This work is a product of the author's imagination. Places, events and people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you like it!
If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then email me at: Caleb graemefj@iinet.net.au
THE KING'S BEAST 5 by Caleb
The Marquess held his friend, Sir Charles Clifford, in the highest esteem. As Jem began his study of the case against the Comte deMontfort, the Marquess kept referring to his friend, sharing with Jem the part Sir Charles was playing in the investigation. Sir Charles, it seemed was the Organizer. It was he who sifted information; it was he who was the principal go-between with the bureaucracy of the government and it was he who warned the Marquess when vital information had fallen into the hands of the French.
Jem found the role of the Marquess more difficult to define. It was obvious the man had the ear of Important Personages. He had a unit of militia at his beck and call, and it was he who decided the policy of apprehension of the suspected traitors. Jem had witnessed the many occasions that Sir Charles had deferred to his friend, never the other way round. The Marquess was always The King's Beast - the avenging angel protecting the secrets of the country. Sir Charles was ever his loyal follower.
Sir Charles Clifford was, Jem decided, a little man. He was bland in his sartorial taste, meager in his ambitions, censorious in his conversation and joyless in his religion. Jem continued to be amazed that this colorless man could be the best friend and principal confidante of a man like the Marquess of Chesham.
He was hard pressed to stifle a groan when the Marquess, quite arbitrarily it seemed, announced that Jem would spend a few hours each day under the tutelage of Sir Charles.
"And you can wipe off that Friday face," the Marquess said shortly, infallibly accurate in his assessment of Jem's thoughts, "Charles has much to teach you that you will need to know. You must be fully prepared for the time you cross deMontfort's threshold."
Jem sighed. "I am very uncomfortable in his presence. He looks at me only to find fault. In his eyes I am ever the encroaching whore."
The Marquess gave a small snort of humorless laughter. "Wherefore should that overset you? You are forever telling me what a whore you are."
Jem said quietly, "But you, my lord, do not think less of me for it."
The Marquess looked at him with keen penetration. Jem continued, "Sir Charles, on the other hand...."
"Enough." The Marquess interrupted abruptly, "I would not ask this of you if I did not think it important."
Jem sighed again. "I know, my lord. I know."
The Clifford house was in Mount Street, a small modern brick edifice with a very pretty wrought iron balustrade on the balcony overlooking the street. One afternoon in the following week, Jem and the Marquess walked round to Mount Street and they were met at the front door by Lady Clifford who was about to set out on a round of visiting in her carriage that was waiting in the street. She smiled a greeting, informed them that her husband was awaiting them, and with a casual farewell, left them to go about her business.
Sir Charles received them in his shirtsleeves, which shocked Jem slightly, having made up his mind that the man was incapable of anything so normal as informality. They were led into Sir Charles's office, a small rather stuffy room crammed with furniture and the walls covered with paintings. There were many papers and official-looking documents carefully laid out on the desk. Jem sat nervously on the edge of a ladder-back chair while the Marquess and Sir Charles began a low voiced, earnest conversation in the room outside the office.
While the two of them were so occupied, Jem had time to look around the office, and idly examined the paintings on the walls. He saw, with a jolt of recognition, that one of the paintings was a twin of the portrait of the woman whom Miss Wyndover had named, "Uncle Nat's wife." Jem walked across the room and examined the portrait closely. It was definitely the same woman, and he supposed that it had been painted at the same time as the one in Curzon Street, they being so very similar.
He heard the front door close and realized that the Marquess had left him in the company of his friend. Sir Charles came into the room, and with a curt business-like nod to Jem, sat at his desk and began sorting through the papers. While he was so occupied, Jem's eyes kept straying to the portrait of the wife of the Marquess.
Sir Charles's voice startled him. " `Tis a portrait of my sister Susanna by George Romney."
Jem looked round in surprise. "Your sister is married to Lord Chesham?"
"Was. She has been dead these ten years," said Sir Charles shortly, "But how did you...?"
Jem smiled apologetically, "There is another picture in Curzon Street, very similar. Miss Wyndover told me who she was, but not that she had died."
Sir Charles nodded absently. "Ah yes, I had forgot."
Loath to abandon the subject, Jem said, "She must have been a very beautiful Marchioness."
Sir Charles shrugged. "She was never a Marchioness. The old Marquess was still alive when they were married. Only a Viscountess. Nat was Viscount Seaton while his father was alive."
