Chapter Four
Gwen
“Come on!” Gwen whines, standing in the foyer in her best pastel green dress, bonnet, and lace shawl. “We’re going to be late!”
Father walks slowly down the stairs, messing with his cravat and looking distinctly uninterested. “I hate these things.”
“I know.”
“It’ll be damp and warm and full of boring stuffed shirts.”
“You need to fix yours,” Gwen says, stepping up to him to straighten his vest beneath his frock coat. “You’re wearing your good cufflinks? We’ll be playing croquet, are you presentable under this?”
“Why will I be playing croquet? And yes, of course, I’m not a heathen.”
Gwen frowns, looking him over. He looks decent—hair nicely coifed, shoes shined, coat pressed. Very handsome. Certainly handsome enough to turn Lady Demeroven’s head.
“Shouldn’t we be assessing you?” he asks, amused as she walks around him.
“Mrs. Stelm already did. What do you know of the current fashions, anyway?”
“I know that you never wear anything this bright unless she makes you.”
“It’s a garden party—I should look festive.” That she’s dressed well and plans to behave herself as a ploy to lure in Lady Demeroven doesn’t matter. “I’m not a heathen either.”
“No, but you’re far too excited about this. You hate the Kingsmans.”
“No, you hate the Kingsmans. I like Eloise,” Gwen says as Mrs. Gilpe and Mrs. Stelm come down the stairs.
“You should have left already,” Mrs. Gilpe says.
“Father took ages getting pretty.”
“Told you she’d be done first,” Mrs. Stelm says.
Mrs. Gilpe hands a quid to Mrs. Stelm. Gwen laughs.
“And how much more have you wagered on our young deb?” Father asks.
“Wagering on me? Whatever for?” Gwen says, trying to look innocent.
“As I understand it, the whole house has a bet on how many young men you can make cry playing croquet,” Father says, grinning at her.
“Not how many suitors I come home with? I’m shocked,” Gwen says, shaking her head as Mrs. Gilpe rolls her eyes.
“Put in two for me,” Father says, handing two quid to Mrs. Stelm. “If I win, I’ll order wine for everyone.”
“Now, you’ve simply got to make a few boys cry,” Mrs. Stelm tells Gwen.
Gwen snorts. “We’ve got to go. I’ll make you all proud, one way or the other, now come on,” she says, ushering Father out of the foyer.
She supposes she should be upset by their teasing. Absolutely no one expects her to come home with an interested suitor after an event like this. To be honest, she doesn’t think any of them, including herself, expect her to make it out of this season with an offer, or even interest.
But now she just wants to see if she can make Albie cry. Though she’s not sure Father will count that, since she regularly makes both Albie and Bobby miserable. Then again, she reminds herself as she and Father settle into the carriage for the twenty-minute drive across the park, making boys cry isn’t the objective.
The objective is to get Lady Demeroven and her father to interact in a way that will force them into conversation. They’re starting small. Get them to talk, that’s all. And then rekindle whatever passion was there, and get both her and Beth out of this ridiculous marriage market.
But talking will be enough for today.
“You’re absolutely too excited about this. What have you planned?” Father asks.
Gwen meets his gaze, giving him her most innocent smile. He narrows his eyes anyway, but her smile is practiced. That’s probably what has him suspicious.
“I’m just excited to see Beth and play,” Gwen says honestly. It’s not the full truth, but any day she and Beth get to spend together is a good one. She’s the perfect partner in crime. Sharp, witty, wily, and funny as hell—Gwen’s never had so much fun with someone. And if their plan succeeds, they’ll get to be together all the time. Well worth the potential loss of pin money should Father find out.
They ride in contented silence until they arrive at the Kingsman estate. They dismount from the carriage and head through the back gate to the already bustling party. They’re not exactly late, but they’re far from the first to arrive.
“Play nicely,” Father murmurs as they’re greeted by the Kingsmans, bows and curtsies exchanged and pleasantries extended until Gwen is ushered off to gather with the other “kids.”
Gwen gives Father a toothy grin and hurries across the expansive back garden toward the gaggle of tulle and shawls by the small pond.
