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An Uncommon Season, 1/6
The library at Richardson Hall had always been a gloomy space, the heavy wooden paneling and dark stonework favored by the first Earl resisting all attempts made by the late Lady Richardson to lighten the mood or bring any kind of modern sensibility to the room. To Jensen, it had always represented home, constricting to be sure, but familiar as well. Comforting in a smothering sort of way, but now, in this particular interview, it was nothing but smothering.
"There is no other choice," Jensen repeated, with as much calm as he could muster, even as he poured them brandies with a lavish hand. Joshua, Fifth Earl of Richardson and Jensen’s older brother, accepted the glass with ill grace, but allowed Jensen to continue. "We have little time to argue, my lord."
"My lord," Joshua repeated bitterly. "For all the good it does us."
"Let us not forget the excellent cellar left to us." Jensen tipped his glass toward the portrait of Anthony, Third Earl of Richardson, their grandfather and the primary cause of their current predicament. The Black Earl, they called him--wild and extravagant, a legend among his peers. From a financial standpoint, it was perhaps fortunate that in his fortieth year, he accepted a wager--a not unusual happening--to race a number of young bloods along Kensington Turnpike on a horse commonly believed to be the very spawn of Satan. Anthony had been, by all accounts, half-centaur, but not even Centaurus himself could overcome the prodigious quantities of brandy the Earl had imbibed prior to accepting the wager. He was thrown not a league from the finish, landed awkwardly and broke his neck, leaving behind a not-unrelieved widow, three daughters, a single son, and debts that rivaled his legendary reputation.
How Jensen’s father, the Fourth Earl, had managed, Jensen had no idea, but he had contrived to settle his sisters respectably and raise his own family, though he had not been able to clear much, if any, of the debts left to him by his profligate father. He was not what any might call an excellent administrator, but he had done what he might. Once grown Joshua had assisted, with far more success, slowly beginning the long process of reclaiming the land from decades of neglect, but Mother’s slow decline had taken its toll, and no one had expected Father to follow so quickly.
"All is not lost," Jensen said, quietly. "Your plans for the estates are solid and ever have been. Who could have foreseen Father’s distraction and grief at Mother’s death? We need but a fresh influx of cash."
Joshua pushed back his chair and commenced pacing. "I cannot like it, Jen."
"There is nothing to work with, Josh," Jensen said quietly. He could not call his brother Richardson, not with his father’s death so fresh at hand. "There has never been much, but this last year, after Mother’s death--you know nothing was done, you know it far better than I." Josh had been raised to run the estates; moreover, he loved the land. He would be a good lord, if they could but find a way around the lack of ready money. It would not have been a good year regardless--the weather had been dismal; rents were down--but his father had left it far too late to try to recover.
"I fear the mortgages will be our ruin," Jensen said. If Josh had a head for managing the land, Jensen’s contribution had always been on the business side. "From how desperate Father’s notes sounded, I would not have been surprised to find Mother’s personal jewelry gone."
"We are not in such straits," Joshua said. "Not this year."
"But we will be before the next," Jensen said. "I know the sum total of the accounts as well as you. We cannot break the entail--" Joshua nodded grimly; Richardson Hall and the lands surrounding it, the townhouse in London, and assorted other properties were protected from being sold by the strongest of legal contracts. Unquestionably the sole reason the Black Earl had not gambled away everything, the restrictions had been put into place by his own father, who had seen the kind of man his son and heir was and had taken steps before his own passing. Useful, but constricting. The sale of a hunting box or one of the smaller farms would have provided a welcome influx of capital, but if the Black Earl could not break the entail, Jensen felt sure it could not be broken. "We have nothing left but Mother’s jewelry," Jensen finished quietly.
"Margaret’s, now," Joshua said. Jensen nodded. By all rights Cecilia, Joshua’s wife, could have insisted the pieces come to her, but the thought would never cross her mind. To her, they were precious mementos of a mother’s love that only Margaret should have.
"Come, brother," Jensen said. "It is not complete madness. I confess I had no great plans to marry, especially not with the heirs you have provided, but I have no doubt it won’t be impossible to find a girl I can tolerate who has a portion large enough to see us through the worst of this. I know it has not been our custom, but it could be what saves us."
Amid all the turmoil of living with the results of the Black Earl’s excesses, their father had still married with no regard for the money a wife might bring with her, and had insisted Joshua do the same. It had perhaps been his only extravagance: to marry for love. Jensen could not help but admire the stubborn determination there, but he had no need to say that he would far rather find a wife than send Margaret out on the Marriage Mart in two years’ time. Joshua would not find it acceptable either. He would execute his duty as his sister’s guardian with serious intent, but for all his practical exterior Joshua was as soft-hearted a man as Jensen had ever met. He would as soon send his own fair daughter off to settle their fortunes as he would Margaret.
No, this was Jensen’s duty and he would see it through.
Mr. Jeffrey Morgan declined the offer of a hackney and turned to make his way home along the darkened streets. Even unaccustomed to it as he’d become, the crisp, almost cold air of April in London was a welcome change from the overly warm and perfumed rooms he’d just left. It was still unfashionably early in the Season; that plus the late hour meant he could make his way quietly and without passing anyone but the occasional constable.
Despite it going on toward four, a lamp shone through the curtains of the rooms he’d let, and Ferguson met him at the door.
"And how is Mrs. Parker this evening?" Ferguson accepted Jeff’s coat and beaver hat, tsking at the dampness of both. Jeff thought Ferguson’s civil tone was quite excellent given how little love was lost between him and Mary-Louise. Ferguson felt that Mary-Louise was common, and had his suspicions that she was no more married than he was; Mary-Louise suspected that Ferguson was as light-fingered as they came. Neither was incorrect; each tolerated the other at Jeff’s express request.
"In excellent form," Jeff answered. "She left three for dead before she even led us in to supper." The invitation had been for a quiet evening: a few hands of faro, a cold buffet, no inquiring eyes, no gossip, but whatever else could be said about the exclusive club run out of the house on the very edge of modish London--and it was rare that tongues were not wagging--time spent there was never dull. Nothing but the choicest of food--prepared by a chef who, it was whispered, had served Bonaparte himself--always accompanied by the perfect wines and brandies, and play deep enough that only the most serious gaming happened there.
