Forewarned

12

Forewarned

    It was Wednesday, the day appointed by Stevens for his call. Eudora did her best to disguise her relief when Lady Ferdy, Katie and Nellie Dewesbury, and Lady Letty Lacey arrived early in Gwennie’s barouche to collect Raffaella. Though she did raise a mental eyebrow at the fact that Lady Letty was unchaperoned except by her friends and the footmen up behind. Well, Her Grace of Munn’s was a numerous family, and if the rumour that she had rather lost interest in this last, and not very bright daughter was true, it was scarcely surprising. It would have been surprising to see Katie and Nellie Dewesbury allowed to come with their sister to collect Raffaella, had Eudora not been very, very sure that Lady Lavinia knew nothing of this aspect of the intended expedition.

    Miss Hewitt had an engagement to meet an old friend. Eudora knew she should urge her to stay, to act as chaperone to her maidenly self, but— And then, Sir John had intimated he wished to speak to her alone. She said nothing, merely saw her companion into the town coach and waved her off.

    Stevens was punctual. Eudora had not expected anything else. She rose as he was shown in, hoping that her new morning dress, narrow crimson stripes on a white ground, did not look too young and frivolous, nor too over-smart, nor— Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Why had she worn it, if it was only going to cause her to— She greeted him politely. He bowed briefly and accepted her invitation to seat himself.

    A horrid silence then fell. Eudora did not attempt to fill it with trivial chat: she was very sure that this was not a mere morning call.

    “Miss Bon-Dutton,” he said at last, taking a deep breath, “this is a painful subject.”

    Eudora did not of course say what she felt like saying, which was: “Then why broach it?” She merely inclined her head.

    “You—er—of course you are acquainted with my nephew, young Jerry Brantwell.”

    Eudora inclined her head again.

    “Yes. May I say, I very much appreciate your considerate words to me on that subject at the Quayle-Sturt dance?” he said stiffly.

    “Not at all,” replied Eudora inanely.

    He took another deep breath. “There is no easy way to say this. I—when we first encountered yourself and the Contessa dalla Rovere at the bookshop, I was inexpressibly shocked. I fear my behaviour must have seemed inexcusably rude.”

    Eudora at this point of course should merely have inclined her head again. Instead she took a deep breath on her own account, and said flatly: “It did.”

    “Yes. No insult to yourself was intended,” he said, the strong nostrils flaring slightly.

    Unaccountably at this point, where she should have felt propitiated, Miss Bon-Dutton experienced a surge of red rage. “Frankly, Sir John,” she said evenly, “I do not give a fig whether an insult to myself was intended or no.”

    His lean jaw was seen to sag slightly. “Er—no,” he said on a feeble note.

    “Though I do confess myself extremely disturbed at the insult to my young guest,” added Eudora coldly.

    “Yes. Er…” Sir John swallowed.

    Eudora denied angrily to herself that the little sound affected her in any way. As also the fact that her sitting-room seemed to have shrunk in size, with his tall, long-limbed presence therein. As also the fact that, though his looks were far from conciliating, he was a very striking— No. Rubbish. “Please say what you have to say,” she said grimly.

    “I beg your pardon. Believe me, had the two children never met, I would never— I have nothing personal against your young guest, Miss Bon-Dutton.”

    “You and the rest of London Society, no doubt!” retorted Eudora angrily, flags flying in her cheeks.

    “I think your salons are well enough attended?” he replied stiffly. “If there are houses where she is not received, that must be on the mother’s account, as I am sure you must be aware.”

    “Yes,” said Eudora flatly.

    He took yet another of those deep breaths. “Miss Bon-Dutton, I do not deny I would not wish to see Jerry involved with a child of the Principessa Claudia in any case. But in this instance, I am opposed to his seeing anything of the Contessa dalla Rovere not merely because she is that woman’s daughter, but because she is also the daughter of my brother-in-law, Brantwell.”

    Eudora stared at him.

    “You are too young, I think, to recall the gossip,” he said on a weary note. “It was after the creature had married Jeremy Andrews. I think there was an older daughter—well, that is immaterial. Tommy Brantwell had not yet inherited the title and he and my sister were tenants of a house on my estate. It neighbours the former Andrews property: I do not know if you are familiar—”

    “Yes,” said Eudora grimly.

    “Yes. I do not attempt to excuse his conduct. But Tommy and Lucinda, that is my sister, were—were having difficulties in the earlier years of their marriage, and— Well. As Jeremy Andrews’s wife, the woman was received more or less everywhere, and I suppose they met and…. They are brother and sister,” he ended awkwardly.

