Fate, apparently, had decided to shove Morgana forward. Her girls would go to Vauxhall, after all, and would practice for the coming day when they would leave her house and go to some gentleman’s bed.
Morgana told Cripps to have the trunk brought in to them. Barely had the two footmen set it down in the middle of the room than the girls begged to open it. They pulled out dress after dress of fine muslin and silk. Day dresses, evening gowns, walking dresses. Morgana had forgotten how many her new stepmother had insisted she purchase.
Katy squealed in delight as each one emerged from between layers of tissue paper. Rose took a deep wine-red gown and held it against herself. If such a thing were possible, her features shone even more beautifully with its rich colour. Mary fingered a pale blue muslin, a shade as soft as her voice. Lucy held back, but Morgana handed her a pink confection and made her slip it over her plain grey dress, transforming her into as fresh and innocent a miss as had ever had her come-out.
‘We have the dresses, Miss Hart. Do we go to Vauxhall or not?’ Katy stood hands on hips, ready for battle.
Morgana glanced at Madame Bisou. ‘Who would escort us? We cannot go unprotected.’
‘Robert will come with us,’ assured the madam.
Mary glanced up at the mention of his name.
‘Perhaps Mr Elliot would come as well,’ Lucy added. ‘We could depend on him.’
‘We can dance and have a high old time.’ Katy pulled a paisley shawl from the trunk and wrapped it around herself. She danced around the room as if already at the pleasure gardens. Rose joined her, holding the red dress as if she were wearing it.
‘Oh, very well!’ Morgana smiled, resigned to seeing her fledglings spread their wings. ‘But I will go with you, as will Miss Moore, and we shall all wear masks.’
‘Hurrah!’ cried Katy.
Rose ran to the pianoforte and began a rousing tune. Katy grabbed Morgana while Mary and Madame Bisou pulled Lucy and Miss Moore on to the floor as well. Even Morgana’s grandmother rose to her feet and clapped her hands to the music. Rose began to sing: ‘Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove…’
The others joined in: ‘That hill and valley, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield…’
Sloane frowned as he stepped onto the pavement in front of his house. He could hear Morgana and her girls singing.
The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing;
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
Anyone passing by could hear it. In fact, people two streets away could hear it. Someone was bound to comment. Foolish Morgana. He’d told her to be more discreet.
Live with me and be my love echoed in his brain as he crossed the pavement and headed towards Bond Street. He had no particular errand, just a restlessness that he hoped to walk off. Perhaps he might look in at Lock’s for a new hat or drop in at White’s.
He gave a glance over his shoulder. Instead he might walk round to Morgana’s rear door and join in their gaiety.
He was not sure why he suddenly thought he ought to avoid them. He lengthened his stride.
It was due to Morgana. His rakish interest in her was growing at an alarming rate. He could barely be in her company without exceeding the bounds of civility. Like kissing her as though he meant it. He had meant it, that was the rub—damn Penny for that little stunt. He wanted to dance with her again, not as he had at Almack’s but as he’d danced with her in her parlour. He wanted to feel her body next to his.
This was hardly the way to think when he ought to be heading to Lady Hannah’s to ask for her hand in marriage. Hannah would make a creditable wife. He had faith she would develop into a successful hostess and a pleasing bed partner. As Heronvale said, she would be an asset to any man with political plans.
So why did the idea of even spending a whole evening in her presence at Vauxhall make him want to head back to a smuggling den?
Sloane might have begged off, sent a note around that urgent business prevented him from keeping the Vauxhall engagement. Only one reason prevented him. He longed to see what Morgana thought of the place.
He shook his head in dismay at this thought, and crossed the street. A carriage, his father’s crest on its side, rolled past him and came to a rather abrupt stop.
His father leaned out the window. ‘Cyprian! I desire to speak with you. Get in, if you please.’
Sloane did not please. ‘You may say what you will through the window, sir.’
The Earl of Dorton glared at him. ‘I will not mince words, boy. I have come from Heronvale. The man wants to put your name forward for the Commons. Unheard of, and I told him so in no uncertain terms.’
Sloane gave him an unconcerned shrug. ‘Then you need worry no further.’
His father sneered. ‘I told Heronvale where you came from, boy. He knows it all.’
A muscle twitched in Sloane’s cheek. His conception had always been a matter of conjecture in whispered conversations among the ton. Sloane always trusted his father’s inflated pride to prevent him from confirming such rumours. Apparently the Earl’s hatred of Sloane exceeded even that.
Sloane let his father’s dagger plunge into his gut and twist, and then he mentally pulled it away, telling himself it did not matter. Heronvale must spurn him now. There would be no seat in parliament. It did not matter. Sloane still had wealth and that alone would give him power enough to plague his father to the end of the man’s days.
Sloane leaned into the carriage. Giving his father a direct look, he lifted the corners of his mouth in the sardonic grin that always made the man hopping mad. ‘Dash it,’ he said with thick sarcasm. ‘My political career is ruined.’ He spun around and walked away.
‘Stay!’ the Earl ordered. ‘Stay. I command you!’
Sloane continued on his way, but to his dismay the carriage caught up to him. As he walked, his father shouted from the window, ‘And another thing! You’ll not marry that Cowdlin chit. I’ll see you do not.’ The Earl’s face turned an alarming shade of red. ‘I will ruin you first. I swear I will. I’ll send you back to the sewers or wherever you came by your ill-gotten wealth—’
Sloane stopped and the carriage continued on its way. He could hear his father pounding on the roof and shouting to the coachman to stop, but by the time the man did, Sloane had headed off in the other direction.
His destination was even more aimless than before. His cheeks flamed and he felt as sick to his stomach as if he’d again been nine years old. The streets had not been crowded and there was no indication that anyone had heeded the exchange, but Sloane felt as if he’d been laid bare in front of everyone.
By God, he’d thought he’d mastered this long ago, the humiliation of being pulled to pieces by the Earl in front of relatives, servants, schoolmasters—anyone. He’d perfected the appearance of not giving a deuce what his father said, or he once had. Why now? Why did his father’s words wound him now? Because the Earl had spoken to Heronvale about his mother?
A memory of her flashed though his mind. A fragment, all he had left of her. A pretty lady, smiling at him, laughing, bouncing him on her lap and kissing his cheeks. He had no idea if the memory was truly of his mother, but many a childhood night he’d forced himself to believe so.
* * *
Sloane walked until the dinner hour. He had an impulse to beg a meal from Morgana, but they were probably sitting down at this very moment. He would wait to see her at Vauxhall. He had the odd notion that seeing her would mend the wound his father created. Of course, that