The problem was that he didn’t value moral qualities as he should. In fact, he thought they were damned boring.
It was a conundrum and made him wish that Sally hadn’t died. If he had a good woman around Fonthill, it would all be easier. Women were so good at lecturing. Sally could lecture him into obedience, and he would complain to the fellows behind her back, and that would be that.
The picture of English marriage.
The real problem was that he was free to please himself. Pleasure was vulgar—and generally wicked—but so interesting.
As he entered his study, Povy came forward to give him his nightly report. Jem threw himself into an armchair and gratefully took the glass of wine handed him by a footman.
It was his indulgence and (if he admitted it) one of his passions. He drank sparingly. But he began most evenings with a small glass of the very best wine. He raised an eyebrow at Povy.
“A French claret from Bertin du Rocheret. I will serve it with the beef. The menu tonight: turtle Madeira soup, followed by relevé de poisson, or salmon in champagne. To be followed by roast beef, lamp chops, capons with a béchamel sauce, and a plate of roast goslings with puréed apples.”
Jem nodded.
Povy turned to another piece of foolscap, though he had it memorized. “Some comments on a few guests. Mrs. Sandhurst left this morning, sending you her most fervent gratitude. She wished to speak to you herself, but I indicated that it wasn’t possible.”
Jem raised an eyebrow. “And is she?”
“Indeed, I believe that she returns to London to seek consultation with an accoucheur; the child is hardly imminent, but naturally she will need to inform Mr. Sandhurst of the event.”
“Or not,” Jem said. “Did she leave Troubridge behind?”
“Indeed,” Povy said. “Troubridge declared himself desolé, but he spent the day hunting with one of the Graces.”
“So far this sounds terribly tedious.”
Povy turned the page. “Miss Moll Davis and Mr. Cooling are practicing their performance of The Five Hours’ Adventure. Monsieur Batelier, Sir Carteret, and Mr. Pedley stay on.” He looked up. “I believe that Sir Carteret may be drawing Mr. Pedley into an unlikely and improvident endeavor, something to do with the Committee of Tangier.”
“He’s of age,” Jem said. “Are the Oxford scholars still here?”
“Yes, there was a most lively discussion of glass-making at breakfast, and then they all repaired to the dairy, which has been temporarily transformed into a glass-blowing studio. They are trying the effect of adding lead oxide in combination with a touch of copper. The Spanish ambassador was much taken by the idea, and has spent the day with them in the dairy, though he will be at the Game tonight, of course.”
“Excellent,” Jem said, feeling a spark of interest. “I shall stop by the creamery tomorrow.”
“As you know, the commissioner of the navy brought in three wagonloads of prize goods last week; the Duke of Wintersall wrote with the request that he bring the commissioner to the Game in the near future. I took the liberty of replying in the affirmative.”
“Good,” Jem said. These days the Game—the heart of his house party—tended to populate itself.
“Tonight is a simple dinner, with a mere thirty-three to sit,” Povy said, turning the page. “Your valet has laid out your flowered tabby vest and the coat with gold lace at the wrists.”
“That seems rather grand,” Jem said, watching the wine swirl in his glass.
“We have a duke and a duchess in the house,” Povy said with mild reproach. “Although His Grace the Duke of Villiers is feeling poorly and won’t join us. He doesn’t have a fever, but is much pulled. I asked the cook to make him an eau de poulet rafraichissant.”
“Chicken tea?”
“For the unwell, there is nothing better,” Povy said. “Beetroot leaves, yellow lettuce and chicken, skimmed of course.”
“You are a miracle of knowledge, Povy.”
Povy put aside his book and Jem finished his wine. At the end of their evening talks, Povy generally added a few valuable particulars about his guests, tips that he had not committed to paper. But tonight he hesitated.
“Don’t tell me that you are undecided about something,” Jem said.
“I am not entirely comfortable with Mr. Cope’s presence at Fonthill. Your Grace has always ensured that no innocence is besmirched under your roof.”
“I share your concern,” Jem said, swallowing the last few drops, “but I promised Villiers I would look out for him, and I will.”
“I believe that he might find himself an object of interest to many,” Povy said.
Jem raised his eyes. “Oh?”
“That particular kind of near-feminine beauty will find many admirers.”
“I shall watch my little chicken carefully then,” Jem murmured. “Damn Villiers for bringing him here anyway.” He hesitated. “Villiers seems to want his ward introduced to the pleasures of female company, but…”
Povy didn’t blink an eye. “It may be that Mr. Cope has another inclination.”
“Well, I’ll ensure that he makes his own choices,” Jem said, hating the fact that even the slightest hint of desire had crossed his mind when he saw this Cope. It was enough to make him dislike the man, but that was unfair.
“The Duchess of Cosway’s reasons for visiting Fonthill were initially unclear to me,” Povy said, with just a hint of frustration in his voice.
“You surprise me, Povy, you do. I thought nothing in the human heart was unclear to you.”
Povy allowed himself a small smile. “However, I now surmise that she intends to create a scandal, thus drawing her husband back to this country.”
“Ah.” Jem nodded. “It will probably work.”
“She sent out some twenty letters this afternoon, asking me to frank all of them for you. Since she could easily have had her traveling companion, the Duke of Villiers, frank those letters, I gather she wanted your stamp on the letters, thus establishing her residence at Fonthill.”
“Well, the scandal-broth brewing in this house ought to be good for something,” Jem said. “Is that it, Povy?”
“A final thought about your new secretary, Miss Caroline DesJardins. I am slightly worried that her ideas may be too outré.”
“Is it possible?”
“For the entertainment tomorrow night, she is employing several footmen—those with the better physiques—as ‘primitive men.’”
“And what does that entail?”
“Flesh-colored silk with a small apron of fig leaves embroidered on the front.”
Jem barked with laughter.
“The silk is sewn to fit the body with the utmost exactitude,” Povy said a bit gloomily. “The effect is indelicate, to say the least.”
“I shall look forward to it,” Jem said, chuckling. “No, I think that Miss DesJardins is a welcome addition to the household, Povy. I loved her stories of the fêtes she designed in Paris for the Duchess of Beaumont.”
Povy bowed and retired. Jem made his way upstairs to put on the suit with gold lace at the wrists (for he never disobeyed Povy), thinking all the time of wild French designers and errant duchesses.
