Page 40 of A Lady's Guide to Scandal

‘Ah,’ she said, seeing the problem immediately. ‘You did not tie it correctly. Stand still for a moment.’

She frowned over the delicate work, glad for the distraction.

‘Your poets ought to write more about this sort of thing,’ she told Cecily absently, fiddling with the necklace’s lever, being careful not to pinch the delicate skin of Cecily’s neck as she did so. ‘Social rules and politics and the like – it could fill books, I’m sure.’

‘Er – they do, actually,’ Cecily told her. ‘Quite a few of them, in fact.’

‘Oh.’ Kitty felt, for the third time that evening, rather foolish. She took a deep breath before rejoining the fray. They hadn’t long left, and Aunt Dorothy was right – Kitty must keep on track. Now was not the time to lose her head to sentiment.

20

It was April 20th. Kitty had six weeks left to secure a fortune. At least, however, she had the comfort of a number of suitors to choose from. Of these, Mr Pemberton was certainly the most persistent. With a fortune as large as his moustache, he was the richest, too.

And yet, though she had to remind herself that this did not matter, he was also the most irritating. If she were to describe Pemberton favourably, she would focus upon his kindness. A kindness so potent that it manifested as intense condescension in all their conversations, as Pemberton explained all the things in the world that she – as a frail, innocent woman – must know little of. He was kind enough, even, to not require from Kitty any of her own thoughts or opinions, and would never dream of distressing her by asking after either. Indeed, any time she did make an overture towards joining his soliloquy, he simply raised his voice enough to drown her out.

Her favourite suitor, if she permitted herself one, was Mr Stanfield. Kitty had long been resigned to the fact that she should not expect to like her husband. His outstanding quality would have to be, she knew, his wealth, and she could expect little else. And yet … it might be pleasant, if she could like him. To enjoy spending time with him, even. And with Mr Stanfield, it seemed like this could very well be possible. The future looked a little brighter, with him in the role. With six thousand a year to his name he had more than enough funds to satisfy her, but indeed it was not this fact that made his company so enjoyable. Their conversation was diverting, Kitty was conscious of his presence in a room even when they were not talking and, moreover, she could admit to thinking of him when they were not together. This last was always the most potent, naturally, upon each Wednesday evening when they were separated – he to Almack’s, to flirt with other women out of her sight, and she to whatever alternative entertainment she could find.

But Kitty must put Mr Stanfield from her mind that day, for she had an appointment that afternoon to accompany Mr Pemberton to Tattersall’s, London horse auction house – and most unusually, she was quite genuinely looking forward to it. Kitty had always thought, had the Talbots been richer, that she would have been a most committed horsewoman. As it was, with her only prior access to a stable being through the Linfields, her appreciation of fine horseflesh had been in the main theoretical. Thus, when Mr Pemberton had gallantly offered to purchase and keep a mare in his stable for her, that she might ride whenever she liked, she knew she must seize upon the opportunity. It was usually a gentleman’s space, but, intrigued to see it for herself, she had induced him to invite her along too – it had taken a little persuading, but the desire to flaunt his knowledge did, in the end, prevail.

The noisy enclosure was filled to the brim with horses of all kinds – beautiful greys built for prancing ahead of a highly sprung phaeton; speckled piebalds of stunning proportions she could imagine herself riding across Hyde Park; staggeringly tall thoroughbreds with muscles coiled and gleaming. Kitty breathed in the air, relishing that specific scent of mingled straw, horsehair, and manure – a smell that should be repellent and yet was utterly wonderful – before forcing her attention back to her companion and the task at hand.

‘Gosh, I don’t know where we should begin,’ she said in the tremulous tones of the overwhelmed, laying a hand over her heart in affected dismay.

‘Do not worry yourself, Miss Talbot, I am here to help you,’ Pemberton assured her. ‘It is not nearly so confusing as it looks.’

He was clearly greatly enjoying playing the role of kind benefactor. Miss Talbot gave herself a pat on the back. This afternoon was to be something of a turning point in her capture of Mr Pemberton’s affections. Nothing pleased the man more than displaying his own wisdom, especially in contradiction to her own. However, after only several minutes, she perceived her grave mistake. Mr Pemberton’s horses being so fine, she had assumed that she could trust in his choice, but after spending a few moments in his company as he perused the horseflesh on offer with a commentary that lacked a single jot of common sense, Kitty began to suspect that Mr Pemberton’s groom did not allow the man within a mile of this establishment. Goodness, would she have to praise whatever poor creature he chose, to avoid tarnishing the man’s ego? She began to fear that they would be leaving with a most rash purchase.

