“Don’t waste a thought on him!” said Venetia. “Don’t waste a thought on any of the eligible suitors you’ve found for me, dear ma’am! There is more of my mama in me than you have the least idea of, and the only eligible husband for me is a rake!”

XIX

When she was in London, Mrs. Hendred’s breakfast was invariably carried up to her bedchamber on a tray, but it was Venetia’s custom, like that of many other ladies of more energetic habit than Mrs. Hendred, to rise betimes, and sally forth, either to do a little hum-drum shopping, or to walk in one of the parks. Breakfast was served on her return in a parlour at the back of the house, and such was the esteem in which she was held in the household that it was Worting’s practice to wait on her himself, instead of deputing this office to the under-butler. Worting, like Miss Bradpole, had recognized at a glance that Mrs. Hendred’s niece from Yorkshire was no country miss on her probation, or indigent hanger-on unexpectant of any extraordinary civility. Miss Lanyon was Quality; and it was easy to see that she was accustomed to rule over a genteel establishment. Moreover, she was a very agreeable young lady, on whom it was quite a pleasure to wait, for she was neither familiar nor high in the instep. She could depress a pert London housemaid with no more than a look, but many was the chat Worting had enjoyed with her in the breakfast-parlour. They discussed such interesting topics as Domestic Economy, Town Life as contrasted with Country Life, and the Changes that had taken place since Worting had first embarked on his distinguished career. It was he who was Venetia’s chief guide to London, for she did not at all disdain to ask his advice. He told her what places were considered worthy of being visited, how they were to be reached, and what it was proper to bestow on chairmen, or the drivers of hacks.

On the morning following Edward Yardley’s unlucky theatre-party she did not go out before breakfast, nor did she wish for information about any historic monument. She wanted to know which were the most elegant hotels in town, and she could scarcely have applied to anyone more knowledgeable. Worting could tell her something about them all, and he was only too happy to do so, reciting, with a wealth of detail, a formidable list ranging from such hostelries as Osborne’s Hotel, in Adam Street (genteel accommodation for families, and single gentlemen), to such establishments as the Grand, in Covent Garden (superior), and (if one of the First Houses was required) Grillon’s, the Royal, the Clarendon, the Bath, and the Pulteney, all of which (and a great many others besides) catered exclusively for the Nobility and the Gentry. He was himself inclined to favour the Bath, on the south side of Piccadilly, by Arlington Street: a rambling house, conducted on old-fashioned lines, and patronized by persons of taste and refinement, but if Miss had in mind something generally considered to stand at the height of the mode, he would recommend her to enquire for her friends at the Pulteney.

Miss had; and after learning that during the somewhat premature Peace Celebrations held in London in 1814 the Pulteney had housed no less a personage than the Tsar of Russia (not to mention his impressive sister, the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg), she decided to place it at the head of her list of hotels where she was most likely to discover Sir Lambert and Lady Steeple. Charging Worting with a message for his mistress that she had been obliged to go out on an urgent shopping expedition, she presently set forth, charmingly attired in a blue velvet pelisse trimmed with chinchilla, and a fetching velvet hat with three curled ostrich plumes, and a high poke lined with gathered silk. She carried a large chinchilla muff, and altogether presented so delightful a picture that when she reached the hackney coach stand in Oxford Street the competition for her custom amongst the assembled Jehus was fierce, and extremely noisy.

Arrived at the Pulteney, which stood on the north side of Piccadilly, and overlooked the Green Park, she found that her instinct had not erred: Sir Lambert and Lady Steeple were occupying the very suite allotted, four years earlier, to his Imperial Majesty.

Venetia sent up her card; and in a very short space of time was being ushered into an ornate saloon upon the first floor, where Sir Lambert, gorgeously arrayed in a befrogged dressing-gown, had just (and rather hastily) swallowed the last mouthful of a large and varied breakfast. Nothing could have been more gratifying than the affability with which he received her. It might even have been considered to be a trifle excessive, for after rapidly running over her the eye of a connoisseur he claimed the right of a father-in-law to greet her with a kiss. Venetia accepted this demurely, repressed a strong inclination to remove herself from the circle of his arm, and smiled upon him with dazzling sweetness.

