Belgravia (14 page)

“The Countess of Templemore,” announced the butler. “And Lady Maria Grey.”

Lady Templemore was dressed in a blue watered silk frock with a lace collar, her wide skirts draped over a horsehair crinoline. But it was the daughter who caught the attention of the room. Her pale cream dress draped beautifully across shoulders that were as smooth and as faultless as one of Lord Elgin’s marbles. Her blonde hair was parted down the middle, piled high at the back, and set off with two large “spaniel curls” that framed her pretty, heart-shaped face to perfection. Anne watched the pair as they
made their way through the guests toward the smaller drawing room beyond.

“Mr. Trenchard?” James turned abruptly to find a puffed-up looking character squeezed into a frock coat standing in front of him. The newcomer had a large, shiny face, a lengthy gray mustache, and a long nose that was crisscrossed with broken veins like the twigs on a tree. Here was a man clearly fond of late nights and plenty of port wine. “I am Stephen Bellasis.”

“Sir.”

“The Reverend Mr. Bellasis is the brother of our host,” said Anne firmly. There was not much she didn’t know about the Brockenhurst family.

Grace stood stiffly behind her husband. Her pale brown eyes appeared a little distant as she stared blankly across the company. Her mouth was set straight and her maroon silk dress had clearly seen better days.

“Mrs. Bellasis.” James nodded. “May I present my wife, Mrs. Trenchard.” Anne nodded politely. Grace glanced over, taking in Anne and her gown. She managed a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I gather you’re Cubitt’s man,” said Bellasis, standing with one foot in front of the other. “Responsible for turning the streets of London into a white colonnade overnight.”

“It has taken a little longer than that.” James was used to this criticism. He’d had it hurled at him many times before in the drawing rooms of London and had lost count of how often he’d had to chortle through the charge of smothering the capital in “wedding cakes.” “What we do seems to be popular, Reverend.”

“Riot is popular, sir. Revolution is popular. What sort of a test is that?”

“Are you not an admirer of Brockenhurst House?”

“The size of the rooms and their height are well enough. But I can’t say I prefer it to my parents’ London house.”

“And where was that?”

“Hertford Street, in Mayfair.”

James nodded. “I suppose the new houses are more suited to entertaining.”

“So that’s how you’ve made your fortune? Out of people’s desire to show off?” Grace knew that Stephen was simply angry that this odd little man should have so much more money than they did, but he would never be honest enough as to say it, even to himself.

James was silenced by this, but Anne took charge. “Heavens, the rooms are filling up.”

For once, Grace was prepared to help. “We understand from Lady Brockenhurst that you knew our nephew, Lord Bellasis.”

“We did,” confirmed James, grateful for the rescue. “We knew him well. But I’m afraid it is a long time ago now.”

“And you were at the famous ball?”

“If you mean the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, then yes, we were.”

“How very interesting. It seems the stuff of legend these days, doesn’t it?” Grace smiled. She had done enough to repair the damage done by her husband’s rudeness.

Anne nodded. “Legend and tragedy. It is so terrible to think of poor Lord Bellasis, indeed to think of all those gallant young men who left the ballroom to die.”

Stephen had begun to repent his impertinence. Why had he crossed the room to insult this man when he might be useful? “You’re quite right, of course. The loss of Edmund was a terrible business for this family. Now there’s only my son, John, between us and extinction, in the male line at least. That’s him over there, talking to the pretty girl in blue.”

James glanced across the room to see the man engaged in an animated conversation with Susan. She was touching the rim of a champagne glass with her index finger and laughing as she looked up at him through her lashes.

“And that pretty girl in blue is my daughter-in-law,” added James, watching as John leaned over and briefly touched Susan’s hand. “He seems to be keeping her entertained.”

“John is about to announce his engagement.” Presumably
Grace said this to calm any suggestions of impropriety, but naturally it had the opposite effect.

Anne could not help smiling. She only hoped that the poor girl, whoever she might be, had an inkling that she was taking on a ladies’ man. “How exciting for you,” she said.

“May we know the name of his intended?” asked James, eager to demonstrate his familiarity with this elevated company.

“Lady Maria Grey.” Grace glanced toward the other drawing room. “The daughter of the late Earl of Templemore.” She smiled with the satisfaction that everything was settled.

