Page 27

For despite her annoyance with him, she began to feel a little sorry for Restive.

The nickname wasn’t his fault; in fact, his predecessors had probably been burdened with it, too.

Now that she thought about it, he’d been teasingly called Young Stallion one year when he and Matthew had returned from school.

At that time, his father was alive, and was no doubt the current Stallion Restive.

So much for vengeance, she thought, wishing she were more vindictive, which was horrid of her—for why would anyone wish to be vindictive? Yes, he could be annoying, but he was a human being with worries and cares like anyone else.

Alfreda sighed. “I know, I know, but don’t you have powerful physical longings? Mine are killing me.”

“For God’s sake, Alfreda—” Miss Cox began.

Fortunately, because Lucinda didn’t intend to discuss her longings or lack thereof, Mrs. Haraldson loudly introduced a new topic of conversation.

“As you mentioned earlier, Lady Alice, there is a great deal of debate about the necessity of a police force in London. Have you read Mr. Colquhoun’s treatise? The numbers he presents are horrifying. We are literally surrounded by criminals every day of our lives.”

“That’s claptrap, Maria,” Mr. Haraldson said, “as I have already told you. The fellow’s seeking his own aggrandizement.”

Mrs. Haraldson lunged to her feet, glaring at him. “I disagree, as I have already told you , Francis!”

There was a brief hush, followed by a few chuckles—all men, Lucinda thought. Mr. Haraldson rolled his eyes, and his wife’s cheeks bloomed fiery red.

“Perhaps the truth lies somewhere between your diverging opinions,” Mrs. Spence said pacifically. “No doubt Mr. Colquhoun seeks to better himself. However…” She began citing examples from other sources. Mrs. Haraldson sat down again, and her husband listened politely, looking bored.

Judging by her glower, his wife’s fury had not abated at all. Was Mrs. Haraldson always so insistent on her own views? Was she capable of planning an uprising?

Some people were listening to Mrs. Spence, whilst others carried on low-voiced conversations.

Mrs. Haraldson sulked, whilst her husband spoke softly with the two Frenchmen.

Restive whispered to a pretty, flaxen-haired lady in rose-colored silk.

The poor thing’s cheeks were as pink as her gown.

Looking to him for guidance would have accomplished nothing!

Lady Alice was no help either; she looked half asleep.

Alfreda scowled, jumped up, and stalked over to the same side of the room as Restive and her rival for his interest. Miss Cox gave a hiss of disgust. “Look at that fool!”

“She can’t help herself,” Lucinda said. “She’s besotted.”

Miss Cox shook her head. “Not her, him!”

Fair-haired Mr. Pearce was staring straight at Lucinda again, this time frowning slightly, then scribbling something on a paper in his hand.

“Heavens, does he always act so strangely?” Lucinda whispered, looking away.

“No, he’s usually pleasant but in the clouds,” said Miss Cox. “Mostly, it’s the ladies who are intent on him, not the other way around.”

Lucinda made a strangled sound. “Why me?”

Miss Cox snorted. “You’re new and you’re pretty, so why not?”

“Who is he?” Lucinda asked. “His family, I mean.”

“Surely you’re not interested in him,” Miss Cox said. “The only thing to recommend him is his looks.”

“No, but if he’s the least bit eligible, my mother will be. I prefer to arm myself ahead of time.”

“Understood,” Miss Cox said. “Do you suppose he’s writing a sonnet to your eyes?”

Lucinda muffled a laugh. “Dear God, I hope not.”

Mr. Pearce crumpled his paper, made as if to toss it on the floor, then hastily opened it and bent his head to try again.

“He’s of good family, but they’re poor as church mice.

One of his cousins is an equerry, the family’s only claim to distinction,” Miss Cox said.

“Mr. Pearce is a clerk in a government office, I believe. You know the sort of thing—whoever holds the sinecure does nothing and pays a clerk a pittance to do his job, which also amounts to not much at all.”

“Ineligible, thank heavens.” Lucinda glanced at Restive, who was deftly dealing with the two rivals for his affection.

Couldn’t they see he was playing with them?

She felt like marching over there herself and telling them what idiots they were, but they were too lust-ridden to listen, much less believe.

Restive caught her eye and winked. She huffed and turned her attention to the two Frenchmen, who were indeed émigrés, although Beaudry had escaped by the skin of his teeth during the Reign of Terror.

Naturally, everyone wanted to hear about life under Robespierre.

Monsieur Beaudry had known Robespierre well, he said, but that the more power the man gained, the more suspicious he became of everyone around him, until at the last he became dangerously mad.

“That would never happen in England,” Mrs. Spence said firmly.

