“Oh, do hurry, Davenham!” Sarah called, bouncing up from the chair in which she had been fidgeting for ten minutes or more. That was the trouble with dandies—they were worse than females about their clothing. The smooth fit of a jacket, the perfect waistcoat, the exact fall of a cravat, gloves that were molded to his hands like a second skin, a single fob in exquisite good taste—niceties calculated to draw every eye to the elegance of Dandy Davenham. Sarah smacked her closed fan into her palm—once, twice—glared at the closed door of her husband’s bedchamber, then stepped right up and put her lips to the crack. “Davenham, I cannot believe I have married a man who takes longer to dress than I do!”
The door flew open, nearly spilling her into the bedchamber. She jumped back, blushed, but her eyes spat fire. “Really, my lord, you might have warned me!”
The viscount offered his wife a slow insinuating smile. “And how was I to know you were peeping at the keyhole.”
“I was not!”
He raised his eyebrows. Harlan had to admit there were moments when he quite enjoyed the give and take of marriage, the simple pleasure of exploring his bride’s charmingly innocent view of their world. He held out his arm. “Come, child, another evening of dancing awaits.”
His wife took a step back. “I must inform you, my lord, that if you call me child one more time, I shall scream. Even if it is in the midst of a waltz.”
“Then what shall I call you when you ‘my lord’ me from morn ‘til night?”
“Oh.” Sarah considered the matter, her fan clutched so tightly the carved ivory sticks were sorely strained. “You may, of course, call me Sarah, or Sally as my brothers do.”
“Only if you address me as Harlan.”
“When we are private?”
“When we are private.”
“I shall try to remember, my l—Harlan.” With shy grace Sarah accepted her husband’s arm.
The viscount made a leisurely inspection of his wife’s ensemble, from the pearls and plumes woven into her shimmering reddish gold curls, down over a gown of cream satin and lace, to the tiny heels of slippers decorated with a fan-shaped spray of lace. She would do, his little Sally Davenham. Marriage might be the last thing he wanted, but Dickon was right. His sister was a good sort, a pragmatical chit he only had to steer in the right direction.
His direction.
Lord and Lady Davenham, each content for the moment, walked arm in arm toward the ballroom of the Old Ship Inn.
Now at their fifth day in Brighton, the Davenhams had become old hands at the seaside stroll from the Old Ship Inn to the Steine. Bathing machines, Sarah discovered, were machines only in that they were carefully crafted for the task at hand. And they moved. The odd structures, like small rectangular fishing shacks on four wheels, were strung, cheek by jowl, along Brighton’s pebbled beach. But instead of their locomotion being provided by horses, sturdy females pushed the roofed wagons into the sea . . . then hauled them out again. At her first sight of this odd phenomenon Lady Davenham had been struck by an attack of the giggles.
“This is the way ladies sea bathe?” she choked out. “Surely not. Come, sir, this has to be a hoax perpetrated on gullible visitors.”
The viscount’s lips twitched as he struggled to retain the customary bland countenance of a London dandy. “You would have the ladies rise dripping wet from the sea in full view of anyone and everyone on shore?”
“But”—Sarah took another look at the wooden bathing machines that were in use, perhaps only ten or twelve feet out from the shoreline. It was true—they quite successfully blocked sight of the women who were indulging in the much-touted benefits of bathing in salt water, no matter how frigid. “It is ludicrous,” she sniffed, “but I suppose you are right. I would not care to be ogled by every buck on the beach.”
“Do you swim?”
“Of course I swim. I was rescuing myself quite well that day you and Dickon pulled me out of the river.”
“You were screaming your silly head off.”
“Was not!” Well, perhaps a little, for why else had she fallen in except to get Harlan Dawnay to rescue her?
“If you would care to try it, I should be happy to make the arrangements,” Davenham offered.
“Do men not sea bathe?”
“Yes, but in quite another portion of the beach.”
“Will you try it?”
“I am more likely to sprout wings and fly to France,” the viscount declared with undisguised disgust.
Sarah’s eyes gleamed. “You are daring me, are you not? You would not so discommode yourself, but you would see me turned to ice quite gleefully.”