He was delighted. He gave her waist a little squeeze, saying: “Well, well, well, who would have thought such a dull, gray morning would bring such a beautiful surprise? I declare the sun has come out after all! And so you are my daughter! Let me look at you!” He then held her at arms’ length, scanning her up and down appreciatively, and in a way that gave her the uncomfortable feeling that she had ventured forth far too lightly clad. “Upon my word, I never thought to have such a lovely gal for my daughter!” he told her. “Aha, that makes you blush, and devilish pretty you look, flying your colours, my dear! But you have no need to colour up, you know! If your papa-in-law may not pay you a compliment I wish you will tell me who may! And so you have come to see us! I am not astonished. No, I said last night to Aurelia that you looked like a sweet gal, and so you are! When she saw you with Maria Hendred she guessed at once who you was, but ‘depend upon it,’ she said, ‘Maria will take care not to let her come within tongue-shot of me!’”

“Did—did my mother wish to see me?” asked Venetia.

“Who wouldn’t wish to see you, my dear? Yes, yes, I’ll venture to say she’ll be devilish glad you came. She don’t speak of it, you know, but I fancy she didn’t above half like it when that brother of yours never came to call. A fine young man, but holds himself too much up!”

“Conway?” she exclaimed. “Where was this, sir? In Paris?”

“No, no, in Lisbon! Silly young jackanapes would do no more than bow—as top-lofty as his father! Ay, and a pretty mess he’s made of his marriage, eh? Lord, my dear, what made him fall into that snare? ‘Well,’ I said, when I heard the Widow had snabbled him, ‘here’s a come-down from his high ropes!’ And what brings you to town, my pretty little daughter?”

She told him she was on a visit to her aunt, and when he learned that it was her first, he exclaimed that he wished he might take her to see all the lions.

After about twenty minutes a smart French maid came into the room, announcing that miladi was now ready to receive mademoiselle; and Venetia was led through a smaller saloon and an ante-room and ushered into a large and opulent bedchamber. It was redolent of a subtle scent, which brought Venetia up short on the threshold, exclaiming involuntarily: “Oh, your scent! I remember it! I remember it so well!”

A laugh like a peal of bells greeted this. “Do you? I’ve always used it—always! Oh, you used to sit and watch me when I dressed to go to a party, didn’t you? Such a quaint little creature you were, but I thought very likely you would grow to be pretty!”

Recalled from her sudden nostalgia, Venetia stammered, as she dropped a curtsy: “Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am! How—how do you do?”

Lady Steeple laughed again, and rose from her chair before a dressing-table loaded with jars, bottles, and trinket-boxes, and came towards her daughter, holding out her hands. “Isn’t it absurd?” she said, offering Venetia a delicately tinted and powdered cheek to kiss. “I don’t feel it to be possible that I can have a grown-up daughter!”

Obedient to a nudge from her good angel, Venetia responded: “Nor could anyone, ma’am—I don’t myself!”

“Darling! What did they tell you about me—Francis and Maria, and all their stuffy set?”

“Nothing, ma’am, except that I should never be as beautiful as you, and that I had from Nurse! Until yesterday I believed you had died when you left us.”

“Oh, no, did you? Did Francis tell you so? Yes, I’m sure he did, for it would be so like him! Poor man, I was such a trial to him! Were you fond of him?”

“No, not at all,” replied Venetia calmly. This made her ladyship laugh again. She waved Venetia to a chair, and herself sat down again before the dressing-table, looking her daughter over critically. Venetia now had leisure to observe that the foam of lace and gauze in which she was wrapped was in reality a dressing-gown. It was not at all the sort of garment one would have expected one’s mama to wear, for it was as improper as it was pretty. Venetia wondered whether Damerel would like the sight of his bride in just such a transparent cloud of gauze, and was strongly of the opinion that he would like it very much.

“Well, tell me all about yourself!” invited Lady Steeple, picking up her hand mirror, and earnestly studying her profile. “You are excessively like me, but your nose is not as straight as mine, and I fancy your face is not quite aperfect oval. And I do think, dearest, that you are a fraction too tall. Still, you have turned out remarkably well! Conway is very handsome too, but so stiff and stupid that it put me in mind of his father, and I couldn’t but take him in dislike. What a mull he made of it in Paris! Should you have liked it if I had upset the Widow’s scheme? I daresay I might have, for she is such a respectable creature that it is an object with her to pretend she doesn’t know I exist! I had that from someone who knew it for a fact! I had a great mind to pay her a visit—to make the acquaintance of my future daughter-in-law, you know! It would have been so diverting! I forget why I didn’t go after all: I expect I was busy, or perhaps the Lamb—oh, no, I remember now! It was so hot in Paris that we removed to the chateau—my Trianon! The Lamb bought it, and gave it to me for a surprise-present on my birthday: the sweetest place imaginable! Oh, well, if Conway finds himself leg-shackled to an insipid little nigaude he is very well-served! Why aren’t you married, Venetia? How old are you? It is so stupid not to be able to remember dates, but I never can!”