Elegant Dissipations

11

Elegant Dissipations

    “There are two posies, this morning, my dear, as well as some cards,” said Miss Hewitt brightly. “With little notes attached; but of course, you will wish dear Miss Bon-Dutton to see those, will you not?”

    “Only if they are addressed to herself, Miss Hewitt,” replied Raffaella lightly, sorting through the cards. She shrugged. “The usual lot. I am sure I do not know what I have done to encourage Major Vane-Hunter. For it is true that the title is on the distaff side, and then, he must know by now that I am as penniless as he, if possibly not in so much debt.”

    Miss Hewitt watched resignedly as she opened one of the notes.

    “Pish!” she said, crumpling it up and tossing it aside.

    “Oh, dear,” murmured the little spinster.

    “Oh, delicious!” she said, having read the other. “A masquerade ball!”

    Miss Hewitt closed her eyes for a moment.

    “Oh, would it be that bad?”

    “I cannot imagine,” she said faintly, “that it could be thought eligible, my dear, if the invitation be addressed to yourself and not to Miss Bon-Dutton.”

    “But dear Miss Hewitt, it is from that lovely old General Baldaya, and he is old enough to be my grandfather—nay, great-grandfather!”

    “My dear Contessa—”

    Raffaella laughed and bent to land a careless peck on her thin, faded cheek. “I shouldn’t dream of it! And, frankly, I would have thought better of him; one collects it is a bow at a venture, no? A floral bow!”

    “Yes,” she said faintly.

    Smiling, Raffaella tossed the General’s invitation in the grate, and left the room, abandoning both the posies.

    The other note still lay where she had thrown it. Miss Hewitt looked at it sideways…

    “I see,” said Eudora drily, as the criminal confessed.

    “No, well, my dear, I thought it might be something quite beyond the pale.”

    “My dear Miss Hewitt, you had every right to read the thing, and if Madam raises any objection, I shall tell her so to her face! Though to give her her due, she will not: she is very warm-hearted, you know. If entirely obstinate,” she said with a little sigh. “And in this instance, pish—it was pish, was it? Yes, well, I think pish is the only possible reaction.”

    Miss Hewitt gave a relieved smile. “Indeed.” The note and its posy were from the misguided Mr George Potter, reminding the Contessa that they had met down in Derbyshire, mentioning a more recent encounter in the Park, and suggesting she might like to make one of a snug little supper party with himself and two friends.

    “Er—that was all for this morning, was it?”

    “Mm. Nothing from Mr B.,” she said, biting her lip.

    Eudora swallowed a sigh. “No, well, we had that kind note from Lady Keywes, so one can only collect that he has done as he promised and—er—feels that no more is needed. Either that or his mother has informed him of where his duty to the family lies; and frankly, I cannot tell which is the worse scenario!”

    “Nor I, indeed,” she agreed sadly.

    “We attended the assembly at Almack’s,” reported Miss Nellie at the next salon, if such it could have been called, in Adams Crescent. “Naturally Mamma had vouchers: the Countess Lieven is a close friend, you know.”

    “Si?” replied the Contessa affably.

    Nellie dimpled. “I must confess, it was appalling, from beginning to end! Nothing but inarticulate things in swaddling neckcloths and impossible waistcoats! And the refreshments! Gwennie had told me to expect nothing better than orgeat and stale cake, so of course I was prepared for the most sumptuous yet delicate of feasts.” She rolled her eyes.

    “And?”

    “Orgeat and stale cake!” she squeaked, going into a paroxysm.

    “It is the débutante’s lot, I fear, Nellie.” Raffaella was about to get up, but Nellie cried: “But wait! I have not explained!”, so she obligingly sat down again. Even although possibly she should not have, as at the front of the room several gentlemen were preparing a little impromptu concert. Semi-impromptu: they had come armed with, in the case of Mr Shirley Rowbotham, a mob cap, a curly wig, and a capacious apron, in that of Mr Rollo Valentine, a tricorne hat, a cape, and a roll of manuscript, and in that of Mr Gregory Ashenden, a small drum and a large tartan wrapper.

    “Mr Charlie Grey was there and Katie danced three dances with him!” hissed Nellie.

    “Was this in order to add fuel to your mamma’s misguided hopes in that direction, Nellie, or because everything else was under the age of twenty?”

    “Well, both, I think. But the point is, even to spite Mamma, she did not need to dance three! At an assembly? All the cats had their lorgnettes raised by the end of the second, let alone the third!”

    Shuddering, Raffaella conceded she could well believe that.

    “And then, this very morning she let the Dashing Major drive her out in his dashing phaeton!”

    “Is it?” asked Raffaella drily.

    “Not very. Well, not near as dashing as dear Miss B.-D.’s equipage, and do you think, if I were to go down on my bended knees and promise to wear a veil—”

    “No,” said Raffaella brutally, walking away from her.

    The “concert” was duly delivered: it entailed Mr Rollo in the rôle of Dr Johnson, the great lexicographer, and Mr Greg being verra, verra Scotch, though it was not absolutely clear if his character were intended for Boswell or Rabbie Burns; and really, the company decided unanimously as it ended, it were best to draw a veil. In especial over the character assumed by Mr Shirley in the wig and mob cap. And the Contessa duly informed Lord Geddings, who came in just as it was over, that it must be his lucky day, for it was over.

    “It will certainly be my lucky day if you will agree to drive out with me,” he murmured, bowing over her hand.

    This was a great mark of favour: the sophisticated Contessa just managed to prevent her jaw from dropping. And accepted eagerly, without referring him to her cousin.

    … “What?” groaned Eudora, as the room cleared and Raffaella confessed.

    “He is not a rake: there can be no objection.”

    Miss Hewitt was looking at Eudora in some distress. Miss Bon-Dutton took a deep breath. “He is a much older man, his mistresses, past or present, are scattered the length and breadth of London, and there can be every objection to a very young widow’s driving out with him!”

    “Good, then I shall certainly do it.” Raffaella went to the mirror over the mantel and airily adjusted a curl or two. “Should I not make the most delicious political hostess? Young, sicuro, but charming, tactful and knowledgeable. And with just a hint of pretty deference to the older gentlemen. Such as His Grace of Wellington.”

    “No. Those Whig sentiments that Cousin Jeremy Andrews seems to have inculcated in you at a very early age would betray you, and you would burst out,” replied Eudora, trying not to laugh. “And poor G. would lose that place in Wellington’s pocket that he so cherishes.”

    “But at his age,” she said, turning from the mirror and opening her eyes very wide at them, “do you not think he should be striking out on his own?”

    “He does hold a junior Cabinet post.”

    “Naturalmente; otherwise it would be very difficult even to reach His Grace’s pocket,” she replied smoothly.

    Miss Hewitt, who had held up wonderfully well until this instant, gave way entirely and went, alas, into a helpless choking fit.

    Twinkling, Raffaella said: “I shall go upstairs and meditate on what to wear tomorrow.”

    “What is wrong with the yellow outfit?” returned Eudora limply.

    “For G.? Certainly not, I have worn it with mere nobodies. Not to say mere oddities. –Oh, and in the case Major Vane-Hunter should chance to call, the mere dropping of a hint that I am even more penniless than I am notorious should do the trick, I think. If you would be so obliging?” Smiling, she twirled out.

    After some time, Miss Hewitt, blowing her nose feebly, said: “How much of that was serious—nay, even half serious?”

    Eudora grimaced. “I could not absolutely say. Well, you saw how she was on her return from the drive with Mr B.”

    “But my dear, he has not called, or sent so much as posy!”

    “Quite. Er, and there is no doubt that an invitation from Geddings is extremely flattering. And it will certainly put poor Lady Caro Kellaway’s noise well and truly out of joint.”

    Miss Hewitt nodded calmly.

    “Mm. Though whether the invitation were issued for that precise reason,” said Eudora slowly, “it would be very hard to say. Simon Kellaway is in the East again, you know, and not due to return for quite some time.”

    Miss Hewitt stared at her in dismay.

    “Yes, well, Geddings has the cunning for it, make no mistake. Wellington does not keep mere lap-dogs about him,” said Eudora grimly.

    “Oh, dear!”

    “Quite.”

    The weather having warmed, the Contessa was able to appear on the morrow in her new driving-dress. Narrow white stripes on a grey ground, the hem edged with cherry-red piping, the which was just allowed one or two curlicues, for effect. This warm, deep shade was picked up in the abbreviated jacket, and echoed in the bunch of cherries on the grey silk bonnet adorned with white silk bows. Smart, but delightfully feminine, was the desired effect. Since his Lordship promptly informed her she looked delightful, it was presumably achieved.

    “The Park?” he murmured, as they set off.

    “Sicuro! And if you would be so very, very kind as to drive past, shall we say, Blefford House, or Hammond House, or Stamforth House, rather slowly, on the way?” said Raffaella with a melting look.

    “Certainly. Though if we head for Blefford Square, which will certainly allow us to drive past Blefford House and Stamforth House, we shall not be on the direct route for Hammond House.”

    “Oh, dear, what a terrible pity,” said Raffaella dulcetly. “But stay; could we make it perhaps Hammond House and the Houses of Parliament? In the hopes of being seen by at least one person of the rank of marquis or above?”

