“I visited a friend.”
“I’m surprised you still have any, now that you are persona non grata,” Kit jested. “I don’t remember a thing past midnight. Rupert must have brought me home and poured me into bed. The post just arrived, by the way, and it appears John Eaton sent the accounting as promised. I asked Hart Cavendish about him last night. Seems Eaton has so many wealthy clients he has opened an office here in London. He’s nicknamed the Corkscrew since he can prise money out of anything. So you can stop worrying and making noises like an old woman.”
“Well, I’m relieved you can get along without my advice, Kit,” Nick said good-naturedly, “since I’ll be leaving in a day or two.”
“Leaving for where?”
“Portsmouth.”
“I warrant Brighton has much to recommend it, but what the devil is in a démodé place like Portsmouth?”
“A ship that will take me to Bilboa. I’ve joined the army.”
“The devil you say!” When Kit saw Nick was not jesting, he slashed his riding boot with his crop. “Well, that was a selfish, vainglorious thing to do. How the hell do you expect me to run Hatton on my own? Being a land baron carries a great deal of responsibility.”
“Kit, let’s be honest. You reject my advice and abhor my interference.” Learning responsibility will do you a world of good. “We have an agreement not to meddle in each other’s affairs.”
“Actually, this move is absolutely brilliant on your part. A military man embodies the masculine ideal of the ton. In uniform you will represent all the essential male traits of honor, fearlessness, and aggression. Martial readiness paints a rugged picture of masculinity and brute strength. The beau monde will forgive a military man anything.” Kit sounded resentful. “What’s your regiment?”
“I am a lieutenant in the Royal Horse Artillery.”
“You fool! You’ll be on the front lines … in the thick of all the gunfire.” He shuddered. “Well, better you than me. What’s the uniform? Blues like the Royal Horse Guard?”
“Dark blue, yes, riding breeches and short tunic jacket with gold buttons, collar, and epaulets.”
“I suppose it has those tall, black riding boots that come halfway up the thigh?”
“Yes, they cover the knee to protect it.”
“And a polished breastplate and helmet with black and red plumes? Christ, the women will grovel at your feet.” Kit couldn’t hide his envy. “What’s the dress uniform?”
“I don’t know. I can’t afford one. And there will be no time for the women to grovel; I’m leaving tomorrow or the next day.”
Alexandra hurried along Charles Street, then crossed over into Curzon Street. When she had awakened this morning, only fragments of her dreams remained with her. The strong image of Nick’s red jacket and his guns floated in and out of her mind, though she tried to banish it. She remembered kissing. Had she dreamed it, or had it actually happened? Then she remembered what she preferred to forget: He had kissed her good-bye! Her dream insinuated once again and she saw Nick clearly. She suddenly realized that he was not wearing a hunting jacket, he was wearing a uniform! Dear God, is that what he meant by good-bye? She knew she must stop him.
As she neared the tall, stone mansion, the front door opened and Nicholas, she assumed, dressed in his favorite gray riding clothes, descended the steps. He saw her and stopped to wait. “Oh, thank heaven I have found you before you do anything rash!”
“Alex, you look particularly lovely today.” His gray eyes looked her over with appreciation.
“Don’t change the subject! Tell me truthfully: Do you intend to join the army?” As she gazed up at him, his dark beauty was so compelling her breath caught in her throat.
“On my sacred honor, Alexandra, I have no such intent. Where did you hear such a rumor?”
“Oh, thank God, Nick. It wasn’t a rumor; it was just a silly dream I had about you.”
Kit’s white teeth flashed in a smile. He knew she had mistaken him for his twin, but he wasn’t about to enlighten her. “You know, Alex, you shouldn’t be walking the streets without an escort, or at least your maid.”
“Please stop treating me like a child.”
“I’m treating you like a lady, Alex. It’s very sweet of you to be concerned, but I assure you I will never, ever join the army.”
“Then why did you bid me good-bye rather than good night?”
“Did I do that? It was just a figure of speech, I warrant. I’m not going anywhere, and I shall probably see you at Burlington House on Friday.”
