Page 26 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)
Chapter nineteen
Lady Maltrousse
A s Bel came out of the upstairs room, she discovered that guests had already begun to arrive at the inn.
Near the door stood a sumptuously gowned lady in red velvet with perfect blond ringlets dangling on either side of her face.
Her cloak had already been discarded into Mrs. Coleman’s arms, and her maid was standing nearby with a fan, a lorgnette, and a reticule.
“Dear me, what have we here?” said the lady, eyeing Bel as she descended the stairs.
“Even your tavern girls in Derbyshire have few enough charms to recommend them.” She looked pointedly at Bel’s dark navy dress cut modestly above the bosom. The lady’s own “charms” were well on their way to spilling over a narrow bodice that was hardly a handsbreadth wide.
“This is Miss Belinda Morrison,” said Mrs. Coleman stiffly, taking offense so that Bel did not have to. “She is no tavern girl but one of the gentlewomen of the village. ”
Lady Maltrousse gave a trilling laugh. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Morrison. Not a tavern wench, I see. And that’s just as well, for you look more at home in a nunnery than an alehouse.
I came to the inn to find a room, but I hear that there is some merriment afoot tonight.
The whole public room rented by the local squire’s wife for an assembly? ”
“Indeed, there is,” said Bel, folding her hands in front of her waist. “But I’m afraid that you have the advantage of me, Mrs.—?”
“Oh, la! Not missus. It’s Lady Maltrousse, although my friends call me Callista.
” She approached Bel without hesitation and linked arms with her as if they were bosom friends from seminary long ago.
“The innkeeper here says I might have a room if I keep inside it tonight, but I have a mind to join in these country festivities. How might I go about procuring an invitation?”
By the light of Mrs. Brownlee’s beeswax candles, Bel could make out the coloured paint on Lady Maltrousse’s face around her eyebrows and mouth.
Up close, the woman looked nearer to Aunt Lucy’s age than her own.
She wondered if the blond ringlets about her face were real or the result of art and a careful coiffeur.
Did a life of vice really age a person more quickly as the parsons and moralists said it did?
“I’m afraid that I have nothing to do with the guest list.”
“Oh, but you seem a clever girl. I can see that the goodwife in charge of the inn looks up to your opinion. Surely, you know the local squire and his wife. In a small village like this, one cannot help knowing everyone .”
“I am acquainted with the Brownlees.” Bel was willing to concede no more than that .
The deep-bosomed noblewoman pressed on. “And surely, you must also be acquainted with any strangers in the neighbourhood. A longstanding friend of mine has been staying here for the past month. A tall, dark-haired man, just this side of forty. Handsome, with an eye for the fairer sex—”
“I know whom you mean,” said Bel sharply.
The lady’s blue eyes glinted. “Ah, I believe you do. Tell me, what name is he giving in this neighbourhood?”
“What name should he give but his own?” countered Bel.
“Ah, so then you already know he is a duke. Is he attending the assembly tonight?”
Bel said nothing, unwilling to tell a lie or to reveal more than she ought.
Lady Maltrousse sniffed. “I have been a friend of the Lymingtons for many years. It would be common courtesy for the invitation to be extended to me.”
She had no sooner said this than Mr. Brownlee and his wife entered the inn, Mrs. Brownlee clad in her red Christmas cloak over an expensive new gown of spangled white that sorted poorly with her plump figure.
“What is this that Mr. Coleman tells me?” asked Harold Brownlee loudly. “Another guest in Derbyshire?” He stopped in his tracks as he saw Lady Maltrousse conversing with Bel. He looked at Bel expectantly, and she was forced into the unenviable task of making introductions.
“I was at a house party at Chatsworth,” said Lady Maltrousse, “but a little bird told me that one of my dear friends was in the neighbourhood, and I simply had to see him.”
“What’s this? A friend of the Duke of Warrenton?” said Mr. Brownlee. “How remiss of us not to know of your arrival. I beg that you will stay and grace our evening entertainment with your presence.” He reached out his hand for hers and patted it proprietarily.
Mrs. Brownlee, at his elbow, added a superfluous agreement to her husband’s invitation, but it was clear to Bel that Lady Maltrousse no longer had any interest in the women of the party.
She had got her hooks into Harold Brownlee, and she would stay snug against him until choicer quarry presented itself.
Bel led Mrs. Brownlee into the adjoining parlour under pretence of examining the refreshment table. “Surely, we do not need to have that woman at your assembly?”