    Geddings had to bite his lip, but managed to reply without actually laughing: “Alas, neither House is sitting at this moment, ma’am, and then, the Houses of Parliament are in the opposite direction to the Park. And nowhere near Hammond House.”

    “But if I am not seen by at the least a belted earl,” said Raffaella rolling her eyes very much, “the whole trip will be wasted!”

    “You crush my poor pretensions utterly, signora. Well, Blefford Square certainly numbers a belted earl and a viscount, and I think a mere baron or two, amongst its inhabitants. Oh, and then, with only a very slight divergence, which I assure you I am more than ready to make, we may go past the Hôtel von Maltzahn-Dressen and afford you the chance of being seen by as genuine a German princess as London can offer.”

    “That is very naughty,” said Raffaella limply: the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen was, of course, Mr Beresford’s paternal aunt, and as English as he was. Though her manner was certainly regal enough for a dozen princesses, of whatever nationality.

    “Oh, the little Princess Adélaïde is perfectly Teutonic,” he said smoothly.

    “You did not mean her at all, you naughty thing,” she said limply.

    “So?” he said with a twinkle.

    “What? Oh, well, yes, if it would not discommode you, sir.”

    His eyes twinkling, Geddings obligingly headed for Blefford Square.

    Hardly surprisingly, neither the Earl of Blefford nor Viscount Stamforth was visible in the square; and, more to the point, nor were their wives. However, the Contessa informed her escort kindly that it was an entirely edifying spectacle, and Geddings professed himself entirely satisfied.

    Outside the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen’s house, which was very near to the Park, they were afforded the curious spectacle of a short, plump, red-headed person in a green and white print and straw bonnet shouting angrily at a small, fluffy dog which was refusing to mount the steps of the residence. It would, as his Lordship noted, have been very hard to say exactly which, of the girl and the dog, was in charge of the green leather lead which joined them—in fact, honours seemed about even. He lifted his hat courteously as they passed, but was ignored.

    “That was the Princess Adélaïde von Maltzahn-Dressen,” he explained kindly.

    “Si, si, of course! And that was it!” said Raffaella eagerly, peering over her shoulder.

    “The bane of the Fürstin’s existence? Yes, indeed,” he agreed smoothly. “The girl is incapable of controlling it, even with the lead, and it is accustomed to rule the roast completely, or so one hears. May I say, how very glad I am that you do not possess a lap-dog, Contessa?”

    “Thank you!” she said, laughing. “I have a cat, who is worth fifty of any silly, fluffy thing like that!”

    “Glad to hear it. At one point she was rumoured to have a scheme of turning it into a carriage dog: she imagined, why I know not, that she could persuade her mother to let her drive herself around in a phaeton. But fortunately the Fürstin was able to scotch the scheme—nay, nip it in the bud,” he murmured, turning into the Park.

    “One imagines every syllable!” the Contessa assured him eagerly.

    Geddings’ shoulders shook. “Indeed.”

    “Of course,” said Raffaella on an artless note, “the mere I, you know, have never met Her Highness the Fürstin; but the merest glimpse of her at the opera, in palest green silk frosted all over with perfect lace, and the most chillingly gracious of lorgnettes, could not fail to suggest it all!”

    “Naturally. –I think it would have been the silver lorgnette, that evening.”

    “My dear man! Of course!”

    At this Geddings frankly grinned and said: “She must have a cupboardsful of ’em. Every time one thinks that is it, then, and there cannot possibly be another, lo! There it is! She is actually very short-sighted, poor soul, but she certainly makes the most of it.”

    “An example to us all,” agreed Raffaella solemnly.

    His Lordship agreeing smoothly, they drove on. Several notable personalities were encountered, not least amongst them Admiral Dauntry with a clutch of senior officers, and General Baldaya, leaning on the arm of a thin, yellowish gentleman whom Geddings was able to identify as one of the Carvalho dos Santos boys from the Portuguese Embassy—yes, the Ambassador’s younger son; so all in all, though no marquises and certainly no dukes were sighted, it could not have been said to have been a wasted expedition. The more so as most of the personalities were clearly very much interested to see just who it was, who was escorting the Contessa.

    Lady Anne Dauntry had very kindly issued an invitation to dinner. It was possibly not a coincidence that Lochailsh was not in town, but Eudora had ignored this point. There was little hope that Sir Humphrey’s brother, the fulsome Admiral, would not be there, but she had informed her young cousin grimly that she was to be on her best behaviour. The Contessa, alas, had merely giggled. And, having demanded to know the Dauntrys’ address, issued a counter-order that Eudora should wear something “quite stunning.” Not the dark blue silk, no. Why not? Apparently because it had been worn to the concert with Mrs Paxton and Major Fellowes. Nor the grey silk with the unusual russet velvet ribands, for what especial reason was not clear…

    “Where is that old-gold brocade?” she had asked grimly.

    “Raffaella, that’s far too grand—”

    She had been made to get into it. The stuff itself was not over-heavy, but although the gown would have been just the thing for an Embassy reception at which His Majesty King George IV would be present it was not quite suitable for a mere private dinner party.

    “Raffaella, one would not wish to appear over-dressed.”

    “Rubbish. The shade makes your skin appear very white. You must wear it with your pearls and those long pearl earrings your grandmother left you. –I know! We shall make a new turban of that gold gauze scarf!”

    Cravenly Miss Bon-Dutton had given in.

    “Who else is to be there?” came next; but as Eudora did not know, she could not enlighten her.

    Miss Hewitt later pointed out in private that as Mrs Beresford and Lady Anne Dauntry were old friends it was highly likely that the Beresfords, mère et fils, would be present. This point had already dawned on Eudora: she merely shuddered slightly, and nodded.

    Mr Beresford was to accompany his mother and his sister and brother-in-law that evening, and so got himself round to Lord Keywes’s house in good time—ignoring a parting shot from Greg Ashenden in re wonderful Waterfalls and would any grovelling service his honour cared to name result in the imparting of the secret of tying one? His mood, which to say truth was one of mixed anticipation and apprehension, was not entirely improved by his little sister’s greeting him gaily with a kiss on the cheek and the laughing information that he looked as fine as fivepence tonight. Lord Keywes, a pleasant man of an equable temperament, then suggested that if the ladies were ready, they might make a move.

    Once Mrs Beresford had made quite sure that May had a warm evening cloak, for, she noted drily, the weather was distinctly spring-like, they duly made a move.

    Rowena Beresford was, as has been mentioned, a woman of great good sense. Her own family was a genteel one, well known in the environs of Bath, and though it was true that she had married well, the marriage of a Miss Laidlaw to Mr Beresford of Beresford Hall in Cumberland had not been such as would provoke comment or interest outside their immediate family circles. John Beresford had been a sturdy, good-natured, hearty man: very fond of country pursuits, and not too fond of town life, and the country-house existence they had largely led, surrounded by dogs and horses, had suited the energetic Mrs Beresford very well. John Beresford had been a shrewd man who had managed his estates capably and made some excellent investments: by the time he died the family fortunes, always rather more than decent, had become considerably increased, and his widow could have classed herself as a wealthy woman and lived accordingly, had she so wished.

    She had not so wished: the shock of John’s death had been a far greater blow than the managing but merry-hearted young woman who had gone off to Cumberland as a happy bride had ever revealed, even to those of her sisters who were closest to her. She had sold the town house, and come home to Bath with her little girl. Jack was at school most of the year and there seemed, really, little point in isolating herself in Cumberland in his absence—or so she had phrased it, more or less, to her Bath acquaintance. Mentioning to no-one that, though she recognised it might have been seen as her duty to stay there for Jack’s sake, she could not stand the loneliness of the place without John. Fortunately her brother-in-law George Beresford, whose rôle had always been more or less that of agent, was very happy to manage the estates for “dear young Jack.” So Rowena Beresford retired to Bath with her conscience more or less eased. There she led a quiet life, which nonetheless could not have been described as a retired one: the Laidlaws had a wide circle of acquaintance and Rowena was by nature a gregarious woman. By the time the year of her official mourning was up she had already established a sufficiently busy routine for herself and as the years passed this became even busier, with considerable charitable work, and, as May grew up, the delightful business of launching a daughter.

    Though May was a pretty little merry-faced creature with a very taking manner, she was, Mrs Beresford had admitted to herself, nothing remarkable: neither the beauty nor the wit which her Aunt Fanny had been even at eighteen, and Rowena Beresford had certainly never expected a great match for her. The invitation from Fanny to launch May from the von Maltzahn-Dressen town house had, however, encouraged her to hope that she would at least, with the chance to circulate in diplomatic circles, marry well. The sisters-in-law had, on the surface, nothing in common. Nevertheless they got on well enough; perhaps because under their very different manners, each was intelligent and possessed of considerable good sense. May’s Season had, therefore, started entirely auspiciously. When, most unexpectedly, it seemed that she had attracted the notice of Robert Jeffreys, Lord Keywes, then just lately returned from representing His Britannic Majesty at the Swedish Court, Mrs Beresford had told herself sensibly that they must just wait and see: it was true that dear John had been a close friend of Lord Keywes’s late father, and the two families might have been said to have known each other forever; and it was true that Keywes did seem very attracted to her little May; nevertheless he had been a widower for something like ten years, now, and he had an heir, and— Mrs Beresford had, in fact, managed to remain very calm and sensible until the point at which Keywes had actually offered.

