An Affair Before Christmas
“Impossible!” Poppy exclaimed.
Fletch reached forward and took her hand. “Alas, the family is always the last to know, dearest.”
She shot him a look and he shut his mouth. Really, she had moments in which she quite resembled her mother.
“Does your correspondent have anything further to say?” Poppy asked Jemma.
“Only that the young man was indeed quite handsome and when confronted, maintained that he stood as a bulwark to protect Lady Flora’s renown and chastity, and that she was his dearest patron and nothing more. That’s a quote. Naturally, that simply inflamed everyone further, for there’s nothing worse than a man defending a woman’s honor. If the man had no relationship with your mother, Poppy, he would have said so, rather than talking about her honor.”
“It’s true,” Mrs. Patton said. “Talk of honor is always the death knell to a woman’s reputation.”
Poppy was shaking her head. “I simply can’t believe it. I just can’t—I can’t believe it.”
Fletch kept silent.
“Since the dinner bell rang some time ago, I think we should go in or risk choking on a chilly cut of meat,” Jemma said, coming to her feet. “Poppy, I know this must be most distressing for you. Would you prefer to eat in your room?”
“No,” Poppy said. “Jemma, may I read that letter myself? I simply can’t believe it!”
“Don’t you remember when Bussy D’Ambois turned out to be having an affaire with the Countess of Montsurry,” Jemma asked, “when everyone thought he was toying with the Duchess of Guise? I assure you that the Count of Montsurry was just as surprised as you are now.”
“But that ended so unpleasantly,” Fletch said. “Didn’t the count go quite mad?”
“I suppose there are those who might think that your name has been tarnished by connection with your mother,” Fletch said to Poppy, who was reading Lady Smalley’s letter.
“Nonsense,” she replied.
“Then I suppose I needn’t be as extreme as the Count of Monsurry,” he said with a pang of disappointment.
Jemma gave him a sharp look.
He smiled back at her blandly. “All’s well that ends well, don’t you think? I feel quite certain that Lady Flora will soon rule what ever nunnery her friend the bishop places her in.”
“Of course she will,” Poppy said, handing the letter back to Jemma. “But—”
She talked all the way to the dining room. And through most of the meal. The sad fact was that Poppy was having as hard a time getting her mind around the truth of this story as did the Count of Monsurry. Yet by the time the pear compotes and apple tarts appeared, she was reluctantly accepting the account.
“For why would your mother retire to France unless there was truth in it?” Fletch kept repeating. “She would simply brazen it out.”
Then it turned out that Beaumont, late in opening his mail, had been sent a similar account. Beaumont’s letter described the young man falling to his knees and kissing Lady Flora’s feet in anguish; they all agreed that the detail was likely embellished.
“But the truth of it stands,” Fletch said. “Your mother was caught by a pretty face, Poppy. She’s human after all.”
“Human,” Fletch said happily. “Nothing more than a hapless member of the human race, just like the rest of us.”
Chapter 46
The idea that her mother had a lover was inconceivable. Obviously, there had been some horrendous miscarriage of justice. Poppy drank a great deal of wine at supper, trying to talk herself into feeling sorry for her mother.
But certain facts kept intervening with her attempts at sorrow. One was that Lady Flora had moved to France. Had entered a nunnery. When Poppy and Fletch returned to London, there would be no sharp letters, no accidental encounters in ballrooms leading to vitriolic comments on her hair or dress, no meetings at all.
To say that her heart lightened at the thought would underestimate the truth. She felt as if she had drunk an entire case of champagne.
When supper was over, the ladies left the gentlemen with their port and returned to the drawing room. Harriet and Mrs. Patton left to visit the nursery. Jemma seated herself on a sofa with Isidore and—gulp—Louise. Which was distinctly humiliating, because Poppy had decided to ask for marital advice. Yet Louise already knew the worst about her marriage.
So she mentally girded her loins and marched over to Jemma. The three of them were sipping toddies, looking like a fashion plate from The Lady’s Magazine. It wasn’t that Poppy didn’t feel fashionable: she knew quite well that her petticoat was flounced and furbelowed. She had a beautiful lace ruff, and her hair was raised on the smallest pad—with no powdering whatsoever. She looked pretty. In fact, she thought the way her hair shone without powder was much more attractive than when it was powdered. But the important point was that she didn’t look…
Like Louise.
Louise had a roguish sensual look about her. It wasn’t just that her gown was lower cut and a bit tighter—which it was—it was something about the way she walked, and the color of her lips, and the way she laughed, low and deep.
“Hello, darling,” Jemma said, looking up. “Are you drinking these toddies? Because honestly, I think they may be a wee bit on the strong side. I’m not sure I can stand up.”
“I haven’t had one,” Poppy said. “Perhaps I should.”
“Definitely you should,” Isidore said, giggling madly. Her cheeks were bright red, which looked wonderful with her jet-black hair. She looked tipsy.
Louise reached up and pulled Poppy down next to her. “Do come sit with me,” she said. “How lovely your hair looks. Please take my toddy. I only sniffed it, as I can’t abide strong liquor.”
Isidore blinked at her a bit owlishly. “Do you want us to throw your husband out of the house? Jemma, you should have done better than allow that man into your party after what happened last time we were all together!”
“I invited him,” Poppy said quickly.
Isidore’s mouth fell open in a comical fashion. “You did?”
“I wanted—well—I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?” Louise wanted to know.
“About him.”
Jemma was smiling. “You’ve decided that a bird in the hand is better than a naturalist in the bush, is that it?”
“Yes,” Poppy said.
“How can we help?” Isidore said, drinking some more.
Louise narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to have a fearful head tomorrow, Isidore. And—if you don’t mind my saying so—your face is quite rosy.”
“I always turn red as a beet when I drink spirits,” Isidore said. “But honestly, who cares? My husband is away in far off India or some such place. I could turn purple and he wouldn’t care.” She drank again.