London, March, 1822
“Almack’s.” The word slipped out of Lady Alice St. Claire on a sigh of resignation that no one heard. She handed her Apollo-gold cloak with plush trim over in exchange for a voucher and turned to peer into the ballroom that, as the Season’s opening event, was already packed with eager faces. Her mother, the Duchess of Carr, went immediately to stand by the side of one of the patronesses, trusting Alice to her sister’s care. Alice was perfectly capable of seeing to herself, but the duchess had yet to become enlightened to the fact.
Lady Charlotte, her married sister older by four years, preceded Alice into the room. She turned back with an impatient gesture. “Are you coming, Alice? Durstead, you may go play cards if you wish. If I need you, I shall send word, but otherwise, you may come and find us at two o’clock as usual.”
Charlotte moved forward, not waiting for an answer from her husband and with the full expectation that her sister would follow. Alice did not bother to offer her brother-in-law a sympathetic look. She rather thought his immolation at his wife’s altar was done willingly, and therefore she had little patience for him.
Trailing Charlotte half-heartedly, Alice entered the ballroom and was immediately engulfed by the crowd, which separated her from her sister. A voice pierced the din on her right, calling, “Lady Alice,” and she recognized the penetrating tone. Bracing herself, she turned to greet the childhood friend, if such a term could be used.
“Barbara, how lovely to see you,” she said, pasting on a smile. “Have you only just arrived in town?” Alice could not remember a time when she had not known Barbara Gower, née Bowlings. They had shared dancing lessons before their presentation, and their mothers had brought them on morning calls, assuming that a friendship would be the natural result. But it was hard to be friends with someone who was only nice to you because of your title.
Barbara glanced over her shoulder at the man standing behind her. “Yes, quite. I was married recently, as you must know. Please allow me to present my husband, William Gower. Mr. Gower, this is Lady Alice St. Claire, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Carr.”
Mr. Gower offered a low, punctilious bow as she curtsied in return. Alice searched the crowd, hoping for the sight of a more promising acquaintance that might allow her to escape without appearing as though she were giving Barbara a cut. There was none. “May I offer you congratulations on your marriage?” she said instead.
“You may. It was a magnificent ceremony. We were married in St. Paul’s Cathedral with everyone who had come early to London in attendance, many of whom had journeyed just for the event. I was sorry to receive your regrets.”
“As was I to have to send them. I wish you every happiness for your future together, although I am sure my wishes are not needed for such good fortune.” Alice did not offer her reasons for not attending the wedding because her excuse was, admittedly, flimsy. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised Charlotte I would not stray far.”
With a cordial nod, she effected her escape at last. If nothing else, Alice had been taught the skill of making a graceful exit.
Charlotte had not waited for her, and Alice could only thank the heavens her sister had rediscovered her bosom friends so they might fall into conversation and forget all but the latest on-dits. Charlotte was much like her mother in that way. Alice ducked out of her sister’s line of sight, satisfied to have made her escape.
The room was crowded and warm. The candles had been lit in all the chandeliers above them, and two tables holding punch bowls and glasses of orgeat and lemonade were at one end. The lemonade was watery and the orgeat was syrupy, and both were warm. Alice would have to go thirsty.
She gave civil nods to the guests she knew as she walked by, friendly enough that they could not accuse her of being haughty—although people most certainly did—but distant enough that no one would think she was looking for company. She moved with purpose in the direction of the retiring room, although really, she was just looking for a secluded-enough place to take refuge from the crowds. At the last moment, she found an empty spot on the side of the room in one of the windowed alcoves, and she ducked into its shadow. The crowd milled and talked and danced in front of her, but there was no one else in the alcove with her.
Alice breathed out and looked at the set forming, thankful she was not required to be part of it. Tonight, as in all of last Season, she had left the train on her dress down. The gesture would serve to discourage all invitations to dance, if her elusive reputation had not done the trick. She was entering her fifth Season, and if she was not already married, it was because there had been no incentive tempting enough—although offers there had been.
Why, let’s see, she thought as the litany of suitors pranced before her vision. She had been proposed to by Lord Shrewsbury, who’d had the tendency to corner her when she was not quick enough to spot his approach. If that had not been bad enough, his laugh was remarkably like that of a donkey’s. He had made his confidence known that, in possessing the title of marquess, he must be acceptable to her. She had wasted no time in disabusing him of the notion.
There had been others—like Mr. Morris, a man older than her father. The duke had known his daughter was not likely to accept the man’s suit, and he had not insisted. But since the suitor had possessed wealth enough, and her father had not wished to offend him, he had allowed Mr. Morris to make the attempt. Alice had sent him away without regret.
