Page 7

NEGOTIATING THE NOTABLES

G eorgette took the seat she always took when she visited Berkeley Square and waited for Lady Penelope Frey to arrange herself on the chaise-longue opposite.

Her ladyship took a long time about it, puffing up her skirts and reclining in just such a way as to ensure she could still reach the plate of biscuits on the table.

“You are looking tiresomely well today, George,” she said when all her flouncing was done. “I do wish you would make more effort to look ugly when you come here. It does nothing for my sense of worth to be constantly entertaining women who are prettier than me.”

“Prettier and younger,” Georgette reminded her. “You must not be downhearted, though. You have the edge when it comes to height.”

“Unless you intend that we should conduct the remainder of this conversation standing up, that bears little relevance to the case.”

“We had better not. You might grow weary.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “I should as soon grow weary of you. Have you anything of note to tell me, or have you called merely to insult me?”

“The latter,” Georgette replied. “And do not pretend you are disappointed.”

“I shall be disappointed if you do not satisfy me.” She snatched a biscuit off the plate and nibbled it. “But if you are going to insist on playing the innocent, then you will have to give me something else on which to chew.”

Georgette reached for her teacup, hiding her smile behind it. She was not ready to surrender the game just yet. “Very well. I heard that Miss Ventori is to perform at Lady Carter’s soiree next week.”

“I already know about that,” Penelope replied, impatiently waving what was left of her biscuit in the air.

“Mr Hart is said to be considering a divorce.”

“And that.”

“Mr Darcy is engaged.”

“Everybody knows about that. Come, George, do play along. If you will not tell me what I most wish to know, then answer me this—is it true that Miss Goddard is soon to be married?”

Georgette maintained her expression of cool amusement. Penelope was a dear and exceedingly useful acquaintance, but the girls in that circle of friends were more like sisters, and she would not give up their secrets for anyone’s games.

“Now, what was the gentleman’s name?” Penelope continued slyly.

“Was it—I believe it was—Mr Balton-Sycke. From somewhere in Suffolk, I believe. Would not that be a terrible match? She is altogether too handsome for him. She will only tire of him, and then she will make him miserable. Is that not what always happens when ill-favoured men marry handsome women?”

Georgette put her cup down without drinking any of its contents. She despised tea. “Have you any coffee?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I did.”

“Well?”

“Loppy, if you cannot answer my one simple question, I do not know how you expect me to answer your two-dozen.”

Penelope sighed peevishly. “Leyton, pour Miss Hawkridge some coffee.” To Georgette, she said, “Tell me whether it is true. Is Miss Goddard to marry Mr Balton-Sycke?”

“Why are you so concerned? Have you an interest in him yourself?”

“Hardly.”

Georgette gave her friend a teasing look. She had not met Lilly’s latest suitor, but she did not need to be acquainted with him to be certain he was not to Penelope’s taste. “Why the fascination then? ”

“My fascination for your friend’s admirers will thrive precisely as long as you refuse to satisfy my curiosity on more pertinent matters.”

That was as Georgette had suspected. “Alas, I have nothing to tell you. Unless Miss Goddard has accepted an offer in the last four-and-twenty hours, then I am not aware that she is presently engaged to anybody.”

“Why has she not encouraged him? From what I have heard, he would have proposed already had he been more confident of her answer.”

“I have no idea. Perhaps she means to take a leaf from your book and remain unhindered in that regard.”

Penelope scoffed derisively. “She has neither the courage nor the fortune to do so. Nor, I sincerely doubt, the inclination.” She leant forward. “Unless that is what you are implying. Now those are the sorts of whispers that would brighten up the darkest corners of Almack’s.”

“Very well, you intolerable wretch—you win!” Georgette relented, pulling a face at her friend when she rolled back into her previous state of repose with a complacent grin. “I saw Anderson on Tuesday. He took me for a ride in his curricle—and that is not a euphemism.”

“Where did he take you?”

