Banished to Brighton by Sydney Jane Baily
Chapter One
Brighton, Late July 1815
Brighton! thou loveliest neighbour of the wave,
Whose stately cliffs the rolling surges lave,
Where roseate health, amid the breezes play,
Whose gentle breathings cool the fervid ray
Of scorching summer.
– Brighton. A Poem by Mary Lloyd, 1809
WITH A SHARP SNAP,Glynnis Talbot closed the book she’d borrowed from Miss Widgett's circulating library and set it upon the table before her. While the long poem about Brighton painted an accurate picture of what she’d seen so far, it didn’t bring her any closer to her true aim, nor for that matter had the costly expense of coach fare and a sunny hotel room.
Glynnis was ready to tear her hair out, which would be a shame as she considered her dark and glossy locks to be one of her more stunning features. London had been a disaster when it came to snagging a husband, Bath had been woefully barren of eligible bachelors, and now Brighton was giving her a fit of the blue devils. Moreover, she was nearly out of blunt. To put it plainly, she was a hairsbreadth away from being entirely dished up, mucked out, and penniless.
A viscount’s only daughter ought to have a generous allowance and a substantial dowry. She had neither. Unlike her ne’er-do-well brother, she hadn’t gambled her money away, nor spent it on lady-birds and lightskirts. She had used every penny to keep their London home running as best she could. However, Rhys had the saving grace of a face that could charm the skirts off a woman while sharing her coin purse, too! He was considered by one and all as a bang-up dashing cove! Moreover, his impending title kept him a valuable commodity on the marriage market for those females wishing to one day become a viscountess.
Glynnis had the family good looks to be sure, sable-colored hair and even darker brown eyes. However, no title and no money made her less desirable than any number of marriageable young ladies who had one or both, even if they were dowdy or tart-tongued shrews.
During the past London Season, without a wealthy patron to sponsor her and with her parents remaining steadfastly in Wales, she’d been shoved aside like three-day old haddock instead of valued as a young lady with good humor and a tad more than a feather-brain.
Why, all she wanted was a halfway attractive buck — naturally plump in the pocket — someone with whom she could get leg-shackled. Why was that so hard?
After her brother spent a month’s allowance from their parents by the end of a single week, Glynnis had given up trying to keep their London home and gone uninvited to Bath, hoping to find a single man who would appreciate a woman of sense and style. While residing with a spinster great aunt who enjoyed eating slip-slops for every meal, she’d discovered the resort to be populated by elderly couples and widows, mostly staying there for health reasons.
The foreshadowing of her own future — frighteningly embodied by her fussy, gray-haired Aunt Mimsella with too many cats roaming her small home — caused Glynnis to take flight after a week and a half. While her aunt believed she’d gone home to Llandeilo, just north of the Swansea Bay in Wales, Glynnis had decided to try the seaside town where the Prince Regent was known to bring an abundance of noblemen in August for his birthday. Thus, Brighton was her last hope to find a suitable mate before another year had passed.
Unable to come up with the rent for one of the nicer homes on the Marine Parade, or even the noisier but popular location of the Steyne, she had taken a room at the gracious Old Ship Hotel, sharing it with many of the London gentry. With most of its public rooms designed by that much admired Scottish architect Robert Adam, Glynnis was in the lap of luxury, which she could ill afford.
Everything was meticulous — the ornamentation was small and light, even whimsical, in a classical style that conjured up the ancients while feeling fresh and beautiful. Her third-floor room, although modest in size, was tastefully furnished, and the only disadvantage was its view of Ship Street instead of the sparkling ocean.
With merely a handful of the hotel’s bedrooms facing the sea, and those being reserved by the wealthier guests, she hadn’t the means to look out a window with eight pretty panes of glass directly to the sea. Yet even with an inferior view, the weekly rate of her lodging was draining her funds too quickly. By the time she got word to her parents in the south of Wales and hopefully was sent some small gingerbread in return, she would be begging for farthings on a street corner like Mad Tom!
Besides, her parents thought her still in London. If they knew she’d left the safety of her brother’s so-called protection, they would be furious. For his part, Rhys thought her still in Bath. And thus, she’d firmly reprimanded herself over the past fortnight for not being patient and staying with Aunt Mimsella an extra two weeks. Instead, to avoid a dreadful fate of cats and watery porridge, she’d arrived too early for the nobs she sought.
In the past few days, however, traveling carriages had started filling the boulevards of Brighton, and she could see quite a cross-section of its population below her street-side window, including the newest arrivals from London. Moreover, the coach that stopped regularly at the Old Ship was depositing ever more guests, from dandy prats to purse-proud goldfinches.
