Waltz with a Stranger

by Martha Lou Thomas

  His captive audience, numb, sat silently until Lady Guthrie stood, as did her nieces. “We are overwhelmed, Mr. Blumpton.”

  He nodded, and stood, pleased they appreciated the knowledge he had instilled in their frail female minds. Flushed with success, he called Lady Guthrie’s attention to one of the bouquets of roses before taking leave. Nodding in its direction, he advised her, “Need fresh ones.”

  The three women accompanied him to the doors of the drawing room as her ladyship graciously wished him future happiness in his meals and in his life.

  “May your household always afford you the comforts you deserve, Mr. Blumpton” was Quintilla’s wish.

  Kitty, who had opened the drawing room doors, stood watching him collect his hat from Rundle. “And may his Christmas be merry,” she said to her fellow students at the just-completed lecture. “He is a goose. A Christmas goose!” She collapsed, laughing at her wit, in one of the oval-backed armchairs.

  “I suppose there are possibilities in him,” Lady Guthrie said doubtfully to Quintilla.

  “We all have possibilities, Aunt,” Quintilla parried. What we do with them is what is important.” She walked to where Kitty still chortled over her Christmas wish in June. Affectionately ruffling the hair on the top of her young cousin’s head, Quintilla said, “I wonder if his wife was happy?”

  I am like a pony in a bog, thought Quintilla. The more I struggle, resolved to get free, the more deeply mired I become. And the widower plan gains momentum.

  Wafts of June’s sweet air inflated Mr. Blumpton’s satisfaction as he reviewed his presentation. At least they knew what he expected. No misunderstandings in this union. Not like the last.

  An odd creature, Miss Davenant. Pleasant enough, but too concerned with foolishness—sunsets, and that French fellow Rousseau. He would overlook that. Mr. Blumpton often had the feeling she was laughing at him, which he could not allow. A husband was the master, and was owed respect.

  He doubted anyone else would have her, so his demands should be readily met. He would ask his patron, Lord Clough, what to do next in the negotiations.

  16

  The long-awaited evening arrived. The Prince Regent, in celebration of assuming his lunatic father’s royal duties, bid two thousand of the principal nobility and gentry of the kingdom to outblaze one another in the splendour of their attire at Carlton House. Shining gold braid, shimmering satin, sparkling diamonds, bedecked the guests, who amused themselves with all that £120,000 could buy. Versailles at its apex had never seen the equal.

  The host bulged resplendent in the uniform of a field marshal, scarlet coat and gold lace denoting the high rank to which he had just appointed himself. He appeared shortly after nine to receive the multitude, beginning with the French royal family, currently lacking a throne from which to reign. Dancing commenced at half past eleven; supper, at half past two.

  Out in the extensive gardens, sixteen hundred of the guests sat under the illumination of thousands of twinkling lights to partake from silver plates of hot roasts and cold fowl, washed down with iced champagne. Sir Ian and Lady Guthrie reigned over the gaiety at their section of a long canopied table.

  Kitty Fairfield had chosen a peach from a pile of fresh fruit and was peeling it. She leaned over and whispered to Quintilla. “Do you wish Lord Eysley were here with us?”

  “In such a crowd, it hardly matters who is here. I only hope I survive—intact.” Quintilla laughed. She wore the lustrous piece of sunny blue sky that was her favourite ball gown, loving the way it swirled gracefully around her feet when she moved. The modiste had demurred at having her delectable creation worn by one such as Quintilla, but Margaret Guthrie’s genteel insistence had fortuitously prevailed. “If I were alone in this romantic setting, then I would wish for ... for someone special,” said Quintilla.

  “Not Lord Eysley?” Kitty persevered, giggling. Looking quite grand in a dress of white tissue with a border of golden jonquils, she had sampled the fine champagne often. Her aunt’s careful monitoring of Kitty’s behaviour had been hindered by the irregularities of alfresco dining.

  “There is no point in thinking about him, Kitty. He moves in a different world, courting only Incomparables.” Quintilla turned her eyes to the regimental commander on her right, but Kitty demanded her attention, and shook Quintilla’s shoulder.

  “Then, why did he bother with us if he moves with only the greatest beauties?”