    She had not, then, lost her head: such was not in her nature.. But she had allowed the whole thing to go to her head, rather. And she had allowed herself the pleasure of signifying to certain grand ladies who had looked down their aristocratic noses at her little May and permitted themselves to snigger at her Jack’s infatuation for the Portuguese Widow, that they might now laugh on the other sides of their faces. Oh, not in so many words, nor anything like it. But it was very clear from her manner. The ladies had reacted as might have been expected. And duly reacted to the lavishness of the nuptial celebrations as might have been expected. Even so recently as two years earlier Mrs Beresford would have scoffed at the mere idea of a wedding breakfast for two hundred guests, and had, indeed, been heard to pass some very dry remarks at the ostentatious display of certain weddings celebrated well within living memory in Bath Abbey. May Beresford had not had a hugely elaborate wedding in Bath Abbey, though there were those who had predicted it. No: Mrs Beresford had given in to the Jeffreys family’s urgings, and allowed the wedding to take place at Vaudequays in the Vale of Keywes. In January: Robert was due to take up his next diplomatic post, in Rome, that March. There had been two hundred and fifty-two invited guests, with most of the county making the effort to get there in spite of the icy-cold weather, and almost every relative on both sides staying at Vaudequays for the occasion.

    Rowena Beresford, carried away though she was, had not gone so far as to accept May’s earnest invitation to accompany them to Rome: she could well remember her own enormous relief when John’s mother had said calmly that of course she would be removing to the dower house, when her own engagement was announced. She had waved the pair off with a smile. May, fond though she was of her mamma, was quite glad to be out of her managing orbit for the nonce; and had said to her husband on the ship as he hurried her into their cabin out of the freezing wind: “Mamma will be free to concentrate on Jack, now! Poor old fellow!”

    May was not far wrong. Mrs Beresford was by far too shrewd to, as some predicted, “race up to Cumberland and drag old Jack back to London to do the pretty to some snaggle-toothed heiress”, or “throw that son of hers at that frightful little red-headed German cousin.” Nevertheless she silently determined that she would see that he found the right type of girl with whom to settle down. It was past time that he should be setting up his nursery! The advent of May’s baby had intervened in these plans: Mrs Beresford had been very, very glad to hurry off to Rome to be present at the birth. But May had been splendidly well throughout and Baby was doing wonderfully; and, in short, now that May and Robert were settled back in England, it was time to settle Jack’s affairs. Sensible and practical woman though she was, Mrs Beresford had not quite realised that Jack was now past the age of either desiring or needing to have his affairs settled for him by his mother.

    Quite a number of the Dauntrys’ guests were already assembled when Lord Keywes’s party arrived. Perhaps fortunately it did not occur to the managing Mrs Beresford that as her handsome son glanced round the room he was hoping to see one particular pair of laughing dark eyes.

    The Contessa was not there. Mr Beresford experienced a very odd sensation of mixed disappointment and relief. There were several acquaintances already present: he strolled over to chat with Lord Lavery and his pretty little wife.

    More guests arriving, their hostess turned to greet them, and May, a naughty twinkle in her eye, was enabled to murmur: “There, you see! You must look for Lady Lavery’s type for him, Mamma; or, dare I say it, that of Robert’s Cousin Nan!”

    As the connexion to whom her Ladyship was referring so casually was more generally known in Society as the P.W., the majestic calm of Mrs Beresford’s wide brow was marred by a frown. “Nonsense, May. Come along, we must not huddle in corners. There is Lady Sarah Quayle-Sturt: shall we?”

    Eudora had feared, though expressing the thought to no-one, that Raffaella would insist on dressing up in something entirely unsuitable this evening. However, much to her relief she had not had to veto the dashing black gauze over the emerald satin. Miss Hewitt’s suggestion of the pink silk with the many tiny ruffles and rosettes had been vetoed. Girlish. The white silk was rejected, too: worn a thousand times. After a very great deal of soul-searching it was decided that it would be the apricot gauze.

    The apricot gauze was entirely charming, the stuff being draped in a very soft effect at the lowered neckline, with a scattering of tiny apricot silk rosebuds peeping from amongst the mist of gauze, the effect being repeated in the unlined puffs of the sleeves and in the further draping at the hem. Miss Hewitt, indeed, expressed great appreciation at the effect of these tiny bunches of rosebuds where other ladies might have worn mere knots of ribbon. Raffaella beamed, so apparently this was the right thing to say. Very fortunately Eudora possessed a charming brooch of carved coral which was just the right shade; so this was fastened onto a narrow apricot silk riband round Raffaella’s slender neck.

    Eudora herself was arrayed, as ordered, in old-gold brocaded silk, with dark ringlets “tumbling softly” from under intertwined gold gauze and old-gold satin ribands… All ready for the grand entrance: quite.

    If it was not quite a grand entrance, it was the nearest Eudora ever wished to come to one. As they were announced Raffaella paused in the doorway, smiling calmly, and looked round the room slowly. There was not much Eudora could do about this, as her trying charge had her elbow in a grip of steel. They then moved forward slowly to greet their host and hostess, still smiling calmly. Or one of them was: the other felt she was smiling desperately.

    Lady Anne Dauntry greeted them very kindly, and Sir Humphrey Dauntry with considerable enthusiasm. Positively kissing the Contessa’s hand. And hoping she remembered him from that dashed—er—that party at old Alec’s?

    Beaming, Raffaella assured him that of course she remembered him very well! And it was lovely to see him again. And yes, as a matter of fact, she did know Admiral Dauntry! Holding out her hand to the bowing Admiral in a manner worthy of, if not a duchess, certainly a marchioness, and allowing him to kiss it, if not precisely fervently in his sister-in-law’s drawing room, certainly eagerly. After that several other gentlemen who were all old enough to know better came up and fawned on her, so the charming apricot gown, which had to say truth struck Eudora as far more girlish than a goodly number of Raffaella’s rig-outs, could not be acting as a deterrent, after all. The gentlemen seemed to have formed the impressions that the Contessa would like a little jaunt to Greenwich, that the Contessa would like to see the pictures at the Royal Academy, that she was going to be present at Lady Caro Kellaway’s little card party on Wednesday, that she was going to be present at— Etcetera. And that she was looking forward with unalloyed delight, nay, rapture to seeing themselves thereat!

    Eudora, who had not needed to utter for some time, had now noticed several things. Possibly the worst— No, the worst was that Mr Beresford was chatting with Lord and Lady Lavery and had not come over to fawn on the Contessa. The next worse was either that his mother was here, or that his sister, pretty little Lady Keywes, was in a shade of salmon pink that was perilously near to Raffaella’s apricot, though not, if Eudora’s poor eye was any judge, as entrancing. Near enough, though. She and her mother were chatting with the pleasant Lady Sarah Quayle-Sturt. And at this precise moment they were being joined by the fashionable Mrs Frederick Hayworth. Mrs Frederick was the sort of lady who affected elaborate gold brocade gowns and elaborately-wound gold turbans even if the King were not expected at the evening party in question, and this evening she was in ’em. For herself, Eudora did not give a fig; but—

    There being a momentary pause in the fawning, Raffaella turned her head, and saw it all.

    “It would appear that gold brocade is just the thing for Lady Anne’s dinner, after all,” said Eudora as lightly as she could. Not mentioning Mr B.

    Raffaella replied with horrid grimness: “That is apparently so. But that lady’s is not nigh as charming as yours.”

    “No. Her turban is much sillier, I think?” offered Eudora.

    A footman was proffering a tray: Raffaella took a glass of sherry. “Sicuro. Ignore it.”

    “Oh, I can ignore it,” she said drily.

    The Contessa looked round the room, smiling calmly. Apart from the fawning gentlemen, and, alas, Mr B., there was scarce a guest here whom she had met. It must be fairly clear to her that the circles in which Lochailsh’s sister moved were rather different from their own.

    “Er—Lady Anne Dauntry has Whiggish leanings,” murmured Eudora.

    “I suppose she is not alone in that,” returned Raffaella tightly.

    Wondering what in God’s name there was in that mild remark to her make look, so, Eudora followed her gaze and admitted limply: “That is Lord Lavery.”

    “Si?” Raffaella had read the reports of Lord Lavery’s speeches in the House of Lords. She looked in some surprise at the good-looking, dark-haired fellow with Mr Beresford and the pretty little brown-haired lady in the green silk. “He is quite young.”

    “Yes. That is Lady Lavery, with him. Very political. And I am most reliably informed that it did not grow on her after marriage.”

    Raffaella smiled reluctantly and admitted: “That is unusual.”

    Lady Anne had come  up to them, smiling, in time to catch this last. “Why, yes! But she has a most unusual character, Contessa; I think you will enjoy meeting her; should you care for an introduction?”

    “Yes. Thank you,” she said huskily.

    “You go and chat, my dear: I see Charles has arrived: I shall go and have a word with him,” said Eudora, basely escaping.

    Lady Anne, not appearing to have noticed anything, duly performed introductions gracefully, and rustled away.

    Raffaella had expected either an awkward hiatus or an exchange of polite social nothings; but no: Lady Lavery looked with approval at the glass in her hand. “See, James? The Contessa has a glass of sherry!”

    “There are some glasses set out just over there,” said Raffaella feebly.

    “Come along, then,” said little Lady Lavery, leading the way.

    “No, Pansy,” said Lord Lavery firmly as she reached for a glass of what was clearly sherry.