Finally, she could concentrate upon her latest ambition — to meet and fall in love with one of the single nobs booked into an ocean-facing room or, although less likely, a member of the bon ton in one of the rentals along the wide Marine Parade that ran beside the sea, down to the Royal Crescent at its end.
At last, after nearly two weeks’ wait, there would be someone at whom she could set her cap!
An hour earlier, she’d heard rather than seen the Prince Regent arrive. A large fuss was made and folks started to cheer along the Grand Parade a few streets away, leading to the prince’s strangely exotic Pavilion. People all over Brighton had picked up the merriment and joined in with huzzahs and hoorahs.
Naturally, Prince George had come by way of the north road through Cuckfield, directly from London, with no need to travel along the waterfront. Thus, she had yet to see his royal carriage. But that very night, there would be a welcoming ball. And God-willing, a party, a dinner, or a ball every night after, as well as bathing parties on the beach, picnics, riding parties, horse-races, and whatnot. Glynnis was determined to attend every event, whether invited or not.
And from the very first night, she would do her best to secure a husband. One never knew how long the prince would grace his favorite seaside town with his corpulent presence. Sometimes for a month around his birthday. Sometimes longer. All she knew was Brighton was suddenly exploding with wealthy Londoners, but when the Regent left, those either in power or seeking power would leave as well. She had scant time to act.
Hello! Glynnis leaned forward. From where she was seated in the bowed front window of the tea-room attached to the hotel, she watched a man, obviously a nobleman by the manner of his dress, amble along the pavement. To her delight, he entered the door to the Old Ship.
Touching her bright yellow hat to make sure it was still pinned straight, she gave each cheek a pinch and then looked expectantly at the doorway connecting the hotel’s lobby to the quaint dining area. Every chance was an opportunity, or every opportunity was a chance. She couldn’t recall quite how the saying went, but every rum neddy and well-breeched fellow was potential husband material.
Her opportunity strolled into the dining room, glanced around for an empty table, noticed her and grimaced.
Blast it all!It was that wretch of a man, Hargrove. He’d made London a nightmare, and now he was in Brighton.
Glynnis turned away, feeling defeated, not caring if her shoulders slumped as she went back to gazing at passers-by. She had hoped to marry for love when she was a foolish girl being presented to the queen at seventeen. At age twenty, after experiencing much disappointment, she’d met the quick-witted, handsome Lord Hargrove. He had sparked some warm feelings of tenderness she’d imagined might have turned into long-lasting love.
Unfortunately, he’d become skittish and said all sorts of nasty, accusatory things. At that moment, she could only hope to marry without hatred and resentment.
Thinking of which, the vicious viscount presented himself beside her table, looking down at her from his great height, past his perfect nose.
“Why are you here?” he asked without preamble.
Lord Hargrove was as handsome as ever, thick brown hair, a strong jaw, and those shoulders! Her insides did a familiar flip at seeing him. His kiss had been everything she’d ever wished for, giving her all sorts of pleasant, fluttery feelings.
She sighed. If only she had let nature take its natural course instead of pushing her advantage with him. All she’d done was push him away.
“Greetings to you, too. Why is everyone who is anyone here?” she countered, flashing him a smile because she’d become so used to doing so with every male of a certain age.
But Hargrove didn’t melt. He wore an irritated expression.
“I have no doubt I am the only one in all of Brighton here for the particular reason of paying penance to the Regent,” Hargrove said.
“I believe you do penance, not pay it.”
“Believe me, Miss Talbot, I find my penance to be costly, indeed.”
Suddenly, she didn’t care about his previous harsh words of condemnation at a ball in Mayfair, nor his accusation of her as a lying jade setting her cap at anyone in velvet breeches. After all, it was true.
Right then, however, she was tired of being alone and desperate. At the least, he could provide a few minutes of companionable diversion.
“Won’t you take tea or coffee with me?” she invited.
He hesitated, which made her sad. Before she’d tried to trick him into compromising her, they had been on a good footing. He was amusing and clever, not to mention extraordinarily easy on the eyes. And after some easy banter and light flirtation, he’d kissed her behind a potted plant at Apsley House. She’d never experienced anything like it — the rush of pure pleasure, how her heart had raced, and how her body had warmed from top to toe.
Then, she’d started plotting for their next encounter. It had gone very wrong.
He most certainly hadn’t liked being manipulated.
“Come now,” Glynnis urged, “don’t tell me you’re afraid to sit at the same table. It’s not like I’ll let you kiss me again, at least not here, in public.” She teased him because she could. She had nothing to lose in this case. She’d already forfeited any chance with him by her actions at a ball in Grosvenor Square. If he walked away, so be it.
