Ordinarily, Lady Dalrymple was not the judgmental sort. But Lady Oliver’s objection to the marquess as a potential new father-in-law for Lord Darlington enforced Euphoria’s resolve to remove all impediments to her “niece’s” nuptials. She, more than anyone, would have been quick to acknowledge Manwaring’s unsuitability to mix in polite society, but Albert was her brother, and therefore bore defending.
The Marquess of Manwaring rested his head in his hands. “I’m sunk, Euphie,” he admitted, then began to sob uncontrollably. “It’s not the liquor talking. My debts . . . I can no longer manage ’em. The creditors have been beating down m’door.” He pointed a stubby finger at his unfashionable green coat. “Even me tailors. I may have to decamp to the Continent to escape ’em.” Albert was about to reach once more for his silver flask when he caught his sister’s disapproving eye and slid it back into his pocket. “I thought by touring the provinces, I would be away from London long enough for them to forget. But they won’t have me anymore.”
“Who won’t, Albert?”
“Bristol. Newcastle. York. Leeds. Not until I sober myself up, they say. So I’ve got no income, you see.”
“Then perhaps you could take up some more lucrative pursuit in order to discharge your debts,” the countess counseled. “Three years ago Rowlandson found himself in similar straits when his commissions for portraiture fell off, so he took up caricature. It’s one and the same, if you ask me. His watercolor series on The Comforts of Bath have made him rather more than comfortable. I have a set of prints myself. They’re quite amusing if one’s sense of humor is as colorful as his illustrations.”
Albert looked at the rug and shuffled his feet. Lady Dalrymple noticed the shabby condition of his brown leather shoes.
Her ladyship released an exasperated sigh. “Do you expect me to discharge your debts for you? Portly and I rescued you for years, and never once have you shown an ounce of gratitude. You are everything that is wrong with the aristocracy, Bertie: you’re an advantage taker. You take and take and expect that everything you receive is your due.”
“Well, I’m choking on that silver spoon now, Euphie.”
“I can’t say as you don’t deserve to.”
“I’ll make it up to you this time,” Albert begged, blowing his nose phlegmatically into one of the linen tea towels. “If you could see your way to lending me a few thousand . . . I’ll do anything you ask.”
The countess gave her brother a long, hard look. A project was formulating in her mind that she was not yet ready to give voice to. So she gave a little “harrumph” instead, then installed herself at her escritoire and wrote out a draft for a modest amount, blotting the ink dry before handing the check to her brother. “This will see you set up at one of the better hotels in Bath,” she told him. “Try the White Hart Inn near the Abbey first. You will be so good as to stay there until you hear from me again.”
The marquess gave his sister a sloppy, grateful kiss on her rouged cheek. “You won’t regret it, Euphie.”
Lady Dalrymple touched her handkerchief to her face with the same motion she had used to blot the check. “I shall see what can be done about putting your thespian talents to use once more,” she said. “Good afternoon, Bertie.”
Book the Fourth
Chapter Twenty-Three
In which our heroine attends her second Assembly Ball; a shocking announcement is followed by one more devastating, accompanied by a display of extremely provocative behavior; and an extraordinary demand is made of our reluctant hero.
I AM SORRY, MISS WELLES. There has been no reply,” a rather irritated Collins informed Lady Dalrymple’s niece. After learning of Lord Darlington’s purported arrangement with the Digbys, C.J. had sent no fewer than four letters to him requesting an interview. Every time the house bell rang, C.J. raced down the stairs in anticipation of a response from his lordship to her increasingly urgent missives; yet on each occasion, she was cruelly disappointed. Her news, her need to learn where the earl’s affections truly lay, her agitation and anxiety, and the life growing inside her all felt as though they were increasing with alarming—and exponential—rapidity.
Lady Dalrymple, who quite fancied a change of venue and claimed that her health had become markedly improved, thanks to Cassandra’s “exemplary care”—a cryptic reference to her “niece’s” magic tablets—proposed that they attend the evening’s Assembly Ball, suggesting that they would no doubt encounter his lordship in the Upper Rooms that evening. C.J. eagerly accepted, and they planned to arrive early in the evening so as not to miss the earl should he decide to put in but the briefest of appearances.
C.J. enjoyed dancing, to be sure; and Mr. King, the highly respected Master of Ceremonies, had made it a point at the last assembly to address Lady Dalrymple and offer his compliments to her on the introduction of her niece to the ton. Nevertheless, as she dressed for the ball like a vestal virgin in another filmy white gown, which Madame Delacroix had assured her was cut in the daring French fashion and was sure to turn heads, C.J. felt like a fraud. Her hormones were zinging around like electrons and her hot blood and even hotter temper were sooner or later going to get the better of her in some public place.
Now more inured to the habits of the haute ton, everything C.J. had read about the cutthroat marriage mart paled in comparison to the actuality. Impeccably turned-out mothers, still attractive and viable themselves, to C.J.’s way of thinking, promenaded their nubile, well-heeled daughters