“To his institution in Golders Green—and that is not a euphemism either.”

“Did you go alone?”

“We did. ”

“Therefore you have certainly not told me everything that occurred.”

Georgette rolled her eyes but conceded, nevertheless. “And he took me to the whispering gallery of St Paul’s.” That was a euphemism, and one with which she had no doubt Penelope was intimately familiar; thus, she did not elaborate.

Her friend smiled broadly. “I like him, George. I like him very well. He will do far better for you than Hairy Ball-Sack will do for your Miss Goddard.”

Georgette almost spat out her coffee.

Penelope winked at her. “’Tis an unfortunate appellation—and another good reason not to let your friend marry him.”

“I did not think you cared for my friends.”

“I could not give a fig about them, but you are a diamond, and if Miss Goddard is dear to you, then we cannot have her marrying an inconsequential scrotum from Lowestoft. It always depresses me when a good woman gives herself over to a man, but if she must, it is imperative that he be worth the sacrifice. Now be a dear and fetch the cards. Let me thrash you at Piquet a few times before you go, so I need not hate you so violently for having such straight teeth.”

Georgette usually left Berkeley Square in good humour, not least because Lady Penelope Frey, with her infamous contempt for propriety, was the only person with whom she could safely discuss her own, occasionally salacious romantic pursuits.

Yet today, she left feeling troubled. Not for herself—she was not disposed to self-doubt, and neither did she want for faith in Anderson’s intentions. Nay, her concern was all for Lilly.

Mr Balton-Sycke was evidently not a tenable prospect.

As Lady Penelope had rightly pointed out, a good woman ought never to surrender herself to a man who was not worthy.

And his ridiculous nickname notwithstanding, if Mr Balton-Sycke could not even make Lilly laugh, then any union between them would be doomed to misery from the outset.

Which was a great shame, for the only other contender seemed to be her cousin Saye, who was about as likely to take a wife as Lady Penelope was to take a husband.

“Poor Lilly,” she murmured as she turned her horse into the traffic on Grosvenor Street. She preferred to ride than to go by carriage. It enabled her to take less circuitous routes about town and vexed her father tremendously.

“Beg pardon, ma’am?” enquired her accompanying footman.

“I was lamenting the decline of romance in the modern world.”

“Right you are,” he replied, doffing his hat and never taking his eyes off the milling crowds.

“A noble pursuit,” said someone alarmingly close by as he brought his horse abreast of her own.

Georgette let out a yelp of surprise; the footman’s head whipped around and both their horses skittered sideways. “Saye! You beast—you almost made me lose my seat!”

“A thousand apologies. But your man there did not look to be paying you the attention I know you crave. I felt obliged to step in.”

The aged servant looked caught between apology and apoplexy; she soothed him with a wink and turned to her cousin. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“No you do not.”

Saye looked all about him with theatrical bewilderment. “I did the last time I checked. This is London, is it not?”

“Very droll. You do not live in this part of London.”

“Neither do you. Have you been anywhere interesting?”

“Lady Penelope Frey’s.” Her cousin raised his eyebrows. “Oh, come, I did not take you for the missish type. I visit her every Wednesday.”

“Do you? Fancy my being here on a Wednesday also, and not any other day of the week.”

“Indeed. What do you want?”

Georgette expected him to feign ignorance and was taken aback when he replied, without preamble, “I want you to come to my party.”

“Pardon?”

“Fitzwilliam and I are having a house party at Matlock, and there is a distinct dearth of pretty women on the guest list. ”

“Oh, well, I thank you for the compliment, backward as it was.”

“I did not mean you—your friends. You have some, do you not?”

The unrepentantly wicked grin he gave her made her laugh instead of scolding him for his impertinence. “I can certainly make some enquiries. Did you have anyone particular in mind?”

“ Not Lady Penelope.”

Georgette snorted. “Loppy is a good sort, you know.”