The Kingsmans may be sinfully dull people, but their gardener is a genius. The lush trellises of flowers and flowering shrubbery that encase the back garden are splendid. The blossoming spots of purples, yellows, oranges, and pinks among the green leaves brighten the slightly gloomy afternoon. Tables and chairs have been set up by the back patio, prepared for a formal tea to be served once everyone is in attendance. Benches line the sculpted walking path that wends its way through the yard. Each spot is intricately crafted to be the perfect place for polite conversation and staid courting.
An elaborate croquet course has been laid out for their amusement in the open space on the lawn. Because there’s nothing the ton enjoys more than an excuse to get close passed off as a little competition. And there’s no shortage of partners today. Every available chair, bench, and picnic spot is filled with the young and most eligible of the society set. They’re all wildly overdressed for the humid afternoon, but eager to partake in this dainty mating ritual with finger sandwiches.
Gwen searches the milling crowd, smiling and nodding without engaging. There’s only one person she wants to find, and she grins when she spots her chatting with Albie. Beth’s wearing a lovely yellow gown that makes her hair shine and contrasts her rosy cheeks and dark eyes. Gwen can see Albie’s at least a little bit entranced, even if their height difference is hilarious.
It’s a shame Albie’s father needs him to marry for money, not just status. She’s sure Beth has a dowry to offer, but nothing large enough to help pull the Masons out of their increasing debt. Albie and Bobby never talk about it, but she knows the viscount’s gambling weighs heavily on the whole family.
If Lord Mason didn’t hate Father so much, there might be more they could do. But her uncle blames Father for her mother’s death after childbirth, and they barely speak, though they at least allow the children to fraternize.
“Gwen!”
Gwen shakes off darker thoughts about her father’s own reputation and hurries to join her friends. She wraps Beth in a quick hug and then punches Albie on the arm. He simply rolls his eyes in return and nods toward the drink station, ever the dutiful cousin.
“I’ve missed you,” Beth says brightly, keeping hold of Gwen’s arm as they turn to look out at the party together.
“You were supposed to promenade yesterday,” Gwen says.
Beth sighs. “Yes, but Mother thought another round of morning calls was more important. Fat lot of good it did. Mr. Mason’s the only one who would talk to me.”
“Good ol’ Albie,” Gwen says as he lumbers back to them, extending a glass of wine for her before taking a decent slug of his own brandy. “You’ve cleaned up nice,” she adds, looking him up and down.
He looks rather dashing, actually. But the grimace belies his true nature. “Father’s set on this being the season now that Bobby’s out too,” he says glumly.
Gwen raises her glass to him. “It couldn’t last forever.”
He chuckles and taps her glass with his own. “I suppose so.”
Gwen scans the assembled girls. Not just anyone will do for Albie. “Miss March?”
“I heard Dyfort’s got his eye on her,” Albie says with a shrug.
“So? Dyfort’s an arse. You’re sweet, and she’s tall.”
Beth snorts quietly and Albie laughs. “Tall is all you’ve got?”
“Well it’s true! Didn’t you say height differences were awkward?” she asks, looking to Beth, who sobers at her frown and nods seriously up at Albie.
“I’d have to climb on two apple boxes just to kiss your cheek. How embarrassing.”
Albie rolls his eyes but bobs his head. “I suppose.”
“Lady Meredith?” Gwen suggests, looking across the yard at Meredith, bedecked in a slightly garish magenta dress that accents every one of her curves and highlights her shiny auburn hair. “Penchant for color aside, she’s very sweet and whip-smart. Great at duets.”
“Perhaps,” Albie says, and Gwen smiles, noting his interest.
“I’m a constant disappointment to Albie,” she tells Beth. “I’m good on my own, but duets have never been my forte.”
“You just don’t like sharing,” Albie fires back. “Maybe you two could practice together. Miss Demeroven says she and her mother play duets every day.”
“We do,” Beth agrees. “I much prefer them to playing alone.”
“I suppose I could be persuaded,” Gwen says, thinking that an afternoon letting Beth teach her duets would be much more enjoyable than Albie’s frustration. She thinks Beth’s likely to be a more amiable partner, and far nicer to look at.
“You’re on. Mother might actually approve,” Beth says.
“Excellent,” Gwen says, bumping her shoulder to see Beth smile.
“What about you?” Albie asks, looking down at Beth. “Anyone caught your eye? If I wasn’t such a fortune chaser I’d come to call, just so you know.”