Mr. Waynesworth, another possible suitor, had never gathered his courage to ask her to dance. Instead, he had hovered about Alice nervously, quietly solicitous and eager to bring her a drink at every turn until the sight of him had made her long to shriek. She could readily sympathize with the onset of mental illness that some ladies experienced.
And finally, there had been Mr. Bowing, young and handsome, who practiced his charm on every wealthy woman he met and certainly thought himself charming enough to seduce the daughter of a peer. He had been wrong. It wasn’t youth or elegance she sought, but substance—in character rather than purse. As there was clearly no such man in all of England, she had stopped her search.
What was wrong with this world that gave a woman no authority or voice of her own to decide what she wanted? If only her parents’ attempts at producing an heir had been successful with her, and she had been born a boy. She would have had all the freedom she could desire.
A smile hovered on Alice’s lips. But then there would be no Bartholomew. Her brother, the Marquess of Anley, was her favorite person in the world, even if he had grown somewhat distant in recent months as he’d sought his independence. It wanted only a year or two until Bartholomew was a man grown.
Brought back to the present by the false smiles and artificial laughter that resounded in the space in front of her, Alice continued her internal rant. Almack’s was representative of all she disliked about the ton, particularly in their attempts to achieve a connection with her. Courted from all sides—by women who thought they might improve their social standing if she befriended them, by men who were certain she would succumb at last to their manifold charms. She gazed impassively at London’s finest assembled before her.
Lady Alice St. Claire was gaining the reputation of being haughty and unattainable. The corner of her mouth upturned at the thought. The reputation was serving her well.
A familiar face on the far side of the dance floor caught her eye. Miss Gwendolyn Chauncey watched the dance in front of her from the line of young ladies who had no partners. Alice had been given a chance to observe Miss Chauncey at a card party a week ago, where she had been seated at the table next to hers. Alice was older and above her in standing, and Miss Chauncey had not attempted to engage her in conversation—not even when the game had ended and she could have. A woman who did not push her advantage by forcing a connection that would benefit her? How refreshing.
Miss Chauncey was, just now, standing perfectly still and staring after Mr. Oswald Duckworth—the gentleman she had been paired with for cards, and one of the most hardened flirts on the marriage mart. The crowd he ran with was known for breaking the hearts of hopefuls, as none of them had any intention of settling down. Despite that, Alice had seen a spark of interest in Mr. Duckworth’s attention that night that had gone beyond flirting. Miss Chauncey had substance, Alice had decided from her brief observation.
She sighed and shook her head as she continued to watch. Miss Chauncey was going about it in a way that was destined to fail if all she did was stand there and stare at him. Alice would have to do something to help the poor girl. The look on Miss Chauncey’s face was one of such longing, Alice was tempted to go over to Mr. Duckworth and drag him to her side, using her social weight to force him to ask the girl to dance. But not only could men not be led in such an overt manner, Alice was afraid it might have the reverse effect of making Mr. Duckworth think she was interested in him, which was very far from the case.
Ugh. And there was that dead bore, Percival Lloyd, whom no one liked but everyone had to tolerate, approaching Miss Chauncey and making his bow. Alice watched the man’s ponderous steps with dismay, knowing that Miss Chauncey would be forced to say yes to his invitation if she wished to dance for the rest of the night. Still, what a trial!
“Don’t do it, Miss Chauncey. I beg of you,” she murmured from the safety of the alcove. “It is better not to dance at all than to be shackled to the side of a man such as that.”
“A man such as what?”
Alice turned to the owner of the deep voice next to her, startled. Where did he come from? There had been no one in the alcove with her, and she would have seen him if he’d arrived from the dance floor. She was about to ask him how he got there, but one glance behind her answered the question. He had merely been tucked away behind the heavy velvet drapes.
Alice faced forward again. She would have liked to have condemned him for such lurking behavior as hiding behind velvet curtains while innocent women spoke their thoughts aloud. But everyone knew Mr. George Clavering to be cheerful and harmless, even if he was a gamester. He would never act in a way that was not perfectly honorable.
“A gentleman is not supposed to address a lady to whom he has never been formally presented, Mr. Clavering.” Alice opened her fan and began to wave it, refusing to look at him but curious to hear what he would reply.
There was no trace of hesitation or self-consciousness in his voice when he answered—nothing with which she could reproach him of being too forward.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Alice. It is only that I was taught never to ignore a woman when she is speaking. I could not turn a deaf ear to your conversation.”
