The wallflower trap, p.1
The Wallflower Trap, page 1
© 2024 B. W. HAGGART
McLaddie Publishing**
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
The Wallflower Trap (Revenge of the Wallflowers., #17)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
This book is dedicated to all the women who are leaders, courageous, smart, and caring, particularly Joy Haggart, educator extraordinaire.
THE WALLFOWER TRAP
CHAPTER ONE
An Invitation by Stealth
“Presumption gains more than doubt.”
–A Spanish Proverb.
Mayfair, London, June 11, 1814
“Jack, why in the blue blazes are we stopping here?”
“Where else?” The Jack in question shook his head at his friend. The yellow painted hackney had deposited him and his two friends in the middle of Audley Street across from Grosvenor Square. “As you can plainly see, it proved necessary with the crush of carriages filling both Brook and Audley Streets.” Each elegant vehicle, hub-to-tub, jockeyed for a position near the Cosingwell mansion’s huge front portico.
His friends, Charles and Duncan, glanced apprehensively about, like two mice in cat territory. The hordes of the Upper Crust were abandoning their transportation, a number streaming past them, all bent on storming the Cosingwell’s receiving line. The grounds and gardens were ablaze with hundreds of torches, lights shining from every window, silhouetting the revelers inside.
Jack slapped his gloved hands together, his smile alight with anticipation. This promised to be a grand night. Breathing in the warm summer evening Jack wrinkled his nose at the stringent scent of fireworks smoke and horse manure. Both smells reminded him too much of Spanish battlefields, which he found unsettling for such a spectacular night.
All agog, Charles grabbed Jack’s arm, interrupting his reverie. With an anxious squeak, he demanded, “What are we doing here?”
Jack shot a grin at his companions, “Why, we are attending Lady Cosingwell’s Victory Gala,” and having made the declaration, he marched across Audley Street up to the mansion’s side doors.
Flustered, Charles caught up with Jack at the steps. “W-What? We don’t have invitations—do we?”
Jack just laughed. “Trust me. I keep my promises.”
Duncan, the third member of this band of cavaliers agreed in a Scots brogue. “Yer mad, Jack. This is the haut ton pinnacle of all the Victory Celebrations. I hear the Russian Emperor will make an appearance. There’ll be a gaggle of Breetish generals and beg wigs in tow, for sure and for certain.” He stepped between Jack and the side doors, which were flanked by two footmen in red livery. “Horse Guards will have our feathers if they discover us attempting such a stunt.” He pointed to their boots. “Besides laddie, we’re shy dancing pumps.”
Jack eyed his comrade in a chiding manner. “The lack of proper clothing never stopped you before, Captain McTodd.” Jack pretended to dust off Duncan’s tailored-in-Paris blue hussar uniform, his dolman and fur-lined pelisse. Stepping around him, he said over his shoulder, “If I remember rightly, you charged with the 15th at Vittoria in nothing but your undershirt and outsized Spanish pantaloons.”
“Well,” Duncan said with a sardonic half-smile, “You, sir, forced me and my squadron to form up just as I was finding common ground with a stunning señorita.”
“Did you ever retrieve your uniform?” Jack asked as he reached the double doors. “And you Charles. Is this the same brave caballero who, at Morales, led his squadron against twice their number of French dragoons? Now he shrinks from the charge?”
Jack shook his head at his companions, who still hovered at the curb. He whispered to the footmen and slipped them two pounds sterling. They obligingly opened the doors. He dramatically waved his friends inside. “Forward, men, into the fray.”
Jack strolled across the wide paneled hall lined with paintings. To his right the lighted hallway led towards the center of the mansion. Music and sweet scents drifted in the air. To the left, French windows stood open, inviting them out to the sparkling gardens where scores of immaculately dressed guests wandered.
Duncan and Charles slipped in reluctantly as the doors closed behind them. Duncan asked the obvious question. “Are you foxed, Jack? This is a side entrance. You want them to take us for servants?”
