The Rules of Gentility Page 3

  Chapter 3

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  “…And it is too bad,” says my mother, “that those in Trade now fancy themselves the equals of the ton. In truth, I do not know what Julia was thinking of, to sponsor her in society.” She frowns in the direction of Miss Wellesley-Clegg, who is on the opposite side of Bond Street with a woman who is probably her maid and several gentlemen in attendance.

  Miss Wellesley-Clegg looks in our direction at that moment, recognizes the Dowager Countess, curtsies, and smiles. I could swear the sun comes out from behind the clouds and transforms the dingy environs of London into something clean and sparkling. I come to an abrupt halt and drop one of my mother’s parcels.

  A gentleman darts to our side and picks it up.

  “Why, Sev, what a charming surprise,” my mother says.

  “Lady Terrant.” He sweeps off his hat and bows. “How extraordinary to meet you here. And you, Linsley.”

  There is something about the forced civility of the moment that makes me suspicious. I am glad I persuaded my mother to let me accompany her—besides, Terrant has been more overbearing than usual, and I was glad to leave the house—although naturally she insisted she should go alone. Obviously the last thing she needs is the company of a garrulous old salt.

  “Admiral Riley.” I bow. “Lady Terrant was saying but a moment ago she wished to return home. Good day to you, sir.”

  “Nonsense. Give him that parcel, Sev. Inigo, you may return home. I have to see my dressmaker and Sev may escort me.” She nods in the direction of Thomas Smith, Haberdashers to Gentlemen, where I am sure she never shops.

  “But—”

  Sev places the parcel on top of the precarious armful I already hold. “All ship-shape, Linsley? Capital, capital. I’ll hail you a hackney.”

  “There’s no need, sir.” I edge toward my mother and mutter at her, “Madam, may I suggest you make your escape with me? Have you not had your fill of tales of derring-do on the high seas?”

  “Don’t be a fool.” She turns her back on me and takes Sev’s arm.

  Good God, as though it is not enough to have the fellow in and out of our house the past week—why he must have dined with us three times at least and stayed to the bitter end of that hideous evening of pianoforte music two nights ago—she must subject herself to more punishment, and God knows why. I watch the two of them amble down Bond Street, arm in arm, zig-zagging slightly as though tacking in a tricky wind. The hackney seems to have slipped Sev’s mind.

  With some difficulty I manipulate my parcels—hers, rather—so most of them dangle from their twine loops on my left hand, with a couple tucked under my arm, and cross the street to see what Miss Wellesley-Clegg is about. She and her group are clustered around the doorway of Hooker’s Circulating Library—that appalling molly Aylesworth, whom I know by sight (and that is quite enough), Carrotte the poet, and a stranger, a gentleman who stands next to her, laden with parcels (like myself and Miss Wellesley-Clegg’s maid), gazing at her with adoration. It is this gentleman that Miss Wellesley-Clegg addresses as I approach.

  “Now, Tom, I assure you there is no need to accompany me. Why, you must find shopping with a lady exceedingly tedious, and now I have some books, I shall return home.”

  Tom? Is she engaged to him?

  To my surprise she graces me with another delightful smile. “Mr. Linsley, what a pleasant surprise. Do you know Mr. Tom Darrowby? He is from Lancashire, too, and almost like a brother to me. And Aylesworth and Mr. Carrotte, of course, you know.”

  Aylesworth gives me the sort of look that a month or so ago, from Lady Caroline Bludge, would have led to highly indecent acts. However, I learned to deal tactfully with such fellows at school and bow slightly in his direction. Tom Darrowby looks most put out at the arrival of another gentleman to the party, and at his introduction as an honorary brother. If he is not yet engaged to Miss Wellesley-Clegg I suspect he should like to be. Carrotte, as befits the great poet he fancies himself to be, scribbles in a small notebook.

  “Linsley,” Aylesworth murmurs, eyeing me as though he has not had a square meal in weeks, “do persuade this lovely woman to allow us to accompany her into the hallowed ground of her milliner. Why, she is a cruel flirt. She has mentioned several times to me a certain bonnet she hungers for, and promised to ask my opinion on the matter.”