"Of course," Ferguson answered, in the sort of voice one might use in discussing how very unexceptional the weather had been. He presented Jeff with the day’s mail, his face equally bland. It was late; Jeff could be excused for wincing as he recognized the strong, spidery handwriting on the envelope. Ferguson overlooked it, as well as Jeff’s sigh as he slit the envelope and skimmed the short missive.
"I trust her ladyship is well?" Ferguson asked, with far more feeling than was seemly. Jeff would never understand the regard in which his former thief of a valet held his terrifying grandmother.
"Still alive, at any rate," Jeff muttered, before he cleared his throat and added, "I’ve been summoned for an audience. Thursday, luncheon."
"Quite good, sir," Ferguson said, with satisfaction. "You’ll be needing afternoon dress then."
For all that Jensen arrived in London a scant three days after Taylor and the small staff he’d brought along from Richardson Hall, the house on Cavendish Square showed nothing but a welcoming face. The brass knocker--unneeded as Taylor met Jensen before he even got halfway up the front steps--gleamed in the late afternoon sun; the marble floor of the entry shone; the library’s heavy wood paneling all but glowed. There was nothing to indicate that the house had stood unoccupied for the last two--no, three--years, all thoughts of London abandoned in the face of the late Lady Richardson’s poor health. Jensen had no doubts that the stables would be in equally fine condition; nor that dinner, should he choose to dine at home that evening, would be perfectly acceptable. His mother had run a fine household and Cecilia had stepped into the position with not the slightest hiccup. Domestic bliss at its finest.
The thought of it bored Jensen to the point of screaming.
Two letters lay on the silver tray in the hall; Jensen opened the one with the familiar handwriting--his younger sister’s exuberant and near-illegible scrawl--first.
Dearest Jen, I know exactly why you’ve dashed off to London and I find it perfectly dreadful of you not to bring me with you. I know that no one will be able to resist you, and it will be the end of our adventures together, because what sensible wife will want her husband to be running off to fetch his little sister home from her latest scrape?
I desired Taylor to bring you a package when you arrived; in it, you will find the Most Hideous necklet and matching armband. You are to sell these--though I can’t imagine who will buy them, that is how horrible they are--and use the money to properly outfit yourself for the Season. I am sure that you are better by far than all the town dandies taken together, but Appearances Matter, no matter how many sermons Reverend Moore delivers on the subject. I am Very Certain that our fashions here in Devonshire do not match well with what is worn in town and I would not like for you to be taken as a rusticated bore.
Do not frown at this note; I quite loathe the necklet and Mama agreed with me with all her heart. You know that we sat together much when she was so very tired; what you do not know is that she shared with me all her memories, and of this particular piece, she said she could not ever bring herself to clasp it round her neck. She could not remember her Mama wearing it either, so you see you may sell it without fear of disappointing me. You would be doing me the kindest favor, indeed you would.
I have also taken the liberty of writing to Danneel. She bids me to tell you she waits for your visit at her home in Berkeley Square upon your earliest convenience and also requires me to tell you not to make an Appearance in Society before consulting with her first.
Jensen sighed but admired the strategy his sister had employed; telling him of any of this in person would have given him time to marshal a defense. Unless he was gravely underestimating her, he knew that the second letter on the tray would be from his very good friend, Danneel, now Lady Ross since her brilliant debut the Season prior and her subsequent marriage to the Marquess of Ross. He was not wrong; Danneel wrote that she was eagerly anticipating his call, and that she rode each afternoon in Hyde Park and was certain she would see him there.
Jensen thought of the last two days on the road, and of the comforts of finally being stationary, but he was, after all, in London with an agenda, one that Danneel could help him execute. He manfully repressed another sigh and rang for Taylor to tell the grooms to saddle his gelding while he brushed the worst of the mud from his boots and set out to find a wife.
The endless afternoon spectacle of well-dressed members of the ton parading up and down Rotten Row had always tended to set Jeff’s teeth on edge.
"Remind me why I’m here again," he said to his friend of many long years, Jeremy, Viscount Merton.
"Frightened of your grandmother," Jeremy offered. He met Jeff’s glare with a bored shrug. "Not impugning your courage, y’know. Old Boney himself wouldn’t last the evening with her."
"I do actually like the old girl," Jeff said. "I meant, why do I let her drag me here now, when every idiot in the nation is clogging the streets." A particularly modishly dressed member of the Dandy set minced his way along the park; Ixion, Jeff’s big chestnut gelding, tried to take exception to him. Jeff couldn’t blame him; the combination of pink-striped waistcoat and yellow pantaloons was particularly awful. Nevertheless, he brought the horse under control with a firm hand and tipped his hat to the Dandy.
"You like buying the good horseflesh out from under them," Jeremy said with a lazy smile. "It’s not nearly as much fun if you can’t see their faces."
"There is that," Jeff agreed. There was indeed something satisfying about skimming the best of Tattersall’s offerings out from under the ones who’d made it all but impossible for him to stay in England in the first place.
Jeremy exchanged nods with the Countess of Wortham and bowed slightly to the Duchess of Acton, all very correct and polite, and Jeff suppressed a sigh at the thought that the Season was only just beginning and he had several more months of this to look forward to. The sight of heads tipping together to whisper as he rode past did not ameliorate his mood in the slightest.
"Ah, excellent," Jeremy said as a couple turned the corner and trotted toward them, both riding horses that at least piqued Jeff’s interest: hers a pretty gray mare of high spirits, his a roan gelding with a steady eye and gait. "The lovely Marchioness of Ross," Jeremy said, as they drew closer. "Quite a magnificent sight."
"And not only because you won’t be vying with Ross for the hand of this Season’s Incomparable," Jeff said. Lady Ross did indeed cut a splendid figure in her stark, severely cut black riding habit, its tall hat with matching ostrich plume setting off her famously red hair and perfect complexion. Jeff knew Jeremy had pursued her hand the previous Season, but even hearing about it only by way of Jeremy’s infrequent and near-to-incoherent letters, Jeff knew the interest was only lackluster at best. Jeremy could be very charming when he wanted, but by all accounts Ross had been thunderstruck by the girl and had left all competitors dashed by the wayside in his pursuit.