    “He has this dotty idea,” said Lady Lavery conversationally to Raffaella, “that being of the feebler sex renders one liable to instant drunkenness upon the consumption of so much as half a thimbleful of any alcoholic liquor. And funnily enough, is not persuaded that the state of matrimony confers instant immunity!” Her big brown eyes twinkled merrily.

    “Indeed?” replied Raffaella, the dimples peeping in spite of herself. “That latter is entirely unusual, I believe.”

    “Yes, but I am a very unusual fellow,” said Lord Lavery calmly. “Ratafia, Pansy.”

    “Ugh.” She took a glass, nonetheless. Mr Beresford, saying nothing, helped himself to sherry.

    Lord Lavery then enquiring kindly whether the Contessa had known the Dauntrys long, Raffaella was enabled to tell them of her visit to Scotland. Adding in a casual voice, though with a glance under her lashes at his Lordship: “The land we saw was in quite good heart, but many of the country people are said to suffer dreadful hardships. It is a tragic country. And in especial compared to the Derbyshire lands around Sommerton Grange, where my Cousin Lilian lives. Not far from them, however, where I think the land is all owned by an elderly Lord Selth, things are said to be very unhappy indeed.”

    “I know; I was in the district not so long since. It is the sort of place,” he said, the nostrils flaring with distaste, “that makes one damned ashamed to be an Englishman.”

    “Not atypical, however,” said his pretty little wife in a hard voice.

    “No, quite; our system of land tenure certainly lends itself to shameless exploitation by those who are indifferent to the welfare of their social inferiors.”

    “The majority,” she noted, still in that hard voice.

    “Would you say so?” asked Raffaella dubiously. “I have not seen enough of England to judge, I suppose. Though in Scotland we saw some very impoverished communities.”

    “Quite,” agreed Lady Lavery grimly.

    “Indeed. But perhaps,” murmured his Lordship, “this is not quite the topic for Lady Anne’s drawing-room, Pansy, my love.”

    “Rubbish, James!” she cried, flags flying in her cheeks. “It is a topic for every right-thinking woman’s drawing-room! And it will not be until the damned nobility and gentry are all led to speak of such topics that there will be any hope of rural reform! And do not speak to me of ‘the Flood Of British freedom’!” she ordered her spouse in a bitter aside.

    “I shall not, and I apologise abjectly for ever giving you that poem to read, my angel,” he replied with the utmost solemnity.

    “Did you, sir?” said Raffaella somewhat limply.

    “Mm. Perhaps you would recommend instead Italy versus England?” he murmured.

    Raffaella glanced involuntarily at Mr Beresford’s impassive face. “Um—no. I mean,” she said, drawing a deep breath, “that I am fully in sympathy with Lady Lavery’s sentiments, sir. And in fact have seen instances of the most shocking poverty and neglect in Italy. The place may look picturesque enough to the visitor, but for myself, I do not find the spectacle of children begging in the streets a charming one. And those red wagons ‘reeling with grapes’, as the poet has it, would just as heartlessly knock a beggar down and roll on their way as any dust dray in England.”

    “Huzza! Good for you, Contessa! I said she looked intelligent!” cried Lady Lavery pleasedly. “So much for silly dark curls and big brown eyes!”

    Suddenly Raffaella laughed. “I think I see! You have borne the burden of them all your days, have you? Yes, well, I confess that I do not feel mine as a burden! But I do share your sentiments: it is so lowering to be taken at face value, and dismissed as a mindless fool merely because one is of the feminine gender, is it not?”

    “Yes, indeed!” she agreed. “Come and sit down over here, Contessa, and tell us what you think of the political situation in Italy at the present. –Come along, James. And do not tease; even you must surely have realised that, if most of the Society ladies fully deserve it, Signora dalla Rovere does not.”

    “It’s my besetting sin, Contessa,” said Lord Lavery with a twinkle in his eye, accompanying them to a sofa. “Pansy very nearly refused to marry me because of it.”

    Lady Lavery at this turned bright puce and said in a strangled voice: “Stop it, James;” so Raffaella perceived it must be true. She was considerably intrigued by the pair, and sat and talked over the political situation in Italy very willingly. Though not unaware that Mr Beresford, who had accompanied them silently, was merely sitting by listening, his face expressing nothing very much.

    Little Lady Keywes was not so absorbed by the company or the conversation that she neglected to notice that another pretty brown-haired young woman had joined her brother and the Laverys. She knew that Jack was interested in his Lordship’s political views but she did not think that they were entirely the attraction inducing him to remain so long in that company. She attempted to avoid her mother’s eye, but to no avail; after a little Mrs Beresford was enabled to draw her aside.

    “My dear,” she said lightly, “who is that young woman with Jack and the Laverys?”

    “I do not know her, Mamma.”

    Mrs Beresford’s majestic eye met hers. “I did not ask you that, May.”

    In spite of her matronly status Lady Keywes gulped. “No, Mamma. I beg your pardon. I have never met her, but I do know who she is: the Contessa dalla Rovere. She is staying with Miss Bon-Dutton.”

    There was a moment’s silence. “I see,” said Mrs Beresford evenly.

    May did not believe for a moment that Cousin Greg Ashenden had been silly enough to mention Jack’s supposed infatuation for the Contessa in front of Mamma; nevertheless she said hurriedly: “I know what you are thinking, but Robert has it on the very best authority that all those rumours going round Rome about the poor girl were entirely unfounded!”

    “Not entirely, I think, May. There would seem very little doubt that she consented to the elopement with the Conte dell’Aversano. But I concede that she is an innocent; yes. One pities any girl, be she lady or servant, who has to live in the Barone Giulio’s house,” she noted grimly.

    “Yes, indeed, Mamma!” gasped May thankfully.

    “May,” said her mother evenly, “you cannot be unaware, after your stay in Rome, that the Baronessa Giulio Neroni is the sort of woman with whom one would wish to have nothing to do.”

    “Yuh-yes, Mamma. I—I have met her elder daughter, Sally di Lunghi: she is a very pleasant young woman,” she said miserably.

    “No doubt.”

    Oh, help, thought May numbly.

    “We are waiting for just one more,” explained Lady Anne, smiling at Eudora. “Your little cousin seems to be getting on very well with the Laverys.”

    “Yes. Raffaella’s looks and manner may belie it, but in fact she knows a very great deal of the political situation in Italy, and I have heard her speak most feelingly of the plight of the common people there. I think she may find she has a deal in common with them.”

    “Mm…” Lady Anne looked thoughtfully at Mr Beresford, but said nothing. And, as the door opened at that moment, hurried away to greet the last guest.

    Miss Bon-Dutton went very white. It was Sir John Stevens.

    If Sir John was taken aback to find Miss Bon-Dutton amongst the Dauntrys’ guests he gave no sign of it; merely bowed properly. Eudora bowed equally coolly and saw with some relief the baronet become absorbed in conversation with Sir Humphrey, Mr Middlemass, M.P., and Mr Frederick Hayworth, a genial gentleman of strong Whig convictions. Quite possibly he had not even noticed that Raffaella was in the room. She went limply over to a chair and sank onto it.

    Lord Lavery had also noticed Sir John’s arrival, and excused himself politely to his companions in order to have a word with him, adding: “Pansy, can you trust yourself sufficiently in the company of a known Tory to accompany me, my dear? He expressed great interest in Mrs Fairbrother’s school for girls t’other day.”

    “Really? Good,” she said, getting up with a determined look on her pretty round face.

    “You have forgot to remind the Contessa to protect Mr Beresford in this large gathering,” noted her husband, straight-faced.

    Pansy paused. “Hah, hah. It is my fixed opinion,” she said to the pair, “that no-one need look after anyone else, in a company of adults, and possibly if you tortured him with hot irons for a fortnight, he would admit he agrees with me, at heart! –We shall talk again, Contessa, for however hampering a young woman’s prescribed rôle may be, everyone can contribute their mite! And in the meantime, Mr Beresford, please tell her some more of Lord Rockingham’s boys’ homes!” She took her husband’s arm and hurried off.

    “Do not be misled, Contessa,” drawled Jack; “Lavery would fight to the death to protect that pretty little lady if the slightest danger threatened her in any company.”

    “Well, yes, I think I had gathered that!” admitted Raffaella with a laugh.

    “Er—may I ask if you share her view that no adult need look after any another?” he drawled.

    “Not exactly. Possibly you will think this sounds absurd,” said Raffaella, sticking out her rounded chin, “but if you really wish to know, my conviction is that we all should look after one another. The age and sex of the persons is immaterial: all of us at some moment in our lives need looking after.”

    “Mm,” said Jack thoughtfully. “I think you are right.”

    “But I would certainly share her view that the forms of polite behaviour are by and large silly and meaningless. I am more than capable of looking after myself in a gathering such as this,” she added firmly.

    “Well, yes. This lot is harmless enough.”

    The Contessa was not absolutely sure that the intent of this reply was as mild as seemed, and so said nothing.

    “Do you wish to know about Rockingham’s boys’ homes?” he drawled.

    “Well, yes, I would quite like to, Mr Beresford, but the thing is, she does not seem perfectly to grasp that there is nothing I can to do to assist such a large charitable endeavour!” said Raffaella on a note of despair. “Well, I do not know what her former circumstances might have been, but I am very sure that whatever they were, she has forgotten entirely what it is like not to be the wife of a rich baron with charitable inclinations!”