Alex went weak with relief, and she felt more than a little foolish to have come running to Curzon Street like a lovesick girl. “You’re going riding; I won’t keep you.”
“Why don’t you get Rupert to take you riding in the park one morning, and I’ll join you?” he asked.
Alex couldn’t believe her ears. Was Nick actually inviting her to ride? Her heart skipped several beats as she thanked him and bade him a breathless good-bye.
Chapter Eleven
Dottie, desperate for money, decided to pay a visit to Coutts Bank. In her younger years Thomas Coutts had been an admirer, and if she remembered correctly, had once offered her carte blanche. Since Barclays Bank knew she did not have two coppers to rub together, Coutts it would have to be, she concluded. All the banks were in distant Lombard Street, so she decided to pay a visit to Spinks and Co. to see if the disreputable devil Spinks had sold her Lawrence paintings. If not, she’d demand an advance from the old reprobate, then take a hackney to Lombard Street.
“Oh, are you going out, Dottie? I’d love to come too; I am simply dying to have a ramble about London,” Alex said eagerly.
“You don’t want to be shackled to a dowager, darling. You may explore on your own, providing you take Sara with you, of course.”
Alex was privately delighted at her grandmother’s suggestion, for a maid would undoubtedly go wherever she led without voicing grave disapproval. She found the young maid belowstairs, ironing petticoats and some of Rupert’s starched neckcloths. “I have something much more pressing for you to do, Sara, pun intended. I want you to accompany me about London.”
Sara bobbed a curtsy. “Do you wish to go shopping, mistress?”
“No. Actually, I wish to go prowling. I need you more as a guide and fellow conspirator, than a chaperon. Are you game?”
Sara’s eyes sparkled. “I know how to keep my mouth shut, if that’s what you mean.”
“That is exactly what I mean! How perceptive of you, Sara. Let me get my sketchpad and put on my comfortable half boots, and we shall be on our way. You don’t mind walking, do you?”
“I’m a servant, mistress; shank’s mare is my usual mode of transportation.”
“When we are out together, and I warn you now that it will be often, I want you to call me Alex.” She decided a little discretion might serve her at this early stage and did not tell Sara that she planned to sometimes dress as a male.
When they were safely outside the Berkeley Square house, Alex said, “Now, first I want you to show me all the exclusive men’s clubs where they gamble, dine, and whatnot.”
Sara raised her hand to her mouth to cover a giggle. “The closest is Alfred’s.” She led the way from the square along Berkeley Street to Albermarle and pointed to number 23. “ ’Tis rumored to be the dullest place in existence.”
Alex watched two octogenarian gentlemen enter. “I can see why!”
Sara laughed and led the way across Piccadilly. “Down there on the corner of Bolton Street is Watier’s. He used to be the Prince of Wales’s chef, and the food is reputed to be the best in London, not that females will ever get the chance to eat it.”
Don’t be too sure of that, Sara. These exclusive male haunts may have a few surprises in store!
They entered St. James’s Street. “Boodle’s is number twenty-eight, and Brooks’s is number sixty, both on the west side, and directly facing is White’s, the oldest club in London.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, I’m particularly interested in White’s; it’s where my brother and his friends went last night.” Half a dozen fashionably dressed dandies gave Alex and Sara appraising, speculative looks before they strolled inside, but Alex ignored them, pulled out her pad, and began to draw the famous bow window.
“There’s a gentleman in the window waving at you.”
“Good God, as if I’d be interested in the sort of wastrel who idles away his daylight hours in a gaming house.”
“You shouldn’t really be here, staring, mistress. Respectable young ladies don’t even drive down St. James’s. This is strictly male territory, except for—”
“Except for?”
“Well, you know, dollymops—”
“Dollymops? The girls who sell mops?” Alex asked, puzzled.
“St … streetwalkers,” Sara whispered.
“You mean prostitutes? Oh, how vastly amusing! The fellow has mistaken me for a strumpet.” Alex laughed. “The cheeky sod!”
Sara hurriedly led the way into King Street. “This is Almack’s. Finally, a place where ladies are allowed, but of course you must have a subscription from one of the patronesses.”
