Chapter Text
A Discerning Guest’s Society Papers
17 April 1814
The scene was like any other from the past month, excepting those few with Fashion Mishaps (remembering a certain Lady M’s lovely lace giving way to rather much lacier unmentionables...) and Scandals resulting in special licenses. It was a ball given by Mrs T. Known for her good housekeeping sense and duly terrible table at balls, it was typical. The lemonade was undrinkable, the air overhumid despite the chill night, and the company positively banal.
And then, like a shooting star across the sky, swathed in blue and a diamond parure. My dear reader, she has returned.
Lady Jane Winewood read the single sheet of paper delivered with her morning tray as though it was as necessary to her nourishment as the hot tea and toast. Crowded close with words, she had known the moment she saw what it would say.
Her return to London, and more importantly, to the Season, had not gone unmarked. Indeed, the anonymous gossip columnist had lauded her. Jane sank back into the sheets, satisfied.
She had planned for weeks the dress — modest but revealing a hint of décolletage, the gloves like gossamer, the touch of rouge applied to her cheeks and lips. And to set it all off: the show-stopping parure of diamond circling her neck, sparkling at her ears, twinned at her wrists.
She had returned, and with purpose.
Lady Jane Winewood intended to find a lover.
Putting the sheet down and picking up a triangle of toast, Jane thought of her past. Lord Winewood had gifted her with a title and an unentailed fortune, but little else. She had no memories to warm the lonely nights, only the reminiscences of laying underneath him.
They had been friends of a sort, she and her late husband, but he had chosen her for her hips and bosom rather than any true affection. Her family had had enough standing for the proposal to avoid a whisper of scandal, and she was a promising choice to mother his heirs. And Jane? Jane was pragmatic. She had known she would never receive a better offer. She’d thought she could find a lover, perhaps in Italy or France, once she’d dutifully produced an heir or two.
Fate thought otherwise. Within seven years, Jane was the Winewood widow. She had one son, James, she doted on faithfully, nurturing like a vine to take his place in due course.
But Jane was bored. And widows were ignored in the way virginal debutantes were not. Widows could be caught in the hothouse having a rose of some form or other tended to and not receive nearly the censure other women might.
She let that confidence cloak her. And she looked heavenly in blue. By arriving just when the Season began to pick up, she avoided the overeager men seeking a comfortable wife.
Jane intended never to marry again. But still, her fingers itched... She looked at the long ties of her curtain sash and imagined taking them and tying a man’s arms down, leaving only her own wishes. Leaving no chance of lying back in boredom.
She wanted to play.
A Discerning Guest’s Society Papers
19 April 1814
Those who misbehave are often the most divine dancers. Have not you noticed, dear ton? Many a rake and merry widow have captured hearts over a waltz.
It had been the work of an afternoon to refresh her entrance invitation to Almack’s. Seven years’ absence had not dulled the knowledge that a venue such as this would be a fertile hunting ground for a lover. Or, if not that, at least some good gossip.
Jane entered Almack’s alone, voucher in hand. Widows did not need chaperones, and she was not the sort of woman to require a bosom friend or two to muster up the courage to enter a ballroom. Having fond acquaintances across the ton was useful (case in point: securing her Almack's voucher for the night from one of the hostesses, an old friend of Jane’s dear-departed mama), and thus, Jane laid her charm where needed like fairy magick.
As she crossed the entrance to the ballroom proper, her mind was on both past and future. Lord Winewood had been... fine. He had served her purposes, and she had faithfully served his. She could not complain about him.
But she had missed this. She had missed the crush of people, the whispers, the gossip. Lord W had preferred the country, and so Jane had stayed with her embroidery and her flower-arranging and her harpsichord, and if she complained, she did so only to her few close friends.
London as a widow was even better than as an unmarried miss. With her paints, her rouge, her daringly bold dress, Jane cut a line through the room. The orchestra was beginning a minuet, and her good friend Mrs Mary Abernathy was surveying the room with a critical eye.
“Who is the standout this year, my dear?” Mary and Jane had long since stood on little ceremony when in casual company.
Mary twitched her mouth to the side. “I believe it is Miss Featherstonehaugh just there,” she said, gesturing with her fan to a delicate blond enduring the minuet with a gentleman at least thrice her age.
“A likely candidate, I should say,” Jane agreed. “Have you long arrived?”
“I have been here, oh, twenty minutes. You know as well as I it is gauche to arrive on time to these fêtes , no matter how the hostesses try to convince you otherwise.” Mary looked to Jane, noting her ensemble with her analytical eye. “You look lovely, but that is no surprise. Beginning the hunt tonight?”
Mary was one of the few people Jane allowed close to her heart and mind, and one of the many she had exchanged letters with through the tedium of internment at Winewood Hall. As such, she was long since appraised of Jane’s plans.