    “Aye, well, that or she don’t particularly bother about her interlocutor’s circumstances, ma’am, in spite of all her good works,” he drawled.

    Raffaella swallowed. “I see. Yes, she is very—very bull-headed, is she not?”

    “Known for it,” said Jack with a smile. “And she would be perfectly rabid, of course, to learn that a large portion of Society tolerates it only because of the curls and the dimples!”

    “Mm,” she said, biting her lip.

    Jack’s eyes followed Lady Lavery thoughtfully. “She ain’t got much sense of humour, y’know.”

    “Er—well, she takes serious subjects seriously, sir,” agreed Raffaella dubiously.

    “Aye; do she not? Don’t eat me, Contessa: on the whole I agree with her views. But my point was going to be that the rest of us mere mortals find it difficult to understand how a jokester such as Lavery can support that. The curls notwithstanding.”

    “Er—ye-es… He is very right-thinking, politically. Would you say he is a jokester?”

    “Mm. Known for it.” Smiling a little, he told her of one or two of Lavery’s escapades.

    Raffaella laughed, but said: “Perhaps it is the case in that marriage, sir, that his levity is gradually lightening her seriousness a little, and that her seriousness—and, indeed, strength of character— steady his tendency to levity.”

    “One would hope so.” He shrugged a little. “And not that the case is that they are gradually fretting each other out of love and into impatience with each other.”

    “You are very cynical, sir!” she said in a rallying tone.

    “Well, what do you think, ma’am?” he drawled.

    She hesitated. “I have only just met them. I— Well, I would have to say that he clearly adores her. And I think, though she does not show it as much, that she does him. But… No, well, I see the danger; and it is not an uncommon scenario.”

    “Aye.”

    Raffaella looked at him uncertainly. “I think your mamma is a widow? –Yes. May I ask what your parents’ relationship was like, Mr Beresford?”

    “Well,” he said with a little sigh, “I was only fifteen when Papa died; I don't know that I was old enough to—er—see the two of them as human beings, y’know? Mm,” he said as she nodded. “But I would say that on the whole they were very well suited: very alike in temperament. Papa was a jolly man, with much good sense. And though Mamma is not so jolly these days, they seemed to have very much in common. They both enjoyed the country-house life. I think Mamma might have stayed on at Beresford Hall, had it not been so isolated. I have not a neighbour within twenty miles.” He made a wry face.

    “I see. No wonder you—” Raffaella broke off.

    “Yes?”

    “I was only going to say, no wonder you came over to visit with the Quarmby-Vines. You must have been lonely on your estates,” she said on a timid note.

    “It would be ungrateful of me to agree with you, Contessa,” said Jack with a twist of his lips, “for my dear uncle and aunt live there, and always treat me right royally whenever I am home. But—yes, I suppose I was. The country life ain't that enthralling with no-one with whom to talk who wholly shares one’s interests. Uncle George never picks up a book from one year’s end to the next, and would stare to hear you and Lady Lavery agreeing that our system of land tenure encourages our class shamelessly to exploit our inferiors. He calls himself a Tory but is the most large-hearted fellow!” he said with a little laugh. “He acts as my agent, y’see, Contessa, and there is not a family in the district that lacks for bread and firewood, let alone a roof over its head!”

    Raffaella opened her mouth and then shut it again.

    “Go on,” said Mr Beresford, eyeing her narrowly.

    “Very well, I shall!” she said, sticking her chin in the air. “That sort of unthinking goodness is admirable in its effect, sir, I concur; but fundamentally it must be entirely dangerous, for if one knows not why one is led to exercise charity towards one’s neighbour, how can one possibly hope to convince anyone else that he should do so?”

    “Mm. He or she,” he murmured drily.

    After a moment Raffaella realised that this was a sneaking reference to the earlier topics of silly brown curls and no adult’s needing to look after any another; and replied vividly: “Certainly not! For the system of land tenure practised in England only very rarely sees a woman in a position to do her neighbour good or ill!”

    “Uncle George would stare to hear you say so. –Whilst not bein’ immune to the curls,” he murmured.

    “Do you not see that if that is to continue to be the attitude of one half of humanity there can be very little hope of real progress for the human race?” cried Raffaella in exasperation.

    Mr Beresford’s lips twitched. “Of course. But I have to say, I can also see that you sound very like Lady L. in person.”

    “Good,” replied Raffaella grimly.

    He laughed. “May I say, I was delighted with your answer to her on the matter of the silly brown curls?”

    Raffaella gulped. “Oh.”

    “I suppose,” said Mr Beresford slowly, “I have, more or less, had the experience of being taken for nothing but a pretty face. –In my younger days, ma’am,” he explained primly.

    “Have you?” she said faintly.

    “Aye. It don’t do much for the self-esteem, do it?”

    “No.” Raffaella eyed him sideways. “Nor, at times, for the temper,” she admitted.

    “No!” he agreed with a laugh. He got up. “I think we are going in. May I?”

    Somewhat limply Raffaella rose and took his arm. Not pointing out that they would not be next each other at table. For it would look far too pointed: indicate she cared about the matter. The which, of course, she did not. For he—well, he was not wholly frivolously-minded. But he had no title and—and…

    Just at this very precise moment, Raffaella could not think of any more objections to Mr Beresford. She held his arm rather tightly and when he made a smiling remark about nothing in particular, looked up into his handsome face, her heart beating very fast, and blushed, laughed and agreed. Not even caring with what she might be agreeing, alas.

    The Contessa having gaily promised to be on her very best behaviour at a forthcoming dance offered by Lady Sarah Quayle Sturt, one of the daughters of the dowager Countess of Hubbel, Eudora replied: “Good. Perhaps you would care to practise it, by informing Geddings that you are after all unable to make one of his party to Kew tomorrow.”

    “Oh, I do not need any practice!” she said airily.

    It did not rain, alas, and the expedition duly took place. Three barouches, filled by such parasolled persons as Lady Caro Kellaway, Lady Ferdy Lacey, and Mrs Peter Ainsworth, not to mention the Contessa herself in fine fettle, and a clutch of gentlemen riding alongside. Lord Ferdy did actually form one of this troop, although this did not seem to stop his wife from flirting frantically with anything that offered. Kew was very green and countrified but as it had not, truly, been the object of the expedition, no-one seemed disappointed. Geddings declared his horse to have gone lame and inserted himself into their barouche for the return journey on the strength of it, but it could possibly have been worse. Well, given that Henri-Louis was one of the party, it could have been considerably worse, and added fuel to hopes that would have been even more misguided than any of Geddings’s coming up to scratch.

    Mr Freddy Bon-Dutton turned up next morning in time to accompany them on their ride. “The odds are fifty to one at the clubs against her snaring Geddings, y’know,” he said as the Contessa, having discovered with every evidence of delight and surprise that on this very morning Commander Gatenby and Major Fellowes were also riding in the Park, chatted to them vivaciously.

    “Thank you, Freddy; I really needed that confirmation,” said Eudora with a sigh.

    “Thing is, not a penny to bless herself with, and that reputation, even though there ain’t nothing in them stories, don’t help. Not with that mother of hers.”

    “And that.”

    “Well, dash it, Cous’, I’ve nothing against the gal; but what do you hope from this London venture of yours?”

    “I suppose I hoped,” admitted Miss Bon-Dutton with a sigh, “that she would meet a young—well, let us say, youngish—man of sterling worth and modest fortune, who would see beneath the curls and the manner to the kind heart and good instincts. And who would be as indifferent to the lack of fortune as he was to the fact of the damned mother.”

    “Oh, Lor’. Don't think they’re all that thick on the ground, old girl,” he said in tones of unalloyed dismay.

    “So I have realised,” she said grimly.

    He cleared his throat.

    “Not more?” groaned Eudora.

    “N— Uh, well, heard H.-L. went with you, yesterday. Thing is, know he’s a decent fellow, but—well, comes to your salons every other week, don’t he? And given the example of the mother… Well, in the case she was contemplating a morganatic arrangement, it wouldn’t do, y’know. H.-L. ain’t nobody, but on t’other hand, he ain’t in line for—”

    “Freddy, do not dare—do not dare—ever to breathe a word of such a suggestion to another soul!” she gasped.

    Mr Bon-Dutton looked virtuous. “Wasn’t going to. Only just occurred, y’know? Wouldn’t do. She’d never be received.”

    Had she not been on a horse, Miss Bon-Dutton would have closed her eyes in despair. And as it was, she was very tempted.

    Freddy cleared his throat again. “Shake the fidgets out?”

    “In the Park? Oh, come on, then!”

    Grinning, Freddy clapped his heels into his mount’s side, and the two Bon-Duttons flew down the ride like the wind. Not the done thing, or not.

    “All the B.-D.s have dashed good seats, y’know,” said Major Fellowes kindly to the Contessa’s shining eyes.

    “Yes! Even Mr Freddy!” she gasped. “He is positively centaur-like!”

    Kindly the middle-aged Major agreed with her.

    “Y’know,” he said to his companion as they took leave of the Contessa’s party, “she’s quite a sweet little thing. Pity, ain’t it?”

    “Mm? Oh, the little Contessa? Well, yes; dashed pity, old man,” agreed Commodore Gatenby with a shrug.

