Shenanigans in Berkeley Square

By Vivian Roycroft

The right man doesn’t know she’s alive. The wrong man’s out to change that.

Coralie Busche can only admire Kenneth Rainier from afar. He’s a most handsome philosopher of the Romantic movement and for months she’s eavesdropped on his conversations at the coffee house. If only she had the courage to join his debates... however, her feminine education of singing and sewing could be of no interest to such a man. But then that vexing rake, the Duke of Cumberland, brings her to Rainier’s attention, and she can’t hide any longer.

Rainier has lived with his mercenary sisters for too long to suffer any illusions about women. They value money, position, and precedence, not life’s important things such as poetry or painting, and only very lucky men find true love. But when he notices Cumberland staring at a dark-eyed beauty hiding in the coffee house’s corner, Rainier is smitten. Perhaps there’s a chance he could be one of those lucky men.

Cinderella meets Romeo and Juliet with a gorgeous gown, an unusual ducal matchmaker with motives of his own, and two cynical, jealous sisters. With All Hallow’s Eve approaching, tempers flaring, and a duelist’s challenge thrown down, how can His Grace, the Scoundrel of Mayfair, teach some loving sense to two soaring sensibilities?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dingbat Publishing
• Release date: Aug 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005113476

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Shenanigans in Berkeley Square

Vivian Roycroft

The Scoundrel of Mayfair book 3

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Vivian Roycroft

Dingbat Publishing

Humble, Texas

SHENANIGANS IN BERKELEY SQUARE

Copyright © 2014 by Vivian Roycroft

Primary print ISBN

Originally Published by Astraea Press / Clean Reads

Second Edition Published 2022 by Dingbat Publishing

Humble, Texas

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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are entirely the produce of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual locations, events, or organizations is coincidental

The right man doesn’t know she’s alive. The wrong man’s out to change that.

Prologue

Coralie

June 1813

Frightened, Coralie Busche slipped an arm around Mrs. Lacey’s waist and took as much of her weight as she could. Thankfully, it wasn’t for long. Mrs. Lacey was in serious pain and could stand no longer.

Within moments, the kind stranger’s little low landau came to a halt beside them. A footman sprang down from the back and lowered the steps.

But Mrs. Lacey ignored his offered hand. Instead of trying to climb the steps into the landau, she turned, still leaning on Coralie, and prepared to sit on the steps themselves.

Coralie blinked. Her poor dear companion truly had to be in pain to rest on the steps of a stranger’s carriage.

The footman was faster, thankfully. Once Mrs. Lacey’s intention became clear, the good man grabbed a cushion from within the landau and slid it beneath her lowering bottom. When she made contact and settled her weight, it was with a relieved sigh, and she collapsed back against the landau’s doorframe, her eyes closing. One hand pressed her old violet walking gown to her hip. Her other hand twisted into a fist and she clutched it to her heart, her face showing her agony.

Oh, dear, she said, the worst oath of which she was capable. Oh, oh, dear.

Coralie sucked in her lips. We should not have attempted to walk so far.

No, Mrs. Lacey said. We most certainly shouldn’t.

Exercise daily, the physician had instructed Mrs. Lacey. But a carriage ride to Hyde Park and a promenade along the Row had proven that the limits of her physical strength were more modest than they had hoped. Coralie had sent the footman running for their carriage and helped support Mrs. Lacey’s trembling weight while they waited. The lady who owned the landau, who had gotten down and was now strolling and talking with a friend, deserved her most grateful thanks for sending it to their rescue.

The summertime warmth washed over Coralie, and the fashionable crowd around them chattered and gossiped, voices rustling with the leaves overhead. The closest horses kicked a fine spray of sand into the air. Coralie shook out her lacework shawl and draped it over Mrs. Lacey’s face, the only protection she could offer.

Within Coralie’s view along the sweeping Row, a score of elegant riders astride fine horses walked, trotted, and cantered, in pairs, trios, and small groups. A new set of hoofbeats approached, and something about them made Coralie glance up. A fine bay gelding trotted toward them along the track. She paused, her hand resting lightly upon Mrs. Lacey’s shoulder, and watched the horse more closely.

The bay gelding stood out from the crowd, and not only because he trotted alone. He was not a flashy horse, but nor was he plain. No, the gelding combined a splendid round trot with lovely lines and a glossy coat, functionality plus style in the most complete manner. His tackle was the same — high quality leather, nothing fancy nor decorated with silver, but clearly handmade to fit both horse and rider. And the rider…

She stared. She could do nothing else. The crowd around her seemed to melt away as the moment’s perfection took hold. The delightfully warm sunshine, the gossipy chattering, the other horses and riders, even Mrs. Lacey’s sad moan — they all faded to nothing. Coralie and the oncoming rider seemed to exist alone in some different form of reality, the approaching hoofbeats falling into that gentle, hushed cocoon.

