A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(20)

“The gout?” He laughed again, louder this time. “No, I have not lived such an immoderate life as to develop the gout at the age of nine-and-twenty. Nor have I suffered any injury, save that small one to my pride just now.”

“Oh. Then why do you need a walking stick, if you are not infirm?”

“Why, no particular reason. They come in handy from time to time—for gesturing toward sights of interest, rapping on doors, signaling the coachman …” He shrugged. “And they look fine. It’s the fashion.”

“I see,” she said, frowning. “So this is the way you wish to spend our morning? Shopping for this … this embellished stick, which a perfectly healthy gentleman carries around, for no real purpose other than to indicate his wealth?”

His expression sobered. “Well, that and gesturing,” he said slowly. “Don’t forget gesturing. And rapping on doors. There’s that, too.”

Bel had no response. Actually, she would have liked to respond that arms and hands generally worked well for her in those regards, but she had no wish to upset him further.

“Right, well.” He gave her a tight smile. “We’ll do the shops another day, then. Are you fond of art? Shall I take you to an exhibition?”

Bel perked up. Her appreciation for art had increased under Sophia’s influence, as her sister-inlaw was an accomplished painter. “Thank you, I would like that very much.”

“Excellent.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I’ll arrange a real treat for you. I’ve a friend who can get us a private showing of the Parthenon marbles.”

“The sculptures Lord Elgin brought back from Greece?”

“Yes, the very ones.”

“The ones Parliament just purchased on behalf of the English government?”

“Why … yes.” He looked askance at her, obviously confused by the brittle tone of her remark. But Bel could not help herself. Useless walking sticks were one thing, but there was no holding her tongue on this matter. “Sir Toby, do you not realize Lord Elgin stole those statues from their rightful owners, the Greeks? And now Parliament has squandered millions of pounds to purchase them, while hardworking English farmers have not the corn to seed their fields, and orphaned children starve in the streets? It is a travesty!”

He pulled the team to a halt. “So …” His lips pursed around the drawn out syllable. “You don’t wish to see them?”

She couldn’t believe he would even ask! “No.”

An awkward minute passed. Embarrassed by her outburst but unable to apologize for it, Bel faced forward and made a show of straightening her gloves. She could feel Toby’s eyes on her all the while. Eventually, the phaeton lurched into motion again.

Oh, he must think her inexcusably rude. Here he had suggested two different amusements, and she had refused them both. And with intemperate scoldings, no less. Bel made up her mind then and there to greet his next suggestion with polite enthusiasm, what ever it might be.

“There’s Berkeley Square just up ahead. Can I offer you some refreshment?”

Bel clapped her hands together and forced a bright tone. “Yes, thank you. That would be delightful.” Her breakfast had been cut short, after all. A spot of tea would be most welcome. He maneuvered the carriage into the green in the center of the square, drawing the team to a halt beneath the shade of a large tree. Alighting from the phaeton, he tossed the reins and a coin to an eager boy, then beckoned a waiter from the establishment across the street. The two men conferred briefly, and then the waiter returned to the tea shop.

Wearing a renewed smile, Toby strolled around to Bel’s side of the carriage. “There we are. Give it a moment, he’ll have a lovely treat out for you.”

“Shouldn’t we go inside?”

“Oh, no.” He tossed his hat on the phaeton seat. “It’s not the done thing. The ladies all take their refreshment out here, in the square, where they can see and be seen.”

Bel folded her hands. She knew it would be impossible to become a lady of influence without attracting public notice; and one did not attract public notice without a certain amount of spectacle—whether that spectacle involved sipping tea in a flashy carriage or selecting an infamous rake for a husband. So long as she reminded herself it was all for a purpose, she could justify the indulgence.

Or so she thought.

The waiter appeared, bearing a tray with a glass dish. In the dish sat something that looked like a child’s ball—perfectly round, pale yellow in color, and sparkling in the morning sun.

“How lovely,” she said, accepting the proffered dish and a small silver spoon. She looked to Toby. “What is it?”

“Why, it’s an ice, of course. Gunter’s is famous for them. That’s a sample of their newest flavor: lemon and lavender.”

“An ice,” she said wonderingly. The chill of the glass dish nipped at her gloved fingers. “I’ve never had one. Nothing freezes in the West Indies, you know. Until we arrived in London, I’d never seen ice of any sort, much less one flavored with lemon and lavender.” She prodded the treat with her spoon, breaking through a thin, granular crust to discover a softer, creamy texture beneath.

“You’d best eat it quickly. Or it won’t be an ice much longer, but only a syrup.”