    It could not have been said alas, that Lady Sarah Quayle-Sturt’s dance, pace the expressed verdict of London Society, was a success from Eudora’s point of view.

    True, it started quite auspiciously: their hostess greeted them very kindly, making them known to her young cousin, Miss Priscilla Claveringham, for whom the dance was being given, and mentioning to Raffaella with a smile that she believed she knew Priscilla’s friend, Nellie Dewesbury?

    Then it went downhill somewhat. There was scarce a soul here whom Raffaella knew, and certainly none of the middle-aged gentlemen who were wont to form her court. Really, there could not have been anything more calculated to underline the distance between such unexceptionable little débutantes as Priscilla Claveringham or Miss Nellie, and the Contessa’s not wholly desirable self… If Lady Sarah Quayle-Sturt had not been such a very sweet-natured woman, Eudora would have suspected her of doing it on purpose.

    The dancers were twirling in the figures, and Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham, having bowed over his hostess’s hand and apologised for his late arrival, was seen to wander around the room, smiling and nodding to acquaintances.

    “Ho! So he is here, at last!” said Raffaella fiercely.

    “Ssh, my dear,” murmured Eudora.

    They watched avidly. The Commander joined a man in naval dress uniform and appeared to become engrossed in conversation with him. Raffaella scowled horribly.

    “Katie is dancing,” Miss Bon-Dutton pointed out neutrally.

    Raffaella snorted.

    They continued to watch. The dance ended. Katie was deposited with her mamma. Two young gentlemen raced each other to Raffaella’s feet, begging for the next, but she brushed them off like flies. Commander Sir Arthur was seen to approach Katie’s group. He was seen to salute Lady Lavinia’s large cheek. Raffaella gulped in spite of herself. Then he was seen to bow very low over the hand of the lady with her.

    “Who is that hag?” hissed Raffaella furiously.

    “Ssh! The Countess Lieven, my dear!”

    Raffaella stared angrily.

    The Commander was seen to smile kindly at Katie and apparently address a casual remark to her. Flags were seen to fly in Katie’s cheeks; she smiled at him.

    “Promising,” murmured Eudora.

    “Ssh! Wait!”

    They waited with bated breath. The next dance struck up. Commander Sir Arthur was seen to laugh and offer the Countess Lieven his arm. He was seen to walk away from Lady Lavinia’s group with the Countess on his arm.

    “I shall kill him!” hissed Raffaella furiously.

    “Er—if he is paying her back in her own coin she has only herself to blame. She has teased him unmercifully since he came to town, you know.”

    “He deserved it!”

    “Mm.” Eudora watched silently as Charlie Grey approached Katie, bowed, and led her onto the floor.

    “Do not say that that will serve me out!” commanded the Contessa evilly. “I know very well he is one of the Greys, grazie!”

    “I should not dare to.” The Hon. Mr Freddy Bon-Dutton was standing quite near them: Eudora fixed him with a chaperone’s powerful gaze. Smiling weakly, Freddy came up to them and asked the Contessa to dance. Raffaella favoured him with a delightful smile and let him lead her onto the floor.

    Eudora sat back, fanning herself limply.

    The throng chattered on, the candles blazed, the orchestra continued its efforts… Miss Dewesbury had now danced with approximately fourteen imbeciles, all entirely eligible and all entirely uninteresting. True, Charlie Grey was amusing, but that was all that could be said of him. Although her well-schooled features did not express as much, she was now feeling considerably disgruntled. Lady Ferdy Lacey was, it must be admitted, not helping.

    “He is dancing with the Murray hag!” she hissed urgently.

    “I see that, Gwennie,” replied Katie grimly.

    “Do something! Smile at him, or beckon, or flirt with someone else, or something!” she hissed.

    “I have tried smiling. And she,” she said, looking with loathing at the sophisticated Mrs Percy Murray in puce satin and diamonds, complete with puce feathers on the head, “may be the kind of woman who beckons to men across a ballroom, but I can assure you, I am not.”

    “No, well, possibly that is the problem, Katie!” retorted Gwennie hotly, very ruffled.

    “Gwennie, just go and annoy Nellie. Thrust her at some boring young eligible with whom she has less than nothing in common.”

    “That would not be altogether difficult, tonight,” admitted Gwennie, looking round the crowded ballroom with a moue.

    “Quite.”

    Gwennie seized her arm. “Look, there are the Stamforths! Now, watch how she does it!”

    Lady Stamforth, though leaning on her husband’s arm in a way in which Gwendolyn had already described in the minutest and most embarrassing detail, recommending it to any lady who wished to administer the coup de grâce to the victim, smiled and beckoned to a gentleman across the width of the ballroom. Captain Quarmby-Vine duly hastened over to prostrate himself at her feet.

    “I do not aspire to be a P.W.,” concluded Katie coldly.

    “No, well, possibly that is as well, for at the rate you are going, you will fail to snare one husband, let alone three!”

    Katie reddened, and did not reply.

    Sighing, Gwennie tucked her arm in hers. “Come and chat with Ferdy and his imbecilic cronies, then. Possibly it may give them the idea—though I hold out no guarantees—that the purpose of a ball is to dance with persons of the opposite sex.”

    Resignedly Katie allowed herself to be led off to where Ferdy Lacey and his cronies were propping up the wall. They would be talking either horseflesh or pugilism, she would wager her new sapphire necklace.

    They were. It could not be said—so used were they to the relaxed atmosphere which prevailed at the Ferdy Laceys’ little house—that they politely changed the subject as the two young women joined them…

    At the sight of his wife graciously condescending to chat to the Contessa dalla Rovere Sir Lionel Dewesbury had felt a curious weakness in the region of the knee-bone and had tottered over to a sofa to contemplate the matter. Contrary to expectations, the sky did not fall, and he was fairly soon on his feet again, chatting happily with his vast circle of acquaintance. Upon Lady Lavinia’s coming up to him he informed her happily that he had not escaped to the card room—Lady Lavinia could see that, and knew that in any case the gregarious baronet would be quite happy to stay in the ballroom for some time: she merely looked dry. He then attempted to impart three new on-dits of the town that had just come to his ears but she drew him aside and said: “Never mind that.”

    “But—”

    “You must tell me later, my dear. I wish you to go and rescue Katie from that silly group.” She nodded at them.

    “Them dim cronies of Ferdy’s? With pleasure, me dear!”

    “Thank you. And if you could drop a hint in Ferdy’s ear that encouraging his wife to hob-nob, there is no other word for it, with his bachelor friends is not highly desirable—”

    “Drop a hint? Lavinia, I will promise to take him outside and tell him it in words of one syllable—five times over, if you wish. But no mere hint is going to penetrate the thickness of that skull!”

    Lady Lavinia sighed. But at least he had not addressed her as “old girl.” So she smiled kindly at him and said: “Later, then, perhaps, my dear. But do, pray, rescue Katie.”

    “Right you are, old girl!”

    Lady Lavinia sighed.

    “Oy,” said Sir Lionel loudly, ambling up to the group: “don’t you silly young shavers know that this is a dance? Go and hop round the floor with some pretty girls, for the Lord’s sake! Not this one, you have more than had your chance with her, and a lot of noddies she must take you for, too!” he added with satisfaction, tucking Katie's hand in his arm. The young gentlemen dispersed, blushing, and Sir Lionel noted nastily to his son-in-law: “Dare say your wife might find it not wholly unexceptionable if you was to offer her a turn on the floor, too.”

    “Y— I have— I mean, I was just— Well, um, do you want to, Gwennie?” he ended foolishly.

    Gwennie went into a gale of giggles. “No! You are entirely hopeless, Ferdy! -Come along, let us join Nellie and look for some boring eligibles for her!”

    “Eh? Oh, right you are.”

    “Didn’t want to dance with any of them fools, did you, me pet?” asked Sir Lionel as the pair went off.

    “No, of course not, Papa,” Katie agreed, smiling.

    “Good. I say, there’s Arthur,” he said mildly.

    Katie went very pink and did not reply.

    “Pity to see him in the clutches of a pair of hags like them two,” he noted, eyeing Mrs Percy Murray, now on the Commander’s arm on the one side, and Mrs Jameson on the other arm on the other side. “Heard of the expression two strings to his bow?” he said airily.

    “As opposed to two beaux to her string?” replied Katie on an angry note, looking at Mrs Jameson. “I think so, yes!”

    Sir Lionel went into a painful sniggering fit: Mrs Jameson was reliably reported to be the close friend of one, Major-General Garrod. “Peter Garrod’s laid up: broke his leg,” he revealed, blowing his nose.

    “You surprise me.”

    Sir Lionel looked thoughtfully at Mrs Percy’s puce satin, diamonds and plumes, and Mrs Jameson’s royal blue silk, pearls and gold tasselling. “Not much taste, either of ’em. Added to which, them diamonds is damned inferior.”

    “Presumably they are what he likes, however.”

    He rubbed his chin. “Wouldn’t say that, exactly. More like, what he is used to. Shall we offer him something better?”

    Katie turned scarlet. “Papa, you are being absurd!”

    “No, I ain’t. Think you had better make up your mind whether you want him or not, Katie,” he said kindly.

    “Do I have any say in the matter? He has ignored me all night!”

    “Right, and of course you didn't ignore him all night at—not the von Maltzahn-Dressen dance, was it? Um… Think it was the Linton gal’s ball. Did you?”