“Ah, yes, my grandmother will be sure to get me a subscription. The supper balls are held on Wednesday nights, I believe, and if you don’t manage a subscription you are socially dead. Is that correct?”
“I’m afraid so. It is the primary London marriage market for debutantes. There are gambling rooms to attract the gentlemen.”
“Marriage market? I warrant it’s more like a meat market where flesh is sold! Moreover, intelligent females are shunned, since everyone knows young women enjoy being inferior to men, and marriage is a lady’s natural condition.”
“Don’t you wish to attend?” Sara asked in disbelief.
“Oh, I can’t wait! It will supply me with endless material for drawing clever, but devastatingly cruel caricatures.”
They strolled along to Pall Mall. Alex spied a pie-man and bought them a couple of pasties. Sara didn’t mind eating in the street, but it was the first time she had ever seen a lady do so.
“I should like to see the theaters. How do we get to Covent Garden and Drury Lane?”
Sara was torn. She knew that Alexandra should not walk in such a seedy area but had to admit that the prospect was exciting. Stage actresses and the various classes of people they attracted to their performances were fascinating. Sara decided to compromise. “I shouldn’t really take you there, but if we leave before it starts to get dark, I don’t think we’ll come to any harm.”
Death and damnation, if she has reservations about taking me to the theater district, what will she think when I want to visit the prisons and Bedlam?
As they made their way up Charing Cross Road, Alex noticed there were far more pedestrians about, and not many in the throng were fashionably dressed. Hawkers with barrows were shouting the praises of their wares and doing a brisk business. She looked up and saw some church spires, but she also saw many taverns and smoke shops dotted among the playhouses. Their doors were ajar and the racket from inside was raucous; the smell of cheap ale, gin, and tobacco permeated the air, along with curses, screeches, and laughter. Though it was only afternoon, some patrons staggered in and out of the public houses in a drunk and disorderly fashion, spitting on the pavement and spewing in the gutter.
Sara and Alex exchanged glances, held their skirts close, and hurried past. In Drury Lane, the theaters had just finished their matinee performances, and the crowds of people leaving littered the street with orange peel, chestnut shells, bread crusts, and various other remnants of the refreshments they’d enjoyed while watching the play. Mangy dogs and pecking pigeons vied for the scraps, while the miasma of sweating humanity made Alex pinch her nostrils.
“I should never have brought you here,” Sara declared.
“No, no, I absolutely love it! London isn’t all Mayfair town houses and Almack’s, and I am determined to see it all for myself.” Alex stared at an extremely good-looking young male who was with three gaudily dressed women, none of whom were clean, young, or pretty. She wondered fleetingly whatever he saw in them, then it suddenly dawned upon her that they were whores, and he their whoremaster! She knew an overwhelming desire to sketch the tableaux but had more sense than to pull out her pad. She knew she’d have to wait until she got home, but they made such a vivid impression, she’d have no trouble remembering them.
The smoke from London’s chimneys made the afternoon light fade earlier than it did in the countryside, and with great reluctance Alex decided they had better head back to Mayfair. “Well, Sara, we didn’t get far, but we saw a lot. We had a late start; next time we’ll go out for the whole day. This must surely be the most fascinating place in the world. I want to go into the bowels of the old walled city. I want to see London’s beauty and her underbelly, but most of all I want to see her people,” Alex said passionately. “Let’s go back a different way.”
As they walked down Long Acre, Alex was just about to buy them a drink of asses milk from a milkmaid when she saw a beggar woman with a child clutching her ragged skirts and another little mite clinging to her back. With an apologetic look at Sara, Alex gave the woman the only money she had left, then they made their way along Shaftsbury, up Regent to Conduit Street, and thus home.
Dottie arrived by hackney just as they reached Berkeley Square. “Ah, Alex, you are so like me; neither of us could resist racketing about town the entire afternoon.”
Hopkins gave Sara a look of disapproval, but she returned it with one of angelic innocence. He turned his attention to Alexandra. “Flowers have arrived for you, Mistress Alexandra. I took the liberty of putting them in water.”
