Page 20 of A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

Epilogue

Fairfield

Portia’s masked ball was an absolute crush, and would no doubt be talked about for months. All around him men and women were laughing and clapping as they took part in an exuberant country dance, and others were gasping at the skill of the scantily clad jugglers. A few had found a place directly in front of the supper table and were enjoying the array of delicious desserts, while sending their friends out to stalk the footmen with trays of drinks.

He was pleased for his daughter-in-law, even if he remained content to sit to one side with just his brandy for company. Occasions like this reminded him far too much of Joanna, and the night that changed his entire life. What a minx she’d been, accepting a wager to sneak into the lord lieutenant’s manor then strutting about, bold as brass, like she owned the property. He’d been intrigued. But when Joanna had lured him onto a balcony for a passionate kiss…well, he’d known then that she would hold his heart forever. Such a bittersweet moment, meeting the love of his life as a married man. Six months. Just six bloody months earlier…

Augustus scowled and took a sip of brandy. Even now, over four decades later, the injustice of the timing of their first meeting and the tragic deaths of Joanna and the baby daughter he’d named Hannah, still hurt like a knife to his chest. She had been the light of his life. Had gifted him a fine son. But they hadn’t been able to defeat the Fates, or English law.

Truly humbling for the almighty Duke of Fairfield.

“That’s a rather ferocious scowl, Your Grace. I certainly hope such ire isn’t directed at me.”

He glanced up in surprise as a slender, silver-haired dowager in a purple gown sat down next to him without invitation, her face half-covered in an amethyst-studded black satin mask. “Depends entirely on who you are, madam,” he said irritably.

She grinned and lifted her mask, offering him a glimpse of a rather interesting face, powdered in the proper way of old, with a small beauty patch on her cheek. Bright blue eyes regarded him frankly. “Lady Kearns. Libby to my friends.”

Recollection flickered. The feisty widow of a mild-mannered politician from Kent, Lady Kearns had gone into seclusion after he passed and only recently emerged. Several children and grandchildren. Fine stables. “Ah, yes. And how are you enjoying the ball?”

“Well enough, I suppose. Apart from two things.”

Augustus lifted his mask so she might feel the full blast of a raised eyebrow. “Indeed?”

Her smile widened further. “I dislike grumbling peers. My late husband was a man of the people and we often held parties with guest lists like Lady Portia’s. Albeit without the lady lovers or London’s most notorious ménage…then again perhaps we did and I just didn’t know.”

“I’d say that is more likely. Just because they aren’t kissing in the street, doesn’t mean interesting matches aren’t happening up and down the realm. Miss Tilton and Miss Irving…Lord and Lady Fenton and Mr. Irving, well they are practically family. I take a dim view of any slurs against them. A dim view indeed. Those puffed up lordlings may take a cold bath in the Wey. They think they have consequence…ha.”

“Hardly comparable to the great Duke of Fairfield.”

Augustus peered suspiciously at Lady Kearns, but there was no trace of mockery on her face. Mollified, he nodded. “Quite. And your second complaint?”

She pouted. “Not nearly enough nudity.”

Choking on a second sip of brandy, he wheezed, “Beg pardon?”

“I’m certain your ears work perfectly well, Your Grace. I will admit a little disappointment, I thought a ball hosted by the chairwoman of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society might have been far more risqué. Yes, there are card games, alcoves for stolen kisses, and that fascinating display of ribald poetry. But where are the brawny men in loin cloths? The naked women to eat dessert off? I haven’t seen a single rouged nipple or well-oiled backside. Good heavens I miss the glory days of George’s court.”

Torn between shock and laughter, Augustus could only stare. Then he sighed. “Young ones think they invented lust in all forms, not knowing it was established long before they were even a twinkle in their mother’s eye. A few explicit letters or a lock of nether hair, and they crow about how wicked they are. Ha. I could tell them about wicked…”

“You were a Friar, were you not?”

He blinked. Libby Kearns was very well informed. He had indeed been a Friar of Medmenham with Sir Francis Dashwood and the Earl of Sandwich, and fondly remembered many years of lust, wine, and merry debauchery at dear Dash’s country estate. Most of those tales, he would take to the grave. “It has been so rumored.”

“Perhaps you’ll tell me a story or two over tea one day. Or recommend me to your daughter-in-law; I should so love to join her Society. I heard about it through Mrs. Berkley, we’ve corresponded for years. It is profoundly irritating that people think because I have silver hair and wrinkles that my interest in lusty matters has vanished.”

“Lady Kearns,” he said slowly, “you grow more fascinating by the moment.”

“Why thank you,” she replied, flipping open her fan. “Oh my word—”

“What?”

“Over there. Surely that can’t be…the infamous flogger-mauling Mittens?”

Augustus nearly groaned. Of course the cat had escaped confinement in Beatrice and Amelia’s chamber, they had been fools to think a mere door could contain her. Mittens currently sat perched on a window ledge, one flailing paw perilously close to the fastening of white satin ribbon.

“Tis indeed the ginger-striped menace, who takes unholy joy in knocking items to the ground. If she wrecks one of Portia’s decorations, though, I’m not sure there’ll be any place for her to hide.”

“Don’t be daft, Fairfield. Mittens isn’t trying to wreck decorations. She’s trying to catch snowflakes through the glass.”