    Katie looked sulky.

    “Do you want to dance with him?” he said mildly.

    She looked up at him pleadingly, licking her lips. “Yes, buh-but I can't make him, Papa,” she said on a pathetic note.

    Sir Lionel patted her hand. “I can, me pet. Up to you, after that. Come on.” Before Katie could speak, he had approached the trio.

    “Hullo, Arthur: thought that was you, a thorn amongst roses. ’Evening, ladies.”

    Predictably the ladies squealed, giggled and protested.

    “Not dancing, I see,” stated Sir Lionel. “No, well, you and me have had our day, eh, Mrs Jameson? But one has the children, out of course—why, your Robin must be our Gwennie’s age, I think? Should encourage him to get up to town more often, ma’am! No, well, dare say us staid married folks could have a chat, while Arthur takes Katie for a spin. How’s Percy, Mrs P.?” he said unblushingly.

    Katie looked doubtfully at the Commander.

    “Will you, Miss Dewesbury?” he said with a little smile.

    “Yes. Thank you,” said Katie in a tiny voice.

    Still with that little smile hovering on his mouth, Commander Sir Arthur led her into the dance.

    “I —I am sorry Papa was so—so obvious,” ventured Katie after quite some time.

    “Oh, don’t be, Miss Katie,” he said drily.

    “But—um—oh, dear. The ladies must have thought he was quite rude.”

    “Very probably. I think that was in part his intention, no?”

    Katie gulped.

    “Added to which, as I think you possibly realise, either of those ladies would be impervious to anything less brutal.”

    She gulped again.

    Arthur Jerningham squeezed her hand very gently. “I would hate to see you going the same way, my dear Miss Katie.”

    “Very well, then!” she said, looking up at him with the big forget-me-not eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “If you dislike it, why do you haunt their company?”

    “Oh, I didn’t say I disliked it,” he drawled, very dry. “And it is, alas, the male nature to—er—haunt such company. At the least, when encouraged to do so.”

    “Yes,” said Katie, biting her lip.

    “The thing is, I suppose I need someone to take care of me: keep me out of their way,” he murmured on a provocative note..

    Katie took a deep breath. “Then I shall volunteer to lend you my papa, sir!” she retorted sharply.

    The Commander smiled. “Well done, Miss Katie! He would do it splendidly, too: I have never seen the human form so convincingly imitate that of a particularly snappy sheep dog!”

    Katie had to bite her lip, trying not to smile in spite of herself.

    Smiling, the Commander twirled her into the waltz. “Do you reverse?” he murmured. “Yes, of course you do.”

    They accomplished the manoeuvre successfully, Miss Dewesbury now not knowing, frankly, what to think. Though she did reflect involuntarily that Commander Sir Arthur must be one of the best dancers in London.

    “Shall we sit this next one out?” he murmured as the dance came to an end.

    “Well—yes,” said Katie, trying not to crane her neck. Had Papa taken those two horrid ladies quite away? She could not see them, at all.

    “I apprehend,” drawled the Commander, ushering her to a sofa set in a little embrasure, “that Lionel is now enjoying a hand of écarté.”

    “Yes,” said Katie limply.

    “Let us hope that this sofa,” said Commander Sir Arthur composedly, seating himself beside her, “is sufficiently withdrawn to indicate to the gaze of our acquaintance that we wish to be alone for a spell. Without at the same time being so withdrawn as to occasion remark.”

    “Er—yes.”

    “I remember when you were born,” he said conversationally.

    Katie went bright red and could not utter.

    “I was home on a short furlough, and as I was visiting friends in the district, ventured to call and enquire after Lavinia. Lionel assured me imprimis that she was doing splendidly as ever, and that producing brats—his expression—seemed to agree with her; secundus that it was another dashed girl—his expression; and tertius—though only after he had awarded himself a brandy—that you looked like a tiny rosebud, and if we crept up to the nursery and he slipped Nurse a guinea, he was absolutely sure I would be allowed a peek! Being a bachelor, and somewhat his junior, I was not terribly keen, but humoured the poor dear fellow,” he said, his long mouth twitching. “There was not much to see, but what there was, certainly looked as much like a rosebud as a human creature might! Small, pale pink, and somehow giving the impression of being tightly folded. Lionel was allowed the great privilege of picking you up—the guinea was an influence there, I felt—and insisted on handing you to me. I was terrified I might drop you. You felt very warm,” he said, smiling.

    “That is most salutary, Commander,” replied Katie tightly.

    “Well, it was not meant to be, my dear. You have not let me finish. I retreated feeling somewhat shaken. And very much envying Lionel. Not, if you will forgive me, envying him Lavinia: she was a managing young woman, even in those days. No, envying his being the possessor of just such a warm, folded, pale pink rosebud. In fact I said to him—only after another brandy,” he added with twinkle: “why did he not call you Rose? But he said there was an old aunt in the case that would have been mortally offended had the next girl not been named for her.”

    “Great-Aunt Katherine,” said Katie feebly.

    “Mm. After that I went back to my ship, and the war, and the so-called affairs of men…” He looked somewhat bleakly across the crowded Quayle-Sturt ballroom. “One cannot say outright to a young woman, ‘Will you produce little pink rosebuds for me?’ but for a very long time I felt I wished to.”

    “Then I am astounded you did not marry years back,” replied Katie in what endeavoured to be a light tone but did not quite succeed.

    “Y’don’t meet many suitable young women at sea. And I didn’t seem to meet any at home, neither,” he said, this time looking at the ballroom with a very dry expression on his handsome face. “Eventually I suppose I stopped thinking about it, or dismissed it as— Well!” He shrugged. “Some sort of aberration of one’s youth? For certainly none of the women whom I encountered ever so much as raised the possibility in my mind that they might be the ones to produce the rosebuds.”

    “Um—no,” said Katie feebly.

    “Possibly,” said Commander Sir Arthur very lightly, “I was waiting for you to grow up.”

    Katie licked her lips. “Is this some sort of joke, Commander?”

    “Not exactly.” He gave her a searching look, which Katie did not see, as she was gazing fixedly into her own lap. “I think I am trying say, Miss Dewesbury, that if you were to stop your teasing of me—though I fully admit I deserved every minute of it—and I were to stop my provoking of yourself, which I fully admit has been entirely deliberate, perhaps we might spend the rest of this Season, and next summer, if you come down to my county again, trying to get to know each other as two human creatures? Bearing in mind that there is this obstacle of a generation’s gap between us.”

    “Yes. I see,” she said huskily. “I suppose I— Though everyone says that one cannot expect a man of your age to have lived like a monk.”

    “Quite,” said Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham gravely.

    Katie took a deep breath and looked up at him bravely. “Yes. I should like to try.”

    “Good. But I must just ask this: do you, in fact, like rosebuds?” he said gravely.

    “Of course,” she croaked, going very red.

    “Well, it ain’t of course at all,” he said with a wry grimace. “I have at least discovered that much, in the course of a somewhat misspent life. Many women of our class like only town life, silly parties, gambling and frivolities. They support the rosebuds with barely concealed impatience. I admit that has been a great deterrent to my forming a permanent connection with any one of ’em.”

    “I should think so,” she agreed seriously.

    He smiled, just a little. “Mm. I recall your speaking very feelingly of your oldest sister Susan’s babies, and of their Christmas at your home.”

    “Yes,” said Katie faintly.

    “Am I shocking you?” he said with a little lift of an eyebrow. “Males are not supposed to think of such things? But every man must desire to be comfortable in his home life.”

    “Yes,” said Katie, taking another deep breath. “I am not shocked. I was just a little surprised. I think it was very sensible of you to mention it, sir.”

    “Splendid,” he said, getting up. He held out his hand to her. “Shall we dance the next, Miss Katie?”

    “Yes, please,” said Katie firmly, taking his hand.

    The dancers twirled in the figures, the orchestra sweated over its instruments, the throng swelled—though a few guests slipped away to other engagements—and those whose minds were not wholly on the dancing or their dance partners wondered, though not necessarily aloud, when the Devil the supper would be.

    “You’re damned late,” noted Greg Ashenden.

    “What the Devil are you doing here?” replied his Cousin Jack in amaze.

    Greg smirked. “I am on Lady Sarah’s Q.-S.’s list!”

    Rollo Valentine was hanging on his friend’s arm. He winked. “Crept up to a window of the Q.-S. house, opened it swiftly with his penknife, crept in, ransacked Lady S.’s desk and writ his name—!”

    “Quite,” said Jack Beresford limply.

    “Why are you so damned late?” demanded Greg baldly.

    “Eh? Oh—another engagement. Well, several. What’s it like: the usual throng?”

    Mr Rollo, apparently taking this enquiry unto himself, replied: “Aye. Don’t know why we came, really. Well—some quite pretty gals, I suppose.”

    “Yes, and if you speak very nicely to her, Lady Sarah will introduce you to a muffin-faced little creature what thinks Valentine is a pretty name and treads on your toe in the figures; to a fubsy-faced Miss Q.-S. who thinks Rollo is the Valentine what is a close friend of H.-L.; or to a Miss Potter.” Greg eyed his cousin blandly.

    “Thought Porky Potter had caught—uh—some unfortunate. Naval fellow.”

