Vixen In Velvet

The clubs of town I hate;

I smile at tales of wedded strife,

I sigh to win a mate;

Yet no kind fair will crown my bliss,

But all my homage shun—

Alas! my grief and shame is this,

I’m but a Second Son!

A burst of laughter.

That first sign of glee was all the encouragement she needed. Anxiety and self-consciousness washed away, and the DeLucey in her took over.

She went on, this time with dramatic gestures:

My profile, all the world allows,

With Byron’s e’en may vie,

[—she turned her head this way and that]

My chestnut curls half shade my brow,

[—she toyed with the curls at her ears]

I’m almost six feet high;

[—she stretched her neck, to laughter]

And by my attitudes of grace,

Ducrow is quite undone,

[—she mimicked one of the equestrian’s elegant poses]

Yet what avail the form and face

Of a poor Second Son?

Amid the men’s laughter she heard women giggling.

She had them.

She continued.

For an instant, while the angry gentleman grew more incensed, his complexion darkening from brick red to purple, Lisburne had felt sure the only outcome would be pistols at dawn. The only hope he had was for a riot. Once men started knocking one another about and women commenced screaming, Valentine and the other fellow might stop making asses of themselves.

When he heard Miss Noirot call out to Swanton, Lisburne had wanted to shake her. Was she mad? To offer more of the poetry that was driving every rational man in the hall to distraction? And to taunt them now, when he hadn’t a prayer of getting to her fast enough?

All hell should have broken loose.

But he’d reckoned without …

… whatever it was about her: the quality, so obvious, and so hard to put a satisfactory name to. The same power of personality that had attracted and held captive his attention at the British Institution seemed to work on a general audience.

Add that compelling quality to her appearance, and the men could hardly help responding. She was exceedingly pretty and a redhead besides, and the green silk dress, insane as it was, was voluptuous.

But the women, too?

Ah, yes, of course. The green silk dress.

Furthermore, Mrs. Abdy had written, along with the usual sentimental claptrap, a number of comic poems, which Swanton would give a vital organ to replicate.

London’s favorite poet was smiling. He gently prompted Miss Noirot as she faltered for a stanza. It was a longish poem—not half so long as some of Swanton’s, but still a good bit to get by heart.

And she’d said she wasn’t literary, the minx.

Even the irate gentleman was smiling. “That’s more like it,” he said.

“It isn’t,” Gladys said. “It’s an amusing bit of doggerel, no more.”

“We must allow for differences of taste,” Lisburne said. “Is that a new dress, Cousin? Most elegant.”

To his amazement, she colored, almost prettily. “I could hardly wear last year’s dress on such an occasion.”

“There, that explains,” Lisburne said to the irate gentleman. “She wore her new dress and you mentioned the emperor’s new clothes. A bit of confusion, that’s all.”

Gladys huffed. “Lisburne, how can you be so thick? But why do I ask? You know perfectly well—”

“I know you’re eager to leave before the crush,” Lisburne told the irate gentleman. “Bon voyage.”

The man’s wife took hold of her spouse’s arm and said something under her breath. After a moment’s hesitation—and another moment of glaring at Valentine—the man let himself be led away.

From the lectern came Swanton’s voice. “Thank you, Miss Noirot, for your delightful contribution. Perhaps somebody else would like to participate?”

Crawford, one of Longmore’s longtime cronies, stood up. “I’ve got a limerick,” he said.

“If it brings a blush to any lady’s cheek, I’ll gladly throttle you,” Swanton said with a smile.

“Lord Swanton is so good,” Gladys said, her voice soft for once. “A perfect gentleman.”

“Who likes a ribald limerick as well as the next fellow,” Lisburne said. “If Crawford contrives to keep it clean, he’ll be the last one to do so. Fairfax, I suggest you take the ladies home while everybody’s still on good behavior.”

“You ever were high-handed,” Gladys said, in a magnificent example of pot calling kettle black. “The lecture isn’t over, and I’m sure we’re not ready to leave.”