Jane smiled. “Yes, I do believe so. It’s a sensible place to do so, and you know I am of all things...”
She snatched a glass of lukewarm champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and downed a healthy amount in one sip.
“... quite sensible.”
Mary shook her head, but smiled a little. “I admit, I am glad you’ve kept your spirits. I wondered if my sprightly Jane would be the same as she was in our girlhood.”
“No man may alter me with his presence or without, Mary, you know this.”
Jane paused, then added, “Save my darling James, of course. But he has a few years yet until he qualifies as a man.”
“True enough,” Mary said. “I shall have to recommend the portraitist I used for my George to you. It will be lovely to remember them as so little and sweet when they try us as they grow into men, will it not?”
After a few moments of chit-chat, Jane struck. “I know you enjoy keeping watch of the eligible young ladies for your own little bets with yourself on who will make the best match...”
“Have I any intelligence on a handsome second or third son? Is that what you’re hedging around?”
“Yes,” Jane admitted. “This is only my second outing, as you well know. I am still getting the lay of the land, so to speak. The landscape is so changed from when I was last here!”
Mary laughed softly. “Time will do that, yes. Bless you, Jane, you know I do not keep watch of young gentlemen the way you do. I will keep my ears and eyes open for any that seem in need of a womanly touch, though. I daresay you will have better luck than I would, anyway. Your beauty has not faded at all!”
“You are too kind,” Jane demurred, though inwardly she purred. Her mother had taught her practically since birth to slather herself in cold cream every night, and it showed.
“I am not,” Mary said tartly.
“I will not deny that,” Jane said, and they burst into laughter.
A handful of dances had gone by as they’d stood with the matrons, a purposeful row or two back from the young ladies.
“Excuse me, I believe I will take a turn of the room,” Jane said.
She spoke to a red-faced Lord Marlborough of politics, frail Mrs Redding of her two young great-grandchildren in Cornwall, and snobby Mr Whistler for his impeccable gossip.
It was as she was turning away to playfully laugh into her fan that she saw A Most Promising Sight at the refreshments table.
Giving Mr Whistler her regards (and an invitation to call upon her for further gossip over tea), Lady Jane Winewood embarked on what she decided was a most holy mission, if your god was the god of future pleasures.
For she had spotted a clearly young gentleman in a bottle-green jacket. It was new. He was tugging at the cuffs, likely just altered, as he surveyed the meager selections of Almack's table. His unfashionably long brown hair brushed his collar.
What was promising about him? Was it the posture? Sweetly vulnerable he seemed, with broad shoulders. She set her own as she reached his side.
“I would not recommend the watercress,” she said, enjoying how he jumped slightly.
“Oh, excuse me,” the gentleman said. “I can move if you wish. Are you — Would you care for —”
“Oh no,” Jane demurred. “I am here simply to warn you off the watercress. You seemed perilously close to choosing it. A certain gentleman partook of it in legend,” she said, sotto voce, “and they say he was never seen again.”
“Did they?”
She nodded. “They did.”
He looked at her gravely for a moment, and suddenly broke out into a cheerful smile. “I thank you for warning me off, then. Might I know the name of my kind savior?”
“Of course, it was unforgivably rude of me not to lead with that. Priorities, you understand,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. “I am Lady Winewood.” She gave him a light curtsy.
He responded with a short bow. “A pleasure to meet you. I am Mr Redding.”
“Not a Cornish Redding? I just spoke to Mrs Redding of her great-grandchildren.” Jane went through her mental planner, where she kept notes on interesting people she met. Redding, Redding... a manor on the coast, large family, several children... Had this gentleman been in short pants when last she was in London? That was an unappealing thought.
“I am a Cornish Redding,” he said. “Undoubtedly that was my grandmother. We Reddings descended upon Almack’s in force tonight. There’s her, my mother, my brother Mr Redding, my other brother Mr Redding, their wives, and my younger sister Miss Roslyn Redding.”
“I’m sure Cornwall misses you all.” Since that’s about half the population gone , Jane added in her head. Were there five or six children grown?
He had a nice smile. “As I miss them, I’m sure. Apart from Eton and Cambridge, I’ve never left.”
“Is this your first trip to London, Mr Redding?”
“It is. Do you live here? Or have a house, really. I’m so used to just calling Sand Hill home I forgot there’s Redding House here.”
Wet behind the ears, aren’t you? Jane thought. Despite herself, she found it charming. The trick to London — to the ton — was to fashion a masque of propriety and decency and wear it at all times, even when one was dirtying one’s good name. Not that Jane knew about that. (She has been wild her first go-round in London. It was a miracle she had not been caught in scandal.)
“I have a house here, yes. I only recently arrived from the country myself after an extended stay. My late husband was terribly fond of the country,” Jane said.
“I’m so sorry to hear of your loss,” Mr Redding said automatically.