    “That was the elder sister, the one what had been upon the town for an age,” said Greg solemnly. “This is a Miss Belinda. Big blue eyes.”

    “He means bulgy blue eyes, Jack. And he ain’t mentioning the moustache, but it’s almost as good as the sister’s. I’d ignore him,” advised Mr Rollo, grinning.

    “I do.” Jack glanced round the room.

    “They are over there,” said Greg helpfully. “Lady Sarah has spent some time with them, and Freddy B.-D., but if you was expecting any of the high sticklers such as the Countess Lieven or your revered Aunt Fanny to have honoured ’em with their notice—”

    Jack shrugged, and walked away from them.

    “If we was to follow at discreet distance,” said the brazen Greg to his boon- companion, “dare say we might get a fairly good view.”

    “Yes,” replied the brilliant Rollo: “and then you will be in a really good position to be put under interrogation by your Aunt Beresford!”

    Greg shuddered. “You’re so right! A million thanks, old man, and you may forget that guinea I owe you.”

    “Oh, not at all— I’ll do no such thing! ” he gasped.

    “Nearly had you, there,” replied the brazen Greg. “Well, look, let’s lurk behind that pillar, very inconspicuously, where Aunt B. won’t see us.”

    “Right you are,” agreed Mr Rollo comfortably.

    They went and lurked.

    … “Good evening, ladies,” said Jack, bowing. “I trust I see you well?”

    Miss Bon-Dutton and the Contessa agreed that they were well. They then further agreed it was a crush—yes. Mr Beresford then asking the Contessa for the next, she was duly whirled away into it.

    Eudora experienced a strong desire to close her eyes. Or, possibly, sink right into the ballroom floor—nay, through it. As far as China, would do. Because about five feet away Charlie Grey, an unkind light sparkling in his eyes, was quite clearly observing the whole thing, and then, less than ten feet away those asses Greg Ashenden and Rollo Valentine were making themselves conspicuous by watching Mr Ashenden’s cousin from behind a pillar, and on top of that, well within the range necessary for easy observation, Mr Beresford’s mother and paternal aunt could be seen. Observing: yes. To say nothing of such minor—relatively minor—matters as the lorgnette of the Countess Lieven…

    “Jack seems quite épris,” murmured the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen in a tone of very mild surprise.

    Mrs Beresford sighed. “I dare say.”

    Her sister-in-law looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “Er—I had the impression that Keywes is very sure that the story they tell at the Italian Embassy is not the true one?”

    “Quite,” she said on a grim note. “He had the facts in Rome. The girl’s only fault was to be born to that frightful woman.”

    “Well, yes: I suppose one cannot ab-so-lute-ly blame her,” drawled Fanny von Maltzahn-Dressen with the ghost of the husky laugh for which she was famous, “for being the step-daughter of the ghastly Barone.”

    “I at least cannot, Fanny,” she said, giving her a straight look.

    “My dear Rowena!” she protested.

    Mrs Beresford just looked at her steadily. After a moment the Fürstin shrugged and said: “Oh, very well. If anyone should hint of the story to me, I shall assure them it is a fabrication.”

    “Thank you,” said Mrs Beresford, very grim indeed.

    Fanny was silent a moment, watching the dancers. Then she said abruptly: “I have lost all patience with Adélaïde. She will take the Wellesley boy, or any other halfway eligible who should offer: I care not.”

    “My dear,” said Mrs Beresford very gently indeed: “it was not her fault that the boy her father wished her to marry should have died.”

    “No, but her ignoring of every eligible she has met in London most certainly is. It will be her sister’s turn next year, and so I have told her.”

    Mrs Beresford doubted that the red-headed princess’s withers would be wrung by this: Adélaïde hated town life. However, she nodded silently.

    “Is that Italian chit what Jack wants?” said Fanny with a bitter little twist to her lips.

    Mrs Beresford replied grimly: “I shall confess to you, my dear, that I sincerely hope not. But certainly, he is showing her more notice than he has any girl since… Well, Lady Stamforth. If one can count her as a girl.”

    “She has the same type, pas vrai?”

    “She has, indeed,” said Jack’s mother grimly.

    Fanny sighed. “My eldest boy married to oblige the family, and they are barely on speaking terms these past five years and more; and, indeed, I myself—” She broke off. “I suppose I was lucky to have found Fritzl,” she said grimly.

    This gentleman, responsible for the Princess Adélaïde’s red hair, had not been the Fürst von Maltzahn-Dressen. “Yes,” said Rowena Beresford simply, touching her hand fleetingly.

    Fanny blinked hard, sat up very straight, and smiled. “Well! Let us be utterly bourgeoises, my dear, and admit that if Jack wants the little Contessa, it will not be all bad. After all, the frightful Claudia is fixed in Italy, and poor Jeremy Andrews’s property was sold years back: there is nothing to call her back to England.”

    “Was it?” said Mrs Beresford rather limply. “Thank goodness.”

     “Mm..” murmured Fanny, watching the young couple twirling about the floor. “Ah… when, exactly, did the Brantwells leave for Prussia, my dear?”

    “Er—well, you would know, more than I,” said Mrs Beresford, staring at her. “Um, last year, was it? Did he not replace Sir Cedric Rowbotham?”

    “Yes… Is John Stevens here tonight?”

    “I don’t think— Oh, yes, of course, we met him at Anne Dauntry’s dinner. Um—why, yes; that is he, by the door.”

    The Furstin raised her tortoiseshell lorgnette. “Ah—so it is,” she said lightly. “Oh, but the nephew is not with him. A pity.”

    “Fanny, what are you talking about?” said her sister-in-law limply.

    Fanny’s eyes returned to Jack and his partner. “Nothing, my dear. It cannot signify. Well, do you wish to go so far as joining them after the dance?”

    Mrs Beresford sighed. “No. But if he brings the young woman over—so be it.”

    The two ladies waited. The dance ended; Jack and his partner retired to two chairs by the wall, at quite some distance from his relatives. Apparently very pleased with each other.

    “One could just walk up to them?” murmured Fanny.

    “In front of the whole of London? No, sufficient unto the day,” said Mrs Beresford with a deep sigh.

    Fanny patted her hand. “I am quite of your mind, my love.” Her eyes roamed the room. “Ah. In-ter-esting,” she drawled.

    Mrs Beresford followed her gaze. Sir John Stevens again—apparently speaking to Miss Bon-Dutton. She did not ask Fanny what was so interesting about that: it would be something and nothing: yet another piece of endless Society gossip. She looked again at Jack, and at the look on his face as he chatted to the widowed daughter of the ghastly Principessa Claudia, and sighed.

    Eudora had been about to join Charles Q.V., now deserted by the P.W., when Sir John Stevens walked up to her and bowed, his hard face unsmiling. “Good evening, Miss Bon-Dutton.”

    She responded politely, wondering what on earth— It was not that the encounter had been unavoidable: he had had to cross the ballroom in order to address her. But it could scarcely be that he wished to solicit her hand for the dance! Oddly, though she thought this last thought very firmly indeed, Eudora’s heart fluttered in her breast as it had not done since her green youth at the idea that, as it was after all a ball, perhaps he might—

    He did not. “This is not the time nor the place,” he said stiffly, “but I would wish for a word, ma’am. May I call on you?”

    “Er—yes. Certainly. –Sir John,” said Eudora on a desperate note, “I have urged Raffaella not to encourage your nephew, since you clearly do not wish for it; and truly, apart from the odd encounter in the Park or some such, she has seen very little of him. And—well, it is not in her nature to be coldly discouraging, but I can honestly say that she has not positively encouraged him.”

    “So I have observed. The family is in your debt, Miss Bon-Dutton. Shall we say at ten, next Wednesday?”

    Limply Eudora agreed; he bowed, stiff as ever, and walked away.

    …“Supper?” she murmured as people began to head for the room where the refreshment was to be served.

    “I suppose we must,” replied Raffaella heavily.

    Miss Bon-Dutton hesitated; but after all, the Contessa was little more than a child. So she said kindly: “My dear, Mr B. scarcely knows you, as yet, and one dance at a ball and sitting out another at this stage of your acquaintance would generally be judged quite enough to arouse remark, without making yourselves positively particular by supping together.”

    “I know that,” she said, the cheeks very pink. “In fact, I was astounded that he dared to request even one dance, in such a select gathering.”

    Eudora watched silently as Mr Beresford escorted his mother and his Aunt Fanny into supper. She did not make the point that, though he was not possessed of a title, Mr Beresford was possessed of a sufficient place in Society to make it unlikely that his relatives would approve of his connecting himself with an obscure young woman with no fortune and a dubious background: she could see that Raffaella had more than grasped it for herself. What she did say was: “Dare I say it? One should take considerable time to determine whether the man one imagines one affects is the right man. Er—and whether the girl is the right one, in the case of the gentlemen, naturally.”

    “One should, yes. But most of them don’t, it is my observation,” said Raffaella drily, getting up. “Come along; I dare say Lady Sarah’s supper will be delicious, and really, after the strain of watching the progress of all these misguided and precipitate young persons, I feel we deserve it!”

    Eudora smiled a little; but took her arm and leaned on it rather heavily as they went slowly along with the crowd of fashionables. Being a single woman in one’s thirties was far from easy. But it had its compensations. She would not be Raffaella’s age again for—well, for all the eligibles in London thrown together!

Next chapter:

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