In either case, Lady Dunnington’s mind was quite made up. Within three days, half a dozen invitations had gone out, and as many acceptances had been received. Alas, the countess had been obliged to abandon the classical theme she had so eagerly embraced when it was discovered that the housemaid Dulcie looked entirely too fetching in the filmy Grecian drapery her mistress had once worn to the Herrington costume ball; as Lady Dunnington put it, she had no intention of excluding all the ladies of her acquaintance only to be outshone by a serving girl.
And so it was that, when the first guest arrived on the following Wednesday evening, he was announced by a prim housemaid in a starched white apron and frilled mobcap.
“Sir Reginald Montague, my lady,” said Dulcie, her eyes meekly downcast.
“Ah, Sir Reginald!” exclaimed Lady Dunnington, gliding forward to meet him with hands held out. “How glad I am that you could come to my poor little party! I believe you are acquainted with Lady Fieldhurst?”
Julia found herself facing a tall, powerfully built gentleman in his mid-forties. His once-golden hair was liberally threaded with silver, and his pale blue eyes were rather cold. His mouth was bracketed with deep lines, which gave the appearance of a perpetual sneer. Taken as a whole, he gave the impression of a fallen angel. She tried to remember what her late husband had said about him. Bad ton, Frederick had called him, although he had certainly been in no position to cast stones. Although Sir Reginald’s brand of slightly menacing good looks held no attraction for her (she having recently developed a marked preference for a very different type of masculine beauty), she could see how the air of danger that seemed to emanate from him might appeal to some women—Lady Dunnington apparently among their number.
“I am indeed acquainted with Lady Fieldhurst,” Sir Reginald said, turning his attention to Julia. “May I say how pleased I am to see you making public appearances again, my lady? Brighton this past summer was a veritable wasteland without your fair presence.”
Thus addressed, Lady Fieldhurst rose from her chair and sketched a curtsy. “Sir Reginald,” she murmured, wishing she could recall what Fieldhurst had said about him. Scarcely had she returned to her seat when Dulcie returned with two more gentlemen in tow.
“Lord Dernham and Lord Edwin Braunton, my lady,” she announced, then betook herself discreetly from the room.
“Lord Dernham, how pleased I am that you could come,” said Lady Dunnington, offering her hand to a soberly clad gentleman in his late thirties with thinning hair and light blue eyes that held a mournful expression. “May I introduce Lady Fieldhurst?”
“My lady.” Lord Dernham bowed over her hand. “May I offer my sincerest condolences on your recent loss?”
“And I on yours, my lord.” Although Lord Dernham’s loss had taken place some three years previously, it appeared he still mourned his dead wife. Lady Fieldhurst mentally crossed him off the list.
“And Lord Edwin! How fortunate we are that you are not off riding with the Quorn or some such thing. Lord Edwin, you must know, is an avid sportsman,” Lady Dunnington added as an aside to Julia.
Lady Fieldhurst, offering her hand, recognized him as that uniquely British breed of men, the Spare who has outlived his usefulness. The second son of a duke, Lord Edwin had become superfluous once his elder brother married and begat an heir and a spare of his own. Now, having no greater purpose for his life, he collected a generous allowance from his brother and spent most of it on horses and hounds. While her father, a country squire with no shortage of horses and hounds of his own, might deem Lord Edwin a very good sort of fellow, Lady Fieldhurst saw nothing in him to tempt her. He too was crossed off her list.
“Lord Dernham, Lord Edwin,” Emily said, gesturing toward Sir Reginald, “I trust you are acquainted with Sir Reginald Montague?”
The effect of this introduction was immediate. Both newcomers stiffened, their eyes narrowing as they made the briefest of nods in Sir Reginald’s direction.
“Sir Reginald and I are old—acquaintances,” Lord Edwin said, his jaw clenched.
“Likewise,” said Lord Dernham, then turned abruptly away from Sir Reginald and began speaking with surprising animation to Lord Edwin.
“Lord Rupert Latham,” announced Dulcie, returning with Lady Fieldhurst’s longtime suitor at her heels.