The gelding’s elegant, ground-covering trot closed the distance between them swiftly — yet slowly, too, as if time were disjointed by the moment’s splendor. As the horse came closer, her gaze swiveled to follow. Suddenly she glimpsed the rider’s profile, sharply outlined against the blue sky — a tall brow beneath a classical hat, deeply set eyes staring boldly ahead, strong cheekbones slanting down to a determined chin and soft, full lips, and a clean Grecian nose, perfectly straight.

Coralie sucked in a breath and steadied herself against the landau’s side, surprised by the depth of her reaction. For that one moment, it was as if reality around her had been touched by magic. Every so often, the world granted her one perfect and perfectly beautiful moment, and such moments intoxicated her in a way nothing else did. But this time, she quivered like a leaf in a whispering breeze.

The rider didn’t glance aside, ignoring the gossiping crowd as if riding his gelding deserved all of his concentration, as if a job should be done properly or not be attempted at all. Strong opinions, surely, resided behind that broad, high forehead, behind those clear and focused eyes. And surely there had to be a true elegance of mind to match, judging by the horse’s turnout and the rider’s clothing.

She leaned down and whispered to Mrs. Lacey, too quietly for the hovering footman to overhear. Who’s that man who just passed us? On the very fine bay gelding?

Mrs. Lacey remained slumped, an edge of pain tightening her jaw and one hand still pressing against her hip. She glanced at the fitted black riding coat and the flicking black tail as the horse and rider trotted steadily away along the Row. That’s Mr. Kenneth Rainier of the Huntingdon family, a distant cousin to the Countess of Bath. I do hope the carriage hurries, my dear.

Even as she agreed aloud and did her best to comfort her companion, Coralie watched the horse and rider until they were out of sight, her heart thudding within her.

Coralie

Coralie dripped a bit of red wax to the back of the folded paper, gave it a moment to cool, then plunged her self-chosen signet — a swan with a curved neck — into the wax. She was finally accepting the sadly overdue invitation to the Holly Hall summer ball. Everyone would be there… or so she hoped.

She would have to go alone, of course, or as close to alone as she could be. Her brother Franklin’s schedule was already engaged — years ago he’d taken a position with the War Office and his time was no longer his own to command. Instead, at her request he’d sent a note to Lady de Lisle, who’d already replied, welcoming Coralie to attend the ball with her and her daughter.

Mrs. Lacey rested with warm compresses and a soothing draught. It was too much to hope that she’d be sufficiently recovered to attend the ball with her, and Coralie wouldn’t ask. Her companion deserved her love and support, not further demands upon her waning energy.

And for once, Coralie found she didn’t mind the prospect of being alone. She would have no trouble slipping away from Lady de Lisle. From past experience, she knew that good lady would be chaperoning more than one lonely young lady, and if Coralie remained quiet, no one would notice her, nor her departure from the group.

She would find a quiet corner and observe that most interesting man, Mr. Kenneth Rainier, if he attended.

Coralie

The portrait of the first Lord Kringle scowled down at Coralie, but the artist had also caught the twinkle in that good man’s eyes. She smiled. As a child she’d once met Lord Kringle, and he’d scowled at her then, too, but that same twinkle had lit his eyes and she’d not been afraid of him, not a whit. He’d passed on, of course, he and his wife, but he’d given that good humor to his son, the current Lord Kringle, whose laugh boomed through the entry hall behind her.

Lady de Lisle and her coterie of young ladies vanished down the corridor leading to the ballroom. As expected, Coralie had no difficulty being forgotten, and she loitered in the entryway, admiring the portraits of Kringle ancestors while the current lord and lady welcomed more guests to their home. The grandfather clock nearby said it lacked five minutes to eight. Would she have to wait long for the fascinating Mr. Rainier to arrive? There were only so many portraits in the gallery to admire, and soon she’d run out of excuses for hanging around the entry. Then what could she do?

But when the clock boomed out the first stroke of eight, he arrived — perfectly on time. Coralie hovered halfway down the corridor, staring at the portrait before her, but peering from the corner of her eye and watching as Mr. Rainier greeted his hosts with grave courtesy. Oh, he was handsome, and her pulse fluttered at the sight of him.

His simple black merino swallowtail was perfectly cut and tailored, classical and elegant, with nothing of the dandy to mar its lines. The twin points of a royal purple waistcoat offset his modern black trousers, hose, and pumps. He wore little jewelry — plain gold cufflinks and a cravat pin — but no rings… especially not that ring, she noticed, and her stomach clenched with a joy she dared not admit to.

Then he turned from their hosts toward the ballroom corridor, and panic rippled through her. For that moment, as he turned, his gaze swung past the gallery where she hid in the shadows. With her pale yellow gown, she wasn’t very well hidden. He had to see her, and he’d wonder what on earth she was doing…

But he never paused. He continued the turn, passing her by as if she were invisible, and he strode away down the ballroom corridor. As the clock’s last boom faded in the entryway, she heard the gentle click of his heels on the tiled floor, and then he was gone.

