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Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon

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“To be sure, she is a regular gadabout is my aunt! It seems I am to wait until after the Debinham soiree, which she is apparently at great pains to attend.” He squinted doubtfully at the heavily underscored letter he'd produced from his unimpeachable morning coat of deep maroon superfine. “At least, that is what I think she writes. I find her scrawl, as always, frustratingly illegible.” He shook his head and with a wry shrug abandoned all further attempt to decipher the closely crossed wafers.
“I gather at all event that the Lady Suzannah remains in France until next fortnight's packet, so I shall be well clear of my most pressing business before making the journey. She, I expect, will need some time to recover before making her debut, as she crosses with no more than an abigail and a chaperone of sorts.”
The duke grimaced, his eyes suddenly twinkling. “Poor girl! If I know anything of my great aunt, Elthea, she will not be deemed suitable for presentation until she has worn out her slippers, purchasing all the necessary frills and furbelows. I warrant there'll not be a Bond Street milliner, mantua maker, or ribbon bazaar that will remain unexplored before my exacting aunt is satisfied.”
He paused, his voice softening subtly. “It keeps her young, you know. Short of marriage—and I really do feel I must make that exception—I find I simply can't resist humoring the old dear!”
Mr. Everett allowed himself a chuckle before resuming his customary air of common sense.
“Is the crossing safe, Your Grace? With the fighting ended I realize that traffic must be much easier, but I'd not have thought the arrangement particularly
epris
for gently bred young ladies.”
A thousand thoughts flitted through the duke's unusually expressive face. The horrors of a war-ravaged Europe may be lightly dismissed by the ton, but they were raw enough in his mind not to be so easily set aside. He shook himself mentally and shuttered the unwelcome memories. No doubt the Lady Suzannah would have nothing more to concern her than the sad crush of her traveling dress.
“She'll make do, James. I'm certain of that.” A hint of cynicism crept into his world-weary voice. It was not the first time a young lady was to be presented for his inspection. He supposed, with a small sigh, that it was time he seriously set about the business of finding himself a duchess. He owed it to his position if not to his inclination.
“Shall I send a reply, then?”
“No, James, this one I'd better take care of myself.” He grimaced, his tall frame offering a pleasing prospect to anyone inclined to take note of the circumstance.
“When I'm done I'll frank it for you, and you may see that it is delivered. Also, if you can cast your mind back to a decent hostelry I'd be much obliged. I rather think that a coach and four will be sufficient to my needs, though the horses will no doubt need a change somewhere along the route.” He granted his secretary a magnificent smile.
“I'll leave these details in your capable hands, James. That way I'll be assured of superlative service along the way.”
Mr. Everett swelled with modest pleasure. To be sure, his master was very obliging.
St. John tapped at his shirtsleeves. “I know you. You will be puffing off my consequence long before I take to the road. If there is not a hot brick and tolerable repast awaiting me at every minor way station from London to the full extent of Shropshire I misread my guess. Yes, I know! You'll have my crested linen out and the ducal ostlers awaiting my pleasure at every godforsaken watering house this side of Faver-ingham.”
“It is only fitting, Your Grace.”
The duke sighed. “Fitting, James, but nonetheless a sore trial. I find I tire of all the pomp!” He brought himself up sternly. “And now, my friend, I must make short shrift of that wretched letter. I fear if I do not hurry, I'll have my young nephew down in a trice. We're to attend Countess Petruschca's masquerade in”—he consulted his delicately wrought timepiece—“less than an hour, by heavens!”
THREE
“I hope you're satisfied, my dear Rupert!” St. John said, throwing a querulous look at his young nephew. The evening was stiflingly hot and the entertainments sadly lacking in any novelty. Not that he had anticipated much better, but the thought of the fine port and quiet newspaper awaiting him at Wyndham Terrace acted as an uncommon irritant to his already jangled nerves.
Stifling a long and very weary yawn, the duke found he could think only of making good his escape. His own eyes certainly did not reflect the excited anticipation so palpable in those of the young man beside him.
He glanced now at his companion, his eyes holding the steely yet enigmatic smile that was regarded by some as his habitual demeanor. “You must know that I find these masquerades an absolute abomination,” he said to his nephew. Achieving no answer, he tossed his head in mock despair. “I do trust that we may soon leave?”
The severity of his words was lightened by the good-natured smile he cast on his young relative.
“You may, Miles! I will see my way home with Lamberton over there. But Miles?” His Grace raised an eyebrow. “Be a sport and stay awhile?”
Imperceptibly, the duke's eyes softened. “Cawker! All right, another hour perhaps. I take leave to inform you, however, that I find the night insufferably humid. Not to mention the affectation of a loo mask! What a ridiculous trial!”
Second Viscount Lyndale seemed not a whit put out by this rather dampening comment. Instead, he saw fit to grin engagingly at his elder, remarking that he was a great gun and not at all the toplofty maw worm he was so often taken for. Before his guardian could think up a suitably biting retort, the young viscount's attention was distracted by the caviar and fresh salmon patties that were being replenished in abundance on the trestles outside.
