The King's Doll Read online

  Tiri could not have cared less for her new gown except that she hoped it would please His Grace. She was forced to admit that she had fallen wholeheartedly for the green-eyed Englishman, and that her day revolved around any meeting with him, or even a message when he could not attend upon the ladies at Mall House. The dizzying delight of the waltzing lesson had not been repeated; partly because of the demands that the seamstresses had made upon the ladies, and partly, as a hasty note explained to Tiri, because an unexpected summons of an undisclosed nature had made it impossible for him to wait upon the ladies until the morning of the soirée—at which time he hoped he might be permitted to take Mademoiselle de Granville for a refreshing spin through the park in his new phaeton. It was signed, “Yours, Daral;” a quite mundane and conventional signature that had Tiri's seventeen-year-old heart beating joyously.

  CHAPTER 12

  Only one incident marred the busy period before the Prince's musical evening. The Duchess was summoned down to her drawing room to meet two visitors—her cousin Amelia and the latter's daughter.

  After the rather strained attitudes with which they had parted, Lady Letitia was surprised to find her old crony in attendance upon her that afternoon. In fact, she had at first considered denying herself to the visitors—as she had already done to two gabble-mongers who had called earlier—but the memories of long friendship were more influential than the suspicions generated by Daral's comments upon the ladies. She came down prepared to chat for a moment and then excuse herself with a plea of the demands of her dressmaker—a rather satisfying excuse considering the critical opinion that her cousin held concerning Letitia's taste in clothing.

  To her surprise, the two women were all smiles, and even had a small gift of a jet necklace for Letitia to wear to the soirée. “It belonged to my mama,” breathed Lady Amelia with what Letitia recognized as a rather affected manner, especially since her cousin's mother had been an old harridan no one had liked. “It should be suitable for your black satin,” added Amelia in an attempt to find out what her cousin intended to wear.

  It became clear to Letitia that Amelia was reconsidering her behavior toward her cousin in the light of the startling new notice being paid her by the Royals. First the Presentation, then the visit of Princess Mary to take the French girl out in her carriage, and now the invitation to one of the Prince of Wales's notorious parties. Of course there would be nothing like that, she had assured Lady Bridget. Prinny's musical evenings were famous for the elegance and decorum which prevailed at them, but of course his well-known predilection to serve too much food and drink amidst too exotic decorations was equally well known.

  Bridget had not been willing to forgive the slights she imagined the Duke and his guests had put upon her. She had almost to be dragged to Mall House, and she predicted a dire set-down or, at least, a lack of welcome from her Mama's proposed hostess.

  In the event, Lady Letitia was pleasant enough and was too busy to recall old wounds; her mind was filled with the delicious thoughts of her modish costume and the proposed maquillage. She did retain enough caution to refrain from describing these delights to her old friend, who, she was well aware, would make short work of them. When she excused herself after a bare fifteen minutes of constrained conversation, Lady Bridget could not resist a final barb.

  “Has the Prince made your older guest an offer yet, Cousin Letitia? I understand the clubs are buzzing with wagers as to when he will set her up in a cozy little maisonette! Well, that will get her off your hands, at any rate!"

  “Bridget!” said her mama in awful tones that did not hide the spark of avid interest in her eyes.

  Lady Letitia, who might have joined in their censure of the Frenchwoman a few days earlier, or at least whispered over a few salacious details, now felt an unaccustomed surge of loyalty for the little female who was working cheerfully to make her look more attractive. It gave her pleasure to say, repressively, “Madame la Comtesse has behaved with perfect propriety while in my house, Bridget! I cannot think where you pick up these gutter rumors! Perhaps your mama should advise you as to the unpleasant light such comments cast upon your own sense of decorum!"

  Infuriated by this reproof, yet unable to argue the matter, the two visitors took their leave with even less than their usual civility.

  As they entered their carriage, Bridget sneered, “Well, Mama, you wasted the jet necklace! I hope you are satisfied!"

  “Certainly not with your behavior! No wonder you lost Daral!” This last comment silenced both the ladies.