Lord Davenham shrugged. “That is how Brighton has mushroomed into a seaside resort. Ever since that confounded Russell pronounced sea bathing beneficial to the health, everyone from Great Aunt Tabitha to the lowliest Cit has abandoned the warm springs of Bath and flocked south to suffer in the waters of the Atlantic. I confess I am unable to understand the attraction. If I wished to freeze my—ah . . . why anyone should wish to bathe in ice water I cannot imagine,” Harlan finished on little more than a mumble.
“Yet you wish me to do it.”
“When one visits Brighton, it is an experience not to be missed,” he responded brightly. “A tale to tell your friends when we return to town. I assure you I even did it myself once when I was a youth of twenty.”
He had, had he? “Oh, very well, Davenham, I accept your challenge. I confess I wish to see what goes on inside those sheds on wheels and how the ladies manage their sea baths. But in return I demand one full evening of your undivided attention. No Chumley and friends unless you see them on the dance floor. No cards, no pipes, no cigars.”
“A devilish bargain,” Harlan grumbled, then flashed a broad grin. “Very well, minx, I shall arrange it, but I advise you to grow a coat of fur before the fatal day.” A good sort, indeed. Perhaps marriage was going to be more amusing, and less of a nuisance, than he feared.
During their stay in Brighton Lord and Lady Davenham had also shopped in The Lanes, walked several times around the Regent’s Marine Pavilion, marveling at the architectural splendors clearly visible in spite of the current reconstruction. They had explored the countryside on hired hacks and attended assemblies at the Castle Inn as well as the Old Ship. For the most part, Sarah, a sensible girl, acknowledged that her husband was making an effort to be companionable and had not, until now, protested when he spent time with Adrian Chumley and other male friends, old and new. Just as sensibly, Harlan recognized that Chumley was right when he pointed out that the viscount quibbling over his wife’s dancing partners was decidedly dog in the manger. If he wished to play cards, he was in no position to tell his wife she could not dance.
Compromise was reached in the form of Mrs. Hooten-Sculthorpe, who kindly undertook to keep an eye on his bride when Davenham withdrew to the cardroom. A similar arrangement was made with a dowager at the Castle Inn. So smooth was Dandy Davenham’s approach to this delicate problem that his young wife was able to tolerate her chaperons because he convinced her that he cared for her welfare. Not, of course, that she was foolish enough to think Davenham cared for anything more than the look of it, or for protecting what was his, like a dog over a bone, but still . . . she could always dream that she was cherished.
Yet Sarah’s sigh was more than a bit forlorn. Why could they not have gone to Chesterton where they could have been alone?
Because, you ninny, taunted her inner voice, your husband does not wish to be alone with you for all that time.
“My lady . . . Sarah!” Mrs. Hooten-Sculthorpe was pressing fingers to her arm, bringing her wandering thoughts back to the ballroom. “I should like to make you acquainted with Miss Esmerelda Twitchell and her aunt, Mrs. Twitchell.” Sarah, bemused, missed the remainder of the introduction as she took in the newcomers. Her first thought—Davenham is going to have a fit— for if ever she had seen someone who could be termed a “shabby genteel mushroom,” it was the elder Twitchell. Short, fat, and fiftyish, she wore a gown of puce satin, cut far too low for a bosom even stays could not hold up, and augmented with enough ruffles to increase her more than ample girth by at least half. Three ostrich plumes, in a clashing shade of puce, waved from a towering head of brassy blond that had to be a wig. Indeed, Mrs. Twitchell was such a striking figure of fun that it was some time before Sarah could drag her eyes away to look at Miss Esmerelda Twitchell.
The contrast was extreme. A tall, willowy girl, she was garbed in pure white, the design so plain and unassuming one could only suppose it had been chosen in deliberate contrast to her aunt’s ensemble. Her hair was a shining shade of golden brown, her eyes tawny, full of understanding—and apology—as she curtsied to Sarah and murmured, “My lady.”
Though young, Sarah was the daughter of a marquess, a life-long product of the haut monde. Esmerelda Twitchell might be as much as two or three years her senior, but it was she, Lady Davenham, who controlled this introduction. In but a few moments the situation became perfectly clear. Mrs. Hooten-Sculthorpe, having found Lady Davenham to have a kind heart, had taken a chance on this introduction because she felt Esmerelda Twitchell deserved something better than the hand life had dealt. It was, however, the young Viscountess Davenham who might choose to take her up. Or not.
