The Regency Redgraves: What an Earl Wants / What a Lady Needs / What a Gentleman Desires / What a Hero Dares. Kasey Michaels
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swain waved an ivory stick fan to help ward off the heat of the ballroom.
The dowager countess could not be mistaken for forty, or even fifty. She was not a young woman. But the traces of a once great beauty were there, the eyes were as bright and mischievous as any Incomparable. She was petite, almost doll-like, her smile dazzling, her every gesture as graceful as a prima ballerina trodding her own special stage. Beatrix Redgrave would be beautiful to the world if she lived into her nineties. And fascinating, always and forever, fascinating.
“I adore her, you know, but if one of those young idiots produces a peeled grape for her, I don’t know that I’ll be able to keep from giggling like a loon. Is she always this outrageous?”
“Sometimes it’s worse. I’m rather worried she’s celebrating something tonight, something I probably don’t want to know,” Gideon whispered back, raising his quizzing glass and skewering each young exquisite in turn, until they all found reasons to take themselves off elsewhere. “Trixie? What new delights are you selling tonight?”
“The same old delights, pet, those fuzzy-faced darlings are simply a new audience. I’ve been reciting several of the sillier bits of John Wilkes’s and Thomas Potter’s An Essay on Women, which as we know, turned poor Alexander Pope’s An Essay on Men very much on its head. ‘The gasp divine, th’emphatic, thrilling squeeze, the throbbing panting—’”
“I believe we’ve heard enough, thank you. You promised you wouldn’t again go beyond The Life and Adventures of Miss Fanny Hill. That’s education enough for those young randy goats. Why do you persist on doing this?”
Trixie shrugged her slim shoulders. “It amuses me? Or perhaps to educate? You know how tedious it is to attempt to procure a copy of either work, thanks to our prudish government. Darling, think of it. Half of those young gentlemen soon will be off to the continent if Bonaparte’s ambitions can’t be contained. When they’re cold and starving and wetting themselves with fear in their trenches, let them think back to tonight and smile, remember what they are really fighting and dying for. Or do you think it’s for green fields and white cliffs, hmm?”
Jessica bit her bottom lip and looked down at her shoe tops.
“Sally thinks you’re bedding them,” Gideon said gruffly.
“I always warned Silence is an idiot. I’m their grandmother, pet.” She shrugged again, and smiled. “Albeit their naughty grandmother. You’re much in looks tonight, Jessica. Good to know my grandson is no slow-top in the bridal chamber. I recognize the glow, you understand.”
Jessica didn’t want to say thank you, she really didn’t. But what else was there to say? “Thank you, Trixie.”
“Yes, and now down to business,” the dowager duchess said, raising a lorgnette and scanning the perimeter of the ballroom. “Ah, still there, where they were put. The obedience born of fear, I recognize that, as well. I’ve been watching them for you. Gideon, behind you and to the left are the pair of shrinking wallflowers you needs must introduce to your lady. And there’s an empty seat beside them, which is perfect. The blonde dressed in yellow—such an unfortunate choice, with her sallow coloring—is Lady Caro, Lord Charles’s bride of less than a year, and beside her sits Felicity Urban, who always looks as if she’s sucking a lemon. Their husbands put them there an hour ago and then deserted them for the card room, which is where you should be heading, pet, rather than standing there scowling at your naughty but brilliant grandmother. Now go, shoo, and let me get back to my boys. I believe we left poor Fanny lying on a couch, goggling at something quite new to her experience.”
“I should lock you up in the dower house and throw the key in the well, not to punish you, but to protect my fellow man.”
“Yes, yes, now go. Oh, but first, I believe I have some sad news to impart. It would seem Wickham’s only son cocked up his toes early this morning. Not that it wasn’t expected—that spotty liver, you’ll recall. Poor old Reggie’s all in a dither, of course, most especially at being unable to locate his grandson and now the heir to the dukedom. But I expect he’ll show up in a day or two, don’t you? Perhaps even with a lovely surprise in tow?”
“I told Jessica you might be celebrating something tonight. You’re a hard woman, Trixie,” Gideon said, shaking his head.
“Nonsense. I’ve already sent round a note of most sincere condolence to the duke and duchess. Oh, and I shall be traveling to Wickham Court for the interment, so if I don’t see you two again for space, try not to behave yourselves.”
“You’ll attend the funeral? You really want to be on hand when the duke learns about his surprise?”
“How could I not? I’ve already paid for the pleasure.”
“And now, so will the duke pay for his long-ago attack on the Redgraves. I suppose some might call it justice,” Gideon said as he bowed over Trixie’s hand once more and then offered his arm to Jessica. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” Jessica agreed, doing her best to pretend she hadn’t seen the two women even as she and Gideon made a dead set toward them. “May I ask what all that was about? Someone died?”
“Yes, someone certainly did, and Trixie is totally innocent of that death, I’m happy to say. The next one? That one, at least indirectly, will be her kill.”
Jessica looked back over her shoulder to see the flock of regimental birds had come back to roost, gathering around the dowager duchess once more, to Trixie’s laughing delight. “You’ll tell me about this someday?”
“Someday. But for now, I’m putting you to work. I promise to return within the quarter hour.” He drew her forward and bowed to the pair of lonely-looking ladies, introducing his bride and begging they welcome her whilst he adjourned to the card room to search out a few friends.
The ladies smiled and agreed, informed him that their own husbands had already adjourned to the same place, and Jessica sat down beside Felicity Urban, the older of the two by at least ten years.
A quarter hour wasn’t much time, not if she had to deal with the usual inane pleasantries and comments on the sad crush of people, the heat of the ballroom. She decided to go straight for the jugular.
“It’s vastly kind of you ladies to allow me to join you. I know so few people in town, but my husband swears to me I’m not allowed in the card room. I’m also forbidden to dance once the orchestra returns, as he’s quite the jealous bridegroom. He can take umbrage if any other man so much as looks in my general direction, for goodness’ sakes—Oh, should I have said that? Really, it’s rather flattering, don’t you think? I wouldn’t want you ladies to believe him oppressively possessive.”
“Better than the alternative,” Felicity Urban said, a trace of bitterness—more than a trace, really—in her tone. “So you are newly married, my lady.”
Mrs. Urban’s eyes seemed slightly unfocused, and her breath smelled of laudanum overlaid with some sort of pungent spice. Jessica felt a pang of pity for the woman.
“Very newly, yes. It’s all been such a mad rush. His lordship went so far as to secure a Special License.”
Lady Caro leaned forward slightly, the better to see Jessica. “We watched you on the dance floor. I nearly swooned to see the look in his eyes, I will admit. He seems quite besotted.”
“That fades soon enough,” Mrs. Urban declared. “Enjoy it while you might, my lady.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Lady Caro agreed, and then sighed.
Jessica summoned a smile. Lady Jersey had been quite correct in her assessment of the two women. Lady Caro, the new bride, was definitely a little mouse, and Mrs. Urban couldn’t be more sour. That the two women could be friends seemed incongruous; they were as unalike as chalk and cheese. “Your husbands are friends?” she asked before she could stop herself, or at the least, find some smoother way into this leap in the conversation.
But