"My lady," Jeremy offered as the other pair drew near. Lady Ross inclined her head civilly, and introduced her companion, Mr. Jensen Ackles, an old childhood friend. Jeremy dismissed him with a single glance, his eyes sweeping over the unadorned and painfully un-tailored lines of his greatcoat with immense condescension. For a brief second, Jeff thought he caught a glimmer of amusement in the cool green eyes that surveyed them in return, but it disappeared in a flash, leaving nothing but a bland affability in its wake.
Lady Ross noticed as well, Jeff was certain, but she continued the conversation, inquiring when Jeff had returned to London and asking after Jeremy's younger sister, with whom she had attended many of the same assemblies and balls the Season before.
"Ross and I are planning a small rout in the next weeks," she said. "It’s a trifle early in the Season yet; I’m happy to see you both in town. I shall be certain to send you invitations."
"Delighted," Jeremy said, and the two parties moved off in opposite directions. Again, all very correct and proper; everything that Jeff expected, nothing more. It made rounding the corner and almost riding into Miss Gabrielle Phillip, accompanied by her doting papa, Sir Robert--the very last people Jeff wanted to see--all the more of a shock.
Jeff could not help but stare, openly, rudely. He could not tear his eyes away. In the twenty years since he’d left London behind, he’d taken great care not to have this very thing, a chance meeting in public, happen, even going so far as to refuse all meetings in person for the last several years. He’d sometimes wondered if he was not indulging in fancies, but faced with this reality he could not think that he had been.
Robert stared back at Jeff, his eyes still as dark and fathomless as they had been those many years before. He wore his hair shorter now, as befitted a respected member of the Foreign Office, and his jacket was exquisitely tailored. If anything, he was even more handsome now than he had been as a youth, when his looks were a trifle too studious for the fashion.
"Sir," Robert said, after a frozen few seconds. "I had not heard you would be in town this season."
"My grandmother requests it," Jeff managed to answer, and there was a flicker of some strong emotion in Robert’s eyes. He had ever been fascinated by Jeff’s family; it would appear not to have changed over time.
"Perhaps we could meet; I believe we have some acquaintances in common we might catch up on," Robert said smoothly, not waiting for Jeff to answer before greeting Jeremy and introducing his daughter. Miss Philip nodded politely, but clearly did not understand what was amiss. Jeremy, though--Jeremy was perhaps the only person in London to know the significance of the scene playing out in front of him, and for once he did not indulge in his penchant for drama, merely returning the greeting and urging his horse forward. Jeff recovered enough to follow and the day slowly resumed its proper shape.
"I had thought you were through with all that," Jeremy murmured after some time. "Cut your ties, bought a house in Italy, started giving some thought to a more normal life."
"I am," Jeff said, with a sigh. "I did buy the villa--I even got to spend a month or two in it before Bonaparte escaped from St. Helena and the whole mess started anew. I would happily be there now, had not my grandmother decided it was time I showed my face again." Jeff was talking too much, he knew, but it was the first time he had seen Robert’s daughter. He had long known of her, of course, but seeing her as a woman grown, in town to make her debut, put an underline to just how many years he had been entangled with her father. It was a strangely wearying thought.
Jensen took a few moments after breakfast to pen quick letters to both Joshua and Margaret. To Josh he merely wrote that he had arrived safely, and while he added a small amount of detail to Margaret's letter, it was nothing more than expressing Danneel's greetings and assuring his sister that he was following Danneel's guidance. The matter of the necklet he left unmentioned. He hadn't yet decided what to do about her plan, and if nothing else, not knowing his intentions would tease at her unmercifully, something he knew they both enjoyed rather more than they should.
While riding the previous day, Danneel had extracted his promise to call on her no later than two in the afternoon; before that, Jensen had plans of his own. Kripke, the London-based agent for the estate, called, as Jensen had requested, and Jensen commenced the delicate process of convincing Josh to step outside the strictest of bonds and maturities in matters of investments. He understood Josh’s hesitation in risking what little capital they had--the lessons of the Black Earl continued long after his death--but there were few heiresses whose portions alone could adequately settle the family needs, and even if Jensen was accepted by one of them, he would feel far better to have had more of a hand in resolving the predicament. Joshua would administer the estates with skill; Jensen could offer no help there. Seeking out opportunities for investment elsewhere, though--that was like to a giant puzzle, with clues to be found in accounts of the latest inventions and reports of places and peoples newly discovered. It was an extension of Jensen’s fascination with a world outside of Devonshire, but one that might have some value attached to it.
Danneel received him in the tastefully appointed drawing room at Ross’s Berkeley Square townhouse. She wore a simple gown of lawn, embroidered richly about the hem and sleeves, that no doubt cost half the earnings Josh would be happy to see from the estate for a quarter. She had a knot of fresh flowers at her belt and her hair was dressed so that it spilled becomingly over one shoulder--all in all, a charming picture of a young lady of the ton, her stubborn determination betrayed only by the steely glint in her eye as Jensen crossed the room under her watchful gaze.
"I should turn and run now," Jensen said, as he took her hand in greeting. "I am well-acquainted that look--it precedes things I am better off not taking part in."
"Try not to be so simpleminded," Danneel said, with rather more severity than Jensen thought necessary. She waited until the butler withdrew, then said, "Margaret writes very frankly--"
"Yes," Jensen sighed. "Try as Miss Somerset might, she has yet to impress the importance of tact upon my sister."
"As excellent a governess as Miss Somerset is, I doubt anyone will have success with that duty," Danneel said, smiling. "I bring this up only to assure you that I do understand the full import of your spending the Season in town."
"Meg has already bidden me to follow your every direction, which I intend." Jensen did not add that he trusted Danneel not to play him for a fool, but he was certain she understood.
"Excellent." Danneel smiled at him, and it was easy to forget the drawing room they stood in, and the fabled Ross pearls that she wore in her ears and around her wrist, and see the friend who’d always been planning and scheming, even before she put her hair up and let her skirts down.
