On Saturday last, your intrepid Teatime Tattler reporter dared the hallowed halls of the Biblio Club, a quiet and discreet gentleman’s club just off St James Street. It had come to our attention that two new authors had been added to the ranks of our benefactors, the Bluestocking Belles, and that their characters might, or might not, be out on the town to celebrate.
Having managed to gain entrance, I took a seat in a shadowy corner and awaited developments.
No sooner was I settled, than the door opened again. A captain in full dress uniform entered. “Thank you Crosby. Beastly night out there. I’ll be glad of some whisky by the fire, please.”
Before crossing the room, the captain looked around, watchful eyes cataloguing the room. And while he did, another newcomer, a blond man with a gold earring and a slight limp, took the place the captain had marked as his own.
One of the chairs by the fire was already occupied, by a fair man in full evening dress: His coat and breeches—of a midnight-blue silk velvet, with a deep band of embroidery on each side on the cuffs—fitted him as if painted on his broad shoulders and muscular thighs. Snow-white lace foamed at his neck and cuffs, matching his pure white stockings with silver clocking. His waistcoat was embroidered, near-painted, in a riotous multi-colour pattern on a salmon pink ground to match the roses in the coat’s embroidery.
The black armband was an incongruous touch. The ton was used to it now, and regarded it as an affectation. But the Marquess of Aldridge sincerely mourned the loss of his mistress.
A glint of gold in the firelight was not normally the cause of second glance in this place, but when it dangled from from an ear – of a man, no less – it caused eyebrows to raise.
The blond-headed man ignored it all, his slight limp almost imperceptible as he moved through the room with the aid of an ebony cane. He rested his hand lightly on the silver pommel. Those who knew Captain Hardacre knew it was swordstick, but he was not challenged, not on a night like this.
Without a by-your-leave, the newcomer took a chair by the fire opposite the young dandy with the rose embroidered coat. At a glance the two men might have been mistaken for twins. Hardacre lifted his chin and caught the other man’s attention.
“Dear chap, you must give me the name of your tailor.”
“I would,“ Aldridge replied, “But then I would have to kill you. Brandy, dear chap?”
Hardacre inclined his head to accept.
His palm rubbed the pommel of his cane, a proxy for the ache in his leg. The jewellery on his fingers caught Aldridge’s attention – particularly the one on his index finger. It was a ring of silver mounted with a square carnelian, blood red in hue. Into it had been set a gold scimitar.
“An unusual jewel,” the man commented.
“I took it from the man I killed.”
“An easier trophy to wear than a shrunken head,” Aldridge replied.
Hardacre grinned. “Perhaps we’ve sparred enough to be introduced. I’m Captain Christopher Hardacre.”
“Aldridge,” the other said, returning the grin and extending a hand.
The door opened again, letting in two gentlemen. “Rather impressive company isn’t it?” The Earl of Chadbourne looked up at his friend, but the Marquess’s ice blue eyes focused on the officer standing the far side of the room. “What is it Richard?” Chadbourne asked.
“A newcomer,” he murmured studying the man with as if he might probe the secrets of his soul.
“But not unknown to you, I’ll warrant.” The Earl shook his head. Richard Hayden, Marquess of Glenaire, knew everything, or so it seemed.
“Did you doubt it, Will? I wonder what Campion is doing in London?” the Marquess said. He handed his hat to the doorman and set out to find out.
“Thank you Crosby,” the earl said, following suit before following his friend.
Richard Campion halted in the act of taking a seat in a quiet corner. “Glenaire?” His gaze searched the room, noting the other men present then fixed on the Marquess. Campion started forward, meeting the other man more than half way. “By all that’s holy.” He clasped Glenaire about the shoulders in a rare public display. “What devilment has brought you away from the lofty heights of White’s?”
“I find the Biblio more conducive to quiet conversation and the clientele most interesting, present company included. Are you a guest tonight or have you obtained a membership?”
Garrick of Clan MacLaren fell through the doorway, collided with a well-dressed figure who had opened the door, and fell upon the floor. Laughter rumbled from the man who followed him, the man’s hand extended to assist Garrick to his feet.
“Easy now, Garrick. The first few minutes once you have traveled through time can be startling,” Dristan of Berwyck laughed as he slapped Garrick upon his back.
Garrick gasped. “Ye canna be tellin’ me we are like those future gals that continue to show up at yer gates, me laird.”
“Aye…” Dristan mused aloud looking the doorman up and down. “I can see I have once more traveled to some point in the future.”
“Ye have been here afore?” Garrick asked.
“Although I did not care for it overly much, Riorden de Deveraux and I slipped through time long ago but ’twas to some bookshop and an inn.”
Garrick crossed himself. “How shall we return to Berwyck, my laird?”
“These things seem to work themselves out. For now, let us join the other men by the fire. If I recall they serve a find brandy.”
Garrick was unsure if he wished to enter the room or go out the way he came in fear of where else he might end up. He made to follow Dristan ’til the man closing the door spoke up.
“My lord, perhaps you would like to leave your cape with me,” he suggested.
“Your name,” Dristan inquired with his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
“Crosby… at your service.”
Dristan took the cloak from his shoulders and nodded to Garrick to do the same. “I expect its return upon our departure.”
Crosby nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
“Come along, Garrick. Let us join the other men for a drink.”
“Aye, me laird,” Garrick replied. He hesitated but a moment afore he took a deep breath, handed his garment to Crosby and stepped forward wondering what this future world had in store for him.
