The Bluestocking and the Viscount (Regency Romance) (Regency Tales Book 10) Read online

  “Rotten fruit falls to the ground; it’s full of worms and no good to anyone. But let it spread and the rot spreads as well.”

  “What about the people?” asked another voice, sounding urgent. “Can they be counted on to follow? The English masses are famous for being phlegmatic.”

  “Hungry bellies make a man act.”

  Her uncle again. Suddenly his conversations over morning tea and the newspaper no longer resembled a pleasant start to the day, but the dangerous introduction to a side of him that was unknown to her.

  Her uncle was not a radical conspirator, he was a mild-mannered, somewhat absent-minded literary sort of man more comfortable with his beloved books than a plot to overthrow the government through violent means. The concept of death of King George as a clarion call for something other than official mourning was bewildering; he had been practically invisible for most of years and now it sounded as though his death was actually a lighted match poised to be thrown upon the dry straw of the nation’s poor and struggling.

  Hungry bellies. Her uncle had spoken of the punishing effects of legislation; he had discussed tariffs and the rippling circles of financial impact; he knew about trade and what people in the country and workers in the mills and on the docks were thinking and feeling. How did he know so much about the working classes? Why did he know so much?

  He was a gentleman, born to the privileged class, educated as an aristocrat, born and bred into the loyal fabric of an Englishman. What could make a man turn against his upbringing?

  “Really, dear girl, eavesdropping on your elders? Your nanny will have something to say about that,” a voice whispered from behind her.

  THREE

  Phoebe started; the lazy, drawling voice was unfamiliar, but very close. She stayed below the artificial silk and gauze landscape so that she could not be seen, but she raised her head to discover that a pair of immaculate white trousers stood in front of her. Lifting her head a little bit more, she saw a cream and gold waistcoat with gold buttons. Tilting her head back, she encountered the interested gaze of the man who had been such an impressive dancer. The Viscount Sunderland, the man who, according to Lord Billingham, was enveloped in a mysterious scandal that had not faded when he and his tarnished reputation went to the Continent, looked down at her with a questioning expression.

  He was probably a fop, she decided, noticing that his attire was elegant and of the latest fashion. It was unlikely that he had heard any of her uncle’s words, and even if he did, what were the odds that he would even understand what was being said?

  Very likely, she assured herself, he was the sort of gentlemen more mindful of his cravat than of any conspiratorial talk.

  “My lord,” she said, trying to sustain a vestige of dignity, “you’ve come upon me most unexpectedly.”

  “My apologies, but when I saw you dart into the Duchess’ makeshift Eden, how could I resist following? Since you clearly wish to remain unseen, might I invite you to share my tree?” he said with utmost seriousness.

  “Sir,” she replied stiffly, “I am here on a private matter.”

  “Beautiful young ladies generally are,” he concurred.

  “You mistake me.”

  “Do I? I think it unlikely. I am renowned for my discernment when it comes to ladies,” he replied looking at her suggestively. Suddenly he raised an eyebrow and stated, “Alas, you have squandered the moment. Your quarry has gone.”

  “I have no quarry!” she insisted. “I am here. . . on a private matter.”

  “I see. Are you avoiding young Billingham? He seems to be on a quest, and a man roaming a ballroom carrying a glass of punch is clearly someone who expects to have a lady to deliver it to.”

  “Thank you,” she said, standing to her full height and forcing herself to meet his amused eyes. “I am not avoiding his lordship; in fact, I was waiting for him.”

  “I see. Were the two of you planning a botanical tête-à-tête?”

  Phoebe’s head raised another inch, showing her most endearingly determined chin to its full advantage. The Viscount gave it a lingering glance.

  “Or were you seeking the Earl of Chessington or perhaps Lord Glastonburg, who were here only moments ago?” he continued.

  “No, I was not! Why should I be seeking them?”

  “I’ve no idea, but if you would like an introduction, I am somewhat acquainted with both gentlemen and I’m sure they would relish the opportunity to make your acquaintance.”

