Free The Last Days of a Rake by Donna Lea Simpson Page B
Authors: Donna Lea Simpson
had been a lesser man this attitude would have been ludicrous, but he was just wealthy, just discriminating and just handsome enough to justify such conceit. He attracted flatterers, sycophants, that tribe whose members will stay for champagne and sweetmeats, but abandon ship when it begins to founder and sink. Their horde is verminous, like so many flea-bit rats.
But who can blame them? It has ever been so in society. Money, after all, will buff away perceived faults into the appearance of glass. He was handsome, women said—too often in front of him—for again, wealth will often buy good looks. He was intelligent, though not wise, and witty, though not kind. He emulated Beau and Byron, and had his ticket for White’s on St. James, after rejecting invitations to join Boodle’s and the Alfred.
The night he met Susan he was as drunk as a young man should be after two bottles of claret and one of hock. But his mind was clearing, since he had cast up his accounts in the ornamental bushes on his way into Lady Phoenicia’s gala event in honor of the new Regent at her Mayfair home.
The air that night was crisp and light, fully as intoxicating as wine, and Lankin, in the company of another frivolous—if poorer—young man, was of a mind for mischief. Old cats and society dragons frowned in disapproval as Lankin and his friend lounged into the festivity, leering at exposed bosoms and surreptitiously patting bottoms in the most insolent manner. The fashion of the day for ladies was such that leering and patting, though uninvited, was rewarding. But after a half hour spent in such pleasantries, both were becoming bored.
“Lankin, let us get out of this place,” Felix Bellwether said, finally, after they had shocked their quota of old people.
Lankin was ready to go, for there were yet ancient watchmen to box and carriage horses to torment. But as fate would have it, he saw, that moment, descending the steps to the ballroom, a luminous goddess. She was as fresh as the spring air—a veritable Persephone—with golden hair piled high and decked with a coronet of pearls.
“Who is that?” he breathed, not expecting an answer. The young lady stood at the top of the stairs. She was gowned in palest green trimmed in gold, demure eyes downcast, while her companion was a formidable dame dressed in purple, her head topped by a plumed turban.
“Her?” Felix asked. “That’s Susan Bailey, a friend of m’sister’s.”
Thunderstruck, Lankin stared as she passed by him. He was instantly transported back to the springtimes of his childhood, when all the world was gold and green, fresh, new, with limitless possibilities. “Introduce me, there’s a good chappie,” he said to Felix, clapping him on the shoulder.
As the orchestra tuned their instruments, Bellwether led Lankin toward the bank of chaperone chairs, where Susan was just taking a seat with her society guardian.
“Hallo, Susie,” Bellwether said, lounging indolently on the back of one gilt-adorned chair. “This here is Edgar Lankin,” he said, hooking one thumb over his shoulder toward his friend, “just down from Oxford.”
The young woman smiled, but before she could speak, the elderly purple-gowned woman rose from her seat with some difficulty. “Young man,” she said, peering at Bellwether through her lorgnette, one eye monstrously larger than the other because of it, “some may allow such slack introductions, but I expect young gentlemen to behave correctly.”
“It’s all right, Lady Stoddart,” Susan Bailey said, her tone as light and sweet as a matins bell. “Felix and his sister are my childhood friends. Surely any friend of his would be suitable as an acquaintance?”
From such a promising beginning, how could the evening do aught but progress? Lankin stayed at the ball and danced the supper dance with Susan. Felix, bored by the proceedings, went off to the card room to lose what little money he had at whist.
She was so profoundly lovely,
But who can blame them? It has ever been so in society. Money, after all, will buff away perceived faults into the appearance of glass. He was handsome, women said—too often in front of him—for again, wealth will often buy good looks. He was intelligent, though not wise, and witty, though not kind. He emulated Beau and Byron, and had his ticket for White’s on St. James, after rejecting invitations to join Boodle’s and the Alfred.
The night he met Susan he was as drunk as a young man should be after two bottles of claret and one of hock. But his mind was clearing, since he had cast up his accounts in the ornamental bushes on his way into Lady Phoenicia’s gala event in honor of the new Regent at her Mayfair home.
The air that night was crisp and light, fully as intoxicating as wine, and Lankin, in the company of another frivolous—if poorer—young man, was of a mind for mischief. Old cats and society dragons frowned in disapproval as Lankin and his friend lounged into the festivity, leering at exposed bosoms and surreptitiously patting bottoms in the most insolent manner. The fashion of the day for ladies was such that leering and patting, though uninvited, was rewarding. But after a half hour spent in such pleasantries, both were becoming bored.
“Lankin, let us get out of this place,” Felix Bellwether said, finally, after they had shocked their quota of old people.
Lankin was ready to go, for there were yet ancient watchmen to box and carriage horses to torment. But as fate would have it, he saw, that moment, descending the steps to the ballroom, a luminous goddess. She was as fresh as the spring air—a veritable Persephone—with golden hair piled high and decked with a coronet of pearls.
“Who is that?” he breathed, not expecting an answer. The young lady stood at the top of the stairs. She was gowned in palest green trimmed in gold, demure eyes downcast, while her companion was a formidable dame dressed in purple, her head topped by a plumed turban.
“Her?” Felix asked. “That’s Susan Bailey, a friend of m’sister’s.”
Thunderstruck, Lankin stared as she passed by him. He was instantly transported back to the springtimes of his childhood, when all the world was gold and green, fresh, new, with limitless possibilities. “Introduce me, there’s a good chappie,” he said to Felix, clapping him on the shoulder.
As the orchestra tuned their instruments, Bellwether led Lankin toward the bank of chaperone chairs, where Susan was just taking a seat with her society guardian.
“Hallo, Susie,” Bellwether said, lounging indolently on the back of one gilt-adorned chair. “This here is Edgar Lankin,” he said, hooking one thumb over his shoulder toward his friend, “just down from Oxford.”
The young woman smiled, but before she could speak, the elderly purple-gowned woman rose from her seat with some difficulty. “Young man,” she said, peering at Bellwether through her lorgnette, one eye monstrously larger than the other because of it, “some may allow such slack introductions, but I expect young gentlemen to behave correctly.”
“It’s all right, Lady Stoddart,” Susan Bailey said, her tone as light and sweet as a matins bell. “Felix and his sister are my childhood friends. Surely any friend of his would be suitable as an acquaintance?”
From such a promising beginning, how could the evening do aught but progress? Lankin stayed at the ball and danced the supper dance with Susan. Felix, bored by the proceedings, went off to the card room to lose what little money he had at whist.
She was so profoundly lovely,