which he’d added a waistcoat done up in a broad stripe of salmon and cramoise—had reached her side. “Dinner, Jynx,” he prompted. “Deuced if you don’t look knocked up! What’s plaguing you?”
Miss Lennox took his arm, and in her eye there was a purposeful gleam. “Lady Bliss,” she explained succinctly.
Lord Peverell might have been, as his doting family claimed, a trifle wanting in the cock-loft; but he was not so addlepated that he failed to realize the extreme impropriety— and furthermore grave danger—of a discussion of Lady Bliss. “Pooh!” he said, as he led Jynx into a separate room where had been set up a long table with the most delicate and choice refreshments of every kind. “There ain’t nothing bad in her running a gambling den. Among ladies of fashion it used to be the thing.”
“Not for the past thirteen years!” It must be remembered that Miss Lennox was the daughter of a magistrate. “Not since Lady Buckingham was relieved of the box containing the cash of the faro bank, despite the precautions of blunderbuss and pistols, and her croupier was charged with being proprietor of the box. I was not talking about gambling, Percy.”
“Good,” said Lord Peverell, morosely. “I don’t mind telling you that a discussion of gambling would ruin my appetite. Damned if I see how I ever got so deep in debt!”
Miss Lennox might have explained that matter to him, so uncharitable was her mood, had not fate—in the form of their fellow guests—intervened. Dinner was served up in a buffet style by servants, uniformed in white gowns and aprons, who stood on the other side of the table; and the crush was considerable. Nor did such enforced intimacy lend itself to a discussion of private matters. Jynx listened absently to the chatter all around her, and thus learned that Lady Oxford had recovered from the blood vessel she’d burst upon learning of a meeting between Lord Byron and Caroline Lamb; and that the poet Shelley had written a work entitled Vindication of Natural Diet which traced man’s evil impulses, and most wars, to a meat diet; and that Madame de Stael, who allegedly considered herself as free as a man to sample romance, had been denounced on the floor of the Convention for conducting a monarchist conspiracy under cover of cuckolding her husband, and had consequently been exiled by Napoleon from France.
“My accounts,” remarked Lord Peverell, as he seated himself—with particular care to the lead weights sewn into the hem of his coat to insure that it hung immaculate and creaseless—at one of the small tables placed about the room for the convenience of the diners, “are of the most desponding cast. What do you mean to do about it, Jynx? You said you’d help us out.”
“I ,” retorted Miss Lennox, with her fork suspended in midair, “ said nothing of the sort. Give me one good reason, Percy, why I should help you.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all!” Lest he erupt into indignation, Lord Peverell took a very large gulp of a very potent champagne punch. “What about Cristin, eh? You’d let her uncle marry her off to that curst rum touch, Eleazar Hyde?”
Jynx, a good trencherwoman, saw nothing in this dire pronouncement to interfere with her enjoyment of her meal. “I have no influence with the Ashleys,” she replied calmly. “You’d do much better to apply to Shannon. No doubt he would be willing to present your case to Lady Bliss.”
Unfortunately, the champagne punch had flown straight to Percy’s brain. “A precious lot of good that would do!” he uttered irritably. “Adorée Bliss won’t fly against her brother, and Shannon has no influence there. The truth of the matter is that Shannon can’t abide Innis Ashley.”
Miss Lennox had recourse to her own punch glass. “Can he not?” she repeated thoughtfully.
“No, and I don’t wonder at it! Adorée may be content with a pretty bauble now and again, but her brother won’t leave off dipping
Miss Lennox took his arm, and in her eye there was a purposeful gleam. “Lady Bliss,” she explained succinctly.
Lord Peverell might have been, as his doting family claimed, a trifle wanting in the cock-loft; but he was not so addlepated that he failed to realize the extreme impropriety— and furthermore grave danger—of a discussion of Lady Bliss. “Pooh!” he said, as he led Jynx into a separate room where had been set up a long table with the most delicate and choice refreshments of every kind. “There ain’t nothing bad in her running a gambling den. Among ladies of fashion it used to be the thing.”
“Not for the past thirteen years!” It must be remembered that Miss Lennox was the daughter of a magistrate. “Not since Lady Buckingham was relieved of the box containing the cash of the faro bank, despite the precautions of blunderbuss and pistols, and her croupier was charged with being proprietor of the box. I was not talking about gambling, Percy.”
“Good,” said Lord Peverell, morosely. “I don’t mind telling you that a discussion of gambling would ruin my appetite. Damned if I see how I ever got so deep in debt!”
Miss Lennox might have explained that matter to him, so uncharitable was her mood, had not fate—in the form of their fellow guests—intervened. Dinner was served up in a buffet style by servants, uniformed in white gowns and aprons, who stood on the other side of the table; and the crush was considerable. Nor did such enforced intimacy lend itself to a discussion of private matters. Jynx listened absently to the chatter all around her, and thus learned that Lady Oxford had recovered from the blood vessel she’d burst upon learning of a meeting between Lord Byron and Caroline Lamb; and that the poet Shelley had written a work entitled Vindication of Natural Diet which traced man’s evil impulses, and most wars, to a meat diet; and that Madame de Stael, who allegedly considered herself as free as a man to sample romance, had been denounced on the floor of the Convention for conducting a monarchist conspiracy under cover of cuckolding her husband, and had consequently been exiled by Napoleon from France.
“My accounts,” remarked Lord Peverell, as he seated himself—with particular care to the lead weights sewn into the hem of his coat to insure that it hung immaculate and creaseless—at one of the small tables placed about the room for the convenience of the diners, “are of the most desponding cast. What do you mean to do about it, Jynx? You said you’d help us out.”
“I ,” retorted Miss Lennox, with her fork suspended in midair, “ said nothing of the sort. Give me one good reason, Percy, why I should help you.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all!” Lest he erupt into indignation, Lord Peverell took a very large gulp of a very potent champagne punch. “What about Cristin, eh? You’d let her uncle marry her off to that curst rum touch, Eleazar Hyde?”
Jynx, a good trencherwoman, saw nothing in this dire pronouncement to interfere with her enjoyment of her meal. “I have no influence with the Ashleys,” she replied calmly. “You’d do much better to apply to Shannon. No doubt he would be willing to present your case to Lady Bliss.”
Unfortunately, the champagne punch had flown straight to Percy’s brain. “A precious lot of good that would do!” he uttered irritably. “Adorée Bliss won’t fly against her brother, and Shannon has no influence there. The truth of the matter is that Shannon can’t abide Innis Ashley.”
Miss Lennox had recourse to her own punch glass. “Can he not?” she repeated thoughtfully.
“No, and I don’t wonder at it! Adorée may be content with a pretty bauble now and again, but her brother won’t leave off dipping
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