Jem merely said, "Ah." Then he asked as the thought struck him. "How did she die?" He sensed it would be impolitic to express too much interest in this mysterious woman.
Sir Charles turned away and finished arranging the papers on his desk.
"Lost at sea," he said, "On her way to Italy."
The tone of his voice indicated that the subject was closed and Jem took the hint and sat down across the desk from Sir Charles.
Sir Charles became very businesslike. "When you enter the house of the Comte deMontfort ... " and here he paused. His face showed no emotion but Jem knew that disapproval rankled within him. He began again.
"When you enter his house, there are several things that you must be on the look-out for, and, if you see them, you will immediately notify myself or Lord Chesham."
Jem nodded.
"The first and most obvious thing is any official document that should not be there."
Jem looked at the documents laid out on the desk top in front of him.
"Documents like these?" he asked.
"Documents like these," Sir Charles agreed readily, "though, of course, not these ones precisely. You are to become familiar with the seals and letterheads of the various government departments. For example..." and he began pointing to each document as he spoke, "...the Office of the Prime Minister, the Home office, the War Office, the office of the Foreign Minister..."
There were over a dozen different government departments that were represented on the desktop. Sir Charles took Jem through each typical document, pointing out the various distinguishing seals and marks of each so that Jem might recognize each document instantly, without reading the contents. Sir Charles discoursed learnedly on these documents with Jem asking the occasional question.
When he finally came to an end, there was a short silence and Jem said quietly, "All this, Sir Charles, seems to me to be a pointless exercise."
The man looked at him unsmilingly. "How so?" he asked.
"If this Comte deMontfort were to obtain any such document, it is surely unlikely that he will leave it lying around in plain sight of visitors."
Sir Charles said tightly, "We hope -- nay, expect -- that you will become more than a casual visitor."
Jem raised his eyebrows at the unspoken distaste in the man's voice.
"Nonetheless," he continued, "would he not rather obtain transcripts of the documents rather than the documents themselves?"
Sir Charles nodded in cordial agreement. "Yes," he said, "that is much more likely. However, you must be prepared for any eventuality."
Jem chewed hip lip thoughtfully. "Shall I be expected to rifle through his private papers at the first opportunity -- to search for any incriminating evidence?"
Sir Charles looked distinctly uncomfortable and answered, equivocally, "We expect you to obtain any pertinent information quickly and unobtrusively. deMontfort must never suspect you of double-dealing. `Twould be very ... unpleasant were he to do so."
Jem said quietly, "Unpleasant for me?"
Sir Charles looked at him steadily, and then dropped his eyes.
"Very, very unpleasant," he said quietly.
There was a short silence and Jem then asked, "What else would I be required to look for?"
Sir Charles avoided his eyes by flipping through a bundle of papers and extracting a written list, which he handed to Jem, who scanned it briefly. It was a list that began with "Servants and Household staff", and went on to enumerate such things as "Visitors", "Where the Comte goes each day" and even "The time of night when the Comte retires". Jem looked at Sir Charles in a puzzled way.
"This information," Sir Charles said, "may seem trivial, but it all adds up to a complete picture of the activities of the man."
Jem said with amazement in his voice, "Sir Charles, I must protest. To obtain all this information on a day-by-day basis, I would have to be with the Comte all the time. He would never trust me to that extent. He already knows I am under the protection of the Marquess."
Sir Charles said abruptly, "How? How does he know this?"
"He saw me in the company of the Marquess when we went to the tailor's establishment in Bond Street. Also..."
"Yes?"
"I have made friends with Armand Duvall, the Comte's nephew. I told Duvall I was to be Lord Chesham's secretary ."
Sir Charles stared at Jem, opening his mouth as though to speak and then shutting it. He stood in silence and then moved thoughtfully to gaze out the window.
"This is, perhaps, no bad thing. Such a friendship would give you entrée into the Comte's household. It would also spare Nat from having to introduce you to him, which I have always seen as the great weakness in the plan." He continued murmuring as though to himself. "He would never believe that Nat would willingly introduce him to someone like you."
Jem heard the undercurrent of something unspoken -- something that Sir Charles shied away from.
"Sir Charles," he asked as cautiously as he could, "Is there something between Lord Chesham and the Comte -- something I should know -- something ... personal?"
Sir Charles turned and gave him a calculating look.