  The Duchess went back upstairs to the dressmaking activity and felt in warmer charity with her French guests than at any time since their arrival. When she showed the jet necklace to Dani, the Frenchwoman regarded it carefully. Then she said, exercising a tact well learned in French aristocratic circles, “It is a very charming piece, Lady Letitia, and will complement that gray morning gown that I have seen you wear. But for tomorrow night, something more impressive of your own, don't you agree? The emerald parure you wore to the Presentation? It will look splendid with the softer, light green of the velvet, and it is a most striking tribute to the Lansdale green eyes."

  “They are a Mall characteristic,” corrected Lady Letitia, but her heart was not in the rebuke. This Dani was a witch! She had almost forced Lady Letitia into a friendship—a dependence that might end disastrously, but which offered a comfort the Englishwoman had never experienced before.

  CHAPTER 13

  The day of Prinny's soiree dawned. While the two Frenchwomen were still enjoying coffee in their rooms, Fallow came up to present a box to Dani. The maid who accepted it and brought it to Dani was clearly agog. Flowers in bouquets, flowers in armloads, flowers in posies—all had been delivered to this glamorous little Frenchwoman with the real golden hair; never before had she received a small florist's box containing a single dark red rose.

  There was no card.

  Dani kept her countenance until the maid had left, and then said to Tiri on a sob, “Why?"

  “He loves you,” comforted her daughter. “You will just have to trust him, I think."

  “But he left me without a word ... an explanation ... a promise to return!” said Dani forlornly. “He has never even said he loves me!"

  “Perhaps that is not so easy for an Englishman to say—if it is true,” comforted Tiri with a wisdom beyond her years. “Perhaps it is easier to say if they don't mean it?"

  Dani uttered a watery chuckle. “You have reason, my little one. I should be glad that a too-facile flattery is not part of Hilary's nature, I suppose, but, oh! Tiri—!” She could not continue.

  Tiri distracted her mother's gloomy thoughts with a question as to the suitability of the slippers she had chosen for the evening's concert. The gown that had been made for the French girl was an exquisite one: It was really very simple, taking its style from the gentle, almost virginal drape of the soft apricot silk which flattered Tiri's red gold locks. It was a young girl's dress, without artifice or decoration. The bodice was modestly heart-shaped above her swelling breasts. A wide sash bound it close at the girl's narrow waist, the ties falling to the hem at the back. Slippers of bronze kid peeped out beneath the skirt. Her only ornament was the sapphire bracelet the Duke had given her, which she insisted upon wearing. Dani wore her diamond parure. Her hair was powdered with a new, grayish talcum called French chalk.

  The great triumph was the Duchess. Dani had hurried through her own toilette in order to superintend the dressing and painting of her hostess. Lady Letitia's dresser, the most envied servant at Mall House, was the only person permitted in to behold the Mysteries. First Dani carefully coiffed the hair, which the dresser, at her orders, had washed early in the day. The Duchess's own hair was, in its natural state, a depressing iron gray, so Dani was quite reconciled to powdering it. The style she had chosen was a flattering one, softer about the face than Lady Letitia usually wore, and partly covering her large ears. When the hair was powdered, Dani removed the cape and motioned fo
r the new dress. This was slipped over the Duchess's head with great care not to ruffle the coiffure. Then, staring hard at the Duchess figure, Dani asked her to turn slowly. Duchess and dresser held their breath under that ruthless scrutiny.

  Dani nodded sharply. “Excellent! The color brings out your eyes, and the style is flattering yet dignified."

  Letitia craned to glimpse herself in the mirror, but was told quite sharply to stand still. Dani made some minor adjustments to the waist. Then, still solemn, she ordered the Duchess to reseat herself at the dressing table and brought out a small black leather case.

  The dresser's eyes nearly popped out of her head as Dani opened the case and brought out several small pots and bottles. Then the serious work of the evening began. A softly flowing deep cream liquid was smoothed gently onto the Duchess's face. This was followed by a blush of pinky brown paste, most of which, the dresser thought, was wiped off. Still, what remained gave Her Grace's skin a bloom that it had lacked for many years. Then a soft green powder was rubbed in above the green eyes, which made them suddenly important, even striking. Finally a brownish red liquid was brushed onto the Duchess's lips.

