady Beatrix’s parents did have hopes in some direction, but it could not be Lord Chester.
Corbyn had not taken the idea that they had hopes seriously in any case.
Mothers and fathers were forever developing hopes that came to nothing.
What looked a brilliant match on paper so often came to nothing.
Last season, there must have been a dozen mamas who had the Duke of Greystone in their sights, only for him to walk off with the dark horse known as Miss Fernsby.
Lord Chester had reached their party. He bowed. “Lady Beatrix,” he said.
“Lord Chester,” the countess said, “Lord Harrelston has just asked if he might escort Beatrix to the sideboards. I suppose you will wish to also?”
“And me too,” Lord Monroe said.
The earl sighed. Corbyn sighed too. It was highly ridiculous, but it seemed that he, Lord Chester, and Lord Monroe were all three to escort one lady to the sideboard.
Nevertheless, he was not about to allow these two jesters to walk off with the lady. To the sideboards they would go.