“I sincerely hope not,” Beaudry said, “for purely selfish reasons, as it is now my home.”

“Have no fear,” Fortin said. “The English temperament is too…what is the word? Phlegmatic. Lacking in passion.”

“That is untrue!” Mrs. Spence cried, reddening. “We are as passionate as anyone!” Something about the way she blushed and put up her chin at Monsieur Fortin made Lucinda wonder. Hmm…was the shabby Frenchman the object of Mrs. Spence’s passion?

“Yes, indeed, and we are simply more in control of ourselves,” Mrs. Haraldson said. “If only the French had been calm and kind to the sans culottes , everything could have been settled quite easily.”

The two Frenchmen shared an incredulous glance. Mr. Haraldson was plainly chagrined at his wife’s foolishness, but he said nothing, merely looking tired. Lucinda decided she liked him and admired his restraint.

Which was all very well, but as far as signs of sedition went, she was getting absolutely nowhere. What a waste of time this evening had proven to be!

The discussion ranged from one topic to another: unfair punishments, workhouses, rookeries, smuggling, the evils of gin, and so on, until their discussion became so loud and acrimonious that Mrs. Haraldson called a halt.

Everyone wanted change, effective immediately, but they hadn’t a hope of agreeing on what that change should be.

“Time to calm down, ladies,” Mrs. Haraldson said. “Let’s hear something we all agree on—Mr. Pearce’s delightful poetry. Stand up, dear boy. I see you’ve been scribbling away. Another canto in your masterpiece?”

He stood, clutching his papers to his chest. “No, it began yesterday as a sonnet, and then it became a sort of ode, but so far it is merely foolishness. Definitely not worthy of this salon.”

“To whom is your poem addressed?” Lady Alice asked.

“To the lady of my dreams,” Mr. Pearce said with a sigh, “but it is difficult to write an ode to a lady one has never met. When I began the poem, I did not know precisely who she might be.” He gazed at Lucinda, his blush deepening. “Now, I believe I have found her.”

Restive snorted, and Lucinda shot him a glare. “How utterly charming, Mr. Pearce.”

The poet dropped his worshipful gaze, thank God, and fumbled with his papers. “I hope so, indeed I fervently do, but I must rewrite it, now that I know better…”

“Nonsense,” Lady Alice said. “You may read that to us at next week’s salon, and we shall see how your thoughts and feelings changed from one poem on your fair subject to the next.”

“Next week!” He paled. “But—but I may not be able to attend. I must make the changes tonight , or it will—she will not love me.”

“Now, now,” Lady Alice said. “A reasonable woman—one who prizes intellect over beauty—won’t get upset about little details. Please do read it, for any woman who doesn’t appreciate your poetry is unworthy of you.”

He chewed on his lip. “I can’t, truly I?—”

Mrs. Spence sprang up, her red curls quivering, and snatched the top paper from his hand. “Very well, I shall read it—” She perused a few lines. “How could you write this drivel? You stupid boy, this is no t the way to excite a young lady’s affections!”

He bit his lip. “I know, and I shall try harder, you’ll see.”

Mrs. Haraldson took the paper, wrinkled her nose, and agreed. “I don’t like to be unkind, but it’s unworthy of you, Mr. Pearce.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am; those were only some vulgar thoughts,” he lamented, taking the paper back. “I couldn’t think what to say, so I jotted some doggerel. Not at all suitable for ladies. Not meant for them, either. Unfortunately, a young man’s thoughts are not always pure.”

Mr. Haraldson chuckled. “Come on now, Pearce. Read your doggerel. Everyone is eager for some amusement.”

“Considering the conversation between the ladies this evening, I doubt they object to vulgarity,” Restive said. “In fact, they may enjoy it.”

“Do you really think so?” he asked and then answered himself. “No, you’re making game of me. They’ll hate it.”

“So what if they do?” Restive shrugged. “They’re only women.”

Lucinda controlled an urge to slap him. “We shan’t hate it, Mr. Pearce. Go ahead. Please.”

The poet gave a doleful sigh. “Very well, I shall.” He took a deep breath. “Her golden tresses are the sun—” He paused. “ Golden because that is the color of the sun, more or less, and the word sun was needed for a rhyme. The lady of my dreams does not have golden hair.”

“Fine,” Lady Alice said impatiently. “Get on with it.”

He swallowed visibly and began again.

“H er golden tresses are the sun

Guiding the wanderer desperate

Her blushing bosom is great fun

But beauty matters not a whit

For deeply as these charms may move

What makes me break into a sweat

Of longing desire, of fervent love,

Is a lady of superior intellect.”