“Such an honor, my lady.” Mrs. Twitchell tapped Sarah’s arm with her fan. “Imagine us getting to meet the likes of you. So kind of Mrs. Hooten-Sculthorpe, so kind.” The ugly puce plumes waved as the plump Mrs. Twitchell glanced around their corner of the ballroom. “And where is his lordship, pray tell? Can’t go home to Kidderminster without saying we met a peer, don’t you know.”
Sarah opened her mouth to tell Mrs. Twitchell that her husband was not yet a peer, then nearly bit her tongue as she closed it again. Unkind. She must not be unkind. “I fear Lord Davenham is in the card room at the moment, Mrs. Twitchell, but I shall make every effort to be sure you make his acquaintance before we return to London.”
The glimpse of gratitude Sarah caught in Miss Esmerelda Twitchell’s eyes was almost painful, before the girl ducked her head to hide her emotion. No doubt about it, the Twitchells were going to enliven her evenings, even as they would undoubtedly send Davenham into a fiery scold.
Before the night was out, Sarah had invited Miss Twitchell to join her venture into sea bathing. The offer was accepted by the young lady with a gratitude nicely combined with awe. By Mrs. Twitchell with a series of inarticulate mouthings of, “So kind . . . so condescending . . . so gracious . . . noblesse oblige at its finest . . . not to be expected in one so young . . .”
Sarah, desperate to escape, accepted an offer to stand up with Lord Southwaite. If Davenham was going to challenge her, she might as well challenge back. She had never meekly accepted the rule of her older brothers. Why should she behave any differently now?
Clutching her skirt to keep it above the damp pebbles, Sarah allowed one of the burly proprietresses of the bathing machine to help her up the ladder into the landward side of the shed on wheels. Inside was a bench along each side, and she and Miss Twitchell promptly obeyed the instruction to sit down, as did the three other ladies joining them in this excursion—one a girl younger than Sarah, the others appearing to be her mother and grandmother. The door shut, and the light grew dim, coming in from narrow windows high up on the front and rear doors. A startled gasp from the youngest of their group as the bathing machine began to move. Water slapped at the wheels, swished beneath the floor. The young girl’s eyes grew wide. Her mother put an arm around her, holding her tight.
The bathing machine came to a halt. A head poked round the corner of the outer door. “Time for bathing gowns and caps, ladies. Not a stitch else.”
“She can’t mean stays too,” Sarah hissed to Miss Twitchell. “We’ll be in here half the day!”
“But my dear Lady Davenham, we can scarcely put our gowns back on over dripping wet undergarments.” This was so logical Sarah was astounded she had not had thought of it.
“Lively now, ladies. If’n you’re shy, just drop the bathing gown over your head. Makes a right good tent, it does.” The outer door slammed shut.
A tedious business, but at last all five women were enveloped in shapeless gowns of cheap brown fabric with their hair tucked up in matching caps as ugly as the gowns. The rear door opened, a ladder put down into the water. Gingerly, one by one, the ladies descended, each one shrieking as her toes entered water that belied its location on the southern coast of Britain. It might as well have been Scotland, Sarah thought, as she clamped her tongue between her lips and refused to cry out. It was perfectly horrid. Just wait until she saw Harlan!
The sturdy proprietresses were forced to carry the grandmother down the ladder, one clutching her on each side. To Sarah’s surprise, Miss Twitchell plunged right into the knee-deep water, splashing through the waves with more determination than grace. Not to be outdone, Sarah summoned every scrap of her Ainsworth courage and followed her in. Behind them, the bathing machine women were still trying to coax the other three ladies to get more than their lower limbs wet. On each side of them other bathing machines were also disgorging prospective sea bathers.
Her husband had done this at twenty and determined never again—Sarah had no difficulty understanding why. Another month closer to high summer and perhaps it might be more tolerable, but at the moment she was already turning blue. Balancing on her toes, she bobbed up and down. She hugged herself then plunged in again, swimming out and away from the others, savoring . . . what? Her agility in the water? A taste of freedom—from her family . . . the constraints of society?