She could hear the humor in his response and decided not to take objection to it, although she was half tempted to be piqued at his having a ready answer. But that would only make her look ridiculous. “Very well. You have graciously responded to my conversational gambit, and I will not accuse you of ignoring me. No one will be able to speak ill of you.”
In a voice that held hints of teasing inflection, he replied, “That is a dismissal if ever I’ve heard one. I shall not haunt your footsteps, my lady. But since we are holding a conversation, perhaps you might tell me to whom you are referring. Who do you beg not to dance, and with whom?”
The conversation was just unusual enough that Alice did not give him the polite brush-off she had planned. Instead, she answered. “It is Miss Chauncey. I was counseling her, although she could not hear it, not to accept the invitation of Mr. Percival Lloyd. Better to lose the chance of dancing the entire night than to have to endure two sets with such a man as he.”
“I do not know Miss Chauncey, but I am much inclined to agree with your assessment of Lloyd. He latched on to my sister a few times, and it was a full hour before she could make her escape.” Mr. Clavering appeared to study the crowd. “Who is Miss Chauncey?”
Alice looked at him more closely. Mr. Clavering was pleasing to look at, with humorous brown eyes set in a chiseled face. But it was not difficult to see that his comportment was like that of every other gentleman in the ton. A care-for-nothing tulip, a sports-mad Corinthian, a penniless—she supposed—gamester whose only interest was playing with dice and hearts. Eventually, when he was old enough, he would seek a wife who would allow him to continue in that vein. It would not be Alice.
“Miss Chauncey is the woman dancing with Mr. Lloyd.” She nodded to where they stood, waiting their turn in the set.
Mr. Clavering sighed and shook his head. “She did not have enough resolution, then.”
“She did not, unfortunately. If only more women did.” Alice continued to watch them follow the line to the head of the set, her heart beating in sympathy at the look of bored despair on Miss Chauncey’s face. “But to refuse, of course, would mean she could not dance for the rest of the evening.”
“You appear to have plenty of resolution,” Mr. Clavering observed.
Alice turned to face him, flicking her gaze up to meet his. “That is easy. I plan never to marry.”
Mr. Clavering did not immediately respond to that or try to convince her otherwise, and for that she was grateful. Nothing was more tiresome than men who thought they knew what was better for her life than she did.
He folded his arms, watching the dancing couples before him. “If she had so little resolution, perhaps she deserves Mr. Lloyd. She is not above average in looks, and I cannot say that there is anything in her personality to attract a man. Miss Chauncey must not set her sights too high.”
Alice looked forward, a flash of irritation heating her cheeks. Men who had nothing to recommend them in the way of looks were able to secure matches with the most stunning beauties. Was it so hard to credit that a woman might not do the same? Alice wasn’t sure why she cared so much about Miss Chauncey’s future when she knew little more than her name. It was only that she had struck Alice as possessing more sincerity than most of her acquaintances. And Alice had met so few people of depth, she could not help but take notice.
She indicated the set in progress with her eyes. “Percival Lloyd deserves a woman who is as dull as he is, with no sense of humor or finer feelings. That is not Miss Chauncey.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Clavering considered this. “Then who would you choose for her? What partner would you have her dance with?”
Alice did not hesitate when she inclined her head toward the gentleman laughing with a group of young men in a corner. He was not dancing at the moment, and was certainly not looking at Miss Chauncey.
“Mr. Duckworth.”
This did get a reaction out of Mr. Clavering, as she had known it would. Everyone in Society knew they were close friends.
“Duckworth,” he exclaimed. “Duck? Impossible. He’s one of the biggest flirts in London. He will end up with a woman who is as full of wit and vivacity as he is.”
Alice shook her head firmly. “Very often, men do not know what they need. It takes only a little arranging. Mr. Duckworth and Miss Chauncey have already met at a card party, and it was apparent to anyone with a set of eyes how well they suited. If he is led to dance with her once or twice, he will remember how easy she is to converse with and will discover that the pleasure of dancing with her only increases her charms. From there, it is not such a great leap to courtship.”
Mr. Clavering turned incredulous eyes to Miss Chauncey and shook his head. “Impossible.”
Alice gave him a pointed look. “Men do not want wit and vivacity at their breakfast table.”
Mr. Clavering opened his mouth to retort, then stopped. “That is true,” he admitted. Alice could not help but smile at his honesty, until he added a rejoinder. “Men do not want to look at a face that turns them off their breakfast each morning either.”
Alice pinched her lips together, suddenly furious. She gave a swift curtsy and began to walk away, but he called out to her.
“Lady Alice.”
She was tempted to ignore him, and she could not say why she did not, but she turned back. There was no trace of humor in his expression now, and it struck her that—little though she knew him—she had never seen him without his prevailing look of teasing insouciance.
