London's Smoky Cauldron

Part III. The London Campaign

6

London’s Smoky Cauldron

    The initial assault upon London had scarce begun, so it was perhaps too soon to become disheartened. However, on the ladies’ return to Number 12 Adams Crescent from what had been intended as a mild expedition in quest of reading matter and perhaps a ribbon or two, the Contessa dashed furiously upstairs, ignoring her two companions. Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Hewitt exchanged glances, and went into the little downstairs salon. Eudora there removed her gloves, biting her lip and frowning, while her erstwhile governess sank limply onto the sofa.

    Eventually Miss Hewitt ventured: “It was not so very bad, my dear Miss Bon-Dutton.”

    “That,” replied Eudora levelly, “is a lie, if a gallant one, Miss Hewitt. It was appalling.”

    After quite some time, the little spinster lady said: “It was not well done of him. But if I may venture to say so, my dear, we did think, when we undertook this—er—this venture, that it might not be easy, did we not?”

    Eudora sighed, and came to sit beside her. “Yes, indeed we did. Gratuitous insults are to be expected, one concludes. Though as town is at present very thin of company and the Season is not quite yet under way, I suppose we may expect them to be relatively thin on the ground for at least a week or so yet.”

    Miss Hewitt tried to smile and failed. She did not think Miss Bon-Dutton’s pessimistic prediction was altogether incorrect. Not, at least, on present showing.

    The day had dawned fine and crisp, ideal for some exercise on horseback, but their new riding-habits were not yet ready and the Contessa was determined not to appear in the Park until they could make a splash, so the ladies had set out for the bookshops and libraries. The first had featured no more than an elderly scholar, who had appeared much taken by Raffaella and had engaged her in harmless conversation on the subject of Italian architecture.

    The experience at the second establishment was quite considerably worse. Exactly how it happened Eudora did not know: she and Miss Hewitt were exclaiming over a very beautiful book illustrating rose varieties, featuring hand-coloured plates, and Raffaella was inspecting the new novels. Approximately in the blink of an eyelid an eager young gentleman in a choking neckcloth, who had been right at the far end of the room, deep in Greek, was assisting Raffaella to inspect the new novels.

    It turned out that he was up at Oxford, y’know, but there had been a slight contretemps over nothin’ very much, and the Dean, who was a decent fellow, had said it was all very well, but discipline must be maintained, and he had best rusticate for the rest of the term. But Pa and Ma was off in foreign parts—Eudora here gave him a sharp glance, recognised the nose, and swallowed a sigh: “Pa” and “Ma” must with very little doubt at all be Lord and Lady Brantwell, currently representing His Britannic Majesty at the Prussian Court—and so Uncle John had said he had best come to him. He was a great gun! Raffaella did not even appear to encourage him: somehow he was telling her all about “Uncle John” and his great horses, and his prowess in the usual gentlemanly sporting pursuits. Eudora racked her brains but could not put an appropriate face from the Brantwell family tree to the name.

    After very little time at all the young man was begging humbly if he might introduce himself to the ladies. Jerry Brantwell. Quite. Eudora acknowledged the introduction somewhat grimly—not that there anything wrong with the Brantwells, quite the reverse, they were one of the stiffest-rumped families in the country, the which was more or less the fly in the ointment—and suffered the shopkeeper to draw her attention back to the roses.

    “Inevitable, my dear,” murmured Miss Hewitt.

    “Mm,” she admitted, smiling a little.

    Behind them, the two young people conferred over the novels. Jerry Brantwell did not seem to know as much of his own literature as did Raffaella. Pretty soon he was tactfully asking her about her family. Eudora looked fixedly at a page of beautiful pink blooms. Oh, God: please don't let him have heard— He apparently hadn’t. She sagged.

    “He is very young,” murmured Miss Hewitt, turning over.

    “Yes,” agreed Eudora numbly. “Quite.”

    It almost appeared that they might get off scot-free; at the least, with Mr Brantwell’s fervent promise to call, when “Uncle John” in person appeared. God. Eudora’s heart did a very silly flip in her breast, which its owner was almost enabled to pretend it had not, and then descended right into her neat little half-boots. Where, she was very aware, it was about to stay for some time. Sir John Stevens. His place was not a million miles from Jeremy Andrews’s old home, and given that and the fact that he had adorned the diplomatic service from almost the time he could crawl, there was no hope—no hope at all—that he would not remember the frightful Principessa Claudia. And if by any miracle he did not, there was no hope that such busy tongues as that of Lady Jersey, or the Contessa Albinoni, or the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen would not very recently have reported Raffaella Andrews dalla Rovere’s story to him. In fact, though he was known as one of the greatest prudes in London, hadn’t he been, at one stage, one of the Fürstin’s? Oh, God; oh, God. Why had she not remembered that Lady Brantwell was a Stevens and snatched Raffaella out of the place immediately?

    Jerry Brantwell was performing introductions happily.

    “We have met. How are you, Sir John?” said Eudora faintly.

    Sir John acknowledged the acquaintance very properly, though Eudora would have bet her pearls that he did not know her from Adam, and she was almost thinking that they had got away with it, when young Jerry burst out with a great flood of information about the Contessa dalla Rovere’s Romantick background. Not to mention—though of course he did—the amazing coincidence that her family came from quite near Uncle John’s place!

    “Of course. I remember your father,” he said—stiff but relatively kindly, still. Eudora was conscious of an impulse to shut her eyes.

