Kedleston Hall. A nice little starter house for a duke

One of the best things about writing historical romance is being able to choose from all the stunning English country houses for our heroes and heroines.

Stowe in 1880: gardeners will find scope for expansion

The Marble Saloon at Stowe: perfect for intimate family gatherings

Much of The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton takes place at Mandeville House, home of the Duke and Duchess of Hampton. This mansion first appeared in The Dangerous Viscount and it will turn up again in Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (April 2012). In the course of three novels the house and grounds have evolved. When I wrote The Dangerous Viscount, I envisioned a Palladian pile, along the lines of Kedleston Hall in Derbyshire, home of the Curzon family. I set it in glorious gardens filled with classical temples, inspired by Stourhead in Wiltshire. Then, while I was writing The Amorous Education, I visited Stowe in Buckinghamshire, now a private school. Geez, that’s a socking great house and the landscaping makes Stourhead look like my back yard (well, not quite). So I incorporated aspects of Stowe into Mandeville, including the great oval Marble Saloon, complete with naked statues.

Temple in Stourhead Garden: would make a great mother-in-law apartment

Stowe seen through the Corinthian Arch at the end of the great avenue. Take your morning jog in the privacy of your own grounds.

Country Life is an English magazine I adore simply for the ads: I browse it looking for my ideal house, historic beauties you can buy for a mere million or two, and most of them on a far more manageable scale than stately homes. And there’s plenty of great American real estate too, both on the web and in magazines. A girl can dream about an Upper East Side of Manhattan townhouse, a deco mansion in Palm Beach, or a ranch in Montana. And I always enjoy the descriptions realtors manage to come up with.

Here are pictures of Old Wardour and New Wardour Castles, which happen to be located near where I grew up. Try your hand at writing a real estate description to appeal to a romance character looking for a new home. If you prefer, you may use one of the other pictures in this blog, or upload your own.  Hopefully Lady B. will pop by and tell us where she and Lord B. reside when the London season is over.

Oh, dear. I walk into Lady B’s Ballroom for an evening’s elegant chitchat, dancing, and champagne, and… Trouble.

Unbeknownst to me, dear Lady B has invited both the Knight brothers and the gentlemen (and I use that term loosely) of the Inferno Club

Eww, awkward.

I consider rushing behind the nearest potted plant until I can figure out what to do. This has never happened before, crossing paths with my own characters. What is the proper protocol?? That is…Do they know they are fictional characters? Do they realize who I am? And if so, whom do I greet first? I mean, the Knight boys hold precedence as the firstborn, but I really need the Inferno lads to cooperate for the rest of the series. I dare not risk offending them or they’ll retaliate by giving me writer’s block. I wouldn’t put it past them.

For that matter, I am not even sure the entire Ballroom won’t explode in some catastrophic matter/anti-matter collision of alternate Regency realities. Should I summon the fire company? Shove Prinny out of here for the sake of national security? (His Royal Highness is sweating terribly in the crush as it is.)

Maybe I can just sneak past them all without being noticed . . .

As I spread my fan and hold it over my face, making a bee-line for Lady Sarah and Lady Katharine and the rest of my BallroomBlog friends, however, the canny Lord Lucien Knight spots me. Those keen silvery eyes narrow. Dash it! He always was the cleverest of the bunch. At once, he breaks away from his brothers and strides over to me.

“Pardon, ma’am.” He blocks my path. ”Don’t I know you?”

“Um, er–” Gulp. I fan myself faster, trying to avoid eye contact. “Oh, I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me–”

“Wait! It IS you!” He gasps and suddenly flings himself onto his knees in front of me and throws his hands up in the air. “Oh, Goddess! Creator! Maker of this world, hear my prayer–”

“What?!  Stop that! Get up! Honestly–” I haul him back up by his cravat, looking around nervously. “Don’t make a scene. You’re embarrassing me!”

“Well, you ARE our creator, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m not divine! I’m just a human being, I assure you. With flaws. Just ask the reviewer at XXXX [REDACTED].”

Still unsure if I am deity or ordinary shlub, Lucien pokes me in the shoulder. “Hm. Flesh and blood. I’ll be demmed. Well, then! Right.” With a firm nod, he thankfully decides to let the whole existential question go. Smart chap. “That makes things easier.  I have a request.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

He casts a covert glance around, then pins me with a shrewd stare. “I hear you’ve got another spy ring going.”

“How did you–”

“I have my ways, Gaelen. I was an agent for the Crown for most of my career, remember. The Inferno Club, right?” He leans closer. “I want in.”