  “Do not move so much as an eyelash!” Dani warned. “We must allow these various lotions and pastes to dry, lest they become smudged, and the whole to be done over!"

  The Duchess did not even dare to reply. Instead she faced herself in the mirror—and her mouth sagged slightly. She could not believe that this handsome—even pretty?—woman who stared back at her out of a rosy face with such dazzling green eyes could be Lady Letitia Mall. Why, her mind wailed silently, did I not know these tricks earlier?

  Dani was viewing her creation with satisfaction. “You do me proud,” she said sincerely. “I have an idea there will be heads turning and eyes opening tonight at Carlton House!"

  “May I speak?” asked Letitia, through carefully rigid lips.

  “Yes,” answered Dani. “You should be dry now."

  “Thank you,” said the Duchess of Lansdale.

  The dresser was staring openmouthed and goggle-eyed.

  “You may close your mouth, Perkin,” said Lady Letitia kindly. It was the first time Dani had heard the dresser's name.

  “I cannot wait to see the Duke's expression when he sees you.” The Frenchwoman grinned.

  “Nor can I,” agreed his mother, a touch grimly. “He will not know me."

  Dani thrust to the heart of the matter. “It is a chance for a new beginning,” she said softly. “Forgive me if I am wrong, but I believe you are in greater charity with your son recently."

  Old habits die hard. Lady Letitia cast a wary look at the Frenchwoman, as if to ask what there might be in such a reconciliation for her. But she did not say it. Instead she smiled ruefully.

  “If I changed too suddenly, Daral might have a seizure,” was all she said.

  It is to be recorded that the Duke of Lansdale did not recognize his mother in the first glimpse he got of the three ladies moving toward him down the dark stairway at Mall House. Almost at once, however, he knew her, although his eyes remained on her face for a long incredulous moment, and then swept down the tall figure with growing admiration.

  “My compliments,” he said sincerely and bowed over her hand.

  Lady Letitia smiled. She was almost afraid to disturb the attractive mask that was her face, although Dani had assured her that it was uncrackable. “It is not hard, like so many of your countrywomen wear,” she had explained. “This is a softer, more flexible—is that the word I wish?—maquillage."

  Gaining confidence by the minute, Lady Letitia turned to her guests. “You have not yet greeted Madame Dani and Tiri,” she said more gently than Daral had heard her speak.

  His admiring look swept over the two Frenchwomen. "Ravissante," he breathed; there was a grin on his lips and a challenge in his eyes. He kissed both white hands, even Tiri's, although she was not a married lady. Yet, his eyes told her as he raised his powdered head from her hand. Then, as though compelled, he faced his mama again.

  “I had not remembered—your green eyes,” he murmured.

  “You got yours from my side of the family,” his mother told him, but her smile was open.

  It was a happy party that was driven through the London streets to Carlton House in the Duke's luxurious carriage.

  Dani wore a single dark red rose at the corsage of her silver purple gown.

  Disaster struck part way through the evening.

  The first half of the concert was ended, to most of the guests’ undisguised relief, and servants in ornate costumes were circulating among the groups with laden trays of wine, when the Prince of Wales approached the small group that consisted of the Duke and Duchess, Dani and Tiri. He was beaming proudly and was flanked on either side by a modishly dressed gentleman. At his loudly friendly greeting, all of the Duke's party turned to make their bows to His Highness.

  Dani's smile froze into a grimace of shock. One of the gentlemen at the Prince's side was Sir Hilary. The other, darkly formal, with heavy maquillage and a small black patch beside his thin lips, was the Most Noble, the Marquis de Bayard, Councillor to King Louis and close friend of the Queen! This nobleman was regarding Dani with equal shock and revulsion; Sir Hilary was suddenly very tense and frowning; the Lansdales were puzzled at the obvious contempt with which the narrow-eyed Marquis scrutinized Dani. Only the Prince of Wales seemed quite unaffected by the unpleasant tension in the air. George, Prince of Wales, not yet thirty and still a handsome man with a deep craving to be loved by everyone, beamed at his guests, nodded benignly at the Duke and his mother, and said graciously to the latter, “You are in rare bloom this evening, Lady Letitia! Handel's music is magnificent, is it not? I hope you are enjoying the concert!"

