Vixen in Velvet

  Leonie nudged her way into a better viewing position, next to an older lady and the girl she seemed to be chaperoning.

  The wailing woman had taken hold of Swanton’s coattails and was sinking to the ground in an attitude of supplication.

  No small acrobatic feat, considering her other hand grasped that of a small child. The child was crying piteously.

  “Madam, I don’t know who you are, but—” Swanton began.

  “Not know me! Not know me! We were everything to each other! And there is your daughter, your very image!”

  The little girl, who might have been about Lucie’s age or possibly younger, was fair. So was her mother. So were a great many other English men and women. Though Leonie had no illusions about men, she had as well no illusions about most things. The scene might as easily have been false as true. Either way, it was well played and couldn’t have been worse timed.

  Leonie didn’t need to know the truth to see disaster looming—for the Milliners’ Society, for her shop. And for Swanton, too, curse him.

  “Now, now, madam, that will be quite enough of that,” came a firm voice nearby.

  It wasn’t Lisburne, who was still trying to make his way through a knot of ladies. It was another gentleman, who looked vaguely familiar. He pushed through the crowd like a policeman or soldier, and the women gave way, though not without exclaiming to each other about his lack of courtesy and What was Vauxhall coming to? and Who did he think he was?

  He ignored their complaints and went straight for the blonde woman. “See here,” he said. “A joke’s a joke, but this has gone far enough.”

  “A joke!” the woman shrieked. “Ruination! Abandonment! A joke!”

  The man took hold of her elbow and said something Leonie couldn’t hear. The woman seemed to sag with weariness. She let go of Swanton’s coat and rose. Still weeping, and stumbling a little as though emotionally depleted, she let the unknown gentleman lead her away. The child’s wailing subsided to sniffs as she went along with the adults.

  The audience had remained more or less silent throughout. Some were dumbfounded by shock, others speechless with rapture about the juicy tale they’d tell their friends. For a short time, the silence continued. Then the whispering started, like a wind hissing through the theater. It built to a hum of excited chatter.

  The older woman near Leonie took hold of her charge’s arm, muttering, “This is disgraceful. I won’t stay another minute.” Ignoring the younger woman’s pleas, she led her away.

  Leonie went out, too.

  The scene’s ending rendered Lisburne as dumbstruck as everybody else.

  Theaker? Coming to Swanton’s rescue?

  Theaker? Playing justice of the peace instead of riot instigator?

  Then the whispering started. And grew louder, swiftly driving Theaker to the back of Lisburne’s mind.

  “Did you hear what she said?”

  “A drunken woman. She ought not to have been let in.”

  “Must have been a prank. Somebody’s idea of a joke. In very bad taste, I must say.”

  “Can you credit it? Carrying on about unfortunate women and abandoning one he’d made unfortunate, the wretch—leaving her to make shift for herself and his natural child?”

  “Shocking scene! But I blame myself. The instant I saw that creature on the stage—like a ballet dancer!—I had my suspicions. I should have taken you away directly. Milliners’ Society, indeed!”

  “But Mama, I’m sure it was a mistake. I heard someone say the woman was drunk.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “How dare they harangue us for funds, when he lets his own child go begging, the horrid hypocrite!”

  And so the mills of the beau monde began to grind away at reputations—Swanton’s, Leonie Noirot’s, and the Milliners’ Society itself.

  Lisburne tamped down his anger. He wanted to hit somebody, but that was the trouble with episodes like this: no proper target.

  Realizing the show was over, the crowd swiftly made for the doors. Naturally they couldn’t wait to share the news.

  The clumps of women having melted away, he reached Swanton at last.

  “No time to try to mend it now,” Lisburne said. No time to get to Theaker and the woman, either. By now they were long gone. “The jugglers come on in a moment. We have to get out of here.”

  Swanton met his gaze. “But can it be mended?” he said. “This isn’t like the letters. She spoke of that year in Paris. You remember the state I was in. It’s all a muddle in my mind, those weeks.” He rubbed his forehead. “Simon, what if it’s true?”

  “Then we’ll have to make it right,” Lisburne said. “On a host of counts. The Milliners’ Society. Maison Noirot.”

  Swanton fell back as though he’d taken a physical blow. “Good God, I’d forgotten,” he said. “Not only me, is it? Madame. Her girls. And it’s worse for them, isn’t it? This is a nightmare.”

  “Yes.” Lisburne looked about him. “And I’ve lost Madame.”

  Given Leonie’s eye-catching attire, not attracting attention wasn’t the easiest task. On the other hand, she was a DeLucey and a Noirot. Until Cousin Emma had obtained control, Leonie’s parents had let their children run wild in the streets, where they learned less-than-honest ways of making their way in the world. Though limited, the experience had been educational.

  Leonie knew, for instance, how to carry herself so as not to attract notice.

  She knew how not to look furtive. And if she wanted to do murder at present, nobody could tell by looking at her.

  In any case, she wasn’t yet sure who needed killing.

  She followed her quarry along the southern covered walk past the Gothic Piazza and on out through the Kennington Lane entrance.

