Lady Dalrymple was taking tea with Lady Oliver when Collins interrupted their light repast to inform her ladyship that the Marquess of Manwaring desired an audience with her. Euphoria’s fury at Lady Oliver’s attempt to insinuate a godchild into her nephew’s affections in place of Miss Welles had ultimately given way to a desire to confront her formidable opponent. At present, the rift between the two former bosom friends appeared irreparable, with Lady Dalrymple accusing her old girlhood playmate of betrayal, appealing to her own comprehension of such disloyalty by deigning to dredge up Lady Oliver’s unspeakable past. As Augusta’s own unhappy history was not above reproach, how dare she condemn Miss Welles for having a scandal in her family!
But Lady Oliver, who was not yet prepared to reveal her hand by disclosing the raft of intelligence she had been receiving from her diligent and vigilant spy, Saunders, simply held fast to the unsuitability of a match between the Earl of Darlington and Lady Dalrymple’s impoverished soi-disant niece, “Miss Welles.”
“The girl has neither fortune nor reputation to recommend her. You cannot, other than in your extravagant flights of fancy, overlook the inadvisability of my nephew’s forging an alliance with a young woman who has had neither a proper upbringing and education nor introduction and exposure to society.”
“It is to my niece’s credit that she is not a pale, overweaned weakling who knows naught but needlework and natters on about bonnets,” the countess argued. Seeing that she was making little headway in her suit, Lady Dalrymple elected to aim for her guest’s jugular vein. “Rest assured, Cassandra will not make the sort of wife that a man of the earl’s breeding and intelligence soon tires of, compelling him to seek happiness in more fascinating pastures.”
The countess could have been alluding to any number of arranged marriages among the aristocracy of the era; however, owing to her own lurid and unhappy past, Lady Oliver was keenly aware that Lady Dalrymple’s reference was deliberately targeted at her. Drawing herself up to her full height, she glowered at her hostess. “Please call for my carriage, Lady Dalrymple. There is nothing further to be said between us. Convey my compliments to your cook for an exemplary afternoon tea.” Lady Oliver nearly collided with Lady Dalrymple’s brother in her haste to leave the drawing room.
A theatrically practiced voice boomed, “The influence of women is only successful when it is indirect. So long as they confine themselves to country houses, the dining room table, the boudoir, and the bedroom, I make no objection. The better a woman speaks, the more embarrassing I always find it. It makes me feel quite uncomfortable.”
“Then you did not have to listen at the keyhole,” the marquess’s sister said tartly, her expression as sour as the lemon juice she was straining into her tea. “Charming words for a man who, in his profession as an actor, spends a good deal of time in the company of the fairer—and soberer—sex. What brings you to Bath, Albert?”
The marquess-turned-thespian assumed a classical pose and declaimed:
“Of all the gay Places the World can afford,
By Gentle and Simple for Pastime ador’d,
Fine Balls and Fine Concerts, fine Building and Springs,
Fine Walks, and fine Views, and a Thousand fine Things,
Not to mention the sweet Situation and Air,
What Place, my dear Sister, with Bath can compare?”
“I preferred the panegyric when Anstey penned it,” Lady Dalrymple said, calling her brother’s bluff. “And Christopher Anstey wrote ‘mother,’ not ‘sister.’ ”
Manwaring puckered his lips and gave his sister a jovial look. “Can’t even win for trying.” When he bestowed a sloppy kiss on the countess’s rouged cheek, she could smell the gin on his breath.
“Actually, I’m in a bit of a spot, Euphie,” the marquess hiccuped, helping himself to a cup of tea. He produced a silver flask from the pocket of his coat and enhanced the brew with the addition of a dram of whisky covertly acquired from a friend at the newly opened Chivas distillery.
In no mood to spar with her sponging brother, particularly after her argument with Augusta Oliver, the countess deftly removed a savory biscuit from her brother’s hand and fed it to an appreciative Newton. “No good. ’E’s up to no good,” warned the prescient parrot.
“Thank you, Newton.” Lady Dalrymple slid open the door of the gilded cage and reached in, so her pet could hop onto her jeweled finger. “When that quack surgeon Dr. Cleland recommended nearly twenty-five years ago that you take up gambling as a distraction from the gout, he neglected to inform you that such a ‘cure’ might become addictive. Your last episode at the gaming tables has reached the ears of everyone in Bath,” the countess remarked to her brother. “A man named Newman, I believe.”
“If he had not been cheating at faro, he would not have gone and hanged himself,” Albert remarked laconically. “I was not the one who was contriving to win by dishonest means.”
“No, not this time,” Lady Dalrymple replied. “Nevertheless, Mr. Newman’s untimely demise has created quite a scandal, regardless of the circumstances. Your role in his sudden departure from this earth has been widely speculated upon. Once again, your behavior has sorely tested your family, which is beholden by both blood and duty to defend your actions.”
The marquess tippled directly from his flask and wiped his mouth with one of his sister’s yellow damask serviettes. “I believed the man was cheating at cards. I merely pinned his
