Chapter 13
Evangeline fussed over her clothing as if she were a young lady about to attend her very first party.
“What is it, madam?” Solly finally asked in mild exasperation, after the second change of gown.
She put down the necklace in her hands—one of four spread across her dressing table—and sighed. “It’s been so long since I went out.”
Solly gave her a look. That was not true. She’d gone to the theater a week earlier with Fanny, and before that the opera.
“I don’t know who else will be there,” she defended herself. “I may not know anyone! In that sense, it’s been a long time.”
In fact, never had she been invited to dine at the home of a lover. Even thinking of it felt incredible. Did he not know that such things weren’t done in England? Perhaps they were done in Switzerland.
“Lady Woodville will be there,” Solly reminded her.
That was true. Fanny had sent her a note, somewhat startled to receive an invitation to dine with a man she’d only met once, in passing, several years ago.
Since Fanny was perishing of curiosity about him, obviously she had accepted, and she would spend the night at Wyndham House afterward to save her the long drive back into London.
Of course, the invitation had come from Mrs. Clemency Murray, a respectable widow and Campion’s sister.
Her husband had been a viscount’s younger son.
Evangeline had seen her at the theater a few times; she was dark-haired and pretty, with the sort of delicate features and figure Evangeline had always envied. And Richard loved her.
But as a respectable widow, she’d not been in Evangeline’s limited circle of free-spirited and scandalous people, with a few genuine radicals and even a true scoundrel or two thrown in for good measure.
Evangeline supposed Mr. Rieger would be there, as he appeared to be a guest of Sir Richard’s, but other than that, she was in the dark.
Whom would Mrs. Murray invite? Dignified, respectable people like herself?
Fashionable people like Lord and Lady Allen?
She shuddered. Was it too late to send her regrets?
“It would be rude to send your regrets so late,” remarked Solly, reading her thoughts. “Mrs. Murray will have planned the table already.”
“I know,” said Evangeline reluctantly.
“On the other hand,” Solly went on, “if you wish to rebuff the man, there is no clearer way than staying home this evening. No doubt Lady Woodville would understand completely.”
She braced her temples on her fingertips, resting her elbows on the dressing table.
Solly was friendly with many of Fanny’s staff, and had an ongoing flirtation with Fanny’s forbidding coachman, Gaynes.
Solly must know all about that night, years ago, when Evangeline had brought a famous explorer back to Fanny’s house for a night of debauchery and then slipped out while he still slept in Fanny’s guest chamber.
Solly most certainly knew about the other day, when Evangeline had lounged for hours in the bathhouse with that same explorer, who just so happened to be their new neighbor, and left the whole bathhouse in wanton disorder.
Evangeline didn’t think she had any secrets from Solly.
“Yes, it would be unpardonably rude. But I shouldn’t do this,” she moaned.
“No? Why not?” Solly picked up a discarded gown and began to smooth it back into order.
“So many reasons, Solly!”
The other woman sat down on the chaise nearby and regarded her with compassion.
Few ladies would allow their maids such familiarity, but Solly was no ordinary maid.
Born in Jamaica, Solly had run away from the plantation where she was raised by pretending to be a young man and getting herself hired on as a sailor on a trading ship.
She wasn’t discovered until a rope caught on her hand and mangled two of her fingers, which had to be amputated.
She still maintained they gave her bad rum while the ship’s doctor worked, which made her violently sick and betrayed her secret.
Evangeline had met her working at a London hat shop, where the tall, statuesque Solly had a keen eye and an infallible knack for hitting on precisely what a lady needed to hear to be overcome with desire for a particular bonnet.
When Solly had remarked that Evangeline needed nothing so dramatic as the fussy plumes and wax cherries then in vogue, because she had dramatic coloring and height already, Evangeline had offered her a position on the spot.
It had been barely a year since Court’s shameful end, and she’d admired—and envied—Solly’s proud carriage and forthright manner.
Solly had quickly become much more a companion than a maid. She, of all people, knew about Evangeline’s doubts and fears. Evangeline had told her to always speak her mind, and Solly had never disappointed her. Cowed her a few times, and occasionally made her feel guilty, but never disappointed her.
“What are these reasons?” Solly asked gently now. “This is an eminently proper invitation. Mrs. Murray is very respectable. You have done nothing wrong in accepting it. Nor has he, as far as anyone knows.”
“There is more to it than that.”
“And will that color everything you do, for the rest of your life?”
Evangeline arched a brow at her. “One dinner party is hardly coloring the rest of my life.”
Solly raised one shoulder. “Who knows which moments may be discovered, upon looking back, to have been important turning points along our path?”
Evangeline was fairly certain she had seen some stark turns in her path coming from a long way away. Too bad it hadn’t helped her avoid them all. “Yes, one can only know for certain after the turn has been taken. What if this turn leads down a path I don’t wish to travel?”
“Yes, indeed, this current path has brought you naught but joy and fulfillment,” said Solly in the same calm, easy manner. “Who would dare to dream of veering off it?”
Solly would never be frightened by a dinner party. Evangeline began to feel silly and childish. “It’s more a question of which turn to choose, when deciding to veer off.”
Solly tilted her head and gave her a look. “Come, madam. There is only one direction worth veering toward.”
That was true. To one side was a handsome man who seemed fascinated by her, who made her laugh and brought her absolute bliss in bed.
To the other side . . . she didn’t even know what was on the other side of her current path.
Strict attendance at church, perhaps, and a dedication to self-righteous charitable causes.
Obviously she would not be taking that path.
Could she be any more ostracized? Perhaps. Was it more painful than she could bear, after all these years of becoming hardened to it? Definitely not.
“You,” she said to Solly, “have an uncanny way of telling me that I’m being a coward and a fool, without using either of those words. How do you do it?”