“What?”

“I want in on it! I have the skills, the experience. I’m sure they could use another agent–”

“No. It’s out of the question!”

“Why?”

“You’re from an entirely different series, Lucien!”

“So? Write me in.”

“It’s not that simple! I can’t just stick you in their world like a clove in a ham.”

“Your readers love me,” he says matter-of-factly, folding his arms across his chest.

“Now, now, don’t be immodest.”

“I’ve had marriage proposals. And one lady named her parrot after me.”

“Yes, but–”

“Come on!” He’s looking rather desperate. “You don’t understand. I need another adventure.”

I try to reason with him: “Things are very dangerous for members of the Inferno Club right now. Besides, you can’t go risking your life against the horrid Prometheans with them when you’re supposed to be living your Happily Ever After in wedded bliss! How is Alice these days, anyway?” I ask, trying a change of subject.

He sees through it and snorts. “She’s fine. Of course, she still hasn’t forgiven you for getting the headcount of Knight children wrong in my brother Jack’s book.”

I wince. “Sorry about that. It wasn’t anything personal against your baby, I just forgot. How is your little daughter, anyway?”

He stares at me. “I have five now, Gaelen. Five. Five daughters and one wife. A large staff of nannies and nursery maids crowding the house. Even the family dog is a female. So, what do I have to do to join this Inferno Club of yours–”

“Is this man bothering you?” a deep, rumbling voice asks from right behind me. Uh-oh. I know that voice, with its rolling R’s from the West Country. It’s Rohan, Duke of Warrington, aka The Beast. Biggest badass of the Inferno Club.

I glance up over my shoulder and there he is, looming behind me. Max and Jordan right behind him.

My eyes widen as Colonel Lord Damien Knight now stalks over and makes a stand beside Lucien, his twin. “What seems to be the trouble here?”

The next thing I know, Robert, Alec, Devlin, Billy and Jack (yes, even Jack) are all gathering behind Lucien.

Beauchamp drags himself away from his harem and accrues to the Inferno side. I’m in the middle, squashed between two armies of bristling, competitive alpha males, while Lady B’s parrot Albert is circling overhead.

<Fight! Fight! Squawk! Get ready to rumble!>

“Gentlemen, please! Robert, do something!” I implore the Knights’ no-nonsense eldest brother…

But Robert isn’t listening.  Instead, His Grace of Hawkscliffe is chiding Lucien. “What’s all this about you wanting to join their series?”

“What?” Damien echoes, turning and looking daggers at his twin. “Oh, this is so typical–!”

“Aye, why would you want to join their series?” Billy demands (well, he’s known as William now, but Billy was his gang name before his family found their missing heir). His rookery side always comes out when he’s insulted. “Ours is better.”

“No, it’s not!” Max, team leader of the Inferno Club retorts. “Ours is better!”

Jordan nods in agreement. “You Knight chaps are up to your eyeballs in angst. We’re more adventurous. And more fun.”

“Nobody’s more fun than me!” playboy Alec Knight retorts, lunging for him.

Jordan blocks and strikes back and all hell breaks loose.

<Squawk! Wagers! Lay your wagers here!! Squawk! Fiver on the big guy with the scar!>

“Stop it, you barbarians!” I shout, trying to hold them apart, my hands planted on two sets of  (hmm) nice hard abs. But the brutes start shoving each other.

“We’re better!”

“No, we’re better!”

“ Behave yourselves! You’re acting like children! Stop it! I wrote you better than this!”  I’m doing my best to keep them apart, but all of them are over 6 feet tall and I’m down here at 5’2″ and now they’re getting into it.

Devlin takes a swing at Max, then Rohan’s battling both Jack and Billy Blade. Jordan and Alec are trading blows, while the twins, Damien and Lucien are still yelling at each other nearby about Lucien wanting to join the other series.

Someone–probably Jack, that great pirate rudesby–accidentally bumps me and I go flying, landing in a heap on the floor. Creator, indeed! Ack! I’m about to be trampled!

Next thing I kbow, I’m on my hands and knees crawling out from under the knot of brawling lords and rakehells at top speed, mortified–not to mention mussing my beautiful ballgown.

They’re wrecking the whole ballroom! Lady B will never have me back.  Egads, where are their wives? Sombody’s got to bring them under control!

“Paper and quill pen! Quickly!” I shout to the nearest footman, who is looking on, horrified. He dashes off to get it; he brings it back to me as one of the brawling pairs go rolling by, crashing into the potted plant.

