The Heiress and the Spy (The Friendship Series Book 2) Page 5

  “After seven years, I don’t doubt it, but I’m persuaded that chastisement was most definitely in order. Proper nourishment for your soul.”

  He liked it when she took his arm with a proprietary grip. He pretended the gesture didn’t heat him throughout and covered his reaction with a mocking head bow. “Consider me chastised in the extreme. Where are you towing me?”

  “Pay heed, sir, there are a number of people here you may not know. They’ve come into play in Parliament, while you were off wrestling with the Corsican.”

  She led him down the long room, making graceful introductions. He was acquainted with the two Whigs and their wives. She presented him to four groups of foreign dignitaries, wherein she revealed her knowledge of Italian, French and German. Her German was especially elegant, much better than his.

  He quizzed her on it as they moved to the next group. “How did you come by such excellent German?”

  She teased him by answering in a language he couldn’t recognize. When he eyed her through the quizzing glass with pretended disdain, she said, “You’ll have to do better than that if you’re trying to scare me. That was Swedish, which I don’t know very well, but I like its singing cadence. I confess to a fascination with languages. Come along. There are more introductions to be made.”

  The gathering, liberally sprinkled with artists, musicians, painters, poets and a female writer of no little repute, made for an interesting mix of topics. A well-known moralist left a group of matronly ladies and made a beeline for the Whigs. Familiar with the man’s long-winded arguments, Peregrine guided Elizabeth to the opposite side of the room.

  The back of a masculine head of perfectly arranged chestnut curls looked familiar. When the man turned to greet Elizabeth, Asterly smiled at someone he hadn’t expected to see in this company. The gentleman raised his mobile eyebrows and gave Asterly a pinched grin and a leisurely, suspicious inspection.

  Elizabeth made the introduction. “Mr. Brummell, may I present Major Lord Asterly?”

  Peregrine touched Elizabeth’s hand. “We are acquainted, ma’am. Good evening, George.”

  Peregrine masked an acute sense of loss when Elizabeth slipped her hand from his sleeve and said, “Then I am assured that two such erudite gentlemen of military backgrounds can find something to discuss. I must beg to be excused.”

  Both men made their bows when Elizabeth left to greet a late arrival. After a moment, Brummell asked in his placid, good-natured way, “My dear Perry, however did one such as you manage to inveigle an invitation?”

  Peregrine aimed the quizzing glass. He closed one eye and playfully peered at Brummell through the triangular lens. “I could ask the same of you.”

  “But I am an arbiter. You are merely a guerrilla on furlough.”

  Peregrine had to turn away slightly in order to keep a peripheral bead on Elizabeth. “I stand amazed that you do not give me the cut sublime.”

  Brummell reacted with a thin smile, one that had been known to make upstarts quake. “I’m also known for my magnanimity.”

  Peregrine allowed the quizzing glass to slip from his fingers and dangle from its black ribbon around his neck. “Well, George, can’t say I’ve ever heard that said about you. This is scarcely your type of gathering. Now I’ll know how to answer all of the despondent hostesses forever asking why they’ve seen so little of you.”

  “My dear Perry, one cannot survive forever on a continuous diet of London Society’s superficial treacle. A man must have some meat and bread in his fare.”

  “I wouldn’t describe Mrs. Shelton so, my friend.”

  Brummell paused. A smirk pulled up one side of his mouth. “Now there’s a frosty reply, and I’ll thank you not to be so infernally obtuse. I’m certainly not here for the company—too many politicians ranging about.”

  Peregrine decided the time had come to be blunt. “If you aren’t here as a suitor, then why?”

  “If you really must know, I’m employed in the constant battle of trying to wrest a particular painting from our hostess.”

  “A painting? Must have a horse in it.”

  “Although she doesn’t share my happy madness for the horse—as any person of normal feeling must—she does possess a fondness for Stubbs. Her steward outbids everyone at the auctions. She is ruthless in her pursuit of art treasures. Did you know that she plans to convert this minor pile of granite and glass into a museum?”

  “No. I hadn’t heard. I had the impression you were more interested in more classical themes, and I do not speak of painters and music.”

