Chapter Eight
Corbyn had sent Lady Beatrix white musk roses.
He understood Lord Monroe had sent daisies and felt it would be well to be more direct in his interest. Especially with Monroe going on about having prayed for the lady’s attendance at the tableau.
In any case, roses were more elegant than daisies and he felt a lady would prefer them.
Since then, he’d been surprised by a communication from the Duchess of Ralston.
He was not very surprised that she wrote about her Secrets Exposed party.
He’d been dragged into it several times in the past. The gentlemen were directed to take seven sealed envelopes to seven ladies of their choosing, from a list of twenty ladies provided by the duchess.
The gentlemen would not know what was written in these communications.
They were to bring the letter, wait for the lady to answer it and reseal it with her stamp, and then the gentlemen returned the papers to the duchess.
On the night of the party, the duchess would read some of the more amusing responses.
The questions themselves were always ridiculous.
Last year’s had been “if this gentleman was your husband, what flower or plant would he resemble and why?” Sir Edward had got the worst of it, as he’d been named Wolfsbane for his rather steady missteps over the season.
He’d nearly killed his closest friend, the Duke of Greystone, twice via his completely inept seamanship.
No, he was not surprised that he was to be dragged into the whole ridiculous event again this year.
What he was surprised by was the letter.
The lady had decided to entirely change the event.
There were to be no visits to ladies and the ladies themselves were not to write out the answers.
Rather, the gentlemen were given a list of twenty ladies and the gentlemen were themselves to answer the question.
Corbyn scanned the list and noted Lady Beatrix was on it. Then he read the question. “What is the most interesting and alluring thing about this lady and why?”
Corbyn laid the paper down. It felt as if the duchess was really going for the jugular on this go-round.
It was a rather fraught question. How far should a gentleman go?
Would a particular answer drift toward a declaration, in which case one might expect fathers to be demanding the identities of the gentlemen.
It had been one thing for the ladies to make comments, but it seemed another thing for the gentlemen to do so.
The duchess always kept everything strictly confidential, but there were always guesses.
Rather good guesses. Mothers and fathers would be listening closely.
They would make leaps and assumptions. If everybody was not exceedingly careful, there might even be hopes developed that led to disappointment.
Well. There was nothing he could do about it, other than comply. Nobody in their right mind crossed the Duchess of Ralston. It was time to think through what was the most interesting and alluring thing about Lady Beatrix. And why.
There was a quick knock on the door and Corbyn called, “Enter.”
Farber came in with newly starched neckcloths for his dressing room draped over his arms.
“Any news?” Corbyn asked. So far he’d heard nothing of who might be behind the idea that Lady Beatrix had claimed to have read Fanny Hill.
“Perhaps,” Farber said. “The gossip is still contained in servants’ circles, as far as I know.
However, the cook at Lord Gossling’s residence is cousins with the undercook at Lady Beatrix’s residence.
It seems the earl had invited Lord Chester and his viscount and viscountess to dine.
At that dinner, Lady Beatrix did claim to have read and enjoyed Fanny Hill. ”
Corbyn dropped his paper. It made no sense. Where would she even have got a copy? Or if one had fallen into her hands, he could not quite imagine she would read it. And then tell people she’d read it.
“Apparently,” Farber went on, “Lady Beatrix has never been allowed to read a novel. She had not the first idea of what the book was about. She overheard a neighbor’s footmen talking about it and thought she would sound sophisticated to mention it.”
“Rather sophisticated,” Corbyn said, laughing.
“According to the undercook, she still does not know what it is about. Just that it was a terrible thing to say.”
Poor sheltered Lady Beatrix, blindly attempting to appear a woman of the world in such a manner. That she should have said such a thing should never have left that house. It had left the house though.
Then another thought occurred to him. Lord Chester had been to dine, along with his parents?
It was looking more and more as if the earl and countesses’ hoped for match was Chester.
How could it be, though? Did they not hear anything of what he was?
How could they be so blind and wish to throw their daughter at that rogue?