Quickly, readers, help me!–I have to write my way out of this somehow! What should I have them do??? Please advise before someone draws blood!!

Click on cover to read an excerpt

Today I have the honor of introducing my book THE AMOROUS EDUCATION OF CELIA SEATON, which makes its bow to society tomorrow. To explain how this book came about, I’ll go back a few months to a scene in this very ballroom when I presented the lead characters to Lady B. (without whose approval I would not dare conceive a story – she’s a bit like my editor that way)

<squawk>

Yes, you too, Albert.

LADY B. Before we speak, let me finish this spiked ratafia. {Swallows} Miranda, the book sounds as though it might be rather risqué.

I do hope so.

Lady B. Never let it me said I’m not in favor educating gels. My dear late father the duke always insisted I learned the useful arts, such as dancing, flirting, and overhearing gossip in five languages.

 

<squawk> Rutsch mir doch den Buckel runter! <squawk>

 

LADY B. Hush, Albert. None of your sauce. Miranda, dear. Tell me about Miss Seaton’s education.

My plan is that Celia will acquire a good deal of useful knowledge from a slim volume called The Genuine Amours.

LADY B. Ooh. It sounds French. One learns so much about love from the French.

 

<squawk> Baissez la plume de ma tante <squawk>

And Tarquin Compton will be more than happy to fill in any gaps.

LADY B. Of course, Mr. Compton. His mother was my sister-in-law’s cousin.

Allow me to present him to you. Tarquin is the best dressed man in London and a discerning critic of fashion, for both gentlemen and ladies.

TARQUIN Delighted, ma’am.

 

LADY B. {aside} He has very muscular thighs. {To Tarquin} What do you think of my peacock gloves?

 

TARQUIN I’m sure you’d rather not know.

 

<squawk> Ha bisogno di un calcio in culo! <squawk>

 

LADY B. Quite right, Albert. So, Mr. Compton. Tell me about Miss Celia Seaton.

 

TARQUIN I’m afraid I’m unacquainted with the lady.

 

LADY B. Miss Neville. It appears you have misinformed me. The matter bears looking into, but first – hic – I must retire to the retiring room.  {Lady B. wobbles off and accidentally opens the door to a broom closet wherein she discovers a young lady with reddish hair and an unfashionable air} Who are you?

 

CELIA I am Celia Seaton.

 

LADY B. Why are you in the cupboard?

 

CELIA Actually I’m in Yorkshire, slaving away as governess to four rowdy boys, but the lowly closet is my spiritual home. I was brought to this sad pass when Mr. Tarquin Compton compared me to a cauliflower and ruined my chance of marriage.

 

LADY B. {regards her critically} More like a carrot, I’d say. But how can this be, when Mr. Compton denies your acquaintance?

 

CELIA I’ve been introduced to him six times and he never remembers my name.

 

LADY B. Poor dear. In my first season I once suffered the cut direct, but at least it was from a marquess, not an untitled dandy. I assume you’d like revenge. What do you envision?

 

CELIA I’d like to see Tarquin Compton robbed of his clothes and his memory. Then I’d tell him we are engaged and his name is Terence Fish.

Miranda madly takes notes. I’ll see what I can arrange. Anything else?

LADY B. She’s blushing. I think she fancies him.

 

CELIA Then we’d take off across the Yorkshire moors, pursued by desperate villains, and Mr. Compton – er Fish – would turn out to be a kind, steadfast, and honorable man instead of a disdainful creep. Could you make him fall in love with me?

I can do that.

CELIA And then when he regains his memory he’ll still love me and think me the most wonderful woman in the world.

Lady B. sighs, Albert squawks.

Miranda frowns. We may have a problem there. I should think Tarquin would be very angry you’d made a fool of him.

LADY B. Nothing you can’t overcome, Miss N. Start writing.

So you’re both looking for a happy ending? Celia nods

LADY B. Oh l’amour, l’amour. I do enjoy a happy ending.

In the words of the immortal Tim Gunn, I’ll make it work. Anything else you’d like?

CELIA Could you do something about my hair? Also I’d like some entertaining new friends, a handsome rival to make Tarquin jealous, cheese, raspberries, ices, and a bawdy novel.

Miranda keeps scribbling. Is that all?

LADY B.  And piglets. I do think a book is improved by piglets.

