#I couldn't find pedro pascal in a cravat

[jomiddlemarch]

The Duchess and the Diamond

The ballroom was grand, lit with a vast quantity of candles so that it shone bright as a summer’s noon, but the two women spoke as if they were concealed by a moonless midnight’s shadows.

“Has Lady Maria lost all sense of decorum?” Lady Fletcher positively hissed behind her gently fluttering ivory fan.

“I don’t know what you mean, Agnes,” Lady Shepherd replied. She had an inkling, of course, but it was always better to draw Agnes out as she made the most diverting remarks when she was either indignant or patronizing, and by her tone and the incline of her head, her en tremblant hair combs trembling quite noticeably, the current situation was a perfect confluence. “Lady Maria might be said to be somewhat eccentric, everyone would agree—there is not one lobster patty in sight and she hasn’t served ratafia for the past year and her taste in lace, well—”

“You know very well what I mean, Lydia. I mean that, that man—”

Here Lady Fletcher gestured almost boldly in the direction of the man in question, the object of much attention, curiosity and no little degree of scorn from the high sticklers. 

“You mean Lord Miller?” 

“Even his name speaks to his common origins,” Lady Fletcher said, sniffing in rapturous condescension. “Miller? How might anyone purport to be a member of the Ton with such a surname? What’s next, Lord Cook? Viscount Clerk?”

“Prinny is likely to say his royal favor is enough,” Lady Shepherd replied. “And then, the man is prodigiously wealthy, captured a half-dozen ships and has three battlefield promotions. Though I grant you, he does not quite look the part—”

They both glanced at where Lord Miller stood, a solemn and solitary figure flanked only by a potted palm. While there could be no complaint made as to the cut of his coat and pristine knot of his cravat, there was no denying a certain raw power, a rough-hewn quality to his features, his complexion bronzed, his stance one of a ship’s captain, his gaze accustomed to searching for the North Star and any enemy on the horizon. He was the furthest thing from a dandy one could imagine, whether he wore a properly powdered wig or not.

“No, he does not,” Lady Fletcher said. “To think someone of his stature was granted the wardship of Lady Elinor Ramsay—a Duke’s granddaughter!”

“Impoverished, though,” Lady Shepherd pointed out. “Lord Miller’s evidently declared he’ll dower her well from his own coffers, there’s not the least hint of any impropriety, save what she causes herself. She’s quite a hoyden, she’s been through three governesses in the past six weeks according to my lady’s maid. Miss Mischief, she’s called among his staff, though I cannot say they fully disapprove of her.”

“She hasn’t a chance of making a good marriage with only Lord Miller to sponsor her, no matter how well he dowers her and how many teas and balls he can convince Lady Maria to organize on her behalf,” Lady Fletcher said. 

“You cannot have heard then?” Lady Shepherd said, leaning in slightly. Lady Fletcher would not care for being the one who must admit ignorance, but the prospect of gossip about Lord Miller was too tempting to refuse. 

“Do go on, Lydia, it’s quite rude of you to tease.”

“Lord Miller is determined to marry this Season and marry well enough that his new bride might provide entrée for Lady Elinor. He had hopes of Lady Carmichael, as he served with her brother, but then she was compromised by that horrid viscount, Cord or Gordon or somesuch, the one who looks most terrifyingly like a mushroom, and Lord Miller had to step aside, as he could not rescue Lady Carmichael and ensure his ward’s acceptance in good society,” Lady Shepherd explained.

“Poor Tess,” Lady Fletcher remarked with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “The viscount is known to have a rather weak constitution—she may retreat to her Scottish holdings and hope a harsh winter carries off the scoundrel or whatever is passing for cuisine among the Highlanders. She would have been wasted on Lord Miller though—”

“They had some affinity, but it’s irrelevant, as she’s due to marry in a fortnight,” Lady Shepherd said.

“I suppose Lady Maria and the Duke of Wesley are determined to help Lord Miller secure a wife,” Lady Fletcher said. “The Duke considers him a brother, after all.”

“As much as they may, I’ve heard. Lord Miller is very proud and brusque. But the Duke’s valet found a man for Lord Miller, so that he might appear well-turned out in company. My maid says when he’s at home, he goes about in his shirtsleeves and a scuffed pair of Hessians,” Lady Shepherd said. 

“He hasn’t the hands for a quizzing-glass, that’s most evident,” Lady Fletcher tittered. 

“He holds the ribbons of his curricle light enough,” Lady Shepherd replied.

“Shall that attract him a charming and wellborn bride? I shouldn’t think so,” Lady Fletcher said. 