“I say, Miles, I vow I am starved! Can I get you a plate?”
“May
I get you a plate?” His Grace corrected with precision. “And no, Rupert, you may not! I am heartily sick of these vile concoctions we are always being fed. Run along, though, I can see we do not offer a sufficient enough table at Wyndham Terrace.” His tone was ironic, but entirely missed on the young viscount, who disappeared into the fray with a vague promise of a speedy return.
St. John sighed and returned to his musing. The air of languorous fatigue emanating from his person was not lost on the dowagers who eyed him avidly from beneath their dusky turbans. Some of the more spiteful could be heard tittering behind their fans, noting that the gentleman in the sea green cape was far from amused. The evening would be declared a failure, a shocking squeeze. After all, if the duke found it lacking, there was nothing more to be said.
Rather to his despair, Miles St. John found himself the undisputed catch of the season. If he felt himself hunted, it was with good cause. Society was too eager by far to captivate the attentions of His Grace the eighth duke of Wyndham. Without doubt, his rank, his lineage, and his fortune made him fair game to every watchful parent and debutante from far and wide. Word was about that he was on the catch. Very proper, too, if one took into consideration his two and thirty years. More than high time he be setting up a nursery. The chaperones dotted about the great hall could hardly be blamed for reflecting on the prospects of such a connection.
As wave after wave of young dancers took up the set, they glittered like the flash of crystal caught by sun. The duke remained a central figure, dark amid the color. Only the occasional gleam of emerald relieved the starkness of his aspect. For those who watched, his cropped black curls offered a tantalizing prospect.
“Admit it, Miles. You must be just a trifle curious as to the identity of that beauty.”
The duke startled. His ward had returned faster than he'd expected, his gloved hand clutching a plate of delectable-looking truffles. It must be said that while the irrepressible viscount did not actually point, his interest in no way went unremarked. St. John cursed silently under his breath. His displeasure was blithely ignored by his recalcitrant ward, who was outfitted to the nines in a cape of russet merino with shirt points starched stiff to the cleft of his chin. His eyeshade was quite remarkably studded with rivulets of amber crystal.
“Do you see the one I mean? The lady in the scarlet domino. The one dancing, if I guess it right, with Portland. Dashed if I don't have a mind to cut him out!”
The duke smiled indulgently at this youthful high-handedness. The Marquis of Portland was hardly likely to be bested by the sprig beside him, but he said nothing to shatter the young cub's illusions. Instead, he gently reminded his charge that pointing was not
comme il faut
in the polite circles in which they moved.
Rupert remained undeterred. “I know, Miles. But she is a diamond of the first water!” He grinned at his guardian. “Come, now, not even a little interested?”
The duke put his hand to his throat, where a cascade of lace glittered with the small scatter of emeralds he'd chosen to affect. The dark, woven superfine hugged his shoulders neatly, the effect enhanced by a tightly nipped-in waist, satin edged and of a complementary deep green hue. Over this ensemble fell the sea green cape, clasped with the slightest hint of gold. His thoughts, however, lay not with Weston, his tailor, but with the question so innocently put to him by the young man at his side.
Miles found himself shaking his head with a world-weariness that saddened him. “To say the truth, my dear Rupert, her identity is not of the smallest interest to me. For all I care, she could be yet another of those exiled Russian princesses we all hear interminably about.” His voice held a note of contemptuous dismissal that was not missed on the impressionable young sprig at his side.
“But Miles ...”
“No buts about it, Rupert! Devastated though I am to disillusion you, from my experience of the world, you will scarcely find much difference between your delicious piece of feminine charm over there and that brazen doxy standing under the pergola.” He lifted his quizzing glass.
“My God! Just look at the way she flutters her fan. If she blinks her eyelashes any faster she's like to have an apoplexy! And as for her mama ... well, I wonder however she got through the gates? The Countess Petruschca was wont to be more discerning.”
It must not be thought that the young viscount was left in any doubt as to his mentor's meaning. Both ladies in question were displaying a distressing lack of decorum, even in a situation so lax as a masquerade ball. The older, evidently the chaperone, presented to the discerning viewer a hideous vision of emerald ostrich feathers atop an orange bejeweled turban.
What made the scenario slightly more piquant was that they were accompanied by a young lady of quite unimpeachably good ton. That this lady was acutely embarrassed and suffering greatly from the ordeal was obvious. Without knowing it, she presented such a forlorn picture of quiet dignity that both men's hearts were moved to pity.
Miles regarded her closely, his curiosity piqued. In spite of himself, the duke felt his attention arrested. “Who is that chit? Not a fitting companion, surely, for that garish set of pretenders?” He looked again.
Her eyeshade hid much of her fine bone structure but did not conceal the fresh beauty of her youthful complexion or the gleaming auburn locks that were firmly pinned in a tight coil around the nape of her neck. Something of the color struck dim chords in the duke's memory, but the thought was elusive.
