Miranda Phipps

Vauxhall Interlude
Price of Admission: Three shillings, Sixpence and a Kiss for the Attendant

How does one respond to a forged invitation to meet the Baron of Snydley in the Vauxhall pleasure gardens at midnight? For the Countess Fraser, the only choice is to accept.

A brittle crash emanated from the library and echoed down the hallway to the drawing room where Jonathan Crane found himself in search of a drink.

“Poor puss,” Jonathan said aloud, lamenting the sacrifice of yet another porcelain cat to the god of marital discord.  He couldn’t help but chuckle as he recalled the expression of horror that swept across Damien’s face when the man walked into the library and found all his books were gone, replaced by row upon row of wide-eyed ceramic kittens.  Priceless. 

Jonathan’s survey of the drawing room revealed a decanter of brandy on the sideboard next to the front window.  Pouring himself a generous glass, he caught a glimpse of a tall fellow hastening down the front steps of Coulter House.  The man stole a glance over his shoulder as he climbed into a waiting carriage, revealing himself to be none other than Snydley.  Jonathan had barely registered his disbelief when he heard footfalls behind him, followed by Damien’s voice.

“Come, Crane.  Let’s be off.  There’s no point in staying.  My wife refuses to explain herself no matter how many of those insipid felines I’m willing to smash to bits.”

“And as for Snydley?” Jonathan asked tentatively.  He watched the carriage lurch to life and proceed down the street.

“She denies any unwelcome attentions from the Baron, so my mind is at ease.”

“In that regard, Coulter, I think it would be best if you came to see this for yourself.”

Damien joined Jonathan at the window just in time to see the carriage turn the corner at the end of the block.

“The Snydley coat of arms,” he ground out.

Jonathan nodded in agreement.  “The Baron himself left by the front door not two minutes ago.”  He turned to look at his friend.  “You know I would gladly serve as your second, Coulter.”

Damien stared out the window for a long minute, seeming to consider the offer.  “Most generous, Crane, but I find it’s not actually the Baron I’m inclined to call out.”

* * *

She certainly wasn’t in County Durham anymore, Patience thought as her senses took in the wonders of Vauxhall.  It was like some grand outdoor theater, lit by thousands of twinkling lanterns and populated by a wildly eclectic cast of aristocrats, acrobats and all manner of persons in between.  Had Patience known what fun she’d missed while waiting for Damien to claim her, she’d have invented the Countess Fraser ages ago.

A sliver of guilt pricked at her conscience.  The conversation with her husband had not gone well that day.  After Damien had thundered out of the library, Patience swept up the pottery shards and developed an improved plan for winning the man’s affections.  An invitation to execute that scheme conveniently arrived with the next post.  It read:

Vauxhall.  Midnight.

—Snydley

Patience knew immediately her cousin had not penned the missive.  Past correspondence informed her that the Baron’s love of wordy prose approximated his passion for scones. 

Intriguingly, Patience concluded that the forger could be none other than her own husband, for the tone of the summons perfectly echoed the only other piece of correspondence she’d ever received from the man: a note he’d left behind the morning after their wedding night.  She knew its cruel contents by heart.

Consummation postponed until further notice.

—Coulter

The memory still stung, but Patience could now acknowledge her own contribution to the state of their marriage.  She resolved to make the best of her meeting with Damien—assuming she ever found him in this maze.  Readjusting her mask of swaying peacock feathers, Patience turned down a dimly lit path that branched off the main thoroughfare.

Anxiety quickly replaced her sense of purpose as a raucous party approached from the opposite direction.  She recognized most of the men from balls she’d attended as the Countess Fraser.  Their female companions, however—with their rouged cheeks and low-cut gowns—were not society ladies with whom Patience might be acquainted.  As she tried to skirt the rowdy group, one of the men stopped to ogle her.

“Thaddeus!” he exclaimed, elbowing his friend.  “I’d recognize those sapphire eyes anywhere, Thady–’tis the widow Fraser.”

Excellent, Patience thought.  This was all she needed.  She averted her eyes and continued down the walk, but Thady had blocked her progress.

“You’re dead right, Trent.  What a surprise to see you at Vauxhall, Countessss,” Thady slurred.  He lurched closer.  “Though a proud peacock, you’d be a welcome addition to our chorus of nightingales.”  The men laughed a little too enthusiastically at the jest.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, gentlemen, but I’ve another assignation this evening,” she drawled, hoping to communicate infinite boredom with the proposal.

She reversed direction in an attempt to return to the main walk, but collided headlong into a wall.  The wall grasped her upper arms to steady her, and Patience determined that the phenomenon was actually a man, built like a wall, wearing a plum-toned satin domino.  While she adored the wall’s taste in color, Patience wasn’t at all sure she liked the feral gleam in his eyes—particularly once she realized the very same gleam had been associated with the destruction of a fine marmalade tabby earlier that day.

“I think you lads are mistaken,” Damien growled.  He possessively tucked Patience’s gloved hand into his arm.  “I can assure you this is my ladybird—not the Countess Fraser, so I suggest you carry on with your own evening’s entertainment.”

Thady and Trent, along with the rest of their party, heeded this advice with an alacrity that belied their level of intoxication.

“Thank you,” Patience said with genuine gratitude.

“While we avoided any harm to your person, the same unfortunately cannot be said for your plumage.”  His fingertips brushed her temples as he gently set her mask to rights and fished a broken tail feather from her curls.  He studied its flashing iridescence in the lamplight before turning to look at her—his gaze boring into her with an intensity Patience had never known before.  “Gaudy displays do neither your character nor your beauty justice, my lady.”

Unsure of how to reply to the remonstrance, Patience plucked the feather from his fingers and made a pretense of tucking it back into place.

“Forgive my unwarranted remarks.  May I make amends by escorting you to your destination?” he asked with no further hint of derision.

“Let us proceed in the direction of the tower,” Patience suggested.  “The fireworks are to be launched there at midnight.”

“As you wish, ma’am.  If I may be so forward as to observe that your suitor must have great command over your affections if he can convince a lady of quality to visit the pleasure gardens unaccompanied.”

“In truth, I felt I had no choice but to meet him tonight.  One could say we share an unbreakable bond.”

“So it is a longstanding affair?” Damien asked with seeming nonchalance, although she felt the muscles of his forearm tense beneath her hand.

“Of some years, yes—but I hope our mutual affection will only grow over time.  We seem to quarrel overmuch.”

“And the source of your conflict?” he pressed.  Despite his light tone, Patience could tell her husband was testing her.

Before she could answer, a profusion of color bloomed across the midnight sky, closely followed by the crackling staccato of exploding pyrotechnics. 

“Oh, the sight is magical,” she breathed aloud.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Patience turned to find Damien gazing at her with obvious admiration.  “Why, you aren’t even watching the fireworks,” she managed as a blush crept up her cheeks. 

“There are more captivating views at Vauxhall tonight, though I am but a thief robbing your lover of his vantage point.”

“Come now, sir.  We both know I’ve found the man who invited me here tonight,” she said smiling into Damien’s eyes.

“Ah, Patience,” he murmured as he pulled her toward him.  His lips moved across her mouth in the lightest caress of a kiss.  “I hope you like purple as much as you profess.  After tonight’s escapade, you’re never leaving the townhouse again.”

Patience stilled in Damien’s arms.  She hadn’t come to London to play wife on his terms.  She’d been doing that for three lonely years in the countryside.  Countess Fraser intended to bring the Earl of Coulter to heel, and she wasn’t about to give up now.

She leaned close and whispered breathlessly in his ear, “Oh, Snydley—kiss me again.”