 

<squawk> And parrots <squawk>

Miranda puts down her pen.If you want to know whether I managed to meet these requirements, you’ll have to read THE AMOROUS EDUCATION OF CELIA SEATON, available tomorrow from purveyors of printed and electronic books. ( Barnes & Noble  Nook   Amazon   Kindle   iTunes  Book Depository )

You may notice that Celia’s suggestions included certain comestibles. This made me happy since I love to write about food. In my next book, CONFESSIONS FROM AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE, my couple go to France and enjoy some wonderful cuisine. Give me some ideas for the future: what delectable dishes would you like to see, whether for a late supper in the antechamber off the ballroom or a romantic picnic in the countryside? One commenter will win a copy of THE AMOROUS EDUCATION.

I find ships incredibly sexy.

Particularly sailing ships — powerful, beautiful, graceful and dangerous. They fly in the face of Nature’s strongest force, the sea. In the era before electricity and the engine, they were a nation’s greatest weapon. To master the sea was to be master of the world.

Ships. Are. Sexy.

The men who captain them are sexier yet. The sea offers a hard life. A man (or woman!) needs extraordinary strength of character and courage to tame it.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I adore a gentleman of land and society who can drive a pair with ease and lead a lady in a waltz dressed to the nines. But while Mr. Darcy makes me swoon and Mr. Knightley speeds my pulse, it is Captain Wentworth who commands my heart. He is gentleman, warrior and adventurer all at once — a perfectly breathtaking combination.

So I write books with ships in them, and my office is papered in images of ships. Sailing ships from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries line my walls — stately brigantines, massive frigates, punky little sloops, sturdy barques, and graceful schooners. I have ship calendars and books about historical sailing ships, some of them gorgeous coffee table volumes filled with period paintings, others technical manuals, and others that were actually used by sailors during the Regency period (like Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine, which plays a role in my upcoming book, In the Arms of a Marquess). 

Online images of ships inspire me too. The Yale Digital Commons is marvelous for this, and other sites like the British Library‘s online gallery offer all sorts of tasty visual treats.

Take a little stroll through one of these image databases, or even google, if you will. Search whatever you wish: “ships”, “captain”, “hunky Regency sailor”. Find anything sexy?

An authoress let loose in Lady Beaufetheringstone’s ballroom is such a wonderful opportunity––for the authoress. And while I would never seek to embarrass anyone by revealing their pecadillo, if I choose to borrow the tale for the sake of Art who could blame me?

Lady B herself is naturally the best font of gossip, but as she is otherwise engaged, I shall go to the very source itself. And next to the convenient bit of drapery, there is one creature, if I may call it that, found in the wilds of the London ballroom—any ballroom, truthfully­­—that knows everything about what occurs in the shadows and it can be tracked down in its native habitat quite easily, although it hides itself within decorative art.

Corner of the room. Green, leafy, large…settled in a large marble pot shaped like an urn…with carved handles, and a relief of some neoclassical interpretation of the Dionysian revels. The perfect disguise: The potted plant.

Plant: Perhaps it is you who are a touch disguised.

If a plant could raise its one imperious eyebrow, this one would have.

Plant: I heard that.

I was simply about to discuss the importance of placing potted plants in strategic areas of a ballroom.

Plant: Ah! I assure you I know quite a bit more about that than you.

Naturally, as does Lady B, which is why her ballroom is so delightfully outfitted. Perhaps you’d like to share with our readers some of the more scandalous tableaux you’ve shielded?

Plant: All people ever want is to sniff out scandal. I am employed to preserve reputations.

You don’t have to name names…

Plant: (looking around shiftily) No names? Well in that case.  Just last week, in this very corner, there was a certain young lady with a certain young man’s ungloved hand under her dampened skirts.

Oh! Was that—

Plant: No names!

Right, sorry. That reminds me of a ballroom in Brighton a few years ago. There were two persons, who shared the same family name though they were not related, until of course they married some months later, doing completely unmentionable acts just outside in the hall, as if they thought a flimsy potted plant could hide that! Not that with the lady’s reputation I was much surprised, but the gentleman, not at all his usual discretion.

Plant: (warming up again) It is a matter of illusion, Miss Darby. Never underestimate the power of illusion. It covers all manner of masquerades, secrets, and ridiculous misunderstandings. There was also the poor wallflower whose mother made her wear a shade of green entirely unbecoming to her complexion, who made use of that dress by standing beside me and blending in so completely no one noticed her enough to make sport of her.

Oh her! She ends up with—Ah yes never mind…names again! But perhaps I might mention that other wallflower, at least by her initials, Miss S.C., as she chose to take scandal far away from a potted plant and into a dark chamber.

Plant: Neither I, nor any of my colleagues, were involved in that affair. Who was the man she dallied with?