"Why do you ask?" he said
Jem said, "When we encountered the Comte in Bond Street the other day, they did not speak but it seemed to me that the Comte was ... laughing at Lord Chesham. I knew of no reason why it should be so."
Sir Charles looked at him curiously. "What was Nat's reaction?" he asked.
Jem thought back. "He acted as though he had been insulted, or perhaps challenged to a duel."
Sir Charles nodded wisely. He sat down at his desk again and said to Jem, "What was your impression of the Comte?"
Jem shrugged. "Really, Sir Charles, I hardly know. The encounter was very brief. I scarce had time..." and his words died away under the cynicism of the other man's gaze.
"Let me rephrase that question. What was your professional opinion of the Comte?"
Jem bridled at the tenor of the question. "In my professional opinion, Sir Charles," said Jem flatly, "I thought him to be extremely elegant, prodigiously attractive and looked like he would be a damn' good fuck."
Strangely Sir Charles showed no reaction to Jem's deliberate coarseness.
He merely nodded and said, "You are perfectly correct in your assessment. He is the leader of fashion in Society, a by-word for his elegance of person, second only to the great Brummel himself. As for the other -- well, we strongly suspect him to be an assiduous seducer of beautiful young men -- like yourself -- and also," and bitterness crept into his voice, "if the challenge of inflicting pain on a particular person be exciting enough, of silly, headstrong, foolish, gullible young wives."
Jem did not pretend to misunderstand him. "Your sister Susanna," he whispered.
Sir Charles bowed his head in agreement. "Just so," he murmured.
Jem looked the man squarely in the eyes. "And what was it about Lord Chesham that presented an exciting challenge?"
Sir Charles looked at his hands. "At the time, I had no idea." He clamped his jaw firmly shut.
Jem almost grinned at his transparency.
You know now, Jem thought, Oh, you know.
So he said softly, "Then allow me to guess. Since then you have come to the conclusion that he had attempted to seduce the Marquess himself, had been rebuffed and had exacted his revenge by seducing his bride."
To say Sir Charles was startled would be to understate the matter severely. He looked at Jem with cynical admiration growing in his eyes.
"I congratulate you. You have unerringly stripped the affair to its essential elements. That, I suspect, is exactly what happened. It took me many years to reach that conclusion, and it took you all of ten seconds. Further proof, I think, of your superior knowledge of the Way of the World. If I had any doubts before, I know now you are the very man to bring down this degenerate." He smiled bleakly at Jem. "You think alike, you see."
Jem ignored that comment. "But didn't Lord Chesham confide in you? You were -- are - his best friend."
Sir Charles nodded sadly. "Since childhood -- but there are some things that even the best of friends cannot discuss. `Twas a subject from which we both recoiled."
Jem did not know what to say.
Sir Charles continued speaking in a low voice. "Their marriage was arranged, you see. It was the dearest wish of his father and mine. They might have been happy, I think -- well, at least, not unhappy - had circumstances been different. But Susanna was ... wild, restless ... unwilling to conform to her new position, and Nat was ... unschooled..."
Jem's eyebrows shot up at that word. It was so unexpected. He forbore to comment, but a whole world of possibilities opened up before him.
Sir Charles correctly interpreted the expression on his face. "The experience," he said in a low voice, "soured Nat. It was then that the King's Beast was born."
Jem said quietly, "And since then you have pursued the Comte."
Sir Charles said with a sigh, "Relentlessly. I sometimes fear that Nat's obsession will destroy him."
Jem leant forward and asked in a hard voice, "Give me the round tale, Sir Charles. Is the Comte really passing information to France?"
Sir Charles sat bolt upright. "What?! What are you saying?"
"...Or is it merely an excuse for you and the Marquess to revenge yourselves on him?"
For a moment, Sir Charles was outraged to silence by Jem's effrontery.
He then recovered and said quietly and deliberately, in a voice of controlled anger, "There has been a steady flow of information to the continent. This is indisputable. We have several eyewitness statements -- granted they are not reliable -- that the Comte has had dealings with known felons -- smugglers, thieves and the like. Your friend O'Connor, for instance. In addition, we know that the Comte has befriended men in the lower echelons of the bureaucracy -- men with whom it is inconceivable he would have anything in common. All this is, of course, suspicious though circumstantial. And we cannot prosecute him for making unsuitable friends. But there is also.." And here he stopped.
Jem did not prompt him but gazed at him steadily.