“I beg you will forgive me,” he said, holding her regard. “That was rude and untrue. I did not do justice to Miss Chauncey.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Alice returned to the alcove.
He touched her arm lightly. “Thank you for returning to hear my apology.”
“It was only because I remembered that this was my alcove,” she replied, allowing her lips to twitch.
He laughed. “You are right. The next time I say something so lacking in feeling, I will see myself out.”
Mr. Clavering appeared to study the crowd, and she was able to study him. Her eyes came only to the top button of his coat, and when he faced her, she sent him a considering look.
“Would you care to make a wager on whether Mr. Duckworth will fall for Miss Chauncey before the end of the Season?”
Now Mr. Clavering studied her, amusement and doubt illuminating his features. “A wager! If you are courageous enough for one, you may be sure that I am. I never turn down a bet. What shall be the terms?”
It had been a spontaneous proposal, and one Alice had not thought through. Money was so crude. It could not be for money. “If I win, you shall do whatever I ask of you so long as it does not cause permanent harm to a person or reputation—your own or another’s. If you win, the same terms hold true.”
Mr. Clavering narrowed his eyes as he considered the idea. It was easy to see how one might find him attractive. His speech was natural and his smile ready, which made him easy to converse with. But he had more growing to do before any woman should be forced to tie herself to him.
He glanced at Miss Chauncey again before replying. “The terms are vague, if you ask me. I would like to have an idea of the sort of thing you would require before I accept them.”
“I had thought you more of a gamester than that, Mr. Clavering. If the terms can be pleasing to a lady, you can hardly have any objection.” She stopped short before adding, with the glimmer of a smile, “Especially since you are so sure to win.”
Mr. Clavering’s answering grin awoke something in her—a longing for more of these kinds of playful conversations, where humor carried most of the weight but there were chords of sincerity. She supposed it was a longing for friendship, which Alice did not find as easily as she could have wished.
“That is true,” he replied. “Then I agree to your wager. If Duck ever manages to see the goodness in someone as…worthy as Miss Chauncey and allows that to trump his dedication to remaining a bachelor, I will own myself beat. I will accept your terms as such, my lady.”
Alice studied him, wondering if she could press her advantage to gain the one thing that would help her objective. “I would request that you provide me with an introduction to Mr. Duckworth.”
Mr. Clavering turned a set of laughing eyes her way, even as he shook his head. “I dare not do so. That would be sabotaging my own efforts.”
Alice glared at him. “Then I shall have to get my own introduction. Never you fear on that score, however. I am somewhat known in the ton.”
Mr. Clavering laughed again, leaving her with the sensation that he was a restful, easy person to be around. “That you are. I look forward to sparring with you.” He bowed and smiled at Alice with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and then he was gone.
Alice allowed her gaze to drift back to the object of her attention and felt real sympathy for Miss Chauncey. She was at the mercy of a boring man simply because she had no one to introduce her to more worthy partners. Meanwhile, on the other side of the ballroom, Mr. Duckworth was still in the company of gentlemen rather than doing his duty by asking an available young woman to dance. Alice supposed she had her work cut out for her.
Then again, for such a hardened flirt, Mr. Duckworth did not seem bent upon conquering any woman’s heart. Alice was not so sure Mr. Clavering knew his friend as well as he thought he did—at least not in matters of the heart.
She could not stay in the alcove the entire night, as much as the thought pleased her. She walked over to her sister, who at least would not expect her to contribute to the conversation and would shield her from the unwanted advances of certain men. Once she was at Charlotte’s side, Alice turned to gaze at the crowd.
She was not tall enough to see over the heads of people right in front of her and did not expect to see Mr. Clavering. But she found herself looking for him anyway. In a few minutes, he stepped directly in her line of vision. He glanced at the alcove where she had been, then he faced his friend and returned some answer. She continued watching and saw his gaze seek out Miss Chauncey, whom he was now studying more closely. Good. She had gotten him to think.
Alice wished she’d had someone to share this encounter with, but her closest friend was in Paris on her honeymoon, and her brother rarely darkened Almack’s door. However, Bartholomew would be sure to find her little episode with Mr. Clavering amusing. She must tell him about it when next she saw him.
The crowd swallowed Mr. Clavering from her sight, and Alice turned back, half listening to her sister’s prattle. Her conversation was as uninteresting as she had suspected. Despite that, the Season’s opening had been better than she had anticipated, and she hoped it would continue in the same vein. Perhaps she would not endure these months in London hovering, as usual, on the brink of expiring from boredom.