Whatever was to happen, Corbyn became determined to ensure that did not happen. Even if he had to tell Lady Beatrix herself about Lord Chester, he would not allow that to happen. She would be throwing her life away on an absolute scoundrel and would be devastated when she found it out too late.
She’d end up the next Lady Thurston, disguising her complaints about an actress by a poetical tableau.
No. Absolutely not. That could not happen to Lady Beatrix.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Lord Chester had been trapped in the drawing room after dinner with the dowager and his mother and father.
His grandmother had quietly threatened to reveal his relationship with Annie Wister if he dared go out.
She was using it as a stick to keep him in line.
Really, he’d like to rip the stick out of her hands and beat her on the head with it.
His mother and father seemed delighted that he’d chosen to spend the evening with them. As if it was his choice.
“So?” the dowager said. “I hear all the invitations to the gentlemen that are to be part of the Duchess of Ralston’s Secrets Exposed party have been delivered.”
“Oh yes,” the viscountess said. “I understand the gentlemen are to make the comments this year.”
“Odd,” the viscount said. “What are they to say? I would not like to be included in it.”
“No danger of that, I imagine,” the dowager said acerbically.
The viscountess smiled at her son. “Who are the ladies on the list, my darling boy?” she asked him.
“I’ve no idea,” he said.
“Have you not read through the communication yet?” the viscountess said, looking surprised.
“He has not got an invitation from the duchess, is what he means to communicate,” the dowager said.
“Nonsense,” the viscountess said. “My boy? The most dashing gentleman in London? How on earth could he have been passed over? It cannot be.”
“Agreed,” the viscount said. “Does not add up.”
“Perhaps the duchess does not care for your spawn,” the dowager said.
“Mama,” the viscount said sternly. “Going a bit far.”
The dowager shrugged. “The facts are staring you in the face.”
Lord Chester felt the dowager was running rather close to the fire with all these hints about the duchess disapproving of him.
He was certain the duchess did disapprove.
She was a typical old bat with her nose into everybody’s business so there was every chance she’d heard about Annie.
It was just the sort of thing a duchess would disapprove of.
They were incapable of leaving a man to live his life as he saw fit.
“I really feel this exclusion must be simply an oversight,” the viscountess said.
“Oversight,” the viscount said. “That makes sense.”
The dowager snorted by way of response.
“If only we knew what the question was,” the viscountess said thoughtfully.
“I know it,” the dowager said. “Lady Marie’s boy got an invitation. He’s an upright sort of fellow, if you remember him. The question is what is the most interesting and alluring thing about the lady and why.”
The viscountess clapped her hands together. “Perfect. I know just what we’ll do. My boy being skipped over does not mean we are defeated. Not at all.”
The viscount nodded approvingly, though he could not know what it was that he approved of.
Lord Chester slumped in his seat. He did not know what his father approved of either, but he was relatively sure he would not like it.
“My boy shall write his own answer and have it delivered, with flowers, directly to Lady Beatrix. She will be bowled over by the initiative. There will be something daring in it. Not too daring, but daring enough to flatter. I will help you, darling, if you need assistance.”
“No, no, I can do it on my own,” he said hurriedly. The last thing he would wish for was to be forced to sit with his mother, composing some frothy syllabub of a note to Lady Beatrix.
“Of course you can do it yourself, my own big boy,” the viscountess said.
The dowager drained her sherry by way of a comment.
“I will be passing by Grosvenor Square on the morrow for some calls. I will deliver it myself,” the viscountess said.
Lord Monroe pressed his lips together. That sealed off one exit. He’d begun to think he could just say he’d sent something.
Now he would be forced to put something together.
On the other hand, it did not necessarily need to be from him. Perhaps Lord Monroe could get a boost through a written compliment.
As for the Duchess of Ralston’s stupid party, Monroe was on the list. The invitation had been delivered here for that fellow and he’d sent it along in all haste. Perhaps something could be done there.
Monroe was not having a lot of success in throwing compliments at Lady Beatrix.
Perhaps the lady needed to be taken down a peg to be able to perceive Monroe’s worth.
And to drive off Lord Harrelston, who seemed to be developing an interest. Harrelston could pick and choose any lady he wished for. Monroe could not.