Beth blushes a little and shakes her head. “None so far. Mother’s going a bit spare about it, actually,” she adds, glancing back toward Lady Demeroven, who’s making the rounds with the mothers clustered around the tea cakes.
The fathers are all seated on the deck, deep into the brandy already and smoking cigars. It’s a small assemblage; most of them escape to the club if they can manage it, rather than suffer these events.
Gwen notices her father tracking Lady Demeroven’s slightly frantic movement around the group as well. Perhaps she should put her plan into action sooner rather than later, before Father gets the chance to finish his glass and go for another.
“Well, we’ll just have to make a little magic then, won’t we?” Gwen suggests, turning back to her friends.
“How so?” Albie asks.
“I think a bit of couples competition is in order. If you’ll excuse me,” Gwen says, squeezing Beth’s arm before throwing back the rest of her wine.
“What are you up to?” Beth asks.
“Shenanigans,” Gwen says with a significant look, grinning as Beth’s smile widens. Let the games begin.
She places the glass down on one of the tables and then walks to the center of the lawn, taking a deep breath. Time to turn on what little charm she has.
She goes for the youth first. “Gather around!” she calls, waving the friendly faces over to her, trusting everyone else to follow.
She may be no one’s first choice, but she’s known for her hijinks. She’s made it a point to be the group director of morale since her second season. If she has to suffer it, she’ll suffer it with fun.
“What will it be this year?” Eloise asks, dragging over Annabeth and Lord Prous along with her. Her voice carries an admonishment but the delight on her face says otherwise.
“I propose a tournament,” Gwen says as the rest of the collected group gathers around her. “Of teams.”
Intrigued looks all around. Gwen grins, meeting Beth’s eyes with a conspiratorial wink as she sidles up along the edge of the group with Albie.
“First we’ll pair off, ladies and gentlemen. The highest scoring three couples win. And then—” Gwen swings around theatrically to face the assembled parents, who are all watching their cluster.
Equal parts amusement, resignation, and disdain litter their faces but Gwen doesn’t let it faze her. Father will back her up, at the least. She’s counting on it.
“The mothers of the winning debs and fathers of the winning gentlemen shall have to team up in a fight for supremacy,” Gwen announces. She hears the children laugh while the mothers and fathers exchange looks. “Such a nice way for potential future in-laws to become better acquainted, isn’t it?” Gwen continues, all sweetness and light.
Father narrows his eyes at her, but she doesn’t think he’s caught on to her just yet. She waits, arms outstretched for the parental approval, and with a great sigh, Lord Kingsman nods and waves his hand for them to go ahead.
Gwen claps and spins back to the reason for this whole charade: matchmaking. That her real targets are of decidedly older age need not be mentioned.
“All right: Lady Eloise and Prous, Miss Blighe and Mort, Lady Annabeth and Johnson, Lady Meredith and Mason,” she says, giving Albie a quick glance. His pressed-lip smile speaks volumes.
“Thorton, you’re with me.” She nods to the tall, strapping cricket player with whom she’s shared a few lackluster outings. No worries of untoward feelings there, but she’s sure he’ll help her win. Competitive to a fault.
“Miss Susan with Haroldson, Miss March with Dyfort, and Miss Demeroven with Jacobson,” Gwen completes, nodding Beth toward the Honorable John Jacobson.
He’s a reedy, bashful boy, but she knows he’s vicious on the pitch, and he’s almost as competitive as Lord Thorton. He’s also already promised to Miss Rose Anderson, but she’s not sure he’s gotten up the courage to tell his parents. Hopefully Lady Demeroven won’t catch wind until later, or at least won’t think ill of her for it. Most importantly, his father isn’t in attendance today.
“All right, grab your mallets, line up, and let’s play. We’ll do expanded association, three teams per round!” Gwen exclaims, beaming as the kids scramble for the best equipment.
Lord Thorton ambles up to her, already having grabbed the best set. “What are you playing at, Lady Gwen?”
“These parties are sinfully dull. I thought watching our parents bumble around might be fun,” Gwen says casually.
“Sure,” Thorton says, and that’s the last time they speak to each other.