Instead, surprisingly he smiled, drew out the spare chair, and sat.
“True enough. Your claws are long and sharp, but I don’t think you can sink them into me in a café. At least, I hope not.”
Long and sharp! He thought her a real vixen. Nothing could be further from the truth. She only wanted a home of her own, a husband and some children, a nice house in London, the latest fashions of course, perhaps a trip to the Continent now that the war was over, a country estate that wasn’t in Wales as her family’s was, perhaps a dog and a cat, a traveling carriage, a...
“Miss Talbot,” she heard him, realizing her mind had wandered. “Did I lose your attention so quickly?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, my lord. Something about Brighton causes me the most acute wool-gathering. It must be the sun and the heat.”
She waited while he ordered coffee and, to her delight, a plate of assorted sandwiches. Glynnis hoped he would pay for her tea, too, and that she could snatch a few of the sandwiches when they came. She was starting to lose weight on her dwindling budget that included lessening her intake of food along with every other pleasure.
If her gowns started gaping and appeared ill-fitting, she would be in dire straits indeed. Eventually, thin and desperate, she would have to remain in her viewless room, eventually to slip the burden of this earth alone at the Old Ship. She exhaled with a despondent moan.
“Miss Talbot,” he broke into her thoughts.
“Again, my apologies. Tell me about this penance to the Prince Regent. Mayhap I can help.”
Naturally, he gave her a disbelieving look. Quite right, too. What could she offer? And yet, she rather preferred to be useful than not.
“Have you ever met His Royal Highness?” Lord Hargrove asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Once at a ball, not this Season but the last, he singled me out for a compliment on my gown. I was wearing Pomona green and white. It was a lovely evening.” She remembered for a moment being the object of the other ladies’ envy and gaining a little interest from some of the gentlemen when the prince seemed to favor her.
“Did you try to get Prinny to compromise you, too?” Hargrove had to go and ruin the memory. “It would have got you nowhere, you know, except the wrath of his mistress. One of them, at least.”
Glynnis made a face, but then the sandwiches were placed in the center of the little table along with a plate for each of them. Being insulted, even ridiculed, was a small price to pay for a tasty morsel. She glanced at the food, then at him.
With graciousness, he gestured for her to help herself.
Using a silver spatula, she took two of the small triangles of thinly sliced bread, arranging them neatly on her plate. Then she picked one up and, as a ploughman at his noon meal, she dug in. She’d eaten the sliced beef and mustard sandwich and was starting on the second one of cold tongue and watercress when she realized the viscount was watching her. He’d taken only a single mouthful.
Swallowing, she cleared her throat, sipped her tea, and smiled weakly.
“I skipped a meal,” she explained.
“It seems you skipped a few by your wolfish appetite.”
How rude of him to remark upon it!
“And you have a piece of watercress stuck between your teeth,” he added.
She gasped. Even ruder, although she appreciated his warning. If she happened to encounter the perfect gentleman after the nuncheon, she would hate to do so with a bit of greenery in her ivories.
Raising her napkin to her lips, she used the tip of her fingernail as discreetly and daintily as she could to remove the offending vegetable. Or tried to.
After a few seconds, she lowered the napkin, abandoned all sense of decency and decorum and asked, “Is it gone?”
Then she bared her teeth.
“Mostly,” he said before looking away. “Try sipping the tea and swilling it about in your mouth. That should dislodge the last of it.”
Instead of utter mortification, it struck her as humorous. While she did as Hargrove directed, swishing the milky brown brew in her cheeks, she nearly giggled which would have sprayed the white tablecloth. It might have been worth it to see his expression.
Eventually she swallowed, ran her tongue over her teeth and turned to him. She smiled again.
“Perfect,” he said, and his gaze lingered upon her mouth. Maybe he was remembering the intense kisses they’d shared.
After his first one at Wellington’s Apsley House, Lord Hargrove had approached her at Lady Sullivan’s home on Grosvenor Square. Again, she’d allowed his exciting advances. Such wondrous sparks had sizzled throughout her body, she vowed she would never forget.
“Thank you,” she said. And quick as a whip, she finished her second sandwich, fearing an efficient server might clear the plate away prematurely.
In companionable silence, she waited while he ate his first. Then he brushed the crumbs from his fingers onto the plate.
“In answer to your question, I’m here at the pleasure of Prince George for a couple of reasons, the main one being I failed to procure a particular work of art he desired, and therefore, I am in the dog’s house.”