Lord Rupert said all that was proper to his hostess, then took Julia’s hand and raised it to his lips. “My dear Julia, I had no notion you had yet returned from Scotland! It was really too cruel of you to let me languish in ignorance.”
“Have you been languishing for me, Rupert?” asked Julia sotto voce. “If so, I fear you have been wasting your time.”
“Have I? I wonder. If half of what Lady Dunnington tells me about this evening’s entertainment is true—” He cast a critical eye over his fellow guests. “Fortunately, I do not see that the present competition is insurmountable.”
“Lord Rupert,” Emily put in, “are you acquainted with Sir Reginald Montague?”
“Indeed I am. Your servant, sir.” While no fault could be found with Lord Rupert’s manners, his voice had cooled considerably. Before Lady Fieldhurst had time to wonder at it, however, Dulcie appeared with the last of the guests.
“Captain Sir Charles Ormond, my lady, and Mr. Martin Kenney.”
It would have been hard to imagine two more different gentlemen than the pair now paying their respects to their hostess. Captain Sir Charles, dashing in the scarlet coat and gold lace of a Hussar regiment, clicked his heels and swept a bow with military precision. Mr. Kenney, on the other hand, wore a blue coat of slightly outdated design that showed unmistakable signs of wear at the elbows, and his linen (as well as one could judge such things by candlelight) appeared somewhat yellowed. As if to compensate for his sartorial shortcomings, he took Lady Dunnington’s hand and lifted it to his lips with an air of exaggerated gallantry.
Having been presented to Lady Fieldhurst (and giving her such appraising looks that Julia wondered just how much of the purpose of tonight’s entertainment Lady Dunnington had revealed to them), the new arrivals were then made known to the other gentlemen in attendance.
“Mr. Kenney,” Sir Reginald said, addressing the shabbily dressed Irishman, “your absence at Brooks’s has been most conspicuous. The tables are not the same without you.”
Mr. Kenney’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing, and Lord Edwin hurried to fill the uncomfortable silence.
“The play there has been dam—deuced flat lately, anyway,” he told the Irishman. “You haven’t missed much.”
“And Captain,” Sir Reginald nodded in his direction, but addressed his speech to the company at large. “You would scarcely credit it, but Captain Sir Charles and I once served in the same regiment. But I believe you had yet to achieve your captaincy at that point, sir.”
“I was a mere second lieutenant at the time,” the captain conceded with a nod.
“I sometimes wonder what rank I might have achieved, had I not been obliged to sell out when my father died,” Sir Reginald continued.
“A sad day for the Army, when you were allowed to sell out,” the captain noted.
His words seemed flattering enough, but Lady Fieldhurst had the distinct impression that no compliment to Sir Reginald was intended. Indeed, it seemed to her there was another level of meaning passing between the two men that quite eluded the rest of the company. She cast a speaking look at Lady Dunning-ton, but the countess seemed oblivious to the undercurrents swirling about the room, or was so taken with her latest paramour that she simply didn’t care if Sir Reginald were heartily disliked by his fellow men. Lady Fieldhurst became more than ever convinced that this dinner was a mistake, and breathed a sigh of relief when the gong sounded. Now that the evening had officially commenced, she could count the minutes until she and Emily could withdraw and abandon the men to their port and cigars. That the gentlemen would take their leave at the first opportunity she did not doubt, since they obviously found the presence of one of t
heir fellow guests so objectionable.
“We will not stand upon ceremony, since our numbers are so uneven,” Lady Dunnington declared, thus eliminating the need for them to pair off and parade into the dining room two by two, like animals boarding Noah’s ark.
But however casual their procession to the dining room, it soon appeared that the seating arrangements had been painstakingly plotted. As hostess, Lady Dunnington naturally sat at one end of the table. She had placed Sir Reginald at the opposite end, apparently designating him as de facto host. As for Lady Fieldhurst, she found herself halfway down the table, flanked by potential suitors on either side and facing three more across the table. Surrounded on all sides, Julia discovered five of the six gentlemen in attendance regarding her with expressions ranging from admiration to speculation to expectation, and wondered anew just what Emily had told them regarding the nature of this particular gathering. She cast a glance of desperate appeal at her hostess, who lost no time in throwing her to the wolves.
