“I did not suppose you had gone to see for yourself!” Pippa assured her, laughing.
They parted, to retire for the night. In bed, Pippa and Kitty talked for a little while about the experiences of the day, but Kitty soon fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. Pippa lay wakeful, her thoughts returning to Lord Selworth’s speech.
Perhaps she should suggest he stuck to one topic rather than trying to cram in all the ills he wished to combat. The talk of bawdy houses reminded her of Papa’s descriptions of the dreadful lives of women, some no more than young girls, forced into prostitution by pimps and abbesses, or by simple poverty. Pippa had laughed at Bina’s comment, but their plight was no laughing matter. Lord Selworth might be willing to take up their cause.
But Pippa could never bring herself to broach the subject with him, even if he believed the notion came from Prometheus. She had best just work with what he had given her.
She slept. In her dreams, she was back in the sitting room, trying on half-made clothes. As she stood in her shift, Lord Selworth came in without knocking. Failing to notice her dishabille, he swept her into a dance, but everyone else in the ballroom started to point at her and whisper to each other.
Angrily, Lord Selworth accused her of displaying her wares.
Half waking, Pippa muttered, “At least you have realized at last that I have wares to display!” She turned over and went back to sleep.
* * * *
“I thought I might drop in to see Miss Lisle this morning,” Wynn said casually, picking up knife and fork to tackle a rather meagre beefsteak.
Chubby looked at him in surprise over the rim of his coffee cup. “
Gurgle?”
he said.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Wynn reproved him. “Just to find out if she’s forwarded my speech to Prometheus yet.”
“Wouldn’t plague her about it, if I was you. Don’t want to vex her.”
“I shouldn’t dream of plaguing her,” Wynn said with dignity. “A man may call on his sister, may he not? And being there, it’s only polite to exchange a word or two with her guests. And if Miss Lisle has sent it off, what more likely than that she’ll mention it?”
“Ah.” Chubby chewed on this proposal and a mouthful of beef, swallowed both, and brightened. “In that case, I could come too. I’ve met Mrs Debenham. Met Miss Lisle, come to that, and Mrs Lisle.”
“Not to mention Miss Kitty.”
Chubby pinkened. “Not the thing for a single gentleman to call on an unmarried young lady uninvited, but I can go with you to visit your sister.”
“And being there,” Wynn teasingly quoted himself, “it’s only polite to exchange a word or two with her guests.”
“If I can think of anything to say,” Chubby fretted.
“Come now, you and Miss Kitty got on swimmingly.”
“That was in the country. We’re in Town now,” said Chubby inarguably. “It’s different. Not the thing to talk about cows and chickens in Town.”
“I shouldn’t worry, if I were you, old fellow,” Wynn advised him. “The chances are, with Millicent there, neither of us will need or have the opportunity to open our mouths.” He opened his newspaper to the political news.
As usual, the doings of Lord Liverpool and his myrmidons infuriated Wynn. The Prime Minister was still fighting the introduction of a sliding scale to the Corn Law to allow more grain imports. As well as his Tories, many Whig landowners of an otherwise Reformist bent supported him. Wynn itched to discuss this betrayal of the hungry poor with Miss Lisle.
Whoa! He was confusing Pippa Lisle with her father and Prometheus. Just because she seemed quite a clever young woman, he must not forget that she was a woman. Though she had clearly learnt from Benjamin Lisle something of the art of politics, Wynn would have to be careful not to discomfit her by stretching the limits of her understanding.
Tempted, he told himself severely that it would be most ungentlemanly to put her deliberately to the blush only because she was dashed pretty with roses in her cheeks.
“Do put that damn newspaper away and eat your breakfast,” Chubby said impatiently. “If we don’t get on, the ladies will have gone out.”
Solely for his friend’s sake, Wynn obliged. He, after all, was in no particular hurry to see Miss Lisle. Whether she had already sent off the manuscript or not, she would be unable to tell him what Prometheus thought of it for at least several days.
Breakfast despatched, the gentlemen abandoned dressing-gowns and carpet slippers in favour of morning coats and Hussar boots. Donning hats and gloves, they sallied forth un-top-coated, for the sun shone and Spring was in the air.
Had he been striding across the fields at home, Wynn would have whistled. In Piccadilly, he managed to restrain himself insofar as the whistle was concerned, though his gait had nothing in common with the saunter of a Bond Street Beau. As he walked, he looked about him with interest at the shops, the passers-by, the vehicles in the street. He ought to have a carriage of his own. Curricle, phaeton, or gig, he pondered. Not a phaeton; one type was too impractical, the other too staid.