  Then he addressed himself to Dani, whom he had been eyeing covertly while addressing the others—a rare ripe armful, he was thinking—"I have brought a countryman of yours to greet you, my dear Countess! May I present the Marquis de Bayard?"

  “I think not, Your Highness,” said de Bayard so clearly that everyone in the vicinity could hear him. There had naturally been many eyes upon the Prince as he walked among his guests, and there had been conjectures as to the identity of the two men who accompanied him. Now it was avidly noted that the lavishly overdressed French nobleman had not, after that first damning glare, looked at Dani. He spoke again.

  “This—lady is aware of my reluctance to be presented to her, and of my reasons for it. I beg Your Highness will excuse me!"

  There was a gasp as the haughty Frenchman, perhaps fatally ignorant of Prince George's painful sensitivity to slights, walked away from the man from whose family he had come to seek help for the King of France. The careless act of lese majesty startled even Sir Hilary, who knew more about what was happening than did anyone else in the great salon.

  The Marquis caught Sir Hilary's frown. “Shall we return to our places, McGregor? I would not wish to miss the rest of this splendid concert.” This last comment was directed toward the Prince, with a finicking bow and the flourish of a scented lace kerchief.

  The musicians were already tuning up on their platform. Sir Hilary looked at the Prince, who nodded slightly. Then Sir Hilary's eyes went to Dani; he gave her one intent, unsmiling look, then he turned his gaze toward the Prince. George was glancing after the retreating back of the Marquis. Now he focused his slightly protruberant eyes upon the set face and the gallantly concealed discomfiture of the lovely little French Countess.

  George's brain was buzzing with conjecture. The cut was direct, by gad! Could the woman be an impostor? No, Sir Hilary had investigated her thoroughly at Pitt's request. She had been Louis's mistress. That thought had amused the Prince as he watched his straitlaced parents welcome her and her pretty daughter. But she had also undoubtedly been married to the ‘Sieur de Granville, and no breath of scandal had touched her until some time after his death. Why, then, the Prince asked himself, did the Marquis, forgetting his duty to his royal host, refuse even t
o acknowledge the introduction? In an instant George had his answer.

  The Marquis de Bayard was one of the French Queen's most devoted adherents! Therefore he would be sufficiently contemptuous of one of King Louis's discarded mistresses to refuse, with the rigid arrogance of his caste, even to accept an introduction to the woman. The Marquis's disgust at the confrontation had overcome even his necessity to show respect for a member of the Royal Family from whom he had come to seek help. He sees us as Farmer George and his brood, thought the Prince with a throb of anger. The crude German upstarts! It gave the Prince some satisfaction to know that the haughty Gallic nobleman was more than likely to be forced to return to his rebellion-torn country empty-handed. Let him try to convince the Old Man of anything! the Prince thought. I have never managed it, and I am his son and heir!

  George, who was bright enough about some things, foresaw both an advantage and a way out of a difficulty for himself, in the situation. If de Bayard were to spread scandalous rumors about the Countess, the King and Queen would at once terminate the friendship between the Princess Mary and Therese de Granville. When this news got about, the Countess would be given the cold shoulder everywhere in Polite Society. She would probably be sent packing by the old Lansdale female. The better chance then that the Countess would look with favor upon a flattering offer from the heir to the throne! An advantage, surely!

  The way out of his present difficulty had been handed to him on a platter, Prinny thought gleefully. He was jealous of his own consequence, having been schooled and put down and galled beyond bearing by his father's fussy and unrealistic ideas on the proper rearing of a Royal Prince. The sneering discourtesy of the Marquis toward one who was his host as well as a Prince royal had been an affront to the very person from whom the Marquis sought help for his own wretched monarch. The Prince of Wales smiled widely. The fellow had given him a perfect excuse to refuse! Anyone who had heard the Marquis's scathing comment, and seen him deliberately walk away from the Prince of Wales, would know he had forfeited any chance of assistance from his host.