“Before you gentlemen arrived, Lady Fieldhurst was telling me about her recent sojourn in Scotland,” she addressed the company. “Pray continue, Julia! What did you find to amuse you in Scotland?”
“It was not for amusement that I travelled there,” Julia corrected her hastily. “I was merely acting as chaperone to George Bertram’s—Lord Fieldhurst’s, I should say—three sons. His three sons by Caroline Deering Bertram, that is.”
“Yes, yes, a bad business, that.” Lord Edwin shook his head in silent sympathy with the boys. “Deuced hard on a bast—er, illegitimate child.”
“And how much harder when one of the children in question supposed himself to be second in line to a viscountcy,” remarked Lord Dernham.
“Ah well, at least their father is trying to do right by them.” Lord Edwin’s gaze slewed to the end of the table where Sir Reginald sat addressing himself to a thick slice of roast beef. “Would that all men were so ready to take responsibility for their actions.”
“What?” demanded Sir Reginald. “Would you condemn a man to pay through the nose for the rest of his life, just because some chit can’t keep her skirts down?”
Since Caroline Bertram had had every reason to suppose herself legally married to George, this charge could hardly be laid at her door. Once more, Julia was convinced that there were other things being said than mere words would suggest.
Lord Rupert, seated at her left, cleared his throat. “Really, Sir Reginald, this is hardly a suitable topic of conversation when there are ladies present.” He turned toward Julia. “I, for one, would like to hear more of her ladyship’s travels. Tell me, my lady, how did you find Scotland?”
Lady Fieldhurst hardly knew whether to be grateful for the change of subject or chagrined to be once again the cynosure of all eyes. “The weather was quite pleasant right up until the day we departed for England,” she recalled. “Most unseasonably warm for so late in the year.”
“Oh, bother the weather!” declared Lady Dunnington impatiently. “What did you find to do there? Did you finally escape Frederick’s shadow by going so far north that no one would know you, and dancing all night in the arms of a gallant laird?”
This was actually much too close to the truth for Lady Fieldhurst’s comfort, although the only dancing she had done was on the darkened terrace of a country house, in the arms of a man whom not one of those seated at the table would receive socially. “As I am still in mourning, it would be most unseemly of me to dance,” she said with perfect, if incomplete, truth. “The boys and I did enjoy long walks along the seashore, however, and Harold, the eldest, conceived the fixed intention of joining the Royal Navy. I believe he is to report aboard the Dauntless as a midshipman in a matter of weeks.”
“I confess to being rather partial to the Army myself,” put in Captain Sir Charles, to a chorus of chuckles, “but the military is certainly a good place for any young man who finds himself in young Mr. Bertram’s situation. I wish him well, and I hope he will be fortunate in his commanding officer.” Again the sidelong glance at Sir Reginald at the end of the table.
“I fear the only seaside I have ever seen is that at Brighton,” said Lady Dunnington.
“Why, Emily, you surprise me,” exclaimed Lady Fieldhurst. “Have you indeed seen the seaside at Brighton? I should have thought you spent all your time there socializing at the Royal Pavilion.”
All the gentlemen enjoyed a hearty laugh at the countess’s expense, and Lady Fieldhurst felt a certain degree of satisfaction in even this modest revenge.
“Guilty as charged,” confessed Lady Dunnington cheerfully, throwing up her hands in mock surrender. “I confess, I prefer congenial company to the beauties of nature. Fortunately, Brighton offers both.”
“And then there is the running of the Brighton Cup, as well,” put in Mr. Kenney. “I was pleased to pocket a tidy sum this August past, when my horse finished first.”
“Do you own a racehorse, Mr. Kenney?” asked Sir Reginald, his voice filled with admiration. “I’d no idea your pockets were so deep.”
Mr. Kenney flushed a dull red, which clashed with his auburn hair. “I don’t own a racehorse, no, but I am accounted to be an excellent judge of horseflesh.”