She rang for the butler and asked him to bring tea and to send her dresser to her. It was not an outrageous request; Jensen did not know why that steely glint had returned to her eye, but it had. Knowing that look, he settled himself to wait and sure enough, before tea could even be served, Miss Perkins entered the room, bringing with her a neatly dressed man, with dark hair and crackling eyes that he did not bother to hide, no matter that he was not a gentleman. Jensen arched an eyebrow sardonically at Danneel, who returned the expression and gestured them forward.
"Thank you, Perkins," Danneel said, and Miss Perkins left. She was, of course, completely discreet, but Jensen received the distinct impression that he’d been found wanting, an impression that did not dissipate under the twin gazes of Danneel and the man she introduced as Collins.
"Do stand up," Danneel told Jensen. "Collins?"
He circled Jensen slowly once, then twice, and then turned to address Danneel. "Yes," he said, simply, and Danneel bestowed one of her very best smiles on him.
"Excellent," she said. "Baines can give you the direction."
Collins inclined his head, and left, closing the door quietly behind him. Jensen transferred his gaze to Danneel’s very satisfied countenance.
"Dare I ask?"
"That, my dear, is your new valet." Danneel settled herself back upon the settee, spreading the skirts of her afternoon dress about her. "As a personal favor to me--and for the challenge--he will be taking over your personal outfitting."
"A challenge?" Jensen blinked at the insult inherent in the description.
"Financially speaking, yes." Danneel met Jensen’s gaze calmly. "He will remove his things to your townhouse directly and has assured me that he is on good enough address with the right tradesmen to have you presentable inside the week. Do not dare to leave the house until he is satisfied with your appearance."
"I feel I should point out that I have already done so," Jensen said dryly. "And at your command."
"Yes, and and that was a miscalculation for Lord Merton already has you marked as a provincial." Danneel held her tongue while Baines served the tea, waiting until he’d withdrawn to add, "Ride as early in the morning as you can; it’s early enough in the Season that few people will be about. We’ll introduce you at the rout we’re giving the week after next; if Collins is half as good as they say he is, no one will be the wiser by then."
Jensen stifled a sigh; this was, after all, the reason he was here.
"Jensen. You will have no trouble finding a young woman whose family will be happy to trade their money for your family name, for all that you’re the second son."
Jensen blinked a bit at that--it was not only Margaret who suffered from excessive frankness, it would seem.
"I will have it that it is you who do the choosing and not be completely beholden to your new in-laws. Please allow me to do this for you, dearest."
There was nothing that Jensen could say to that, except to agree. Danneel smiled at him, and directed the conversation toward home and the many acquaintances they shared. It was a pleasant half-hour, and Jensen had just begun to take his leave when the door to the drawing room opened to admit the Marquess of Ross, clad in a caped greatcoat.
Jensen had not been able to attend the wedding; he had been in mourning for his mother, but he had heard a great many things about the marquess. Danneel introduced Jensen to him and they spent the next few minutes in conversation about Jensen’s arrival, and where he might find amusements while in the city.
At the news that his greys were ready, Lord Ross inquired if he might offer Jensen a ride. Given that the Ross matched greys were nearly as famous as the pearls Danneel wore, Jensen accepted the offer with alacrity.
"Do you dine at home this evening, Ross?"
"No, my dear. I plan on dinner at the club." Lord Ross hesitated in drawing on his driving gloves, arching an eyebrow toward Danneel. "I had thought you were to attend Lady Cowper’s musicale."
"Yes, of course," Danneel said, lightly enough that Jensen supposed he had imagined the flicker of disappointment he'd seen in her eyes. "It promises to be quite entertaining."
Jensen took his leave, swearing to follow all of Collins's strictures, and followed Lord Ross out to where his grooms had ready a sleek, high-slung perch phaeton with a perfectly matched pair between the traces.
"All right, Jenkins?" Ross stepped up to the seat, gathering the reins from a groom who was much younger than Jensen would have thought responsible enough to hold such magnificent creatures.
"As high-flying as they come, sir!"
Jensen followed as quickly as he could; the grays were clearly fresh and ready to be going. Ross's handsome but somewhat bored smile turned into a real one as Jensen sat and he could give the horses leave to step out smartly into the street.
The Dowager Countess of Graham only graced London during the height of the Season. Once the summer months approached she removed her household to Bath, to take the waters. In the autumn she journeyed to her favorite estate in the north of Scotland, for the grouse hunting season and to point out to her many grandsons that their grandfather would never have been satisfied with a measly twenty brace no matter how unseasonably chill the day had been. Winter found her at the Dower House, with a small excursion to antagonize her long-suffering daughter-in-law, the present Countess, for the Christmas season. As soon as Parliament went back into session, she opened a small family holding near Ashted and proceeded to summon all and sundry to make the half-day journey from London to pay their respects.
"At the very least, she doesn't inflict herself upon anyone year-round," Jeffrey muttered as Ferguson held his jacket for him and dealt with his cravat. Since it was his grandmother, Jeff allowed Ferguson to tie the perfectly pressed and starched linen in a slightly more intricate style than he would ordinarily affect for an afternoon call, but he drew the line at adding more than three fobs to his watch chain. The morning was still chill; the caped greatcoat and beaver hat with which Ferguson presented him were most welcome.
Jeremy arrived in a new and quite showy phaeton, driving an equally showy pair of matched chestnuts. Jeff stowed the parcel Ferguson had wrapped for him and vaulted up to join Jeremy. They set out at a smart pace; Jeff watched the chestnuts with a critical eye.
"And?" Jeremy tilted his head toward the horses, his smile saying that he was prepared to accept Jeff's congratulations.
"You'd best ease them off; it's a fair distance to Ashted and back," Jeff said, and Jeremy's face fell. He was congenitally incapable of buying good horses--his father had been an easy mark as well. When Jeff was in England, he generally advised Jeremy on such matters, but Jeremy would persist in going it alone, to what Jeff imagined must be the delight of horse traders everywhere.
Jeremy sulked about it for a while, but it was a fine spring day, and whatever Lady Graham's temper might be, her table was invariably excellent, so there was that to look forward to. They stopped once to rest the horses and refresh themselves at a small inn, and were turning into the long lane that led to the Ashted house at half-twelve, a respectable enough time to expect a luncheon.