The earl…and pirate, of course. Why look at this! I know something that you do not.

Plant: Revel in the moment, Miss Darby, because it will be the last. After all, I’m certain you knew nothing about Ralston and the spinster planning to drink scotch in a low tavern.

Naming names! How indiscreet of you. And you should know better than to call any young lady a spinster.

Plant: I do her a service, Miss Darby. There is no faster way to assure a lady’s marriage than to label her a spinster and put her in reach of a rake.

Not all women wish to marry.

Plant: Declaring that belief as well will ensure a matrimonial fate.

I cannot and will not agree with you. But in any event, what about intrigue? Any spies or Scarlet Pimpernelesque pretenders frequenting the parquet floor lately?

Plant: What would a decorative bit of greenery like me know about espionage? La, you insult me with the question. Next you’ll be saying that I myself am a spy.

(using my own best imitation romance hero single eyebrow lift) I see.

(Silence, but for the orchestra.)

Unfortunately for this authoress, but not for those wishing a moment of privacy, the common potted ballroom plant is quite discreet.

Plant: (strangled exclamation) Common?

So I rely upon everyone else in the ballroom to supply me with the best of gossip and scandal. What––and more importantly, whom––did you witness behind a bit of greenery?

Welcome back to the Ballroom, lovely guests! But, oh dear. I guess I should have anticipated this. At last week’s debut, after I mentioned that my heroine in Captured by a Rogue Lord, Miss Serena Carlyle, might be helpful in answering questions about adventurous heroes, her ears perked right up. In fact, she asked if she could visit the ball today to offer us all a few suggestions on how a lady of exemplary virtue—

SERENA: Not precisely exemplary.

—modest virtue—

SERENA: Tarnished, in point of fact.

—somewhat compromised virtue—

SERENA: Completely nonexistent, actually.

—not entirely spotless virtue might capture a rakish lord.

<squawk!> Rakish lords capture virtue! <squawk!>

Oh, hello, Albert. I hadn’t realized you’d arrived, though I suppose the empty tray of lobster patties should have tipped me off. But if you’re here, Lady B must be too, which is perfect, since I’m eager to hear what she thinks of Serena offering her scandalous suggestions at the ball today.

LADY B: Scandalous suggestions are the very reason I host balls, Miss Ashe. Do take your head out of all of those stuffy history books and use it for something sensible.

<squawk!> Rakish lords are stuffy! <squawk!>

SERENA: (laughs) Hardly, Albert. But I should like to offer some suggestions to other ladies who may have an eye on a handsome, roguish gentleman.

 

LADY B: Please, dear girl. We are all ears… and eyes. (adjusting monocle) —And the Duke of Read is all legs this evening, thank heavens! For a mature gentleman, he wears satin knee breeches remarkably well.— But where were we?

Serena’s recommendations for capturing a rakish lord.

<squawk!> Rakish lords wear tight breeches! <squawk!>

LADY B: We can only hope as often as possible.

 

SERENA: My first recommendation to a lady who may not be perfectly comfortable begging a kind hostess for an introduction to the rakish gentleman of her dreams: find him in a dark, abandoned parlor during a ball.

 

LADY B: The ideal location for a first encounter, I always say! What next?

 

SERENA: Next, she should find him in a dark alley late at night. Alone.

 

LADY B: Naturally alone. And then?

 

SERENA: Then she should find him in a dark alcove during a house party. Again, alone.

(Katharine lifts brow) Me thinks I’m starting to see a pattern here.

SERENA: Then, if he happens to own a ship, she should definitely visit him on his ship. In the dark, of course.

Alone, I’m guessing.

SERENA: Oh, most certainly alone.

<squawk!> Rakish lords are fond of the dark! <squawk!>

This is becoming pretty clear to us all. Serena?

SERENA: Yes?

Have you any other recommendations for a lady wishing to secure a match with a rakish lord—other than dark parlors, dark alleys, dark alcoves and dark ships, that is?

SERENA: Well, I’d thought to mention dark stables and dark gardens. But I could stop here.

 

MISS OCTAVIA PIERCE: Don’t forget dark billiards rooms.

Octavia, how nice of you to join us!

LADY B: Ah, Miss Pierce, just back from your long sojourn abroad and lately seen whispering in corners with the gorgeously mysterious Marquess of Doreé. That delicious man owns a fleet of ships and is rich as Croesus. Are you hoping to be the lady who will share his fortune?

 

OCTAVIA: Lady B, if only all ladies in Society were as direct as you I might be a great deal more comfortable in it.