    “Yes, I do grasp that, Sir John. Are you sure?” she added limply.

    “Very sure. Tommy told me about the affaire himself. And then, the girl has a great look of Tommy’s mother’s family: the Sewells. Two of his sisters look very like her in profile, and there is a niece who might be her twin. Fortunately,” he said without the trace of a smile, “Jerry does not know those cousins at all well.”

    “No,” said Eudora limply. “I—I had always assumed she had a great look of her mother.”

    “In full face only; the Principessa has a Roman nose. And, if I may say so,” he said with a look of distaste, “a very much bolder look. Though that may, of course, be only the result of the life she has led.”

    Unaccountably—for he was, really, behaving most admirably, and she should be experiencing nothing but gratitude—Eudora felt that flush of red rage again. “Indeed?” she said coldly, rising to her feet. “Doubtless a gentleman of means and family such as yourself has never paused to think of the sort of struggle a woman with no means and very little position may have to establish herself creditably and lead any sort of reasonable life,”—with horrid emphasis on this last—“at all.”

    Sir John had risen. He was gaping, rather.

    “I suppose I should be grateful that, after putting us through weeks of agonised uncertainty as to whether your, as we thought, unreasoning prejudice against Raffaella might not only jeopardise, but lead you actively to harm her chances of achieving a respectable match, you have finally been good enough to call in person to enlighten me!” said Eudora angrily.

    “I realise I should have spoken sooner,” he said stiffly. “But I hoped that the two need never meet again, and— I thought that my nephew would obey my express orders,” he admitted grimly.

    “You mean that you did not think the poor boy would have the bottle to flout them!” she flashed.

    He blinked. “No, Miss Bon-Dutton, I thought he would have sufficient sense of honour to keep his word to me.”

    Eudora gulped. “Oh. Well, he is only a youngster, after all. And perhaps he thought the order was not a just one.”

    His nostrils flared a little. “Undoubtedly. I am not here to discuss his conduct, however. I must apologise if my delay in speaking to you has caused you any distress, ma’am.”

    “Any distress?” she echoed bitterly. “You can have no idea how— Please go.”

    Sir John stood his ground. “I shall not go until we have this quite straight between us. I wish you to understand that I deeply regret any distress my procrastination has caused you or the Contessa, and that I shall not speak of the relationship to a soul.”

    At this point Eudora should, of course, have accepted his apology, and allowed him to exit gracefully. Instead she looked him in the eye, her chin tilted defiantly, if her cheeks were very red, and said: “Although I quite understand what you wish me to understand, Sir John, and of course your reputation must indicate that you are quite to be trusted not to repeat the story, I fear I cannot give you the reply you seek. I am not at all relieved, or any of the things you seem to imagine, to hear this further story of the Baronessa Giulio: not even as it must quite explain your reluctance to have your nephew dangling after Signora dalla Rovere. On the contrary, after sustaining weeks of trial by social snobbery and unreasoning prejudice, I would have been merely happy to have you smile pleasantly at myself and the Contessa at the Quayle-Sturt dance, even if that be a phenomenon hitherto not sighted in Society, and perhaps allow your silly little nephew one last dance before spiriting him away out of London and out of Raffaella’s reach. I can assure you she would not have bothered to chase after him—or even to give him another thought. And just by the by, while we are on the topics of snobbery and unreasoning prejudice, which let me assure you, we are, neither your explanation nor your apology serve to excuse your conduct when we met at the opera.”

    His lean cheeks were now, Eudora was glad to see, very flushed indeed. “I do not think my conduct was such as to be remarked.”

    “It was remarked by me!” said Eudora angrily. “Why did you even come to our box, if you had no intention of making yourself agreeable?”

    “I came because I could not avoid it. Old Baldaya more or less commanded my attendance,” he said stiffly. “And I repeat, I did not think my conduct was such as to be remarked. If I appeared awkward, it was because I certainly felt it.”

    “No, well, more than one person has remarked on it since. But since my delightful relatives think as poorly of my setting up house alone and launching my little cousin as you do yourself, I suppose you may justifiably reflect that your marked coldness was not only thoroughly merited, but will certainly go unavenged by any of the soi-disant gentlemen who bear the Bon-Dutton name!” she flashed.

    “I see…” he said slowly, staring at her.

    “Oh, go away: you are all alike, and it serves me out for ever assuming one of you could not be!” shouted Eudora.

    “One of whom, Miss Bon-Dutton?”

