Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(29)

Matthew dragged his attention to the tall, well-groomed gentleman, whose blond hair shone brightly beneath the light of the chandeliers. Before he replied, he reminded himself that there was probably no malice intended behind the question. Those of the privileged classes often had genuine misconceptions about the poor, if they bothered to consider them at all.

“Actually,” Matthew said mildly, “the available figures indicate that as soon as soap is mass-produced at an affordable price, the market will increase approximately ten percent a year. People of all classes want to be clean, Mr. Mardling. The problem is that good quality soap has always been a luxury item and therefore difficult to obtain.”

“Mass production,” Mardling mulled aloud, his lean face furrowed with thought. “There is something objectionable about the phrase…it seems to be a way of enabling the lower classes to imitate their betters.”

Matthew glanced at the circle of men, noting that the top of Bowman’s head was turning red—never a good sign—and that Westcliff was holding his silence, his black eyes unreadable.

“That’s exactly what it is, Mr. Mardling,” Matthew said gravely. “Mass production of items such as clothing and soap will give the poor a chance to live with the same standards of health and dignity as the rest of us.”

“But how will one sort out who is who?” Mardling protested.

Matthew shot him a questioning glance. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Llandrindon joined in the discussion. “I believe what Mardling is asking,” he said, “is how one will be able to tell the difference between a shopgirl and a well-to-do woman if they are both clean and similarly dressed. And if a gentleman is not able to tell what they are by their appearance, how is he to know how to treat them?”

Stunned by the snobbery of the question, Matthew considered his reply carefully. “I’ve always thought all women should be treated with respect no matter what their station.”

“Well said,” Westcliff said gruffly, as Llandrindon opened his mouth to argue.

No one wished to contradict the earl, but Mardling pressed, “Westcliff, do you see nothing harmful in encouraging the poor to rise above their stations? In allowing them to pretend there is no difference between them and ourselves?”

“The only harm I see,” Westcliff said quietly, “is in discouraging people who want to better themselves, out of fear that we will lose our perceived superiority.”

The statement caused Matthew to like the earl even more than he had previously.

Preoccupied with the question of the hypothetical shopgirl, Llandrindon spoke to Mr. Mardling. “Never fear, Mardling—no matter how a woman is attired, a gentleman can always detect the clues that betray her true status. A lady always has a soft, well-modulated voice, whereas a shopgirl speaks with a strident tone and a vulgar accent.”

“Of course,” Mardling said with relief. He affected a slight shiver as he added, “A shopgirl dressed in finery, speaking in cockney…it’s like fingernails on slate.”

“Yes,” Llandrindon said with a laugh. “Or like seeing a common daisy stuck in a bouquet of roses.”

The comment was unthinking, of course. There was a sudden silence as Llandrindon realized he had just inadvertently insulted Bowman’s daughter, or rather the name of his daughter.

“A versatile flower, the daisy,” Matthew commented, breaking the silence. “Lovely in its freshness and simplicity. I’ve always thought it went well in any kind of arrangment.”

The entire group rumbled in immediate agreement—“Indeed,” and “Quite so”.

Lord Westcliff gave Matthew an approving glance.

A short time later, whether by previous planning or a last-minute shuffling of places, Matthew discovered he had been seated at Westcliff’s left at the main dining table. There was patent surprise on the faces of many guests as they registered that a place of honor had been given to a young man of undistinguished position.

Covering up his own surprise, Matthew saw that Thomas Bowman was beaming at him with fatherly pride…and Lillian was giving her husband a discreet glare that would have struck terror in the hearts of lesser men.

After an uneventful supper the guests dispersed in various groups. Some men desired port and cigars on the back terrace, some women wanted tea, while others headed to the parlor for games and conversation.

As Matthew went toward the terrace, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked down into Cassandra Leighton’s mischievous eyes. She was a high-spirited creature whose primary skill seemed to be the ability to draw attention to herself.

“Mr. Swift,” she said, “I insist that you join us in the parlor. I will not allow you to refuse. Lady Miranda and I have planned some games that I think you will find quite entertaining.” She lowered one eyelid in a sly wink. “We’ve been scheming, you see.”

“Scheming,” Matthew repeated warily.

“Oh yes.” She giggled. “We’ve decided to be a bit wicked this evening.”

Matthew had never liked parlor games, which required a personal frivolity he had never been able to muster. Moreover it was generally known that in the permissive atmosphere of British society, the forfeits of these games often consisted of tricks and potentially scandalous behavior. Matthew had an innate and very sensible aversion to scandal. And if he was ever entangled in one, it would have to be for a very good reason. Not as the result of some imbecilic parlor game.