Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1) Read online

  Her Fateful Debut

  A Regency Romance

  by

  G.G. Vandagriff

  Copyright © 2016 G.G. Vandagriff

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Orson Whitney Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Carol Fiorillo

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  The Orson Whitney Press

  Chapter One

  Spring 1813

  Miss Penelope Swinton was not at all certain she liked London. As she sat on a bench sketching a group of three gentlemen conversing near her in Green Park, she considered the matter. It was a chilly morning, sadly lacking in birdsong, and she was glad she had worn her pelisse. She had chosen to sit on a bench next to a blooming lilac, and the scent transported her to Beeches, her beloved home in the country.

  She was acquainted with all the gentlemen living in Northamptonshire, and this peculiar trio would never be seen there. Penelope had to admit the sight was a bit thrilling.

  They were just far enough away that she could not discover what matter they were discussing so earnestly. The tallest man was wearing scarlet regimentals—undoubtedly an officer in the army. Penelope had never known an officer and found his uniform suitably dashing, if its wearer somewhat old. Possibly forty, she thought.

  Then there was the man of medium height dressed in a lavender coat and trousers set off by a paisley purple and lavender waistcoat. Undeniably handsome, he punctuated his words with the quizzing glass in his hand. She supposed he must be a dandy, though she had never seen such a phenomenon. To do him justice in her drawing, she really needed colored chalks rather than charcoal.

  The third man puzzled her. He appeared frail and wizened, dressed all in black except for foaming lace at his neck like that of a Georgian gentleman. As he gesticulated wildly with his hands, Penelope thought that possibly he was French, though she did not know what gave her that idea.

  Aside from this mysterious trio, her maid, and her toffee-colored Pembroke corgi, Wordsworth, there was not another soul in the park to be seen. Though it was eight o’clock in the morning, the rest of Mayfair appeared to be sleeping still. On her father’s estate, everyone would have been up for hours, engaged in morning chores.

  She had only been here a day, but already she could tally up endless differences between London and Northampton—the closest town of any size to her father’s estate. In fact, she felt herself to be a minnow in a large pond, and she did not like the feeling at all. But she simply could not have stayed home and married Tom. It was out of the question. He was like a brother to her. And none of the other eligible young men she had likewise known were at all appealing. Assuming she wanted to marry someday, her only choice had been to leave the Midlands and come to London to do the Season with her Aunt Clarice.

  Penelope was entirely absorbed in her sketch when suddenly it was whisked from her hands. The man she thought to be French studied it, his eyebrows raised to his hairline.

  “Sacré mère!”

  With that, he ripped out all her sketches, tore the entire stack into quarters and, throwing it upon the ground, stamped on it. Wordsworth barked madly from his leashed position by the boxwood hedge, while Penelope was speechless at the wanton destruction.

  The officer came over and took the Frenchman by the arm. “Monsieur Devereaux, apologize to this young lady at once! We do not act in such ways in this country!”

  Strolling toward them, the dandy inquired, “What seems to be the problem here?”

  “Thees young lady, she was taking my likeness!” protested the Frenchman.

  Penelope stood with her fists clenched and her eyes narrowed. “You had only to ask and I would have given you the sketch! There was no call to act in that extreme manner, monsieur. You ruined not only that sketch, but all of them. They mean little to anyone but me, but they represent weeks of work.”

  “You are . . . impudent! I will know your name!” the Frenchman said, fury in his eyes.

  “I do not care to share my identity with you, sir. I have no idea who you are and do not care to.” She gathered the remains of her sketches from the ground and clutched them to her bosom.

  “I cannot allow you to take those . . . those papers,” the Frenchman protested.

  He made a move to grab them, but the military gentleman grasped his arm and she jerked herself out of the Frenchman’s reach. Flipping through the torn papers, she found the four quarters of the sketch she had made of the three men. Penelope thrust them at him and said, “Here is your precious likeness. Now please go away!”

  Taking the papers, he gave her a fiery look, and turning on his heel, stalked off toward the park gates, peering about as though expecting to see something or someone. Surely the fellow was mad as a hatter.

  The uniformed man bowed his head and said, “I beg your pardon, miss. He is very excitable. I must go after him.”

  The dandy was regarding her with a stern eye. “Where is your chaperone? It is very odd to find a young woman of your breeding sketching alone before breakfast.”

  “My maid accompanies me. She is there.” Penelope nodded towards the boxwood hedge where Watkins was using all her wits to keep Wordsworth from chasing the Frenchman. “As for the hour, it is certainly none of your concern, but I am an early riser.” She looked in the direction in which the other men had disappeared, angry tears forming in her eyes. “There were some very good sketches there. In particular, one of my friend’s tortoise eating his breakfast strawberries. And I had begun a charcoal study of the beetle collection. Your friend is certainly no gentleman.”

  “One must make allowances. He is French.” The dandy was unbending. “Now, lest he make a nuisance of himself, I propose that I walk you home.” He offered his arm.

  She squared her shoulders with as much hauteur as she possessed. It occurred to her on closer inspection, that the man really was exceedingly handsome with his square jaw, high cheekbones, and lapis blue eyes. A twitch of irritation worked in his cheek.