    “Your class. Please go,” said Eudora grimly, horrified to find to find herself on the verge of tears.

    “But it is your own class. What gave you to suppose that I might be the exception?”

    “I did not say that. Please leave,” she croaked.

    “Well, no; I think you owe me some sort of explanation, after that very thorough castigation.”

    “I owe you nothing. But I suppose your speeches in the House— No, well, your general reputation, and certainly your late resignation from the Cabinet must give one to suppose that you are a man of probity,” said Eudora stiffly. “But any woman who expects a man of any sort to be able to put himself in the position of a female trying to establish herself creditably, at the mercy of all the spiteful gossip-mongers of Society, must be fooling herself indeed!”

    “I think I see what you mean,” he said slowly.

    “Rubbish,” said Eudora tiredly. “You cannot imagine it: all your training and upbringing is against it. And you certainly have neither the flexibility of mind nor the gentleness of temperament which might help you, if not positively to envisage it, at least to sympathise with the position. Please go away.”

    “I shall go, yes,” he said, bowing. “But please believe me: though I did not pause to think, before, and did not bother to try to envisage it, I can say quite truly that I can now envisage your position very clearly, Miss Bon-Dutton, and have every sympathy with it. I trust you will find yourself able to forgive my past conduct, at a later date. Good morning.”

    And with that he was out of the room.

    Eudora sank down limply onto a sofa, her limbs trembling. “But I meant Raffaella, not me!” she said dazedly.

    Lord Geddings had not attended the Quayle-Sturt dance: he was not one to find amusement in the pursuits suited to the infantry. Although he had now driven the little Contessa out several times, and of course had attended several of her salons, he did not think, really, that his attentions to her had been so marked as to occasion comment—or even much notice, except perhaps by Lady Caro Kellaway, at whom, on one level at least, they were certainly directed. On another level they were, of course, merely intended as a mild amusement for himself. He was certainly not serious. There had been a point at which he had wondered, if she was very like the mother—? But alas, it was clear she was an innocent. A great pity: for with that luscious figure and lovely face… But Geddings was no despoiler of virtuous young widows, and the creature was so young— Oh, well. A flirtation would be an idle amusement for the Season; and luckily she was intelligent enough to read no more into it than he intended.

    He had, therefore, been somewhat taken aback when, upon his wandering into White’s, two separate gentleman had accosted him with knowing smiles and the remark that he had not, after all, been at the Quayle-Sturt dance?

    Geddings shrugged them off with his usual languid grace and strolled off to sit in a corner with a paper and a coffee. He did not, however, manage to concentrate on the paper. Just who the Hell had she danced with? Er, no, speculation was fruitless, and in any case the whole idea was absurd. He thought uneasily about a passing remark of His Grace of Wellington’s some months since, in re the advisability of a man’s setting up an establishment for himself, if he wished to be taken seriously… Geddings enjoyed London life but he had lately let it be known that he would not refuse a post abroad. At the appropriate level, naturally; he was not a boy. But clearly such posts were not about to be offered to a bachelor.

    Er—well and good; but not the daughter of the damned Principessa Claudia, for God’s sake! In fact her cousin, Miss Bon-Dutton, would be a far more suitable match. Wincing at the thought, his Lordship picked up his coffee cup. Damnation: stone cold. Crossly he signalled to the waiter.

    He found, however, over the second coffee, that his thoughts kept wandering back to the little Contessa. There was certainly nothing wrong with old Jeremy Andrews’s family, and then, the connection with the Bon-Duttons was not precisely a drawback. The present duke was a dull stick, not to say a nullity, but the name still counted for something, in England. And the young woman was perfectly well-behaved, if she was a pretty much a gazetted flirt, and certainly had more than sufficient charm… Well, such diverse creatures as Henri-Louis, Charles Quarmby-Vine, young Beresford, and old Admiral Dauntry eating out her hand? One could discount the young fribbles such as the fatuous Messrs Greg Ashenden, Rollo Valentine and Shirley Rowbotham. Though again, she had both sufficient charm and sufficient wits to keep ’em all dangling, not giving any of ’em too much encouragement. And quite well read, spoke several languages, and of course knew at least one European city very well… His Lordship was conscious of a wish to see how the Contessa would manage a dinner party. A damned pity one couldn’t try them out, before irrevocably tying the damned knot.