“That is good news,” said James, enviously. “Isn’t it? Anne?”

If anything, Anne felt rather sorry for that charming girl she had seen arriving earlier. She seemed too good for this coxcomb. But she did not reply. She was too distracted by the arrival of a young man who had suddenly appeared at the doorway. Tall, dark, with pale blue eyes and well-shaped brows. It had to be him. He was the image of Edmund Bellasis. He could have been his father’s twin. Her mouth went dry and her knuckles turned white as she gripped her glass. He stood on the threshold, apparently nervous of entering the party, scanning the room and clearly looking for someone.

Lady Brockenhurst moved toward him with unhurried grace, declining two conversations en route in order to greet her guest. Anne watched the evident relief on the young man’s face when his hostess finally came into view. And then they turned and began to walk toward her. How was she to react? What was she to say? She had imagined this scenario so many times, not just since the arrival of Lady Brockenhurst’s letter but for years before that. How would it be when they met?

“Mrs. Trenchard,” began Lady Brockenhurst as she swept toward her like a galleon in full sail. There was the whiff of victory in her voice. She could not contain it. “May I present a new acquaintance.” She paused. “Mr. Charles Pope.”

But Mr. Pope’s reaction was not at all as expected. Instead he looked beyond Anne to where James stood, his mouth open like a codfish. “Mr. Trenchard,” said the young man. “What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Pope,” blurted James, and dropped his glass.

The loud smash brought all conversation at the party to a momentary halt as everyone turned and stared at the group gathered near the door. At the center of it was James, hot, bothered, mortified, and completely at sea as his cheeks turned puce and his earlobes redder still.

Naturally, the first to recover was Lady Brockenhurst. “Well, this is amusing,” she said as the conversation in the room resumed and two footmen rallied around in a whirlwind of soft-shoed efficiency, sweeping up the glass on the parquet floor. “There I was, thinking that Mr. Pope is my secret only to find you’re well acquainted, Mr. Trenchard. How funny.” She laughed. “Have you known each other long?”

James hesitated. “No. Not long.”

“A while,” said Charles at exactly the same moment.

“Not long? A while?” Lady Brockenhurst repeated, looking from one to the other.

Anne turned to face her husband. Not since Sophia had announced her pregnancy, all those years ago, had she felt such a kick in the gut. Here it was again. Somehow this time it was even more devastating. Decades of sitting through turgid dinners and vapid receptions, men and women talking down to her and barely trying to conceal their disdain, had made Anne adept at hiding her feelings, but the expression on her face at that moment was something James had never seen in more than forty years of marriage. The sense of betrayal, injustice, the fury at the duplicity of the one man she thought she could trust, were there to be plainly read in her sensitive gray eyes.

“Yes, dear, do tell us,” she said, when she could speak. “How long have you known Mr. Pope?”

James tried to make everything sound as normal as possible. He had met the man when he started working in the City. Charles’s father was an old friend and had asked James to give the boy some advice on how he should manage things when he decided to move to London. James had been impressed with the young chap, and when he heard of his plan to take over a mill in Manchester he felt
he could be useful, in that and in helping to source new suppliers of raw cotton.

“Where does one buy cotton now?” said Lady Brockenhurst, joining in James’s valiant efforts to make the conversation seem ordinary. “America, I suppose.”

“I would prefer to get it from India if I can,” said Charles.

“And I’ve traded with India in the past”—James was more relaxed now, back in his right space—“I know something of the place, so it seemed only natural that I should try to lend a hand.” He almost laughed, as if to demonstrate the ease with which the pair of them had fallen into a kind of friendship.

“And did you?” said Anne.

“Did I what?”

“Lend a hand.” Her voice was as cold as steel.

“Oh, very much so,” said Charles, missing all the darts and currents that flowed to and fro. “I had trained in accountancy in Guildford and had begun to work in business there, so naturally enough I thought myself ready for anything, but when I got to London it didn’t take me long to realize I was playing a very different game. Mr. Trenchard’s intervention rescued me and helped me get my business up and running. I couldn’t have managed it without his help. It is the same venture you’re interested in, Lady Brockenhurst.”

“In what way are you ‘interested’?” Anne turned to look at her hostess.

But Caroline was not so easily caught. “Isn’t London a tiny place?” She clapped her hands with glee.

