"I beg your pardon?"
"Rowland and Son announce the import of a limited supply of macassar oil. Patrons may purchase
it at two shillings the vial. It is said to be efficacious in the prevention of baldness."
Johnny blinked again.
Maggie grinned. The front page of
The Times
ran a great many advertisements.
Jean chewed her toast. "I don't believe you'll be needing macassar oil, sir." That was rather rude.
Colonel Falk wore his hair longer than the mode decreed.
He rose. "Ah, but I may tear out my flowing tresses any day now."
Clanross chuckled. "Will the Ffoukes sign soon?"
"I hope so." Falk made his excuses and left.
"Why was
he
presented to King Lewis?" Maggie asked. She spooned a second serving of
buttered eggs from the chafing dish.
Clanross rose, too. "It was after Waterloo."
Maggie resumed her seat. "Did Colonel Falk take part in that battle?"
Clanross's eyes widened. "'Oh heavens, die two months ago and not forgotten yet?'"
Johnny had gone red. "Colonel Falk is a hero of Waterloo, Maggie. King Lewis made him a
chevalier of France."
"Oh," Maggie said humbly. "I didn't know."
"If Richard felt the need to defend his honour, Johnny, he would do so himself."
Johnny lowered his eyes to his plate.
Clanross went on mildly. "He wears his forelock long to hide a scar. Not a subject for levity." He
also departed.
Jean scowled after him. "How was I to know?"
Johnny glanced at the paper. "Good God, the Guards have mutinied!" He picked it up and read
rapidly. "No, it is not so bad. One battalion only and they have been marched off to Plymouth."
"Shall we be safe?" Maggie's toast tasted dry. Since they had returned to town, she had wakened
twice in the night to the sound of windows breaking. Lord Harrowby's house had been assailed four times
since the queen's return to London. Their house had not been touched.
Johnny set the paper aside. "I daresay it's a great fuss over nothing. Don't worry,
Marguerite."
The secret name reassured her. Even so, as they set out for Carlton House in the new carriage,
her apprehension rose and the headache nibbled.
Bond Street was heavy with vehicles. As they crossed Piccadilly, the traffic afoot increased. The
completed portion of Regent Street that led down to Canton House was lined with troops. What if the
impassive faces beneath shakoes and helmets concealed minds aflame with resentment? Would they not
make their first attack on the line of glittering carriages they were drawn up to protect?
It was hot in the carriage. Elizabeth, perspiring beneath her bandeau and plumes, refused to have
the shades drawn. Jean looked bored. Johnny sat beside Maggie in the facing seat and made easy small talk.
She was grateful to him but she answered him at random.
The coachman inched the carriage forward. Johnny and Elizabeth bantered. Jean yawned. At long
last they drew up before the colonnaded palace and the footman threw open the door. Maggie was the first
to descend.
Once they entered the antechamber, in line with hundreds of sweating notables, the waiting
began again. However, as Clanross had promised, there was a great deal to see and Maggie's headache
receded.
Among the fashionables milling about in the first antechamber, Elizabeth sought out Bella
Conway-Gore, who was firing off a young sister that Season. Miss Haverford was shy and rabbit-faced, so
Maggie and Johnny were kind to her for awhile as Bella and Elizabeth raked the company for old friends.
Jean looked cool--quite a feat in a crowded room on a warm day--and said nothing. It was as if she weren't
really present. Her spirit had soared elsewhere, Maggie supposed.
The second antechamber, equally crammed with gilt chairs, porcelain bric-a-brac, and fashionable
people, was even hotter than the first. No one sat in the chairs. Maggie plied her white crepe fan and hoped
her face was not red as a beetroot.
Finally they reached the rose satin withdrawing room, a perfect cube full of royalty and their
attendants in magnificent array. The king's equerries wore splendid laced uniforms. Elizabeth pointed out
the upright figure of Lord Uxbridge. He was quite old, fifty at least, but he was the handsomest man Maggie
had ever seen. It was said he would be Lord High Steward at the coronation, if the coronation ever took
place. The king meant to dispose of his turbulent helpmeet first.
Elizabeth did not point out the Marchioness of Conyngham, the king's current favourite, but
Maggie had no trouble deciding who the fat lady was. The royal mistress was behung with precious stones,
attended by a bevy of hangers-on, and clearly in the king's good graces. From time to time he cast her a look
both rogueish and soulful.