Instead, they focus on decimating the competition. With Thorton’s edge and her years of playing billiards with Father, they’re easily the best team on the field. Meredith and Albie give them a run for their money—they work perfectly together, as she thought—and Beth and Jacobson aren’t far behind. They don’t seem like they’re having quite as much fun together, but they’re equally focused and Beth has a surprisingly steady swing.
It works exactly as she thought it would. Eloise and Lord Prous spend the whole time too flustered by their proximity to pay any real attention to the game. Dyfort is an arse and barely lets Stephanie try. What a lout. Susie and Lord Haroldson are middling at best. And as she planned, Annabeth and Lord Johnson and Samantha and Lord Mort all do terribly, because they should have partners swapped. She feels a bit like an evil genius as the match comes to its end.
She raises Lord Thorton’s hand, grinning at Beth as the rest of the debutantes wander away, commiserating on their losses. They head for the alcohol to settle in and watch what can only be an interesting match among the remaining parents.
Gwen leads the three winning teams up to the edge of the patio. The parents clap politely for them and they all bow and curtsy. Gwen pushes through the feeling of childishness that briefly descends on her. Like she’s seven again and has just performed a dance for her father’s dinner party, a little doll on show.
“Your champions,” Gwen tells them, laughing as Father rolls his eyes and the mothers giggle. “That means Lady Harrington and Mr. Mason will be playing for Lady Meredith and Mr. Mason,” Gwen explains, nodding to the prim lady and Albie’s uncle.
Mr. Mason holds out his arm and escorts the reluctant, but clearly pleased, Lady Harrington from the patio and out onto the field. Albie and Meredith pass them mallets, and Gwen notes Albie’s uncle patting him on the shoulder. It was nice of him to come for Albie today, given Viscount Mason would rather drop dead than attend a society tea. Nice, and convenient.
“Then Lord Lawson for Lord Thorton, and Lady Kingsman, would you mind very much stepping in for me?” Gwen asks, making her eyes wide and pleading.
Lady Kingsman glances at her husband, who waves his hand, shaking his head at Gwen’s antics. Lady Kingsman nods and allows Lord Lawson to lead her out to Gwen and Thorton.
“I’ll make you proud,” Lady Kingsman promises.
Gwen grins and hands off her mallet. Though Lord Kingsman is a blowhard and a dolt, she has always liked his wife.
“That just leaves Lady Demeroven for Miss Demeroven, and Father, would you stand in for Mr. Jacobson?” Gwen asks brightly, giving the whole patio a broad smile.
Lady Demeroven goes stock still, and her father—oh, she hasn’t seen a look like that on Father’s face since the last time she broke a vase when she was ten. But there’s no way they can refuse. Lady Kingsman, the host, just agreed to step in for her. They can hardly say no now, not without being terribly, terribly rude.
Still, even as Father rises stiffly and escorts a clearly uncomfortable Lady Demeroven from the patio and over to Beth and Jacobson, Gwen swallows thickly. She was sure when she started that this would go well. But the look on both of their faces as they take their mallets—the way he’s holding her arm—
“Go on, go on,” Mr. Mason says, clearly not noticing the discomfort that’s fallen over two of the players. “Want a wager, Havenfort?”
Father seems to come out of his stupor and narrows his eyes at his younger brother-in-law. “Bragging rights aren’t enough for you?”
“I was thinking perhaps the first shot in the season in August.”
“At my manor of course,” Father says.
“Indubitably.”
Gwen winces as she and the other winning children back toward the refreshment table to watch. Beth leaves Jacobson to come to her side, slipping her arm anxiously through Gwen’s.
“You sure this is a good idea?” she whispers.
“You’re on,” Father says. “Come, Lady Demeroven, let’s give these people a show, shall we?”
“Oh dear,” Gwen mumbles.
Father’s got his competitive face on, and that’s not a face that comes with manners, charm, or goodwill. Worse, it doesn’t look like Lady Demeroven knows the first thing about croquet.
Gwen and Beth watch anxiously as Lady Kingsman and Lord Lawson take their first shots. Excellent, each of them. If Beth’s mother has any skill at all, this might be a sporting game.
“Why didn’t you tell me this was your plan? Mother has no coordination whatsoever,” Beth whispers and Gwen sucks on her cheek, fighting the urge to chew on her nails.