  “Lord Glastonburg is my uncle and I will be returning home with him when the evening is over, so as you can see, I would hardly be seeking him.”

  “Then the Earl is your prey?”

  “Certainly not!” Phoebe snapped. The Viscount was a most irritating man, the more so because he was so inconveniently observant. How long had he been stealthily concealed in the faux garden while she listened to her uncle and the others at their conversation. “Why should anyone be my prey at all?”

  “It seems as though you were playing hide-and-seek,” he replied smoothly. “I wondered if perhaps my time away from England has rendered me unfamiliar with the latest ploys in feminine flirtation and if so, I thought that perhaps you would be willing to bring me au courant. A rousing game of hide-and-seek offers great opportunities for greater engagement between men and women; it sounds like something the French would have devised were they not so otherwise occupied.”

  “You have just come back from Europe, have you not? No doubt you were introduced to any number of activities between men and women,” Phoebe commented sourly.

  The Viscount smiled, his mouth curving into a full-lipped expression of pleasure. “No doubt,” he agreed. “But now that I’m back in England again, I may need to be tutored anew.”

  “Unfortunately,” Phoebe said, gradually trying to edge her way out of the textile garden without attracting either the notice of the Viscount or the attention of the guests who, she had no doubt, would look askance to see her in private company with a man whose reputation had recently been implicated with scandal, according to Lord Billingham.

  “I am myself have little experience of society and have no knowledge of the most current pastimes.”

  “And yet you are here tonight,” the Viscount pointed out. “Are we leaving Eden?” he inquired, noticing her covert retreat despite her efforts to conceal her movement.

  “No! I am leaving and you may stay.”

  “But why should I stay if you are gone?” he inquired. “If you remember your Bible, the serpent went into the Garden because Eve was there.”

  “You are quite the theologian,” she replied. “I wish, Lord Sunderland, that you not follow me out into the open.”

  “People may notice,” he agreed gravely, but there was a glimmer in his eyes—which, she noticed, were a most unique shade of amber-green, an unusual combination that resembled moss overlain with sunlight—that belied his expression.

  “Will you stay behind when I depart?” she queried biting her lower lip. She always conducted herself with the utmost decorum but if her uncle was told that she had compromised her reputation, her mother would be bound to learn and there was no telling what sort of response would follow. Her parents wished for her to procure a husband but they would not be pleased if she somehow attracted the wrong sort of attention.

  “Only if you consent to take a bite of forbidden fruit,” he countered, his lips pursed as if he were considering the ramifications of a fall from grace.

  Turning roundly, Phoebe hurried from the draping fabric of the garden.

  “There you are!” It was Lord Billingham, who spied her as she emerged into the open.

  “Where in heavens name have you been Lord Billingham!” she demanded, opting for an offensive manoeuvre.

  “I—I was—”

  “I’ve been waiting for you, simply parched, and I couldn’t find you anywhere!” she berated him.

  Lord Billingham, however, was not bothered by her scolding. He handed her the glass of punch like a
trophy.

  “My sincere apologies. Here you are,” he said. “I’ll go get a second glass if you’re still thirsty.”

  Behind her, she heard the sound of smothered laughter.

  “No!” she declared. “You’ve been gone far too long.” Linking arms, she hurried Lord Billingham away, well aware that an observer in the camouflage of a fanciful gazebo was watching, amused by her plight.

  “Shall we find my uncle?”

  “No, let’s dance again,” she said winningly, giving him one of her most enthusiastic smiles. “I’m quite fortified by the punch and ready to dance the rest of the night away.”

  “Capital!” Lord Billingham took her punch glass and put it down on a nearby tray. “Dance, we shall!”

  Fortunately, after the second dance, her uncle came to her rescue. Although he was generally oblivious of the matrimonial customs which virtually obliged a girl to become engaged to a man with whom she had danced a multitude of times, Phoebe decided that someone must have alerted him that he was in danger of acquiring a nephew-in-law if he failed to do his duty as guardian. Pleading a headache, she agreed that she would like to return home, leaving a crestfallen Lord Billingham with yet another punch glass in hand as she and her uncle departed.

