Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(39)

He could not help but sorely miss the popularity and the activity he had until recently enjoyed.

“Ca fait une eternité qu’on ne vous a pas vu,” he exclaimed, beaming at them, and Rosalie felt an answering smile curve her lips.

“It has been a long time,” she agreed, allowing him to help her off with the pelisse and lifting her skirts slightly as she walked to an armless upholstered chair. “Have you received many guests since the last time we met?”

“Dozens, m’dear, all bringing the latest news from London. I’m afraid, however, that the quantity of visitors exceeds the quality.”

“They brought pleasant news, I hope.”

“Some of it was. It is always pleasant to be missed, and I gather Prinny’s unpopularity has been on the rise since I took my leave of England. What is your opinion, Berkeley?”

Rand somehow refrained from observing that Prinny’s unpopularity was due to more than the end of his friendship with Brummell. The prince regent was a notoriously corrupt individual, a spendthrift of horrible proportions, an inept politician who was often given to drunkenness.

“He is indeed an unpopular individual.”

“Just as I thought,” Brummell said in a self-satisfied way. “Without my advice, his extravagance will lead to disaster. I’ve heard that he’s already taken to wearing pink satin and jeweled shoe buckles.” He shuddered delicately at the thought. “Good taste is understatement—don’t forget it. A good cut and fit, cleanliness, dignity, changing the gloves at least six times a day . . .”

Eager to prevent a long discourse on the Beau’s principles of style, Rand sought to interrupt him with tact and haste. “News of the Pavilion has been in the English papers of late, also stirring up public displeasure. Since John Nash was hired to work on it last year, many costly additions have been built. Oriental rooms, cast-iron towers, steam-heated kitchens—”

“The Pavilion . . . a tasteless toy. But to give Prinny his credit, quite impressive in a vulgar way.” “Mr. Brummell,” Rosalie inquired, her forehead creasing in a frown, “is there a chance that you will ever reconcile with the regent?”

“I doubt it,” the Beau replied stalwartly. “As they say, too much water has gone under the bridge. I believe the dissolution of a spectacular association.—my wit and his title—began when his weight almost doubled.” “Eve heard he’s something of a stout fellow,” Rosalie said, and Brummell nodded emphatically.

“The last time I saw him, he was well over three hundred pounds. It took a platform, a ramp, and a chair fitted with rollers merely to get him into the saddle to take some exercise.”

“Oh, my.”

“It was shocking, without a doubt. So much so that Prinny reminded me of a huge, ungainly porter at Carlton House, whom we all nicknamed Big Ben. Since Mistress Maria Fitzherbert, the celebrated . . . associate of the regent was also stout of girth, I naturally began to refer to her and Prinny as ‘Our Ben and Benina.’” He paused as a smothered laugh was heard from Rand’s direction. “It was not well-received, though my jest was delivered in an affectionate manner.”

Rosalie looked at Rand and they exchanged a fleeting smile. Charming though George Brummell was, he did not possess a considerable amount of tact.

“The next wedge,” the Beau continued, “was hammered into place when Prinny exhibited the grossest piece of rudeness I have ever witnessed—ignoring me completely at the Dandy Club masquerade. The final blow occurred as I was walking down Bond Street with Lord Alvanley. We happened to accidentally meet the prince and Earl Moira, and after a few minutes’ conversation during which the regent again ignored me, I quipped to Alvanley, ‘Who’s your fat friend?’”

“Oh, my,” Rosalie gasped again, wondering how anyone could possess such daring and audacity to say something like that in the hearing of the ruler of England.

“It was merely a poorly timed jest. But eventually a few debts forced me to quit England before the breach had healed.”

“I see,” Rosalie murmured, concealing her sympathy behind a polite nod. The great Beau Brummell was impressive and entertaining, but there was something about him that aroused a strangely protective feeling inside her. He was like a child whose vanity made him excessively naive. She wondered what would become of him, for it was obvious that he had no source of income that was great enough to support the style in which he lived. There was no trace of worry or caution in his face, nothing to indicate that he was aware of his unstable position.

“Miss Belleau,” Brummell said, unfolding his moderately sized form from an upholstered chair, “would you care to see the album I have put together? It is quite sizable, having contributions from many of my present and former acquaintances. There is a verse in particular I would like you to see, penned by that marvelous woman, the Duchess of Devonshire. It begins with the line. ‘I have valued the charms of the rose, as I plucked it all fresh from the tree . . .’ I do not remember the rest.” “I would be honored to see it,” Rosalie said gravely, and he muttered something in satisfaction before going to a built-in bookcase and hunting for the album. “Selegue!” Brummell called imperiously, and the little valet came scurrying. “I can’t find my album,” he explained, and Selegue nodded vigorously before waving him back to his chair.