  “I do not know. We are only great beauties,” Quintilla asserted, and both cousins laughed with abandon. Quintilla’s sips from her glass of champagne gave her a tolerance for mob scenes she did not usually have.

  The regimental commander raised his glass to agree with Quintilla’s declaration. “Hear, hear!” He was joined by Mr. Delaney and Sir Tancred Blount, who sat directly across from them at the narrow table.

  All eyes at the long table turned to determine what new toast might be hailed. The commander of the regiment stood and raised his glass. “To the beautiful ladies with us tonight.”

  Sir Ian, soberly distinguished in his court dress, quickly stood to participate in the salute. All the other gentlemen followed suit. Chaos followed—a jumble of rising males and tumbling chairs, spilled wine and scattered cakes. Quintilla and Kitty stood to suggest a walk through the Prince’s gardens as an escape from the tumult of toasts.

  Lady Guthrie nodded her compliance with the plan. The fifteen-inch ostrich plumes undulating over her shining white coiffure would serve as a beacon to guide the strollers back to their table. Lady Guthrie, in white satin embroidered in silver, had the look of an aged but well-preserved Titania, Shakespeare’s queen of fairyland.

  Those few wanting a walk to clear their heads ambled under old elms past fragrant flower beds and invitingly intimate bowers. The regimental commander soon strayed away to join a gathering of uniforms by one of the grottoes where Lady Storr’s beautiful cousin stood simpering under Lady Storr’s sharp eyes. Sir Tancred lagged behind to confer with a particularly irascible art collector rarely seen out in society.

  The attentive Mr. Delaney escorted his two beauties through a large crowd clustered next to the observatory. There, the trio watched the heavens—with almost as many twinkling lights as in the gardens. Leaving, the three had to manoeuvre through the horde of stargazers. Quintilla was bumped and jostled. A hand went out to hers, steadying her. After further buffeting, Quintilla won her freedom from the throng, but minus her companions. She looked around, sighting neither Kitty nor Mr. Delaney. On her toes, she still found it impossible to see over all the people taller than she. Well, she could find her way back to the table.

  The walkway Quintilla chose to follow meandered until she found herself farther from rather than nearer to the dining area. Surrounded by sounds of laughter, she was yet alone—in the Prince of Wales’s own garden. A lovely one.

  A moan issued from a shaded bower to her right.

  Quintilla walked over to investigate, only to stumble quickly back to the walkway. A pair coupling in the shadows did not heed her. She was grateful for the darkness that hid her bright cheeks, warm with embarrassment at her blundering intrusion, and at the public union. Her heart beat faster. A rising sense of unease assailed her. She identified feelings similar to those she had had outside the Grosvenor mansion—an inability to direct the outcome of her predicament. Warrick had rescued her the last time. If this were a Minerva Press romance, he would again, striding out of the darkness into the light of her heart.

  “Ah, Eysley’s lame wild rose, wandering alone.” Quintilla’s unquiet heart calmed. Though there was a chilling courtesy to the greeting, there was a familiarity to the man standing tall against the starry sky, perfection in his court dress of the same midnight blue. The pure white of his ruffled shirtfront made it easier to see his face. His smile told Quintilla he could be counted on to see her back to her relatives. She reached out her hand to the Corinthian whom Warrick had chosen to ignore at the Dacre ball.

  “Oh, sir,” her vo
ice was low. Relief made it more melodious. She paused to draw a deep breath. She must not appear disturbed. “I am most pleased to see you. I am Quintilla Davenant, and I fear I am foolishly lost, in the very heart of familiar territory.” She made light of her difficulty, gesturing with a sweep of her hand to indicate the garden.

  “Miss Davenant. Lord Uxbridge.” He bowed over her hand. “If you are lost, why, then, so am I. We can be lost together.”

  He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and drew her down the deserted walkway. “I have ever been an admirer of Eysley’s good taste.”

  Quintilla recoiled, but Lord Uxbridge held fast to her hand. Inexperienced as she was in the ways of men with maids, she knew she had erred in expecting comforting assistance from this quarter. She had misinterpreted the smile. If she were to evade his frightening civility, she must use her wits against his strength.