“Whatever keeps one solvent, I suppose,” said Sir Reginald with a shrug. “For myself, I prefer a more active form of racing. Next year I hope to shave a few seconds off Prinny’s London-to-Brighton time. I almost had it several years ago, but just as the goal was in sight, I came up behind a dashed great berline taking up most of the road. I tried to pass it, but came to grief.”
“Why?” asked Emily. “What happened?”
Sir Reginald shook his head sadly. “To make a long story short, my racing curricle ended up as a pile of splinters, and one of my horses had to be put down.”
“How fortunate that you were uninjured!” exclaimed the countess.
“Yes, I wonder if the passengers in the berline were so lucky?” put in Lord Dernham tightly.
“If they were not, perhaps it will teach them not to tie up traffic on one of the busiest thoroughfares in Sussex,” suggested Sir Reginald smoothly.
Anger flashed in Lord Dernham’s usually mild blue eyes, but anything he might have said was cut short by the entrance of Dulcie, hands twisting the skirt of her apron in agitation.
“Begging your pardon, my lady,” she said, addressing herself to Lady Dunnington, “but my Lord Dunnington is here, and insists upon seeing you.”
“Oh, bother!” exclaimed the countess. “Tell him I am entertaining at present, and he must go away.”
“I—I tried, ma’am, but he refuses to leave.”
Lady Dunnington gave a little huff of annoyance. “Very well, I suppose I shall have to see him.”
“Shall I show him in, my lady?”
“By no means! Shove him into the drawing room, and tell him I shall be there directly.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dulcie bobbed a curtsy and left the room to carry out her mistress’s orders.
“It seems my presence is required by my lord and master,” Lady Dunnington informed the group, quite unnecessarily, as they had heard every word of the exchange. “I shall return shortly. Don’t any of you say anything interesting in my absence!”
With a brilliant smile and a gleam in her eye that did not bode well for Lord Dunnington, she rose from the table and absented herself from the room.
A rather awkward silence descended on those seated at the table, broken at last by Mr. Kenney.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” he said with a grin, “but I should put my money on her ladyship to carry the day.”
“Let us hope, then, that your understanding of women is as felicitous as your knowledge of horseflesh,” answered Sir Reginald, an observation that had the unhappy effect of causing silence to descend once more on the little group.
As the drawing room was adjacent to the dining room, it was perhaps inevitable that in a very short time the sound of raised voices might be heard is
suing from that direction.
“You cannot dictate to me, Dunnington,” Emily declared. “I won’t have it!”
“I can, and I will!” her husband retorted.
Lady Fieldhurst smiled much too brightly and addressed Sir Reginald. “Tell me, Sir Reginald,” she said with sufficient volume to mask the sounds of altercation in the next room, “did I not see an announcement in the Morning Post that there will soon be wedding bells pealing in the Montague household?”
“Aye, my eldest daughter, Caroline,” said Sir Reginald, answering in kind. “The wedding will be three weeks hence at St. George’s, Hanover Square. That’s all my wife and daughters can speak of these days. Lady Dunnington’s dinner invitation was a godsend, as it allowed me to escape from talk of orange blossoms and white satin, if only for one night.”
“I’m pleased to see that you’re sending your daughter off in style, at any rate,” remarked Lord Edwin, regarding Sir Reginald with lowered brows. “I had not supposed you valued matrimony so highly.”
“When entered into with mutual affection and respect, there is no happier state,” put in the bereaved Lord Dernham.
Alas, this high-minded statement was promptly given the lie by the not-so-blissfully wedded couple in the drawing room.
“I have turned a blind eye in the past, Emily, but this I will not tolerate!”
“You, sir, have nothing to say to the matter!”
“On the contrary, madam, you will find I have a great deal to say—and do, if it comes to that. Mark my words, I will do whatever it takes to put a stop to this!”
“Very well, Dunnington—you may do your worst! Now, if you will excuse me, I am neglecting my guests.”
When the countess returned to the room only moments later, her color high and her eyes sparkling dangerously, she found her guests apparently deep in concentration on their own plates, eating with such enthusiasm that one might have supposed they were partaking of their first meal in a fortnight.
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