There was something in the way she glanced at him, something in the quiet grace of her hands that arrested his attention, tugging at some deep, disquieting aspect of his psyche hitherto remained untouched. It seemed strange indeed that a single gaze should so affect him, that he should be more deeply aware of her than ever he had been of a woman before. She was definitely not in the mold to which he felt himself inclined. Nevertheless, his attention was fixed. The gnawing memory flickered into sudden recognition.
He had encountered a carefree maiden of impudent aspect and innocent ways. What he now beheld was that vision transformed into quiet dignity and unwarrantable sadness. His interest deepened. She was far removed from the little tumbleweed miss with her delicious bright lips and impudent outlook of long ago.
Her demeanor in fact appeared as well-bred as it was restrained. For an instant the duke regretted the maiden. Then his pulse quickened, and he knew he'd good reason to prefer the lady that she'd become.
St. John felt uncharacteristically dazed. While it might not be love—for had he not been in and out of love a dozen times or more?—his feelings could be described, perhaps, as an awareness of her being, an amused sympathy with the tilt of her chin and the lift of her shoulders as she sought vainly to hush her two companions. It was obvious that she wanted to disappear circumspectly into one of the less-frequented side rooms. Her lack of success in this enterprise was as annoying to Miles as it was to her.
Her urgent appeals were wholly disregarded by her consorts. They, it may be said, were displaying a most alarming tendency to make their unctuous way toward him. Torn between the sudden and unexpected desire to deliver them a sharp set down or to beat a hasty retreat, the Eighth Duke Wyndham decided on the latter.
“Rupert!”
The viscount turned toward him with a start. He'd been pondering with delightful equanimity the identity of Miss Red Domino.
“I say, Miles, you did make me startle!”
The duke sighed and patiently repeated his earlier question. “Do you know anything of the young lady dressed in gossamer white? The one attending those wretchedly out-of-place countrified chits?” His tone was so vicious that Rupert was startled to attention.
“I can't say, Miles. She looks awfully out of place, doesn't she? Perhaps Sally will know.”
The duke nodded resignedly. He knew all too well his chances of private discussion with the famous countess.
As it happened, it was quite some time before the Lady Jersey was close enough for conversation. Indeed, it was only between the end of the fourth minuet and the beginning of the new quadrille that the duke had been able to hail her.
“ Sally!”
“Your Grace!” Lady Jersey's face diffused in a wreath of smiles as she responded to the duke's handsome bow with a slight curtsy of her own.
“And Rupert! How delightful to make your acquaintance once more! Glad you could tear yourself away from Oxford.” Rupert grinned merrily. His eyes, though, wandered wistfully to the vision in the scarlet domino.
Miles exchanged a speaking glance with the countess, then relented. “Go on then! Off you go, scamp!”
The viscount grinned as he made his excuses. She waved him away with her fan and turned on Miles with a throaty chuckle.
“Not a bad match, there, Miles! Lady Cordelia Marville.” When St. John looked bemused, she elaborated. “The Countess of Bingham's daughter, you know! A trifle flighty, but I put that down to high spirits rather than want of conduct.” She smiled indulgently. “She should never have worn a scarlet domino, of course, but she has tolerable manners and a pleasing countenance... .” Her voice trailed off. “But that was not why you hailed me, I dare swear.”
His Grace threw her an amused glance. “Astute as ever, my dear. And no, my lady, it was not why I hailed you.” He waited for the set to resume before drawing her aside.
“Well, Miles?” Her face dimpled prettily, despite her years. “I know that look in your eye! What is it that you want?”
Miles responded in kind. “A kiss, my pretty.”
It ought at this time to be reported that Lady Jersey, that awesome patroness, that fearsome guardian of the portals of Almack's, positively laughed in delight. The cheek of the man! No other, save perhaps Prinny himself, dared address her in that fashion.
“Touché!” She tapped him playfully with the stem of her fan.
The new set was commencing, the musicians tuning up in fine style. Across the room, there was a great flickering of light as the candles burned down merrily, their glow reflected in incandescent mirrors erected on all sides of the hall. The tallows were replaced at regular intervals by great numbers of attendant footmen, so the flames were ever bright, yielding luminescence unfaltering in intensity. The effect was breathtaking. The chatter continued ceaselessly, as did the ebb and flow of hundreds of the jeweled and sequined debutantes known to an envious world as “the monde.” The sultry night positively lent itself to the mingling that was occurring, both in and out of the great chambers and gardens of Countess Petruschca's large estate.
Sally Jersey dimpled at the duke. “You cannot imagine the stir you have aroused tonight, Wyndham.”
The eighth inheritor of Wyndham raised his brows.
“Oh, don't get on your high ropes with me, I beg. You must be aware of the talk! What I cannot understand is why you choose to be here at all. I must say, I find it really a most dreadful squeeze myself.”
“Indeed it is, ma'am. I'm only here under the strongest of coercion, I assure you! But you see for yourself my young ward's winning ways!” His eyes twinkled momentarily as he gestured in Rupert's direction.

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