What was that you said just then, Octavia… about billiards rooms?

SERENA: Yes, I am intrigued.

<squawk!> Aren’t we all? Rakish lords intrigue! <squawk!>

OCTAVIA: Billiards tables, rather. (nods sensibly) It turns out that they are remarkably useful for coming to know a gentleman a little better. Or, rather, a lot.

 

LADY B: (readjusting monocle) I daresay. I do daresay. (looking Octavia up and down) Miss Pierce, I am inviting you back next month.

 

OCTAVIA: I will be most happy to return, Lady B. Thank you.

<squawk!> Rakish lords are happy! <squawk!>

LADY B: In my ballroom? Of course they are!

There we have it, Serena’s (and Octavia’s) recommendations for securing the attention of a rakish lord. So, dear guests, if you had your sights set on a gentleman rogue, how would you go about capturing him?

There’s nothing the hostess of a ball enjoys more than introductions and, as you know, I–Lady Heliotrope Beaufetheringstone–am particularly fond of introducing well-gammed young gentlemen to lovely young ladies and providing them a direct route to dimly-lit alcove or, even better, the steps to the gardens beyond the ballroom (someone must facilitate Society chatter, after all).

Tonight, however, I shall make do with introducing this rather motley group of authoresses to you, dear guest.

<squawk!> Writing is common! <squawk!>

Oh, hush, Albert. Writing may be common, but I must say that these ladies are anything but. Additionally, there’s nothing wrong with common if it comes with nice legs or a nugget of scandalous gossip. And while I wouldn’t presume to consider their legs, in this group, scandalous goings on are regular as rain.

We’ll begin with the lovely and talented Gaelen Foley. Now, Miss Foley is an expert when it comes to writing about the men in society . . . secret societies, that is, and I have an idea that she likes a handsome one as much as I do (the reason I married a mere baron, guests). Miss Foley, do share . . . what’s your weakness? Nice legs? Strong arms? Eyes that promise everything? Lips that deliver?

GAELEN: Welllll, handsome is always good, but there’s a certain charisma some gentlemen possess that snares a lady’s attention. Not sure what it is, exactly… Sharp wits, attitude, a sardonic sense of humor…? Soulful eyes, a sexy voice…? Of course, I certainly don’t object to great pecs and washboard abs. All the better if said hero is skilled enough to open a can of Regency whup-ass as necessity may require. You never know what sorts of villains may menace our heroines, after all. The ladies can often defend themselves if properly armed, but it’s an awfully nice gesture for a hero to oblige in this regard, don’t you think, Lady B?

Well said, Miss Foley. You may sit by me at any time you desire to opine on the male form.

<squawk!> I like good shoulders! <squawk!>

Yes, yes, Albert . . . everyone knows you like a broad shoulder for a perch.

–Oh, dear. Do you see Lord Farthen by the lemonade? What possessed his tailor to outfit him in such a ridiculous shade of yellow? His dear mother would swoon if she were alive to see it.–

What was I saying? Ah. Yes. Shoulders. Don’t you think, Albert, that your perch on a shoulder is a bit piratical? I, of course, don’t mind a brigand now and then to keep things interesting. Neither does Katharine Ashe. Everyone knows Miss Ashe likes her romance on the high seas! Miss Ashe, tell everyone who may not yet understand the appeal of adventure the way we do—Lord B and I have quite a story, as you know—what is it about swashbuckling excitement that makes for such a quick route to love?

KATHARINE: We might ask Miss Serena Carlyle. She recently learned a lot about such adventuring rogues. One rogue, in particular.

I daresay. Ladies like dear Miss Carlyle who are overlooked by Society tend to observe keenly and can be remarkably clever–much cleverer than ladies who go about chatting incessantly, I always say.

<squawk!> Present company excepted! <squawk!>

Albert, you are impertinent–of course–and an unrepentant flatterer when I’ve put lobster patties on the supper menu. But see here, Miss Ashe, is Miss Carlyle’s knowledge of pirates all from storybooks, or can she claim personal experience?

KATHARINE: In fact she first came across such a man in an unused little parlor off a ballroom very much like this one. A dark parlor. Quite marvelously dark, as it turned out.

How I enjoy a young lady with a streak of daring in her! Whatever did she find to converse with him about?

KATHARINE: As I understand it, my lady, they did very little conversing. (arches brow)

Better and better! (Lord B first importuned me in a shadowy garden, of course, and I didn’t mind it a bit.) But Miss Carlyle’s libertine no doubt had remarkable legs. All that sauntering about storm-tossed decks, after all. Did she discover his identity?

