Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
He called her clever.
He called her interesting.
He called her fascinating!
The gossip flew with the first post across London’s fashionable streets and squares, landing on the trays of matrons taking their breakfast in bed and beside the plates of debutantes searching the morning papers for admiring mentions of themselves along with descriptions of their rivals’ dress.
Lady Pevensey, a pile of delicate ruffles in her morning gown and cap, wore a deepening frown as she sorted through the stack of letters growing beside her plate in the small dining parlor.
“Lord Rudyard called you clever? You, Lucasta? I own, I heard in the card room last night that someone had praised you, but I could not credit it.”
Lucasta buttered a slice of toast she was determined to force down her throat to fortify herself for the round of morning calls. She eyed the stack of foolscap, wanting, and dreading, to know what tale the watchers would tell of her interactions with Lord Rudyard the evening before.
Or rather, what slant her aunt would put on Lucasta’s bid to depress the pretensions of a man lauded for handing down lofty judgments. She, a vicar’s daughter, twitting a marquess’s heir.
At the time, she had thought herself striking a blow for Selina. But she might well have stuck a crack in the thin veneer upon which her status in this world, and her place in this family, rested.
Her hopes of a music conservatory rested on that same thin veneer.
“I would not credit that Lord Rudyard said anything of me,” Lucasta said. “He was too busy making mischief for everyone else.”
He had named her Medusa. Before, she had simply been invisible. Now he had made her an antidote. Prospective students would hesitate to approach her. Prospective students’ wealthy parents would imagine she was difficult.
Damn, damn the man and his silk-thick voice and his intoxicating brandy eyes.
“He called you interesting.” Aunt Pevensey moved a note to peer at the one below. “He called you fascinating! Good heavens, Lucasta, what did you say to him?”
Lucasta swallowed her toast like a burning sword. “Nothing of note, I vow.”
Cici handed over the gossip columns she had been devouring while her father hid behind the corn prices and news. Her bright blue eyes danced with merriment.
“You did something to captivate him and everyone, cousin. Only look what else they are saying!”
Lucasta scanned the morning papers, her heart quailing with each word.
Smart Jeremy had danced with and commended a woman—and not just any woman.
It defied imagination to know what had caught his eye, for Miss L— L—, daughter of a vicar of unknown provenance and but the smallest distinction, had no discernable assets.
She did not possess the curly hair, blue eyes, and luminescent skin that heralded beauty.
She was not rich. She did not dance divinely, she did not dress in the first stare of fashion, and there had not been a single expression of interest in her by any gentlemen thus far.
Yet after one dance, something had led Lord Rudyard, whom everyone agreed had the most impeccable taste and the most beautiful manners, to pronounce Miss L— enchanting.
The society columns had pounced on this latest declaration from the town’s leading maker of fashion, and the cartoonists would not be far behind with their lampoons.
The bite of toast sat heavy in Lucasta’s stomach. He was mocking her, knowing the town gossips would hoist her on their own petard. As usual, he had pulled his insult off beautifully.
Better all around if she had remained invisible.
A knock sounded on the front door, and a few moments later the butler proceeded into the small dining room to deliver another set of notes to his mistress. Aunt reread the latest missive, her eyes round as spoons.
“And here is a note from Clara Bellwether saying how delighted she is that her drawing room should be the scene of this riveting interchange. “For I flatter myself,” Aunt read, “that I meant to introduce them, since as soon as you came through, I saw that your Lucasta has quite a queenly air. At the time I could not conscience it in a vicar’s daughter, but I thought to myself, I must introduce this one to Rudyard—I should think he might take an interest. And so he did.”
Scowling, Lady Pevensey laid the note aside and took up another.
“And it seems Lady Cranbury credits herself for having encouraged you, Lucasta, to make the best account of yourself. ‘For I said to her, indeed I did, that if she could only hope to be taken in by Miss Pevensey’s eventual husband, then she should hope it were someone like Rudyard, with a secure income and status. Indeed, she must have taken my words to heart. I do wonder what she did to attract his notice, don’t you? ’”
Lady Pevensey regarded her stepdaughter. “Rudyard did not ask you to dance, Cecilia? You could not have turned him down.”
“I did not, belle-mére.” Cici smiled innocently. “Lucasta was the only young lady he asked to stand up with him.”
Her aunt’s basilisk stare swung to Lucasta. “He inquired about Cecilia, of course.”
