‘I will heat the water for baths, if you will excuse me.’ Garrick got to his feet, somehow back to gentleman’s gentleman again. ‘Do you require a bath, Mr James?’
‘No.’ He got up and swiped at his crumpled coat tails. ‘Thank you, Garrick. Shall I come here, Luc? Or will you pick me up?’
‘We’ll pick you up.’ Luc gave me a heavy-lidded look that I had no trouble interpreting. Bed then baths or baths and sex combined were what was on his mind.
I got up and headed for the door. ‘I’ll go to my room. See you later, James.’ I leant down as I passed Luc to murmur. ‘No time. Behave yourself.’
That provoked a rather stimulating growl. Perhaps we wouldn’t be too exhausted after our evening out.
The blue and silver ensemble with the diamonds got full approval from Luc, to the point where I thought for a few minutes that we weren’t going to make it out after all. I hoped I had a becoming hint of colour in my cheeks rather than a hectic blush after he’d kissed his way along the low neckline and done things with his tongue that had me tingling down to my toes, all in the time it took Garrick to find my evening cloak.
James did not appear to notice anything amiss when we collected him from his lodgings just around the corner and, with Garrick on the box and the three of us in our splendour inside, we rattled off to the reception.
I had done some reading when I had landed back in my own time and discovered, thanks to the realisation that there were other boxes waiting for me at the solicitors, that I must be coming back. I had found original books on etiquette on-line and a heap of modern guides to Georgian social life. The one thing I hadn’t managed was dancing classes because there wasn’t a group in my area that specialised in historical dance. I would just have to fall back on my fictitious lung infection and residual weakness if we attended any balls.
There was red carpet on the pavement, a blaze of torchieres outside and men holding back the gawpers who crowded round to see which nobs were attending.
‘We’ll be in the Society columns tomorrow,’ James said. ‘There will be footmen receiving tips to tell reporters who you are and there’ll be ladies inside earning pin money sending in descriptions of gowns – which will have to be smuggled out before they leave in order to reach the early editions.’
I am about to be papped, I thought. At least there’s no flash photography… It occurred to me, as I gathered my skirts together carefully before getting out, that I would be able to look up the newspapers on-line. It would be evidence in print that I really was here and not dreaming, although of course, the solicitor’s boxes were even harder evidence.
Why was I wondering about that now? Because Luc and I had become lovers and I was desperate to believe that this was real?
I stopped worrying when we finally arrived at the red carpet and the brothers jumped down to help me out with enough ceremony for a duchess. There was too much to remember – head up, shoulders back, small steps, smile graciously but not enthusiastically, lift skirts just enough to protect them, fingertips on Luc’s arm…
The place was already buzzing when we got through the front door. Ladies were greeting each other with double air-kisses and insincere-sounding cries of admiration for gowns or hair-dos. Footmen were directing people to cloak rooms and rushing out to find reticules and indoor shoes that had been left in carriages that were even now driving off, heading for side streets to await a summons hours later.
I was directed to the ladies’ room, deposited my cloak and fought my way to a mirror to check my hair and the state of my pink cheeks. I’d used a little mascara and a lightly tinted foundation, worrying that it might be noticed, but it was almost invisible compared with some of the rouge and eye-black I could see around me, at least on the married women. The unmarried girls in their white and pastel gowns were far more discreet.
Technically, I suppose, I should have been amongst the pastel brigade, but my fictitious status as a mysterious American distant cousin who was ‘out’ in Boston, seemed to make me acceptable in the guise of a young matron.
James and Luc were waiting for me when I emerged, the pair of them looking expensive, elegant and very masculine in their corbeau-blue tail coats and blinding white linen. I averted my gaze from the skin-tight knitted black silk evening breeches and remembered reading about one outspoken old dowager who approved of the fashion because, ‘It is nice to see what the young men are thinking about.’ Goodness knows where all the sheltered virgins were supposed to look. Perhaps that was the reason for the handsome waistcoats, to direct the eye upwards. James’s was tobacco brown shot through with gold thread, Luc’s was silver and black.
We joined the queue leading upstairs to the receiving line. ‘Remind me whose party this is,’ I whispered as we climbed one step at a time with me trying to keep
my skirts out from under other people’s feet.
‘Lady Pettigrew. Her husband’s a key supporter of the government.’
‘Whigs?’ I hazarded.
‘No, Tory, although heaven knows what the Prime Minister, the Duke of Portland, really is.’
I tried to remember which party was which. I have to confess I had been more diligent with my researches on social affairs and fashions than I had on politics. The Whigs were strong on a broad church and constitutional monarchy and were anti-slavery, I recalled, whereas the Tories were more monarchical and strictly Church of England, often High Church or even Catholic. Some harboured Jacobite sympathies. And that was about the extent of my knowledge.
‘Which are you?’ I asked in a murmur.
‘Whig,’ they said in unison, which was a relief, I decided.
I was introduced to Lord and Lady Pettigrew, managed to curtsy without falling on my behind and found myself in a crowded chamber big enough to be a ballroom.
We circulated, then James strolled off to join a group of young men and women who were laughing immoderately over something involving someone called Horace, a pig and a wager.
‘There’s one of our men,’ Luc said, nodding towards a middle-aged gentleman, tall, skinny, with greying hair and a long sharp nose. He looked alert and intelligent and not someone to suffer fools gladly. ‘Sir Thomas Reece.’ He began to angle towards the Under Secretary, then stopped. ‘Here’s a suitable bunch of ladies for you, I think.’
I watched with some admiration for the way he greeted several of the women who ranged in age from, I would guess, late forties down to two who might have been as young as seventeen. I was introduced and then incorporated into the group for interrogation, a curiosity to be politely filleted for every detail. Luc, mission accomplished, strolled off and, very casually, encountered Sir Thomas.
Then I was too busy fielding questions to see how he was faring. Yes, I was a distant cousin of Lord Radcliffe. Yes, I really was from Boston in the United States. No, I hadn’t been presented at Court, yes, England was very exciting and London was wonderful and as soon as I was fully well I intended exploring and going to the theatre and opera. Yes, I had hired a house, but I wasn’t receiving yet because my companion was laid low with an er – lowering of eyelids, mumbling – a feminine complaint.