“It may attract her brother or father. He’s a fine stable of horses,” Lady Shepherd said.

“It almost sounds as if you’d entertain a suit for your Flora,” Lady Fletcher said, an eyebrow raised in skeptical inquiry.

“Her father might. I shouldn’t risk it. Flora’s a dear but she’s rather timid and it would be like pairing a canary with a falcon,” Lady Fletcher said. “Besides, if we did, think of the disappointment of the Ton—everyone is so looking forward to seeing Lord Miller run amok on the marriage mart. We may even learn if he’s capable of waltzing—”

“I assure you he’s entirely, eminently capable,” Lady Maria said, having approached the party from the rear, a military maneuver she’d learned from her great-aunt, a woman renowned for her stratagems, her cutting tongue, and her collection of bejeweled turbans which she’d taken to at age thirty and had worn despite any variance in fashion for the remainder of her life. To be so confronted by their hostess was an indication that they’d grown too engrossed with their conversation or too comfortable with their positions, forgetting that even the hint of a scandal could topple the most sterling reputation unless one was an original or a Duchess. As neither lady fulfilled either category, they both pursed their lips in the apologetic simper that was required to show their pretense at remorse.

“One might expect it of a sea-captain,” Lady Shepherd hazarded. “I believe they must be quite nimble on board. There is an excessive quantity of rope and one hardly ever sees a senior Naval man missing a lower limb. They do speak of sailors dancing jigs and whatever a hornpipe is, surely a commander must master the steps as well.”

“Lord Miller would be glad of your confidence,” Lady Maria replied in such a tone and with such a glance as to ensure both of her listeners understood she meant the opposite. “He is indeed everything accomplished, however stern he may appear, and any wise young lady would be fortunate to receive his offer.”

“But that assumes the young ladies this Season are wise, when I do believe I have never seen a sillier, giddier collection of misses presented to the Queen,” Lady Fletcher said, meaning to pounce upon Lady Maria’s remark and regain some superiority. Lady Maria was unperturbed, her gloves unwrinkled, her hem kissing the polished floor with the greatest elegance possible.

“If Lord Miller intended to consider only those young ladies making their debut, that might perhaps be a dilemma. As it stands, he has imposed no such restriction, only seeking a wife worthy of his hand and well-suited to the guidance of his ward,” Lady Maria said. “He is quite devoted to Lady Elinor, for all that she taxes his patience; one cannot resist her liveliness and she shows every sign of being deemed her year’s diamond.”

“Lady Elinor? A diamond of the first water?” Lady Fletcher exclaimed. “You would make such a prediction?”

“I would make such a wager,” Lady Maria said. It was widely known Lady Fletcher regularly overspent her pin money and would likely have gambled away her family estate; she would not be able to decline Lady Maria’s proposition and Lady Shepherd would not keep the exchange to herself. It would be the choicest gossip of the night’s ball, unless there was an impromptu betrothal between crusty, long-time bachelor Earl Nicholas and the sprightly Honorable Frances Bartlett, an event so unlikely they would not even record it in the betting book at White’s.

“What stakes?” Lady Fletcher asked.

“I know they say ladies must never offer anything of great value, confining ourselves to flower cuttings or ices at Gunter’s, but when I gamble, I prefer for it to be worth my while. As I far outrank you, I shall stake a favor, to be called in at the time of your choosing. On your part, I think it is only fitting you stake your diamond parure—”

“The Fletcher diamonds?” Lady Shepherd exclaimed. Lady Fletcher had turned a peculiar color that resembled old whey and emphasized the somewhat heavy hand that had rouged her cheeks.

“Diamonds for a diamond, what could be more poetic? More apt?” Lady Maria said.

“I don’t think—” Lady Fletcher began.

“Naturally, if you are not sanguine about the wager, you needn’t make it, though I’d expect you to offer your vocal support to Lady Elinor and Lord Miller,” Lady Maria said.

“I’m confident the chit won’t be anything like the Season’s diamond. Nor even an original,” Lady Fletcher said. “I’d go a step further and say I wager Lord Miller cannot become engaged to a member of the Ton before Lady Elinor’s presentation to the Queen.”

“What an intriguing elaboration,” Lady Maria said. Lady Shepherd thought that Lady Fletcher ought to blanch at their hostess’s tone, but arrogance had restored her complexion. The diamonds at her throat and earrings sparkled and Lady Shepherd wondered how they might look on Lord Miller’s ward.

“I take it you accept?” Lady Fletcher said.

“Gladly,” Lady Maria said. “What a very delightful Season this promises to be!”

This fic is for @tessa-quayle who deserves to be having a better day!