Chapter Two #5
Neville recovered, mostly, and sipped more wine. It now tasted acrid in his throat from all the coughing, but it was better than nothing. “Miss Clifton.” He bowed.
“Mr. Heyter. I hope you are all right? I saw you coughing just now.”
“Much better.” He gave her a weak smile. “Just swallowed a bit too much wine.”
They looked at one another.
What is she thinking? he wondered. Why is she here?
It came as no surprise to him that she was here with her mother, but now alone on the main floor…
He wondered if he might tempt her with a dance.
She looked very fetching. Her brown hair had the color of warm chestnut and looked soft and pretty, even being coiled around her shoulders.
He idly thought it would look even prettier spread out on a pillow beneath him and banished that thought.
Her dress was like a light-blush pink, and her cheeks looked very rosy, indeed, but she looked slightly ill at ease. Her dress was pretty, she was charming, and yet she looked discomfited.
George gave a polite cough, a subtle signal to introduce him, which Neville ignored. He asked her, “And are you having a pleasant evening?”
“I hardly know. We’ve only just arrived. Is it true that this place is called ‘the Lyon’s Den’?”
“Yes,” Neville said, his smile growing wider.
“It is a very good sort of place.” For what, he did not say.
“Run by Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” He looked up. There, at the balcony on the ladies’ observation gallery, stood the woman herself, swathed in black, beside Mrs. Clifton. They looked deep in conversation.
He nodded to them and received a slight inclination of the head in return.
He looked at Miss Clifton. She was smiling kindly at George, who was now glaring at him.
His friend coughed pointedly, and he ignored him again.
If Miss Clifton were to come here again, so would he.
He blinked. These thoughts were not like him at all. He barely even knew the woman.
George stepped in front of Neville and swept her a grand bow. “I am George Percy. My good friend has forgotten his manners. How do you do?”
She curtsied and rose slowly, looking at George. “Good evening.”
“My friend won’t admit it, but this can be a very wicked place. It attracts ne’er-do-wells and scoundrels. Are you very wicked, Miss Clifton?”
Her hands darted to her mouth, then she grinned at the twinkle in his eye. “Oh, yes. Positively devious.”
“I knew it. You’ve played tricks on people?”
“Dozens.”
“Fought in public?”
“Only over books,” she admitted, with an eye at Neville.
“I should have known. She takes after you, Heyter. Well, there’s nothing else to be done. You’re clearly too far gone into the depths of sin. One good turn deserves another. May I tempt you with a dance, Miss Clifton?”
Sibyl laughed. “Yes. I should like that. I think.” She looked at Neville, who watched sternly, as George offered her his arm and led her to the dance floor.
Nevile downed the rest of his red wine and set the empty glass on a nearby table. A server picked it up within seconds. But he was soon joined by a familiar face.
“Ah, Mr. Heyter, there you are.” Miss Kate Harvey approached, with another friend in tow.
“Miss Harvey.” He bowed as she introduced her friend, a Miss Margaret Watson, a young brunette in purple. Miss Harvey looked pretty in pink, and he assumed it was her favorite color, for she seemed to wear nothing else.
As he made small talk with the two women, he soon found his attention diverted by the dancers, namely Miss Clifton and George.
He frowned as he watched George move with her all around the dancing area to the strains of a small orchestra.
The cheerful music annoyed him. What was George thinking?
The lout was telling her some joke to make her laugh, if the cheerful smile on Miss Clifton’s face was any indication.
He wanted to tear them apart and send George toward the nearest exit.
“There’s that young woman again,” Miss Harvey said.
He jumped. Neville had forgotten she was there. “What?”
“Who?” Miss Watson asked.
“That young woman in pink. What was her name… Siphon…? No. Seditious…”
“Miss Sibyl Clifton,” he supplied.
“Oh, yes, that’s it.” She harumphed.
“She dances well,” Miss Watson commented.
“Pah. She dances tolerably, I suppose. But never mind her. Mr. Heyter, do you not dance?” Miss Harvey asked.
“Rarely.” He looked past her. “But I rather think one of those gentlemen might be wishing to ask you.”
“Oh? Who?” Miss Harvey turned around.
There were a pair of young men eyeing them. Openly, even brazenly. Fortunately for Miss Harvey and Miss Watson, these two men were well dressed and looked still relatively sober.
One, dressed in a green evening coat and highly decorated waistcoat of lime green, approached and bowed. He held out a hand to Miss Harvey, who said, “Oh, I couldn’t. We haven’t been introduced yet.”
