Lady of Devices

chapter 4



“I’m so pleased to have been invited, Lady St. Ives.” Emilie sounded breathless as she allowed the maid to take her coat and dipped a curtsey to Claire’s mother. Perhaps Emilie’s corset was laced too tightly. Or perhaps it was merely because invitations did not come her way that often.

“We are pleased you could come.” She even sounded as if she meant it, though Claire would expect nothing less from her mother, whose manners were impeccable.

She gave her friend a hug and whispered, “Thank heaven you’re here. I couldn’t bear it otherwise. We’re partners for bridge.”

Emilie allowed herself to be steered into the parlor, while Claire braced herself to greet the next arrival. Lady Julia greeted her as if they were best friends, as did Lady Catherine. Feeling as false as Julia’s chignon, Claire pasted on a smile and kissed the air near their cheeks. They would all be taking the stage at Covent Garden at this rate.

“What an unusual gown, Catherine,” she said with complete sincerity, taking in the pink silk creation trimmed within an inch of its life. One could hardly see where the dress left off and Catherine began. “Is it new?”

“Delivered just this afternoon, in fact,” Catherine said, obviously pleased at the compliment. “I love Madame du Barry’s creations, don’t you? And these rows of lace trim—are they not the very latest?”

“Indeed,” Julia murmured. “Claire, I believe you wore that blue to the Countess of Inglewood’s tea last month, did you not?”

Claire was saved from a reply by the arrival of a tall young man who caused the melee in the hall to cease for all of five seconds while the young ladies measured his eligibility from head to foot.

“Lord James Selwyn.” Penwith announced him and took his top hat and stick before the young man bowed to Claire’s parents.

“I am delighted to see you both again. It was such a pleasure to meet you at Lady Belmont’s ball.” His hair was close-cropped and reddish-gold, and he wore a neatly trimmed beard that gave him a slightly rakish air. With such a twinkle in those hazel eyes, Claire could almost see him with a gold earring and a cutlass.

“Selwyn.” Viscount St. Ives shook his hand, and the newcomer kissed the back of Lady St. Ives’s white kid glove as if he were a cavalier from a bygone age. When Claire and the other young ladies had been introduced, the viscount said, “Please join us in the parlor—I believe our party is now complete. I must be on my way to—”

“Not quite, Papa,” Claire said. “Mrs. Churchill and Peony have yet to arrive.”

“Peony?” Lady Julia looked over her shoulder, interrupted, Claire was certain, in the very act of slipping a chummy hand into the crook of Lord James’s elbow as they entered the parlor together. “Peony Churchill is coming?”

“She accepted my invitation,” Claire said. “I hope they are able to come.”

“Really.” Julia glanced at Catherine and Gloria. “How endlessly entertaining.” The little group closed ranks around Lord James and moved into the other room, already whispering.

Claire had an uncomfortable ten minutes while playing the hostess, offering her guests tea and lemonade as they made small talk before dinner. Would Peony and her mother come at all? If they did, would Julia and the rest behave, or find some way to embarrass Peony to the point where she would never speak to Claire again? When the doorbell finally rang, she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or even more anxious.

She took Peony’s camel coat with its arabesques of black soutache braid herself, and handed it to Penwith. “I’m so glad you could come.” Peony’s fingers were warm in her own, her dark hair piled high in a Romanesque coronet, her black-eyed gaze missing nothing. “And your mother?” She glanced behind her, but Penwith had already closed the door.

“She sends her regrets. A matter came up in Parliament and she had to organize a protest at the drop of a hat.”

Oh, my. Her admiration for Mrs. Churchill grew in direct proportion to her hope that Lady St. Ives had not heard. “Well, you are here and of that I’m very glad. What a stunning dress.” The brocade, a deep wine red most unsuitable for an unmarried girl, was cut so cleverly plain that it could only have come from one place. “Is it from the American Territories?”

“What a good eye you have. Yes. Mama had it sent from New York on the transatlantic airship. She says I must have at least one new dress for this Season. It’s a good thing I know she’s not trying to marry me off.”

“Lucky you,” Claire breathed before she could stop herself. “I mean—that is to say—won’t you come into the parlor?”

She introduced Peony to her parents, careful to mention that Mrs. Churchill had been unavoidably detained without giving details. Her mother then took over the introductions, standing in Mrs. Churchill’s place as she made Peony known to the gentlemen. Out of the corner of her eye, Claire watched as her mother led Peony over to the trio of girls on the sofa.

“Are you to make your bows in two weeks, then, along with the other girls?” A male voice made her jump, and she turned to see Lord James in front of her, turning a crystal glass of something amber in his fingers.

Peony said something, and the girls tittered. “I—yes, I am.” Oh, dear. Did Peony need help? She cast around for a polite way to get rid of him. Small talk usually worked. “Are you but recently come to Town?”

“I’ve been here since Easter. I’m involved in a matter of business that may take me to the American Territories in the autumn.”

“Oh?” What was Lady Julia saying now, with such a smile?

“Yes. My business partner and I have a scheme to—”

“I do beg your pardon, Lord James. Miss Churchill has nothing to drink. She will think me a poor hostess.”

With another smile, he bowed and turned to speak to the Marquess of Blatchley, who was all of nineteen and some kind of relation to him, though how her mother had ferreted that out was a mystery. Claire crossed the room to the punch bowl and ladled some into a cup.