    “Really, sir?” carolled Raffaella. She put her rounded chin in the air. “And Mamma too, no doubt?”

    “Quite,” he said coldly, turning away.

    That did it. Possibly unaware of the anguished mental directives being sent her by both of her well-wishers, though Eudora would not have bet the pearls on that, Raffaella added brightly: “Even I have heard of you, of course, sir! Permit me to commiserate with you on your late demotion from the Cabinet. Possibly your diplomatic connections will have told you that my mamma is settled in Rome, now?”

    “So I believe. –Come along, Jerry, we must not delay. Good-day, ladies,” he said stiffly.

    Before the stunned Jerry could utter more than a squeak he had propelled him bodily from the shop.

    “Oh, my dear Contessa,” said Miss Hewitt sadly.

    “Raffaella, how did you—how did you dare,” moaned Eudora, “to mention his leaving the Cabinet?”

    “And—and in such terms,” faltered Miss Hewitt.

    “If it was not a demotion,” returned Raffaella grimly, “what was it, pray? He was in it, and now he is not in it. That must surely rank as a demotion, in anyone’s terms.”

    “Just don’t,” said Eudora with a sigh.

    Raffaella was silent, but there was a mutinous look around her mouth.

    “Dear Contessa, you said yourself,” faltered Miss Hewitt, “that anyone who could disagree with the Prime Minister so—so overtly over such a matter, must be not only a truly Christian being, but a man of great sense.”

    “Miss Hewitt, he may be all of that, and still the stuffiest prude in Nature; and, though hitherto I would have said there were several female contenders for that position, I perceive that he is,” she said grimly.

    “Er—that is true enough, I suppose,” conceded Eudora weakly. “Well, it is,” she said as Miss Hewitt gasped and threw up her hands. “But it can do you no good to get on the wrong side of such a man at the outset of your stay in London, Raffaella.”

    Raffaella eyed her drily. “Would anything I have said got me on his right side?”

    “Er—possibly not,” she admitted, biting her lip.

    “Quite. I have no intention,” she said grimly, “of propitiating him or anybody, and so I warn you!”

    “No,” said Eudora with an effort. “Of course not.”

 

   Eventually Miss Hewitt, though giving up the effort to smile, pulled herself together sufficiently to order up a tray of tea and Eudora pulled herself together sufficiently to remove her bonnet and sit down quietly to it. They were sipping it in silence when Raffaella reappeared, with her chin very much tilted.

    She took a deep breath and said without preamble: “Dear Cousin Eudora, I do not mean to drag your reputation down. Would it be better to end it now?”

    Eudora frowned. “No. You were right. Stevens is a prude—and a fool besides, not to see that you are near as innocent as that downy-cheeked fledgling in the absurd waistcoat.”

    “What? Oh: Mr Brantwell. Um, are you sure?”

    “Very sure. I was just a little thrown, that is all. Do not worry, it is for the last time. In future, I shall give them their own again! Now, sit down and have some tea, my dear.”

    Raffaella duly sat down to tea, and the moment passed. But Eudora was in no doubt that it was a presage of many more such to come. Well, they would just have to gird their loins, that was all. Her hand being set to the plough, she had no intention of turning back.

    Expectably, most of the Bon-Duttons were prepared to shun Eudora and her shocking guest. Not that they would particularly have wished to be invited by any of them, in any case. However, she had sent a note to her cousin the Honourable Frederick Bon-Dutton on their arrival in London, and Freddy had turned up all agog to meet the Contessa. More so, once the meeting had taken place.

    And professed himself utterly delighted—delighted!—to choose some horses for Cousin Eudora. Eh? Oh: right you are then, Cousin: buy, only. Percy Luton’s bays? Yes, well, they was on the market, old Percy had popped off this February. But the ladies would need carriage horses too, no doubt. And riding hacks? Did the Contessa ride? Oh. Well, Vyv G.-G. was saying just t’other day that his sisters had refused point-blank to ride one of them white things their Pa bred: it was so placid they had dubbed it “Feather-Bed” and if the Contessa would not be insulted— It was a pretty thing, mind you: old Wade’s greys always were. Raffaella’s eyes, Eudora and Miss Hewitt observed with some amusement, had lit up at the mental picture of herself perched on a pretty white horse; and so Eudora agreed, if it was as placid as Freddy said, that she would consider buying it. Did it jump? she added with foreboding. The Hon. Freddy was observed to squirm. Well, no, and that were one of the reasons why the Marchioness of W. had agreed to get rid— Oh, absolutely! Yes, indeed, a great point in its favour! He was apparently thrilled to have the Contessa inform him that where placid horses which did not jump were concerned she was without shame, and took his departure, with fervent promises to call on the morrow. And if the Contessa should care for a spin in his phaeton? Oh, splendid! Only if the weather was decent, of course!

    In due course the horses were acquired. Feather-Bed was very pretty indeed: just slightly dappled, with a long, flowing mane and a long, flowing tail, and great soft liquid eyes. Not spavined, or anything like that; there was, in fact, nothing physically wrong with him at all. Though he was rather fat: due, as the groom holding his head confided, to his reluctance to take exercise. The word “slug” was not uttered aloud but Eudora could see it hovering on the poor man’s lips for every minute she and Freddy consulted over the brute. Eventually she said kindly to the fellow: “I understand that he is possibly the greatest slug in your master’s stables; but you see, my cousin is a very poor rider.”

