Page 23 of The Wallflower Ruse

“Poetry,” their hostess said. “Another installment in Mr. Pearce’s delightful poem, I hope. Now, where is our poet?”

The handsome young gentleman had taken a seat, but now he rose, clutching a sheaf of papers, and fixed his intent blue gaze on Lucinda again. “How fortunate we are that a new lady has come to grace these excellent meetings.”

Lady Alice performed the introduction, since seemingly Mrs. Haraldson found such social niceties unnecessary. “Melrose Pearce is a regular guest at Mrs. Haraldson’s salon,” she added. “He writes the most delightful poems.”

“Good evening, Mr. Pearce,” Lucinda said, curtseying. “It’s fortunate for me, too. My mother disapproves of poets, so I have never met one before.” This wasn’t precisely true, for her father had written Latin epigrams from time to time. When he had translated a particularly pithy one for Mama—at her insistence, as she suspected him of keeping secrets—she had scolded him for wasting his time on nonsense.

Mr. Pearce’s charming smile assailed her again. “I endeavor, in my poor way, to do justice to the race of bards.” He took his seat again, but his intense gaze kept returning to her in a most disconcerting way—and then back to his sheaf of papers.

Lady Alice turned to Mrs. Haraldson. “What shall we discuss this evening? Wollstonecraft again, or the futility of expecting Parliament to pass laws for better policing of the metropolis, or...”

“If Parliament were made up of women, such laws would have been passed ages ago.” A middle-aged lady shook her head fiercely, and corkscrew curls, improbably red, escaped her turban. “Men in power are nothing but lechers, and so are the judges who fear that less crime would remove their source of desperate young women to debauch!”

“They’ve all been debauched already, Mrs. Spence,” Restive drawled. “Respectable women don’t come up before the beak.”

“Untrue!” Mrs. Spence retorted. “What about maidservants unjustly accused of theft? What about women destitute through no fault of their own?”

“Still, a bit of debauchery is better than being hanged,” he said.

“And then what? Die in childbirth, or resort to theft to support a child caused by the judge’s lasciviousness.”

“Precisely, ma’am,” Lucinda said, throwing herself into her chosen role. “Not only that, what does their status as previously debauched have to do with it?” She paused to roll her eyes. “Such an unfair term, passing judgment on women while men doing precisely the same are considered to be exercising their natural urges—as if women don’t have urges, too.”

“Women have urges?” Restive mocked. “Heaven help us! Don’t tell me ladies have urges as well?”

“You are offensive, sir!” Mr. Pearce surged up. “To speak so to an innocent young lady—”

“She does not object,” said one of the soberly-dressed men in a noticeably French accent. “The lady is well educated, not a foolish, simpering miss.” His clothing, Lucinda thought, proclaimed him an émigré of limited means, who perhaps hired himself out as a tutor.

“Precisely so,” said the other, also French by the sound of him, the tidy perfection of his dress indicating that he was the more well-off of the two. “En France, one appreciates the educated ladies.”

What pleasant compliments, although immediately a thought occurred to Lucinda: would she have considered them pleasant, or at all believable, had they come from Restive?

“Absolutely right, Monsieur Fortin and Monsieur...?” Restive smiled politely. ”I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“This is my longtime friend Beaudry,” the slightly shabby Monsieur Fortin said. “He has begun attending this salon recently. We see you too seldom, Lord Restive.”

“A pleasure,” Restive said with a nod at Monsieur Beaudry. “This is a discussion unhampered by the dictates of propriety, which is what the lady came here for. Isn’t it, Miss Belair?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t let Lord Restive distress you, Mr. Pearce. He makes a practice of annoying people. Now, where was I? The status of being previously debauched, for want of a better term, is irrelevant. It’s one thing to give oneself to a husband or lover, and another entirely to be obliged to succumb to a horrid old judge.”

“They’re not all old,” Restive said. “Usually horrid, though, one must admit.”

“Hush, Restive! You’re quite right, dear child,” Lady Alice said, “but unfortunately that is not how society views the matter.”

“And will continue to do so, unless we do something about it!” Mrs. Spence of the corkscrew curls pounded her fist on the arm of the sofa.

Monsieur Fortin made a derisive sound. “When one has seen the consequences of fools doing something, one knows better.”

“Just because France did it all wrong, it doesn’t mean we should do nothing at all,” Mrs. Spence snapped.

Monsieur Fortin snorted. “You have no comprehension, madame. None at all. Sometimes I wonder why I attend so many English salons. Those in France were far superior.” He turned apologetically to Mrs. Haraldson. “Except yours, bien sur, madame.”

“Since those in France led to bloodshed, I find that impossible to believe,” Mrs. Spence said, nose in the air.

“The salons were not at fault, madame,” Monsieur Beaudry explained. “The people were in the greatest misery. They had no choice but to rise up against their oppressors. I hope and pray that England never suffers such a fate.”

“England will not, for we are loyal to the Crown,” Mrs. Spence said, “however unworthy of their high estate some of the Royal Family have proven to be. However, the government must better the lives of the poor. There is no doubt about that.”