Jane nodded acknowledgement. “He has been gone these two years now. It did not seem right to mourn him here in London, so I stayed with my son in the country for the duration. I confess, it is wonderful to be back in the city.”
“I know only a few streets of London thus far, but what I have seen is hustle and bustle. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen! And I thought Cambridge was a huge city.” It was at this exact point that Mr Redding seemed to notice he was speaking to a woman, his mouth shutting with a snap.
Jane watched as his eyes widened slightly. It had taken him this long to notice she was young, lovely, and speaking to him. How precious.
“I am so sorry, it just occurred to me to ask: Would you care to dance, Lady Winewood?”
Having approached him hoping for exactly this outcome, she smiled. “I would be delighted. I believe it is a quadrille next. Come find me when this set ends; I shall be sure to make myself very visible.”
He bowed, and flushed to the roots of his hair. She could only assume that, having established she was a woman, he had further established she was a woman of certain assets.
Jane kindly said nothing to rebuke him, and the poor man scuttled off almost before she would have had the opportunity to do so.
“What an innocent,” she murmured. Her interest was not entirely captured, but it was piqued. He was sweetly formed, she noted, watching again his back as he crossed the crush of people to rejoin the Redding contingency.
While waiting for the current set to end, Jane spoke to Miss Fairfield, an unfortunately attired young lady who had been moping at a table for most of the night. Perhaps I can convince Mr Redding to do a kindness after our set , she thought. His sort is often chivalrous. Who knows? I might make a match.
As the song changed keys signaling a denouement, Jane stood again, giving her regards. Turning to face the dancers, she saw Mr Redding coming toward her — a little shy still, but moving forward nevertheless with purpose.
“I believe it is our turn now,” he said. Jane could tell, she noted with some amusement, he had practiced the phrase in his head as well as the smooth motion with which he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.
They found their place among the dancers. Jane realized she felt true anticipation for the dance. It had been so long since she had felt something wholeheartedly. The feeling was like waking up.
For all his bumbling in society (and truly, wasn’t it just that he was unpracticed to the meticulous London eye?), Mr Redding clearly knew how to dance. He stood a little taller than most men, and instead of being ungainly as some tall men were, he automatically accounted for the difference between his reach and hers.
“You move well, sir,” she complimented. Not so awkward in motion as he was in speech. Another check mark in his favor. She had not completely thought it through — Jane would need quite a bit more evidence of his suitability —
But what potential! If he should move his body so sweetly in bed play...
Jane caught herself just before she bit her lip. He had thanked her. She caught the tail end of it.
“Did you dance often in Cornwall?”
“I am afraid not,” he said with a light laugh. “My younger sister is terribly fond of dancing and wants practice at all hours. Living with my family means I am the gentleman most reliably on hand to partner her.”
“What an excellent brother you are,” Jane said lowly. “I have no siblings myself, else I should certainly have commandeered their afternoons as such myself when I was a tenderer age.”
“Not one sibling?” Mr Redding asked in a tone of surprise. “I find that hard to imagine. Was it terribly quiet, your childhood home?”
“It would have been were I less fond of shouting as a child,” she said blandly. He laughed again. “Oh, I assure you: I was a very naughty child, and I am reaping what I then sowed in my own son.”
Over Mr Redding’s shoulder, Jane spotted Mr Whistler subtly exchanging bets over dancing partners with another watcher.
“Did you ever make mud pies?” Mr Redding asked. “My sister and I were terribly fond of that. Sand pies from the beach did not stain our elder brothers’ trousers in the same way.” Jane enjoyed the spark of mischief the memory had set in his eye.
“Heavens, no,” she said with a laugh. “I ran wild out of doors, though, to be sure. Kept my governesses very busy, I did, whenever we went on park outings.”
He really was a graceful man, she marveled. Other ladies nearby had cast longing looks when their partners proved more inept. That reminded her: Miss Fairfield (and her unfortunately feathered headpiece) had not danced all night. It was time to do a good turn.
Though not too good a turn. She could have directed him to Miss Wright, who was exquisite in lavender, or the already lauded Miss Featherstonehaugh, who was likely occupied for the rest of the night anyway. Miss Fairfield was a sensible choice, like eating one’s greens.
“You should ask Miss Fairfield to dance next,” Jane said, pointing her out with a nod of her head to Mr Redding. “She is a sweet young lady and I am sure she would love the opportunity."
“Oh? Certainly, I will oblige. Would you introduce us?”
“Gladly,” Jane said. “There is no such thing as too many friends, do not you agree?” Marry her and find my bed in the night , she thought greedily. Get her with child, you’re both young and of similar social stature, and let me take my pleasure of you. That will work. Everyone gets what they want.
What a plan it would be! How very symmetrical. And it would leave her without a bothersome, opinionated gentleman to worry about underfoot in her home.
Perfect.
Lady Jane Winewood intended to make a conquest this Season.