“Everyone was given a sobriquet like that in those days,” Lizzie said, “or so my mother told me.”
Even Lady Wheeler was not too slow to take the meaning of that remark. She flushed quite red and excused herself.
“It would be cleverer of you to befriend her, you know,” an amused masculine voice said in her ear, and Lizzie turned to see John, Viscount Jerrold, at her elbow, a lopsided smile creasing his good-natured features, his brown eyes bright with mirth. “You have no need to be envious,” he added. “You’re rich, ten years younger and a peerless beauty. Now-will you marry me?”
Lizzie burst out laughing and her sore heart eased a little. Six months before Jerrold had proposed to her and she had turned him down, but it had not been the end of their flirtation. She had sometimes wondered if she had made a mistake in rejecting him. He made her laugh the way that Nat had once done in the days when their friendship had seemed easy and uncomplicated. But on the other hand she had never longed for John Jerrold’s touch the way she ached for Nat in every fiber of her being.
“No, Johnny,” she said. “Not even your title can persuade me. You know I like you too well to wed you. I would be the worst wife in the world.”
Jerrold’s smile widened. “You’re right, of course, Lizzie. You aren’t cut out to be a wife, mine least of all. But I had to ask.”
“Why?” Lizzie sighed. “Are you poor, too? No money with that pretty title you’ve just inherited?”
“None,” Jerrold agreed.
“There’s a rich widow,” Lizzie said, nodding toward Priscilla Willoughby, whose little white hand seemed to have crept up Nat’s arm and was now resting on his lapel in a confiding gesture as she spoke in his ear. “Though she’s probably too proper to be good in bed.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jerrold said, giving Lady Willoughby a thoughtful look. “Maybe she was called Perfect Priscilla for quite another reason. That gown of hers is not designed for modesty.”
Lizzie smothered her laughter in her glass of wine. “Thank goodness you are here, Johnny,” she said. “I was blue-deviled tonight but now I can have some fun. I believe that you are just as badly behaved as I am.”
“Worse,” Jerrold said. “You are only talk, Lizzie, but I…Well, I follow through.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “What is it? What have I said?”
“Nothing,” Lizzie said hastily. She shivered, rubbing her gloved hands over her bare arms where the goose bumps showed. What was it that Nat had said to her on that secret night in the folly? That she did not have the nerve to carry through the
Jerrold was watching her, a frown between his fair brows, and Lizzie turned away from that observant gaze and pointed rather randomly at Mary Wheeler. Tom had briefly left Mary’s side in order to cultivate her parents- clever Tom, Lizzie thought-and Mary was standing looking a little forlorn and gazing into her wineglass. “There is an heiress for you,” she said. “You would be doing her a favor if you snatched her from beneath my brother’s nose before he ruins her. See how Tom is conversing with Sir James and flattering his opinions? And how he is not neglecting to make discreet eyes at Lady Wheeler, too, so that she forgets she is a faded middle-aged woman and thinks herself beautiful again? That is all so that he may gain Mary’s money.”
“Your brother,” Jerrold agreed, an edge to his voice, “could charm almost anyone into forgetting that he is a cad and a scoundrel and a deceiver.”
“He has a talent for it,” Lizzie said. “I think he inherited his charm from our mother. She was accounted the most fascinating woman in England.”
“What happened to her?” Jerrold asked.
“She drank herself to death,” Lizzie said briefly. She did not want to think about Lady Scarlet. Whenever she did those memories of her mother’s warm arms about her were tainted by the equally strong memory of the mingled scent of perfume and strong alcohol.
“If Mary does not please you as a future bride,” she continued, “and I’ll allow she is a little dull, although her money is not, you could make up to Flora Minchin. I hear she is on the market again.”
“You have such a vulgar way of expressing yourself,” Jerrold said, smiling, “but I like you for it.”
The butler announced dinner and Lady Wheeler immediately started fussing around about who should escort whom into the dining room. “Lord Waterhouse!” Her fluting tones were shrill. Matters of precedence always made her nervous. “Should you not escort Lady Elizabeth-”
“Oh, let us not be so formal!” Lizzie interrupted brightly, grabbing Jerrold’s arm. She moved toward the doorway, leaving her hostess irresolute. “Come along, Johnny.”
“Riding roughshod,” Jerrold murmured, but he followed her all the same and Lizzie did not need to linger to see that Nat Waterhouse had offered Priscilla Willoughby his arm.
At dinner Lizzie had Jerrold on one side and George Wheeler on the other. Lizzie suspected that Priscilla had called in a favor from her cousin when it came to the table setting, for she was seated beside Nat and seemed vastly pleased with the arrangement. Nor did Nat seem discontented. Lizzie could not help but notice how engrossed in conversation the old friends seemed to be and the way in which Priscilla’s tempting little hands crept to touch Nat’s wrist or his arm as though to emphasize the points she was making. It made Lizzie’s heart lurch to watch them and yet she did not seem able to pull her gaze away. Time and again she would glance down the table and see Priscilla leaning toward Nat so that her milky-white breasts were bracketed by the tantalizingly ruffled neckline of her gown. Damn her, Lizzie thought. She gave her own discreet debutante bodice a tug downward and saw John Jerrold torn between laughter and appreciation.
She drank some wine and then some more. It was very rough. Sir James Wheeler was known for his parsimony when it came to his wine cellar. The food, in contrast, was rich and fussy. Lizzie picked at it. She flirted with John Jerrold. She felt miserable, but after a few glasses of wine even George Wheeler’s gallantries seemed charming enough.
“Lizzie, you have been drinking,” Mary Wheeler hissed reproachfully when the ladies were obliged to retire at the end of the meal. “And flirting! I saw George kissing your wrist!”
“Mr. Wheeler was merely acquainting himself with my new perfume,” Lizzie said airily. She accepted the cup of tea that Lady Wheeler passed to her. It was very strong. Clearly Lady Wheeler felt that she needed to sober up. Lizzie looked at her and thought what a foolish old buzzard Lady Wheeler was. Like everyone else, she wanted to make Lizzie into a person she was not, a pattern card debutante, perhaps, like Perfect Priscilla. Lizzie felt reckless and angry. She knew this to be a sure sign that she was about to behave very badly. But how was she to misbehave, and with whom? The opportunities were rather limited in Lady Wheeler’s staid drawing room.
“Let us have an impromptu dance,” Tom suggested when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies. “We could push the carpet back and have a little piano music. Lizzie-” he smiled at his sister, a wheedling smile “-plays very well.”
It was true, but Lizzie wanted to dance rather than to play. However, she could see that Lady Wheeler was already seizing upon the plan as a way to confine her and a very naughty idea started to form in her head. She took her place meekly at the pianoforte, waited for the servants to roll back the carpet, and then started on a very sedate minuet. Lady Wheeler’s face relaxed into a relieved smile. Nat and Priscilla trod a stately measure. Lizzie could see Tom taking advantage of the slow steps of the dance to woo Mary. He threw Lizzie a grateful, conspiratorial smile and Lizzie smiled grimly back. She moved into a rather livelier country-dance. The mood in the room lifted, the dancers smiled, those who were sitting out started to chat. The wine circulated again and the candles glowed. At the end there was a smattering of applause and the servants brought in more refreshment. Lizzie had managed to slip a glass of wine from under Lady Wheeler’s nose. She took a gulp and started to sing, very demurely:
“More refreshments!” Lady Wheeler bellowed, clapping her hands. She seized Lizzie by the elbow and almost dragged her from the piano stool.
“Mary, dear!” she caroled. “It is your turn to play now. We really must not trespass too much on Lady
