Page 25

W e’re not all tedious, thought Restive irritably.

Lucy Belair was laying her dislike of men on rather too thick.

She’d told him she would be willing to marry the right man.

Whether or not she wed was none of his concern, but she was fooling herself if she thought such a man existed for her.

She was far too interesting, far too intelligent, far too worthwhile, damn it. The man for her was a myth.

However, her professed dislike of the male sex could be put to good use.

“I’ve been thinking.” He paused, anticipating a caustic rejoinder, but unexpectedly, none came.

“Perhaps you might refine your role a little, Miss Belair. As I view it, you have two choices: either the eager innocent, disappointed with men and reveling in the society of intellectual ladies, or the impatient innocent, fed up with the follies of flirtation, marriage, and society in general, and relieved to find a venue where she may say precisely what she pleases.”

Lucinda cocked her head. “Since I’m incapable of blushing and appearing confused whenever you say something improper, I’d better be the second one, although not-quite-innocent would be more like it. I’ve read the classics, after all.”

Not quite innocent, was she? He eyed her, and she chuckled as if she knew what he was thinking. Curse the wench, making game of him! However well educated, she was still an innocent, and they both knew it.

He ushered them into Mrs. Haraldson’s salon.

The lady’s drawing room was large and furnished in a multitude of styles, everything from Queen Anne chairs to tables with exquisite marquetry, japanned cabinets, and a crimson sofa with leering gargoyles for legs.

Lady Alice played her role perfectly, greeting acquaintances and introducing Lucinda, while Restive assumed an air of weary boredom and resigned himself to beguiling a few foolish women.

Now they would see what Lucinda Belair could do.

“You’re Minerva Belair’s daughter? How ever did you manage to slip your lead?

” Mrs. Haraldson gave Lucinda a friendly grin and shook her finger.

“Aha—I’ll wager she doesn’t know you are here!

” She was a cheerful widow whose sizeable bosom shook when she laughed.

The code name ‘jolly wench’ suited her well.

“You would win the wager, ma’am,” Lucinda said. “Mama is at home in the country, and I’m in London for a short visit with my friend Mrs. Hale. Lady Alice kindly offered to bring me to your salon.”

“Dear Mrs. Hale! Such a fervent supporter of reform.” She lowered her voice. “I hear she is in a delicate situation. Do give her my best wishes.”

Perhaps fifteen guests occupied the drawing room, including four gentlemen.

One was young and fair-haired, wearing a waistcoat lavishly embroidered with poppies, and two were several years older, both sharp-featured and dressed more soberly, although one was considerably shabbier than the other.

The fourth verged on elderly. They all rose to offer their chairs to the new arrivals.

The elderly man signaled to a footman to bring more chairs. Seemingly, he was their host.

Meanwhile, the youngest gentleman eyed Lucinda with such unconcealed interest that she was taken aback—and meeting his gaze, realized that he was extremely handsome. It was a struggle not to stare in return.

“What luck!” the young man murmured. “What extraordinary luck.” He beamed at her, and his smile was sweet and endearing. Good heavens, what a charmer!

“Quite something, isn’t he?” Restive whispered in her ear. “He’s a poet, too.”

Ignoring both him and the poet, she nodded and smiled at everyone, noting a few ladies she had met in the past. She took a glass of wine from a footman, wondering how it would be possible to eavesdrop in such a small gathering without being obvious.

“We’re delighted to have you, Miss Belair,” Mrs. Haraldson said. “I shan’t bother with introductions, for you’ll get to know one another during conversation.” She bellowed for the footman to hurry up with the chairs.

“No need for that!” A young lady stood, looking belligerent. “Women are perfectly capable of carrying chairs.” She marched out of the room.

Mrs. Haraldson shrugged, saying, “Miss Cox is very well read, but in some ways she’s quite a ninny.

We must allow men to prove their brawn, especially if they have little brain.

” She smiled at Lucinda. “I daresay you’re not accustomed to the vagaries of intellectually-inclined ladies, Miss Belair. What do you hope to learn here?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion,” Lucinda said. “My interests are vast—everything from ancient history to mathematics—but I have come to soak up whatever learning I can in the brief time available to me.”

“Mathematics!” Mrs. Haraldson cried. “How unusual. Even clever women shy away from it, although I don’t understand why. Anything gentlemen do, we can do equally well.”

“Not quite,” Lord Restive drawled.

