Polite society, indeed! With half an ear to the women’s conference, C.J. deemed Lady Oliver’s denunciation of her appearance as anything but polite. In fact, in what C.J. had always imagined was a world of excessively good manners, her ladyship’s shocking rudeness came as a great surprise. C.J. knew a couple of fine old Anglo-Saxon words to describe a woman of Lady Oliver’s stamp, but with some effort she restrained herself from voicing them. She also wondered why the women peppered their conversation with French when they were both English bluebloods. And their nation is at war with France! There must have been a reason for such pretensions, but to inquire seemed inadvisable.
“I have every intention of sending her to Mrs. Mussell at the first opportunity, Gustie. However, the girl arrived today, so shortly in advance of your call that I had not the chance to properly groom her.”
Groom her? C.J. felt like a horse.
“Mrs. Mussell,” Lady Oliver sniffed. “A second-class seamstress. Send her to my modiste, Madame Delacroix. Clearly, the girl has a figure worthy of admiration, if my nev-you (for that is how she pronounced the word nephew) is any indication.”
The older women discreetly turned to see the earl and Miss Welles engaged in animated conversation.
“Percy has always had an eye for the ladies,” Lady Dalrymple remarked, silently noting that they had not always been ladies of quality and gentle breeding. When Darlington had finally chosen a wife, he was nearly disinherited for selecting so poorly. Marguerite de Feuillide was not only a Frenchwoman, she was also an actress—herself shunned by her noble family for pursuing a life upon the stage of the Comédie-Française. In Lady Oliver’s estimation, the only crime worse than appearing on a public stage was being French.
It would be an uphill climb for Lady Dalrymple to bring her dear friend around to accepting Cassandra in any guise as a suitable wife. By styling her as the child of the black sheep of the family, Euphoria ensured that little would be expected of the girl. No one in polite circles spoke aloud of her brother Albert. Lady Oliver’s characterization of the dissolute nobleman-turned-actor was unfortunately a rather accurate one. But these proclivities rendered the Marquess of Manwaring no better or worse than a dozen of his contemporaries. Among the Georgian nobility it was a badge of honor to be deeply in debt, and many a man who had been ruined at the gaming tables was still received in the best circles and was always welcome at his clubs. It was his ill-fated decision to pursue a stage career that had made Lord Manwaring a pariah among his peers. Euphoria was fully aware that some of her ilk would be reluctant to accept the girl in society. The tack to adopt was that Miss Welles could not help her lineage. After all, the marquess’s reversal of fortune and subsequent adoption of the thespian’s mantle had occurred while the unfortunate girl was still in swaddling clothes.
Chapter Eight
In which an otherwise enchanting nobleman discloses his prejudices, somewhat marring a blissful afternoon; our heroine’s idol, Miss Jane Austen, pays a visit; and a most unusual time-travel conveyance is discovered.
C.J. WAS FINDING the earl to be a witty and well-read conversationalist. Educated at Eton and then at Oxford, he was of course well versed in Greek and Latin but had read history at Magdalen College—a secular shift from an earlier inclination toward theology. Of course, as a first son he would never have entered the clergy, but he was interested in the subject of all religions, most particularly the pantheistic ones practiced in ancient Greece and Rome. When he was branded a pagan and a Philistine by his don, Darlington decided to focus his interests instead on the classical world, relishing the poetry of Homer and Virgil in their respective original tongues. He had even enjoyed some modest success as a translator but was rather retiring about what he allowed were only modest accomplishments. “I daresay, the only reason any of the translations sold was that people were dead curious to see what a nobleman dabbling in such scholarly pursuits might publish.”
They shared a laugh. “I am quite sure, your lordship, that you are undervaluing your achievements.”
“If I were to tell you then, Miss Welles, that there was no call for a second printing, you might revise your good opinion of my efforts.” He smiled, then leaned toward her and in a very confidential manner spoke a few words of a foreign language.
“What is that?” she questioned admiringly. “It sounds lovely, whatever it is.”
“The first line of The Aeneid. Impressed?”
“Indubitably, your lordship!” More laughter.
“My classical leanings I admit to have come by honestly, owing to my father’s keen interest in archaeology, but I have not divulged my true passion, Miss Welles.”
It was a comfort to realize that the nature of flirting had changed so little over time. “May I express the hope that you will reveal it to me?”
“I confess it is not so mysterious nor as prurient as I have made it sound. Nowadays it is fashionable for the better educated of my class to profess an appreciation for Shakespeare . . . but for me it is so much more than that.”
C.J. favored him with a look of pure radiance. “I, too, have a passion for Shakespeare, your lordship, although, in the numerous productions of his plays that I have had the opportunity to . . . view, I would have wished for ‘more matter with less art.’ ”
“However do you mean, Miss Welles?”
She realized that she had nearly divulged the secret of her true profession and was about to say that she was something of a purist, preferring interpretations that placed the Bard’s glorious language over production concepts like putting The Tempest on Mars or