Only then could she take a breath. Near the door, the Kringles greeted their next guests, whoever they were. Coralie remained unnoticed. With a quiet step, she left the shadows and trailed behind Mr. Rainier into the ballroom.

She drifted behind him, pretending to watch the dancers while she ducked through the crush of people, until he joined a group of young men beside the refreshment tables. Of course she’d been taught not to eavesdrop, and in general she firmly avoided it. But just this once wouldn’t be too much of a sin, would it?

She slipped past two overdressed matrons and eased closer.

One of the other young men was speaking. …think there really are blasted heaths in Scotland?

Puzzlement made her pause. They were discussing Scotland, of all possible subjects upon the planet?

Mr. Rainier laughed, and Coralie sucked in a breath. His laugh was light in quality and deep in tone, and she found herself smiling along with him.

Then he spoke, and she heard his voice for the first time.

Culver, I have no idea if there are blasted heaths in Scotland. I’ve never visited the place, more’s the pity. But when the blessed day comes that sees me traveling so far north, I have every belief blasted heaths will be ten a penny, and exactly as Shakespeare presented them.

Coralie shivered. His rich baritone voice danced, lively as a jig, and it seemed to ripple across her skin. She could listen to him speak all night and never tire of the sound. And the gentlemen weren’t discussing Scotland, but a play by Shakespeare, one presumably set in Scotland. Perhaps MacBeth? When she returned home, she’d find that play in her books and read it, since she’d never bothered before. With luck, she’d learn something about blasted heaths, and perhaps more.

She inched closer. She couldn’t listen to him all night — sooner or later, Lady de Lisle would remember her existence and send a footman searching for her — but for now, she could let his conversation soak into her soul. She could absorb Mr. Rainier’s thoughts and perspectives, even if she never dared bring herself to his notice. Why, in comparison, she had no education worth mentioning — she’d only read a few of Shakespeare’s plays, generally the romances. What a fool he would consider her, an unlearned fool.

One of the young gentlemen began to drift away from the group and toward the dancing. Rainier, will you be at Trent’s tomorrow afternoon?

The coffee house? Mr. Rainier flashed a brilliant smile. If you wish it, Anson, I’ll meet you there.

Coralie sucked in a breath. The coffee house. Mrs. Lacey could manage that little distance if they took the carriage, and she loved sharing a pot of tea with spice biscuits. The outing would be a treat for both of them, and not a difficulty for her companion.

Coralie couldn’t stop a shiver. She couldn’t, wouldn’t bring herself to his attention. She’d never dare. But she could watch him and learn his ways, his thoughts, his sensibilities. Mr. Rainier was an intriguing man, and she was intrigued.

Chapter One

His Grace

Thursday afternoon, October 14, 1813

Strong sunlight poured between the columns of the Olympic Pavilion. Beneath the portico there moved shadows that were not cast by the neoclassical architecture, shadows of completely the wrong shapes and sizes. When His Grace approached, he realized the owners of those shadows were creating noises both indiscreet and inappropriate for a public street.

A flash of copper curls and a clashing maroon sleeve caught his eye, and surely only one couple in all of Mayfair would dare sport such an unfortunate combination of colors. Deliberately he clumped on the pavement, announcing his presence. The shadows whipped behind a sheltering column and the noises ceased.

But as he passed, a calculated glance back proved his theory correct. Mrs. Beryl Fitzwilliam, née Wentworth, stood on her tiptoes and peered over her new husband’s shoulder. The Duke of Cumberland, His Grace, Ernst Anton Oldenburg, gave her a victorious grin. Her bewitching green eyes lit with glee and she wrinkled her nose at him. Satisfied, he continued on his way, permitting them to resume — well. He’d leave them to it.

Enchanting Beryl’s adventure was complete, her dreams now reality. And that left him free to acquire a new target.

That new target, already chosen and investigated, unknowingly awaited his attentions in Trent’s coffee house, beyond the Temple Bar on Fleet Street. It was where he’d first laid siege to delicious Anne Kirkhoven, now Mrs. Frederick Shaw, a woman delighted with her husband’s literary success and trying it out for herself.

As His Grace crossed the coffee house’s threshold into its shadowy, happy clutter, a hush descended upon the crowded patrons. Heads swiveled at his entrance. He’d long ago become accustomed to such moments and let his lips curl into a rogue’s smile in greeting, doffing his hat, tucking it beneath his elbow, and tugging off his gloves.

They sat at a table near the yellow curtains, three elegant gentlemen of the ton staring at his entrance. All wore similar expressions of eyebrow-arching recognition, although George Anson’s little smile seemed tinged with relief, as well. Whatever topic they discussed, perhaps it was more beyond his reach than usual. Not that Anson