  “I do not know you, sir. My maid, my dog, and I can make our way home perfectly well.”

  A sigh registered his impatience. “I am certain you can. But, though he does not look it, our man is dangerous. I do not know but that he may be lying in wait for you. He has fairly desperate reasons for remaining anonymous. And your little dog is certainly no protection.”

  “I may be from the country, sir, but I am a lady and used to common politeness. It is most ill-bred of you to stand by and allow me to be treated in such a way and, on top of that, to address me thus. All without introduction.”

  Surprise chased the stern look from his wintry eyes as his brows rose. Bowing from the waist, he said, “I sincerely beg your pardon, miss. You see before you Lord Winston Saunders, Viscount Wellingham, known among the ton simply as Beau.”

  Inclining her head, she said, “I am Miss Penelope Swinton. No doubt you are acquainted with my aunt, Lady Clarice Manton, of Blossom House. I reside with her at present.”

  His face relaxed into a smile, lightening his entire appearance. It took her breath away. “Ah! Lady Clarice,” he said. “The tortoise in your drawing. Of course. How is Henry Five? And her Siamese? Queen Elizabeth, is it? Your aunt will tell you that I am no villain.”
r />   “The pets are well, thank you. As is my aunt.”

  “Now, come along. Call your maid and take my arm. I will escort you to Blossom House. No harm shall come to you. I have a sister only a bit younger than you.”

  Only because she was a little frightened of the erratic Frenchman did she motion for Watkins and Wordsworth to follow and at last took his arm. To her surprise, it was solid and muscular. This man was no effeminate fop. Only a sportsman would possess such a muscular arm. Why did he dress in such a peculiar manner?

  An unanticipated thrill passed through her, making her heart race. Never in her life had she experienced such a pleasing sensation.

  “If the Frenchman is so dangerous,” she said as they walked through the park gates, “why do you consort with him?”

  “I am afraid I cannot reveal that, Miss Swinton. It is a matter of State.”

  Irked, she said the first thing that came into her head. “Then I must assume that he is a spy for Napoleon and that you are selling secrets to him.”

  She fully expected him to laugh at her imagination. To her surprise, his arm grew rigid under her hand. “Confound it! Why did you choose this morning of all times to sketch in the park?”

  Alarmed, she stopped and removed her arm from his, shivering. “Am I in danger from you as well?” she asked, trying to sound braver than she felt. Treason was a hanging offense. What had she stumbled upon?

  “We are not going to discuss this in passing on a London street,” he said. “I mean you no harm. However, I see that I must take you into my confidence. We shall wait until we are in the company of your good aunt.” He reached for her arm again.

  Pulling away, Penelope said, “I shall walk on my own, thank you. I have been doing so for a good many years.”

  “Are you always so difficult?”

  “Invariably. But I have never yet been in such dubious company.”

  Blossom House was not far away, and soon they were climbing the steps of the imposing house left to her Aunt Clarice by her late husband, Lord Frederick Manton. Her butler opened the door.

  “Where is my aunt, Pursley?”

  “She is breakfasting with Miss Braithwaite, miss.”

  “Please show Lord Wellingham to the sitting room for gentlemen callers. I shall go speak with my aunt.”

  Penelope found her Aunt Clarice in the yellow breakfast room that overlooked her colorful garden of spring snapdragons, zinnias, and dahlias. She was reading her post while eating a coddled egg and toast. Her companion, the venerable Miss Sukey Braithwaite, was studying The Morning Post.

  “Oh, there you are, my dear. Pursley said you left early to sketch in the park.”

  “Yes. And had a dreadful experience. A Viscount Wellingham saw me home, and he wishes to speak with you.” She lowered her voice. “I fear he is a traitor, Aunt. I saw him speaking to a man I am almost certain was a French spy.” She related what had become of her sketchbook. “Pursley has put Lord Wellingham in the sitting room for gentleman callers.”

  “Beau, a traitor?” asked Miss Sukey, her iron gray ringlets aquiver. “Not likely, my dear. He does odds and ends for the Foreign Office. It is likely you got caught up in one of them.”

  Relief assailed her. She had not quite been able to believe such a thing of him, but what other explanation had there been? “Then I am anxious to hear his interpretation of events.”

  Her aunt rose and scooped up Queen Elizabeth, her fat Siamese cat, who had been sitting patiently at her feet. “Come with me, dearest, and you will have it, I promise.”

  Lord Wellingham was pacing in front of the fire in the dark blue, nautically themed room, his face creased in a frown. At his feet sat the tortoise, Henry Five, his neck stretched out as he studied the visitor’s gleaming Hessian boots.

  “Good morning, Beau. What is this muddle you have got my niece into?”

  He bowed shortly. “Lady Clarice. Good morning. It is a muddle, indeed. She has seen the face of a dangerous enemy spy, and he is not happy about it.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Penelope could no longer restrain her curiosity. “What were you doing speaking to an enemy spy?”