  “I have done so, sir,” Miss Wellesley-Clegg replies. “I have described it in great detail, and I must think on the matter further. It is a serious business, my lord, and a decision a woman must make in an atmosphere of quiet contemplation. Mr. Linsley, you would not want to accompany a woman into a milliner’s shop, would you?”

  “Certainly not, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. I should rather rip off one of my own limbs and eat it. I have just had a narrow escape in the company of the Dowager Countess.”

  “There, Aylesworth. You see, no gentleman of discernment would want to do such a thing.”

  “Jilted,” Aylesworth says with a shrug.

  Miss Wellesley-Clegg addresses her maid. “Oh, look, Hen. A hackney. Hail it if you will. It has been a delightful afternoon, sirs.”

  I don’t believe that for a moment, not with the masculine jostling for favors I have seen since my arrival—of course, it probably has been delightful for her, being the center of attention.

  Hen, the maid, who emits a strange, musical droning sound that I think is some sort of hymn, offers to take my parcels to Terrant’s house, and plucks Darrowby’s from his hand with an air of friendly contempt. She ushers Miss Wellesley-Clegg into the hackney, gives us a curt nod as though she is the mistress and we the servants, and we watch as the carriage drives away.

  “Whew,” Aylesworth comments. “She’s a virago, to be sure—the maid, Darrowby, not the incomparable Philomena. What now, gentlemen? Why, we’re but a few doors from Jackson’s. Do you fancy a bout, Linsley?”

  Carrotte closes his notebook with a snap.

  “Thank you, no, sir. I must escort the Dowager Countess home. Possibly Carrotte could oblige you.”

  Carrotte blushes deep red and drops his pencil.

  I’m damned if I’ll bend over anywhere in Aylesworth’s vicinity and step back.

  “Did I not just see the Dowager Countess in the company of Admiral Riley?” Aylesworth produces a quizzing glass and twirls it in his fingers.

  “Possibly. She’s kind enough to take an interest in him—he’s not much used to society. He’s the late earl’s second cousin, but has been at sea these many years.”

  Aylesworth smirks in an unpleasant way and holds out his arm to Carrotte. “Well, sir, we must away. Your servant, Linsley, Darrowby.”

  Darrowby meanwhile stares in the direction the hackney has taken, bearing his beloved away. He looks so lovelorn and bereft I invite him to dine with me at a nearby chop-house, thinking that he must keep his strength up; besides, my mother is nowhere in sight, and I consider my filial duty done.

  Miss Wellesley-Clegg

  I am quite fond of Hen, who is a wonder with stains and ripped hems, and, in refreshing contrast to Mama, hardly speaks a word. However, she regards me with disapproval as the hackney bumps homeward, and I busy myself undoing one of my parcels, knowing she is about to pass judgment. Her soft drone about sin and retribution halts (she favors the sort of lurid hymn that my ancestress, Miss Hallelujah Clegg, probably sang).

  “You’re leading that nice young gentleman on,” she pronounces and folds her arms.

  “Indeed? I’m sure I do not know what you mean.” I unroll a length of ribbon and lay it against my skirts for contrast. Yes, it will do.

  “You know well enough, miss. That Mr. Darrowby.” Her tone is one of kindly contempt.

  “Oh. I thought you meant Lord Aylesworth.” Of course I know whom she means, but I do not intend to involve myself in an argument with Hen.

  “Him!” She snorts. “He’s not interested in you, miss, and that poet fellow is no better.”

  “Oh! You think not? What have you h
eard?” Is Aylesworth, too, snapped up by a conniving widow? Has Carrotte found his muse?

  She makes a huffing sound. The carriage jolts to a stop once again, and a small child appears at the window, rapping on the glass.

  I let the window down, to Hen’s silent disapproval.

  A small boy, his hair matted, and dirt smudged on his face, grins at me. “Buy a gingerbread man, miss? Only a ha’penny. Three for a penny.”

  Maybe my sisters would enjoy them, and I’d like to sweeten up Hen before she complains to Mama about my alleged flirtation. I buy three and watch the boy dart off into the crowd as the carriage starts again.

  “Probably made of sawdust and heaven knows what,” Hen grumbles as she bites the head off her gingerbread man.

  “Oh, that’s strange.” I examine the interior of the carriage. “Where did my ribbon go?”

