A Sisterly Regard Page 3

  "Yes, Mama," Chloe said, with a pout.

  "Are there really rooms at Carlton House like this one, Mama? I cannot believe that our future king would be so lacking in good taste," Phaedra said.

  "You will find, dear, that there are rooms in Carlton House that make this one seem plain and colorless," her mother replied dryly.

  "Will we go to Carlton House, Mama?" Chloe clapped her hands. "Will we meet the Prince of Wales? Oh, I should like that above all things!" At her mother's cautious admission that an invitation might come their way, she bounced in her chair. "Oh! I do want to go there! Just think, Phaedra! To be invited to the Prince of Wales' palace. How wonderful it is to be in London at last!" She looked around. "But how can you criticize this beautiful room? It may be just the tiniest bit shabby, but it is so elegant, so royal in appearance."

  Both her mother and Phaedra laughed. "As you say, Chloe. It is much more your style than mine, though." Phaedra barely restrained a yawn. "You should know, however, that the prince's residence, though it has the reputation of being very ornate and expensive, is nothing approaching a palace. Do you never read the newspapers, goose?"

  She rubbed her temples. "I am so tired. Let us go to bed." Suiting her actions to her words, she rose and walked to the door. "Coming, Mama?"

  "Yes, dear," Lady Gifford answered, as she stifled a yawn. "Come, Chloe, you must get some sleep. Tomorrow will be an exciting day, for we must begin organizing your wardrobe."

  I shall not close my eyes," Chloe vowed. "We are truly here! We are in London! She twirled in the center of the room, narrowly avoiding a collision with a sofa. "I shall be a succes fou! I feel it in my heart." She patted her bosom.

  "The feeling will cure easily with a cup of warm milk," Phaedra said, too tired to be amused by her sister's dramatics.

  Chapter Two

  The following days were a whirl of shopping and fittings. Although she enjoyed watching her daughters discover the joys of shopping, each evening found Lady Gifford prostrate with exhaustion. Chloe had constantly to be restrained from choosing fashions and accessories far too dashing for a girl in her first Season. Phaedra, on the other hand, had to be sternly ordered to select frivolous bonnets and dainty slippers, her taste being much more for practical headgear and serviceable shoes.

  Lady Gifford had her hands full at the Pantheon Bazaar, where Chloe invariably fell in love with unsuitably garish fabrics, while Phaedra selected those which would have had her labeled a drab. All was finally resolved, however, and both girls, while not completely satisfied with their growing wardrobes, would be clothed in a manner fitting their ages and station.

  Unused to spending all of her days indoors and relatively inactive, Phaedra finally rebelled against the constant round of shopping and fittings. During a rare afternoon at home, she jumped to her feet, cast her needlework from her, and stated, "I am going for a long walk. My body is stiff and aching from too much sitting, standing or riding in carriages. I need fresh air and exercise."

  "Of course, dear. Just remember to take Betty with you, for I need your sister's help to hem her primrose gown."

  Phaedra and Betty strolled along the streets toward Green Park. Although she wished Betty were more inclined to stride along at a good pace, Phaedra was content just to be out of doors. "Phew. I almost wish I did not have to breathe," she said, wrinkling her nose. "How do you stand the odors, Betty?"

  The young maid who had come with the house raised her brows in puzzlement. "Odors, miss? I don't smell nothing out of the ordinary." She sniffed. "Well, maybe a sort of moldy, nasty smell, but that's all."

  "That's damp earth," Phaedra told her, shaking her head in defeat. Perhaps the denizens of London were so used to the scents of horse and smoke and the other, less pleasant, odors of humanity crowded densely together that they never noticed.

  Once in the park, she said, "If you would prefer to rest here on this bench, you may. I intend to get some exercise."

  Betty sat, with a grateful smile. "It feels good to sit, miss. The sun's so nice and warm."

  Phaedra made two energetic circuits of the park before her need for activity was satisfied. As she returned to the bench to retrieve her maid, she spied a group of half a dozen stylish gentlemen approaching on an intersecting path.

  One of them, a rotund fellow in a too-tight coat and trousers far better suited to a smaller man, peered at Betty through a silver-rimmed quizzing glass. "Well, well. What have we here?"

