Imprudent Lady Read Free

charm—the magic that surrounded his name. On that first evening when his name was announced and he stepped into Princess Lieven's ball to shake hands with his hostess, there hadn't been a sound in the room. Every eye was turned on him; even breath was suspended at the climax of the moment. There was total silence. “I never heard the likes of it since Beau Brummell's famous question to Alvanley about the Prince Regent—'Who's your fat friend?',” the Princess Lieven stated later.
    Dammler was tall and supple, his body lean from the rigours of travel, his shoulders wide and straight. His amorous and aggressive exploits left a residue of weariness on his face, and this, combined with the tan he had picked up, saved him from being too handsome. One shock the ton had not been prepared for was the black eye patch over his left eye, but this was in no way a distraction from his charms. Quite the contrary, it was the coup de grace. His coats, his interesting drawl, his habit of hunching his shoulders and throwing up his hands could be and were studiously followed by his imitators, but they none of them were ready to go to the laughable length of either sticking a patch on a good eye, or removing one and giving themselves just cause to wear the patch. In this he was unique. Before he was in the room a minute the Princess had asked the reason for the patch.
    “I was hit by a Cherokee's arrow as I fled downstream in my canoe, ma'am,” he answered smiling. “I lost the maiden I was trying to rescue, unfortunately, but I saved the eye. My patch can come off in a few months."
    “Don't be in a hurry,” she answered promptly. “Let us get used to one such dangerous eye before we are challenged with two."
    “You are too kind, but only think, Princess, if I had the use of both, I could see you twice as well.” He ran an admiring glance over the gaunt lady as he spoke.
    “Oh you are naughty, milord,” she tittered, enchanted with him.
    “I am you know, but don't tell anyone, or you will frighten away the ladies,” he laughed, and within seconds he was surrounded by them.
    No polite party had seen such an unseemly scramble since the Prince of Wales entertained King Louis of France at Carlton House. A ‘squeeze,’ of course, was all the go, but a stampede was what Princess Lieven's ball was rapidly disintegrating into. She had to hustle the guest of honour into a private parlour and bolt the door to save him from having the hair pulled from his head, and the black jacket ripped from his back.
    “I had thought I was returning to civilisation,” he told her, and she later told waiting Society. “It seems I am back among the savages. You ought really to have warned me, Princess, and I'd have brought my pistols."
    “What you need is a bodyguard,” she told him, and before long it was necessary for him to acquire not one but two. When he sauntered down Bond Street or rode in the park, he was accompanied by two men, each six-and-a-half feet tall and as broad as doors, to stave off the mobs. One was a jet black Nubian picked up on his peregrinations, the other a dour Scotsman with red hair and freckles. These persons accompanied him everywhere, but Society soon learned that Dammler did not like being pulled about and disappeared if physically handled. The colourful trio was a windfall for the cartoonists. The escorts were dubbed Dammler's “Guardian Angels,” and were represented by Gilray with wings and halos in the pictures that decorated the store windows.
    The question uppermost in the mind of Society was, naturally, which fortunate female would attract Lord Dammler. His behaviour was maddeningly provocative. He would partner some dashing heiress for one or two days—appear with her at the opera and the balls—then two nights later she would be replaced by another. Rumours were rampant as to his having a wild but secret affair with this married lady or that widow, but they were not credited by the knowing. No lady would