A Lady's Guide to Fortune-Hunting(41)
Kitty leant back into the carriage seat with a sigh.
‘Did you enjoy yourself, Cecy?’ she asked, an obvious afterthought.
‘No,’ her sister lied.
18
What a difference a single night could make. After the Montagu ball, the Talbots’ social calendar became, if not jam-packed, then certainly pleasantly busy, with a stream of invitations and calling cards landing on their doorstep within hours of their returning home at dawn. Now there were two further balls just this very week to prepare for, as well as countless invitations to dine – from mothers, Kitty assumed, on their sons’ requests – and stacks of calling cards from young men bent on affixing their attention with the sisters. She informed Cecy of this exultantly over the breakfast table, but the poor creature was uninterested, picking drippily at her toast.
‘I should be reading Plato,’ she moaned disconsolately in response. ‘Or observing the work of great artists – meanwhile all you have me do is escort you to silly parties.’
‘My greatest sympathies, Cecily,’ Kitty said. ‘But how, pray, do you plan to feed yourself after a day spent reading philosophy? I don’t believe it generates money, but then I cannot pretend to understand it wholly.’
No sooner had Sally packed away the breakfast table than she was returning to inform them that a young gentleman was at the door, requesting entrance.
‘Send him in,’ Miss Talbot said at once, seating herself primly upon the settee. She breathed in, vowing to keep her mind open, her eye discerning, and her mouth set into a smile. First came the unfortunate Mr Tavistock (three thousand a year, as Aunt Dorothy had gleaned from a delightfully indiscreet Lady Montagu) who began by complimenting Kitty upon her sapphire blue eyes. This precipitated an awkward moment where they were both reminded that Kitty’s eyes were, in fact, brown, an awkwardness from which they did not recover. Then came Mr Simmons (four thousand a year) who, with his chin held uncomfortably close to his neck, endeavoured to disagree with everything Kitty said, even down to her (very accurate) description of the day’s weather. Worst was Mr Leonard, who called for Cecily, and opened the conversation with a compliment so oily Kitty was surprised grease did not drip from his lips.
‘Does it get tiring, being the most beautiful woman in every room?’ he whispered to her unctuously, causing a quite visible shiver of revulsion to run down Cecily’s back.
Kitty felt no qualms about dispatching this man very promptly – Cecily was not to be bothered by men such as that, and all the gentlemen who called for her younger sister in Mr Leonard’s wake were watched very closely. Among the callers, Kitty’s favourite was undoubtedly Mr Stanfield. It would be a mistake of the gravest degree, she knew, to develop genuine romantic feelings for any suitor, and yet she could see even now how very easy it would be to fall into such a trap with this gentleman. Having spoken with Mr Stanfield at length the night before and been impressed by the deft way he handled a conversation, she was pleased to see him enter Aunt Dorothy’s parlour.
Dispensing with the overly complimentary behaviour so preferred by his contemporaries, he merely bowed his head silently over her hand, giving her a leisurely grin, and holding her eyes for what felt like hours. He looked every inch the classic London gentleman – complete with a pristinely starched white shirt, elegantly tied neckcloth, and fine beaver hat clasped in hand – but when he smiled he revealed a rascally handsome face, like a charming pickpocket.
‘You must tell me of Dorsetshire,’ he was saying now as he seated himself gracefully beside her, holding her gaze – he did this, a lot, it seemed – ‘for I hear it is quite beautiful.’
‘It is,’ she was pleased enough to confirm, describing her home to him happily. He listened and asked questions (which should not, she knew, be such an outstanding proof of character, and yet it was, for there was not one other man amongst her admirers who had done so).
‘And are you accepting, in Dorsetshire, of city persons like myself?’ he asked, eyes snagging hers yet again. ‘Or do you cast us all out for being terribly useless?’
She was being flirted with, she perceived. It was most enjoyable. ‘I rather think that would depend upon the person,’ she said archly. ‘Do you have any skills other than cravat-tying and gambling?’
He laughed. Mr Pemberton was announced by a scowling Sally – who was quite sick already of the extra work these gentlemen were causing – and Mr Stanfield relinquished his post reluctantly.
‘Will I see you at Almack’s this week?’ he asked her. Kitty hesitated. Almack’s Assembly Rooms was the most exclusive venue in the whole of London. Her father had even attended on occasion, she knew, and he had dubbed it – as it seemed every member of the ton also did – the marriage mart. Kitty knew its hallowed halls opened every Wednesday night, and that one could only attend with a voucher of invitation – but she had not yet got to the bottom of how exactly one was invited. Yet another thing that might have been different, had Mr Talbot’s family not seen fit to banish her parents so thoroughly.
‘Not this week,’ she answered evasively.
He nodded, but there was a slight hesitation in his eyes and Kitty cursed inwardly. It was a mark against her, she knew. As an unknown in society, an invitation to Almack’s would have assured Kitty’s suitors of her quality – the absence of a voucher would be noted.