Motley had known the de Villiers family for a very long time, had in fact progressed from being Maddy’s governess to Lady Henrietta’s companion and friend. She nourished for that lady deep affection and gratitude, sentiments that did not extend to Claude. Rather, she considered him the author of the family’s various misfortunes, and took pleasure in opposing him at every turn, at least as much as was in her power. In the present case, she was an unwilling conspirator, her complicity ensured by Lady Henrietta’s fear that Maddy would dwindle into an old maid. Looking at the girl, Motley thought this particular nightmare an absurd one: a vision more pleasing than Maddy would be difficult to find.
The girl’s dress and pereline were a fashionable squirrel gray, and exactly matched the large expressive eyes that changed shades with her moods. Bronze curls disappeared under the charming bonnet, modestly trimmed, that framed a beautifully structured oval face. Long, tangled lashes and delicately arched brows set off the eyes; a charmingly tilted nose and willful mouth completed the face. The overall impression was not one of docility.
“You agreed to the scheme,” Motley said gently. “If you have changed your mind and wish to cry off, it must be now. Shall I instruct the coachman to turn back?”
“No!” Maddy smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “Before we left, Papa made clear our circumstances. It is perfectly clear that all depends on me.” Claude had also made it clear that Maddy’s homecoming, should she fail in her purpose, would be an unpleasant one, but she knew him too well to be unduly distressed by this display of parental callousness. “Dear Motley, you must think very poorly of me. Here we are, halfway to London, and I’ve done nothing but tease you and misbehave. There! I promise I’ll be good.”
Motley was not one bit deceived by this pretty speech. “I do not think,” she said carefully, “that even your father would insist that you ally yourself with someone whom you had taken in dislike.” Maddy looked skeptical. “My dear child, you are not expected to cast out lures! Merely comport yourself in a ladylike fashion, and enjoy what your aunt offers.”
Maddy laughed. “How improper of you!” she teased. “Motley, you should tell me it is my duty to marry well—not that I must enjoy myself!”
Motley ignored this unseemly levity. “I sometimes think,” she snapped, “that a great deal too much emphasis is placed on duty and docility. However, it would not do for you to think so, miss! Above all, try to restrain your tongue. Gentlemen expect ignorance in their wives, not intelligence. They prefer purity and submissiveness to character and excitement. More than anything, I think, they wish to be comfortable.” Motley did not add that the same gentlemen seemed to expect the opposite qualities in their mistresses.
Maddy’s attention had wandered. Nothing in her experience as a reigning belle had given her reason to consider the defeat of her plans. To be certain, her court had not included any grand gentlemen, but Maddy had a sublime belief in her ability to inspire the beaux of London with similar devotion. She leaned forward to peer out the window at the passing countryside. “I do wish we would soon arrive!” The perfect lips pouted. “Travel is a most tedious affair.”
Motley bit back the remark that such comments, from a girl who had hitherto not ventured five miles from her home, verged on the ludicrous. She gazed blindly at the scenes of undoubted interest that they passed, and wondered how she was to manage so volatile a miss, particularly in her ineffectual capacity of lady’s maid.
As they neared London, Motley’s misgivings deepened, and Maddy grew increasingly gay. Motley listened to the girl’s meaningless chatter and hoped her young charge would retain sufficient presence of mind to behave decorously when in society. There was little Motley could do now but lecture and warn; their fate was in the lap of the gods. Maddy had learned all manner of usual things at the select school she’d attended; if she could only be brought to utilize the social graces, her success would be ensured.
Motley clearly remembered her own eighteenth year. She, too, had known the balls and routs, the al fresco parties and select dinners, that Maddy would be privileged to attend; but an entailed estate, and a father whose belief in his own longevity was so sublime that he had failed to provide for his luckless offspring, had led her to seek employment. Motley knew of others who had taken advantage of their opportunities, one in particular who had married the son of the household where she was employed as companion to its garrulous and ill-tempered matriarch; but Motley remained a spinster, too proud to go undowered to any man. She ruthlessly pushed aside all thoughts of the dashing nobleman whose suit she had so firmly, and so sorrowfully, rejected, and concentrated fiercely on her mission. It was unthinkable that Maddy should suffer a similar fate. At the moment, the ancient coach gave a sickening lurch.
