Free Regency Buck by Georgette Heyer

his card at about four o’clock in the afternoon, was much more easily dealt with. He was a shy young man, who looked at the heiress with undisguised admiration. He seemed to be extremely conscientious, and most anxious to oblige. He frowned over the credentials of at least a dozen servants, and fluttered over the leaves of a sheaf of papers, until Miss Taverner laughingly implored him to stop.
    Mr. Blackader’s solemnity disappeared into something remarkably like a grin. “Well, do you know, ma’am, I think if you was to let me settle it all for you it would be quicker done?” he suggested apologetically.
    So it was arranged. Mr. Blackader hurried away to engage a cook, and Miss Taverner walked out to take a peep at London.
    She turned into Piccadilly, and knew herself to be in the heart of the fashionable quarter. There was so much to see, so much to wonder at! She had not believed so many modish people to exist, while as for the carriages, she had never seen any so elegant. The shops, the buildings were all delightful. There was the famous Hatchard’s, with its bow windows filled with all the newest publications. She could almost fancy that the gentleman coming out of the shop was the great Mr. Scott himself, or perhaps, if the author of the Lady of the Lake was in Scotland (which was sadly probable), it might be Mr. Rogers, whose Pleasures of Memory had beguiled so many leisure moments.
    She went into the shop, and came out again after an enchanting half-hour spent in turning over any number of books, with a copy of Mr. Southey’s latest poem, the Curse of Kehama ,under her arm.
    When she returned to Grillon’s her chaperon had arrived, and was awaiting her. Miss Taverner entered in upon her in an impetuous fashion, and cried out: “Oh, ma’am, only to think of Hatchard’s at our very door! To be able to purchase any book in the world there, as I am sure one may!”
    “Lord, my dear!” said Mrs. Scattergood, in some dismay. “Never say you are bookish! Poems! Oh well, there may be no harm in that, one must be able to talk of the latest poems if they happen to become the rage. Marmion ! I liked that excessively, I remember, though it was too long for me to finish. They say this young man who had been doing such odd things abroad is becoming the fashion, but I don’t know. He was excessively rude to poor Lord Carlisle in that horrid poem of his. I cannot like him for it, besides that someone or other was telling me there is bad blood in all the Byrons. But, of course, if he is to be the fashion one must keep an eye on him. Let me warn you, my love, never be behind the times!”
    It was the first of many pieces of worldly wisdom. Miss Taverner, led from warehouse to warehouse, from milliner to bootmaker, had others instilled into her head. She learned that no lady would be seen driving or walking down St. James’s Street; that every lady must be sure of being seen promenading in Hyde Park between the hours of five and six. She must not dare to dance the waltz until she had been approved by the Patronesses of Almack’s; she must not want to be wearing warm pelisses or shawls: the lightest of wraps must suffice her in all weathers; she need extend only the barest civility towards such an one; she must be conciliating to such another. And above all, most important, most vital, she must move heaven and earth to earn Mr. Brummell’s approval.
    “If Mr. Brummell should not think you the thing you are lost!” said Mrs. Scattergood impressively. “Nothing could save you from social ruin, take my word for it. He has but to lift his eyebrow at you. and the whole world will know that he finds nothing to admire in you.”
    Miss Taverner’s antagonism was instantly aroused. “I do not care that for Mr. Brummell!” she said.
    Mrs. Scattergood gave a faint scream, and implored her to be careful.
    Miss Taverner, however, was heartily tired of the sound of the dandy’s name. Mr. Brummell had invented the starched