KATHARINE: With a bit of assistance from a band of smugglers, a wicked stepmother, and her own intrepid spirit—yes, indeed. Both of his identities.

Both! Rake and pirate in one. How fabulously delicious! But do tell my guests tonight, Miss Ashe, what does a lady require to capture such a rogue?

<squawk!> A sharp cutlass! <squawk!>

KATHARINE: Rather, the courage to show a man what it means to be truly worthy of his noble heart. And, of course, a taste for a bit of adventure now and again!

But it is not only the handsome, adventuresome type who makes for the best of men. I like to say that there’s nothing like a still water to run deep. Which brings me to my next guest, Miranda Neville. Miss Neville, I hear, enjoys the quiet, bookish hero with a magnificent manly core, but in her next book, she’s not even come close to a quiet, bookish heroine. Indeed, Miss Celia Seaton (who I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting, but I’m told is related to me through the Earl of Chester’s second daughter’s third cousin by marriage) is something of a disaster. Miss Neville, do tell us about her!

MIRANDA: Miss Celia Seaton will be thrilled to know she’s related to you, Lady B., since her antecedents are unfortunately obscure. The last I heard she was in quite desperate straits, working as governess to four noisy boys. And all because her debut in society was ruined when Mr. Tarquin Compton compared her to a cauliflower.

<squawk!> Vegetables are common <squawk!>

I believe I was acquainted with Mr. Compton’s mother – both being the daughters of dukes, don’t you know. That was before the unfortunate carriage accident in Wales. Nothing good ever comes of going to Wales.

MIRANDA: Careful, Lady B. My grandfather was Welsh.

Did he have good legs?

MIRANDA: I am unable to enlighten you, since he always dressed with the utmost propriety. As does Tarquin Compton, the greatest dandy in London since Mr. Brummell left the country. I shall have the honor of introducing Tarquin to you at the ball on July 25th.

Does he have good legs?

MIRANDA: Tarquin’s physique is perfect is every way, as Celia discovers when he is robbed and left half naked on the Yorkshire moors.

(shudders) Yorkshire! (perks up) Half naked, you say? The only thing better than a well-dressed man is an undressed man. With good legs. I wouldn’t expect him to pursue the acquaintance of Miss Seaton.

MIRANDA: He doesn’t have much choice. Celia has escaped from the same villains, wearing even fewer clothes.

Really! Well then, I shall look forward to meeting Mr. Compton on the 25th of July and learning more about this unfortunate and delicious collection of events. Poor man. Girls these days, they’re so troublesome . . . particularly before they become wives. And I cannot even begin to think about spinsters!

<squawk!> Unmarried is unmerry! <squawk!>

Brilliantly said, darling Albert. Indeed, I’m told there’s an entire town in the South where unmarried girls are sent to live out their days; can you imagine? Spinster Cove? Spindle Cove? No matter . . . it sounds positively devastating. But Tessa Dare can perhaps shed some light on this unpleasant epidemic. Miss Dare, I imagine the town to be utterly unbearable, filled with desperate, keening young ladies, all half mad with spinsterhood? Am I right?

TESSA:  Er… yes, my lady.

Yes?

TESSA:  Why, yes. Miss Susanna Finch, the village patroness, would be most satisfied to hear that description of Spindle Cove. A village of desperate, keening, meek, miserable spinsters who most definitely never go about exploring caves or shooting rifles or systematically defacing etiquette books. Indeed.

(Albert cocks head.)

(Lady B cocks eyebrow.)

TESSA (loudly):  Oh, yes. Miss Finch desires it widely known in Society that Spindle Cove remains a safe haven for demure, fragile young ladies dedicated to their embroidery.  Anyone suggesting the Cove has been recently overrun with immense, virile men would be mistaken. They are merely three men.  Admittedly rather large ones, who command an undue amount of space and female attention.

Let us keep to essentials, dear.  How are their legs?

TESSA:  Very bad indeed.  Their leader, Rycliff, took a bullet to the knee on the Peninsula.  He’s practically lamed.  So you see, Miss Finch has this pesky militia situation entirely under control. Any rumors filtering up from the coast of “spinsters gone wild” are emphatically false. Ooh, is that cake?  If you’ll excuse me…

<squawk!> Let them eat cake! <squawk!>

A curious one, that one, if you ask me. Mine is the keenest eye for gossip there is, and she’s secrets to spare. I’ll be speaking with Miss Dare again very very soon and shall get to the bottom of this. ‘Spinsters gone wild’ indeed.