“Oh, how lovely!” As Alex bent her head to breathe in the fragrance of the roses and freesias on the hall table, her heart raced. She read the card quickly and felt immediate disappointment. “The flowers are from Hart Cavendish,” she told Dottie. “He is inviting me to attend a play tonight.”
“And shall you go?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been longing to visit the theater district!”
Less than three hours later, Alex sat at her dressing table while Sara fastened the small buttons that ran up the back of her jade silk evening gown. She had spent two hours sketching people and scenes she had encountered earlier, wolfed down late-afternoon tea and scones, and taken her bath.
“You know, darling, you must be fitted for a couple of new gowns. I have neglected you shamefully; your clothes are definitely not up to crack. Those puff sleeves will be hors de mode this winter, mark my words.” Dottie was feeling most expansive, since Spinks had managed to sell the Lawrence paintings, and she had bamboozled Thomas Coutts into loaning her five thousand pounds. Of course she’d had to put up Longford Manor as collateral, but that was a mere technicality, she assured herself. She laid a ten-pound note on the dressing table. “This is mad money, darling. You can’t go about London with your pockets to let.” Her glance met Alexandra’s in the mirror. “You won’t be alone with Hart this evening, will you?”
“We are to meet Hary-O and Lord Granville at the theater, and Hart’s other sister, what’s-her-name, Countess of Carlisle.”
“She was christened Georgiana for her mother. When she was a child they called her Little G, but now she uses her middle name, Dorothy. Named after moi, actually. She married George Howard, Earl of Carlisle. He’s a bit of a corkbrain, but infinitely more interesting than Leveson-Gower Granville, who’s a dead bore. Hary-O and Dorothy are up for any old gig—not as flighty as their mother by a long shot, but a pair of prime goers.”
“I think I hear the carriage.” Alex stood up from the dressing table and picked up her cloak.
“Let him cool his heels. It wouldn’t do to seem to eager. I think my jade and turquoise earbobs will look splendid with that gown.” Dottie’s diamonds and emeralds had been pawned more than two years ago, but she clung to her semiprecious jewels for sentimental reasons.
Hart a
waited Alexandra downstairs. She thanked him for the flowers and the invitation to the play. The black carriage, which had the Devonshire ducal emblem emblazoned on its door, had polished brass oil lamps fore and aft, a coachman, and a tiger in livery who sprang down from his rear platform to open the door for her. Inside, Hart sat facing her so that he would not crush her skirts, and Alex sat with lashes lowered as a refined young lady was expected to do.
That didn’t last long, of course. Inside, Alex’s wicked juices were bubbling as she lifted her eyes and gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I have a great desire to see Goldsmith’s play She Stoops to Conquer, rather than the Sheridan play. Do you think your sisters would mind if we didn’t join them tonight?”
Hart covered his surprise quickly and winked at her. “Do we care?”
“Not a whit,” she said, laughing. “I’ve read Oliver Goldsmith’s comedy of manners and would love to see it performed onstage. It pokes such delicious fun at the haut monde.” She produced an eye-mask. “I shall wear this to be on the safe side; being alone with a man flaunts every convention.”
Darkness covered up a multitude of sins in the theater district and lent it an air of glamour. Fashionably dressed people were alighting from carriages, oblivious to the prostitutes who were arriving in droves and the child beggars huddled in doorways. Young girls stood on every corner selling flowers or matches to gentlemen in evening attire; boys hawked playbills and lampoons.
When Alex showed an avid interest in the cartoonists’ lampoons, Hart grinned down at her and paid the grimy urchin a crown for a couple of them—more than the lad usually earned in a month. In the theater foyer, it seemed that every member of the ton went out of his way to greet the Duke of Devonshire and cast his eye over the lucky lady with the red-gold curls who accompanied him.
They sat upstairs in a private box; when Alex enjoyed a farcical moment in the play, she laughed out loud, making Hart appreciate a companion with such a unique and natural personality who did not pay lip service to convention. He decided immediately that he would invite her once more to see Sheridan’s play The Rivals. Since his sisters were seeing it tonight, they wouldn’t be there to cramp his style.