“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Brownlee. “She is a lady. And a friend of the duke’s. Just think what consequence she will add to our little Boxing Day ball! Do you think any other of his fine London friends are en route ?”
“If they are, then it is shockingly rude of them—and him—not to tell you ahead of time. And what do you make of a lady traveling alone?”
“She has her maid with her.”
“But no husband,” said Bel sceptically.
“You’ve been listening too much to Mr. Townsend.
Our old vicar Mr. Davies would have had a more liberal eye to such things.
They do things differently in London, or at least, so Harold tells me.
I’m certain that there is nothing untoward.
” Mrs. Brownlee peered around the corner to see her husband leaning in indulgently towards the white-bosomed Lady Maltrousse while the lady in question tittered and hung upon his forearm.
“I daresay it's natural to feel some envy towards her—she is very beautiful, isn’t she?”
Bel flamed red. No doubt the Duke of Warrenton thought Lady Maltrousse was the epitome of attractiveness. Was this what he’d been comparing Bel to the whole of the time he’d been in Derbyshire? If so, then he was no doubt sorely disappointed in her lack of ringlets, rouge, and rounded bosom.
The door opened and her eyes darted toward it.
The Ferris brothers had arrived, with Aunt Lucy in tow, and on their heels the luxurious Mrs. White swept into the room.
Usually, the widow was the best-dressed woman of the village—for while Mrs. Brownlee might possess the most money in Upper Cross, Mrs. White possessed impeccable style—but tonight her dress of diaphanous green net paled in comparison to Lady Maltrousse’s daring red velvet.
Indeed, Mr. Brownlee was so enamoured with the newcomer from London that he barely turned his head when he saw Mrs. White approaching.
Other gentlemen and ladies from houses further out than Upper Cross began to arrive, and even the vicar’s tall figure entered the inn. But the one face Bel was waiting for did not appear. Where was Nigel Lymington, the Duke of Warrenton?
Nigel was three-quarters of an hour late by the time he reached the Jester’s Arms. The dancing had already begun, and he had to speak loudly for his voice to be heard above the string quartet.
“I apologise for my tardiness,” he said to Mrs. Brownlee, hoping that Miss Morrison, standing nearby in the corner with her Aunt Lucy, would hear him.
“The wheel of the carriage came off and we were forced to wait until John could walk back to the house and find a replacement from the stable. I was so impatient, I nearly set out in my evening dress to walk here before John returned.”
“How unfortunate, your grace!” Mrs. Brownlee clucked sympathetically. “I must own that I was afraid that you had decided not to come, but I should have known better. Especially since your friend from town has arrived.”
Nigel’s eye followed Mrs. Brownlee’s, drawn inexorably to the voluptuous blond who stood across from Mr. Brownlee in a small set on the dance floor.
Her front ringlets, parted in the middle, framed her face in the latest style while the rest of her hair was pulled back in an artful bun.
Her crimson dress with its daring decolletage was more suitable for a London soiree than the crammed public room of a Derbyshire inn, and she wore the most gemstones of any woman in the room.
“This dance is almost over,” said Mrs. Brownlee, continuing her duties as a hostess. “I’m sure you must wish to secure the next one with Lady Maltrousse.”
“On the contrary, I’m already promised to one of Derbyshire’s finest jewels.” Nigel turned hopefully to Miss Morrison who was standing not five feet away, hiding behind a frown that signified she had no wish to be approached. “Will you do me the honour, Miss Morrison?”
“Your grace, please do not think that I was looking in your direction in order to beg for a partner.”
“Oh? Were you looking in my direction?” said Nigel with a faint smile. “I had not noticed.” His tone turned serious. “But indeed, it is I who must beg for a partner. Will you be so kind as to dance with me?”
Miss Morrison looked at him carefully, a wrinkle between her expressive eyebrows.
She was far more reticent than she had been earlier in the day when they had hung the greenery together.
Nigel feared that the appearance of Lady Maltrousse had a great deal to do with that.
She might not have hated him after that kiss, but she was perilously close to hating him now .
From the corner of his eye, he could see an officious black coat approaching.
“My dear Miss Morrison,” he murmured, “it looks as if Mr. Townsend is coming to rescue you. From me. You must make up your mind swiftly. Do I flatter myself that you consider me the lesser of two evils?”
She refused to admit as much, but she allowed him to take her gloved hand in his.