Spinster or no, however, everyone likes a lady who takes matters into her own hands . . . especially when matters include gentlemen with a handsome set of calves. And Sabrina Darby knows just what I mean, I assure you. Miss Darby knows all there is to know about women who aren’t afraid to use their charms to secure the men they want. Do share, Miss Darby, the secrets of the feminine wile.

SABRINA: But then they wouldn’t be secrets, now would they?

A secret is only useful if it makes for good gossip.

SABRINA: While I do agree with you most whole-heartedly, for I love gossip as much as, or perhaps more than, the next woman, I must demur. My slightly tarnished reputation, you know.

(sniffs) I only invited you for that. I know you admire a well-turned leg as much as I.

SABRINA: Yes, writing about the underworld and the private lives of London’s rich and infamous certainly doesn’t make me a favorite about the ballroom. Though perhaps at some events, like the courtesans’ ball.

So tell me, I hear that that rascal Jones has something up his sleeve. Something to do with a certain someone’s rather scandalous memoir.

<squawk!> Scandalous! <squawk!>

SABRINA: (laughing) Oh that! Well, yes. You know, if you ever decide to write a memoir, you should consider Jones to publish you. I’m sure you have the best stories, Harriet Wilson be damned.

Miss Darby, I only consider flattery acceptable when offered by handsome young bucks with good calves. From you I demand gossip and I shall not be disappointed!

SABRINA: If you insist. Over tea. But really, with our shared love of gossip and scandal, I think we’d best pay more attention to your other guests. There’s something brewing in that corner over there!

Manipulative minx. Where? Oh, now that’s a pair of legs! (lifts monocle to have a closer look) The Duke and Duchess of Leighton, at it again, I see. I don’t mind it, considering that Leighton has a physique that would make Atlas himself cower in shame, but the two are so oft intertwined around town that one wonders if perhaps their townhouse is lacking in the appropriate furniture?

Ah…as coincidence would have it, here is Sarah MacLean, who seems to know the Duke & Duchess quite well. Miss MacLean, is there anything that you can tell us about the two inammoratas over there?

SARAH: Only that I’m not surprised they’re making a scandal of themselves. That seems to be their preferred state.

With legs like Leighton’s, one almost can’t blame the Italian minx.

SARAH: My thoughts exactly. Leighton may be a complete ass, but he’s handsome enough to make any decent lady forget it. I assume that’s why you’ve condescended to invite the Duke & Duchess to your ball despite their recent scandal.

It’s a bit generous to use scandal in the singular, don’t you think? No doubt Leighton and his bride are plagued with scandals–in the plural. Countless scandals. At any rate, there was no condescending about it, dear girl. I like a good show.

SARAH: Then you’ve certainly done well by inviting the six of us to your ball, Lady B. You see, good shows seem to follow us…if I didn’t know better, I’d say that we attract them.

(Turning an alarming shade of red) You don’t attract them, Miss MacLean. I attract them. My ballroom attracts them. Have you missed the number of shaded alcoves and potted ferns and doors that stand temptingly open to the fresh evening air? Do you think this is all coincidence?

<squawk!> Impetuous girl! Impetuous girl! <squawk!>

SARAH (backpedaling): Not at all, my lady. In fact, I’d say that it’s one of the best outfitted ballrooms of the ton. I was thrilled to receive my invitation and would not have dreamed of missing tonight. No doubt, there is plenty of scandal to be witnessed, thanks to you.

All thanks to me. You’d do best to remember that Miss MacLean, before I regret inviting you. (sniffs) Now. I hope you girls brought ink and paper…

<squawk!> Writing is common! The profession of drink! <squawk!>

Really, Albert! I don’t know where you learn such things! No matter what we might think of writing in general, certainly these ladies in particular are quite the exception. Though I have my eye on one or two, I haven’t seen any of them do anything utterly out of hand as of yet.

<squawk!> It’s unfortunate! It’s unfortunate! <squawk!>

It is a bit, isn’t it? Well, we shall just have to wait. As the night goes on, the dancing begins, and the conversations grow more exciting, certainly something untoward will happen.

There’s no place like a ball for excellent gossip, after all.

—

Thank you for arriving in time for the first set of the evening…as a sign of her unflagging generosity, Lady B is offering a signed set of books from the Misses Foley, Ashe, Neville, Darby, Dare and  MacLean. To enter the contest, please comment below and tell us what you would wear to a ball if you had the best seamstresses at your disposal. We’ll choose one winner, at random, on Saturday!