Sir Charles took a deep breath, opened a locked drawer and extracted another paper and read to Jem in a quiet expressionless voice:
April 1805 -- The body of Edward Carstairs, aged 22, was recovered from the Thames in the vicinity of the Isle of Dogs. The body was savagely mutilated with many lacerations and had been violated via his fundament. An unknown symbol had been carved into the flesh of his chest.
October 1806 -- The body of Thomas Wardle, aged 20, was found half buried on Hampstead Heath. The body was savagely mutilated and had been decapitated. The head had been buried with the body and the man's severed hand had been wedged in the mouth. An unknown symbol had been carved into the flesh of his chest.
February 1807 -- The body of Clive Jenkins, aged 19...
"Enough," muttered Jem. "How many of these are there?"
Sir Charles sighed and put the list back in a drawer of the desk. "In all, eleven. Most of these young men had tenuous connexions with the Comte. A few worked for tradesmen who had dealings with the Comte's household. They may have been others, but these are only the ones that have been reported to us. The Runners have been following the cases only since `05, but before they took over ... " He shrugged.
Jem remembered his treatment at the hands of the huntsmen, and quaked.
A thought occurred to him.
"What was the symbol carved into these men's chests?"
Wordlessly, Sir Charles withdrew another sheet of paper from the drawer and handed it across to Jem, who examined the symbol sketched thereon.
"Do you recognize it?" Sir Charles asked. Jem shook his head.
"We have had experts examine it. We thought at first it might have had some arcane meaning, but no one could enlighten us. We can only conclude that it has some significance for the perpetrator of these ghastly outrages, but for no one else."
"The Comte, you believe?"
Sir Charles nodded dumbly, and both sat for a moment, wrapped in their own thoughts. At length Sir Charles stirred.
"Mr. Fleet," he said slowly, "I would entreat you ... move very very carefully when dealing with this man. In spite of everything, I do not wish to see your name added to that dismal list."
Jem was no self-deceiver. His opinion of the Marquess was profoundly changed by these revelations. Before, he had seen the Marquess as a hard, cold man of intellect, and now he regarded him as a man wounded by life's experiences, a man who had had to contend with an affliction as great as, if not greater than his own. He felt a kinship with this somber, tortured man, a kinship that could so easily turn to esteem and thence to love. He instinctively felt that the Marquess had much love to give, and he realized that he longed to be the one that the Marquess loved. In the Marquess, he had found his ideal.
He could not help but feel melancholy at these reflections. What had he to offer such a man? The Marquess had everything -- wealth, position, power. What had he? He could not even lay claim to an unsullied name.
Over the next few weeks the Marquess absented himself from Curzon Street on several occasions, reappearing after several days. He gave no explanation of his absences and Jem was long-headed enough not to question him. During these times Jem's grooming continued under the critical eyes of Sir Charles and Jessup -- Sir Charles guiding him through the intricacies of government protocol and official documents while Jessup honed his skills at self defense. Swordsmanship was not the only thing on the agenda. Each day seemed to bring a new skill, a new weapon to be mastered. Jessup drilled him in unarmed combat, in knife fighting, in the use of the quarterstaff and in pistol shooting.
Jem felt something close to despair. His sense of inadequacy grew with each new method of fighting to which Jessup introduced him. There was never enough time to become sufficiently familiar with the weapons, let alone develop anything approaching proficiency. Yet Jessup relentlessly pushed him on, seemingly insensible to Jem's ineptitude.
Yet in spite of his deep misgivings, and in spite of the rate that the humorless Jessup worked him, some progress was made. In the fencing exercises with Jessup, Jem began to hold his own even when Jessup deliberately quickened the pace of the exercises. Advice and comments on the various weapons that Jessup dropped from time to time, Jem remembered: "A pistol has only one shot -- do not rely on it in emergency situations"; "Fancy sword play is all very well, but in life and death situations forget fair play. The object is to win at any cost." Jessup had many such observations on the efficacy of the weapons that were obviously gleaned from a lifetime of covert violence, and Jem, recognizing the expertise of the man, willingly took all he had to offer and tried to make it his own.
The weeks that followed were filled with days that Jem would look back on as halcyon. He quickly became accustomed to the routine of his training and he began to hold precious the times that he spent with the Marquess. Around him at Curzon Street, the household was abuzz with the preparations for Miss Wyndover's coming-out, and Jem was astounded to find that the Marquess really expected him to take the position of his secretary very seriously.
