my entry:
The Match
‘The rain has cleared, my lord.’
Lord Brandon, Baron Hardwicke, resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. He’d so hoped for a steady rain. Still, he could scarcely take it out on his valet. Jacklin was many things, but manipulating the weather was beyond his otherwise manifold capabilities.
‘Remind me again why we are doing this.’
‘It was at the behest of His Majesty, my lord.’
Hardwicke sighed. Poor King George. He grew a little madder with each passing day. Still, it would never do to offend him. Or the Regent, who’d had a wicked grin on his face when the ‘request’ had first come down at White’s. Hardwicke was not one of the Prince’s inner circle, but he was on the outer fringe. That was to say, Prinny had no objections to beating him at any and every card game from piquet to whist.
‘This is apt to become a fiasco.’ Hardwicke studied the distasteful costume Jacklin held out for his perusal. ‘He truly expects us to wear identical livery?’
Jacklin’s face remained as still as stone. ‘I believe it is called a uniform, my lord. Weston sent it.’
'However did His Highness manage… Ah, never mind. Brummell.’ Only the Beau could have talked Weston into designing something as mundane as a uniform. Hardwicke wondered what Beau had had to promise the best tailor in London to make him compromise his toplofty standards.
‘As to that, my lord, I could not say.’
The uniform consisted of white knee britches and a white jacket with blue trim. It didn’t quite bear Weston’s usual stamp of incontrovertible good breeding, but the jacket at least looked as though it would fit well.
‘And the others?’
‘I regret that I am not privy to the details, my lord.’
Hardwicke brushed a lock of wavy black hair off his forehead, ignoring his valet’s wince. If he were going to take part in this farce, he would carry it off with style.
Regent’s Park was awash with curricles and carriages. Anyone with pretensions to gentility who were in London for the Season appeared to be here. Hardwicke wished he did not look like a monkey in the uniform, but knew that his fellows looked at least as bad as he did. Possibly worse. At least none of the Royal Dukes had been coerced into this charade. The thought of seeing Cumberland, corset and all, squeezed into a ‘uniform’ brought a smile to his face, but only for a moment.
She was here. The young lady he was considering pursuing, Miss Pennyfeather, this Season’s Incomparable, had turned out with the rest of this year’s crop of available misses and their matchmaking mamas. Unlike the rest of them, she was accompanied not only by her mother but by her younger siblings as well. Little Miss Anna sat primly, watching the teams assemble. The same could not be said for young Master Thomas.
Hardwicke watched the ten-year-old fidgeting in the carriage. He’d made the boy’s acquaintance quite by accident a week ago, when said mischief-maker had let a mouse loose on Rotten Row, sending a number of horses rearing into the air, tossing their riders, including the lovely Miss Pennyfeather. The lovely brunette had risen in his estimation by failing to scold her brother after she picked herself up off the ground, laughing instead. Hardwicke wondered what devilry the lad intended to instigate today. If he was any judge of boys, it would be something spectacular.
‘Thomas, do be still!’
Jane Pennyfeather looked at her gentle mother, whose words had their usual effect on her brother, namely, none at all. Tommy was a handful even at home, where he had more scope for his inquisitive mind than here in the metropolis. When he’d first heard of the upcoming cricket match pitting members of the House of Lords against the House of Commons, nothing would do him but to beg and cajole until he was allowed to accompany them on their outing.
‘Look, Jane.’ Mama had reverted to her usual expedient of ignoring Thomas. ‘Isn’t that Lord Farthingale looking at you through his quizzing glass?’
Jane followed her mother’s gaze to the old Court card. Lately he had been hanging out for a wife, even making a much-commented-upon visit to Almack’s. Unfortunately, he seemed to have set his intentions upon her, something more to do with the handsome dowry she commanded than her looks. Clad in ancient Court dress more suited these days to a masquerade than an outing en plaine aire, Viscount Farthingale looked a perfect illustration of the Macaronis of the heyday of George III. Jane suppressed a shudder. He was old enough to be her father. Nothing could induce her to accept an offer of marriage from him, yet Mama still counted him amongst her favourites of Jane’s suitors.
Turning away, Jane searched the crowd for Lord Hardwicke. There he was, just edging onto the field. His clothing fit him as well as any of the garments he ever wore. For a moment, he met her gaze, and Jane forgot to breathe. He smiled at her, and touched the ridiculous cap on his head. He’d noticed her!
Two seconds later, Tommy jostled her. Jane saw the catapult appear in his hand, along with a well-bitten apple core.
‘Oh, Tommy, no!’
But it was too late. With a wicked gleam in his blue eyes, Tommy pulled back the elastic on the slingshot and let the rotten core fly—straight into the ridiculous powdered wig of the elderly Macaroni.
Lord Farthingale clapped a hand to his wig. After extracting the core, an incredulous expression on his face, he turned to glare at them.
‘Thomas Alexander Pennyfeather!’ Mama glanced from her son to her marriageable daughter. ‘Oh, Jane, this ruins your chances with Farthingale!’
Jane darted a glance in Lord Hardwicke’s direction. His smile made her heart dance. Tommy was right: Viscount Farthingale was rotten to the core. Perchance now she had a chance to become the Baroness Hardwicke…