“I have no doubt, but I shall need some ladies left for the gentlemen.”

“Well, assuming you require some men left for the women, I should advise against inviting Miss Favers. Favers by name, favours by nature.”

“Noted,” Saye replied with a smirk. “I trust you will find some suitable candidates. Aurelia has agreed to host for us, so do encourage them all to leave their fusty old companions at home.”

“My, my, you do mean business. Very well. Send me the details and I shall see who is available.” She waited until Saye lifted his reins to turn his horse away, then added, “One thing.”

He relaxed back in his saddle and raised an eyebrow in query.

“In return for my troubles, would you be so good as to extend an invitation to Mr Anderson?”

“Who?”

“Mr Samuel Anderson. Of Gilchester Hall in Somerset. ”

Saye screwed up his face. “ Blanderson ? Must I? ’Tis a party, not a wake.”

It was not an unprecedented reaction, and it amused Georgette more every time she witnessed it. “Do not invite him, if you prefer not to,” she said with a shrug. “I only hope my friends do not all turn out to have previous engagements.”

Saye rolled his eyes. “Very well, I shall send him a note. I suppose he might keep Darcy occupied at least.”

“Mr Darcy?” she said dubiously.

“Another of my cousins, on my father’s side.”

“I know who he is. I was just wondering at your questioning Mr Anderson’s liveliness when all the while you were planning to bring the Great Standing Stone of Derbyshire.”

Saye grinned widely. “All the more reason for you to bring some of your livelier friends.”

“I shall see what I can do.”

“Obliged, I am sure.” He gathered up his reins again. “But, Georgette?”

“Yes?”

“Blanderson? Really?”

“Yes,” she replied evenly. “And, Saye?”

“Yes?”

“No making promises on balconies that you have no intention of keeping.”

There was definite potential in the slight widening of his eyes. She smiled to herself and nudged her horse forward. Lilly might not be without hope after all.

Anderson swiped his brother’s feet off his desk and perched where they had been. “I said no. Perhaps next month you will take care to make your allowance stretch beyond the first week.”

Randalph huffed petulantly. “I wonder that you have enough to squander on all your little freaks, yet you cannot stump up enough for me to join a harmless game of Hazard.”

“If Hazard were harmless, it would be named differently, and you would not require my money to play it. Did you sit with Grandmother at all while you were at Gilchester last month?”

“Yes, for all that she knew who I was.”

“It is a pitiful state in which to end such a long and eventful life,” Anderson agreed with a heavy sigh. Still, he was pleased Randalph had found time for her amidst his carousing. Any sign that his younger brother had not given over all vestiges of humanity to his new friends was welcome indeed.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door and a footman delivering the post, which consisted of one solitary but exceedingly intriguing communication.

“What is it?” Randalph enquired. “Must be interesting to put that look on your face.”

“It is an invitation to a house party.” His brother sat up a little straighter and Anderson hastily added, “You are not included, I am afraid. ”

Randalph slumped back into his chair with a huff. “Who is it from?”

“Viscount Saye.”

Randalph shot upright again. “Good Lord! I had no idea you were in with that set!”

“I am not.”

“But you must be acquainted.”

“A little, though I have not seen him for some time. But I have been invited at the particular request of his cousin.”

Randalph’s brow creased. “Mr Darcy? Why the devil should he want you there? It seems a rum business to me. I should not go if I were you.”

Anderson only smiled. Mr Darcy was a pleasant enough gentleman, but Randalph was thinking of entirely the wrong cousin.

It was not the master of Pemberley who had expressed a desire for his society, but another of Lord Saye’s cousins, Miss Georgette Hawkridge.

And there was nothing that lady could request of him that he would not move heaven and earth to deliver.

After another quarter of an hour dissuading Randalph from gambling away his next month’s allowance in the Hells of Pall Mall, Anderson spent the remainder of the afternoon rearranging his affairs and sending a note to engage himself for his attendance at Matlock.