Lady Graham received them in her morning room. From this, Jeff deduced that she was feeling sufficiently sentimental to forgo the formality of the drawing room. Fraser, the butler who traveled with her, even unbent far enough to inquire as to the state of Jeff’s house in Italy as he led Jeff and Jeremy down the hall. It was all very pleasant, but Jeff exchanged a glance with Jeremy; it was always wise to be prepared around Lady Graham, most especially when it appeared it was perfectly fine to relax.
It was late enough in the day that the morning room was shaded now, but the room still seemed to hold the warmth of the sun. Lady Graham was seated at the far edge in front of the glassed doors leading out to the terrace, a light rug cast across her legs, her ebony walking stick tapping impatiently against the honey-colored parquet floor.
"I was beginning to doubt you were going to show your face, Jeffrey," she said, by way of greeting. "Fraser! Please inform that mad creature in the kitchens that my grandson has arrived."
"Very good, my lady." Fraser inclined his head and withdrew, freeing Lady Graham to look Jeff up and down and pronounce his attire--black morning coat with white shirt, waistcoat and cravat--to be tolerably acceptable, if a trifle severe, which allowed her to compliment Jeremy on his somewhat Dandy-ish use of color.
"The young ladies like a bit of flash these days, do they not, Sophia?" Lady Graham called, and Jeff turned in some surprise to find a young lady seated in a wingback chair closer to the window. She was tiny and dark-haired, dressed rather too finely to be acting as companion to his grandmother, but even Jeff’s unsophisticated eye marked her attire as far too dowdy for her age.
"So I have heard, ma’am," Sophia answered. She set aside the book she had been holding to rise and offer Jeff her hand. "Hello, Cousin." A swift smile darted across her face as Jeff took it and searched his memories.
"Quit gaping like a cod, Jeffrey!" Lady Graham thumped her stick and then rose to lead them in to the dining room. "It’s your cousin Hubert’s daughter, Sophia."
"Of course," Jeff said. He at least remembered Hubert: an exceedingly dull sort, but good-natured enough.
"Do not look so lost, Cousin--I hardly expect you to remember me! We have an uncommon number of cousins and the last time we met I was barely in the schoolroom, and could only watch through the banisters as guests arrived for dinner."
Jeff could not even hazard a guess as to when that dinner might have been; the laughter he saw in her eyes said that she was on to him. He did recover enough to introduce Jeremy to her, happy to see that Jeremy’s fear of Jeff’s grandmother extended to a civil enough bow with no hint of censure for her lack of fashionable attire. Jeff took his grandmother’s arm and escorted her into the dining room for what she called a "light repast." Jeremy fell upon it like a starving wolf. With the wines and spirits served along with it, Jeff counted it lucky that Jeremy had not in point of fact purchased the pair of horses he’d believed himself to. At the very least, they would take advantage of Jeremy’s state only by slacking themselves to a walk, rather than taking the bit and running them all to ruin.
Conversation at luncheon covered such fascinating topics as the weather (unseasonably cool); the possibility of Mr. Keane retiring from the stage (the Dowager Countess felt it was long past time for this to happen; Jeremy still quite enjoyed the venerable thespian's performances); and the possibility of the Prince Regent summering at a location other than Bath, thus creating a frenzy among the ladies and gentlemen of the ton as they hurried to find suitable lodgings (highly unlikely).
Jeff held his tongue until his grandmother maneuvered herself a private audience with him by suggesting Cousin Sophia take Jeremy on a tour of the gardens. Very little was in bloom, but that was hardly of consequence, not when the suggestion was delivered in a tone that could decimate a Hussar regiment.
"Neatly done, ma'am," Jeff said, as he offered his grandmother his arm. "It is more fuel to Jeremy's conviction that the Duke might have dealt with Bonaparte far more quickly had you been available for consultation, but he'll go to his grave swearing that already so it's not such a large addition to your legend."
Lady Graham sniffed, but did not otherwise comment, allowing Jeff to escort her to the drawing room. The afternoon sun touched the rich, rather old-fashioned wallpaper with warmth; Jeff allowed her to settle herself on her favorite settee before he inquired if there was a special reason for requiring his attendance.
"Requiring? Really, Jeffrey, you did not use to employ such extravagant language."
"I will allow that to pass us by, ma'am," Jeff replied, and received another sniff in answer.
"We travel to London three days hence," Lady Graham announced abruptly. "Fraser has sent ahead to have the house at Grosvenor Square opened and made ready."
"'We?'" Jeff asked.
"Sophia accompanies me."
"It is still early in the Season," Jeff said. "Quite thin of company."
"All the better to settle the matter of Sophia's wardrobe, allow the girl to become accustomed to town ways."
"You mean to bring her out?" Jeff asked, too much surprised to modulate his voice.
"Yes, Jeffrey, I mean to bring her out." Lady Graham thumped her walking stick sharply on the floor in emphasis. "Why else should I care how the girl dresses herself?"
"I can think of no other reason." Jeff considered his words carefully. Other than the comments for which she was famous, his grandmother did not generally concern herself with the social lives of her children, much less her grandchildren or great-grandchildren. It was, in truth, a daunting task; she had borne the late Earl nine children, seven of whom had survived childhood and had presented her with a considerable number of grandchildren. That being said, her ladyship was not particularly blessed with an abundance of maternal sensibility, and for her to be speaking of wardrobes and town ways for someone for whom she was not directly responsible seemed to signify a rather large crack in her heretofore unassailable wall of indifference.
"Goodness knows that clunk-headed Hubert will not manage on his own." Lady Graham shook her head. "Yes, yes, there was a contract, one with the son of a local baron, all quite respectable and settled--not a glowing match by all accounts but perfectly adequate--but he did not come back from the Duke’s service. This past year and more, and nothing has been done. A fine how-do-you-do, if you ask me."
Jeff was particularly certain that no one had indeed asked, but he wisely did not offer up this opinion. "Surely one of my cousins has a daughter who is to come out soon?"
