When everyone had a glass of claret in hand, their hosts made a short speech welcoming them all to dinner and to a night of entertainment, which consisted of a recital by the hosts’ two daughters, both of whom had suitors present.
“The price of a good meal,” Lord Mercer muttered into Miranda’s ear. “Such a high cost will more than likely lead to indigestion.”
He was incorrigible!
“Then you are fortunate the entertainment is comingbeforethe meal,” she said. “For I heard one of the gentlemen remark that the young ladies ‘must sing for their supper.’ The man seemed to think he was making a hilarious jest. Regardless, I’m sure they shall be good.”
While she had no experience with the talents of either young lady who would honor them with a song that evening, she didn’t doubt they must have talent.Why else would they sing in front of gentlemen upon whom they hoped to make a favorable impression?
An hour later, Miranda was proven half wrong. One sister, who was the prettier of the two, could not carry a tune in a pail, as her father would say. And Miranda had to elbow Lord Mercer to keep him from muttering too loudly about his pained ears. She heard the wordcacophonymore than once from his lips.
At least he had the civility not to laugh out loud, which sadly was not the case in all quarters of the audience.
The other sister, surprisingly, had a bell for a voice, a pure tone that hushed the restless listeners when she began to sing. When her turn came to an end, they went downstairs to dinner.
“Thank goodness,” Lord Mercer said as they found their assigned seats and he drew out her chair. “The entertainment in a private home is always a bit of a gamble and more often than not rather dodgy.”
“Ssh,”she said.
Suddenly, passing on his other side was the first young miss who clearly knew her failure in comparison to her talented sister. Her cheeks were still stained red. Miranda held her breath as the baron turned to her. He barely hesitated before gently taking the woman’s hand and offering a polite bow.
“Lady Anna, I want you to know you set an example tonight with your courage and your persistence. Well done.”
For a few seconds, the young lady appeared unsure. Then she considered his words. Miranda watched her digest the note of praise and his sincere admiration for how she’d put herself upon the “stage” for all to criticize. Finally, she smiled and nodded as he released her hand.
“I thank you, my lord. That is very generous of you.”
“Not at all.”
There was a moment’s awkward silence. Luckily, the lady’s suitor, who seemed more interested in her décolletage and pretty curls than in her voice, escorted her farther along the table toward its head.
When Lord Mercer took his seat, Miranda leaned close. “That was well done of you.”
In an instant, his hand slipped onto her lap and squeezed her thigh. Yelping in surprise, she felt her own cheeks warm as many sets of eyes turned her way. Calmly, she offered a placid expression in return before raising her hands above the table cloth so all gazes would follow.
Peeling off her gloves slowly until the others guests became bored and looked way, she placed them in her lap and covered them with her napkin. By that time, the scoundrel had removed his hand.
“I cannot believe you!” she all but hissed.
“A quick demonstration of mischief in the dining room,” Lord Mercer said quietly. “A lesson that will cause you to tread carefully and be wary of your dining companions.”
She glanced slowly to her left. The gentleman beside her was ... Beau Brummell! No, she knew he couldn’t be the man himself as that intriguing gentleman had fled to France earlier in the year to escape his gambling debts and to keep himself out of debtor’s prison. Yet for all she’d read in the papers and even seen in a sketch, this man was his close likeness.
Dressed to the nines in a dark-blue jacket and the whitest white, immaculately tied cravat, he had not a hair out of place and smelled almost as good as Lord Mercer.
“My lord,” she asked, suddenly recalling he’d been introduced to her as Lord Pastille, “are you a dandy?”
She heard the baron cough behind her and hoped the word was not an insult.
“Why, if you take me to be one, miss, then I am pleased to say I am.”
He was quite jolly and entertaining for the duration of the long meal. And he certainly didn’t seem the type to try to touch her leg. Lord Mercer probably thought all men were as scandalous as himself.
After dinner,threehours later, Miranda learned the evening was not yet over. The men remained where they were as a servant brought in a tray of cigars and another carried a decanter of brandy.
The ladies, led by their hostess, retired to an informal parlor next door, for whipped syllabub, which was more dessert than beverage. With its frothy curd of lemon peel and juice, cream and sugar, all floating in a glass atop sweet wine, Miranda had never tasted it before. It was a fussy drink that took time to make beyond pouring from a decanter, and thus, it was nothing her father would ever instruct their cook to create.
Swallowing it with absolute delight, she thought it quite superior to most every other beverage she’d ever imbibed.
