Page 88 of Regency in Color

Chapter Three

All the next day, the household was in a flurry of activity as they prepared for Sidonie Archambault’s monthly literary salon. After years of hosting it, her mother had it down to an art: the drawing room was dusted at dawn, set with gilt chairs and fresh flowers before noon, and filled with a veritable banquet of pastries, fruit, and their own luxury chocolates by the time the guests arrived.

Tea and coffee were at the ready—no one ever passed up their coffee—and they would be sipped politely until Claudine Durée inevitably asked if she might beg a dash of rum in place of cream. One dash would lead to another, and the month’s designated books would be forgotten as the conversation gave way to gossip and speculation.

Andie’s family’s rum was famous. In the years since her great-grandfather Achille had started the company, it had grown from an importer of coffee and raw sugar to London’s main supplier of high-end rum. Sidonie’s pet project had been chocolate; at her behest, they had opened their first sweet shop in Grosvenor Square. Their pink foil-wrapped boxes sold so quickly, a small army of chocolatiers worked around the clock on the premises to keep them filled.

Part of the demand, of course, came not only from the quality of the goods, but from the limited quantities and high prices. It all seemed counterintuitive to Andie, but the rarer and more expensive the items seemed to be, the more the ton wanted them. Alex was happy to allow them to pay through the nose. They wasted more on gambling and horses, he reminded her, so it was better that the money they spent like water should go to pay the laborers on their island proper wages. If valentine boxes and candied violets were the way to do that, so be it.

Of course, their less glamorous yams and cassava had kept many in London from starving during the food shortages of the Year Without a Summer, but people had already forgotten about that. The Dowager Duchess of Bodmin would never eat anything so common.

The air changed when the old dowager entered a room. Dressed in black silk, she was a crow among the songbirds chattering happily around the pianoforte. Used to her severity by now, the other matrons nevertheless stiffened as she joined them.

Sensing her disapproval from twenty paces, Andie retreated to the table and poured herself a cup of coffee with fresh cream. Seeing that Lady Bodmin had not immediately been offered one, Andie did the honors. “Lady Bodmin, may I offer you a cup of tea?”

After some hesitation, Lady Bodmin inclined her head. “Thank you, dear. Assam, if you will.”

Andie poured a cup of Assam for the dowager and loaded a plate with her customary treats, two petit fours—one rose and one orange blossom—and a rum truffle. When Andie brought them to her, the old woman almost smiled.

Almost.

Retrieving her own coffee, Andie quietly took the chair beside Lady Bodmin. As prickly as she could be, it would be terrible manners to leave her sitting on her own. At any rate, it was her sister Zélie’s first Season, and two of Lady Bodmin’s grandsons were about her age. They could be related someday.

Chilled by that thought, Andie smiled politely at the old woman. “I trust you are well, Lady Bodmin?”

“Well enough.” The dowager waved a hand. “As you know, my niece Clara was married this week.”

Andie had forgotten with all the excitement of the theater. “Of course. I wish Lord and Lady Crawford every happiness.”

“Indeed.” Lady Bodmin fluttered her eyelids in the way she often did before she was about to say something terse. “As relieved as I am that Clara has made a suitable match, I question the necessity of having to go to Norwich to do it. The return journey took an age, and I thought certain I should perish!” Evidently recovered, she focused her shrewd gaze on Andie. “Do you suppose this will be the Season you finally make a match? How many years has it been now?”

The clatter of teacups paused as the other ladies pretended not to listen.

Andie felt her cheeks warm. “Well, I—”

“Andromeda is focusing on her music, Lady Bodmin,” her mother explained, sending Andie a sympathetic look. Madame Archambault was a formidable woman. Though their family had given up their titles in the Terror, the English still treated her with all the courtesy and deference due a marchioness. In many ways, she had more real influence. As a prominent member in more than a dozen societies for the arts, no one questioned her indulgence of Andromeda’s interest in music.

Well, no one except Lady Bodmin.

“Music,” the old dowager repeated, affronted. “Music is a hobby, not a vocation. You must not let it distract you from your duty.” She fixed her stare on Andie.

Bristling, Andie spoke up. “In actual fact—”

“But she’s so talented, Lady Bodmin!” Claudine Durée interrupted, defending Andie even as she cut her off. “She could be on stage at the Theatre-Royal.”

Lady Bodmin sniffed. “I should sincerely hope not. I’ve seen where that leads.” Her gaze grew distant. “No, dear. You simply must marry. You’ll run out of chances, you understand.”

Andie didn’t need to be reminded of her rapidly advancing age. It didn’t bother her that she was not yet married, but she had always hoped to sing for Queen Charlotte by the time she was thirty. “I really don’t mind—”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Lady Martin cut in. “Andromeda is a lovely girl. With her sweet disposition and considerable talents, any gentleman would be most fortunate to have her. Perhaps an older widower with children of his own…”

Andie’s eyes widened at the implication that the only man who’d want her would have to be in his dotage. “But I’m only twenty-n—”

“Oh, yes!” Claudine Durée clapped happily. “I’ve heard Lord Bude is looking again. Why, just last week…”

The rest of her statement cut out as a high-pitched ringing filled Andie’s ears. Is this rage? I think this might be rage. Lord Bude was eighty if he was a day, and if her mother’s friends thought she’d willingly move to Cornwall to play nursemaid to a known pervert—

Sidonie straightened in her seat and raised an eyebrow. “What about one of your sons, Lady Bodmin? You have six; surely you could spare one.”