"It is beyond my comprehension how my lord Graham and I could have produced a family of such weak-spirits, but there is no one who feels able to launch the girl. She's a pretty enough thing and will have a handsome portion; it cannot be such a chore, but there you have it." Lady Graham eyed Jeff with a peculiar expression. "I am far too old for the faradiddle of a full Season. I shall do a ball, of course, and have already written to Sally Jersey for vouchers to Almack's, but I cannot conceive how I should manage the breakfasts and the routs and the musicales, and certainly not the excursions to balloon ascensions and all that seems to be involved. In my day--well, no matter. It is not my day, and so I am come to this: I must ask if you can take some time to escort your cousin to the occasional event."
"You must ask?" Jeff shook his head sharply. "Forgive the plain speaking, ma’am, but I cannot recall the last time you asked me anything--for that alone, I’m tempted to agree, but you surely are not serious."
"I have friends who will include the girl in their parties, but it will look poorly if there is no one from the family escorting her occasionally."
"Will it look any the better if I’m the one escorting her?"
"You think far too much of yourself, Jeffrey, if you think there have not been a full score of events more interesting in the time you’ve been gone." Her voice was calm, as though she had not been present when words had been flung with too much heat; when Jeff was to take himself and his hasty temper away from the family, the better to let things settle, his uncle had said. "You are an unknown quantity now. Add to that a slight tinge of scandal, and nothing is prized more highly by a society hostess."
"How... fortunate for your plans."
"I shall take that as an acceptance." Lady Graham spoke firmly, but her countenance was a trifle softened as she added, "I confess I will find it quite amiable to see you rather more often this year."
"Sentimentality, ma’am? Should I send for the sal volatile?"
"Impertinent boy." Lady Graham closed her fan with a snap and rapped quite smartly at Jeff’s knuckles. "You came bearing a package. Do you mean to return to London with it?"
"Hardly, since it was brought for you, as you well know."
"Then perhaps you should present it to me, before your cousin and friend tire of the joys of the garden."
She rang for Fraser and desired him to send a footman to retrieve the parcel, which Jeff duly presented to her. It was nothing, the merest trifle: a landscape Jeff had been starting as a practice to achieve a better feel for the play of early morning light. He had thought it to be nothing but a small wooded dell, but then had realized it was the view from the morning room at Montrose Hall, in Scotland, his grandmother’s most favorite house.
"It’s from memory, and so only as accurate as that might be," Jeff said as she examined it with care. "The park has much changed as well, I am confident."
"It is of no moment." Lady Graham laid it carefully on the mantel. "It is exquisitely done, and I thank you."
For a brief moment Jeff was a small boy again, on holiday from lessons and tutors, allowed the run of his grandmother’s magnificent gardens.
"You’re most welcome, ma’am."
Collins fit himself easily into Jensen's small household and within the week had proven Danneel's trust. Jensen found himself in a series of fittings, one after the other. Given some of the more outrageous clothing he'd witnessed in his few excursions out riding, he was on his guard, not wishing to be made a fool, but Collins only advised on the cut of daytime jackets versus those for the evening, and had no objection to Jensen’s preference for the more unadorned styles.
Jensen found the sheer number of required garments ridiculous, but Collins assured him that they were commissioning the bare minimum. He allowed that Jensen’s riding breeches were acceptable and, after some persuasion on Jensen’s part involving the great love he had for his riding boots, agreed to attempt his magic on making them presentable. After a lengthy and mysterious effort involving some of the lesser champagnes left by the Black Earl, Collins pronounced the perfect black attainable and made off with the pair in question. The boots he returned were truly stupendous; Jensen was dumbfounded that such magnificence could be wrought in only a few hours. A lesser person would have appeared smug; Collins merely looked satisfied.
The invitation to Danneel’s rout arrived in due time; Collins made sure the tailor knew my lady Ross’s party was to be Jensen’s introduction to society, and then sent Jensen off to the great Weston to have his evening coat personally fitted. The shoulders fit so tightly it took an extra pair of hands to get Jensen into the coat, but Weston himself, running his hands over the fabric to check the cut and seaming, expressed a quiet satisfaction that no padding was needed at all; that Mr. Ackles was a pleasure to dress, if he might be so bold as to say.
When Jensen could not help but relay the comment, which he found to be somewhat absurd, Collins inclined his head in agreement and ventured that Jensen’s lower limbs were also quite satisfactory without the buckram padding affected by those less fortunate. As Collins was shaving Jensen at the time, Jensen forwent any true response. He did arch an eyebrow when Collins was finished, but only received a rather terse nod and the information that it was not at all uncommon for a valet such as Collins himself to persuade the less fortunate amongst the ton that a little discreet padding was in order.
"You can rest assured, sir," Collins informed Jensen, in an earnest tone, "that you are not at all in that situation."
"Thank you," Jensen managed to reply gravely, and if his own tone was a trifle strangled, Collins very kindly overlooked it.
Jensen had been invited for the dinner preceding the rout; Collins took this as a personal challenge. Jensen’s waistcoat and shirt were a snowy white, his trousers perfectly pressed. His coat was, of course, the Weston and thus a work of art, and Collins spent an inordinate amount of time working on Jensen’s cravat, producing a masterpiece of folds and ties so intricate as to dazzle the eyes yet never crossing over into the absurd.
With the addition of the Black Earl's pocket watch and a new and exceedingly expensive quizzing glass, Jensen was pronounced satisfactorily attired. Collins insisted he wait an extra few minutes so as not to appear overeager, but in due time Jensen left the house in a hired hackney to begin his official quest for a wife.
During the few weeks Jensen had been in London, society had been gradually returning to the city. Danneel had timed her rout perfectly: early enough that nothing of any consequence had come before it; just late enough that the buzz of who was and was not invited to dinner prior created its own swell of anticipation. Only a dozen had been so honored, a mix of family and particularly close friends, and for all that it was a fairly exalted group, Jensen found them amiable enough.
To his surprise, he found himself escorting Danneel as she led them in to the dining room, the Marquess following closely behind with a dowager in deep purple and ostrich plumes.
"There," Danneel murmured as Jensen walked her to her seat. "This shall have the news of your arrival flying before you."
The lady next to whom Jensen was seated, an elderly dowager aunt of Ross’s, barely waited past a polite exchange of greetings to tell him that she had not needed the introduction to know he was one of the Black Earl's get.
