The Scandalous Life of a True Lady Read online

  Simone was excited, too. Now that the art judging was over, and she was not the one performing tonight, she could enjoy herself. And Harry’s company. In the dark.

  He was waiting in the hallway for her, and tenderly draped the cape over her shoulders, pulling the hood up. “Brown velvet,” he murmured as he tied the bow at her neck before she could do it herself. “Just like your eyes. I used to think they were black, but tonight they look soft and inviting. Like velvet.” His hands were still on her shoulders, stroking the soft fabric, stoking her anticipation. He lowered his head to hers and she raised her mouth for his kiss.

  The butler at the front door coughed. “The others have gone on, sir.”

  “Quite right. Dinner. In a tent.” The butler, the footman waiting with a lantern, and Simone all knew he’d rather go back upstairs and go hungry. “Dammit.” He took her arm and followed the footman out into the dusk.

  Whatever Claire’s other faults, she was a good hostess. Colorful Chinese lanterns lit the way toward the stables, swaying on branches in the light breeze. Bells hung there too, giving the path an enchanted feel, as if magic waited in the tent they approached. More bells chimed, silk banners fluttered, and garlands of flowers on every post and support scented the air.

  The dinner guests were serving themselves from long tables filled with scores of platters and tureens, while servants kept filling glasses with wine. Simone did not spot Sandaree in the jovial crowd, but she did see Danforth standing by himself, drinking.

  “Too bad,” Harry said when she pointed Lord James out to him. “This would have been a good opportunity to search his room. The personal servants are all coming to watch, I understand, after their own meals.”

  Simone was glad. She wanted Harry at her side tonight, away from danger, thinking about her, not an unlikely blackmail scheme.

  They ate another sumptuous meal on monogrammed china, with linen tablecloths, floral centerpieces, and scented candles, which almost masked the odors from the nearby stables.

  “What the deuce are we doing in the paddocks?” Sir Chauncey wanted to know, almost staggering into one of the uprights on his way out of the tent. His companion, a dancer at the Royal Ballet, was gracefully picking her way between evidence of the equines. Miss Susan Baylor would dance another time, inside, thank goodness.

  Simone tucked her cape more closely around her now that they had left the tent. “I believe Miss Harbough is going to perform tonight. Claire would not let her bring the horse into the ballroom at the manor, so this is her stage.”

  Sir Chauncey was appeased. “Always liked a circus rider. They don’t wear much besides rhinestones, don’t you know.”

  The ballet dancer attached herself to Danforth, who was still by himself with Sandaree absent. Sir Chauncey shrugged, then grabbed onto a fence post for balance. “Tired of her anyway.”

  The area next to the stable had been fenced off, ringed with flambeaux, decorated with more flowers and streamers. Benches were placed to one end, with servants already gathering to stand at the other end.

  Gorham assisted Claire up on onto one of the benches so she could introduce the performers. In a voice used to filling concert halls, she announced that Miss Harbough would ride Majesto. Since they required musical accompaniment, but the pianoforte could not be brought outdoors, other arrangements had been made. Simone knew that Miss Hanson was willing to play here, but Claire refused to subject the instrument to the night air, the dampness being good enough for the women, not the pianoforte.

  Claire went on to explain that their two French guests had kindly offered to share their talents at the same time. Madame Eloise Lecroix, the shipping magnate’s diversion while his wife was breeding, and who had taken third place in the painting contest, would play the violin. Mademoiselle Mimi Granceaux, Claire coughed for the one-time Maisy Grant—would grant—cough, cough—them the pleasure—cough, of her talent: Whistling.

  Several gentlemen applauded the prospect. This had to be better than opera and poetry and the harrowing harp. Some laughed.

  First, Madame Lecroix stepped out to another circle of lantern light, holding her violin. The ship owner cleared his throat and all laughter died. The women took seats on the benches. Many of the men stood closer to the fence.

  Eloise shook off the shawl she was wearing and blew on her fingers. Then she plucked at the instrument’s strings before beginning a classical piece. Simone was almost reminded of her grandfather and his fiddle, how he played outdoors because it reminded him of his youth and Gypsy campfires. Sometimes Simone’s mother had let her stay up to listen under the starlight.