  He fixed her with a hard look. “I am counting on you ladies to have the highest degree of discretion in this matter. Were Miss Swinton not in danger, I would not be telling you what I am about to explain.”

  Penelope’s eyes grew round, and her heart sped up. “You really think I am in danger from that melodramatic little Frenchman? Surely you exaggerate!”

  “Unfortunately, I do not. You have happened upon a transaction that Monsieur Devereaux will do anything to keep secret.” Pausing, he joined his hands behind him, put his back to the fire, and fixed her with his piercing blue stare. “You see, he is what we refer to as a double agent. His country believes him to be spying for them, but in reality he is bringing us vital information about the French army. We use him to send false information back to the French. We gave him a choice: work with us or be hanged for treason. He is a cold-hearted fellow, and I suspect him of being a bit mad. As I said earlier, this is a State secret.”

  Penelope’s heart pounded as he continued, “What you need to understand is that there are other French spies here in this country. If it were to become known what he is really doing, he would be murdered by one of them in a trice. His situation is very dangerous, and that was why he reacted as he did at your sketch of the three of us. Any spy would know immediately that we were not the traitors. Most likely Devereaux thought you meant to sell it to the newspapers.”

  Aunt Clarice sat down, clutching her cat to her bosom. “This is most vexatious, Beau.”

  “I should send her home to the country if I were you. Just until the man is out of England.”

  Aunt Clarice’s forehead drew into a frown. “Just what sort of danger is she in? She is about to make her debut! We have a ball planned. Invitations have gone out.”

  “I cannot answer for Monsieur Devereaux. He has a hasty temper. He may do no more than threaten Miss Swinton, or he may do her harm.”

  Penelope was silent. The entire scenario seemed like a stage play. She could not really believe she was in any danger from the little Frenchman. It was surely absurd. And while it was true that she was not fond of London, she found she did not want to forgo her Season now that she was here.

  Fortunately, Aunt Clarice was a dauntless woman. Stroking her Siamese, she said, “I would not endanger Penelope. She will be in large companies of the ton. If we must, we shall hire a bodyguard for her so that she is never anywhere alone.” Penelope had never seen her aunt look anything close to haughty before, but Aunt Clarice continued imperiously, “I look to you to take care of that for us, Beau. I hold you responsible for this, after all. What were you doing meeting a spy in Green Park of all places?”

  “We have never run into problems there before. It was far too early for any normal person to be there. As a matter of fact, Devereaux fears closed spaces. He does not quite trust us not to murder him.”

  “What a charming relationship you share, to be sure,” Penelope said. His implication that she was not “normal” made her hackles rise.

  The dandy replied, “Relationships tend to be strained when they are forced under the threat of hanging.”

  “Oh,” Penelope said. “Well, I am certain I shall be perfectly safe if you procure a good bodyguard for me, your lordship.”

  He frowned, then shrugged. “I cannot afford to bring anyone else into this bumblebroth. I shall have to be your bodyguard.” To Penelope’s ears, he sounded vexed.

  “I could never impose upon you, my lord,” said Penelope, irritated. This wretched man and his activities had brought this state of affairs to pass. How dare he be cross with her! “I would not wish to be hovered over by someone who obviously holds me in such dislike.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said with half a smile and a short bow. “I think you uncommonly plucky, as a matter of fact. It is the circumstances that are worrisome.”

 
“It will cause a good deal of gossip if you are constantly seen about Town with my niece,” said Aunt Clarice.

  “Try to keep a sense of proportion, my lady. Gossip is the least of her worries at the moment.” He turned once again to Penelope. “What are your engagements today, Miss Swinton?”

  “She is to make her London debut appearance tonight at the Randolphs’ ball,” Aunt Clarice told him.

  “Then I will arrive at nine o’clock to escort both you ladies, if that is amenable to you.”

  “I suppose it will have to be,” said Aunt Clarice. “I hope you will not scare off her suitors.”

  “I shall try my best to be inconspicuous.”

  “My dear Beau,” said Aunt Clarice, “you are many things, but never inconspicuous.”

  “Until later, then.” He made a short bow. “I shall see myself out.”

  -P-

  When they were settled once more at the breakfast table, Penelope with several slices of bacon and some toast, her aunt said, “It is a good thing His Grace is coming to luncheon today. I mean to discuss this with him.”

  “I do not think Lord Wellingham would approve,” Penelope said, “but I admit, I think confiding in the Duke of Ruisdell would be a grand idea. Surely he can be trusted with a State secret.”

  Married to Penelope’s cousin Elise, the Duke of Ruisdell was the expert on any number of family affairs. Having dwelt her whole life in the country, Penelope knew Elise only slightly. Her cousin was a clever writer and a pianist of some excellence. The duke, Penelope knew not at all.

  These guests swept into the drawing room at one o’clock that afternoon, and all were very happy to see each other. Penelope curtseyed as she was introduced to the handsome duke. Though he was technically family, she was a bit overawed, nonetheless.

  He was resplendent in black with a pale blue waistcoat and snowy cravat. Elise wore a gown in a silk matching her husband’s waistcoat, showing to advantage her famous midnight blue eyes.