“Lemonade, Peony?”

“Thank you.”

Lady Julia smiled with the soulless precision of an automaton. “I was just saying to Peony how trim this cuirass cut makes her look. And dark colors, you know, fool the eye into believing one’s weight is less than it is.”

“As opposed to overtrimming, which increases the silhouette by several inches at least,” Peony said with lazy good humor. Lady Catherine turned pale and looked down at her pink bodice.

“Did you make your dress?” Gloria inquired. “Such skill. I compliment you.”

“Your compliments are misplaced, I’m afraid. My mother ordered it from New York. I thought you might have recognized the designer, since you appear to be wearing one of his creations yourself.”

“Ah,” Lady Julia said. “The American Territories.” The very tone of her voice suggested that Peony’s gown had been constructed by savage tribes, somewhere on a trackless plain. “Mrs. Churchill, I hear, has many connections there. Though not with families such as dear Gloria’s, I believe?”

“She has friends all over the globe,” Peony said. “It’s difficult to keep track.”

“My mother beckons us,” Claire said desperately. “Shall we go in to dinner?”

Lady St. Ives, much to Claire’s relief, had placed Julia between Catherine and Blatchley, and Gloria next to Lord James, who spent the entire meal talking with her about the American Territories. That left Claire between Peony and Lord Peter, with Emilie on his other side—a happy situation indeed. The only person in London who knew Emilie harbored a certain tendre for the young baron was Claire, and so it was no burden at all to leave him in conversation with her and turn her attention to making Peony more comfortable.

Though she certainly did not show signs of discomfort. Rather, Peony seemed amused at the efforts of the other girls to patronize and belittle her. How did one come to be that strong within oneself? Was it all in having a role model like Mrs. Churchill? No, that could not be it. Lady St. Ives was just as strong in her own way, leader of society as she was. Why, she had taken tea with Her Majesty herself with no more than a slight paling of the skin, which only served to make her more lovely. No, it must be something else. And there was no way Claire could ask Peony something so personal, especially not here at the supper table with all these people within earshot.

Besides, what if Peony laughed? Claire could bear any number of things, but not the laughter of someone she admired. The thought of it was enough to make her keep their conversation to very surface subjects, with the result that Peony probably thought her a mindless ninny.

Breaking up into parties of four or six for cards brought no relief. It was not until Peony took the chair next to her that Claire realized what she had in mind.

“Now, then,” Peony said, shuffling the cards as expertly as the riverboat captain that Claire and Emilie had sighed over in Heart of the Mississippi , a romantic flicker her mother would never have allowed her to watch had she known about it. “Who wants to learn how to play poker?”

“What on earth is that?” Emilie looked puzzled. “Something to do with fireplace tools?”

Lord James leaned in, his polite smile broadening to an honest grin. “It’s a card game the cowboys play in the Wild West,” he said. “Miss Churchill, you surprise me.”

“I shock you, you mean.” Peony fanned the cards at him so that they made a rude noise. “Well? Are you going to join me, or will your high principles relegate you to observation only?”

“My principles aren’t that high.” Lord James snagged the sleeve of his cousin. “Blatchley. Join us. Miss Churchill is going to teach us a card game.”

“We need something to bet with,” Peony said, “since I don’t imagine you’re willing to part with the contents of your pocketbooks in front of her ladyship.”

Claire cast around the room. “Will sugar cubes do? Or toothpicks?”

Peony beamed at her. “Toothpicks would be perfect. And we need one more player.”

“I’ll join you.” Gloria, who was clearly not letting Lord James out of her sight even for the space of a card game, seated herself gracefully in the remaining chair, her cream silk skirts pooling around her in a casually studied manner.

Claire fetched a silver box full of toothpicks, and Peony explained the rules as she dealt the cards. Hm. It didn’t sound too hard. The point seemed to be less what was in one’s hand than in how one presented oneself to the rest of the players. Claire might not possess many skills, but putting a good face forward, no matter how she felt, was one of them.

Before long, the stack of toothpicks in front of her was nearly as substantial as the one in front of Peony. “Miss Trevelyan, you have cleaned me out.” Lord James laid down his cards. “I salute you and pass.”

Since Gloria and Blatchley had declared themselves out within minutes of beginning, this left only Emilie with an active hand. And even that did not last much longer. Within five minutes, Peony had won, which surprised no one.

“I, too, salute a worthy opponent,” she said to Claire with a smile. “Beginner’s luck?”

“I think not,” Blatchley put in. “Not for so sustained a period. She almost had you.”

“She did,” Peony nodded. “Shall we play again?”

“Indeed not.” Julia materialized behind Lord James’s shoulder. “Gloria, Lord James, I claim you both for my table and a hand of Patience.”

Lord James rose without complaint, but as he pushed in his chair, his rakish gaze met Claire’s. “I look forward to a rematch,” he said. “Perhaps it was a case of luck, not skill.”

Claire looked him in the eye. How dared he cast aspersions on her ability in her own parlor? “A lady of resources makes her own luck. Do you not agree, Lord James?”

He laughed and tapped the back of the chair with his palm, as if it were the invisible shoulder of a companion. “She does indeed, Miss Trevelyan. She does indeed.”