An Improper Lady
by Jane Godman
Chapter One
Sir Peregrine Pomeroy sighed. It was a tiny, barely perceptible sound, but it struck terror into the heart of his devoted valet, who paused in the all-consuming task of refreshing his master’s snuff box.
“ Is there aught amiss, Sire?” he asked, a note of trepidation in the words.
At first, it appeared that Sir Peregrine did not hear the question. His eyes were fixed on the mirror-like gloss of his new riding boots. These items had been delivered that very morning and had, in vulgar parlance, cost their proud owner an arm and a leg.
“Is it just me, Polyphant?” Sir Peregrine’s voice was preoccupied. “Or is there a hint – the veriest whisper, mayhap – of slackness about the ankle? Do not, I beg you, spare my feelings in this matter!”
To a lesser man, the question may have appeared frivolous. Polyphant, however, knew his role. His master’s reputation as the setter of London trends must be upheld at all times. Why, what Sir Peregrine wore today, le beau monde would emulate tomorrow! Even the most minor misjudgement had the potential to consign Sir Peregrine to the ranks of those who merely aspired to fashionable greatness. There was a constant queue of exquisites just waiting to topple him from his throne. Polyphant’s duty was clear. Beau Pomeroy – the man credited with single-handedly transforming the humble waistcoat into an item of heart-breaking beauty - must not be permitted to venture out in public wearing a boot with anything less than a perfect fit.
Slipping on cotton gloves, Polyphant knelt before Sir Peregrine and reverently lifted one booted foot. With infinite care, he studied every inch of its gleaming surface. This was not a job to be rushed, and it was some considerable time later when he finally sat back on his heels.
In the manner of a doctor pronouncing an unhappy diagnosis, he intoned, “I am very much afraid, sir, that you are correct in your judgement. ‘Tis an infinitesimal - but nevertheless unacceptable - error of judgement on the part of Mr. Burke. I will return the items forthwith.” His tone did not bode well for the errant boot maker.
Sir Peregrine’s unusually quiet mood continued as he changed his boots and completed his toilette. Polyphant cast sideways glances at him. Was it possible there might be more worrying him than a badly made boot? A half-read letter lay discarded on the dresser.
Polyphant, who, due to his close relationship with his master, could presume where other servants dared not, recognised the handwriting. He ventured to ask, “Lord St. Anton is well, I trust, Sire?”
Sir Peregrine roused himself from his reverie. “Indeed,” he replied, smoothing the beautifully embroidered silk flowers on his waistcoat. “He and his lady had, as you know, extended their honeymoon to take in the delights of Vienna. They are now returned to St. Anton to prepare for the festive season.”
Sir Peregrine had a wide circle of friends, the closest of whom, by far, was Jack Lindsey, the Earl of St. Anton. Until the recent ill-fated Jacobite rebellion, Lord St. Anton had been a close friend and supporter of Bonnie Prince Charlie. On reflection, it did not seem to Polyphant that his lordship’s absence from London could be the reason for his master’s current distraction. He had never before shown any signs of going into a decline, despite Lord St. Anton’s frequent, lengthy sojourns on the continent.
“ Might I enquire as to your intended outfit for Lady Anstruther’s ball tonight, Sir?” Polyphant ventured.
“ I’ve a mind not to attend,” Sir Peregrine confessed, and Polyphant’s concern for his master’s welfare instantly deepened to something approaching panic. The ballroom was Sir Peregrine’s preferred milieu. Dancing, flirting and socialising were second nature to him. “Etienne du St. Germain is in town and has arranged a card party. I may look in at that instead.”
Startling
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