  Madame’s playing was excellent as far as Simone could tell, but held none of Grandpapa’s haunting chords of love and loss.

  Then more flambeaux were lit by the footmen. Eloise took up a sprightly tune, and Madeline Harbough, nee Maddy Hogg, rode into the ring atop a gleaming white steed. The horse had red ribbons entwined in its mane and tail. Maddy had the same color ribbons holding her improbably yellow hair in a braid. Equally as improbable, she had somehow squeezed herself into her old red satin riding costume. One of the men clapped, until Maddy’s stout Lord Ellsworth tapped him on the shoulder with his cane. This was serious art.

  While Madame Lecroix played, Maddy put the horse through its paces. Silent, unmoving, perfectly posed on her sidesaddle atop the large animal, Maddy got her mount to change gaits to the music, to circle the ring one way, then the other. With no words, no reins and no riding crop, she directed Majesto into figure eights, then a prancing high step, then a sideways sidle, and finally a bow to the audience. Now Ellsworth cheered along with the rest of the party and the servants across the way.

  Maddy rode off but Eloise played one more complicated violin concerto to show off her skill. Then she too curtsied and stepped aside when Mimi Granceaux, mistress to the East India Company’s Mr. Anthony, stepped forward. Mimi waited until Majesto trotted into the ring, building tension in the audience. This time Miss Harbough wore white tights, a lace overskirt covered in red spangles, and a short, tight red blouse. She had gained more than a bit of weight since her performing days, and more during the house party with its lavish spreads. So her ample bottom spread across the horse’s broad back as she rode astride, sans saddle. The horse was in better condition.

  Madame Lecroix set her violin to her chin, Mimi took a deep breath, and Maddy leaped to her feet atop the white horse’s wide back.

  Everyone cheered as they did a circle of the ring, almost drowning out the violin and the whistling. Maddy did a handstand, wobbly, but she did it. The crowd grew quiet, waiting for her next trick. Now they could hear the whistle of “Greensleeves.”

  So could the dog in the stables. Mr. Black started howling.

  Maddy and her accompanyists ignored the noise, and the snickers from the audience at the rail. Maddy did a pirouette atop the horse, bouncing a bit. Then she tried a one-footed pose, while Majesto gathered into a canter around the ring.

  That’s when Mr. Black escaped his stall in the stable. Maddy was performing her best trick, a sideways half dismount, then a tremendous leap back onto the horse’s back, then onto her feet. The violin started to build to a crescendo, the whistle rose in volume.

  The dog ran into the ring.

  The horse was used to circus dogs, small terrier types who wore tutus and jumped through rings and respected the other performers. It was not used to shaved sheepdogs, yapping and baying despite a swollen jaw. It jumped right over the skinny mongrel. Madeline Harbough landed on the other side of her horse, on the ground, on her arse, cursing at the horse, the dog, and the hard ground. Mimi laughed so hard she couldn’t whistle, especially after Maddy got up and slapped her. The Frenchwoman cried, “Mon Dieu,” and started batting at both of them with her violin, which shattered.

  Lord Ellsworth tried to catch the horse he’d paid a pretty penny to hire for the week, but the animal had no trailing reins, so he looked like a fool chasing around the circle. Now that the whistlin
g had stopped, so did the dog’s yowls, but Mr. Black ran after Ellsworth, trying to help.

  Majesto did figure eights, reversed direction, did dance steps and caprioles, staying out of Ellsworth’s reach and jumping over the dog, just like the act where the clowns were chasing him.

  Madame Lecroix’s ship owner walked off, not wanting to be associated with such a debacle. His pregnant wife was sure to hear of tonight’s goings-on. A discreet affair was one thing; this was a horse of quite a different color. White, to be exact, which the scandal sheets were certain to mention.

  Mr. Anthony, Mimi’s East India trader, was not amused either. He had no wife, but he did have his pride. A whistling doxy was a joke, but he was not laughing.