    “Yes, ma’am!” he gasped, in tones of huge relief. “Feather-Bed’ll be just right for ’er, then! Um, beg pardon, ma’am!” he gasped, turning puce. “Clouds of Glory, I should say.”

    “Mm. ‘Feather-Bed’ will do very well,” returned Eudora drily.

    The Hon. Freddy then remarking that that price wouldn’t do, did Wade think they was flats or gudgeons, Eudora withdrew in a ladylike manner from the proceedings. Though with the mental reservation that left to herself she could undoubtedly get the creature for half the price for which Freddy would settle.

    Since old Ambrose Andrews had sent a bank draft for five hundred pounds, enclosed with a note penned by his man of business, almost undoubtedly at Mrs Miriam Beauchamp’s orders, to say that that would be all the Contessa need expect from him, Raffaella was very much in funds and offered to pay for the horse herself. Eudora, however, refused to hear of any such thing. Once the Season was over and Raffaella should have no more need of the creature, she had, she explained with a twinkle in her eye, every intention of selling it on to some other flat! Raffaella laughed and gave in. But she must insist on paying for her clothes! Eudora did not mention how damned expensive clothes for an entire London Season would be, given that a young widow could hardly deck herself in white muslins like a débutante. She made, however, a mental resolution to inform the dressmakers and milliners that the majority of the accounts might be addressed to herself.

    As yet the little house in Adams Crescent had, of course, very few callers. Apart from the Hon. Freddy and, oh, dear, the eager Mr Jerry Brantwell. Eudora was not sure how to intimate politely to the eager one firstly, that he was by far too young for the Contessa, secondly, that she would prefer his room to his company, and thirdly, that she was absolutely sure, indeed would take her dying oath, that his uncle had forbidden him to call. Miss Hewitt, alas, seemed equally incapable of dropping a hint. Would they be reduced to telling him in so many words?

    The Dewesburys were in town and Katie had written a very kind note; but Miss Bon-Dutton did not make the mistake of thinking that she and Raffaella would be welcome to call there. She was quite sure that Lady Lavinia would not turn them from her door: but she was also sure that the visit would be entirely painful and would result in less than no advantage to the Contessa. It was not, however, very long at all before Miss Dewesbury and Miss Nellie paid a call at Number 12 Adams Crescent. Given that they were in the company of Lady Ferdy Lacey, it was very clear that their mother must imagine they had merely gone to visit with their sister. Eudora did not remark on this fact, the more so as she was almost sure, from the naughty sparkle in Gwendolyn’s eye, that that young woman was waiting for her to do so.

    It was speedily agreed that the Contessa and Miss Bon-Dutton must come as soon as possible to one of Gwennie’s little evenings, that Gwennie would introduce them to her sister-in-law, Lady Caro Kellaway, née Lacey, who would of course invite them to one of her little evenings, and that this very week the Contessa must promise to pay some calls with Lady Ferdy! And, in short, that the Contessa was to be taken up by Lady Ferdy Lacey.

    “Does she—now pray do not take it amiss, Cousin—does she actually like you?” said Eudora faintly as the front door closed behind the callers.

    “Who, Lady Ferdy? No, well, I rather think she does not; though as I am dark, I think she has decided I will be a suitable foil for those very blonde looks of hers. She certainly looked daggers at this gown,” said the Contessa airily.

    Eudora smiled. “Mm.” It was a morning gown: not in the pastel shades favoured by proper young women, for these did not truly suit Raffaella, but a dark crimson, with a single deep flounce, both the bodice and the flounce smartly adorned with white tasselled cord. Raffaella had declared that prim prints did not at all present the picture of a dashing young widow with which she wished to favour London; and there was not a single new print in her rapidly growing wardrobe. The crimson gown was certainly dashing enough. Whilst at the same time nothing that could have been called immodest. A triumph, en effet.

    “She could not possibly wear this colour, with those very fair look of hers,” noted the Contessa smugly, if redundantly.

    “Quite.”

    The morrow dawned fine, and as their driving dresses were ready, and Raffaella was itching to try them, and Eudora was itching to give Percy Luton’s matched bays a good work-out, and as the promised phaeton had been delivered at last, there seemed no reason to stay stuffing indoors. In especial as no callers were presenting themselves this morning. So off they went. Raffaella very spring-like but also very smart in deep buttercup yellow edged with grey and white striped ribbon, and a straw bonnet with a profusion of yellow rosettes and grey and white striped bows, and Eudora quite incredibly smart in a black driving coat edged with wide borders of tan, the wide revers likewise, and a tan bonnet with striped black and tan ribbons. With tan driving gloves. And a couple of whiplashes through the buttonhole: how dashing!

    “Could we take a turn in the Park?” asked Raffaella on a hopeful note.

    “Why not?” she agreed mildly.

    They turned into the Park. After approximately two minutes an energetically waving figure in very yellow pantaloons was espied. Mr Jerry Brantwell. Oh, God.

    “Was there not some rumour that he was supposed to be closeted with his Greek during this soi-disant rustication?” groaned Eudora.

    “Yes, but his uncle is so sure that his word is law, that he does not bother to check!” said Raffaella, giggling. “Do, pray, pull in, dear Cousin!”

    Eudora sighed, but pulled in.

    “I say, there you are at last!” the unfledged one greeted them.

    The well-behaved Miss Bon-Dutton was conscious of a desire to roll her eyes madly, after which tearing out her hair by the handful. The Contessa, strangely enough, merely giggled.