  After a long, assessing appraisal, Brummell asked, “How did you come by this information, sir?”

  “You took a second for the Newdigate prize. Not at all shabby, I must say. I should be vastly proud had I done so, George.”

  Brummell responded with another cynical smile. “Have you enjoyed a friendship of longstanding with Mrs. Shelton?”

  “I accounted her late husband a very dear friend.”

  “Ah, yes, how unfortunate.”

  Peregrine forcibly removed his gaze from Elizabeth, who chatted with the Trivertons on the opposite side of the room, and trained it on Brummell. “Unfortunate?”

  “Devon’s passing.” Brummell paused to consider a thought. “I’m beginning to nurture a perhaps feeble hope that you might have some influence over her.”

  “Not yet,” Peregrine murmured. “Have I been obvious?”

  “Not until tonight and she’s been devoted to his memory. Poor Devon was a harmless sort. I always thought of him as a tiny pearl issued up from the disgusting clam of his family. Is that harpy mother of his still avoiding the flames of Hades?”

  “Yes. She’s been quite obnoxious and odious to Mrs. Shelton.”

  “Then I must publicly seek them out and squash their pretensions. I shall employ the cut direct. They have no reason to be so cruel to their son’s widow. Did he die well, our little pearl?”

  “Showed himself to advantage in that mess at Ciudad Rodrigo. Led the charge on the castle. I’ve not told her the truth of it.”

  “To be sure! I say, all of this talk of ghastly messes brings to mind that I must offer my condolences.”

  Chapter 6

  Peregrine frowned. “Condolences? How so, sir?”

  “That dreadfully vulgar brother of yours needs to be put down! Can you not do something about him? He’s an abomination and a veritable blight to Bond Street. The only thing I can say in his favor is that he shows enough sense not to present himself in White’s in some of his costumes.”

  “What rig did he wear this time?”

  Brummell’s eyes closed in pain. His handsome mouth contorted into a grimace of revulsion. “He affected a peculiar shade of greenish-yellow coat, which he designated as chartreuse and soon to be all the rage. Some fiend actually constructed pale rose pantaloons to accompany this horror. I will admit that the coat was splendidly cut, but his boots, my dear Perry, his boots were Moroccan kid! He crammed a gargantuan corsage of pink roses in his lapel and carried a bottle-green, yellow-fringed parasol, which he must have supposed would complement his nether garments. And I see you smothering that laugh! Zounds, I had just enjoyed a rare sirloin and morning ale. After one horrific glance at your brother, I was scarcely able to prevent myself from casting it up.”

  “I can well understand your distaste. Your recital has almost ruined my appetite for dinner. It’s useless to ask me what maggot that foppish brother of mine had in his head when he devised such a silly rig!”

  “How peculiar that you don’t understand the working of his mind. I thought that sort of thing was commonplace with twins.”

  “Harry and I are not typical twins. I’ve no idea how his mind works.”

  “Truly? Your brother once confessed to me that he dressed so outlandishly for the express purpose of seeing who would copy his attire. He had it in mind, you see, to mock the fashionable world, but pale rose inexpressibles and a yellow coat is beyond all bounds. I cannot screw up the whe
rewithal to deal him a reprimand. What if he should devise an ensemble even more grotesque? I would be laid up with the megrims for a week. And the fellow is so clever and astonishingly good-looking. I quite don’t know what to do with him.”

  “Neither do I, George. I avoid him, for the most part. There is something altogether too slippery about Harry. Let us change the subject before we are entirely put off our feed. I have the greatest respect for Mrs. Shelton’s cook and have been looking forward to this meal.”

  “As have I! And to the music that follows. Our hostess is known to have the best music salon in Season. She always entices the most talented into her circle.”

  Peregrine tipped his head in a bow. “Present company most decidedly excepted.”

  Brummell agreed with a smirk and linked his arm through Peregrine’s to saunter around the room. “You do realize that I see through you, Perry.”

  “Of course you do, George. What do you advise?”

  “Our lovely, widowed hostess has been wooed by the most handsome and elevated but to no avail. They never knew the secret to charm her.”