  To keep her teeth from chattering, she ignored the insinuations behind his caressing tones. “I regret we were not introduced at the Dacre ball, Lord Uxbridge, when Lord Eysley kindly indulged my pleasure in dancing. I rarely have the opportunity to dance in my own milieu, a small town, Berkeley.”

  “Are you claiming to be a country mouse, unschooled in our city ways?”

  “Merely unorthodox, perhaps. My family has a tradition of experimenting in natural science. Not unschooled—though I do confess to being lost, like a veritable grape seed. You no doubt know my aunt and uncle, Sir Ian and Lady Guthrie. They will, of course, share my gratitude for your kindness in seeing me safely back to their table. Where did you dine?” Oh, she was babbling. She must not let him note her discomfiture. Deliberately, she limped more than was necessary in the hope of discouraging his amorous predilections.

  “The extent of your gratitude interests me. Eysley left town without an engagement announcement. After all those dances you shared, did you, in the end, disappoint him? Not with that figure, I vow. Perhaps he disappointed you.” Lord Uxbridge turned to face her, still holding her hand. An arm curled around her back, and his hand dropped hers to lightly place his fingertips around her breast. “I welcome the chance to cage your heart.”

  Quintilla flinched, but could not draw back. His hand in the middle of her back held firm.

  “You tremble, Miss Davenant. Did Eysley not breach the sweet fortress?”

  That she could be accosted so primitively amidst all this glitter was outrageous. Abandoning discretion, Quintilla raised her chin, her eyes challenging his eyes. “Please have the courtesy to escort me back to Sir Ian Guthrie’s table.” Her steady voice did not reveal her growing dismay. Give her a rioting mob any day over this polished affront!

  Lord Uxbridge’s hand had moved up from her breast to her shoulder. He pulled her to him, lowering his head to pounce at the base of her throat. He kissed the small depression. “Oh, Miss ... Dav. You are smooth and soft, in contrast to your harsh voice,” he purred, his moist lips moving against her throat. “I fear I am indeed lost.”

  The sound of approaching people, and he abruptly stopped to resume their sybaritic stroll. Quintilla seized the moment to twist away from his encircling arm and march rapidly back the way she had come.

  “I will call on you.” Lord Uxbridge’s low laugh followed her down the walk.

  She must not run. She must not look as if anything untoward had occurred. Politely she nodded to the strollers whose timely intrusion had brought her liberation.

  Anything untoward! Discourtesy and seduction, that is what happened to her in the Regent’s garden in the midst of his fine party! Amongst the nation’s elite! ... While begrudging Dr. Jenner funds!

  Her anger propelled her along the winding walk. What had happened to honour? Integrity? Gone with Warrick. He had not come to rescue her. She was, of course, not living a romantic novel. She could hear the hum of the celebrants in the distance, and stopped to get her bearings—impossible in all the shrubbery.

  “Lost, ain’t you?” Materialising from the foliage was a slight figure of supreme male elegance, whose raised quizzing glass somehow allayed the terror that would otherwise have enveloped Quintilla.

  “Yes,” she admitted, drawing breath. “Ridiculous, I know.”

  The dandy looked about before again addressing the young woman. “If you will permit me the honour, I will escort you to safety.”

  In the darkness, his familiar voice carried no threat. Still Quintilla hesitated.

  “Please be assured, I am quite harmless.” Lightly he cupped her elbow in his hand. “Come.”

  “Have we met?” Quintilla asked, puzzled, as he hurried her along.

  “We have not been formally introduced.” The gentleman chuckled at some private joke, but did not explain.

  “Do you enjoy the Fete?”

  “An interesting evening ... profitably spent.”

  “Ah, here we are!” Relief filled Quintilla’s voice when ahead she saw the waving plumes marking her aunt’s place at the table. Safe haven at last! She turned to her rescuer, who had stopped in the darkness of the path to observe the bright confusion in front of him. “How can I thank you?”

  “You already have.” He held her hand and bowed over it.

  “My relatives will want to acknowledge your kindness to me.”

  “I beg you excuse me. I must go.”

