eyes, remembering the time, nine years ago, when he and his brother had first seen her in Rundell and Bridges choosing silverware, both of them wanting her, as most men did. Even after bearing three children, she was still a stunningly lovely woman, gentle and compassionate, whose love had tamed his brother’s wild heart as no other woman could have done. Rayne trusted her opinion as much as his brother’s.
‘Nonsense,’ he said with a sideways grin. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? You’ve met her then, have you?’
‘Well, of course I have, love. I was one of the first people she contacted about opening a seminary in Richmond when there are already six others, not to mention all the boys’ academies. As a member of the Vestry, I was probably in the best position to discuss the idea with her, and had she not proposed to make hers different from the others in many ways, I’d not have been so encouraging. Besides, I know her mother, as you do.’
‘What ways?’
‘Subjects about which young women of a marriageable age seem to know so little these days. The art of conversation, for one. That’s sadly neglected by so many mamas. She takes them on visits to places of interest, to art galleries and studios of the leading painters, visits to the House of Commons to hear debates, to the theatre and the royal palaces. She wants them to learn better riding and driving skills, too. You’d be surprised how many young women are unable to ride really well,’ she added, waving to a friend across the room.
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ he said.
‘I believe she has a lot to offer that others don’t. We have Kew just across the park and I’ll lay any odds that half her pupils’ parents have never been to see the gardens, let alone the succession houses. She intends to teach them how to keep household accounts, and to plant a herb garden, and to cook with them.’
‘To cook? What on earth for?’
‘Seton dear, you’re so old-fashioned. What do you expect a wife to do these days? Stand around like a gateau and simper?’
‘Gateaux don’t simper, dear Amelie. And I think it sounds like an expensive exercise, since you ask.’
‘Ah, but Miss Boyce is no fool. She knows one cannot start such a venture on a shoestring, but don’t be supposing her fees are anything like the usual. Nothing but the best for Miss Boyce’s pupils. She had the house extended and refurbished before she moved in, and her pupils are from Richmond’s best families. Colonel and Mrs Lindell’s daughter is one, the vicar’s eldest daughter is another, and Sir Mortimer Derwent’s girl, too. Oh, and Sapphire Melborough from up on the Hill.’
‘Mm…’ said Rayne. ‘Interesting. Quite a handful.’
Whether he meant the entire package or Sapphire Melborough alone, Lady Elyot did not ask, though she might have been able to guess. ‘With her connections,’ she said, ‘she’s had no problem attracting the right kind of client. How do you find Lady Boyce these days? Has she tried to interfere with your friendship with the her twin daughters yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘She will.’
‘She’ll only try it once, Amelie.’
‘Oh, so you’re not so keen, then?’
‘There are plenty of other fish in the sea. Lady B. is a shark.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘but some will be harder to catch, I believe. Like the elder Miss Boyce.’
‘Hah!’ said Rayne, laughing off the suggestion. ‘I wouldn’t even know which bait to use to catch that one. I leave her to the literati, m’dear.’
Lady Elyot withdrew her arm, responding to her friend’s repeated beckoning. ‘Well, you do surprise me, Seton dear. I would not have thought you were too old for a challenge as lovely as that. Stay with the safe twins, then. You can hardly miss there, can you?’ She drifted away before he’d realised he’d forgotten to ask her who the Miss Austen was, talking so earnestly to Miss Lettie Boyce. But her taunt rang in his ears rather like a warning bell, overlapping the cheery male greeting behind his shoulder.
‘Seton, good to see you here. Having an evening off?’
He was aroused from his reverie just in time to catch the remains of a smile on Bart Waverley’s attractive face that had been directed, not at him, but at Miss Boyce, who had clearly been heading in his direction until she saw who he was about to address. Then she had smoothly stopped by the side of Baron Brougham, the Member of Parliament who was talking to Sir Joseph and Lady Banks, greeting all three with a kiss to both cheeks, turning her back upon the two who watched.
‘Oh, that looks rather like a cut to me,’ said Mr Waverley with a laugh. ‘I wonder what we’ve done to deserve that.’
‘I cannot imagine,’ said Rayne. ‘Who is the lady in the corner, Bart? Did I hear the name Austen correctly?’
‘Miss Jane Austen. She’s staying here with the two Misses Binney. Lives over at Chawton. Shall I introduce you?’
‘Yes, if you will. She looks like a homely sort, and I feel a bout of charity coming on.’
‘Then a word in your ear, old friend. A little less of the condescending manner. Miss Austen and most of the ladies here could give you an intellectual run for your money any day of the week, so if you start off in patronising mode, you’ll find yourself tied up like a bull in a pen. Just be warned.’
‘Thank you, Bart. What is Miss Austen’s forte?’
‘Writing,’ said Mr Waverley. ‘Even Prinny is one of her admirers.’
‘Good grief. Then I’d better tread carefully.’
‘The trouble with you, Seton, is that you’ve never fished in deep waters, have you? Come on, I’ll introduce you.’
With the metaphors becoming increasingly visual, Rayne and Mr Waverley waded through the company to reach Miss Austen, only to find that they had been beaten to it by both Lady Elyot and Mr Lawrence the court painter, both of whom had been waiting in line for the chance to speak with her.
Nor was it quite as easy as he had thought to capture a few moments of Miss Boyce’s time when she was surrounded by artists and poets, publishers and politicians, writers, actors and musicians and, in one case, a painted scent-drenched playwright who seemed desperate to hold centre stage until Miss Phoebe and Miss Esme, her sister, drew him kindly towards the supper table, still declaiming King Lear. Rayne eventually discovered her standing with her back to him, listening intently to Mr William Turner talking about his latest tour of the northern counties, a small untidy man whose strong Cockney accent was at odds with those who asked questions of him.
Among others, Miss Boyce wanted to know what his plans were for the Royal Academy Exhibition. ‘You only presented one painting last year, Mr Turner. Will there be more than one this year?’
He obviously knew her, fixing her with an impish glare down his beaked nose, rather like an outraged gnome. ‘Virgil,’ he said. ‘Begins with a D.’
‘Dido?’ said Miss Boyce, promptly. ‘Dido and Aeneas?’
The amusement and applause was as much for the master’s pretend-anger