    “I really do not think,” said Eudora, trying to be firm, as they drove away from Master Jerry at last, “harmless though the thing is, that you should encourage that boy. You cannot be unaware that his uncle does not wish for it.”

    “Presumably his uncle is not his keeper,” she said, looking mutinous.

    “Raffaella, if the boy’s up at Oxford—no, well, sent down from Oxford,” she said as Raffaella lodged an objection, “then the damned uncle is his keeper. In loco parentis. And believe you me, if Stevens were not capable of having any runaway marriage annulled—which I can assure you he is—Brantwell would do it without a second thought.”

    “I wasn’t thinking—” Raffaella met her eye. “It only sprang to mind as a vague possibility. Well, you know how things do! But that isn’t what I want, at all. But why should the poor boy not be given his freedom?”

    “No reason, except that John Stevens could very easily ruin the pair of us.”

    Raffaella returned blithely: “He will never know. And if Mr Jerry should chance to call again, I promise I shall be pleasant but cool!”

    Eudora sighed, but ceased arguing with her.

    The Dewesbury sisters duly arrived to collect Raffaella to go calling. Gwendolyn kindly assured Miss Bon-Dutton that there was room in the barouche, and she might sit facing the horses, but Eudora firmly refused the offer: the mere sight of her Ladyship’s outfit was sufficient warning. Raffaella had immediately admired the bonnet and Gwennie had responded gaily: “I am so glad you like it! Mamma has already told me that it is totally unsuited to a young woman of my age, so I am quite, quite positive that it is having the intended effect!”

    “Si, si!” agreed Raffaella, dimpling. The bonnet was a powder-blue silk: very small, with a much abbreviated poke, under which peeped many tiny silk rosettes in the same shade of blue, a darker shade, and a soft lilac. Three hugely fluffy ostrich plumes in the same three shades clustered together on the left side, above a giant bow of the darker blue. This left the right-hand side of the head very much exposed and Lady Ferdy had refrained entirely from ornamenting it, even to the avoidance of earrings. It was a cool day and she was wearing a matching powder-blue pelisse in what was probably a fine wool, but the base fabric was scarcely visible for the blue and lilac silk rosettes and rows of ruched silk adorning it.

    “Just one moment,” said Eudora mildly as the young ladies prepared to depart. “On whom do you intend calling, Lady Ferdy?”

    Gwennie’s china-blue eyes twinkled but she replied demurely: “I shall call on dear old Aunt Nancy Dewesbury, Mrs Peter Ainsworth, Gerry Naseby, and possibly Babs Arthur.”

    “These are persons of whom your mamma approves, are they?” said Eudora to Miss Dewesbury, unmoved.

    Katie got up, smiling. “Well, yes, except that Babs Arthur is as incorrigible as Gwennie. But the object of the exercise is not wholly to make the calls.”

    “Yes, it is,” objected Miss Nellie in bewilderment.

    “Just wait,” said Katie with a twinkle. “No, well, do come with us, if you would care to, Miss Bon-Dutton.”

    Eudora again refused the kind offer, and let them go. Admitting to Miss Hewitt, as that lady waved them off from the bow-window of their pretty little hired house: “It will be all giggles and beaux and fashions. But the one consolation is, little Lady Ferdy is not near so dashing as she fancies herself!”

    Miss Hewitt gave a smothered laugh and agreed: “Indeed!”

    It was not very long before Miss Dewesbury’s meaning became clear to her innocent little sister. The barouche, in fact, had gone but five hundred yards or so, with the four young women well rugged up, for though the day was fine it was not very warm, when two military figures were observed to be waving at it from the pavement and Gwennie, poking her unfortunate driver in the back with her parasol as to the manner born, cried: “Pull in, Parkes, if you please!”

    The uniforms resolved themselves into a Lieutenant Something and a Major Something Else. Introductions were received eagerly—nay, fervently—by these military personalities. And eventually their waving and beaming figures were left behind, with fervent promises to drop in on Lady Ferdy’s promised card party and to call on the Contessa.

    “I see,” admitted Nellie feebly.

    “Well, yes, I should think you would, Nellie, cara!” agreed Raffaella with a giggle.

    Miss Nellie looked at the Contessa’s deep yellow driving outfit, and swallowed a sigh. That striped edging was so smart! Her own grey-green pelisse was dull and Missish. And her simple straw bonnet with its single bow of grey-green ribbon, with which she had been, to say truth, quite pleased until laying eyes on Gwennie this morning, was unutterably dowdy. Unutterably.

    Scarce three hundred yards further on it was: “Oh! Darling Lord Benny! –Parkes, pull in, if you please!” And so on.

    The calls themselves were duly accomplished: Mrs Peter Ainsworth first. She was a handsome young woman with a pretty little dark-haired boy on her knee, the which did not deter her from entertaining an older, very dashing, military gentleman. Who apparently was not a relation—no. This gentleman appeared very taken with the Contessa and Mrs Peter appeared very put out by it.

    “I knew she would hate you, Contessa!” said Gwendolyn with relish as they reseated themselves in the barouche. “I am so glad you came!”

    “I am happy to be of service, Lady Ferdy,” responded Raffaella primly.

    Giggling, Gwennie poked her driver with her parasol. “Drive on, Parkes!”

    The next visit was both harmless and unexceptionable: Aunt Nancy Dewesbury, an elderly, nodding, beaming lady in a very lacy cap, who apparently still considered Gwennie and Katie to be about eight and five years old, and Nellie in leading-strings.