* * * *
The Duchess gazed appreciatively upon her striking escort, who had deigned to share her luxurious traveling coach. “You grow increasingly fine, Micah,” she said, and rapped his knuckles sharply. Agatha was in high spirits; long experience had taught her that a brief country idyll was sufficient to reanimate her appetite for town life, which had of late grown flat, and she was anxious to see Mathilda again.
The Duchess differed from her aristocratic peers in more than that she frequently tired of their sophisticated company. Not for her were mornings filled with such elevating activities as letter writing and needlework; nor was she fond of spending an early evening parading in Hyde Park’s Rotten Row. Deemed an “original” by her vast acquaintance, Agatha had been known to bypass a new edition of
La Belle Assemblée
or the
Lady’s Magazine,
which combined the latest fashion plates, sentimental fiction, and such edifying articles as “Set of Rules and Maxims for Sweetening Matrimony” and “Examination of a Mummy Lately Brought from Europe,” to read instead a dissertation upon the sanitary conditions of Great Britain’s laboring classes. Agatha’s intimates politely applauded her social conscience, yet could happily have avoided her efforts to enlighten them. The Haut Ton had no thought to spare for houses that sat upon their own cesspools, linked to neither sewers nor drains; or for those individuals known as “night men” who periodically appeared to remove the residue; yet they dared not try to silence the Duchess, lest she further enliven a dull dinner party with such tales, as she had more than once been known to do.
Lord Wilmington observed his godmother’s sparkling countenance, and prudently withdrew from range of her wicked fan. Despite her professed boredom with Society, Agatha was one of the more illustrious members of the Ton, and would be desolate to be excluded from the intrigues and machinations that were the breath of life to her. The Duchess knew her London well, from Covent Gardens’ stinking alleys and narrow streets, where heedless young bloods went in search of pleasure and awoke to find their breeches stolen, to fashionable Cavendish Square, where she made her home. She’d visited the putrid courts of Holborn and Whitechapel, and had dared to venture into St. Giles, a notorious haven for roughs and thieves, an adventure from which she had emerged triumphantly unscathed.
“It’s prodigious good of you,” commented this dauntless lady, who bore the deceptive appearance of a vague and kindly relict of advanced years, “to abandon your pursuits long enough to escort an
old
woman into the country.”
The Earl smiled lazily. “You refer to my excesses, ma’am?” he inquired. “Tilda is more direct.” On the seat facing them, Agatha’s maid cowered in a corner, clutching her mistress’s jewel box to her thin chest and darting nervous, disapproving glances at Micah’s dissipated countenance.
“I think I know you a little too well to stand upon ceremony with you,” Agatha retorted. “Don’t fly into the boughs—
I
don’t care what you do, and I can’t imagine that Mathilda does either. Surely she didn’t ring a peal over you!”
“On the contrary, she expressed a fervent desire to indulge in some excesses of her own.” The Earl still wore his deceptively sleepy smile. “She counts on your presence to make her exceedingly gay.”
“You should have married her,” Agatha commented. For sheer audacity she was rivaled only by Brummel himself, and even that impudent gentleman had never dared inform his Regent that the English aristocracy was composed of social parasites with wastrel habits who had abdicated their responsibilities. “It would have been the making of the both of you.”
“You forget”—Micah carefully removed a piece of nonexistent lint from his immaculate sleeve—“Tilda decided that we would not suit.”
Any of the Earl’s numerous acquaintances would have recognized in his lordship’s demeanor definite signs of imminent storm, and would have conducted themselves accordingly. The Duchess, who was seldom inclined to pamper her godson, took note of this mounting wrath. “Quite right,” said she. “It’s none of my affair, and certainly not after so many years.” She heaved a great sigh. “She’ll marry the good Timothy now, I doubt not, which would be a most grievous thing.”
“And what have you against Timothy?” Micah inquired with interest. “The man possesses not one vice.”
“There is no question,” Agatha retorted, “that Timothy is a good, worthy man. Unfortunately, he is also a slow-top, and Mathilda would be heartily bored with him within a year.” Her expression was fierce. “Such a match would be abominable, particularly since Mathilda has been accustomed to life with a libertine.”