"
Chacun à son go�t
," Jean hissed, elbowing her twin. Perhaps Jean was not so far
away after all. Maggie hid a smile behind her fan, but the king's ponderous infatuation embarrassed her. It
was one thing for beautiful young people like Owen and Jean to exchange speaking glances in publick, quite
another for very fat personages in their sixties, however magnificent.
The king
was
magnificent. As Elizabeth approached the presence, Maggie heard, "Lady
Clanross, Lady Jean and Lady Margaret Conway, Mr. Dyott." Then she was making her curtsey, deep and
correct. She didn't wobble as she rose or step on Jean's train. The royal palm was hot and moist.
George IV, whom Maggie still thought of as Prinny, said something affable about remembering
her mother, smiled kindly when she contrived to utter a strangled phrase, and turned to Johnny, who was
right behind her and whose presence, Maggie was sure, had given her the confidence to bring herself off
without disgracing her name. She passed on down the line without being able to distinguish one royal
princess from the next. Finally the four of them escaped, and the ladies looped their trains once more over
their left arms, which made walking easier. Johnny's
chapeau bras
was, miraculously, still tucked
beneath his arm. He had been sure he would drop it.
"Thank heavens that's over," Jean muttered, fanning herself vigourously.
"Let's have a peep at the conservatory," Elizabeth suggested. "I doubt we'll have another chance.
The king surrounds himself with Tories of the deepest dye." She led the way.
Maggie thought the gothick depths of the conservatory wonderful. In spite of the presence of
several hundred of the king's guests among the towering pillars, it was a cool room, a refuge. The delicate
fan vaulting of the ceiling seemed to touch the sky. Like the nave of a cathedral--not Lincoln, which was too
red and real--but some phantasy cathedral. Their voices were lost in the vastness. Johnny smiled at her.
Maggie smiled back.
When they had stayed a decent interval Elizabeth said they might leave. Johnny escorted them
smoothly through the crowds of chattering women and uncomfortable men in knee breeches. From time to
time Elizabeth stopped to speak to an acquaintance. The king's servants wore powder and the elaborate
livery his majesty had designed himself. They were haughty as archdukes, every one of them. Under the
murmur of voices one could hear the strains of a superb orchestra playing, though Maggie never saw the
musicians. Perhaps they hung in the air like Prospero's musicians in
The Tempest
.
As their carriage swayed into motion at last and a faint breeze wafted through the open windows,
Elizabeth pulled off the heavy ostrich-plume headdress. She shoved her damp hair from her brow and
smiled at Maggie. "Had enough of magnificence?"
"It
was
magnificent, wasn't it?" Maggie considered. "My feet hurt."
Elizabeth laughed. Jean was yawning again. Johnny touched Maggie's gloved hand briefly with his
own.
* * * *
"Ready, Elizabeth?" Tom stuck his head through the doorway from his dressing room.
"In a minute." Elizabeth glowered at her reflection in the glass. She was wearing an
eau de
Nile
ball gown with the heavy gold parure Tom had bought her in Italy. She would have preferred the
peach-coloured satin Mme. Thérèse had finished only the day before, but she had decided
the colour clashed with the twins' pesky hair. They were making their debut at Almack's at last and she had
cast herself in the role of foil--she meant to set them off, not to extinguish them.
Well, she could consult Anne. They were dining with Lady Anne and Featherstonehaugh
en
famille
before setting off for the Assembly Rooms. If Anne thought the peach would clash, Elizabeth
would save it until the girls were safely launched. For tonight, the green would have to do.
"The stole, Dobbins." She wondered if Nile green made her skin look muddy. Perhaps the mirror
needed to be resilvered.
Dobbins disposed the wrap about Elizabeth's shoulders and gave a brisk nod. That was as close to
approval as Dobbins got these days.
Elizabeth gave the maid a relieved smile and whisked from the room.
"Why the devil are you skulking about in that rig?" For a moment Elizabeth thought Tom was
referring to her gown. Then she caught sight of Colonel Falk and gaped.