    As Miss Bon-Dutton had not immediately forbidden the visit, “Gerry” Naseby obviously could not be a gentleman, and, indeed, was not, but a pretty brown-haired young woman. Her salon featured nothing more intimidating than a graceful older lady in the most becoming wisp of a lace cap that could possibly be imagined. As they resettled themselves in the barouche Gwendolyn explained that Lady Naseby, Senior, was generally reckoned the most elegant woman in London. Raffaella and Nellie could only nod hard in agreement. She had been wearing a grey silk dress. The which did not describe its effect in the slightest. Not the slightest.

    Between the Naseby residence and that of Mrs Arthur they encountered three young gentlemen in the blue coats, yellow pantaloons and Hessians of town wear, a young naval gentleman and an older naval gentleman. And a positively elderly military gentleman, this last on horseback; all of whom seemed equally thrilled to see Lady Ferdy. And to receive introductions.

    Babs Arthur, as she almost immediately revealed to her new acquaintances, had made her come-out the same year as Gwennie, and had been the most utter howling disaster of that year, failing to attract even one young gentleman, and throwing out spots almost continuously for the duration of the Season! Shaking her mop of chestnut curls very much, Mrs Arthur then explained that her mother had been in despair, utter despair, and her aunts scarcely less so, and her maternal grandmother had positively taken to her bed. So when Great-Aunt Christina had descended upon them that summer Papa had said, let her take her, she couldn’t do worse than the pack of them had done. And Babs had gone off to Cornwall with Great-Aunt Christina and spent the summer doing nothing beside the sea, in a state of utter bliss! The innocent Nellie nodded very hard at this revelation. Katie, who had of course heard it all before, merely eyed Babs sardonically; and Gwennie, who had plunged into a book that was lying on the tea-table and was gasping to herself over it, did not even look up. But the Contessa, looking impossibly prim, urged Mrs Arthur to continue.

    Nothing loath, Mrs Arthur did so. Great-Aunt Christina had decided that she should stay on for Christmas, so she had done so, but of course it was horridly brutish in Cornwall in the winter, miles from anywhere—Nellie blinked—and so they had just popped over to Paris, to see Uncle Dicky at the Embassy.—Here Gwennie glanced up and rolled her eyes, and Katie sighed.—And they would never guess, but there was the most divine Frenchman who had fallen utterly in love with Babs, and they had planned to run away together, for he had the biggest, softest eyes that they could possibly imagine: but just in time, for it turned out he was a horrid adventurer that was after her fortune, Uncle Dicky had sent darling Captain Arthur after them, and he had routed the wicked Chevalier d’Artois utterly!—Katie mouthed “‘D’Artois’,” and shrugged, at this point.—Well, not positively swords at dawn, no, for actually it had been but four in the afternoon—Nellie blinked once more—but he had hit him very hard with his fist and he had fallen down, thump! And darling Captain Arthur had looked at him with utter disdain, and told him to get his unspeakable Froggy carcass out of their sights! At which Babs had known that it must be he and no other! But not if his name was Percival, of course.

    Gratifyingly, the Contessa collapsed in gales of giggles at this point. Mrs Arthur smirked.

    “It isn’t. She knew that perfectly well all along,” said Gwennie into the book.

    “Darling Gwennie, one could not marry a man called Percival!”

    “No, sicuro!” gurgled the Contessa.

    “It’s Robert, Nellie,” said Gwennie into the book.

    “Solidly British!” sighed Babs Arthur, clasping her hands affectedly to her bosom. “Like his head.”

    The Contessa gasped, and collapsed again. Nellie, who had gone very red, tried to smile in a sophisticated manner.

    “Babs, behave,” said Katie severely. “You are quite shocking poor Nellie, and confirming her very worst fears of London town!”

    “No!” protested Nellie, a fiery puce.

    “I am truly very fond of him,” said Babs with a twinkle. “But there is no use in pretending he is an intellectual genius. But then, I need something solid, you see, and as he adores me, we suit very well!”

    “Oh, naturalmente!” agreed the Contessa sunnily. “One perfectly grasps your point.”

    … “So?” said Miss Bon-Dutton, as the Contessa was delivered safely back to her.

    “Remind me to wear a lot of deep reds or crimsons in the future. Or very deep greens, would not be unacceptable. And your Jane was perfectly right about the new fashion of doing my hair, and I shall let her do it like that when we go to the opera. And if I should ever descend to shaking my curls, pray breathe the words ‘mop-head Mrs Arthur’, in my ear and I shall desist, immediate!”

    Miss Bon-Dutton looked at her limply.

    She shrugged lightly. “Well, they were all very English, and I think it was a mistake to visit little Lady Naseby, for though she is a simpleton, her mamma-in-law was on guard and very clearly knew every syllable of the Roman version, though much, much too refined to look or breathe a hint. But on the whole, as long as Lady Ferdy believes I can be a foil to herself, I think she will continue to befriend me. In especial as Mrs Peter Ainsworth appears to be the sort of friend who is in actual fact a great rival, and she was thrilled to see that in the dark, Mediterranean looks stakes, I thoroughly outclass her. And that she was thoroughly aware of it.”

    “Raffaella,” said Eudora baldly, “are you making friends, or enemies?”

    Raffaella rolled her eyes at her. “Oh, enemies, my dear Cousin Eudora! But then, ninety-nine percent of our sex are incapable of true friendship with another woman; had you not realised?”