At his side Chubby, also country born and bred, kept pace. Not for several minutes did Wynn notice that his silent companion’s gaze was fixed on his feet.
“It won’t do,” said Chubby at that moment, shaking his head.
“The boots? Damn it, I know we decided not to pay Hoby’s exorbitant prices, but the fellow we patronized did a perfectly good job.”
“Nothing wrong with the boots themselves, it’s the polish. They ain’t got the shine they had two days ago.”
“We’ve been wearing ‘em,” Wynn pointed out as they turned up Berkley Street. “You can’t expect them to look new forever.”
“Not forever,” Chubby admitted, “but for a while yet. If I had a proper valet...No, m’father would think I’d run mad.”
“Miss Kitty won’t care if your boots look two days old. The Lisles aren’t so finical.”
“Maybe not, but I wouldn’t want Miss Kitty to think I don’t hold her in high enough esteem to take the trouble. Besides,” Chubby said doggedly, “whatever you say, Mrs Debenham’s going to expect you to do the pretty. Can’t leave it all to Debenham, five females to squire about. Dare say he won’t mind if I lend a hand, too.”
To his surprise, Wynn discovered balls and routs and breakfasts no longer sounded like an utter waste of time, though he would not admit it aloud. His mother would expect him to accompany his sisters now and then, and he did not want to disgrace them.
Glancing down at his boots, he could not help but note the dullness of the blacking. “Come to think of it, I shan’t make much of an impression in the Lords if I’m not turned out bang up to the mark. And you’re right, the fellow who does for us hasn’t time for a thorough job with half a dozen others to take care of. I’ll hire us a valet, or better, a chap who don’t hold himself too high to cook us decent breakfast, too.”
“I say, didn’t mean to hint—”
“You can pay what you’re paying now, so that Lord Chubb won’t know the difference. Look, there’s the Sign of the Pot and Pineapple. Do you suppose Miss Lisle...the ladies would like some of Gunter’s kickshaws?”
“You’re the one with sisters.”
“So I am. Come along, then.”
They cut across the corner of Berkley Square to Number Seven, the premises of Gunter’s, Confectioner, Pastrycook, and Caterer. Outside, a notice board announced the receipt of a cargo of ice from the Greenland seas; patrons were advised that cream fruit ices were once again available.
Wynn and Chubby were in pursuit of more durable prey. They emerged from the shop a few minutes later, each bearing a paste-board box full of vanilla, apricot, cinnamon and orange-flower pastilles; candied ginger; and Gunter’s famous cedrati and bergamot chips.
“Shall we treat them to an ice this afternoon?” suggested Chubby.
“Not today. With all these bon-bons as well, they’d make themselves sick,” said Wynn with the ruthless practicality of the possessor of many small siblings.
“Miss Kitty wouldn’t!”
“She might. Don’t suppose she’s used to a lot of sweets. Miss Lisle wouldn’t, nor her mother or my sister,” Wynn conceded, “but I wouldn’t put it past Millicent and it would ruin the party.”
Chubby blenched. “Yes, rather. I’ll just dash back in and see how long they expect the ice to hold out.”
He returned to report that Gunter’s expected, barring shipwreck, to be able to serve ices well into the summer months. “So that’s all right. Bring ‘em round any time. You know what, old chap, I’m almost looking forward to the Season!”
“Your father doesn’t object to your frittering away your time in Town?” Wynn asked as they turned the corner into Charles Street.
“Been on at me for years to get a bit of Town bronze before I settle down. He and my mother hope I’ll find a wife, of course, but I never expected I’d find a girl I’d really want to marry.”
“Hold hard, Chubby, you can’t be serious about the chit! You hardly know her.”
“I know what I want,” Chubby said stubbornly. “And I know I haven’t much chance with such a wonderful girl.”
Wynn still suspected calf-love, in which case Time would cure his friend if allowed to do its business. Whereas, should Kitty be offered and grasp an immediate opportunity to wed a future title and comfortable fortune, Chubby might find himself repenting at leisure.
“You don’t mean to throw the handkerchief right away, I hope,” he said, stopping on his sister’s doorstep.
“Lord no. It wouldn’t be fair. She’s bound to have dozens of offers. If she hasn’t accepted someone better by the end of the Season, I’ll try my luck.”