“Brighton is the dog’s house?”
“It’s not London,” he pointed out.
“Agreed,” she said, “but I like the smell of the sea. It’s preferable to most of the smells of London, don’t you think?”
He shrugged, and she almost sighed at the breadth of his shoulders.
“If you enjoy the aroma of drying seaweed and the pungent fishing boats that seem to be always dragged onto the sand,” he said testily. Then he smiled crookedly, and she caught her breath at how fiercely attractive she found him.
“I apologize for being in a tweague,” he said. “In truth, if my visit to Brighton were merely for a week’s holiday, I would probably enjoy it immensely. Yet being forced to an indeterminate stay at the beck and call of a somewhat capricious prince makes this little seaside resort seem like Newgate jail.”
Placing another small triangle on her plate, Glynnis considered a moment.
“This isn’t the Middle Ages. Surely, you don’t have to sing a tune for him whenever he asks. He’s not going to behead you.”
He frowned. “It’s more complicated than that, but I don’t think you would understand.”
She stopped mid-chew, despite thinking the cheese and cucumber sandwich superior to the first two, and glared at him.
“Why don’t you put to the test my minimal understanding of the important manly things of this world?”
“Very well,” he said, ignoring her tone. “Influence and favor are the issues. Or worse, the lack thereof. Fall out of favor with Prinny and I may suddenly find myself adrift without important connections. For fear of my disfavor rubbing off, certain men will cease speaking to me, either in Parliament or at my club.”
“Mr. Brummell survived the cut direct from the Prince Regent.” She reminded him, recalling the scorching accounts in the newspapers after Beau Brummell pretended not to know the prince and called him “fat” within His Highness’s hearing. “Everyone thought Mr. Brummell would plummet from the pinnacle of popularity. Instead, he remains firmly at the top, at least by those who wish to be banged up to the knocker.”
“True enough,” Hargrove conceded. “However, Brummell runs in different circles than I do. I neither seek nor need approval from those who care about fashion. Whereas he flourishes without the patronage of the prince, it’s only because foolish fops still want to see how Brummell turns out, day or evening. Can his cravat be any whiter? And all that sort of figgery!”
She thought Hargrove always looked very well turned out, and couldn’t imagine Mr. Brummell doing any better. She almost said so, but the viscount would take it as another play for him.
“Moreover,” her companion continued, “Brummell is sorely in debt with no foreseeable way out, and I don’t think he would be in such a sorry state if Prinny weren’t set firmly against him.”
That made her a little sad. Poor Beau, falling from such heights like Icarus. But her own sorry state was nothing to sneeze at. Mayhap she should try to get into the good graces of the Prince Regent before worrying about those who’d already lost it. Perhaps into his breeches and his bed, too. Despite what Hargrove said, she could do worse than become a mistress to the Regent who would someday be king. She wouldn’t hurt for coin, then!
Shaking her head at her own outrageous thoughts, she surmised, “Regardless of your feelings about Brighton, it will be nearly like London for a short while.”
“Hardly that,” he said. “Although this year, the queen will attend her boy’s birthday, so the polish is on the pig for sure, and had best be on every person as well.”
“The shopkeepers have already raised their prices,” she couldn’t help grumbling.
The year-long inhabitants knew enough to steer clear of anything but their regular purchases of food and wine for the duration of the royal visit. For every milliner and modiste, every cobbler and tailor, and especially every store selling knick-knacks and à bric et à brac, as well as furnishings had already raised their prices, raking in what they could off the backs of the visiting nobility and their staff.
She’d seen stores she thought permanently closed when she’d first arrived, suddenly open their doors. London tradesmen kept them shuttered until they could come down and sell to the prince and his entourage.
“Prices are exceedingly dear at the moment,” the viscount agreed. “But they are the only thing that makes Brighton like London in my opinion. Which brings me back to my question, why are you here? Although I suspect I know the answer.”
If he hadn’t added that last bit, she might have told him the honest truth, that she was looking for a life’s mate and a father to her future children. But he’d said that smug and knowing line, and she desperately wanted to surprise him.
“I’m here to meet my fiancé,” she blurted. That was the truth. She desperately hoped to meet a man who would ask for her hand.
And then as she hoped he would, Hargrove misinterpreted her words.
“I say!” he exclaimed. “You managed to bag yourself a wild boar.” He feigned astonishment, even waggling his perfectly devilish eyebrows while making an insinuation she didn’t particularly care for.
What a brute! After all, she had her looks and her personality.
Tell him he has misunderstood, Glynnis pleaded with her better self. Tell him the truth!