  Hen sighs. “Stolen by him, miss, I expect. You had it in your hand as you opened the window. They’re a wicked lot, these Londoners. They’ll all burn in hellfire, you mark my words.” She brushes crumbs from her cloak with a righteous air.

  “I didn’t think it was that good a match. Besides, I’ll have to go and look at that bonnet again. I’ll try for a better color then.”

  Hen, her gingerbread man dismembered and devoured, resumes her singing. And then she takes me by surprise. “There’s only one real man among the lot of them, miss, but his family wouldn’t let him marry you. They’re too proud, by all accounts, and he’s no money of his own, and he’s a wicked rake from all I hear.”

  “Whom do you mean, Hen?”

  “Why, that Mr. Linsley.” She grins. “And you’d best be careful of him, miss.”

  Chapter 4

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  List of available gentlemen as of this day:

  1. Lord Elmhurst. Succumbed to the charms of Lady Caroline Bludge.

  2. Lord Aylesworth. Affections engaged elsewhere, according to Hen, who is so often right in these matters.

  3. The Mad Poet. Ditto.

  4. Viscount Elverton. Still my mama’s favorite.

  5. Tom Darrowby, whom I cannot avoid seeing as he is secretary to my brother-in-law Mr. Pullen and a great friend of the family.

  6. Mr. Inigo Linsley.

  Mr. Inigo Linsley? Heavens, he is by all accounts wicked and feckless, although Julia seems fond enough of him. I shall be wise and virtuous concerning Mr. Linsley. I may practice flirting with him, and I may even dance with him at the ball tonight, but I shall certainly not allow him to take liberties of any sort whatsoever, even if I think no one would find out. Absolutely not. Besides, it is as Hen says—his family, who are proud and haughty, would never allow even their youngest and most insignificant son to marry into Trade, and I am sure Mama and Papa would not allow me to form an alliance with a man of such bad reputation. Not that I should wish to do such a thing.

  I do hope he will wear the dark blue satin coat and breeches tonight, but I resolve to think no more about the latter, which are pleasingly tight, and where, for some reason, I cannot help looking.

  Lady Stelling’s ball is the most dreadful crush, and my heart sinks as I see the jovial red face and hedgehog-like hair of Elverton bearing down like a French privateer. I had hoped, in the crowd, to be safe from precipitate proposals, so I rush to the ladies’ retiring room with my sister Diana, the Hon. Mrs. Pullen, and hide there until we consider it safe.

  When we emerge like desperate brigands creeping down a cliff—I have been reading one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels on and off all this week—we take refuge with my aunt Rowbotham, who terrifies most, but whom I quite like. She folds me in a tender embrace, the ostrich feathers on her turban quivering almost as much as her chins, and Diana and I sneeze as snuff floats over us.

  She introduces me to Ensign Something. I regret I never did discover his name, but he was apparently captured for the evening to hold Aunt Rowbotham’s constant companion, her pug Roland.

  Elverton approaches to ask me for a dance. To my great delight, Roland, who has been fed too many tidbits from the supper room, is sick on Elverton’s feet. I am only too glad to escape with Ensign Something. I do wonder how the Battle of Trafalgar was won by our navy, for he can scarcely follow the steps of the dance. As usual, I have to explain that we are not those Wellesleys.

  On the theory of doing my unpleasant duty as quickly as possible, I dance next with Elverton. He pays me the usual peculiar compliments, and I tell him that while he was away, washing his feet, I have been claimed for the rest of the evening. It is a dreadful lie, for I am only to dance with my brother-in-law Mr. Pullen.

  Elverton then entertains me with stories about Sirius, the most affectionate, intelligent, loving, faithful hound in all England, for the entirety of the set. If I were not standing and moving, I should have fallen asleep. I entertain myself with thoughts of that certain bonnet, at whose shrine I did homage today, until I remind myself that I must not smile lest he see it as encouragement.

  “'Pon my word, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, you remind me of my little Guernsey cow,” Elverton says. Well, at least it is a change of subject from Sirius, the dog who should be Prime Minister and Cabinet together, if Elverton is to be believed.

  “Why, thank you, sir.” I must confess I am somewhat puzzled by the compliment, if that is indeed what he intends.