While Jem was in residence at Curzon Street, the first Quarter Day of the year occurred, and he found himself confronted by endless rent rolls and lists of the employees and dependents of the Marquess. Laid out before him was an accounting of the exact extent of the unbelievable wealth of the man -- wealth that almost made Jem gasp. He was guided through the labyrinth of double-entry bookkeeping by the Marquess himself and by his man of business -- a grey haired, desiccated man who showed only satisfaction that Jem was settling into the position of secretary and was only too happy (if such a man could express happiness) to shift some of his responsibilities to Jem.
The arrival of Sir Henry Wyndover from Norfolk signaled that the Season was upon them. He had come to remove his wife and daughter to their own house in Russell Square, but he was prevailed upon by his brother-in-law to take up residence in Curzon Street where his family was settled. Sir Henry had no objection. He was a bluff man of simple tastes, but as Jem quickly found out, very shrewd in his assessment of his fellow men.
When he was introduced to Jem by the Marquess, he cast a very knowing eye over Jem and said to the Marquess, "Your secretary, eh? Well, I daresay you know what you are doing." There was enough ambiguity in that observation to cause Jem to color up and avoid his patron's eyes.
And there was another pair of shrewd eyes that would scrutinize Jem. Lady Sefton was due to arrive at Curzon Street at the invitation of her dear friend Caroline, Lady Chesham, with the purpose of meeting Miss Henrietta Wyndover and her mother. Although this was the business of the invitation, it remained unspoken between the friends and they pursued the convenient fiction that it was for Lady Sefton's own self that her company was sought.
This was the woman on whom Miss Wyndover's hopes for the coming season depended. Approval by this patroness of Almack's would give her the necessary éclat for her social success to be assured, and even though her grandmother and Lady Sefton were the best of friends, her blessing was not a foregone conclusion.
Lady Sefton's acceptance of the Marchioness's invitation to tea threw the whole Curzon Street household into a frenzy of nervous anticipation, so that even Jem, who considered that the event had nothing to do with him, was drawn into the maelstrom of preparation. The only one who seemed to be unaffected by the imminent arrival of Lady Sefton was Miss Wyndover herself who privately confided to Jem that she thought Almack's sounded a very fusty place and she was not at all looking forward to attending her first ball there. Jem had been dragooned into being Miss Wyndover's dancing partner as her mother and grandmother drilled her in the intricacies of the dances she would be expected to perform.
"You'd better not let your mother hear you say that," Jem whispered to her with a grin, as they stepped out the complex figures of Mr. Beveridge's Maggot.
Miss Wyndover shrugged and said, "I have to go, of course, but I don't think I'll enjoy it. I'd rather go to Vauxhall or someplace like that."
They were separated for a moment as they moved round the dance floor as Lady Chesham plunked out the music on the grand piano with Lady Wyndover watching her daughter like a hawk.
"I mean," Miss Wyndover whispered to Jem as they came together again, "I can't choose who will be my partner. It is unfair."
Jem thought so too. "Who chooses for you?" he asked, "Lady Wyndover?"
Miss Wyndover shook her dusky curls. "No. Not even mamma will have a say. It will probably be Lady Sefton." They parted again, and rejoined.
"I could be lucky," Miss Wyndover whispered, "she might choose you."
Jem looked at her in amazement. "I won't be there."
Miss Wyndover stopped dancing with the shock of this revelation.
"Henrietta," her mother exclaimed, "what is the matter?"
Miss Wyndover became a little flustered and said "Sorry mamma," and picked up the steps again.
She whispered in a furious undertone to Jem, "Why not? Why won't you be there?"
Jem shrugged and said as gently as he could, "I don't think secretaries get invitations to Almack's."
This obviously had not occurred to Miss Wyndover. She said, "Oh!" as she considered the ramifications of Jem's explanation. Jem watched her expressive face, and added wickedly, "...but I know of one who will be there." He waggled his eyebrows at her and said, "Armand Duvall."
His partner flushed and dimpled prettily, and Jem decided that she and the young Frenchman would make a very attractive couple.
"You are not... not bamming me, are you?" she asked.
"Mais non," Jem replied gaily, "he told me that his uncle, the Comte deMontfort, has already obtained vouchers."
Miss Wyndover dropped her eyes, and bit her lip as she smiled a secret smile.