  For all this time the gentleman appeared to be expostulating with the woman, and now and again the child recommenced weeping.

  Was he threatening them with the authorities or critiquing the performance?

  By the time they reached the coach field they appeared to be arguing, and the gentleman made as though to drag the woman somewhere. Then he looked about him, up and down New Bridge Street. A moment later, a hackney pulled out from the cluster of vehicles at the coach field. The gentleman waved it down.

  Leonie swore under her breath. She ought to be able to determine whether what she’d seen was real or a hoax, but she was at a disadvantage. The dramatic scene had been so unexpected. Though she was good at reading faces and even better at discerning frauds and fakes, she hadn’t had a clear view. Now she was uncertain, a state she hated.

  Maybe the scene in the theater had been exactly what it appeared to be, and this vaguely familiar gentleman was one of Swanton’s friends quietly dealing with an unpleasantness, as aristocratic men were known to do for their friends. Maybe the woman was drunk or deranged. Maybe the gentleman meant to take her to the nearest magistrate. Maybe he was warning or bribing her to go away.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Not that it made a particle of difference what the truth was, Leonie reminded herself. The damage was done. She’d have to devise a way to undo it—which, at present, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to do. Dealing with scandal was Sophy’s forte. But even Sophy couldn’t devise a counterattack without having at least an inkling of the true state of affairs.

  This was why Leonie had followed the trio. She’d no assurance she’d learn much, but it had to be more productive than attacking Swanton, and taking him apart, piece by piece.

  And so she remained. And watched.

  Then, at last, the hack drew up, and she saw him.

  The sun had set and the moon hadn’t yet risen, but thousands of lights illuminated Vauxhall. It was as poetic and romantic a scene as Lisburne could wish—and no earthly use, after what had happened.

  He stood in the walkway in fron
t of one of the piazzas, only half listening to two of Longmore’s longtime friends, Crawford and Hempton, argue about whether Theaker was trying to get himself into Swanton’s good graces or was up to his old tricks of tormenting him.

  Meanwhile, Leonie had vanished.

  After a quick search of the theater, he’d hurried out here, where he could keep an eye on the entrance. She wouldn’t have left without her girls, he was sure, and he’d sent a friend to look after them. Now he needed only to keep an eye on this corner of the gardens.

  He was debating whether he’d done the right thing in sending Swanton to hunt for her rather than sending him home when, looking toward the entrance for the hundredth time, Lisburne saw her.

  She approached in her usual style—a graceful flutter of ribbons and bows, and unassailable self-confidence—but something in the way she carried herself gave him the sense of being borne down upon.

  Naturally he went on the offensive, striding to meet her. “Where the devil have you been?” he said.

  “Backstage,” she said.

  “You were nowhere near the stage,” he said. “I looked. I’ve searched everywhere, and made Swanton hunt, too, to take his mind off that appalling scene.”

  “Do not scold me,” she said. “Do not play the overprotective swain, either, because—”

  “Overprotective! Swain!”

  “That show of possessiveness thrills other women no end, I’m sure, but I’m not thrilled,” she said. “I’m in no mood to be overborne and ordered about and lectured. I realize your nature is protective—”

  “It most certainly isn’t!”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “You make yourself a sort of Praetorian Guard for Lord Swanton, and try to do all his thinking for him, as though he were mentally deficient. I’ve seen no signs of that. He seems to me a perfectly normal, healthy, man—certainly not lacking in virility, if what that woman said is true.”

  “Damnation, you don’t know anything about—” He broke off, aware of heads turning their way. “We can’t stand here arguing—and most certainly not about Swanton’s virility.” And he needed to calm down. “I understand you’re upset,” he went on, very very calmly. “You’ve more than sufficient reason. But can we discuss this in a rational manner in a less public place? Crawford and Hempton are gaping at us and trying to draw nearer to listen without making it obvious.”

  She threw Crawford and Hempton a dazzling smile, and the pair of hardened rogues and gamesters looked abashed. They promptly turned away and began talking in an animated manner.

  “We’re not discussing anything at present,” she said. “I need to find my girls and send them home before a jokester decides to humiliate them with Swanton’s folly. Someone’s bound to subject them to ghastly puns that will go over their heads. But we can expect more obvious and obscene jokes as well. We need to get them out of here.”

  “I’ve sent Geddings after them,” he said, naming one of his cousin Clara’s numerous hopeless suitors. “His lordship is familiar with Simpson’s tours. Since they follow an established pattern, he’ll find them easily enough. Equally important, Geddings is a large fellow whose setdowns are famously deadly. Between his standing guard and Simpson’s talent for making trouble go away, your girls will be able to enjoy their evening unmolested. That’s one worry you can put out of your mind.”

  She regarded him expressionlessly for a moment.

  “A waiter is holding a supper box empty for us,” he said. He’d bribed the waiter to do so. He gestured. “This way, if you would be so kind, madame. And, yes, I know I deserve no kindness, but I’m counting on your charitable impulses.”

  That won him a narrow look, which was marginally more encouraging than the blank stare.

  “I realize you’d rather not be seen with me,” he began.