  In the carriage, Phoebe found herself beset by the recollection of the conversation that she had overheard. Her uncle didn’t seem to notice, intent upon his own musings.

  When they returned home, she kissed him good-night and went up to her bedroom. Fanny, her ladies’ maid, helped her undress and prepare for bed. Fanny wanted to hear about the dance and Phoebe obliged, providing her with a superficial account of dances and gowns, with a mention of Lord Billingham because Fanny was hoping that her young mistress would enter a romance. Finally, though, she was in her bed, the lamps were out, and she was alone with her troubling thoughts.

  Uncle Glaston was simply not a traitor to his country. His brother-in-law was an officer in His Majesty’s army and regardless of what philosophical opinions he held, they did not, Phoebe told herself, run to treason or violence. But he was such a gentle man that he could, she reasoned, easily be caught up in someone else’s plot. She needed to find out more so that she could protect her uncle and keep him out of harm’s way. It would perhaps be necessary to encourage Lord Billingham’s attentions, or just avoid discouraging them, because the Earl of Chessington could very well be an active participant in the plot which seemed to be underway.

  With a plan of action in place, Phoebe found that her thoughts, which had been galloping in her head all night, took the opportunity to find rest in slumber before the breaking dawn, when she would need to put her plan into action.

  FOUR

  Although she was generally an early riser, Phoebe found that the long night and the worry over what had transpired inclined her to a late morning abed, and by the time she rose and went downstairs, her uncle was already in the dining room where lunch was being served. To her surprise, she found that he was not alone at the table.

  “My dear,” Lord Glastonburg said, rising as she entered.

  “You must have danced yourself into exhaustion last night; it’s so unlike you to stay in bed so long. Have you met the Viscount of Sunderland? He was at last night’s dance but as Lord Billingham commanded so much of your time and your dance card, it’s quite likely that your paths never crossed. He is joining us for lunch.”

  The Viscount, who had risen at her entrance with the same smooth symmetry of motion that he employed in his dancing, smiled sardonically as she framed her features into what she hoped was an expression of polite, insincere welcome.

  “Yes, Lord Sunderland and I shared a conversation last night,” she said. “I was unaware that the two of you were acquainted.”

  “I have missed my young friend’s extraordinary chess playing,” Lord Glastonburg said as the platter of meat was passed. “Lord Sunderland, while you were on your travels, I have grown alarmingly feeble in my play, owing to a lack of skilled competitors.”

  “Is Miss Stanford not an able challenge?” the Viscount inquired.

  “She is coming along very well,” her uncle said warmly. “But, regrettably, chess was not on the curriculum in her schoolroom and she is still early in her play, with a novice’s tendency to underplay the queen and overplay the king.”

  “Ahhh, I see. Miss Stanford, I am surprised. I should have thought the reverse of a young, spirited woman. Surely you do not forget that on the chessboard, it is the queen who is the shrewdest and most effective piece.”

  Was he speaking of chess, or was he referring to the conversation last night that she had been eavesdropping on when he discovered her. Surely he had not assigned any importance to it. Worried she bit her lower lip.

  He had dressed for lunch with her uncle with as much of an eye for fashion as if he were set on impressing a member of the royal family. He did not, she noticed, opt for the wild extravagance seen in many of the gentlemen of the ton, but there could be no doubt that either he or his valet, and she suspected the former, dressed with a keen eye for perfection.

  His blue coat and trousers were a darker shade of the navy and silver waistcoat that he wore, and his cravat was snowy white and flawlessly knotted. His hair, thick and coiffed in what she believed was the Brutus cut, looked particularly black against the blinding white of his shirt. Seen in daylight, his eyes were even more fascinating with their unusual green-gold blend of colour and light.

  He was doubtlessly considered a most eligible catch for some eager-to-wed debutant and Phoebe wondered if the ambitious mamas of the haute monde were willing to ignore the whispers of scandal in his wake in order to marry their daughters off to someone so attractive. Fortunately, she decided as she picked up her fork and knife to pay heed to one of Cook’s excellent meals, she had come out last season and was, although unmarried, not one of the forerunners in the annual marriage auction which accompanied the London schedule.