Sarah turned on her back, floating, eyes closed. Incredibly, she was no longer merely the youngest Ainsworth, what her brothers called “the brat.” She was a viscountess. Sarah, Lady Davenham . . . and anything was possible.
The screams were pure terror. Not shrieks of cold or fear of the water, but ululations of genuine shock and fright. Sarah went upright, feet searching for the bottom, but it was no longer there. For a moment she stared, unmoving, unable to believe her eyes. A fine buck of the four-legged variety—antler points rising above the waves, was swimming straight toward her, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, the great beast’s panic obviously as great as her own.
Lord Davenham and the Honorable Mr. Adrian Chumley strolled along the foot-way above Brighton beach, accompanied by two new acquaintances, Mr. Mumsford and Mr. Starkey. All four gentlemen were well turned out in the slim jacket, waistcoat, and skin-tight inexpressibles of the latest mode, in which a man was hard put to conceal his pocket book, let alone anything larger.
“I say, Mumsford,” said Mr. Chumley, “what’s that you have in your hand?”
Mr. Mumsford, a merry-eyed youth of some twenty-five years, put a finger to his lips and hastily glanced around. “Bit of a lark, don’t you know,” he confided, “but I fear even in its case the shape’s a tad obvious.” He leaned a bit closer, winked. “Spyglass,” he hissed. “See there, where there’s a curve in the shoreline. From there it’s possible to catch a glimpse of the ladies as they paddle about. Or stand with their bathing gowns plastered as close as skin. A fine sight—livens the morning, I promise you.”
Harlan grinned and winked back before noting the look of pure horror on Mr. Chumley’s face. “By all means, let us hasten our steps,” he managed before the full impact hit him. One of the ladies on whom they would be spying was his wife. And Chumley, damn him, had realized it first. No way out now. They would have to carry off this morning’s lark as if it were the high treat Mumsford promised. After all, hadn’t he been assured that the ladies entered the water fully clothed? What could be so shocking about that?
Or so salacious that spying on the bathers was an everyday sport for Brighton’s young bucks?
By the time the gentlemen reached the small promontory, the rear door of the bathing machine was just opening, the ladder being set up. “What ho!” chortled Mr. Starkey, a lad of only twenty. He whipped the spy glass away from Mumsford and raised it to his eye. The first female figure, enveloped in a mass of brown cloth, was just beginning to creep down the ladder. Harlan felt his hackles rise. A harmless prank of the like he had indulged in countless times, and he wanted to snatch the glass from young Starkey and break it over his head. When at last it was his turn to use the spyglass, four ladies were in the water and the stout proprietresses were carrying a fifth down the ladder. Davenham adjusted the glass more finely and searched for his wife.
There! When she stood up and hugged herself, he was able to distinguish her from all the other women in brown gowns and caps. Petite, a head shorter than her companion . . . who had a startlingly fine figure. Harlan swiftly moved the glass back to his wife, who was swimming now—like a fish, by Jove! But she was still moving away from shore . . . too far, too far. Davenham wanted to shout but realized at this distance it would be futile.
“Give over, Davenham,” Chumley urged. “My turn, don’t you know. There’s the good chap.”
Shouts. Screams from ladies strolling along Kings Road. The startling howl of hunting dogs in full cry.
The four gentlemen on the embankment swung round to the astonishing sight of a well-antlered deer streaking across the low ground toward the water, dogs in hot pursuit with a bevy of hunters, riding neck or nothing, breaking out of the woods a half mile away. Pounding hooves, more shouts as men along the embankment tried to turn the terrified deer before it reached the sea. To no avail. The buck sailed up and over the railing, pounded across the egg-sized pebbles and plunged into the water, splashing wildly, to the accompaniment of screams and shouts that only increased its terror. The animal veered sharply around the bathing machine farthest to right and headed for the open sea, his four legs churning the water to froth. Straight at the lone figure who had just turned her head to discover a large buck bearing down on her like a runaway barge.
Lord Davenham swore most colorfully, tossed the spy glass to Mr. Chumley and was off and running. So fascinated were the other two gentlemen by the excitement of the moment they did not notice his departure. Mr. Mumsford, never taking his eyes off the imminent collision of terrified deer and startled human, accepted his spyglass from Mr. Chumley before the latter followed his friend in a mad dash toward the bathing machines.