  “On the contrary, I like being seen with you,” she said. “Your attire always sets mine off to advantage. I chose this dress because I’ve noticed that your valet often favors a dash of green to complement your eyes—an emerald stickpin, or a green waistcoat, or green embroidery on a white waistcoat. This is most convenient, because a redhead often looks well in greens and yellows few other women can carry off.”

  He caught the tremor in her voice. She was furious. And why not?

  “Thank you,” he said. “My humiliation is complete.”

  “Yours?” she said. “My girls have been reduced to l-laughingstocks. My shop may n-never recover—”

  “I’ll mend it, I promise,” he said. “You’re upset. You have every reason. Hate me all you like. Hate Swanton, too. But I must urge you to hate us in a less public place. And I must beg you to take some food and drink. You’re trembling.”

  “With rage,” she said. She lifted her chin and blinked hard, once.

  “You need to sit down,” he said. “You need a drink.”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  He gave her a little push. “Over there,” he said. “Don’t make me carry you.”

  If Lisburne carried her, she would go to pieces.

  Leonie let him take her arm and escort her to the supper box.

  She sat, trying to summon her composure—and wondering at having lost it in the first place—while Lisburne gave the waiter an order.

  The waiter had hardly gone when Lord Swanton turned up. And instantly launched into apologies.

  She put up her hand. “Don’t,” she said. “Not a word.”

  He looked at Lord Lisburne. “Sit,” he said. “Not a word.”

  The poet sat. He looked wretched.

  But what did she care? For him this was a temporary ailment, to which his lawyers would apply the infallible cure: money. For her and for her girls, it was a catastrophe.

  “I do not understand,” she said. “Hadn’t you the slightest inkling?”

  Swanton shook his head. “I swear—”

  “No hint that you might be called to account publicly?” she said. “Because I recall one or two mentions of woman problems in Foxe’s Morning Spectacle. It never occurred to you that these might be warnings, rather than the usual random scandalmongering?”

  Swanton pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. Lisburne can tell you. I get letters nearly every day from somebody claiming I promised this or that, including marriage.”

  “But those were either typical begging letters or incompetent attempts at blackmail,” Lisburne said. “The writers seemed ignorant of Swanton’s having only recently arrived in London. He couldn’t possibly have formed the sort of ‘attachments’ they claimed. Or done any wooing. He hadn’t time. I can vouch for that.”

  “Then the woman’s lying?” Leonie said. “It was a performance, meant to discredit you, no more?”

  Lord Swanton looked at his cousin.

  “Which is it?” Leonie said. She wanted to scream, but they’d all received quite enough attention. “The Milliners’ Society has lost at the very least a hundred pounds in pledges this night, because we’re instantly tainted by association. I can’t counteract this without knowing the truth.”

  Lisburne began, “My dear, I promise—”

  “Don’t,” she cut in. No my dears. Not now. Not ever. “For the same reason, it’s more than likely I’ll lose customers as well. I’ll be weeks, possibly months, undoing the damage. The least you gentlemen can do is answer me straight.”

  “I wish I could,” Lord Swanton said. “The trouble is, I don’t know.”

  Chapter Nine

  A thousand faults in man we find—

  Merit in him we seldom meet;

  Man is inconstant and unkind;

  Man is false and indiscreet;

  Man is capricious, jealous, free:

  Vain, insincere, and trifling too;

  Yet still the women all agree,

  For want of better—he must do.

&
nbsp; A.A., The Literary Gazette, 1818

  For once Leonie Noirot wasn’t hiding much.

  For once her face mirrored her feelings, and Lisburne well understood them.

  She stared at Swanton in patent disbelief.

  “The little girl,” Swanton said. “The woman said she was not five years old. She said it happened in Paris. It might have happened.”

  “Might have,” she repeated.

  “He doesn’t remember,” Lisburne said. “And it’s no use trying to make him remember.”

  “Are you claiming amnesia?” she said. “Because otherwise . . .” She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, her mask was back in place. “It takes a great deal to shock me, Lord Swanton.” Her voice was nearly steady now. “Yet I’ll admit I’m a trifle taken aback. Were there so many women in your life in Paris at the time that you lost track?”

  Swanton’s face reddened.

  No help for it. He’d only jabber on inarticulately. Explanations would fall to Lisburne, as usual. “It was a difficult time,” he began. “After my—”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Lady Alda,” came a familiar feminine voice from somewhere in the vicinity. “I had always thought—at least the general my papa said so, and as we all know, he’s always right—but where was I? Oh, yes, I had always thought that in this greatest of great nations of ours, a man was innocent until proven guilty.”

  Everyone at Lisburne’s table went still.

  The red faded from Swanton’s face, which settled into the frown of concentration he usually applied to composing verse.

  “Yes of course, anything is possible, or so some will believe,” Gladys went on. “People believe in hobgoblins, too. Perhaps you weren’t aware, my dear, that Vauxhall is notorious for attracting strange characters, especially those desperate for attention. There was that fellow— What did he call himself? The Great something. What was it? About ten years ago, I believe. I read about it in one of Mr. Hone’s books. Do you know to whom I refer, Mr. Bates?”