The Earl put up his quizzing-glass. ‘Ah! May I inquire, my love, whether you are making plans for Charles’s future welfare?’
Down went the embroidery; her ladyship raised an indignant rueful pair of eyes to his face. ‘You are the most odious man that I have ever met!’ she declared. ‘Of course I don’t make plans for Charles! It sounds like some horrid, match-making Mama. How in the world did you guess?’
‘Some explanation of your extreme kindness towards Miss Devenish seemed to be called for. That was the likeliest that presented itself to me.’
‘Well, but don’t you think her a charming girl, Julian?’
‘I daresay. You know my taste runs to Amazons.’
Her ladyship ignored this with obvious dignity. ‘She is extremely pretty, with such obliging manners, and a general sweetness of disposition which makes me feel her to be so very eligible.’
‘I will allow all that to be true.’
‘You are thinking of Mr Fisher. I know the evils of her situation, but recollect that Mr Fisher is her uncle only by marriage! He is a little vulgar perhaps—well, very vulgar, if you like!—but I am sure a kind, worthy man who has treated her quite as though she were his own daughter, and will leave the whole of his fortune to her.’
‘That certainly is a consideration,’ said Worth.
‘Her own birth, though not noble, is perfectly respectable, you know. Her family is an old one—but it does not signify talking, after all! Charles will make his own choice.’
‘Just what I was about to remark, my dear.’
‘Don’t alarm yourself! I have no notion of throwing poor Lucy at his head, I assure you. But I shall own myself surprised if he does no
t take a liking to her.’
‘I perceive,’ said the Earl, faintly amused, ‘that life in Brussels is going to be even more interesting than I had expected.’
Two
When Judith, on setting out for Lady Charlotte Greville’s evening party, desired Worth to direct the coachman to call at Mr Fisher’s for the purpose of picking up Miss Devenish, she could not help looking a little conscious. She avoided his ironic gaze, but when he settled himself beside her, and the carriage moved forward over the pavé, said defensively: ‘Really, it is not remarkable that I should take Lucy with me.’
‘Certainly not,’ agreed Worth. ‘I made no remark.’
‘Mrs Fisher does not like to go into company, you know, and the poor child would be very dull if no one offered to escort her.’
‘Very true.’
Judith cast a smouldering glance at his profile. ‘I do not think,’ she said, ‘that I have ever met so provoking a person as you.’
He smiled, but said nothing, and upon the carriage’s drawing up presently in front of a respectable-looking house in one of the quiet streets off the Place Royale, got down to hand his wife’s protégée into the carriage.
She did not keep him waiting for many seconds, but came out of the house, escorted by her uncle, a little stout man of cheerful vulgarity who bowed very low to the Earl, and uttered profuse thanks and protestations. He was answered with the cool civility of a stranger, but Lady Worth, leaning forward, said everything that was kind, enquired after Mrs Fisher, who had lately been confined to the house by a feverish cold, and engaged herself to take good care of Miss Devenish.
‘Your ladyship is never backward in any attention—most flattering distinction! I am all obligation!’ he said, bowing to her. ‘It is just as it should be, for I’m sure Lucy is fit to move in the first circles—ay, and to make a good match into the bargain, eh, Lucy? Ah, she don’t like me to quiz her about it: she is blushing, I daresay, only it is too dark to see.’
Judith could not but feel a little vexation that he should expose himself so to Worth, but she passed it off with tact. Miss Devenish was handed into the carriage, the Earl followed her, and in a moment they were off, leaving Mr Fisher bowing farewell upon the pavement.
‘Dear Lady Worth, this is very kind of you!’ said Miss Devenish, in a pretty, low voice. ‘My aunt desired her compliments. I did not keep you waiting, I hope?’
‘No, indeed. I only hope it won’t prove an insipid evening. I believe there may be dancing, and I suppose all the world and his wife will be there.’
It certainly seemed so. When they arrived, Lady Charlotte’s salons were already crowded. The English predominated, but there were any number of distinguished foreigners present. Here and there were to be seen the blue of a Dutch uniform, and the smart rifle-green of a Belgian dragoon; and everywhere you should chance to look you might be sure of encountering the sight of scarlet: vivid splashes of scarlet, throwing into insignificance all the ladies’ pale muslins, and every civilian gentleman’s more sober coat. Civilian gentlemen were plainly at a discount, and the young lady who could not show at least one scarlet uniform enslaved was unhappy indeed. Wits and savants went by the board; the crowd was thickest about Lord Hill, who had dropped in for half an hour. His round face wore its usual placid smile; he was replying with inexhaustible patience and good humour to the anxious inquiries of the females clustering round him. Dear Lord Hill! So kind, so dependable! He was not like the Duke, of course, but one need not pack one’s trunks and order the horses to be put to for an instant flight to Antwerp while he was there to pledge one his word the Corsican Monster was still in Paris.
He had just reassured the Annesley sisters, two ethereal blondes, whose very ringlets were appealing. When Worth’s party came into the room, they had moved away from Lord Hill, and were standing near the door, a lovely fragile pair, so like, so dotingly fond!
They were both married, the younger, Catharine, being one of the season’s brides, with a most unexceptionable young husband to her credit, Lord John Somerset, temporarily attached to the Prince of the Orange’s personal staff. It was strange that Catharine, decidedly her sister’s inferior in beauty and brain, should have done so much better for herself in the marriage market. Poor Frances, with her infinite capacity for hero-worship, had made but a sad business of it after all, for a less inspiring figure than her tow-headed, chattering, awkward Mr Webster would have been hard to find. You could hardly blame her for having fallen so deeply in love with Lord Byron. Quite an affaire that had been, while it lasted. Happily that had not been for very long—though long enough, if Catharine’s indiscreet tongue were to be trusted, to enable her to secure one of the poet’s precious locks of hair. That was more than Caro Lamb could boast of, poor soul.
She too was in Brussels, quite scandalising the old-fashioned with her gossamer gauzes, always damped to make them cling close to her limbs, generally dropping off one thin shoulder, and allowing the interested an intimate view of her shape. Old Lady Mount Norris was ready to stake her reputation on Caroline’s wearing under her gauze dresses not a stitch of clothing beyond an Invisible Petticoat. Well, her own daughter might possess a lock of Byron’s hair, but one was able to thank God she did not flaunt herself abroad next door to naked.