“So your constant exploits are for—?”
“Irritating him.” He wasn’t about to begin exploring why he acted as he did. He had an agreement with himself to never examine his actions toward his father. So far, the agreement had worked out perfectly. He raised his hand and signaled the server for another glass of whiskey. “It’s a perverse but enjoyable pastime. One I’ll not see ended by being snagged in marriage with a lady like Julia who beds all who take her fancy. That would irritate me, not my father.”
Gravenhurst regarded Grey over the rim of his glass. “If you really want to shock and irritate your father, I have a way.”
Grey leaned his elbows on the table. The sympathetic look on Gravenhurst’s face bothered Grey more than his wet state. Pity, even from his best friend, made him uncomfortable. “I want nothing more than to be the exact opposite sort of man than my stick-up-the-arse father. What’s this way you speak of?”
“Marie Vallendri is now living in Golden Square. I propose we go there tomorrow, you meet her and invite her to your parent’s country party.”
“That’s brilliant.” Grey slid his chair back and stood. “Father hates anyone French, and he’ll despise a former rumored courtesan of Napoleon’s, famous opera singer or not, dining across from him at dinner.”
“You’ll really do it?” Gravenhurst’s face had gone pale.
Grey chuckled. He hadn’t been sure, but now he was. Passing up a chance to shock Gravenhurst was out of the question. “Were you trying to call my bluff? Really Grave, you should know better. Pick me up at ten and we’ll make our way to Golden Square. By dinner tomorrow night, I expect Miss Vallendri to be my newest mistress and sitting at my parents’ table eating turtle soup.” Never mind he didn’t particularly want a new mistress. That wasn’t what this was really about. “If this doesn’t make my father want to secure me a commission and send me far from him, I don’t know what will.”
“You’re sure this is wise?”
“I’m sure it’s not, and that’s what makes it perfect,” Grey said and strode toward the door with as much dignity as he could muster over the squishing of his shoes.
Lady Madelaine Aldrige scrambled out of the hired hackney and tugged on her dearest friend Abigail Langley’s hand. “Do hurry.”
Madelaine nearly careened down the steps when Abigail jerked her hand away. She whirled around to face her friend. “Why’d you do that?”
The bright morning sun in her eyes made it hard to see Abigail’s expression, but her frown was apparent in her tone. “Look at these people.” Abby cast her voice low, though only God above knew why she bothered.
“No one can hear you, Abby.” Madelaine raised her voice above the merry music drifting from Golden Square and scanned the perimeter of London’s art district. Vendors lined the streets with their wares and mulled about in small clusters while laughing and joking. The sight was glorious. Ladies strolled along the paths without chaperones or companions, couples sprawled in the grassy banks on blankets with picnics and art canvases clustered around them, jugglers performed by the spouting fountains and in the distance Madelaine could swear she saw a woman shooting an arrow at a target. Her heart nearly exploded with excitement. Therewasmore to life than following societal dictates! It felt grand to be right about something for once.
She rummaged in her reticule, fumbling in her impatience to find the coins she needed for the hackney driver. Once secured, she paid the man and sent him on his way before Abby changed her mind and forced them both to leave. Abby was a worrier that way. Her friend chewed on her nail, a sure sign she was having serious doubts.
Madelaine linked her arm through Abby’s and led them toward the sound of a trumpet, or was that a saxophone? Who really cared? It was beautiful music filling the air. “Abby, do quit looking as if someone’s going to point at us and shout ‘frauds!’ Artists don’t give a whit about two women from Lancashire coming to explore a little.” At least she didn’t think they did. “We’re safe here. Free to roam around and do exactly as we wish. Artists live as they want without the restrictions of Society.”
“How do you know?”
“I read it in the gossip sheets, so it’s at least half true.”
“I suppose.” Abby did not look convinced with her creased brow. “We cannot stay long. An hour at most.”
Madelaine sighed. “I know.” Why couldn’t her one voyage into freedom and the glorious unknown be longer? “Now stop worrying. We’ll be back at the townhouse long before my father. He’ll never know we were anywhere but Bond Street shopping for ribbon and all the other ridiculous things girls are supposed to love.”
“I do love ribbon.” Abby twirled a strand of her brown, curly hair around her finger.
Madelaine patted her friend. “I know, darling. I can’t for the life of me figure out why. You’re so sensible in every other way. But because I love you so, I left you all my best ribbons in your room.” The fact that it had been an utter relief to leave the ribbon behind didn’t matter. Abby had a gift for twining ribbon in her hair while Madelaine had a knack for somehow getting it knotted in her hair. “You won’t forget me, will you?” Madelaine’s throat suddenly ached with emotion.
Abby clutched Madelaine’s arm tighter as they strolled toward the first row of vendors. “I would never forget you, Maddie, with or without the ribbons. But next time I see you, I daresay you’ll be a proper lady, likely betrothed to a handsome man you meet at Court, and you’ll probably not wish to talk to the housekeeper’s daughter any longer.”
Since she’d never been very good at being a proper lady, Abby’s prediction wasn’t likely to come true. She held in a sigh. She wanted a husband, but she didn’t want to pretend to be someone she wasn’t to get one. Yet, she knew she was odd, and her father wanted her married, no matter the pretense she employed.
“I’d never forget you,” Madelaine swore as she stopped under a pretty tree blooming with pink flowers. Perching on the ledge of the stone wall that surrounded Golden Square, she inhaled the unfamiliar sweet scent. “Let’s sit for a moment and take it all in, shall we?”
Abby nodded and sat beside Madelaine. The sadness that had pressed against Madelaine’s chest since her mother’s death felt lighter here in the square. The lightness was short lived. Tomorrow Father would deposit her at Court where he demanded she find a proper husband to marry. Not even her usual stalling tactics had talked him out of it. “No dallying,” he said. No pressure there. It was only her mother’s dying wish that Father had zealously embraced. She pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples.
Tomorrow she would be a lady-in-waiting to the queen, manipulated like a puppet by the queen’s dictates. Even if by some miracle Madelaine found a man who suited her, that wanted her in return, the queen’s opinion could sway any match to be denied or accepted. She prayed the queen liked her. If not, life could be intolerable. She couldn’t botch it this time. She’d failed her mother in life, but she would not fail her in her death, nor would she cause her father any more pain and sorrow than she already had. Failing to find a husband, after he’d used his friendship with the king to secure her a position with the queen would mortify her father.
Somehow, she would become a proper lady, though the idea of spending the rest of her life only concerned with sketching, embroidering, and the pianoforte made her clench her teeth. Thank God she had today to do as she pleased. It might be her last ever.
“Come on.” She stood and brushed her skirts off. “I want to eat sticky treats, look at scandalous art, and wander over to that group shooting arrows.”
“The gypsies?” Abby’s voice hitched.
