Page 33

“Food is always welcome,” Freddy answered, bending to kiss her cheek. “I have come to beg counsel—and, alas, rescue.”

Lady Gresham folded her hands in serene readiness. “The Partridge matter, then?”

“You have heard?”

“Lady Amberley sent over a note describing how Lady Partridge was crowing at the ball last night. I should have attended.”

He expelled a breath. “I cannot marry Miss Partridge, Mama. Nor can I bear to see her publicly embarrassed, or myself tarred as a jilt.”

“Have you spoken to her father?”

“I have not. Nor has any formal understanding been requested. Nevertheless, Society has spun its tale, and I, like a witless fly, have drifted too near the web.”

His mother regarded him over the rim of her gold pince-nez.

“Then you are not, in the strictest sense, honour-bound to Miss Partridge if affection does not exist, and no promise has been exchanged. However,” she added with judicial gravity, “appearances, my dear Frederick, often speak louder than facts.”

He rubbed a hand across his nape. “Then how to withdraw without shrieking cowardice?”

“Mitigation,” Lady Gresham pronounced, as if it were a soothing draught. “I shall call upon Lady Partridge this very afternoon and ensure she understands you are still surveying your options.”

Freddy felt relief uncurl, as tentative as sunrise. “You believe it will suffice? That she will not take it as a sign of favour?”

“It must suffice, and if I make it clear you have not singled out Letty in front of an audience, even she will understand your hand will not be forced.” She tied a knot in her silk.

“Your part is simpler: conduct yourself as a gentleman who is decidedly not on the brink of proposing. Call no more at Grosvenor Square. In the Park, divide your attentions between at least three young ladies—none of them Partridges. And, Frederick?—”

He winced in anticipation. “Yes, Mama?”

“Never, ever allow yourself to be discovered alone. Antechambers, gardens, even the return corridor from supper should be construed as an invitation to ruin.”

He spread his hands in submission. “I shall keep perpetual company or none at all.”

“Very good.” A final tug secured her thread.

“We will invite a selection of close families to a house party at Gresham Park directly. I have been thinking, that with the Coronation so late, a break from Town would be quite welcome. If the Partridges receive no card; it will be understood that your interests have wandered elsewhere.”

Freddy’s shoulders eased. “And if my own interests settle during that house party?” He should tell his mother about Joy, but he was not yet ready to do so until he knew they were both free.

“Then, my love,” Lady Gresham said, eyes softening, “I shall be delighted—provided no Partridge feathers remain to be ruffled in the process.”

Released from this maternal tribunal with his spirits considerably lighter and a full repast weighing comfortably in his stomach, Freddy drove his curricle down Brook Street towards Hyde Park that afternoon.

The horses were fresh and wanting to be given their heads.

To distract himself from the memory of Letty’s plaintive smile, he rehearsed a possible conversation with Miss Harriet Livingston—clever, musical, fond of dogs—who might profit from a turn along Rotten Row with him.

Yet thoughts of Joy intruded unbidden, and each time he pictured her laughing, the prospect of other ladies paled.

He entered the Park by Grosvenor Gate just as the fashionable hour commenced.

Riders filed along the tan stretch in twos and threes, the sun gilding plumes and brass harness alike.

Near the Serpentine he reined in, intending to watch the flow and select a partner for a turn.

Instead, his gaze at once alighted upon Colonel St. John’s tall chestnut and the familiar black mare, Nightingale, dancing beside it.

Joy rode light in the saddle, her face animated.

St. John bent to say something; she laughed.

A stab of jealousy, sharper than he expected, cut through Freddy’s chest.

Anyone who cared to glance along Rotten Row that hour would thus find Mr. Cunningham obeying his mother’s edict with military precision, being occupied not with Miss Partridge but with several eligible misses.

“Miss Livingston, would you and your poodle care for a circuit about the Park?”

“Miss Mabel loves to ride!”

Miss Livingston laughed and settled her prized poodle between them.

They rattled away at a decorous trot, Freddy saluting acquaintances with his whip.

He took pains to linger near the fashionable hold-up by the rail, where Lady Pembury’s landaulet hindered the traffic, ensuring ample opportunity for the onlookers to remark his passenger.

Lady Pembury’s lorgnette lingered pointedly; Mr. Beauchamp tipped his hat; even Lady Partridge, bowling along in a barouche with Letty and two younger daughters, was compelled to nod as Freddy guided the greys past. He noted Letty’s faint pout, but pressed on, conversing with Miss Livingston about her latest litter until she was set down again by her brother’s phaeton with thanks and a blush.

Without allowing the curricle’s wheels to cool, Freddy rolled on to greet Miss Eliza Fairfax along the Serpentine where she walked with her aunt.

Miss Fairfax—tall, witty, blessed with a contralto laugh—accepted the vacant seat with alacrity.

Freddy repeated his circuit, this time quickening the pace as a knot of cavalry officers called to them from their cluster on the side.

Miss Fairfax insisted on taking the ribbons for a furlong, so Freddy relinquished them and, for the benefit of every onlooker, praised her light hands and fearless eye.

They returned flushed and laughing. Lady Partridge witnessed that exchange, too, for her barouche had not yet quitted Rotten Row.

Finally, Freddy acknowledged Miss Dinah Cavendish—a young lady famed more for fortune than conversation, though her dimples compensated.

He assisted her up, arranged her shawl, and set off on a leisurely promenade so visible that his brother-in-law, Montford, cantering by on his dun, hooted a good-natured greeting.

Miss Cavendish, delighted, waved to half a dozen friends.

Freddy smiled, knowing the spectacle was accomplishing precisely what Lady Gresham had prescribed: the ton now saw him as a gentleman distributing his attentions with amiable equity.

As he brought Miss Cavendish back to her chaperone near the gate, Freddy doffed his hat and felt, for the first time in weeks, a curious sense of ease.

No one could accuse him of singling out Letty Partridge today.

Hopefully the betting books at White’s would, by supper, reflect new odds on whom Mr. Cunningham preferred—and perhaps leave poor Letty to more promising suitors.

He turned the greys towards the ring for one last circuit, intending only a solitary canter to restore his wits.

The afternoon sun glinted on the Serpentine; carriages sparkled like the backs of beetles.

Then, ahead, the distinctive chestnut of Colonel St. John again caught Freddy’s eye, Nightingale’s dark coat beside it.

Joy’s laugh drifted to him on the crisp air, as clear as a bell.

Freddy tightened the reins and guided the curricle nearer—but not so near as to intrude—content, for the moment, to observe while his pulse settled into a rhythm quite unlike that calm he had boasted minutes before.

Montford’s dun loomed at his elbow with a snort and a cloud of steam. “Cunningham!” Monty called, his grin broad. “You have become the veriest Don Juan—three fair companions in one afternoon!”

Freddy forced a chuckle, eyes still on Joy’s graceful seat. “If diversity aids harmony, Monty, I shall compose symphonies till dusk.”

“Varied melodies, indeed, though I collect Miss Partridge’s mama is tuning her instrument for a different finale.” Montford’s gaze followed Freddy’s. “Ah—but St. John conducts another performance.”

Freddy’s answering grin was tight. “Let us trust he keeps the tempo.”

Suddenly an unseen blow snapped Joy’s head back. Nightingale bucked upright, and Joy catapulted from the saddle.

Freddy’s blood froze, and in an instant the day’s calculated parade of partners was swept from his thoughts. He flung the ribbons to his tiger, vaulted down, and raced across to the only lady who mattered, all too conscious of how thin a veil his performance of indifference had truly been.