  Phaedra ignored him. "Come, Betty. It is time we were returning." She tugged the girl to her feet, but before she could drag her along the path, a second man stepped into her way.

  "Housemaids, I imagine. Ripe for the plucking." His voice was smooth, deep, and somehow hungry sounding.

  Phaedra stepped around him, followed closely by the maid, who offered no resistance and, in fact, hung on tightly.

  A third man said, "Here now, don't run away. We won't harm you." He blocked the path with outspread arms.

  "No indeed," the first promised with a giggle. "We are harmless gentlemen. Wouldn't hurt a fly." General laughter agreed with him.

  Dodging around a shrub at a half run, Phaedra and Betty almost collided with a tall man.

  Instead of stepping aside, he caught Phaedra by the wrist. "Hold there. What are you running from?"

  She recoiled. He was older than the others and dressed to the nines. "Release me, sir, if you please." Instead he captured her other wrist and soon had them manacled between long, strong fingers.

  The other men caught up. "Ah, Dervigne, you caught our little housemaids. Good man!" The speaker slipped his arm around Betty's waist. "Give us a kiss then, sweetling." He bent his head.

  Betty squealed, a sound that was abruptly cut off as the man kissed her.

  "Let go of her!" Phaedra tried to wrench herself free, but the older man had a grip of iron. As the men surrounded her and Betty, she felt real terror. "I am a lady, sir. She is my maid. You have no right--"

  "A lady? Dressed that way? Not likely," the deep-voiced one said. "Here, Dervigne, I'll take her."

  Her captor appeared to study her features. "No, I think she's telling the truth." He pulled Phaedra closer, ignoring her struggles. "A toll, then, and I'll release you."

  As his face approached hers, Phaedra gave up trying to wrench her hands free and kicked out instead. Her foot connected with his shin.

  "Damn you!" He released her.

  "Run, Betty," Phaedra cried, swinging her reticule at her maid's captor. It hit him full in the face. Betty took to her heels, with Phaedra right behind.

  Fear leant strength and speed to their flight. Although several of the men pursued them with laughter and cries of 'view halloo', she and Betty emerged from the park before they could catch up. Once among the crowds on a busy street, Phaedra looked back. The men were standing at the park's edge, laughing together.

  Both girls walked rapidly along the street, with frequent glances over their shoulders. At last Phaedra found her voice. "We are only a block from home. I will be perfectly safe. Go on ahead. I will be along in a few moments."

  Betty gave her a tremulous smile. "Thank you, miss. I was that scared, I couldn't move."

  "So was I. Go now, and try to avoid being seen until you've tidied yourself." Phaedra watched the maid duck into the servants' entrance as she walked more slowly, needing time for the shaking of her hands and the butterflies in her stomach to subside. When Edgemont opened the door, all signs of her fright and her flight were well hidden, and she was able to give him a bright smile as she commented upon how exhilarating her walk had been.

  * * * *

  Two weeks after their arrival in London, the Hazelbourne ladies returned from a brief shopping trip to find a note awaiting them from Lord Gifford's aunt, the Duchess of Verbain. It announced her arrival in Town and contained an invitation to call the next morning. Chloe was excited, because she took the invitation as the first step in her successful Season. Phaedra was less so, because she still dreaded t
he next few months. She remembered the Duchess as a commanding, regal woman, having no patience with girlish high spirits.

  Their Graces' home in Portman Square was imposing, as was the Duchess. Even Chloe was subdued as they entered and were divested of their outer garments. The Duchess, stern faced as ever, embraced Lady Gifford with affection, then turned to her daughters. She looked them up and down through a quizzing glass, her haughty stare made even more intimidating by the magnification of one faded blue eye.

  "Well, now, you've grown into passable looking chits, I must say. The last time I saw you must have been four or five years ago. You'd spots and freckles, flyaway hair, and no bosoms. But you'll do now, I think. No beauty, but passable, quite passable."

  Her mother's quick glance stifled the imprudent reply on Chloe's lips.

  Her Grace continued, "Now which of you is which? I used to tell you apart, but you've grown to be amazingly like one another. Well, speak up gels, which is which?"