He stood by the door of the green guest chamber looking sheepish. He was wearing dress
regimentals, a foreign order, and several medals. In the soft light from the hall sconces, he looked quite
dashing. In fact, the transformation made Elizabeth blink. The black sling was nowhere to be seen.
He scowled at Tom. "You know very well it's not possible to
skulk
in scarlet. I'm going
to dinner."
"I didn't suppose you were mounting guard at the Tower." Tom's eyes narrowed. "It's the
eighteenth, isn't it? Regimental dinner?"
"Just so."
"And you mean to walk."
"I fancy I can totter as far as Stephens' Hotel without collapsing. It's in Bond Street."
"For Godsake, man, they read the Riot Act in Old Bond Street yesterday. Are you trying to
provoke an incident?"
"I'm trying to go to dinner," Falk said coolly. "Lady Clanross." He inclined his head.
"Sir," she murmured, still fascinated by the alteration in his appearance. In that kind light, he
looked Johnny's age, though he was Tom's.
Tom sniffed. "You reek of camphor."
Falk clucked his tongued "Your footman aired it."
"But you haven't worn it in five years."
"True."
"Then why now?"
Johnny Dyott's door opened. He emerged, resplendent in his evening rig, stopped dead, and
stared at the colonel, too.
"I'm damned if I'm going to let you go off into a riot dressed like a target," Tom muttered.
"Let me?" Falk's eyes flashed. He touched the hilt of his dress sword with his good hand. "'By
heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!'"
"Fire-eater." Tom began to laugh. "That's an abominable pun. The carriage is outside. Johnny and
I will escort you--into the hotel, if necessary. Richard is bound for a regimental dinner, Johnny. Are you
with me?"
"Certainly."
Elizabeth caught a flash of white and turned in time to see her sisters enter the hallway in their
ball gowns. They stared, too. They looked like astonished bonbons.
"You're damned officious, Tom."
"Better officious than mad."
"We cannot be expected to disappear from sight because our existence provokes the Mob," Falk
said softly. "Not all of us can emigrate to Upper Canada."
Tom drew a sharp breath.
"It isn't the solution, Tom. I'm sorry."
"I know," Tom muttered. "Elizabeth, I beg your pardon for the delay. I'll return as soon as may
be."
It was not the moment to point out that Anne's dinner would be burnt.
By the time Elizabeth heard the carriage returning she was pacing the floor of the crimson salon
where she and the twins had taken refuge. Almack's closed its doors to newcomers at eleven. It was a
quarter of nine and Anne did not believe in hasty meals. Fortunately Berkeley Square was closer to King
Street than Grosvenor Square.
"We'll be late," Maggie said for the dozenth time.
"My skirts are getting crumpled," Jean complained. At that point the carriage drew up and
Elizabeth heard Waite move to the door. Almost at once Tom stuck his head in the salon. "Shall we go?"
His hair was rumpled and his cravat wanted straightening but he was still in one piece.
Elizabeth let out a long sigh. "By all means."
They heard the saga of Stephens' Hotel on the way to Anne's. Johnny had narrowly escaped being
hit with a rotten orange as he and Tom walked Colonel Falk to the hotel entrance, but the real delay came
because so many surviving Waterloo officers had decided to at tend regimental dinners at the same time in
the same place. Their equipages blocked the street.
"How will Colonel Falk get back?"
Tom shrugged. "Walk. As he meant to in the first place. I'm starting at shadows these days.
Richard pointed out that the nation is in a parlous state if army officers have to be escorted about their
lawful business by gentlemen-bodyguards in evening dress. I feel sure Johnny and I will figure largely in the
next satire. Here we are at last. I hope Lady Anne will forgive me."
"I daresay she will in a year or two." Elizabeth straightened his cravat. "It might take me
longer."
He laughed. Ho ho.
* * * *
Except for the waltzes, Jean's card was full. She was chagrined to discover that had power to
please her. Her triumph would have no lasting significance, of course, but she could not deny a twinge of
satisfaction.
As the fiddler swung into a reel--most of the dances at Almack's were antiquated--she curtseyed
to Johnny Dyott and bobbed to the rhythm. Elizabeth and Featherstonehaugh, at the head of the set, began
their romp down the length of the line. Featherstonehaugh, a portly man, was red in the face. The rooms
were hot.
If only she were dancing with Owen. He danced very well.