“Oh?” Mrs. Haraldson began haughtily but then blushed and tutted. “Now, now, Lord Restive, you mustn’t make scurrilous jests in the company of innocents. Some of my guests are unmarried, you know.”

“My dear Mrs. Haraldson,” he protested, “you wound me. I merely referred to physical strength—although not stamina. Ladies have, ah, an impressive amount of that. It’s all we poor chaps can do to keep up with—or perhaps I should say for —their requirements.”

The other gentlemen smirked in unison. Lucinda wondered if the poet realized it detracted from his masculine beauty.

Several ladies blushed, tittered, or looked confused, depending (Lucinda assumed) on their relative innocence or lack of it.

Fortunately, she wasn’t a complete ignoramus when it came to sexual matters.

She rolled her eyes. “Pay him no mind, ma’am. He can’t help it.”

“You seem to know Lord Restive well,” commented a young lady with dark, curly hair and a frown. Lucinda recalled meeting her at Almack’s a year or more earlier.

“His estate is not far from where I grew up in Sussex,” Lucinda said. “I remember when he was a horrid schoolboy playing cricket with my equally horrid brother.”

Lady Alice chuckled. “Boys never truly grow up.”

A footman appeared carrying two chairs, followed by Miss Cox with a third, which she offered to the fair-haired young man.

“Thank you, Miss Cox, but how awkward!” he said in a mellow voice. “It should be I to offer the chair to you.”

“Such nonsense,” Miss Cox said. “Fine, I’ll take it myself. Why should I care about your antiquated notions?” The footman, stolid-faced, set the other two chairs down and withdrew to fetch another.

Lady Alice turned to Mrs. Haraldson. “What have you in store for us this evening, my dear? Apart from the usual animated discussion, that is.”

“Poetry,” their hostess said. “Another installment in Mr. Pearce’s delightful poem, I hope. Now, where is our poet?”

The handsome young gentleman had taken a seat, but now he rose, clutching a sheaf of papers, and fixed his intent blue gaze on Lucinda again. “How fortunate we are that a new lady has come to grace these excellent meetings.”

Lady Alice performed the introduction, since seemingly Mrs. Haraldson found such social niceties unnecessary. “Melrose Pearce is a regular guest at Mrs. Haraldson’s salon,” she added. “He writes the most delightful poems.”

“Good evening, Mr. Pearce,” Lucinda said, curtseying.

“It’s fortunate for me, too. My mother disapproves of poets, so I have never met one before.

” This wasn’t precisely true, for her father had written Latin epigrams from time to time.

When he had translated a particularly pithy one for Mama—at her insistence, as she suspected him of keeping secrets—she had scolded him for wasting his time on nonsense.

Mr. Pearce’s charming smile assailed her again. “I endeavor, in my poor way, to do justice to the race of bards.” He took his seat again, but his intense gaze kept returning to her in a most disconcerting way—and then back to his sheaf of papers.

Lady Alice turned to Mrs. Haraldson. “What shall we discuss this evening? Wollstonecraft again, or the futility of expecting Parliament to pass laws for better policing of the metropolis, or…”

“If Parliament were made up of women, such laws would have been passed ages ago.” A middle-aged lady shook her head fiercely, and corkscrew curls, improbably red, escaped her turban.

“Men in power are nothing but lechers, and so are the judges who fear that less crime would remove their source of desperate young women to debauch!”

“They’ve all been debauched already, Mrs. Spence,” Restive drawled. “Respectable women don’t come up before the beak.”

“Untrue!” Mrs. Spence retorted. “What about maidservants unjustly accused of theft? What about women destitute through no fault of their own?”

“Still, a bit of debauchery is better than being hanged,” he said.

“And then what? Die in childbirth, or resort to theft to support a child caused by the judge’s lasciviousness.”

“Precisely, ma’am,” Lucinda said, throwing herself into her chosen role.

“Not only that, what does their status as previously debauched have to do with it?” She paused to roll her eyes.

“Such an unfair term, passing judgment on women while men doing precisely the same are considered to be exercising their natural urges—as if women don’t have urges, too. ”

“Women have urges?” Restive mocked. “Heaven help us! Don’t tell me ladies have urges as well?”

“You are offensive, sir!” Mr. Pearce surged up. “To speak so to an innocent young lady?—”

“She does not object,” said one of the soberly-dressed men in a noticeably French accent. “The lady is well educated, not a foolish, simpering miss.” His clothing, Lucinda thought, proclaimed him an émigré of limited means, who perhaps hired himself out as a tutor.