  Lady Gifford quickly made the introductions, and both girls curtsied politely. The Duchess nodded curtly and snapped her fingers behind her back. "Come here, Mary, and become reacquainted with the Hazelbourne gels."

  Chloe remembered The Duchess' granddaughter, Lady Mary Follansbee, as a quiet, shy little girl with enormous green eyes and a mass of freckles marring her face. On their rare visits to Verbain, she had never entered into their play, but had clung to her mother's skirts. The slender young woman with strawberry blond hair who came to stand beside the Duchess was clear of skin and lovely enough to arouse a small pang of envy in Chloe's bosom.

  "Now you gels go over there in the corner and get to know one another again. I want to talk to Isabella."

  Lady Mary smiled and said, "Do not let Grandmama put you off. Her bark is ever so much worse than her bite." She led Phaedra and Chloe to a cozy corner where four chairs were set in a comfortable grouping. "I do hope we will become great friends. I envied you so when we were small. You seemed to have such fun. I often wondered what it would be like to not be a lady, for just one afternoon."

  "I disliked you intensely," Chloe admitted. "Mama always told us that we should learn to behave as you did, in a ladylike manner."

  "Perhaps you can teach me to have fun, now. I would like that."

  Lady Mary's smile was so entreating and so sweet that Chloe could not resist returning it. "And perhaps you can be a good example for me. I still sometimes forget I am supposed to be a lady."

  "I would rather you would show us London," Phaedra said. "So far all I've seen is shops and parks."

  "Oh, I wish I could, but I am a stranger here, too. We must endeavor to explore it together. Now, tell me what you have been up to since we last met. You have grown so much alike. You are Phaedra and you are Chloe, is that right?"

  "No, I am Chloe," she said with a laugh. "Phaedra is the serious one. I am never serious."

  "Why are you serious, Phaedra?"

  "What calumny. Just because I would rather collect and study plants than peruse La Belle Asemblee, my frivolous sister calls me serious." It was an old and affectionate dissention, one both she and Chloe had long indulged in. "Chloe merely flits about and never does anything practical. She sings well, though, so she is not entirely useless."

  "Unfair!" her sister cried. "Just because I am more interested in parties and dancing than I am in scholarly pursuits!" All three girls laughed.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the butler, announcing Mr. Reginald Farwell.

  The gentleman paused in the doorway, his wavy, golden brown hair, styled in an extreme Brutus, barely clearing the opening. He was dressed in the height of fashion, with collar points up to his cheeks and a lavender cravat folded into an intricate pattern and pinned with an enormous sapphire. His royal blue coat with enormous silver buttons looked as if it had been assembled directly upon his body. It partially concealed a waistcoat of extravagant stripes of scarlet and purple. Yellow pantaloons fitted snugly over long, slim, but well-shaped legs, and any number of fobs hung from his waistcoat. His shoes had narrow red heels all of two inches in height. Deep-set gray eyes were outlined by the longest, thickest lashes Chloe had ever seen. He coolly scrutinized the assembled ladies through an ornate quizzing glass. The other hand held a lacy handkerchief.

  At last he moved, strolling languidly across the room. "Ah, your Grace, I find you as beautiful as ever," he said in a pleasant baritone drawl as he bowed over the Duchess' hand.

  "Piffle," she responded. "Reggie, you know Mary. Let me make you acquainted with Lady Gifford and her daughters, Miss Hazelbourne and Miss Phaedra Hazelbourne."

  "Lady Gifford, I believe we met some years past, but to be in your charming company is always pleasing to me," he said, lifting her hand to his lips in quite the most elegant gesture Chloe had ever seen. "And Lady Mary, you are, as always, the most perfect pocket Venus of my acquaintance," he continued, with a graceful bow in her direction.

  Lady Mary merely smiled and said, "Hullo Reggie."

  Turning in the sisters' direction he again raised his glass. Silently he inspected them, obviously paying close attention to their fashionable walking gowns as well as to their physical appearance. Chloe contained her irritation at being so closely inspected. She simpered and looked coyly at him from beneath lowered lashes. Her sister, clearly resenting his scrutiny, lifted her chin and glared at him. Finally he spoke vaguely to the space between them. "Miss Hazelbourne and Miss Phaedra, one of you would be ravishing; the two of you together is nothing short of breathtaking."