Lady Wyndover declared she was satisfied with her daughter's proficiency and a halt was called. They all quit the ballroom, with Jem and the Marchioness bringing up the rear.
"You move well, Mr. Fleet," the Marchioness commented. "Are you sure you have not had dancing lessons before."
"Never, Lady Chesham," Jem was able to answer with perfect truth.
She turned and looked at him and raised a cynical eyebrow, but otherwise, forbore to comment.
"Well, my dear," she said, "you would grace any ballroom. Any hostess would be glad to have you on her invitation list." Jem just laughed in disbelief, expressing a self-deprecating modesty that did him no disservice in the eyes of the Marchioness.
The first thing that Jem noticed about Lady Sefton was her hat. It was a very modish confection adorned with a stuffed hummingbird and worn at a rakish angle with the strings tied (daringly) under her left ear. Jem could hardly drag his eyes from it. Lady Sefton herself was very fashionably dressed in brown silk with a luxurious fur tippet. She was a little round lady with pretty dimples but with shrewd eyes that missed nothing. It transpired that she and the Marchioness - "dear Caro" - were old school chums. She claimed Lady Wyndover and Sir Henry as old friends too, and she remembered Lady Clifford's mother and was delighted to renew her acquaintance with Lady Clifford herself.
They were all in attendance. The Marquess, Sir Charles and Jem rounded out the company. Afternoon tea was served again in the conservatory and they all stood while Lady Sefton took her seat. Her attitude to the Marquess could only be described as roguish and Jem had to hide his grin as she flirted with him outrageously. The famed address of the Marquess never deserted him as she cast out her sly lures, and when he replied in kind, it caused her to giggle delightedly and to admonish him playfully, "Oh, my Lord. You abominable quiz."
Jem himself was the last to be introduced to her. The Marquess performed the introduction - "...my secretary, Jem Fleet..." - and Lady Sefton was too well-bred to register any surprise at being introduced to a mere employee. After bowing, Jem felt he could relax. As far as Lady Sefton was concerned, he was not worthy of her notice.
There was no shortage of conversation as tea and scandal were served. The burning topic of the day, the king's latest bout of illness, was much discussed.
Lady Sefton, whose husband had parliamentary connexions, astounded the company with an account of the king's fateful address to the House of Lords which she had had the good fortune to witness from the public gallery.
"My dears," said she, "it was so affecting. He began his speech, 'My Lords and peacocks..' and we knew then his madness had returned. There were those who laughed in the most vulgar manner but those of us who loved him, could only feel sadness at this ruin of our beloved king." She sighed a deep sigh.
The Marquess nodded and said, "There is much talk of promulgating the Act of Regency which was drawn up at the time of his last attack."
Lady Sefton replied tartly, "Well. I daresay Prinny is dancing with joy at the prospect."
She suddenly turned her attention to Jem, and said with a smile, "And what part of the country are you from, Mr. Fleet?"
So unexpected was this question, like one of Mr. Jessup's rapier thrusts, that Jem could not refrain, in the presence of all the household, from blurting out the truth. "L-Ludlow, Lady Sefton."
As soon as the words were out, he was painfully aware of having the undivided attention of the Marquess. Lady Sefton gave a vast sentimental sigh and said, "Ah, bosky Shropshire! What a beautiful part of the country."
Struck by a sudden thought, she set down her teacup and dropped her voice to the level of conspiracy. "That puts me in mind ... Lady Powis confided that Lord Powis is in the middle of negotiations to purchase Ludlow Castle..." and while she elaborated this strange piece of news to the assembled company, Jem slowly raised his eyes and found the Marquess looking at him with a strange smile playing about his lips. Jem lifted his chin slightly, standing his ground, and the smile broadened to a grin at Jem's reaction.
Miss Wyndover was then called upon to entertain the party. She was charmingly attired in sprigged muslin with a ribbon casually wound through her curls. She sang and accompanied herself on the harp to the delight of all present.
Jem could only marvel at the extent of the accomplishments that were considered desirable (and necessary) for a young lady from an upper-class family. Miss Wyndover could sing well, she played the piano and the harp with a genuine feeling for the music, she could embroider very neatly and she danced gracefully. Jem suspected that many many hours of application had been necessary to achieve such effortless artistic excellence. He knew that had he been the one who was required to attain such perfection, he would have fallen by the wayside long ago.
