A Star Shall Fall

That last comment got an alarmed and confused look from their mother, who clearly was not certain what they were talking about, but was just as certain it showed too much levity for the occasion. “Cynthia, do not hang upon his arm,” she admonished her eldest daughter, making shooing motions with her folded fan. “From a distance it will look as if you two are in company, when people cannot see you are related, and then they will not approach.”

Galen could hardly blame his mother for her concern. She had a nervous disposition to begin with, and his agreement with his father had put her into a pother. Nothing would do but that both Galen and Cynthia were promised to be married by the end of the Season; only then would she rest easy. She might not like the pleasure gardens as a hunting ground for spouses—there were far too many opportunities for illicit liaisons, in the dark byways of the walks—but the charity event tonight was respectable enough, and likely to draw the sort of man and woman both he and Cynthia needed.

Bracing himself, he helped his sister to the stair, then his mother. The elder St. Clair glared away any prospect of aid, so he waited until the old man had passed, before following like a docile sheep.

On the roadway above, Cynthia contrived to fall back so they could walk together, following the line of people to the waiting carriages, and the building that marked the entrance to the Spring Gardens. “All will be well,” she assured him, letting their parents draw a bit ahead. “If it helps, think on this: you may believe you’re the hunter, but in truth you’re hunted. All those mothers with unwed daughters, looking to trap you in their snares. You hardly stand a chance, poor boy.”

A hint of pain hid behind those light words. No such happy snares awaited Cynthia; she had no profit to offer a prospective husband, beyond her good nature. “Then I shall hunt on your behalf,” Galen promised.

She hadn’t Daphne’s beauty, but Cynthia was the only one of the St. Clair children to inherit their mother’s dimples. They flickered briefly in the lantern light as the garden entrance drew near. “We can work together, like a pair of hounds. I’ll bring suitable young ladies to you, and you shall find gentlemen for me. With such an alliance, success cannot be far away.”

Galen smiled down at his sister, feeling his spirit lighten. “If there are any young men here worthy of your good heart, my dear, I shall not fail to lay them at your feet.” And with those words, they passed through the building into the Spring Gardens beyond.

Despite the windy night, the Grand Walk was well lit by globes hung from the trees. Beneath those lights circulated the cream of London’s society, from wealthy merchants to the aristocracy itself, to the accompaniment of music from the orchestra in the grove.

And half of them at least were hunting spouses, for themselves or for their offspring.

At least he needn’t winnow the grain from the chaff. Tonight’s ridotto al fresco was a charity event, to benefit some worthy cause or another—the Foundling Hospital, perhaps, or soldiers wounded in the Jacobite Rebellion. On an ordinary night, anyone who could afford the shilling entrance fee could come inside. Poorer folks saved their pennies, then dressed in their shabby best to gawk at the music and the paintings and the splendour of their betters.

His mother had a point, Galen was forced to admit; the place wasn’t entirely reputable. Hopefully Cynthia knew to keep far away from the Druid Walk and other such dark corners, where young bloods laid snares for unchaperoned young ladies. It should be safer tonight, with the prostitutes chased out, but not every peer’s son respected a woman’s dignity as he should.

Food was laid out in the Rotunda to their left, slightly better than the usual overpriced fare of the gardens. Peter Mayhew lurked there, and his face fell when he saw that Daphne hadn’t accompanied them. “Hurst is about somewhere,” he told Galen, gesturing vaguely at the expanse of the gardens. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re here; I believe he intends to spend the night hunting on your behalf.”

It seemed Galen would have all the assistance he could stomach, and more. He was grateful to spot Dr. Andrews near the orchestra, the one man in London with whom he could talk something other than marriage prospects.

The stick-thin man turned when Galen called his name. “Ah, Mr. St. Clair. Here to support the good efforts of the Marine Society?”

So it was the Navy they were benefitting. “Yes, of course,” Galen said, as if he’d known. Andrews’s mouth compressed, not quite concealing amusement. To prove he wasn’t entirely ignorant of the evening’s design, Galen added, “Mr. Lowe will be singing later, I believe. Have you had the pleasure of hearing him? A fine tenor indeed.”