  “Oh.” How disappointing. “Please.” As she spoke he disappeared almost magically into the darkness of the grounds. Odd. Enough to make one believe in witchcraft, or at least a midsummer night’s dream. She took a moment to peer through the thick foliage, but was too relieved at being within sight of her relatives to tarry. She paused only to collect herself before returning to the table.

  “Oh, Tilla! We lost you at the conservatory,” Kitty cried out. “Did you get to see the waterfall?”

  Quintilla smiled and took her seat, hands resting primly in her lap beneath the long tablecloth. “Lovely,” she agreed.

  Did no one see any difference in her? Quintilla thought. She had grown considerably wiser in the past minutes. Perhaps there was something after all to society’s sheltering of its young girls. Certainly she was not as exempt from its proprieties as she had thought she was. Having a physical anomaly did not exclude her from improper advances, only from marriage.

  Lord Eysley had offered to marry her if misconceptions followed their dancing together. Oh, Warrick! There were misconceptions! Marry me! Quintilla mentally wailed. No! She had loving parents and family. She must face what life brought her. She had tempted fate once too often and Lord Uxbridge had reminded her she could not always come away unscathed. Well, at four and twenty, it was time to learn some caution.

  “Yes, Aunt, we are privileged to be present at such a momentous occasion.”

  Mr. Delaney was querying her.

  “What? Oh, no. Kitty leaves tomorrow for her home. I must stay for another day or two until I can approve the printer’s final corrections to Dr. Jenner’s report on the eradication of smallpox in Ceylon. You remember my telling you about the work. Where will you be in the coming weeks?”

  Mr. Delaney eagerly gave details of his parents’ summer plans. The regimental commander had returned and sat next to Kitty, regaling her with enough of his horse stories to last her a lifetime, suggesting to the young girl the need for limiting the number of her equine adventures to be related at any one time.

  Quintilla listened absently to Mr. Delaney’s suggestions for meetings during the warm weather. Warrick. What if it had been Warrick whose hand had imprisoned her breast? She trembled, and a warmth in her body spread. She breathed deeply.

  Mr. Delaney, unaware of how far away Quintilla was, saw the light in her eyes, the glow to her cheeks, and resolved to speak to Sir Ian on the morrow. “Miss Davenant?”

  “Yes?” Quintilla, unknowingly, turned sultry eyes to the lad. Her voice quivered, husky.

  “Do you believe one can fall in love in an instant?” the heir to Viscount Lyle asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Quintilla fervently affirmed.
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  An alarm bell rang in Mrs. Delaney, sitting farther down and across from them at the table. Her boy, scarcely out of leading strings! And that sweet Miss Davenant luring him on, like some hussy! Mrs. Delaney had urged her husband to have a serious talk with their son. It must be tomorrow without fail!

  Later, outside the magnificent porticoed mansion, in the milling crowd seeing carriages home, Quintilla forgot dreams of Warrick long enough to look about her in the crush, wondering how long it would take for the smiles of the party-goers to turn to the howling jeers of a mob, should the occasion call for it. She shuddered. Not long, she knew. Would she ever forget her experience in the street outside the Grosvenor mansion?

  Snatches of conversation swirled about her, most of it in fulsome praise of the Fete. From somewhere behind Quintilla, a dowager confided, “Diamonds, my dear, a diamond bracelet. On her arm one minute, and gone the next! In the crush at the observatory.”

  Suddenly, Quintilla knew what had happened to the diamond bracelet. She remembered, and recognised the voice of her rescuer. He and the thief who most assuredly had the bracelet were one and the same—the impressed seaman—no—actor. Amos! An evening “profitably spent,” indeed! She recalled his words, and turned around, as guiltily as if she had been his accomplice in the crime. Bound in by the crowd, she could not identify the matrons aghast over the missing jewellery.

  What an impossibly weird evening she had passed at the Regent’s Fete. Treated with courtesy by Amos, the thief. Insulted by Uxbridge, the gentleman.

  What would Warrick think of her now, after a night when she had taken first steps towards joining the muslin company! Unexpectedly, irreverently, she had to giggle. A way of supporting herself she had heretofore never considered. Oh, she had not begun to explore life’s interesting possibilities.