“Mais oui, mon ami. One never attacks a citadel by the front gates, particularly if one is cavalry.” Jack chuckled at his French rhyme. “Shall we saunter out into the gardens and find the promised entertainments?”
“Wot?” Charles clamped a hand on Jack’s shoulder, now angry at being duped. “This, this is your promised free drink and beautiful —”
“You there, stand where you are!”
Jack’s friends recoiled like startled cats, backs up and legs rigid. Jack faced this new onslaught with affable calm. Trotting down the hall were three footmen following a tall, well-dressed brute of a man. He reached the officers, and planting plate-sized hands on his hips, demanded, “Show me your invitations.”
Jack smiled genially. “We don’t have written invitations, but Lady Cosingwell said it would be all right.”
Charles and Duncan blurted out in unison, “Wot?”
The tall brute frowned at the three men one at a time over a disfigured nose as he cracked the callused knuckles of a boxer. “Is that so? When was this?”
“Why, at Ascot yesterday. We went to see Marshal Blücher, the Prussian and Russian monarchs, and, of course, the races.” Jack leaned in enthusiastically to say, “The 2-year-old Arabian named Blücher won, though it didn’t look anything like him.” When that produced no reaction, he said, “We met Lady Cosingwell there.”
The brute eyed Jack. “Everyone knows Lady Cosingwell attended. All the papers noted it.”
“If you don’t believe us, just ask Lady Cosingwell.”
Charles coughed and leaned close to Jack to whisper. “What are you saying? We weren’t there.”
Jack patted Charles’ back, informing the man towering over them, “Slight congestion. Too much snuff.” Then he returned to gaze congenially at the brute. He knew the poor bruiser acting as door security would hesitate to accost interlopers who, showing such confidence, might be someone actually connected. The upper classes were unpredictable, a law unto themselves. One misstep and he’d lose his comfortable living.
“We’ll see about that. Who should I say is calling?”
“Lord Major John Tremaine and company.”
With a malevolent glint in his eyes, the knuckle-cracker turned to one footman and said, “Barnaby, inform Lady Cosingwell.” Then he stepped between the three hussars and the street door. He took a balanced stance and crossed his meaty arms, glaring at them. “We’ll wait.” The remaining footmen also took up resolute positions around the three friends.
Duncan swore behind Jack and said under his breath, “Time to sound the retreat.” Jack just held up a hand to wait.
As the two groups stared at each other, down the hall bustled a statuesque woman followed by Barnaby. Coming near, the lady called out, “What farrago is this, Mr. Crusher? I had to abandon the receiving line.”
Mr. Crusher pointed to the three intruders. Duncan ducked his head behind Jack and jabbed him in the back with a finger, muttering, “That sinks it, ye squirish sassenach.”
Before Mr. Crusher could say anything more, the lady raised her hand to quiet him, and pursing her lips, squinted at the men.
“Jack, is that truly you?” The lady, her flounces fluttering about her elegant dress, stepped towards him with an uncertain expression.
“Yes, Aunt Bea, it’s me.” He gave her a big grin and an ‘of course’ shrug.
She rushed to him and took his hands. “I didn’t believe Barnaby. After all this time. What has it been? Seven years since we saw you last?”
“Nearly eight, Aunt Bea.”
She looked him over. “I hardly recognize you, but here you are back from the Continent.” Assessing him, she said, “La, you are far broader in the shoulders than I remember. You now have a mustache and are so brown.” She shook her head. “Well, no matter. You appear as handsome as ever. She glanced at his leg. And your wound? We read in the Gazette last year that French dragoons nearly cut you down.”
“Clearly, I survived with just a twinge when I tug off my trousers.”
She pursed her mouth at his risqué comment. “Well, I’m relieved. When did you arrive in London? You should have informed the family.”