“Er. After a fashion.” Lucasta pulled another piece of toast from the rack.
“And you encouraged him, of course.”
Lucasta swallowed a dry bite. “More or less.” Rather less than more, one might say.
Her ladyship nodded. “I hope I have finally impressed upon you what you owe to this family, Lucasta. You are a wayward creature, though if you would but exert yourself the least bit, you could be passably charming. Do you suppose he will offer soon, Cecilia, and we might plan a summer wedding?”
Cici pursed her lips daintily around the rim of her cup. “But he admires Lucasta, belle-mére.”
“Oh, the very idea,” her ladyship said. “Now, let me see. The rout at Skylar House is tonight, and I am sure Rudyard shall be attending. I wonder if you should wear white again, since he favors you in it?”
She frowned at the note in her hand. “Oh. This one is for you, Lucasta.”
Lucasta read the elegant missive, brief but charming. She blinked. “The Duchess of Hunsdon informs me she has a selection of Greek histories in her antiquarian bookshop, and she invites me and my friends to call on her.”
Aunt Pevensey put down her egg spoon. “Her Grace the Duchess of Hunsdon?”
“Don’t forget this one.” Cici retrieved another folded note from the pile.
Lucasta sucked in a breath. “The Countess of Bessington hopes I and my friends will attend an afternoon salon at her home. A Miss Williams will be speaking on the topic of feminine sensibility.”
“The Countess of Bessington sent you an invitation?” Her aunt picked through the remaining stock of folded foolscap. “Why should she take any note of you?”
Lucasta gathered her shaking courage in both hands. “As it happens, Lady Cranbury approached me about a musical evening—”
“No,” her aunt said flatly.
“It would only be a small event, she said, for the entertainment of her nephew—”
“No, Lucasta.” This accompanied by a fearsome frown.
“Lady Cranbury has a Cristofori pianoforte,” Lucasta said in desperation.
Aunt Pevensey turned to her last and greatest defense, her husband. “You will make a spectacle of yourself and this family. You have begun already, with this attention, and it will end with us all looking foolish. Tell her, milord.”
The baron looked up from the lampoons, for which he had put aside The Morning Post, and his scowl was mightier than his lady’s. “How on earth did you interest Rudyard, gel?”
Why, by composing satirical verses about him, which he overheard and took exception to. Excellent way to attract a man’s notice. Every overlooked maid ought to try the same.
Crumbs of toast scraped Lucasta’s throat as she swallowed. “Er. He remembered you commended Cici to him, sir. He spoke of it during our dance.”
“Well, take care you don’t scotch her chances. Draper’s son he might be, but Arendale is a fat plum.” The baron reached for the Gazette. “My son sent a note that he is leaving Paris soon.”
The lace over her ladyship’s bosom fluttered with her quick, indrawn breath. “Trevor?”
“At last!” Cici cried, dropping her spoon with a clatter. “How soon might we expect him? It is long past time he came home.”
“I am sure he will wish for his own quarters, Cecilia.” Her ladyship forced a smile as the baron lowered his paper to stare. “I only mean, a young man of his age and—er, habits—I can’t think but that he will find us too tame for his liking.”
“He will put up here and save me the expense of separate lodgings.” The baron snapped his paper into place. “And I expect he will be your escort to all your little functions. I do hope the other young men finding your niece interesting will not prove too much an obstruction.”
Lucasta paused in pouring her tea. Trevor Pevensey, the baron’s spoiled son and heir, had been enjoying an extended Grand Tour on the Continent. “Does that mean Cici will not require me as chaperone, sir? If her brother is home?”
If she were liberated from her duties, Lucasta could make free with London’s music scene.
Run riot through the symphony halls, theaters, and pleasure gardens.
She could spend this last sweet season with her dearest friends until Aunt Pevensey packed her back to Bath, where Lucasta would scrape together what funds she could find and commence with her plans for a music studio.
She could duck her head, and whatever Fury Lord Rudyard had unleashed would blow past, leaving her family moored in their pride, unscathed.
The baron threw Lucasta a cold glare. “And Rudyard found you clever.”
Lucasta splashed a bit of tea as she replaced the teapot.
Aunt had permitted the use of fresh leaves this morning, on account of the baron’s presence, though she customarily reused old leaves when it was just the three women.
But her ladyship was stingy with the sugar, and if Lucasta tried to sweeten the bitter brew, there would be nothing of the brown lump left for Cici.