Her performance for the group at this time was, of course, her mother's way of exhibiting her for Lady Sefton's approval, and Lady Wyndover was much gratified when, at the conclusion of her daughter's performance, this good lady turned to her and exclaimed, with genuine feeling, "She is delightful, utterly delightful, my dear Honoria. Her beauty is quite captivating and her style is excellent." Lady Wyndover flushed with pleasure and relief. By this remark, she knew that her daughter had won the approval of this patroness of Almack's.
Jem was whole-hearted in applauding Miss Wyndover -- so much so that Lady Sefton turned to him and smiled and said, "I see you agree with me, Mr Fleet."
Jem, by this time, was feeling very relaxed, and he replied artlessly, "I do, Lady Sefton. Very much. I know that I could never acquire even one tenth of Miss Wyndover's accomplishments."
Lady Sefton looked amused by his answer. "But you must have your own accomplishments, sir?"
Jem shook his head, smiling as he did so. "No, ma'am. I have no accomplishments -- nothing to equal Miss Wyndover's..." and fatefully, his inconsequential tongue betrayed him. " No accomplishments," he continued, "no family and no fortune. So you need not trouble yourself to consider me for vouchers to Almack's."
There was a ghastly silence.
As soon as he said the words, came the realization of the solecism he had committed, and he flushed scarlet in horror.
It was universally acknowledged that Lady Sefton was the kindest of the despots who ruled Almack's, yet even she was known to depress the pretensions of encroaching mushrooms with a savagery that left the recipient speechless. In this situation she could so easily have mounted her high horse, but instead, she chose to be diverted. After a shocked pause, she let out a spontaneous peal of uninhibited laughter, that continued for nearly a full minute while the others around her smiled nervously.
"Oh, my dear Caro," she said breathlessly as she dabbed her streaming eyes with a lace handkerchief, "he is an absolute original - so fresh and unspoiled. My Lord Chesham, I can see why you want him as your secretary. He will brighten many a dull hour."
Jem felt he had to say something. "Lady Sefton, I must ..."
"My dear Mr Fleet," she replied, still bubbling with laughter, "it is you whom I must thank. It is a lesson to us all. Never must we consider ourselves above our company. Your remark certainly has put me in my place."
Jem sprang to his feet and said in an agitated manner, "Madam. I pray you..."
And here the Marquess effectively silenced him as he interrupted and said charmingly to Lady Sefton, "I think, Lady Sefton, that Mr. Fleet fears he may have prejudiced your opinion of Miss Wyndover."
Lady Sefton wagged her finger at Jem with arch amusement. "Fie, Mr. Fleet. It would pain me to think that you would believe I am of such a resentful temper." and this naturally had the effect of leaving Jem with nothing to say.
It was not long after this that her ladyship left. For the rest of the time, Jem had the growing uncomfortable feeling that somehow he was being ostracized by the company. Even the Marquess had nothing to say to him and as they all rose to accompany Lady Sefton to her carriage, Jem was left alone in the yawning silence of the deserted conservatory. As the servants efficiently cleared away the tea things, he realized that even they were ignoring him. Feeling alone, he made his way to his bedroom and sat forlornly on the bed gazing into the empty grate. He slowly understood why he felt this way. Unconsciously he had allowed himself to believe that he belonged -- that the others looked on him as part of the family and that he had foolishly allowed himself to dream. What right had such a person as he to believe something like that? The family attitude to him was unmistakable as they shut him out.
He was suddenly prey to overwhelming gloom and melancholy. So all-pervading was this sensation, that unbidden tears rolled down his cheeks.
He sat there alone, for a long time, till unexpectedly he felt the bed move as the Marquess sat beside him. Jem could not acknowledge his presence. The Marquess gazed at him for a long moment and then said quietly, "I have something for you."
Jem turned his head slowly and saw that the Marquess was looking seriously at him, and yet his eyes were twinkling.
"What is it?" Jem rasped.
With a straight face, the Marquess flourished a piece of paper and handed it to him, saying, " You owe me ten guineas."
Astonished, Jem looked at the paper in his hands. It was a voucher -- a voucher for the opening ball of the season at Almack's. After the printed words, Pray admit ... there was written his name Mr. J. Fleet and the voucher was signed Maria, Lady Sefton.
Jem's eyes flew to the man's face, scarce able to believe what he had read. The Marquess was smiling broadly, a smile of triumph and pleasure.
"Dry your eyes, Cinderella," he said, "You too shall go to the ball."