    “I had, but was not absolutely sure you had,” replied Eudora drily. “Well, be on your guard, that is all.”

    “Sicuro!” she said with her merry laugh.

    “Even though it is not your day,” said Mrs Weaver-Grange, opening her limpid grey eyes very wide indeed, “we felt it might not be inappropriate to call.”

    Had Miss Bon-Dutton not been very much aware that her cousin Eloise Stanhope and Nessa Weaver-Grange could ruin both her and Raffaella very easily—and would do so happily, there had been such incidents in the past—would have closed her door to the pair of them.

    She returned coolly: “I do not think we have a day, though it is true we are generally home on Tuesdays. But I am very glad to see you both, of course.”

    “Of course!” agreed Nessa with the trilling silvery laugh for which she was known. “And do you think we are looking well? I am sure you are looking well, dear Eudora, and must, indeed, congratulate you on it.”

    Nessa was looking well enough, in a walking-dress of broad blue and white stripes, fringed and tasselled in white corded silk, the which afforded something of the nautical to its effect. The delicious Valenciennes which frothed at the neck had nothing of the nautical about it, however. Nor did the bonnet: white silk, tied with a huge blue bow and adorned with a profusion of white silk rosebuds and tiny blue silk forget-me-nots. Utterly delicious, yes, and Eudora was aware that Raffaella’s eyes had been fastened greedily upon the outfit since the visitors arrived. Eudora’s cousin, Eloise Stanhope, was looking damned outrageous in a heavy black poplin topped by a short, tight black jacket of military cut, braided and tasselled à la Hussar, with, if you please, a black stock to boot. Her hat was a black shako with not a feather or bow about it. True, it had a brief black veil. That did not make it better. Though it certainly helped to explain why half London referred to her as the Black Brunswicker.

    Eudora agreed colourlessly that they were looking well.

    “Your little friend is looking well, too,” added Nessa, eyeing the Contessa hungrily. “Though of course one does, at that age.”

    “If one does not throw out a spot. Thank you, Mrs Weaver-Grange,” replied Raffaella with complete composure. “I think you look wonderful. I own I have been coveting that outfit since the moment I laid eyes on it.”

    “Manners, too!” trilled Nessa, beaming at her. “I predict you will become the rage, my dear Contessa! At the least, with the stronger sex!” She wrinkled up her pretty little nose, and laughed.

    “You are too kind,” replied Raffaella politely.

    “Freddy mentioned you ride, I think?” drawled Eloise, looking bored.

    “Well, no, I do not claim to ride, I am afraid. I merely sit on a horse. The which is the limit of my ambitions.” Raffaella paused infinitesimally. “Or at the least, of my equestrienne ambitions.”

    Eloise eyed her drily. “You do well to admit it.”

    Raffaella returned dulcetly: “I think most ladies who come to London are driven hither by their ambitions, are they not?”

    Mrs Everard Stanhope at this gave a short laugh, and conceded: “You’re not a ninny, girl. I suppose I wish you luck. –Come on, Nessa, I dare say we can spare Eudora’s feelings.”

    “Oh, but have we not already done that?” she trilled, rising nonetheless. “For we did not bring Boy, you know,” she said, opening her eyes very wide at Eudora.

    “I suppose I thank you for that. But you don’t need to hurry off, Eloise. Stay for tea and cakes, if you would like to.”

    Raffaella was looking very interested but did not ask who “Boy” might be. “Yes, please stay.”

    “No, we have another engagement. We might see you in the Park. Though I should warn you, we ride. Heard you paid over the odds for Percy Luton’s bays, Eudora.” Eloise nodded briefly, and strode out. Nessa followed, not apologising for her friend’s abruptness, but waving her hand coyly at them.

    “I see!” said Raffaella with a laugh ere the door had scarcely closed upon the pair. “They are a pair of Sapphic ladies! Why on earth did you not tell me?”

    Eudora passed a hand across her face. “I was afraid you would not even understand the phrase.”

    Raffaella laughed a little. “I am young, but not a ninny!” she reminded her. “Who is ‘Boy’?” she added avidly.

    Giving in, Eudora admitted: “A Mr Wemyss. He is almost young enough to be Eloise’s son, and has been, to put it no more strongly, her lap-dog, any time these past five years. But as he is reputed to be losing his pretty looks, she may drop him at any moment.”

    Raffaella merely nodded. “I did not dislike them,” she said slowly. “You know, I think it is rather sad.”

    “Quite.”

    “Not that, as such! No, that they should feel they have to be so defiant about it.”

    “Nessa specialises in encouraging innocent young women to like her,” warned Eudora in a hard voice.

    “Oh? But I am not innocent!” she said with a laugh.

    “Er—no.”

    “At least dear Miss Hewitt was spared them,” she said with her sunny smile.

    “Mm. Well, she has met them before: Eloise did not use to be so outrageous and for many years my mother thought that as we are cousins we should be friends. But it is certainly true that if she could choose, she would rather not encounter them.”

    “She and the rest of Society? –Do not be alarmed, I shall not be so silly as to make friends of them. But as I know what it is to exist on the fringes, shall we say, of Society’s good will, I cannot but experience some fellow-feeling for them.”

    “Yes. But they are quite intelligent enough to perceive that, Raffaella, and to endeavour to take advantage of it.”

    “I can see that, too,” she replied calmly.

    Eudora could only conclude that she was in no danger from the pair. Thank God. They were not wholly spiteful, Nessa’s customary manner to the contrary, but allowing herself to be taken up by them would spell ruin for any young woman.