Solly grinned. “If a woman knew, at the moment she must make a decision, that it was a foolish decision, she would never make that choice. It is all hindsight that persuades us that it was foolish, or not, even when our own actions after the choice are far more likely to blame or to credit.” She lifted her hands philosophically.
“And many times, it is only doubt that persuades us we have erred. ‘I should have done differently,’ we tell ourselves, only because we don’t know how things might have gone had we chosen differently. ”
Evangeline laughed. “Fair enough. Yet the charge of cowardice stands, I take it?”
Solly got to her feet. “Feeling cowardly is not a shame, or a sin. Only acting it.”
“Would that I could send you tonight as my representative,” she replied dryly.
The other woman chuckled. “I would find it no trial to share a table with the famous Richard Campion!” She heaved a sigh. “I shall content myself with beating Mr. Gaynes at chess, if he will deign to come inside and try his hand again.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said Evangeline wryly. Fanny reported with glee that Gaynes grew tight-lipped and crimson-cheeked whenever Solly was mentioned.
Her smile lingered as she stared at herself in the mirror. Yes, she was being a fool—but she was not a coward. Her butler tapped at the door to say that Lady Woodville had arrived. Evangeline gave herself a mental shake, clasped on her pearls, and went down to meet her friend.
“Ready to face the enemy?” Fanny said in amusement.
“Are you friend or foe tonight?” Evangeline shot back.
Fanny paused in the act of inspecting her gown. “Friend,” she said. “And as a friend . . . are you really wearing that?”
Evangeline looked down at her burgundy gown, instantly flushed with doubt again. “What’s wrong with it? I wore it to the opera two months ago, and you didn’t bat an eye.”
“You were not going to the opera with the purpose of driving a man wild with desire.”
“I’m not going to dinner tonight with the purpose of driving a man wild with desire!”
Her friend raised a dubious brow. “Obviously not, more’s the pity.”
She exhaled slowly. The dress was fashionable—she was trying to follow society’s expectations—but even she knew it didn’t really suit her.
She’d done away with most of the furbelows and ribbons on the skirt currently in vogue, but that did leave it very plain.
The tiny bodice was not so tiny, to accommodate her generous bosom, and the sleeves that looked so dainty on others felt overly puffed and starched to her. But what else was she supposed to wear?
“If I change again, we’ll be unpardonably late,” she said irritably. “If Sir Richard is horrified by my gown, better to know now.”
“Perhaps it will inspire him to thinking of nothing but removing it,” replied Fanny. “I stand corrected—it is a stroke of genius.”
Evangeline cast her eyes upward. “I should give the man the cut direct for inviting you, since you seem set on bedeviling me about everything.”
Fanny laughed. “Oh, don’t worry! I intend to do my best to charm him enough to be invited back, while also striking a frisson of fear in his soul.” She laid one hand on Evangeline’s arm. “If he should break your heart, my dear, you know I would be absolutely unsparing in my zeal to destroy him.”
She had to laugh at that; Fanny meant it, even though she spoke lightly. She was the very best of friends. “Even when I despise you, I adore you. Let us hope Sir Richard has invited his hardiest friends.”
After three disastrous attempts, Richard had to let Karl tie his cravat. His man clicked his tongue over the mangled linen and brought a fresh length while Richard glared impatiently at the clock on the mantel.
“Ein Moment, mein Herr,” scolded Karl, his nimble fingers flying. He stepped back and eyed it critically. “Ja. All ready.”
He took an unsteady breath, as nervous as a girl making her debut. He looked in the mirror and smoothed back a possible stray hair. “Ja. Yes, I think I will do.”
Karl smiled briefly and bowed his head. “Good luck, sir.”
Richard choked on a laugh and clapped his man on the shoulder. He would welcome all the luck he could find tonight. “Thank you.”
He reached the front hall just as his sister came downstairs. “How beautiful you look,” he told her.
Clemency smiled. She did look lovely, in a deep rose gown with her dark curls in elegant swoops of braids and ringlets. “Thank you, Richard.” She inspected him. “You look quite splendid yourself. Karl has outdone himself.”
“Indeed,” said Gerhard, stepping out of the morning room. “And Richard has outdone himself by allowing Karl a free hand.”
Normally Richard would have engaged in this banter and defended himself, but tonight he ignored it all, ducking into the morning room to have a look out the window for any approaching carriages. Evangeline had sent her acceptance, but until she walked through his door . . .
A carriage was approaching.
His footman swept open the door, and Richard went to meet his guests.
It was meant to be an intimate party, but he was still grateful that everyone else arrived first. Thomas Wayles-Faire was an artist who had roamed all over Europe in search of interesting scenes and people to paint.
Hard on his heels came Lord Edward de Lacey and his wife, Francesca, whose artistic salons were a favorite of Clemency’s.
And then his waiting ears caught the sound of another carriage.
He went into the hall, ignoring Gerhard’s faint smirk and his other guests, and then out the door, unable to conceal his impatience.
When the footman opened the carriage door, he offered her his hand.
Her face lit up as she took it, stepping down.
For a moment he could only grin like a besotted boy.
“Good evening,” she said warmly. “Lady Woodville, may I present to you Sir Richard Campion? Sir Richard, my dear friend, Lady Woodville.”
“Enchantée, my lady.” He tore his gaze off Evangeline to bow over the other woman’s hand, while she eyed him knowingly through her gold-rimmed spectacles.
She was older than Evangeline, with silver-gray hair fashionably styled, and her features were strong and intelligent.
He bowed, liking her instinctively. “Welcome to my home. May I escort you?” He offered each an arm and then led them inside, feeling positively buoyant with satisfaction.