A Father’s Legacy to his Daughters
Dr. John Gregory
London, 1808 edition
Chapter 1
Fifteen minutes into the Prince Regent’s costume party, and Arabella was reaching the conclusion that she would not make a very good spy.
Which was unfortunate, as “become a spy” topped her list of things to do if her father disinherited her. For the most part, she surely qualified for the job—she excelled at knowing things she ought not know, at dissembling, and at guessing others’ misdeeds before they’d even had a chance to commit them—but she now suspected that being a spy required patience, and patience had never been her forte.
Already her patience had reached its limits. If only she could order people to arrange themselves as she pleased! But no, she had to conceal her vexation beneath polite greetings and gracious nods, as she drifted through the crush of guests spilling out into the gardens.
It was a fine, fresh evening, the late-summer sky as clear as one could hope for in London, and the expansive lawns were ablaze with flaming torches and hanging lanterns. If the party’s organizers had intended an atmosphere of carnivalesque chaos, they had succeeded: Colorfully dressed acrobats cartwheeled among the costumed guests, fire-eaters breathed out flames, troubadours sang and jugglers juggled and tightrope dancers leaped and twirled.
A dazzling spectacle, certainly, but it rather frustrated Arabella’s secret, simultaneous missions: hunting Lord Hardbury, avoiding Lord Sculthorpe, dodging Mama, scaring away the fortune hunters who had multiplied after Hardbury jilted her, and pointedly eyeing every other Minerva so they maintained an appropriate distance.
Arabella had ordered the Minerva costume—comprising a draped Roman-style robe and red-plumed helmet—knowing it was not unique, but, as she had said to Mama, “If one must face society’s scorn at a costume party with the Prince Regent and three thousand of his closest friends, one ought to do it dressed as a warrior goddess.”
“It is not like you to exaggerate, Arabella,” Mama had scolded in her serene way. “Lord Hardbury has not actually jilted you. He was correct in saying that an agreement between your fathers when you were infants is not a binding engagement, and everyone knows that. No one will mention it.”
True, no one was mentioning it. In every conversation, Arabella could hear them Not Mentioning it. How dreadful people were, the way they went around Not Mentioning things.
If only someone would mention it! What a relief if someone were to say, “Well, Miss Larke, Guy Roth has finally returned to claim the title of Marquess of Hardbury, after an absence so long some feared he was dead, and his first announcement is that he will not marry you. Tell me, Miss Larke,” this wonderful person would say, “how fares your famous pride now? Shall we prepare a poultice for it, fetch it some bandages, or is it time to send for the vicar?”
Arabella would look down her nose at them, in the imperious manner she had perfected by age twelve, and say, “Pray, do not trouble yourself. It will take more than a set-down by Lord Hardbury to finish off my pride.”
Yes, her blessed pride, her most loyal companion these twenty-three years. Always stepping in to save her, taking control of her mouth, and making her say things she didn’t mean. It was a wonder she could stay upright under the weight of all that pride, though sometimes she doubted she would stay upright without it.
And now her pride had brought her to this: After a lifetime of boasting that she would become the Marchioness of Hardbury, while secretly praying she would never actually have to marry that detestable Guy Roth, she needed to ask him a favor.
That Arabella Larke asked a favor of anyone was enough to make the sky crack and tremble. That she was asking it of Guy Roth would surely make the heavens collapse onto their heads.
But ask it she must, when the alternative was—
Lord Sculthorpe.
Arabella froze.
The Baron Sculthorpe stood not five yards away, conversing in a small group, his face mercifully turned away. He was dressed as an old-fashioned highwayman, in a tricorne hat, black cape, and lacy cuffs. The costume made him look every inch the dashing, athletic war hero that society so admired. He was approaching thirty-six, but that didn’t matter, not for a man as hale and hearty as he.
A few more steps and he might have seen her. Under her helmet, Arabella’s scalp prickled, her heart pounding from the close call. Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself, and glanced around to assess her avenues of escape.
Sidling toward Sculthorpe’s group were a pair of jesters, their medieval costumes a riot of red and yellow, from their three-pointed fool’s hats to their long-toed shoes. They danced close to Sculthorpe and the matron at his side, grabbed their wrists, and briskly tied man and woman to each other with a length of pink ribbon.
Arabella could not hear the words over the crowd’s merriment, but she knew this game, slightly risqué but not uncommon at such gatherings: The jesters announced his lordship had only to kiss the fair lady to be released. Sculthorpe clutched at his heart with exaggerated delight, bestowed a peck on the lady’s round cheek, then made a show of fanning himself, as their little audience cheered. The jesters cut the ribbon and skipped away, and the group resumed their chatter, enlivened by the interlude.
What a performance! What charm! No wonder wealthy, handsome Lord Sculthorpe was one of the most eligible bachelors in the land.
And lucky Arabella, she was the one he had chosen.
That was how Papa had put it, when he announced that, after Lord Hardbury had written to confirm that he would not marry her, Lord Sculthorpe had written to confirm that he would. Arabella did not feel lucky. This past spring, when Sculthorpe first displayed an interest in her, she had realized within three conversations that she could not bear to be his wife. With society speculating about Guy’s return, she had insisted on waiting for him instead. She had counted on Guy not returning, at least not before Sculthorpe married someone else. Wrong on both counts.
“You’re fortunate Sculthorpe still wants you, so don’t spoil this too,” Papa had said to Arabella, his eyes on his beloved Queenie as he stroked her bright-green feathers, while the portrait of her dead brother Oliver smirked from its prize position on the wall.
“If Lord Sculthorpe is so eager to marry me, Papa, I don’t see how I could spoil it.”
“Heiress to a grand estate, yet men fall over themselves to avoid marrying you. Lord Luxborough jilted you, and now Lord Hardbury has jilted you, so make sure Lord Sculthorpe doesn’t jilt you too.”
“A wiser course would be to dispense altogether with this tiresome parade of lords,” she had argued.
“Are you saying you refuse to marry Sculthorpe?”
“I told you, I have a viable alternative, if you would only wait. I have written to—”
“I am tired of waiting! No more talking. I’ve been patient with you, my girl, but it’s past time you married and provided me with grandsons.” Then Papa had concluded with a definitive statement: “When you come back from the Prince Regent’s party, you will be engaged.”
“Or?”
“Or you need not bother coming back at all.”
Once more unto the breach, Arabella thought, and melted into the crowd before Sculthorpe could see her. A juggler, hands a blur, winked at her as she slipped past. She felt like a juggler herself, juggling potential husbands. Of course she had a plan to avoid marrying Sculthorpe—Arabella always had a plan—but it would take months to come to fruition, and with Papa stubbornly issuing ultimatums, she needed to buy time. Her resolve hardened. If her only way to avoid losing everything was to get engaged tonight, then get engaged she would.