Satisfied, Wynn gave a brisk rat-tat with the brass lion’s-head knocker on the green front door.
The First Footman opened the door. The butler would have been on hand to usher callers up to the drawing room if Mrs Debenham were receiving, but after all Wynn was her brother.
“M’sisters in, Reuben?” he asked.
“Mrs Debenham and Miss Warren are not at home, my lord.”
“You mean they have gone out, or they’re just ‘not at home’?”
“Gone out, my lord,” the footman clarified apologetically.
“What about the Lisles?”
“Not at home, my lord.”
“Dash it all, man, are they in or not?” Wynn bethought himself too late that he had no right to intrude upon the Lisles—as opposed to his sister—if they were euphemistically “out” rather than really out.
Looking a trifle bemused, Reuben said, “Mrs Lisle, Miss Lisle and Miss Catherine left the house with Mrs Debenham and Miss Warren.”
“Blast. Where did they go, do you know?”
“To pay calls, I understand, my lord.”
“No hope of catching up with them, then,” said Wynn, disappointed.
“Miss Lisle did express the hope of stopping at Hookham’s Library in Bond Street.”
“Hookham’s, eh? Splendid. I’ll leave a note for Miss...for Mrs Debenham.”
“Mr Debenham is at home, my lord. That is, he is in the house. Whether he is ‘at home’—”
Wynn held up his hand. “Enough! We don’t want to see Debenham.”
“Always happy to see Debenham,” Chubby corrected with punctilious politeness.
The gentleman in question burst out of his den at that moment. “What the deuce...? Oh, it’s you, Selworth. Good morning, Chubb. Is something amiss, Selworth?”
“Only the inability of the English upper classes and their servants to say what they mean. Not Reuben’s fault,” Wynn added quickly as Debenham cocked an eyebrow at his footman. “A minor misunderstanding. Sorry to disturb you. I just dropped in to see Albinia.”
“All the ladies have gone out to pay morning calls on prospective hostesses and Almack’s patronesses.”
“So I gather. I’ll leave Bina a note.”
“Come into my den,” said Debenham resignedly, ushering them into a pleasant, book-lined room. “May I offer you a glass of Madeira?”
“Thanks, but we’ve just breakfasted and we don’t want to keep you from your business.” Wynn waved at the papers on the desk. “I’ve been meaning to say, Debenham, it’s dashed good of you to put up the Lisles, especially as I know you disagree with my political opinions.”
“My dear Selworth, you must know by now your sister can twist me around her little finger. As it turns out, they are a charming family and I’m happy to have them. Moreover, it leaves you with no excuse to avoid your share of escorting the ladies about.”
“Naturally I’ll do my share,” said Wynn, his tone as hurt as if he had never contemplated leaving the whole affair to his brother-in-law. “In fact, I was going to offer our services, mine and Chubb’s, to squire the ladies to the Park this afternoon.”
Debenham pushed a sheet of paper, pen, and inkstand across the desk to him. “I’m sure they will be delighted to accept. I’m much obliged to you, Chubb, for lending your support.”
“Not at all, not at all,” Chubby muttered, blushing. “Do what I can. A pleasure.”
“Allow me to include you in the standing invitation to my brother-in-law to take your mutton with us whenever it won’t upset my wife’s numbers for a dinner party.”
“I say, dashed kind!”
Wynn blotted and folded his note, and he and Chubby took their leave, entrusting the sweetmeats to the footman. On reaching the street, Wynn turned left towards Bond Street.
“Where are we going?” Chubby asked.
“To Hookham’s Library.”
Chubby stopped dead. “I wondered why you were so pleased to hear Miss Lisle wanted to go to Hookham’s.”
“It’s a good place to wait until they turn up.”
“They may have gone there first. It strikes me you’re even wilder to see Miss Lisle than I am to see Miss Kitty.”
“Not at all,” Wynn said defensively. “I simply want to find out about my speech.”
“Well, you may not mind spending hours and hours in a library on the off-chance, but I can think of better things to do with my time.” He turned and started in the opposite direction, saying over his shoulder, “I’m off to Tattersall’s to look for a carriage horse or pair. My father said I should buy myself a gig that’s useful both in Town and in the country. I’ll be able to take up Miss Kitty—or any of the ladies.”
Wynn caught up with him. “All right, Tatt’s it is. I was thinking of a tilbury gig.”