Aldridge, who had met Dristan before, raised his brandy glass to him, and nodded, then introduced him and Hardacre. Soon the two medieval gentlemen, the sea raider, and the marquess were sharing tales and brandy.
A dark man, tall and moustached, walked in, gazing around the dimly-lit room as he softly closed the door.
Still frozen from his ride, although he’d already groomed and bedded Charro down in a stallion box, Xavier moved closer to the fire and turned his back to the roaring blaze, his fingers spread wide behind him to better warm them.
“I’d appreciate a little of that warmth, sir,” Aldridge said to the man in the fringed leather coat – no, a shirt surely – who had just blocked all the heat from the fire by standing in front of it.
He raised an amused eyebrow when the man turned. “Aldridge,” he introduced himself. “And my new friend Captain Hardacre. You would be?”
“Arguello, Xavier Arguello, of Rancho de las Pulgas”
Xavier reached out a hand and Aldridge returned his firm grip, then shook the captain’s as well.
“From Spain? How fares your land under the invader?”
“No,“ Xavier grinned, and perused their surroundings, “from what I daresay would have been nearer to your American colonies. From California. As to invasions, we haven’t had much of an invasion since the Americans took it from Mexico, but there are an awful lot of previous gold seekers now claiming land… some of it ours… and Southerners looking to make it Confederate… but you don’t want to hear about that now.” Xavier ducked his head in apology.
Aldridge glanced at Glenaire, who was watching them from across the room. Interesting, but more in Glenaire’s field of expertise than his own.
Richard cast Glenaire a glance before shifting his stance to more closely observe the newcomer. He’d read about the Spanish colonies on the west coast of the New World, but he’d never met anyone from that location.
Glenaire considèrs his options. He planned to feel Campion out about the Duke of Margis, but reconsidered in the face of this gentleman from California. The Biblio frequently had visitors from unusual places—and times—but could this one be trusted? Xavier caught his look and nodded, then turned toward him.
Richard raised his brow at Glenaire who shrugged then sat. Waiting as Aruguello approached, Richard smiled and gestured to an empty chair between him and Glenaire. “Please join us.”
“Thank you, Gentlemen,” Xavier said, sitting and awaiting developments.
An amiable gentleman joined them and handed a goblet of brandy to Glenaire before taking a seat. I’m Chadbourn. I understand you gentlemen are new to our lovely club. Let me be one of the first to welcome you. My friends (he nods toward Glenaire) call me Will.
Xavier stood and extended his hand. “Thank you for the welcome, Will. I’m Xavier. It’s been a long… ride, I think” he said, with a furrow of his brow. “I seem to have fallen into a different time, as I once did, when I met… ahh… her Grace the Duchess of Haverford, I believe it was. Have any of you made her acquaintance, or have missed her time altogether?”
Richard introduced himself and nodded to Chadbourn. “I’m sorry to say I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting the Duchess of Haverford, though I know of her, of course.”
Will grined. “Once you meet the Duchess of Haverford, you don’t forget her. Eleanor is a formidable woman.” He raised his glass to Aldridge, who was listening without shame, and grinned back.
Richard scowled. “Certainly her reputation is better than the only duchess I know personally.”
Glenaire raises a haughty eyebrow. “Do tell…”
Richard leaned toward Glenaire and spoke in an undertone. “I know I can count on your discretion. Perhaps we could talk later about her Grace of Stonegreave.”
Glenaire nodded imperceptibly. The analytical engine that is his brain, filed the contact away. This man may be useful.
“Senor Arguello, tell us of this California. What is life like on your ranchero?” Campion asked. He’d just as soon not have duchesses as the topic of conversation lest the name of one particular duchess arise, as it always seemed to do. Even after several years in retirement at Stonegreave, talk of Marielle was still of interest to society.
“The Rancho de las Pulgas, it is called. South of San Francisco. My wife and I have just returned there… it’s been quite a few years. It’s the biggest old Spanish Land Grant in the western side of the San Francisco Bay Area. A few thousand horses, even more cattle, hay, and grain. A nice spread.“ He added in an undertone, “I never thought to see it again.”
Undoubtedly the gentlemen continued their fascinating conversations, and perhaps in time the two groups merged. But alas, I could not stay to observe, having been noticed in my quiet corner by the estimable Crosby and escorted, none too gently, to the door.
***
Welcome to New Belles:
Rue Allyn and Lizzi Tremayne
The Teatime Tattler is delighted to welcome Rue Allyn’s hero from The French Duchess, Richard Campion, and Lizzi Tremayne’s hero from her Long Trails series, Xavier Arguello. May we and our readers enjoy many happy hours watching them through these pages and the pages of the books they inhabit.
We invite you to take the time to learn more about Rue and her books, and Lizzi and hers, by clicking on the links in the previous paragraph.
When Susan Cunningham’s daughter disappears from school, her pleasant life as a fashionable, dashing, and respectable widow is shattered. Amy is reported to be chasing a French spy up the Great North Road, and when Susan sets out in pursuit she is forced to accept help from the last person she wants: her childhood friend and adult nemesis, Gil Rutledge.
The child has moved in. She’s intelligent, but forward and will grow into a bluestocking, I wager. The dog seems well-mannered (and without too many fleas, I must add.) The bird, odd creature, irritates me because he (she?) imitates my greetings.
(This lady appears in the forthcoming tale, HIS TEMPTING GOVERNESS, Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2, by 