Mistress in the Regency Ballroom: The Rake's Unconventional Mistress / Marrying the Mistress. Juliet Landon

My lady mother is on Hatchett’s subscription list, but she wants extra copies to give to her friends. They’re very scarce. Where does Bart get his from?’

      ‘From Lake the publisher. He’s almost sold out of the first edition, apparently, but we’ve known him for years.’

      ‘Ah! That explains it.’

      ‘Explains what?’

      ‘Why I saw Bart leaving the Mercury Press this morning.’

      ‘Oh, did you? Well, he brought me this yesterday.’ She tapped the book. ‘It’s his own copy, given him by the author. Perhaps he was there on some business for her.’

      ‘He knows the author? So it is a woman, then?’

      ‘Oh, yes, he knows her well. He meets Lake on her behalf. A young lady cannot go there on her own, can she? Bart’s done all her business transactions with Lake from the very first book. He gets to read it, then he passes it on to me. Am I not fortunate? I doubt I could wait any longer.’

      ‘Is that so?’

      ‘Oh, I’ve pestered him for ages to hurry up and—’

      ‘No, I meant about the author being a young lady. Does she live in Richmond, near Bart?’

      ‘It may be that she does, but I’m not too familiar with who lives there, so I don’t really know, and he refuses to tell me any more except that she’s earning quite an income from these.’ Again, she tapped Volume One, leather-bound and gold-tooled. ‘Mind you,’ she continued, ‘I have no doubt that Lake is doing very nicely out of it. He’s unlikely to be offering her the kind of deal he’d offer a man, even if she is more popular.’

      ‘But isn’t that why the author has Bart to act for her?’

      She smiled her indulgent, motherly smile. ‘Of course. But you know what dear Bart’s like, don’t you? He was never the forceful kind, was he?’

      ‘No, my lady.’

      The sounds of the late afternoon passed them by with a shower of dandelion clocks, as they thought about Mr Waverley’s many fine qualities, of which forcefulness was not one. ‘Will he ever marry, do you think?’ said Rayne, gently.

      The shake of Lady Waverley’s head would easily have been missed, had Rayne not been watching for it. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Shouldn’t think so, Seton. Marriage is not for Bart’s kind, is it?’

      ‘It’s not unknown, my lady.’

      ‘But it rarely works. Best to stay single. He’s happy enough.’

      ‘He’d make a wonderful father.’

      Lady Waverley took that as the compliment it was meant to be, and said no more on the delicate subject. Rayne, however, returned to the young lady author. ‘A Lady of Quality, I believe she calls herself,’ he said, smoothing a hand over his helmet’s glossy fur. ‘So I suppose I must not ask if you know the identity of this mysterious wealthy young woman.’

      ‘Only Bart himself knows that, and he’d not dream of breaking a confidence, not even to his mother. Mr Lake knows her only as a certain Miss Lydia Barlowe, but that must be a nom de plume. No lady of quality ever had such a common name.’

      Rayne bellowed with laughter. ‘Lady Waverley, I do believe you’re a snob,’ he teased.

      She agreed, smiling at the notion. ‘Yes, dear, I believe I am. It’s one of the few allowances left to a woman of my age. That, and being able to sit and talk to a man like you, alone, without being suspected of flirting.’

      ‘And if I were not so afraid of being called out by your son, I would indulge in some serious flirting with you, my lady.’

      The smiling face tipped towards him. ‘Does Bart go in for…for calling men out?’

      ‘Duelling? Not by choice, I don’t suppose. But if you’re asking if he’s well enough equipped to protect himself, then, yes, he certainly is. He could do some damage with pistol, rapier and gloves, too. And the young lady writer, whoever she is, has chosen an excellent business partner, with Bart’s head for accounts.’

      ‘It’s pity he won’t be offering for her. Even if she is a commoner.’

      Rayne smiled, which Lady Waverley took for sympathy, but which was, in fact, nothing of the sort. Lydia Barlowe. L.B. How careless of her, he thought. How endearingly, wonderfully careless.

      Letitia’s proposal to visit Strawberry Hill House at Twickenham, just across the river from Richmond, had an ulterior motive that no one but Mr Waverley could be expected to guess, for it was where Mr Horace Walpole had written, in 1764, his famous Gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto. Others, including Letitia, were to follow this trend, literally, while readers made pilgrimages to the amazing house-cum-castle he had built to satisfy his every Gothic whim. No serious romantic novelist could afford to miss such a place with its towers and turrets, chapel, cloisters and chambers littered with historic curios.

      The great man himself, son of a Prime Minister, had died seventeen years ago and now it was possible for visitors to look round by arrangement with the housekeeper, a favour that Letitia had gone to some trouble to secure for her party of pupils, tutors and chaperons. She was not inclined to hurry through the rooms, having made it so far with notebook and pencil, sketching and scribbling as they were shown into the long gallery, the library, past carved screens, mock-tombs and suits of medieval armour, gloomy portraits and up winding spooky staircases.

      Miss Sapphire Melborough, however, having other things on her mind, had soon seen enough of Strawberry Hill and was incautious enough to enquire of Mrs Quayle, in an undertone bordering on despair, how much longer they might be stuck here. She had asked the wrong person, for Mrs Quayle was thoroughly enjoying herself despite the appropriate melancholic expression. She passed on the plaintive query to Letitia, which Sapphire had neither wanted nor expected her to do.

      ‘Why? Who wants to know?’ said Letitia.

      ‘Miss Sapphire. She’s had enough.’

      ‘If it’s her ankle, she can rest on the bench over there and wait.’

      ‘I don’t think it’s her ankle, Letitia.’

      Beckoning to her pupil, Letitia noted the pouting rosebud mouth. ‘What is it, Sapphire? We’re only halfway round. There’s much more to see.’

      ‘But I…well, you see…’ Pulling in her bottom lip, she nibbled at it.

      ‘See what?Are you unwell? Do you wish Mrs Quayle to…?’

      ‘No, Miss Boyce, only that I expected to be home by now because Lord Rayne is to bring my new horse and give me my first lesson on it. I’m afraid I shall miss it if I stay here much longer.’

      ‘Sapphire, I made it clear three days ago that on Friday we’d be having an extended visit. If you forgot to tell your parents, that is your responsibility. My claim on your time takes priority, I’m afraid, and when we’ve concluded our visit here, we shall be taking tea at the tea gardens in Twickenham. I told you that, too, if you recall. You’ll have to have your riding lesson tomorrow instead, won’t you?’

      Sapphire could not stifle the sigh. ‘Yes, Miss Boyce. But Lord Rayne will not be pleased to be kept waiting.’

      ‘Lord Rayne’s displeasure is not my concern, Sapphire. You’ll be writing an account in your journal of this visit next week, so I suggest you pay attention to what you’re seeing.’ Or not seeing. As if I care a fig about Lord Rayne’s arrangements.

      The cream tea at Church Street’s sunny tea garden could not be hurried any more than the tour of the house, so it was past time for dinner when the carriages arrived back at Paradise Road after taking the day girls home. Letitia did not go up to Richmond Hill House with Sapphire, having no wish to hear about the missed riding lesson.

      There was