  Chloe smiled widely and gave him her hand. He bowed over it, his lips not quite touching it, and murmured, "Such charm. Such style. I am overwhelmed. You are the elder, I take it."

  "I am, sir, and am most pleased to make your acquaintance. You are the first gentleman whom I have met in London." Chloe cast a melting look into his face.

  He turned to Phaedra and she grudgingly extended her hand. Chloe would have pinched her if she could have done so surreptitiously. Again he bowed, elegantly, gracefully. "Disapproval, Miss Phaedra? Or shyness? You interest me." He received no response, nor did he seem to expect one.

  For the next several minutes, the conversation was general. Mr. Farwell shared several gossipy tidbits with them, mentioning names Chloe had often seen in the Gazette. Her mother and the Duchess laughed with him at tittle-tattle that held little meaning for Chloe. She decided he was someone to cultivate, however, because he seemed so completely at home in the ton.

  Eventually her mother signaled that it was time for their departure. As Chloe and Lady Mary were finalizing their plans to meet in the park the next afternoon, Mr. Farwell stepped between her and her sister.

  Phaedra took a half step back as Mr. Farwell loomed over her. He was so very tall. Somehow he had separated her from everyone else in the room. Leaning slightly towards her, he murmured, "Were you refreshed by your exercise the other day, Miss Phaedra?"

  She stared.

  "A good dash across the park is so invigorating, is it not? You did run quite a distance, however, and I feared you might have been quite exhausted." His eyes gleamed with amusement.

  Oh, no! Of all people to see me. Oh, well, there is no help for it. "I had grown quite stiff and sleepy from sitting that day. Do you not feel that a good run often clears away the cobwebs and invigorates one?"

  "Quite, Miss Phaedra. Quite." His smile faded and the drawl was suddenly missing, although his voice remained nearly inaudible. "A word of warning, however. In the future, you might consider your appearance before stepping out of doors. Had you appeared more the lady of quality, that small contretemps might have been avoided."

  Before she could do more than gape, he stepped away and spoke to the Duchess.

  Torn between anger at his impudence and embarrassment that he had evidently seen the entire episode, Phaedra resolved to ignore him as much as possible in the future.

  The Duchess's parting words enhanced her resolve. "Pay no attention to this fop. He f
ancies himself God's gift to the fashionable world. Reggie, do you amuse Mary with your piffle while I have one last word with Lady Gifford. Now, Isabella," she continued, "you will be ready to begin going out by Monday next, will you not? Wednesday we go to Almack's. I have the vouchers for all of us.

  "Sit down, Reggie, I cannot bear to have you towering over me like that," Phaedra heard the Duchess say as they exited the saloon.

  "What a peculiar and affected gentleman," she commented, once they were in their waiting coach. "Have you ever seen anything so outrageous as that waistcoat?"

  "Yes, he does somewhat overdo the foppish mode, "her mother replied, "but he does it so well and with such panache that it is no wonder that he is everywhere received."

  "Well, I thought he was perfectly grand," said Chloe. "And such elegant manners. I vow, I have never received so gracious a compliment."

  "Piffle, the Duchess called it, and piffle it was," Phaedra responded. "Mama, you wanted me to remind you to stop at Mlle. Hortense's to pick up Chloe's new bonnet."

  * * * *

  Lady Gifford and her daughters were in the sewing room, industriously occupied, the morning following their visit to the Duchess. They were surprised to receive a huge bouquet of roses, addressed to Lady Gifford and Miss Hazelbourne. Accompanying it was a note expressing, in gracious and flowing periods, the gratitude felt by Herne Bradburn, Viscount Wilderlake, for assistance rendered.

  "Oh, my, Mama, a viscount," Chloe enthused. "And what lovely roses. But who is he?"

  "I believe he is the young man who took a header from his fancy phaeton," Phaedra said. "Don't you think so, Mama?"

  "I do indeed. I must write to thank his for the roses." She went to her writing desk. "See, girls. He is not the rudesby you thought him. I'm sure his gruffness that day was merely due to his injury." She stroked the quill's end across her lips. "Wilderlake? I'm not familiar with that title. I wonder...well, the Duchess will know. Remind me to ask her what she knows of him."