  Peregrine stayed quiet and hid his eagerness to hear anything that would help his cause. He covered his impatience by smiling and nodding as they strolled by the guests.

  His companion finally revealed in a conspiratorial whisper, “She adores the male voice.”

  “And you’ve deduced this how?”

  “Why, by attending these evening entertainments. I’ve watched her face whenever a man speaks. When he sings, she melts, goes dreamy-eyed. Sing to her, Perry. I’ve heard your baritone.”

  Peregrine latched onto this tidbit, tucking it away for later use, while Brummell remained sublimely oblivious to the subtle havoc he created as they passed. The gazes that followed London’s supreme arbiter looked desperate for his attention and yet terrified of receiving it. Peregrine noted that his friend didn’t act in an especially magnanimous mood this evening.

  “Tell me, George, have I been away too long or do I perceive correctly that the level of intelligent conversation has declined?”

  Brummell patted down a yawn. “I’ve long since become inured to the lack of scintillating subject matter among our peers. It’s the reason I accept invitations from Mrs. Shelton. At her assemblies, one might actually collide with an astute thought.”

  Peregrine politely smiled. “Things never change. The marriage mart remains funereal, enlivened only by dance and music.”

  “Depends on the musicians, Perry. Must say that the dancing is quite often tolerable.” He lifted a quizzing glass in the direction of the willowy authoress. “How could a fellow feel bored while watching ladies promenading up and down the room?”

  Peregrine covertly scanned the room for Elizabeth, while Brummell continued with his droll observations. “No dancing last evening at Lady Hocksley’s. My dinner companion refused to go beyond monosyllabic responses. At one point, I looked down the table and was struck by an impression of mannequins sitting all in a row.”

  “Lud, George. I call that an insult to the mannequin!”

  “I must agree, Perry, but the mannequin invariably displays greater wit and warmth of personality than most of my dinner companions. Ah, Mrs. Shelton is sending me one of her admonishing looks. She expects me to recognize the terrified rabbit by her side.”

  From a discreet distance, Brummell nodded at the girl holding Elizabeth’s hand and bestowed a smile of astonishing sweetness on the pair. The girl blushed prettily.

  Having done his duty, Brummell murmured, “Our hostess plays pianoforte beautifully but does not do so often. Your Elizabeth is gifted in many ways.”

  Peregrine steered Brummell in the opposite direction of Elizabeth and the shy girl. “I don’t know what gave you the idea that she is my Elizabeth.”

  “Perhaps the snarl in your tone? But you admitted your interest in our previous conversation, and you must know that rumors are circulating.”

  “What if there are rumors, and what, exactly, is your interest?”

  Brummell chuckled, pleased. “I assure you, my dear fellow, I am not here to poach on your heiress. As I said, I am come to flatter her into selling me the Stubbs painting of the mare and foal. The one on the third floor landing. Ah, it appears the assault on the dining hall is about to begin.”

  “Finally. I’m famished, and I feel I know enough about her that I can confidently say she isn’t the sort to be moved by flattery.”

  “Tut-tut, Perry. All women love flattery. It is how one presents the compliment that makes the difference. Shall I bring Devon’s widow into fashion?”

  “I don’t think she has an interest in becoming one of the upper ten, but I’ll remember your offer. How will she pair us at table?”

  “Oh, I can assure you that she’s quite informal. I make it a point to be a member of her tours of the house. She often does one after dinner, while the musicians tune up. Mind, take a look at that Stubbs I told you about.”

  “I’m sure it’s everything you say it is, George.”

  “And Perry, I am rarely wrong. Sing to her and watch what happens.”

  Chapter 7

  Peregrine didn’t speak again with his friend, who was so popular that it seemed unfair to monopolize his time, and most of the guests turned out to be diverting conversationalists and unknowing aides to his future cause.

  At dinner, he turned his attention to Elizabeth’s companion, Mrs. Weston, whom he expected to be an un-mined treasure of easily extractable information.

  Now that he’d seen Elizabeth’s skill as a hostess, he no longer worried about having her fit in with the ton, an integral part of his present and future plans.