  Neither was Claire. Once more her plans had failed. She blamed it on Simone, naturally, since Harry had brought the dog to Griffin Woods. She pointed a red-lacquered fingernail at Simone’s nose and ordered: “Stop it!”

  Harry was already in the ring to catch the dog, while two grooms ran after Ellsworth and the horse. The audience cheered the best entertainment so far, and wagered on the horse, the dog, or Ellsworth and Harry. Stop it? How? Then Simone spotted waiters bringing wine and cheese. She grabbed a handful of cheese and leaped into the ring, calling the dog, who, naturally, did not recognize his new name.

  “Get out of here,” Harry shouted. “The horse is out of control and unpredictable.”

  The only one who might have managed Majesto was crying, knowing she’d lost her protector, and knowing she couldn’t go back to trick riding for the circus either.

  Majesto did not seem frenzied or malicious to Simone. The horse seemed to be enjoying itself, as a matter of fact, feet picked high, ears pricked forward, performing the best it could without a rider.

  She was tempted to call to Majesto, to approach him, since he was used to women riders. But her skirts were too tight for that, and her slippers too flimsy in case she were wrong and had to climb over the fence in a hurry. She’d help Harry with the dog instead. She held out her hand with the cheese and stayed quiet, so as not to disturb the horse further. Mr. Black was exhausted anyway, and hungry, and the horse did not seem to be one to herd. The dog came to Simone. Or to the food she held out. She broke off small pieces for his sore mouth and to keep him nearby until Sir Chauncey threw his neckcloth over the fence for her to knot around Blackie.

  Ellsworth had stalked off when he realized the horse was playing with him, leaving the beast to the grooms. The stablemen were in a huddle, deciding on their next best move.

  Majesto hadn’t heard his exit music yet, so he kept circling and cavorting. Harry, seeing Simone and the dog safe and the horse heading his way, stepped to the side and leaped onto its back. He used his knees and leg position, and a hand firmly in the braided mane, to bring the horse to a halt, and a bow. Harry waved to the applause as he turned Majesto toward the stable.

  The men went wild. “Stand on its back, Harry,” they shouted, wanting more.

  The women simply wanted Harry.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Who needed more entertainment? Claire announced the rest of the evening would be devoted to the ladies’ card match. The gentlemen could play amongst themselves, of course, or watch and cheer on their favorites. There was to be no advice given, no hints. No cheating, in other words.

  Which Simone knew meant that Claire was confident of her own skills.

  Each woman was to be given ten red markers. Matches were for markers, not points. The best two out of three hands won a marker. Each woman had to play at least ten matches before play ended at the twelve o’clock supper. The three with the most markers won points toward the overall total, but all players could cash in their winnings for guineas. It was not a huge sum by gentlemen’s wagering standards, but no one complained. Playing with house money, no one could lose.

  Lord Ellsworth volunteered to monitor the competition. His now former mistress, Maddy Harbough, was in their room, nursing her bruised body and her bruised pride. Ellsworth would find another bed to sleep in tonight, and for the rest of the house party.

  The match was to begin as soon as the women changed out of their wet shoes and dirty hems. Claire’s red gown showed nary a smudge. Simone’s was covered in mud, dog hair, grass, and other questionable spots and stains from the riding ring.

  Harry had not accompanied her back to the house. He said he needed to find better accommodations for Mr. Black, who had worn out his welcome in the stables. Harry also, she guessed, wanted to talk to the grooms, checking their loyalties and hearing Jem’s news, if any.

  Sir Chauncey and Lord Ellsworth had each taken one of Simone’s arms, as if she were too delicate to follow the lantern-bearing servants on her own. Of course Lord Ellsworth leaned on his cane, and Sir Chauncey leaned on her, breathing brandy fumes in her face.