    Hmm… Lady Anne and Sir Humphrey Dauntry were recognising her, were they not? It was true that Wellington and Sir Humphrey’s brother, “Fuzzy” Dauntry, were very close, in fact had been friends since their boyhood days. Not that Arthur had ever been known to take a blind bit of notice of anything the amiable Fuzzy said to him—nor anybody else, much, neither; but… Geddings was aware that there was a certain ill-feeling between Lochailsh and Wellington, perhaps because their personalities were in many ways too alike for them to get on, and that Wellington, for purely political reasons, would not have been averse to healing over any breach. Well, it was nothing so definite as a breach, and that in a way made the whole thing more difficult. But being able to bring them together quietly at a little party in Lochailsh’s sister’s house? Or give a little dinner in one’s own, at which Lochailsh’s sister and her connections would be present: even better! Little dinner parties, however, demanded hostesses… Damnation.

    We-ell… might the little Contessa do? There could certainly be no objection on the more—er—intimate side! Geddings gave the ghost of a laugh, behind his paper. Given that she was capable of charming the birds down off the trees, would his own consequence be sufficient to ensure that she was generally accepted? No: wait! Ask Arthur’s advice!

    His Lordship was so pleased at this inspiration that he nearly laughed out loud. Not that His Grace was one for cosy chats about one’s personal life, but he would be tickled pink to be consulted. Also, it would show that he, Geddings, had taken his hint on board… Yes. Good. And if Arthur said it would never do, that would be it, and he would look around…

    At this point a truly horrible thought occurred to his Lordship and he nearly dropped the paper. Some considerable time back, well, it must have been after the frightful woman had snared poor Jeremy Andrews, of course, so it must have been later than the turn of the century but, he rather thought, before Arthur Wellesley had become completely occupied with the fracas in the Peninsula, so before Boney had broken the treaty? Yes, well, in the early years of the century, there had been a rumour about the damned mother. If he were to go to Old Hooky without having all the facts at his disposal, and if His Grace should be aware of all the facts, the which was only too horribly likely, for having all the facts of any case you cared to name was His Grace’s forte, the man never seemed to forget anything he had once heard or read… Ugh. Not that it much mattered, one way or another, so far as the girl was concerned, and His Grace would not consider it to do so, either; but that he, Geddings, should have been unaware, nay unprepared, like the rawest of subalterns… He had a vivid mental picture of himself fronting up to Old Hooky in that damned yaller room where he had hung his pictures, and opening his fat mouth and blighting his political and diplomatic hopes utterly and forever…

    Jeremy John Perceval Wentworth Corrant, Sixth Baron Geddings, shuddered where he sat.

    No. So, who would know? There were sufficient persons in London who quite possibly could have enlightened him as to the true facts of the matter, but who the Devil could he trust to be completely close-mouthed about his enquiries and, whatever came of them, not to remind him of them forever and a day? It certainly cut out all of the women he knew, and very nearly all of the men—except, of course, Arthur Wellesley himself, and unfortunately he could not ask him. Eventually he got up, nodding slightly, and went off to a very elegant house in Green Street.

    Sir Edward Jubb eyed him in some amusement. “I never moved in precisely those circles, Jeremy. But—well, let’s see… Brantwell. The wife was a Stevens, do I have that right?”

    “Of course,” agreed his Lordship, somewhat drily. Edward Jubb had one of the greatest fortunes in England, and an art collection that, far outstripping Arthur Wellesley’s pictures, rivalled anything of which His Majesty King George IV could boast. His extremely obscure origins and the lifetime he had spent in the India export-import trade were generally overlooked by English Society. He had known Wellington for very many years, was very well respected by His Grace, and sat on several committees with him. And was known in His Grace’s circle as an utterly discreet and completely trustworthy person.

    “I do know Sir John quite well,” the burly nabob admitted. “Well—sit on the odd charitable committee with him, that sort of thing. A decent fellow. Stiff as be-damned, mind you.”

    “I think all of London would agree with you, there. I don’t think I know Lady Brantwell. Is she as stiff as her brother?”

    Sir Edward sipped Madeira and eyed him thoughtfully over the rim of the glass. “A fair woman, quite good-looking. Bit colourless, perhaps. Met her last time we were in Paris, actually. Our hostess informed us, as the evening wore on a bit, y’know, that she had le type anglais par excellence, the which was generally reckoned in Continental circles to explain the phenomenon recognised in Continental circles as l’Albion perfide.”

    Geddings just managed not to choke. “I’m sure! Yes, well, now that you have sufficiently demonstrated you know it all, could you possibly tell me what you do know?”