Mr. Mason and Lady Harrington go next, and they’re also wonderful, encouraging each other politely and grinning over at Albie and Meredith. Each pair must get both balls through the same wicket in order to progress, and her father and Lady Demeroven haven’t exchanged a single word yet.
“Your turn, my liege,” Mr. Mason says loftily.
“I’ll make you eat your words,” Father says gamely. “Come, Lady Demeroven, ladies first.”
Beth tightens her grip on Gwen’s arm as Lady Demeroven squares off her shot, bending awkwardly. Gwen can tell five seconds before she swings that she won’t even hit the ball.
Lady Demeroven teeters before finding her balance to a smattering of polite laughter. She hesitates for a moment, her cheeks pink, and then rallies, turning to Beth and Gwen to give an exaggerated shrug. Beth laughs and Gwen gives her a supportive smile, but Father isn’t having it.
“Come now, Lady Demeroven, you’ve more skill than that,” he admonishes, stepping too close to force her to move aside.
She does, with as much grace as she can muster, but still trips and stumbles, further embarrassed. Father doesn’t notice, too busy whacking his ball with too much force. His swing sends the ball on an angle, making it through the first but missing the second wicket.
“Blast,” he exclaims.
Lady Demeroven scowls. Father shakes his head and grabs her arm, moving her none-too-gently aside as Lady Kingsman and Lord Lawson return for their next round.
“Ridiculous. You’re able to play pianoforte and paint but can’t hit a simple ball?” Gwen hears him mutter.
She grimaces. Beth turns to bury her forehead in Gwen’s shoulder at her mother’s snipped “Not like you did much better. I thought marksmen were meant to have good aim.”
“What have we done?” Beth whispers as their parents continue to bicker, getting louder and louder while the other two couples play through, barely pretending to ignore them.
Gwen thought propriety would keep her father’s competitive obnoxiousness to a minimum—that there was enough latent affection for Lady Demeroven that he’d be, God forbid, the charming man she’s seen him be with other women. Instead, it seems she’s unleashed an ugly monster.
By the time Father and Lady Demeroven step up for their second round, Father’s glowering like he’s just lost stock and Lady Demeroven is an unfortunate shade of puce.
“Go ahead, then,” Father says gruffly, gesturing mockingly for Lady Demeroven to take her shot.
She glares at him and squares up. Father stays too close, egging her on from behind. When she swings her mallet back, it meets with more than empty air.
Father staggers backward, clutching himself between the legs and groaning. Lady Demeroven spins around, mouth agape, and accidentally whacks him in the knee, sending him sprawling.
Gasps and shouts fill the air as Father curls up there on the grass, staring up at Lady Demeroven through squinted eyes.
“My apologies, Lord Havenfort,” Lady Demeroven says, dropping her mallet and falling to her knees, hands fluttering, skirt and hoop covering half of Father’s body as he continues to wince. She does look genuinely sorry.
“No, no, stand back. Can’t . . . trust your . . . coordination at all . . . no,” Father manages, batting away her skirts and struggling to stand.
Without offering his hand to Lady Demeroven or a look to anyone around them, he stumbles off toward the house, leaving Lady Demeroven there on the ground, the party staring aghast. Gwen looks around and finds most of the girls now standing with their mothers, openly whispering.
Beth, horrified, hurries forward to help her mother up with as much pride as they can manage. Lady Demeroven takes her hand and together they get her to standing. The usually poised woman brushes herself off and offers a thin, guilty smile to the guests.
“My apologies for the excitement. I think Miss Demeroven and I should retire—I’m feeling a bit unwell myself. Lady Gwen, you’ll make sure your father is all right?”
“Of course,” Gwen says, meeting Beth’s eyes, both of them shocked by just how astoundingly poorly that went. “Farewell, Lady Demeroven,” she adds, curtsying.
That seems to jolt everyone out of their shock. Lady Kingsman steps forward to see the Demerovens out, while the party resumes otherwise. Gwen imagines this will be the talk of many a future garden party. Whether she or Beth will be invited remains to be seen.
She supposes she can kiss her afternoon of duets with Beth goodbye too.
“That went very well,” Albie says, coming up to her side with Meredith in tow.
Gwen clenches her jaw and whacks his arm before stalking off, intent on finding her father and making their own hasty retreat.