    The encounter, she reflected later that day, had been unpleasant enough, but at least it was one hurdle safely got over. And certainly Lady Ferdy’s taking Raffaella up was going some way towards soothing her path amidst the rocks, briars, thistles, cunningly-laid snares and sly traps set for the unwary that featured largely in London town. But spiteful lades of the Sapphic persuasion were by no means the only dangers they might expect. Wolves also lurked in the bushes—nay, strolled the open walks, unimpeded! Eudora sighed a little wryly. Well—vigilance should be her watchword.

    Major Fellowes choked. “I say! Look!” he gasped, his eyes starting from his head.

    Very naturally Captain Quarmby Vine looked. His normally ruddy cheeks turned a strange puce shade and—if anyone had been looking at him, which neither of the two gentlemen accompanying him was, at this precise moment—he would have been observed to gulp.

    “Lor’, that ain’t Eudora B.-D.?” croaked the third gentleman, a Commodore Gatenby. “Lor’.” He thought on it. “I’d say that were no end of an improvement; only perhaps it ain’t,” he noted sapiently, eying Miss Bon-Dutton’s lovely companion. “Heard a rumour—don’t think it was at White’s, might have been at Boodle’s—to the effect that she was settin’ herself up as rival to the Stanhope woman.”

    “Rival? The damned Black Brunswicker ain’t in question when it comes to a seat on a horse, never seen a gal take a fence like Eudora B.-D.!” protested the Major.

    Charles Quarmby-Vine’s generous mouth had tightened. “If you mean to imply what I think you mean to imply, Gatenby,” he noted, “you can drop it here and now. Or have your teeth pushed down your throat for you, of course,” he offered tightly.

    The three gentlemen had known one another since their schooldays. Commodore Gatenby and Major Fellowes duly gaped at him.

    “That pretty little thing on the dapple-grey is an innocent child,” he said grimly.

    Major Fellowes and Commodore Gatenby exchanged startled glances but hurriedly assured him that of course it must be so, if he said so, old boy.

    “Eudora has blossomed since she got out from under that bitch of a mother’s thumb, that is all,” added the Captain, his grim face relaxing slightly. “I met the little Contessa when she was down at Sommerton Grange last summer with Peter and Lilian. She is perfectly respectable. Distant cousin of Lilian’s and Eudora’s.”

    “Of course, old man,” agreed Major Fellowes hastily. “By Jove, though!” he murmured, goggling again.

    “Introduce us, Charles,” suggested the Commodore, his shoulders shaking slightly.

    “Very well. But behave yourselves.” The Captain urged his sturdy black forward. Behind him, Commodore Gatenby and Major Fellowes rolled their eyes at one another; nevertheless they followed him eagerly.

    Most of the Contessa’s more outrageous suggestions as to the design of Miss Bon-Dutton’s new riding-habit had been rejected. But Eudora had agreed, more or less exhausted by the argument, that it could be a dark crimson. The warm shade became her heavy, pale skin. Raffaella had wanted pale blue revers on the tightly buttoned jacket but as this distinctly military note would immediately have suggested to all those who had not already thought of it that she was offering a challenge to Cousin Eloise Stanhope, Eudora had vetoed that idea, too, with a shudder. So the revers were merely a softer shade of the crimson, in a silky velvet. The hat was not precisely the sort of severe one modelled on a man’s that Eudora was used to wear when she was on a horse. It might have started out in that direction but along the way it had suffered the addition of some crimson ostrich tips allowed to “just peep” over its brim. Its owner had drawn her dark curls back in the usual severe style she affected when riding, but Raffaella in person had coaxed a few side curls loose in a declaredly “becomingly feminine” effect. Very fortunately neither they nor the plumes were long enough to blind the rider should the wind of blow them towards the face.

    Raffaella’s own outfit was also becomingly feminine and as a matter of fact Eudora had never been in much doubt that it would be. It was a dark emerald-green velvet: the pale, yellowy greens looked dreadful on Raffaella but she could wear emerald shades. The matching hat, something like a low-crowned beaver in style, featured many ostrich tips in shades ranging from old gold through to the dark emerald of the habit. Utterly charming. She had not managed to talk Eudora into wearing anything but a severe stock with her outfit, but her own neck was adorned by a frilly lace cravat. Eudora could remember her grandfather wearing just such a cravat—though very definitely not when he was upon a horse.

    “Why, Captain Quarmby-Vine!” trilled Raffaella as the hapless victims approached the snare. “How delightful!”

    “How are you, Charles?” asked Eudora drily, after the expected fawning had taken place.

    Not surprisingly, he was in the pink. Apparently his companions were, too. Eudora admitted she knew Major Fellowes and accepted the introduction to the Commodore, though she had an idea they had met.

    In a remarkably short space of time Charles had extracted a promise to make up a party to picknick at Richmond, if the weather held. The sky looked horridly blue, alas. Not to be outdone, Major Fellowes promised invitations to the ball his sister was having for his eldest niece, and, if the ladies would trust themselves to his escort, tickets to a concert at the end of this very week. Unfortunately there seemed no reason why they shouldn’t so trust themselves. Commodore Gatenby held off, for the nonce. Though only in the matter of invitations, not in the matter of flirting outrageously with the Contessa. He had appeared thrilled by the news that she was a widow and Eudora for one was in very little doubt he was.