  “Phoebe has some very advanced ideas on the ideas of women, Lord Sunderland, and I assure you that she remembers well the role of the queen.”

  “Really?” the Viscount sounded intrigued. No doubt he felt, in common with so many of his sex, that women were flighty and mindless, intent on nothing but ball gowns and flirtation. Phoebe was accustomed to the inability of gentlemen to grasp the concept that women were not merely ornamental but she found it all the more irksome when exhibited by a man who had already managed to incite her ire.

  “I beg you to consider, my lord, whether Queen Elizabeth was not the most able of her dynasty in her leadership.”

  “Indeed, Miss Stanford, I would not dispute the claim. She was most able and most shrewd.”

  That word again. Shrewd. It seemed to be a trait which the Viscount either prised above others or which caught his notice.

  “But,” he continued after chewing a bite of roast with what Phoebe conceded was well-mannered patience, “I remind you that her sister was quite the opposite. Mary the First was poor in judgment, weak in leadership, and as unpopular as her half-sister was adored by the public. The British isles were a different place then, I grant you, and religious tribulation dominated the political landscape in a way that it does not now—”

  “Although I remind you, Lord Sunderland, that we are still dealing with the prominence of anti-Catholic legislation even today in our advanced era,” interrupted Lord Glastonburg.

  The Viscount tilted his head to acknowledge the fact. “But they do not burn at Smithfield,” he stated crisply, sounding quite unlike a fop and more like a man who knew his history.

  Lord Glastonburg inclined his head. Pointing to the Viscount, he seemed to say.

  “Mary was, you will agree, badly influenced by her husband, the King of Spain, who had no interest in English independence or religious tolerance,” Phoebe said decisively.

  “Then you feel that Elizabeth, having chosen to remain unmarried, was the better monarch because she abjured a husband?” the Viscount inquired. His eyes over th
e rim of his wineglass were intent upon her. While it was the colour and not the stare that held her captive, the effect, she thought, was not unlike that of a snake capturing its prey in its gaze.

  “If matrimony is used as a barometer of how well a monarch will rule, what do we do to measure Henry the Eighth’s reign?” she countered.

  “His wives were powerless,” Lord Glastonburg interjected.

  “Ahh, my dear Glastonburg, no woman is ever truly powerless unless she chooses to be,” the Viscount said lightly. His smile spread across his face as he perceived Phoebe’s reaction to his comment.

  “Women,” Phoebe declared, Mrs Clive’s commendable cooking forgotten in the heat of the exchange with the irritating Viscount, “are at the mercy of their husbands. For those who are fortunate to marry men who are kind, perhaps this is not onerous. But for the woman who weds a brute, often at the insistence of her father, who has control over her until she leaves his house to become the chattel of her husband, her fate is entirely in his hands. The courts will not defend her should he strike her, abuse her person, be profligate with her marriage portion, or in any other way displease her husband.”

  “It’s true that our own Prince Regent—now King—has shamefully mistreated his wife,” agreed Uncle. “While Queen Caroline may have her faults, I cannot think the King justified in his behaviour. There is talk that he will forbid her to attend his coronation. Disgraceful.”

  “One does not look to King George for majesty,” the Viscount said witheringly, “no matter that he is His Majesty in title but not in conduct. I’ve heard the rumours as well and cannot defend the king. But it’s also true that Her Majesty has been indiscreet in her private conduct and that is not to her credit.”

  “And the King has not been indiscreet?” Phoebe demanded.

  “But he is the King,” the Viscount said, his tone deliberately gentle as too late, she realised that she had risen to his bait.

  “My dear,” Lord Glastonburg intervened when Phoebe, the colour high in her creamy skin, glared at the Viscount, who simply gazed back upon her courteously, awaiting her next move as if their dialogue were a verbal chess game. “I forgot to mention it, but Lord Billingham left his card, and asked for permission to call upon you. I did not speak for you but said that I would certainly deliver the message.”