  He leads me back towards Mama, gripping my arm as though he wishes to slip a halter over my head and milk me. Oh, dreadful thought. The horror!

  Standing next to Mama is Mr. Tom Darrowby, who steps toward me, one hand held out, and his smile is so sweet and honest I immediately feel guilty. In his dark green coat and breeches he looks almost handsome, for the color shows off his chestnut-brown hair and dark eyes to great advantage. Oh, it is such a pity…

  “Moo,” says a voice behind me.

  It is Mr. Inigo Linsley, and I am almost glad to see him.

  “I believe we are engaged to dance, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, if you’ll excuse us, Elverton.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed we are, to be sure.” Goodness, I babble like a fool, and I drop my fan.

  “Allow me, Miss Wellesley-Clegg.”

  Mr. Linsley stoops, so do I, and our skulls crack together, dislodging the silk flowers in my hair.

  “Good God, my dear woman, do you seek to render me insensible?”

  Dear woman! He called me his dear woman! I am speechless with delight.

  He hands me my fan and a handful of silk flowers.

  Oh, dear. There is a flower caught on his coat. Well, not really his coat. Lower down, in fact hardly his coat at all. It is in fact perilously close to the area at which I vowed I should look no more.

  “Allow me, sir.”

  He jumps backwards, and makes a most peculiar grunting noise.

  “Philly!”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Under pretence of repairing the damage done to my hair, she mutters, “One dance only and pray do not flirt with him for people stare enough already and we do not want to upset dear Elverton as I am convinced he will make an offer although, of course, he must speak to your dear papa but it would be so charming if passion propels him to address you first and we should be prepared to overlook any hint of impropriety under the circumstances and Philly my dear what about Darrowby he is most dreadfully in love with you and may yet ask first indeed we will be stuck between a rock and a hard place then to be sure but only in a good sort of way.”

  In my usual awe at Mama’s ability to fire off so many words without drawing breath, I nod, hoping I reek of filial devotion. Papa, I know, could not care less. He currently agonizes over a letter from my brother Robert, reporting that the floor of the butler’s pantry has caved in, taking with it half of the third-best china.

  “Our dance is a waltz, Miss Wellesley-Clegg.”

  Heavens! “How delightful,” I quaver foolishly.

  He smiles. It is a charming smile; well, charming in a way that reveals a lot of large, white teeth, and reminds me of t
he revered Sirius. I am glad Inigo does not drool. The one time Elverton brought Sirius to call, he slobbered all over my gown—the dog, that is—then lay quiet at his master’s feet. There, he gnawed his way through the leg of a Hepple-white chair, much to Mama’s annoyance.

  “What are you thinking about?” He offers his arm.

  “Why, that if you wore a lace cap and spectacles, you would make a passing good wolf.”

  “Indeed.” His smile grows wide and thoughtful. “You should have to enter my bedchamber to witness that phenomenon.”

  I almost trip over my own feet as he leads me onto the floor. “So you are also in the habit of wearing old ladies’ nightrails?”

  “That is a vice I have no compulsion to acquire, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. Although you might wish to visit my bedchamber to make sure.”

  “I am sure I should wish to do no such thing.” I attempt a haughty toss of the head at the moment his hand lands on my waist, and I fear the effect is one of a nervous wobble, as though I suffer from some distracting ailment.

  “What a great pity.” His other hand clasps mine. “For if you did, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, I should gobble you up straightaway.”

  Oh, heavens, these men. What is strange is that although Elverton’s desire to milk me makes me want to rush shrieking from his presence, the idea of being gobbled up by Mr. Linsley has a peculiar sort of attraction. I do, in fact, feel quite warm in a way of which ladies rarely talk (except in ladies’ cloakrooms, retiring-rooms, bedchambers of close female friends and sisters, walks in the park, viewing exhibits, waiting to be asked to dance at Almack’s, et cetera).

  “I see you are not indifferent to the idea of being devoured by me.”

  Oh, botheration. Apparently he reads my mind.

  I concentrate on the steps and the music, not letting myself harbor delicious, wicked thoughts of Mr. Linsley in bed, baring his wolf-like teeth. I wonder if he wears a silly nightcap like Papa’s? I do hope not. One-two-three…one-two-three…And a nightshirt? Or would he, possibly, be unclothed?