    “Very little but rumour,” he murmured. “No, don’t eat me, dear fellow, I’m trying to recall… Hm. Back in those days, Brantwell was quite close friends with Mallory Amory—Timmy Urqhart’s cousin. Mallory died while young Noël was out in the Peninsula—damned sad. We-ell… Look, I tell you who would know—though he was nothing but a lad back in those days, of course, not much older than yourself, I dare say: Bobby Amory, Mallory’s brother. Always did know all the on-dits: famous for it.”

    Geddings reddened. He knew Bobby Amory quite well.

    “I am not brushing you off, dear man,” said the nabob with a little smile. “I can assure you that, manner to the contrary, if we indicate to Bobby that nothing should be said about the matter, nothing will. He is,” he said, eyeing Geddings’s own elegant town-coat drily, “a very good fellow, under those coats and that manner. Well, if we were to stroll along to Boodle’s, Bobby might be there. Though he has become so domestic since his marriage, that we may be out of luck.”

    Somewhat feebly Geddings got to his feet and allowed Sir Ned Jubb to take him to the club. Where the elegant Mr Bobby Amory did not appear put out to be extracted from a game of billiards and taken back to Sir Edward’s house in Green Street.

    Once they were seated in the study, the nabob’s excellent Madeira had made a second entrance, and Mr Amory had been apprised of their enquiry, he admitted: “Don’t know that this should be raked up, y’know. Least said, soonest mended—eh?”

    “I think I had best tell you why I am interested,” said Geddings tightly.

    “Oh, Lor’,” said Mr Amory at the end of his confession. “Well, thanks for telling me, old man. Shall not breathe a word, naturally. I have seen her: pretty little thing. Great look of the mother, full-face,” he said on a hopeful note.

    “Just tell it, Bobby,” ordered Sir Edward grimly.

    “Uh—well, mind you, I may have it wrong. Y’know the Brantwells, of course.” Geddings looked at him blankly, but nodded. Mr Bobby cleared his throat. “Aye. Cold fish, ain’t she? Thing is, they pushed Brantwell into that marriage because the old man wanted it, and the Stevens family, too, of course. Well—good match; nothing to object to in that, I suppose,” he said dubiously.

    “The fellow has married for love, himself; disregard that sort of comment,” ordered Sir Ned.

    Mr Amory winked at Lord Geddings. “Aye. Well, back then, m’mother wanted me to offer for the Follett girl. Only I couldn’t see past damned Nancy Jeffreys.”

    Geddings gulped in spite of himself: that lady, notorious in her day, had been the mother of the P.W.

    “Oh, well. Water under the bridge, hey?” Mr Amory cleared his throat again. “Do you know Aurelia Randwick? She’d be Brantwell’s… second sister, I think. Ain’t got the family nose—lucky for her. Straight little nose, determined little chin; pretty as a picture. Half of Society said Randwick was a lucky fellow; t’other half said she would lead him a merry dance.—Damn’ good Madeira, Ned.—Where was I? Oh, yes: Aurelia Brantwell. Randwick, I mean. Well, there you have it.”

    “Have what?” said Geddings tightly.

    “Dead ringer for the little Contessa, old boy,” he said, shaking his handsome head. “In profile, that is. Mind you, not so much these days.”

    “Let me get this straight, Amory,” said his Lordship. “Brantwell’s sister is a dead ringer for Signora dalla Rovere?”

    “In profile,” murmured Sir Ned provocatively.

    “Yes,” agreed Mr Bobby, unmoved. “She’s put on weight, these past few years. They don’t get up to town so much, these days—well, just as well. But thing is, the eldest girl must be just about due for a come-out.” He cleared his throat. “Damned lucky for the little Contessa that it ain’t this year, actually. Was down that way last summer. My wife’s cousin’s place is quite near there. Girl could be the Contessa’s twin.”

    “I see. I suppose that makes it sufficiently clear,” said his Lordship grimly.

    “Aye. Talkin’ of Nancy Jeffreys, the little Contessa’s a bit like the P.W., would you say? That general type. Well,” he admitted sheepishly, “at one point I was a moth fluttering at that particular flame, myself. Too rich for my blood, I don’t mind admitting.”

    “You’re wandering, Bobby,” said Sir Ned firmly at this point. “Thank you for the information.”

    “Any time,” he said glumly.

    Suddenly Geddings perceived that very much of the manner, though undoubtedly it was a habit, was due in the present instance to the elegant Mr Bobby Amory’s reluctance to repeat a story that would discredit a pretty young widow whom he did not even know. He smiled warmly at him. “I am very grateful, Bobby. But as you say, it was all water under the bridge. However, I am grateful to have the facts.” He got up, and held out his hand. Somewhat startled, Mr Bobby rose, and allowed his hand to be wrung very hard.