"Should have known you anywhere," she confided. "Very much like him, especially about the eyes."
Jensen nodded as civilly as possible; fortunately, she did not actually require him to answer to be satisfied that he was as interested in the conversation as she.
"I was still in the schoolroom then, of course--" For all her age, her eyes snapped and sparkled at him, most definitely signaling the statement as the egregious lie that it was, "but he was quite the scandal. Young ladies would have the vapours if he so much as bowed to them. My sister Maria was made of sterner stuff, though--he once took snuff off the inside of her wrist. It was quite wicked of her. I thought dear Papa might have an apoplexy."
Jensen was used to hearing all manner of stories about his grandfather, but few of them had ever been told with such affectionate amusement. He could not help but smile at his dining partner.
"And did your sister come to a wicked end?" It was, perhaps, a trifle forward of him to ask, but he judged it to be acceptable since she had offered him the reminiscence.
"Unless I’m mistaken, you shall have the chance to judge for yourself," she answered. "She accompanies a great-granddaughter this evening." She paused to take the tiniest morsel of the beef that had been placed in front of her before eying Jensen again with a speculative gleam. "Now, tell me again how you are so acquainted with our lovely hostess as to have escorted her to dinner?"
The streets outside Berkeley Square were thronged with carriages. One by one, they rolled along the park and stopped to deliver their passengers to their evening’s entertainment. That Jeff found this less tedious than usual was due entirely to watching his grandmother try to contain her own tedium and answer Sophia’s questions without snapping.
"Should I affect ennui, Cousin?" Sophia asked, after a particularly excited reaction to the news that the Duke of York was expected to attend the rout as well. Ross’s late father had been one of the royal circle, and Jeff supposed the Duke was paying his respects in attending this first party of the newly married couple. It went without saying that His Grace also had an eye for a pretty figure and the new Marchioness would not have escaped his notice. Nothing untoward, of course, but Jeff did not suppose the Duke graced any such party without a little extra encouragement.
"Not at all," Jeff answered.
"I wouldn’t want to be thought unsophisticated, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at pretending." She smiled at Jeff. "I hadn’t thought I’d be at a party with a member of the royal family so soon."
"I shouldn’t like to lower your spirits, my dear," said Lady Graham. "But the Duke of York... does not cut a very inspiring figure."
Jeff didn’t smile, precisely, but there was no getting round the fact that His Grace did, in fact, resemble his father to a prodigious degree... which was not a good thing, not when the less discreet members of Parliament referred to His Majesty as Farmer George.
"I promise not to be lowered." Sophia smiled mischievously, and Jeff thought it was rather a good thing that she was dark. As lovely as she was in her yellow gown, worn over a slip of paler lemon, her black curls threaded through with a ribbon of the same lemon satin, His Grace was known to favor the fair.
They had, at last, reached the front of Number 10, and the landau lurched to a halt. Footmen wearing the Ross livery opened the door, and Jeff handed his cousin and grandmother out onto the red carpet that covered the front entryway.
"Shall we?" It was, for Lady Graham, an inquiry, but to any who heard it, it was less that and more a command.
"By all means." Jeff took her arm. She was resplendent in black velvet and diamonds, and did not subscribe to the custom of covering her own whitened hair with false curls. If her step was slowed by age, her posture was still upright and proud, her carriage graceful. Sophia followed closely behind as they mounted the steps and entered the grand hall. Lady Ross, stunning in moss green watered silk and emeralds, welcomed them and directed them to the various entertainments planned for the evening. There were whist and faro and other games of cards in the morning room, a harp and pianoforte in the drawing room, and several new pieces of art scattered throughout. A midnight supper was planned, as well as light refreshments available throughout the evening.
"Several of our young ladies will perform a song or two during the evening," Lady Ross said. "Perhaps Miss Bush should like to join them?"
"Oh," Sophia said quickly. "That is," she dropped a small curtsy and blushed a bit, "I thank you for asking, but I have not sung in public in... a very long while."
"Perhaps another time," Lady Ross suggested graciously, and their little party moved off. Lady Graham settled herself on a couch that had been placed against the far wall in the drawing room, from which she had a clear view of all and sundry. Jeff was sent off to procure a glass of orgeat for her refreshment, and some iced lemonade for Sophia; in the very little time it took to accomplish this, the parade of acquaintances, both friend and foe, had begun to make its way to her. As Jeff delivered the orange- and almond-scented brandy in its tiny crystal glass, Lady Graham said, "Well, if it isn't my sister Oriana."
Jeff turned to greet his great-aunt, and unexpectedly found himself face-to-face with the expressive green eyes that belonged to the old friend of Lady Ross.
"Maria," Great-Aunt Oriana said. "Do look who I found seated next to me at dinner."
"An Ackles," Lady Graham said, in her blunt way. "How very clever of you, Oriana."
"I quite thought so." Lady Oriana turned her gaze upon Jeff, pronouncing, "You are looking quite devilishly handsome these days, Jeffrey. Very saturnine with all the black. I should imagine the on-dits will be buzzing with the news that you are back."
Her opinion thus offered, introductions were performed all around. Jeff found it quite interesting that those cool eyes seemed taken aback when Jeff acknowledged that they'd already met. Again, it was only a flicker, and then Mr. Ackles was bowing over Lady Graham's hand.
"I am given to understand that you and my grandfather set tongues to wagging," he said. "A matter of some snuff, I believe?"
"Oriana has been telling tales, has she?" Lady Graham eyed her sister with some resignation. "Anthony was quite the hellion. Very exciting to those of us who merely observed; I would imagine it was quite different to those beholden to him."
Ackles inclined his head graciously, but did not otherwise reply. Jeff fancied he saw the briefest look of indulgence on his grandmother's face, but it was there and gone before he could refine upon it.
"Now, then," Lady Graham said, briskly. "I should like the opportunity to visit with my sister. You young people should go amuse yourselves with whatever our hostess has set forth for your entertainment tonight."
Correctly interpreting the look his grandmother cast him, Jeff allowed Mr. Ackles to offer his arm to Sophia, who smiled quite unselfconsciously and allowed him to lead her off to see how the new Lady Ross had transformed the music room into a veritable garden.
