At this point, the only Wildes remaining in the ballroom were Betsy and Aunt Knowe. Betsy danced on, ignoring her sore feet, relentlessly cheerful.
People asked her cunning questions about the viscount, which she deftly deflected. Yes, he is most attractive. Yes, he dances extraordinarily well.
Just when she decided that she ought to entertain another suitor, if only to quiet the gossips, a candidate presented himself.
He bowed before her, slender and elegant. His wig was ambitious, if not quite the height of hers. She’d met him, of course . . . but who was he?
She fell into a deep curtsy, and managed to make the connection on her way back up. Grégoire Bisset-Caron, who was—oddly enough—Jeremy’s first cousin. They certainly didn’t appear to have fallen from the same family tree.
“I trust you are having an agreeable evening?” Mr. Bisset-Caron inquired. “I wasn’t lucky enough to claim a dance with you, but I thought that we should at least stand together, under the circumstances.”
Betsy raised an eyebrow.
Mr. Bisset-Caron indicated his black costume with a sweep of his hand. He was wearing a black coat with a flaring velvet collar stitched in red. “Mephistopheles, at your service. Your heavenly beauty might, if you forgive my presumption, be enough to transform the darkest of devils.”
“Didn’t Mephistopheles sell his soul to the devil, rather than being one himself?” Betsy asked.
“I’m not much of a reader,” Mr. Bisset-Caron said. “Black velvet suits me.”
Perhaps he referred to the way he had powdered his face to an unnaturally pale color; certainly all that gleaming velvet enhanced his pallor.
“Lady Boadicea, might I recite a p’hoem that I wrote in your honor this morning?”
Betsy jumped, startled. The Honorable Adrian Parswallow had crept up beside them. Or P’harswallow, her siblings called him, with reference to his lisp. His family’s country house was only a few miles away and they’d played together as children—which meant the Wildes had taken notice when the lisp appeared around his eighteenth birthday.
Adrian had a very high forehead, accented by a wig that had been powdered an unfortunate shade of orange. Perhaps he was a good poet; he definitely showed originality by appearing at a wedding ball in a coat and breeches of bright orange.
Masquerading as a carrot, perhaps.
“Good evening,” she said, curtsying. “What an unusual costume.”
Adrian bowed to a depth that threatened to split his extremely tight orange pantaloons. “I aim to be unexp’hected in all respects. Dressing in black is for old men.”
“How frightfully rude of you,” Mr. Bisset-Caron said with frosty emphasis.
“Mr. Bisset-Caron,” Adrian cried, catching sight of Mephistopheles. “I would never include you in my rep’hroof.” He had an extraordinary way of speaking; his intonation was so superior that it sounded as if he was yawning between words, adding random H’s here and there.
Betsy managed to summon a smile.
“I shall recite my p’hoem,” Adrian prompted.
Poetry was like sketching, embroidering, flower arranging, and counting linens.
Boring.
When she debuted eight months ago, Betsy had professed high delight in the first poem written about her. Consequently, more and more verses had been composed in her honor.
If only she’d been honest when the first p’hoem was thrown at her feet.
“We devils have no interest in literature,” Mr. Bisset-Caron said. “I prefer the art of the pencil.” And then, in response to Betsy’s confusion, “I have a gift for sketching from life. I would be happy to show you my book, Lady Boadicea.” He gave her a naughty smirk. “I brought it with me into the chapel this morning and I fancy I created a lovely profile of you.”
Betsy managed a smile. Like poems, she found portraits of herself remarkably uninteresting.
Mr. Bisset-Caron’s smile widened. “My sketches are not like the rest,” he said silkily. “They rival any of those you might have seen in stationers’ windows.”
“A sketch could never render its subject as well as a p’hoem,” Parswallow said.
“I beg to differ,” Mr. Bisset-Caron said. “My images of the royal family are recognizable by anyone in London, whereas the poem I heard you recite earlier today, on your mother’s voice, could apply to virtually any woman who has chosen to be fruitful and multiply. ”
Adrian greeted this insult with the furious gaze with which he might have greeted Mephistopheles himself. “My p’hoem, Lady Boadicea,” he prompted, turning his shoulder to Bisset-Caron.
The artist smirked. “We devils have no time for versification.” He slid away.
“I’m afraid that I cannot accompany you to a quiet corner,” Betsy told Adrian.
“While silence and p’hrivacy are p’hoetry’s greatest companions,” Adrian pronounced, “I am happy to recite the verse to you in p’hublic view and earshot. I wouldn’t wish anyone to cast asp’hersions on your honor.”
No one would wish to be dishonored by a carrot with a lisp.
“An Ode to the Name Betsy,” Adrian began. “The soft and comp’hassionate tone in her voice could heal a grieving heart . . . Ahhh, Betsy!” He paused.
“An interesting first line,” she observed.
“There is more,” said the poet, unsurprisingly.
Luckily, before he got more than eight or nine lines in, Aunt Knowe appeared. Betsy clutched at her hand. “Darling Aunt, do listen to this marvelous poem.”
“I thought the poem you recited this morning, the ode to a mother’s soft and compassionate voice, was very interesting,” Aunt Knowe said to Parswallow, “though not being a parent myself, I couldn’t entirely sympathize.”
“But we have all been mothered,” the poet said. Then he stopped in confusion, turning beet red. “Forgive me, Lady Boadicea, if I—”
Betsy shot him her signature blithe smile and nestled closer to her aunt. “I consider myself deeply lucky to have been mothered by Aunt Knowe in the absence of my own mother.” She threw her aunt a mischievous glance. “Though I can’t recall hearing your soft and compassionate voice very often.” She turned back to Adrian. “There were so many Wildes in the nursery, you know. She had to bellow at us daily.”
Aunt Knowe burst into laughter, snapped her fan shut, and rapped Betsy on the shoulder. “Wicked girl, I always present the image of a soft and tender lady.” Nodding briskly to Adrian, she drew Betsy away. “Do you realize that you are the only angel to have endured the entire ball with a perfectly erect halo? I can always count on you to outdo your rivals.”
“Millinery is not a blood sport, Aunt Knowe,” Betsy observed. “It’s absurd to congratulate me for such a foolish reason.”
“Oh, fudge,” her aunt said. “I gather you are not in a good mood. I recognize that look from your childhood. Create all the scandals you wish, once you have a husband to protect you from the world’s opinion.”
“I don’t need a husband,” Betsy protested. “I have Father, and a million brothers, and you. That’s enough.”
Aunt Knowe ignored her comment. “Your father thinks Greywick would be a good husband for you. I agree, as you could tell, since I sent the two of you off together. Needless to say, the ballroom was transfixed by your absence. Did you play a round of billiards? Perhaps more to the point, did you win?”