  Intensely interested in what Elizabeth’s companion had to say, Peregrine garnered a chair next to Mrs. Weston and gave her his most winning smile. She dissolved into a delicious puddle of giggling affability.

  A tiny, plump pigeon of indeterminate years, Olivia Weston acted nothing like the typical companion. Her liveliness of character glowed from eyes dark as berries and sparkling with merry mischief. A few laugh wrinkles marred her satiny, white complexion, which bore no sign of the ravages most women her age suffered, usually from the aftermath of constant use of lead face paint. Her rouged mouth was wreathed with a smile that dimpled her round cheeks. Shimmering silver hair peeking from a fetching cap of lace and purple silk was the only obvious evidence of her age.

  Asterly imagined that in her salad days Mrs. Weston would have charmed into submission every male in a ten-mile radius. She certainly possessed the energy to do so and seemed to bounce in her chair as she smiled and waved to friends up and down the table. Her gauche manner would have been considered crude in anyone else. Mrs. Weston carried it off because her interest in people was sincere—her antics and lively chatter, a delight to watch.

  Mrs. Weston grasped his wrist and cried in a loud, tinkling voice that didn’t fit with her petite proportions, “Oh, but I am vastly pleased to finally have the opportunity to speak with you, dear sir.”

  Peregrine began to respond, but Mrs. Weston leaned to peek around the gentleman on her other side. She waved at someone at the end of the table.

  “Yoo-hoo, Major Redmond! I see you hiding there!” She swiveled in her seat, ready to pounce on Asterly with her next volley. “Oh, my dear sir, do you know Major Redmond? He is the most delightful man! You will forgive my deplorable manners, I know, but I simply had to acknowledge him. He has promised to partner me later for cards. And on the other side of the table is Mr. Alderton. He has been a dear, dear friend of mine since I can’t tell you when.”

  Indeed, Mrs. Weston seemed to be on friendly terms with all of the older gentlemen. Peregrine noted that most of them pierced him with suspicious glares, as if he harbored a secret yen to run off with a lady old enough to be his mother. He wondered if he should be amused or insulted and was stilled by an unpleasant epiphany; he was no longer a spring chick at four-and-thirty and had threads of gray in his hair.

  As the gentl
eman on Mrs. Weston’s right began to expound on the outrageous state of the treasury—the coffers dwindled to nothing by an extravagant regent and a long string of campaigns on the continent—Asterly’s mind wandered.

  He glanced to the head of the table where Elizabeth sat. She had fixed a placid expression on her face while she listened to the gentleman on her left. Her eyes weren’t as bright as usual, leading Peregrine to suspect she was bored with the conversation.

  What occupied her mind? What to do after dinner? When to have the covers removed? Was she wondering when her guests would leave so she could retire for the night? His imagination flared at that picture, but he diverted such thoughts with a sharp mental jerk and focused on the attractive fellow sitting on her other side, who openly vied for her attention. How had the handsome, young viscount wrangled an invitation?

  Other than comparing himself to his brother, Peregrine had never bothered to consider his physical attractiveness until this moment. He recalled his reflection in the long mirror from earlier and compared himself to the striking gentleman laying siege to Elizabeth.

  The mirror had reflected a puckered white scar that slashed across his left shoulder—a rather nasty looking gouge. The rest of his skin was dotted with plenty of others—healed gashes and welts on a body that survived knives, stones, bayonet, grapeshot, countless kicks from horses and mules, and the enemy’s scornful boots. He’d even survived the questionable distinction of having a wagon roll over the backs of his thighs as he sprawled in the Spanish mud and pretended to be dead. He still had all of his teeth, but the fingers of his left hand had never been the same since the time he caught them in a rope pulley hoisting a cannon into place. Someone had freed him before his fingers were drawn into the gears.

  Peregrine picked up his fork and nudged the untouched pheasant on his plate, seeing instead the image of his battered body. He feared she would be revolted. His wasn’t the smooth-skinned, hairless form of a Greek athlete that he’d been in his youth. Now hairy and hard-muscled, he looked as any soldier would after so many years at war.