  Simone thought about not returning to the parlor, not till she spoke to Harry, at least. She was merely adequate at piquet, Claire’s game of choice. Since losing to Harry, Simone doubted she could defeat the favorite, especially without using some of her grandfather’s tricks. Like Miss Althorp’s viscount, Harry would be furious at the dishonesty. Simone had thought she might take second or third place, but Alice Morrow, Lord Comden’s pregnant mistress, was crowing that she was raised in a gaming hall. She could spot a cheat anywhere, she said, and could take on the best.

  Alice needed the win, and the money, since she couldn’t compete in many other events, not in her condition. She was going to sing country tunes for her entertainment, but what was the use, after Claire’s performance?

  Alice might have been raised in a gaming hall, but Ruby Dow’s last position was as a dealer in one. With her signature ruby at her throat, she admitted that her silhouettes might draw laughs, but she’d never win the talent contest. This and the billiards event were her best chances to accrue points and coins.

  Any of them could best Simone, even the ballet dancer or the actress. They spent more time at it while Simone had not played in years, not since becoming a governess. Luck might have something to do with the outcome, but the others might keep better counts in their heads, especially the actress who was used to memorizing roles.

  She’d lose, but maybe not every round, she convinced herself. She had to play ten times or surrender her markers by default, but she might get to keep one or two, which could be one or two more guineas than she had yesterday. Besides, she had too much pride to let Claire Hope defeat her. Or show her up as a poor loser.

  Before she went down, she decided to call on Sandaree, to make sure the Indian girl was all right. She wondered if she should mention that Danforth had gone off in the dark with Sir Chauncey’s ballet dancer, but no, that was none of her affair. If she were Sandaree, she’d be glad anyway.

  She took up Sandaree’s pillow book as an excuse to visit the viscount’s chambers, after another quick look through the pages once Sarah left to hurry her soiled gown to the laundry room. Simone was going to take the opportunity to snoop a bit, too. She couldn’t see how else she was helping Harry with whatever he hoped to discover.

  Sandaree called a soft come in, but she stayed in the shadows.

  “Are you well? I looked for you at the riding ring and at dinner.”

  “Yes, I am well, thank you, but it is too cold for me outside.”

  “We are playing cards tonight, for points.”

  “Yes, my lord’s valet told me. I do not know this piquet. It is too late to learn. Lord James is disappointed.”

  He must be easing his disappointment with the ballet dancer again, because he had not returned below for the gaming. Simone did not think Sandaree needed to hear that, not from her. “I returned your book.”

  “I hope it was helpful,” Sandaree said, coming out of the shadows to take it.

  Simone saw the discoloration on the other girl’s cheek. “He struck you?”

  “No, Miss Noma. I fell.”

  “On your face, you, the most graceful creature I have ever seen? I do not
believe you.”

  Sandaree looked away. “My lord was angry.”

  “That is no excuse! That maggot had no right to hit you.”

  “In my country, he could kill me if he wished.”

  “Well, this is England, and he cannot.” He could, and get away with it. They both knew it. “You have to leave the worm. Maybe Harry—”

  “Would take me on when you separate, pay my debt to Lord James? But that will not be for a long time, I think, from the way he looks at you.”

  “He does? That is, I was hoping he’d know of a way, or someone to help. What would you like to do if you had a choice, and funds to do it?”

  “I would go home to my country. There I could open a pleasure house for wealthy men and earn a fortune. Then I could purchase my mother’s freedom.”

  Simone did not know if Harry had that kind of money or connections, or if he’d approve of setting up a private seraglio. She was thinking that Sandaree might be happier at Lydia Burton’s establishment meanwhile, where her exotic looks and erotic knowledge could draw a fancy price. She’d have the company of the other women, which she was used to, and protection from scum like Lord James Danforth. “I’ll talk to Harry. We’ll find you a better situation, I promise. Until then, you might need this, so hide it somewhere safe.” She handed Sandaree the coin from Miss Althorp’s viscount at the painting judging.

  The coin disappeared down the scanty bodice of Sandaree’s bedgown, then she bowed, almost to the ground. “You are too good, my friend.”

  Simone felt her cheeks grow warm. “Not at all. I did not earn that one. But now you must come down with me. I know you can cover your cheek with cosmetics, and I can teach you how to play piquet.”