Miss Bush proved to be an entertaining companion, confessing quite early in their conversation that she had not been in London above a week and was quite overwhelmed with all that there was to see and do.
"My papa does not entertain," she explained. "Nor travel. We live a very quiet country life, which I enjoy, but it is quite interesting to have so very many entertainments. I do not think I would like to live here all the time, precisely, but I am persuaded it will be very amusing for the next months."
They paused in front of a magnificent portrait of Danneel, commissioned of Sir Thomas Lawrence by Lord Ross to commemorate the occasion of their marriage. It had set a new fashion, and Jensen could admire the likeness, but he was not sure he liked it. Danneel was lovely, as always, but Jensen could not find more than a hint of the sparkle and wit of the woman he knew in the figure posed among the Grecian ruins.
They continued their wanderings through the house, and Jensen could not help but think the portrait to be a symbol of the rest of the house: beautifully decorated, but revealing little of his friend. The morning room was, as promised, quite magnificent with its flowers and greenery, and there, at least, Jensen could recognize Danneel. The gardens at Harris Grange were always her first love.
"Should you like to sit in on a rubber or two of whist?" Jensen inquired. There were also games of faro in progress, but he felt it would be rather familiar of him to assume she might prefer that game, even though her cousin was seated at one of the tables.
Miss Bush eyed the somewhat full tables in the morning room, but before she could answer, a footman announced that there would be music beginning in the drawing room shortly.
"Would you mind if we listened?" Miss Bush asked. "Music is my especial passion."
"Not at all," Jensen answered. "It is one of mine, as well."
Her smile said that she was not entirely sure that Jensen was being more truthful than polite, but once they made their way to the drawing room and Jensen became quite absorbed in the performances, she seemed to accept his interest as genuine. Several of the young ladies were talented indeed, while others were there only at the strong urgings of their forceful mamas.
"It is so difficult," Miss Bush murmured to Jensen as a particularly mortified girl presented a rather uninspired rendition of a classic on the pianoforte. Her applause was genuine and she smiled warmly at the girl. Jensen found her sensibility to be very amicable. "I cannot help but want to show them how it is not so difficult, but of course that would be impossible."
"Do you play?" Jensen asked. He thought it to be an unexceptional question, but Miss Bush only shook her head and quite soon after spied Lady Graham waving to her. She excused herself quickly, though she did accept Jensen’s offer to escort her to supper later. Jensen thought he could perhaps return to the morning room for a few hands of faro, but before he could make his way out of the room another young lady took her place at the harp. It would have been inexcusably rude to leave before she was finished, so Jensen settled himself back into the small gilt chair. The space next to him was quickly filled by a young man, tall and dressed with a careless hand that would have caused Collins physical pain had he seen it. It didn’t seem to bother the gentleman in question, as he quite clearly had nothing in his mind that was not the harpist.
"Is she not exquisite?" he murmured to Jensen, and Jensen could not help smiling in amusement. The young lady’s playing was certainly adequate--far from the worst they had heard during the evening--but Jensen did not think it was her way with a harp that was provoking such fits of transport. He made agreeable noises, however; there was something refreshing in the honest admiration in his neighbor’s eyes. "She has promised to step down to supper with me," the young man confided at the end of the next piece. "I am too lucky this evening."
Jensen smothered a grin at the blissful look that accompanied the confidence. "Perhaps you should take your luck to the faro tables."
"Oh, I shall, but it would take more than luck to help me there," his companion said with a smile of his own. "I have nothing of any skill at the gaming tables, no matter which I might try."
Danneel came up to them then, and shook her head at the sad state of affairs when they confessed they had not been introduced as yet. She did the honors herself, and Jensen’s companion turned out to be Captain Sir Jared Padalecki, late of the 3rd Hussars.
"Miss Cortese is waiting for you, sir." Danneel hid her amusement at his eager grin and hasty bow quite well, but Jensen knew it from days of old. It was strangely good to see it still came out to play even here amid the elegant life Danneel now inhabited. As the young captain rushed off, Danneel turned to Jensen, remarking, "She is quite as taken as he is; perhaps they will have a happy result."
Her tone was strange, almost wistful, but before Jensen could press further, Baines was murmuring discreetly in Danneel’s ear and she was turning away to find Lord Ross as Baines announced that the supper buffet was served. Ross made a pretty show of escorting his wife to to the room, with a bow and an intimate smile. Danneel was glowing as she led them into the buffet, so perhaps Jensen had been mistaken about her tone earlier.
Whatever one might say about Lady Graham, she enjoyed her dining. Jeff brought her a plate of lobster patties and rout-cakes, refreshed her glass of orgeat, and was promptly thanked and dismissed.
"Sophia has herself well taken care of." Lady Graham waved toward where Sophia sat chatting and smiling with Mr. Ackles. "Do go amuse yourself, Jeffrey."
Since Ross himself was acting as banker at the faro table, Jeff was pleasantly occupied for a time. He stepped away to hand his grandmother and cousin into their landau when they took their leave not long after one in the morning, but returned for a few more rounds as the rout slowly wound down. He ended the evening at the table with Ross, a young Hussar Captain he vaguely recalled having been introduced to in Vienna in the the months before Napoleon had escaped, and the enigmatic Mr. Ackles. The young captain--Padalecki, Jeff remembered, the son of a Polish count and an English viscount’s daughter--had the devil's own luck at the table, winning hands he had no business contending for, but his cheerful laugh and amiable disposition kept him from being tedious about it. Mr. Ackles played with a shrewd head and not inconsiderable skill, wagering with just enough of an edge that Jeff knew he was finishing the evening with a handsome portion of the bank. Jeff found it fascinating to watch.
It was, in most respects, a not disagreeable evening for all that he had played by the rules of the ton. He had been followed by a small wave of whispers behind fans, but that was nothing remarkable in and of itself, and it would appear his grandmother had been correct in her assessment of his relative notoriety. The following day he was promised to pay a call at Gentleman Jackson's with Jeremy; he should by all rights end his evening and gain at least a few hours of rest before he stepped into the ring, but there was an itch under his skin, and so he took himself off to see how accommodating Mary-Louise might be this evening.
Epilogue
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Thank you for writing this, I am so intrigued!! :)
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