“Aunt Bea, we just reached London late this afternoon.” He lifted his arms dramatically. “And here I am.” Turning to his friends, he said, “Lady Cosingwell, allow me to introduce you to my comrades in war, and now peace. The tall officer with his mouth open is Captain ‘Heedless’ Charles Whitebread, and the other scowling at me, is Captain ‘Slapdash’ Duncan McTodd. Both are acclaimed squadron commanders with the 15th King’s Hussars.” He stood next to his aunt. “Gentlemen, this stunning lady is the Countess Cosingwell, my mother’s sister, and the perpetual toast of London.” The two friends bowed.
She hit him with her fan, shaking her head, then turning to his friends, said, “You are welcome, gentlemen. I am glad my nephew found friends to help keep him out of mischief. Please join our celebration.”
Duncan bowed again. “Many thanks, Countess. However, we have seldom been successful in keeping ‘One-Eyed’ oot of anything, including yer hallway.” He gave Jack a sardonic scowl, “but he does keep events . . .stimulating.”
“Yes, his sanguine temper.” The lady chuckled. “That is the Jack I remember.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I know it is common for friends and officers to give each other nicknames,” she said, studying Jack’s companions, “and I can deduce the inspiration for your soubriquets, gentlemen, but why in the world do you call Jack ‘One-Eyed?’”
Charles huffed, saying, “Like the playing cards’ one-eyed jacks, he’s wild.”
Lady Cosingwell laughed again. She looked the men over. “Gentlemen, you look splendid in your hussar uniforms, but you cannot join our festivities in those boots.” She turned to Mr. Crusher, whose red face danced a jig. The muscles in his jaw and forehead tensed and released as he glared at Jack. Lady Cosingwell waved him and the idle footmen off. “Go about your duties, and Barnaby, bring the box of dancing pumps for our guests.”
As the servants left, she turned back to the three friends. “It is an open scandal. A good many prominent guests have to be supplied with appropriate apparel when they arrive. Just now, the opulent Viscount Tasseling had to be provided dancing pumps. It’s a disgrace, these gentlemen and peers arriving—like you—at the receiving line so ill-prepared. I have reserved a special pair for the Emperor of Russia and Marshal Blücher.”
She turned to Charles with a curious expression. “Are you related to Samuel Whitebread, the Whig leader in Commons and owner of Whitebread’s Brewery?”
“Yes, my lady,” Charles said, as he chose a pair of slippers. “Jacob Whitebread, my father, is his cousin.”
“I imagine you are not in Samual Whitebread’s good graces, having fought against Napoleon.”
“No, my lady, he has relegated me to persona non grata.” It has created complications for my father, as he is in business with Mr. Whitebread.”
She shook her head. “I cannot understand the man’s rabid defense of Napoleon.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I for one, appreciate all your sacrifices in the name of King and Country, saving Europe from that madman.”
“Including many barrels of his brandy,” Jack added, raising a smile from his friends and the countess.
A footman returned with the box of dancing pumps and the men rooted around to find a pair that fit. The footman collected their boots. Lady Cosingwell gave Jack a reproving frown. “Your boots will be returned when you leave later by the front door.”
Jack gave her one of his winning smiles and bowed. “Thank you, Aunt Bea. We are in your debt.”
The lady responded with a squint-eyed, “Hmmm.” She placed a hand on her necklace thoughtfully. “And where are you three staying?”
“Steven’s Hotel in Bond Street. We were lucky to get a room.“
“Of course.” Distant music started up, echoing down the hall, at which Lady Cosingwell blinked. “La! I must return to the receiving line. Percy will be desperate, wondering where I’ve disappeared to.” Over her shoulder, she said as she left, “Jack, your uncle will want to see you. You shall find me and Lord Cosingwell before you leave.”
It wasn’t a request. “Of course.” He inwardly sighed, knowing what that presaged, even after nearly a decade.
Lady Cosingwell nodded, yelling down the hall, “See that you do, nephew.” Jack set his jaw. It had been years since he had to deal with family opinions and ‘obligations’ He knew later this evening, his aunt would call him to account for his behavior—as she had many times in the past.
Duncan punched Jack in the arm. “Mon, Aye should pop your cork for such a ruddy canard.”
Charles nodded with an angry look that on anyone else would have signaled an apology. “And I’ll be second in line.”