“Forgive me, but I don’t quite understand.” Anne was finding it harder than ever to control her rage. “Are you and Mr. Trenchard…?” She was literally at a loss for words.

“In business together?” Charles added helpfully. “We are, in a way, I’m glad to say.”

“And for how long has this been going on?”

“Nine or ten months, I should think. But Mr. Trenchard was a good friend of my father’s for years.”

James cut in. “Mr. Pope’s father asked for my help for his son
not long before he died. He was an old friend, and so naturally I took his request very seriously, and I was glad to do so.”

But Lady Brockenhurst had other plans. She took hold of Charles by the elbow and moved him on. She had her grandson by her side, Edmund’s child, and nothing was going to spoil this moment. “Mr. Pope,” she said pleasantly, “you must come and meet Lord Brockenhurst.”

The Trenchards were left alone. For a moment, she just stared at him. “Anne, I—” James was at his most coaxing.

“I can’t talk to you,” she whispered as she started to turn away.

“But
you
knew he was going to be here,” said James. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Anne stopped in her tracks. She couldn’t lie. Unlike her husband, apparently. He continued, warming to his argument. “You were expecting to see him. You were surprised that I knew him, I understand that, but you were expecting him to be here. In other words, you have disobeyed my instructions and told our hostess everything.”

“Keep your voice down,” Anne hissed as a couple of guests turned to look in their direction.

“I thought we had an agreement.” James’s neck was beginning to turn crimson again.

“You are in no position to lecture me on any given topic,” said Anne as she walked off. “You work with our grandson and you tell me nothing.”

“I don’t work with him. Not exactly. I invested in his business. I gave him advice. Don’t you think Sophia would have wanted that?”

“Mr. Trenchard! There you are! I have been looking for you,” came the smooth voice of the Reverend Mr. Bellasis. “Do please let me introduce you to my son, Mr. John Bellasis.”

James was bewildered. What was the significance of Charles Pope’s presence here? And why was Stephen Bellasis making such an effort to present his son to him? Did everyone know he was Sophia’s father? That he and Lord Brockenhurst shared a bastard grandson? His heart was racing as John stepped forward, right hand outstretched.

On the other side of the drawing room, Lady Brockenhurst was ushering Charles around the party. It was almost as if she couldn’t help showing him off, and had she been a less controlled person she might have called for silence and announced his presence to the whole room. Instead she was parading him like a champion as the young man stood, smiling and nodding affably, while she fired name after name at him. For those who knew Lady Brockenhurst well, it was an odd display; she was not usually one of those women who promote favorites, who find lame ducks and sell them to the world as swans. Mr. Pope seemed a nice enough fellow for a tradesman, and nobody wished him ill, but what was Lady Brockenhurst doing extolling the virtues of this obscure cotton merchant?

Short of leaving the party, there was little Anne could do except circulate, making small talk and biding her time until she was allowed to go home. To walk out would cause gossip, and gossip was the last thing the Trenchards needed now.

She watched Lady Brockenhurst introduce Charles to the great names of London. What a handsome man he was—so self-possessed, so accomplished, and seemingly so patient and kind. The Reverend Mr. Pope and his wife had obviously given him manners as well as an education. How Sophia would have loved him. Anne glowed a little with pride, but then she checked herself. What had she to be proud about? She, the grandmother who gave him up for adoption.…

Meanwhile, John was desperate to extricate himself from the company of this absurd little man who insisted on explaining to him—at length—the intricacies of his business dealings in the East End. Of course John was interested in money per se, there could be no doubt about that, but the effort of earning it held no fascination for him. How fortunate, then, he’d concluded long ago, that he was heir presumptive to a significant fortune. His father might be fascinated by any man capable of making money because he himself was so
in
capable of doing it, but for John things were rather different. All he really had to do was wait. And while he waited, who could blame him if he wanted to amuse himself? John’s favorite diversion was not gambling. He had seen the misery that particular vice had
inflicted on his papa; rather, it was the company of women—the prettier, the better. Outside of Society, this was relatively simple, if expensive, to arrange. But when it came to respectable ladies, then he inclined toward the married brigade. Bored wives were most likely to give in, and having done so, they were in no position to ask for more than he cared to give. The threat of scandal and ruin was enough to keep the strongest women firmly in their place.