    “Not entirely a bad fellow,” he said cautiously to Sir Ned once his Lordship had departed.

    “No. Though I cannot see that, with this added to what is already known of the mother, he will seriously consider this little Contessa, after this.”

    Mr Amory shook his head slowly. “Doubt it. Though there is the connection with the B.-D.’s.—er, well, literally not, come to think of it. –Why on earth was you holding his hand, Ned?”

    “I merely felt that at a moment like this almost any man, accustomed to live in Wellington’s pocket or not, deserves a little support from a fellow creature.”

    Mr Amory lifted a knowing eyebrow at him: Sir Edward Jubb, pace the respect in which he was held by His Grace, did not, in fact, though this would have surprised very many of those who imagined they knew him, share very many of His Grace’s political views.

    “Even Geddings. And I must formally request you,” said the nabob calmly, “not to breathe a word.”

    The Amorys had known Sir Edward Jubb for very many years. “If you ask it, Ned,” said Mr Amory simply, “of course I shall not.”

    The Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen, not unlike Geddings, had pondered for some time over the Contessa dalla Rovere. Perhaps she would have said nothing about the gossip of years back, but for her conversation with Rowena Beresford at the Quayle-Sturt dance. Eventually she decided that it would not do, to keep her in the dark over such a matter. And if Rowena should decide to scotch the thing, then better to do it now, before the boy’s affections had become too deeply involved. Fanny, it must be admitted, did not give the girl’s affections any thought. She had never been a woman who experienced an instinctive kindliness towards those of her own sex. But Mrs Beresford was in a different case: they were much of an age, they were more or less sisters, they were both mothers and widows— She made up her mind to it.

    “Rowena, my dear,” she said on an uneasy note, “I have something to tell you. I beg you will hear me out, and not dismiss the story as spiteful gossip, on the one hand, nor yet refine too much upon it, on the other.”

    Her sister-in-law’s lips tightened. “Is it something to do with Jack?”

    “Indirectly, yes,” said Fanny uneasily.

    “Go on.”

    Uncomfortably Fanny repeated the gossip of over twenty years back.

    Mrs Beresford’s large cheeks went very red. “What?”

    “Er—well, yes, my dear. Not a few people knew of it.”

    “John and I knew poor Jeremy Andrews quite well,” she said unsteadily. “Before he married that creature.” Her lips trembled a little. “The thought of Jack tying himself up to— And what a heritage for the children! Fanny, are you very sure the girl was not Mr Andrews’s, and that this is not just a piece of spiteful gossip?”

    Fanny bit her lip. “I think there can be little doubt it is true. I am very sure John Stevens knows of it. It must explain his over-reaction to his little nephew’s paying attentions to the girl.”

    “What?” she said blankly.

    Fanny reported the scene at Eudora’s salon; quite without her usual light relish over such tidbids, had Mrs Beresford but been in a frame of mind to appreciate it.

    “I grant you that any principled man would think twice about permitting his nephew to pay court to a girl with that background,” she said grimly.

    “But Rowena, my dear; do you not realise? The boy must be her brother!” she cried.

    Mrs Beresford’s mouth opened silently.

    “Did I not explain? The boy is Tommy Brantwell’s son!”

    “I see,” she said faintly.

    “Actually,” said Fanny with a wince, “I was used to know Julia Hayworth, Brantwell’s oldest sister, quite well. The—the nose,” she admitted faintly, “is exact. The second sister has it, too; I forget her name: she married a Randwick.”

    “Whose nose?” said Mrs Beresford, alarmingly grim.

    “Not the Brantwell nose, my dear, of course! I think it is from Tommy Brantwell’s mother’s side. The Sewells. Er—well, I mean, it is the exact same little straight nose, quite entrancing, really, as the little Contessa’s,” she said apologetically.

    Mrs Beresford breathed hard. Eventually she said: “Thank you, Fanny, my dear. I am sure that you meant nothing but kindness by telling me.”

    “My dear,” said Fanny with a little uneasy laugh, “it must merely underline what one already knows of the frightful Claudia, after all! There was the Principe, you know, long before she met Andrews or Brantwell.”

    “Underline,” repeated Mrs Beresford tightly. “Yes. Quite.”

    The Fürstin swallowed, and for once in her life could think of nothing at all to say.

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