    No further eager gentlemen were encountered that morning—or none whom they knew—which in Eudora’s opinion was just as well.

    “What did you think of the Commodore?” asked Raffaella eagerly.

    “Not much more than I thought of him when he took a toss out with the Quorn two years back,” replied Eudora drily.

    “Oh. I thought he seemed not unintelligent.”

    “He is not a noddy like Fellowes, if that is what you mean. I suppose he is well enough. Had a reasonably distinguished naval career, now on half-pay, spends large amounts of his time idling about town.” She shrugged. “My brother Micky knows him quite well. There is a wife, in an obscure town on the south coast: I dare say he may favour her with his presence two or three months out of the twelve. Fellowes is a widower, however. And a noddy,” she finished with a little smile.

    “Well, bother!” cried Raffaella loudly.

    “Don’t disturb yourself: it was but one minor skirmish!” said Eudora with a laugh in her voice.

    Raffaella perceived that, whether it was the encounter with the gentlemen, or simply the fresh air and exercise, the outing had cheered Miss Bon-Dutton up. She beamed at her. “Of course! But one of many to come!”

    “Indeed,” agreed Eudora in a hollow voice.

    Raffaella sorted eagerly through a handful of cards.

    “Where did they all come from?” asked Eudora dazedly.

    “Oh, people left them,” she murmured. “‘Claveringham’. Do we know a Claveringham?”

    Eudora winced. “I know several, yes. The Earl of Hubbel’s family. Tell me the Dowager Lady Hubbel has left cards and I’ll eat that damned new riding-habit.”

    “No. ‘Timothy Claveringham, Esq.’,” read Raffaella carefully.

    “Never heard of him. No, hold on. Pink, unfledged, choking neckcloth. But how on earth— Oh, of course. With Freddy, on our way to the Park, day before yesterday. No?”

    “Well, there were several of them, dear Cousin!” she said with a choke of laughter.

    “Mm, well, I think that one of them was a very minor Claveringham. If it’s from the branch I think, it hasn’t a penny to bless itself with. Who else?”

    “How many other Claveringhams might be between it and the title, though?” persisted Raffaella.

    “Approximately fourteen, all hale and hearty, and some of them fit to produce further male offspring. –Pray don’t spare me.”

    Twinkling, Raffaella read out: “‘Roland Valentine, Esq.’”

     “Er, I know a ‘Val’ Valentine slightly. Don’t think its name’s Roland, however. Pink, unfledged—that type. Possibly this is a junior Valentine?”

     “Would Mr Freddy Bon-Dutton know any?”

    “Bound to!” owned Eudora, her shoulders shaking.

    “‘Charles Grey, Esq.’”

    “Good God,” muttered Eudora. “I beg your pardon, my dear. One of the Greys: related by marriage to both the Wyntons and the Laceys. Not quite so unfledged, and not pink. I think that is due to Katie Dewesbury’s Lacey connections. And, I am afraid, to vulgar curiosity.”

    “I see,” said Raffaella calmly. “‘Capt. Claudius Wainwright, Esq.’?”

    “Has it an R.N. after it?” asked Eudora dubiously.

    “No.”

    “In that case it cannot be one of Charles Quarmby-Vine’s set. Er, well, probably one of Freddy’s boon companions, my dear.”

    “Here’s a lady. ‘Mrs James Allan-Smythe.’ The Allan is hyphenated to the Smythe.”

    “Um… Frumpish brown silk springs to mind, but— Oh! One of the Q.-V. sisters. Probably a signal that Charles intends her to chaperon us to Richmond—was it Richmond he threatened?”

    Raffaella dimpled and nodded.

    “Pray for rain,” murmured Eudora. “Is that it?”

    “Oh, by no means! Look, I have sorted out a positive hand of military ones!”

    Resignedly Eudora inspected the military ones. Major-General Sir Harold Kennedy was a friend of Charles’s and more than old enough to know better. Admittedly he had a nice little place in Lincolnshire but he was a mere baronet. Admittedly a widower. Nothing but huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ between the ears, she said without hope, as Raffaella awarded him pride of place on the mantelshelf next to the invitations to Fellowes’s damned concert. Major Vane-Hunter was quite old enough to know better and she had absolutely no notion how he had got their direction. Or why. Ignoring Raffaella’s ecstatic giggles, she noted that he was extremely well connected, being a cousin or some such of the present Earl of Sleyven—the Wyntons, she said heavily as Raffaella looked blank. Extremely expensive, too, and known to be hanging out for a rich wife any time these past ten years. Through the distaff side, she added heavily, as Raffaella began to ask about the title in question. Unabashed, Raffaella merely giggled ecstatically and placed him at some remove from the Major-General.

    Captain Henry Mortimer, Captain William Paxton and Lieutenant Kenneth Murray could be completely disregarded: they were all friends of Freddy’s. So was Lord Ludovic Delahunty and before Raffaella uttered, the title was an earl, it was an exceeding high-in-the-instep earl, and there were two other hale and hearty brothers between it and Lord Ludo. Ignoring this warning, Raffaella placed Lord Ludo right next the Major-General.

    She did not hand over the last card.

    “And?” said Miss Bon-Dutton grimly.

    “Oh, it is only little Mr Jerry again!” she said airily.

    Miss Don-Dutton at this descended to seizing the card angrily and tearing it into fragments, which she then hurled at the grate. Alas, far from showing any signs of remorse, or even slight gène, the Contessa collapsed onto the sofa in gales of helpless giggles.

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