“Quite right.” The man disappeared and a minute later returned with the Master of Ceremonies, who organized an introduction.
The young man was James Rhodes, lately of Cambridge, who had come to London for a bit of entertainment while on holidays from the university.
He said, “I thought I’d seen all the pretty faces around here, but I was wrong.
You’re ever so lovely looking. Might you like to dance? ”
“Oh, well…” Miss Harvey took his proffered hand and was happily led onto the dance floor.
That left Neville alone with Miss Watson. The young woman didn’t seem to mind the quiet. Indeed, he forgot she was there, until she said, “You like that young woman, Miss Clifton.”
He shrugged and said nothing.
“There’s no need to be so shy about it. I wish more men were open with their feelings. It might save one an awful lot of bother.”
He glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
“Women and men in courtship, they do this sort of dance around each other, where there is the art of the chase, and the woman has to act interested in the man, in the hopes that he’ll fancy her and essentially try for her, whilst the man has to decide if she is worth it.
I think all parties involved would save a lot of time if they were all just open and honest about their feelings and intentions. ”
“Do you?”
“Yes. If a man simply said, ‘I’m looking for a wife,’ or ‘I’m just looking for a woman to sleep with for amusement,’ then a woman needn’t get her hopes up. It’s the wishing and trying so hard that wears a woman down, I think.”
“You speak from your own experience?”
Miss Watson colored. “You find me here, unattached. Is it any wonder that I might be?”
He smiled. “That makes two of us. May I get you a drink?”
“Please.” She smiled back.
He motioned to a server, who brought over two glasses of champagne. Both took one and toasted.
Miss Harvey returned from her dancing. “Oh, Lord, Miss Watson, you’re not boring Mr. Heyter, are you?”
“Not at all, Miss Harvey, I assure you. We were having a delightful conversation,” Neville said.
“Oh, good. After two failed seasons, one would hope Miss Watson would be a good conversationalist. She certainly got enough practice trying to talk to men, even if it did all lead to nothing.” Two spots of color appeared in Miss Watson’s cheeks.
Miss Harvey giggled and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh. Silly me. I thought everyone knew. Should I not have spoken?”
“She is an excellent conversationalist. We were just speaking of friendship, and how rare a thing that truly is,” Neville said pointedly.
“You are too kind,” Miss Watson uttered. “Would you excuse me? I need some air.” She handed her glass to Neville, ignoring his kind expression, and walked out of the room.
“I say, Miss Harvey, that was unkind,” Neville said.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. There is a reason she comes here after two failed seasons. Miss Watson has a history, just like everyone else. You shouldn’t just pay attention to her pretty face.”
He frowned at her. “Excuse me.”
“Wait.”
She paused. “Mr. Heyter, there is something you should know.”
“What?”
“Miss Watson, she… There is a rumor about her past. That is she not pure.”
He blinked. “I am sure that if I were so interested to find out, I would enquire after her myself, rather than trust gossip.”
“But what I am telling you is the truth.”
“Perhaps it is. But I would rather hear it from her own lips. Excuse me.” He set both of their champagne glasses aside and went after her.
He found Miss Watson standing outside on the balcony, shivering in the cold, night air. She jumped when he entered the balcony. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” She turned her head, looking out at the quiet London street. The small lamps were lit, adding a soft, golden hue to the streets, small beacons in the darkness. “It is not my first time socializing with Miss Harvey for an evening out, but I forget sometimes.”
“Forget what?”
“That she wishes to have all male attention for herself, and any other young woman will be put in her place. It is hard sometimes, being her friend.”
“She doesn’t sound like a friend to me.”
Miss Watson glanced at him, her eyes shining. “I would rather play second fiddle to an attention-seeking friend than have no friend at all.”
She had no other person to call ‘friend,’ he realized. He felt sorry for her.
She straightened her shoulders. “But never mind. I find the rooms very warm. I think I will not choose to come here again so soon.”
“I would not blame the Lyon’s Den for your unfortunate choice of a companion. The Den itself is quite charming, once you have a drink or two. Some even call it enjoyable.”
She looked at him then, a thin eyebrow raised.
Miss Watson was no great beauty, but she was smart, and that was an attraction in and of itself.
“Tell me, Miss Watson,” he began, “do you read?”
“‘Read’?” She blinked at him. “I can read, if that is what you are asking.”
“Do you read poetry? Novels? I wonder if a lady such as yourself reads for pleasure.”