The Earl smiled, perhaps recalling Tilda’s comments on a similar topic, but the maidservant squeaked with indignation at so blunt an observation. The Duchess scowled. “Tiresome creature!”
“Dominic was a man of exotic preferences,” Micah admitted, “but he was not quite so villainous as you paint him. My sympathies lie entirely with Timothy, whose birth is as good as my own-—as you well know. But you concern yourself unduly: Tilda informs me she has no intention of marrying anyone.”
“Twaddle!” Agatha snorted. “I cut my wisdoms before either of you were born. As for Dominic’s character, may I remind you of the uproar when Mathilda voiced her determination to wed him? Her brother could not prevent the match, since she was of age, but Dominic’s reputation was not of the best, though they were received everywhere. But I shall not speak ill of the dead.” She passed a moment in thought. “Mathilda isn’t yet at her last prayers, and still may form an eligible connection. What choice has she? It’s unthinkable that she should remain unwed, and Mathilda has sufficient wit to realize that, protest she ever so much.” The Duchess indulged in another brief silence, then added, as if to herself, “These things were understood in my youth, and a great deal easier it was.”
“I almost hesitate to ask, but how so?” Micah regarded his godmother with exasperated affection.
“What is it they call you, a nonesuch?” the Duchess growled. “Bah! You’re but a pup, still wet behind the ears.” She surveyed her godson’s merriment with some severity. “At best your world is but a paltry imitation, a lifeless travesty, of what I knew as a girl. You conduct your
amours
with no more finesse than a farm lad driving home his cows.”
“I trust you do not refer to me specifically,” Micah replied. “Do continue: had you the power, how would you order poor Tilda’s life?”
“I hardly think that one may refer to Mathilda as ‘poor,’“ the Duchess mused. “Her fortune is not inconsiderable—another reason why I would be displeased to see her marry Timothy, who hasn’t the least notion of how to pursue pleasure profitably. Lud! She’d be better wed to a fortune-hunting rogue who’d strew rose petals for her to walk on and toast her with slippers filled with champagne.” She scowled. “I doubt Dominic ever loved anyone, which is a great pity. I see no reason why that particular emotion should be reserved for the masses. But to continue: in my youth, a lady married for convenience’s sake, presented her husband with an heir, and then was free to embark upon a series of discreet
affaires.”
The Earl did not ask if Agatha spoke from experience, as she half hoped he would. “You’ve a strange sense of morality, ma’am,” he commented. “Would it please you to see Tilda ruined?”
“Not at all!” The Duchess was unrepentant. Her maid looked ready to swoon. “Nor do I wish to see her bored to distraction, which is why I shall contrive to see that she
doesn’t
wed Timothy, the most likely eventuality if he persists in sticking as close as a court plaster. I quite dote on Mathilda, as you well know, and do not care to see her left so much alone. She will not acknowledge her brother’s overtures, which I cannot blame in her: Bevis made no attempt to end the estrangement until Dominic left Mathilda so well off. I do not wonder that he has now chosen to live among the Scots! But Mathilda’s solitude must come to an end. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to persuade her to return to London with me.” She observed her companion thoughtfully. “Which brings me to something I’ve long meant to discuss with you: it’s time you got yourself an heir.”
“With your various charitable schemes, and your plans for Tilda’s future, I’m surprised that you still have time to concern yourself with me,” Micah retorted in dulcet tones. “Have you chosen me a wife? Or is that left for me to do?”
“Don’t be impertinent!” The Duchess was hugely enjoying herself. “The choice is naturally yours, providing you don’t dawdle too long. I trust you will not be so thoughtless as to contract another
mesalliance.
Choose a good, obedient girl without an overabundance of sensibility, and I shall profess myself well pleased with you.”
Few people could refer to Lord Wilmington’s disastrous first marriage without dire consequence, but the Duchess was notoriously impervious to snubs. Her acquaintance with Brummel had blossomed into friendship upon the occasion when that gentleman had attempted to administer her a quelling, and well-deserved, set-down, and had failed. Brummel’s delight at the discovery of this new treasure had not only led him to join Agatha’s throng of devoted admirers, but had prompted him to offer Micah invaluable advice on the proper tying of a cravat. The Earl had accepted this singular mark of favor with vast appreciation and only a hint of a grin.