Jack patted Duncan’s shoulder. “Comrades, we have carte blanche to enjoy the grandest of parties, free drinks, and beautiful women, as I promised. But you’re grousing about my methods?”
“You should have told us.” Both men were frowning hard at Jack, shoulder-to-shoulder, ready to round on him.
“Perhaps, but that would not have been half as entertaining.” Jack dodged another swing from Duncan and then Charles. Chuckling, Jack waved his hands in surrender. “Gentlemen, would you have believed me if I had claimed to be closely related to the august house of Cosingwell?”
“You? Not bloody likely.”
Jack shot them a reproachful raise of an eyebrow. “Hence my never mentioning it. But, if by some odd chance you did believe me, would you two have been willing to brave the Cosingwell’s receiving line this evening sans invitations?”
Duncan and Charles glanced at each other. “Probably not.”
“Exactly. I saw subterfuge as the most promising—and quickest—strategy for getting my two friends invited to the event of the season.” He shook his head at his now slightly irate comrades. “Ah, the reproach I endure in the name of brotherhood.” Charles and Duncan looked at each other and sighed heavily in unison.
Charles put his arm roughly around Jack’s neck, tight. “Conceded, you dem Trojan. Now, let’s go investigate the night’s prospects. Where to first?”
“When we are newly outfitted with dancing pumps? I cannot imagine an activity more favorable for discovering female excellence, and creating the desired intimacy as dancing, particularly at this splendid celebration.” Jack pointed dramatically down the hall. “To the Ballroom.”
Charles added quickly, “And the refreshment tables,” as they strode down the painting-lined hallway linked arm-in-arm.
CHAPTER TWO
Visions, Divisions, and Dancing
Reconnoitering the Ballroom
La danse est un langage au-delà des mots
[Dance is a language beyond words.]
—A French Truism
“Who is that captivating vision?”
Jack studied the intriguing lady sitting on the far side of the massive ballroom. A shining light in pure white among the multi-colored crush of guests. The dark-haired, dark-eyed exotic reposed among a gaggle of drab chits which made her gleam all the brighter. He stood admiring her straight, lithe form while he leaned a hip against the refreshment table. The flocks of well-bred fashionables milling between them only awarded him brief glimpses of the lady.
He had been catching up with an old university chum, the Honorable Reggie Ramsbottom. They hadn’t seen each other since Jack had gone off to war. He was grateful for the unexpected reunion because he didn’t know anyone here and needed a primer on current affairs among the Ten Thousand. As at Oxford, Reggie proved a font of such intelligence.
Once in the ballroom, Duncan stated he would ‘scumfish,’ Scottish cant for prowling about. He only required Reggie’s introduction to one débutante, and he’d fallen into introductions and a comfortable coze with several of the young beauties. In diffident style, Charles instead loitered close by, nervously nibbling on the cornucopia of delicacies arrayed across one of the many refreshment tables while sipping his second glass of rum punch.
“Eh, wot?” Reggie squinted, looking in the direction Jack discreetly indicated and jerked erect. “Her? Oh, no, no, no. You, sir, need to avoid that woman at all costs. She’s dangerous.”
“Pardon?” Jack grinned, astonished by Reggie’s alarm, the man’s Adam’s apple bobbing animatedly. “Come now, in a ballroom? Is she harboring knives or possessing a wicked upper cut? She looks perfectly harmless. Who is she?”
“Harmless? Ha! She’s the devil’s snare, an absolute bonnet.” Reggie gulped down his rum punch and went about obtaining more. “That is Lady Mimolette Lindsey. Two of the nature’s unfortunates sitting with her are her sisters, Treccia and Ovolina.”
Jack frowned and cocked his head, not sure he’d heard aright. “Those are the names of French and Italian cheeses.” Reggie nodded. “In truth?”
“Their father, the Earl of Bathmorris was a mad eccentric. The man had an obsession for cheese and marbles of Aphrodite. Nearly paupered the family buying both in great quantities. Absurd, I know.”