‘Gracious, you know such an awful lot,’ she gushed with inner foreboding, watching Mr Pemberton handle a pretty bay’s mouth roughly.

‘Watch it,’ a stableboy muttered, disentangling the two. Mr Pemberton did not appear to hear.

‘I have spent many years cultivating a knowledge of horseflesh,’ he explained with loud importance. ‘Once you know what you are looking for, I assure you, it’s really quite simple.’

His actions consistently proving quite the opposite, Miss Talbot felt her smile become somewhat fixed as Mr Pemberton began to extol the virtues of a mare that anyone with two eyes could see was not only short in the back but quite viciously tempered. Why, it would throw her within the week; she was quite appalled. It would not do – she could not risk dying before she had got married, not even to hasten the marriage itself. She was about to declare herself quite faint, feeling this was the only possible escape, when she noticed with horror that Radcliffe was walking nearby, scanning the horses with a discerning eye, a young man walking beside him – Radcliffe’s tiger, from the look of his livery.

Miss Talbot turned her head away and down. While their last encounter had not ended with too much hostility, she had not forgotten Radcliffe’s promise to repay her for the discomfort she had caused him. And she doubted he had either. She prayed they would walk on past without noticing her … but it was too late. She had been spotted, and Radcliffe was walking towards them now, eyes alight with mischief, clearly bent on causing her an upset. He drew closer. Glancing from Miss Talbot, to the horse and on to Mr Pemberton – who had yet to notice his arrival, still lecturing to himself – Radcliffe seemed at once to reach a perfect understanding of the situation. His lip curled. Miss Talbot shot him a warning glance, which he ignored. Would a shooing hand gesture be too rude?

‘Good lord, Pemberton,’ Radcliffe drawled, ‘you are not seriously thinking of purchasing this creature, are you?’ His tiger chuckled from beside him, shaking his head.

Mr Pemberton turned, bristling. ‘This is the horse Miss Talbot desires, yes,’ he blustered, quite untruthfully, ‘I am purchasing it on her behalf.’

‘Even worse,’ Radcliffe retorted, ‘I thought you wiser than this, Miss Talbot. Pemberton, you’d be better off looking at the pretty piebald by the west gate. This one will be throwing a leg within the first month.’

He left, with a mocking bow towards Kitty that told her he knew exactly what kind of mess he had left in his wake. Pemberton did not want to tarry a moment longer – especially when he saw with outrage Kitty’s longing glance towards the piebald Radcliffe had pointed out. This was quite the cherry upon the top of his rage, and he stormed out towards his curricle, Kitty hurrying quickly behind for fear he might actually leave her there. Despite its promising start, the event could no longer be called a success, she thought gloomily, listening to Pemberton’s splutterings and ruminations on the drive home. The fact that Pemberton had been humiliated was bad enough, but for the humiliation to have taken place in public and in front of the object of his affections was simply too much for a man who invested so much worth in his public image.

Kitty had been tarred by the brush of this encounter – and though it was of course within her talents to regain her former position, it would take a great deal of effort. She sighed, ignoring Pemberton’s diatribe against Lord Radcliffe except to offer agreement at intervals, though inside, her own insults against the man’s person were far more imaginative. Indeed, by the time Kitty was returned home – Mr Pemberton bidding her a cold good afternoon – she had become quite cross with Radcliffe.

Later that evening, Kitty, dressed in a gown of pale blue crêpe, Cecily, in faintest pink satin, and Aunt Dorothy, in dashing violet, arrived at the grand town house that was to host that night’s ball. Spotting Lord Radcliffe, Kitty promptly left Cecily and Dorothy to their own devices and approached in high dudgeon.

‘Dance with me,’ she demanded, walking straight up to him. He eyed her warily.

‘Thank you, but no,’ he said. ‘I should have mentioned that I also do not dance with persons who appear to want to murder me.’

‘Dance with me,’ she repeated. ‘I have some things I should like to say to you.’

‘Dear God,’ he groaned. ‘What now?’

‘I shall tell you what now,’ she hissed at him. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing at Tattersall’s today? What was that?’