Adrift In The Great Sea

14

Adrift In The Great Sea

    “What has happened?” demanded Lady Stamforth baldly.

    Horrible went very red, but did not deny that something had happened to turn Peg into—well, not quite an incorrigible flirt, no. But into something that was causing her to encourage the attentions of anything in pantaloons that crossed the threshold of the Stamforth mansion in Blefford Square.

    “Well?”

    “She had a letter from her father. I don’t know what was in it, but, um, since she received it one cannot mention Cousin Jack in her presence without having one’s head bitten off. And—and it’s since then that she started—um—encouraging them.”

    “I shall demand she show eet me!”

    “I don’t think that will work,” replied Horrible frankly.

    The P.W. bit her lip and sank down onto a sofa. “No. –Sit down, Horrible, my dear. I apologise for interrogating you.”

    Glumly Horrible sat. “That’s quite all right, Lady Stamforth. Um, I suppose you couldn’t try—um—forbidding them the house?”

    “Well, I could, but should I upset the Fitz-Clancys and the Dauntrys at one blow? Oh, and the Cantrell-Spragues, out of course. –Goodness, between them they are connected to half the great houses of England, Scotland and Ireland!” she discovered. “Not that I care, for myself, but Lewis might not like eet.”

    “No,” agreed Horrible, smiling in spite of herself.

    “I suppose eet ees a good thing that Geddings seems to have cooled off,” said her Ladyship glumly.

    “Yes. Mina and I thought at first that perhaps he had seen the light and decided to obey the Duke’s and the Fürstin’s wishes, and offer for the Princess Anna instead.”

    “But my dear, he has sheered off her, too!” she cried.

    “I know. I suppose there wouldn’t be someone else?”

    The P.W. shook her head. “No. I am sure not.”

    “Not that Mrs Marley?”

    “My dear, I doubt eef eet lasted more than a week. And eet was never serious. Well, I am not sure eef she ees a widow or not, but G. would never for an eenstant contemplate marrying such a woman. You may say that eet ees unfair, for she deed no more nor less than he, but that ees the way of the world.”

    Horrible nodded composedly. “Yes. Well, at least we can stop worrying about his pursuit of Peg,”

    “Yes,” she said, frowning puzzledly over it. “Eendeed.”

    Jeremy John Percival Wentworth Corrant, Baron Geddings, was, as His Grace of Wellington was aware, a man in need of a wife. It could not have been said, however—as His Grace was also well aware—that he was precisely a lonely man. In spite of the famed distaste for crowds he had many friends, scores of acquaintances, and, as London gossip had now apprised Miss Buffitt, a string of mistresses dating back to his salad days. All to be seen in the great metropolis any day of the week one cared to name, during the Season, and all, so rumour had faithfully apprised Miss Buffitt, still more or less in love with him. The latest was a very lovely, tall, fair and very elegant Mrs Carthew. That had been going on for some half dozen years, now, and it was said that Geddings had lost interest. Certainly Mrs Carthew, still to be seen at all the most fashionable gatherings, generally with a resigned-looking Mr Carthew in her train, habitually wore an expression of pouting discontent. And had been observed at one of Lady Caro Kellaway’s salons to give G. the cold shoulder. That Mrs Marley who was believed lately to have beaten Mrs Carthew by a nose in the race for his Lordship’s favours was then observed to snigger not sufficiently behind her fan. Since it was whispered that Lady Caro had also once been in the running, the thing, take it for all in all, could not but add interest to the accustomed boredom of the Season. Certainly Lady Stamforth, collapsing in giggles once it was all over and they were safely in their carriage, had indiscreetly declared as much to the wide-eyed young ladies in her charge.

    If he was not precisely lonely, Geddings was, as the Duke was also aware, rather an unhappy man and certainly a disappointed one. He had always figured in political and diplomatic circles, and for quite some years had aligned himself firmly with His Grace. Unkind persons were wont to call him Wellington’s mouthpiece, and perhaps the claim had some truth. Certainly he was accustomed to put His Grace’s point of view in the Lords, in cases where, for whatever reason, His Grace was not yet ready to appear himself. Perhaps if Wellington had had to describe him honestly he would have said that he was an excellent subordinate, an able lieutenant, but not the stuff of which leaders were made. And his personal characteristics? Honesty? Integrity? His Grace was generally accounted, and certainly by himself, a judge of men. But if he had had to come clean he would have conceded that he had never had to test either of these qualities in Jeremy Corrant. Did he trust him? He trusted him to put his point of view, to do what he was told, and to act with sufficient—but not too much—initiative. Would he have trusted him with his sister? Not if she were married, between the ages of twenty and forty and disposed to be persuaded—no. Not for an instant. True, he would not have condemned him for the thing, either. With an unmarried sister—yes. No question. Geddings was no despoiler of the innocent. Had anyone thought to enquire, the which his contemporaries would not, whether he would have trusted him with his chambermaid, His Grace, always supposing that he had no reason to be other than totally honest about the thing, would have hesitated. And eventually would reluctantly have admitted that he was not sure: for Geddings was no Lewis Vane. Those who stared and foolishly pointed out that His Grace had sent Stamforth packing from the Peninsula on half-pay for calling out a Portuguese princeling over the honour of some little wench affianced to one of his sergeants would have then been confounded by his Grace’s: “Rubbish! Got nothin’ to do with it! Lewis Vane’s a man of honour! And get out of my sight!” From the which these foolish persons might ruefully have concluded, if they were in a fit state to conclude anything, that Old Hooky had never forgiven, not Lewis Vane, as gossip claimed, but Fate, ill luck, or whatever you cared to call it, that had forced his hand in that affair. The more percipient of them might further have concluded that in using Geddings as his lieutenant, Wellington, as was his wont, was merely making the best of the material he had to hand.

    Society in general would not have said that Geddings was either unhappy or disappointed: he had had several minor Cabinet posts, and was certainly wealthy enough not to be obliged to marry money. But his Lordship himself was irritably aware that his political career would not go much further: he had been too long in the position of aide to Old Hooky; and that if he wished for a decent diplomatic post, he should, as indeed Wellington himself had pointed out, think seriously about getting himself a suitable hostess.

    It was not precisely the case that no lady had appealed in that way. Rather, in latter years no lady had combined sufficient appeal with the other essential attributes: the manner, not to say manners, required of a diplomatic hostess, and connections which would further rather than hinder his ambitions. There had been several campaigns, not on his Lordship’s part, to marry him off to young women with the right connections, ranging, more or less, from the red-headed Adélaïde von Maltzahn-Dressen who was the Princess Anna’s oldest sister, to a couple of dispossessed but well connected Mesdemoiselles de This and That from émigré families: that sort of thing. Several suitable Englishwomen had also been put forward: if, like Lady Margaret Fitz-Clancy, they had the manners and the birth, they generally lacked, again like Lady Margaret, both fortune and appeal. His Grace had not precisely come out and said that Geddings should seek the appeal elsewhere and settle for the birth and the manners—but very nearly. Jeremy John Percival Wentworth Corrant was uneasily aware that Arthur was rather fed up with the thing.

    Of course he recognised that appeal alone was not enough, the business of the little Contessa, some few years back, being a case in point. It had not gone further than the few drives in the Park of which Society had been avidly aware: Geddings had found out the full details of her unfortunate parentage in time. So he had not made a fool of himself by asking Arthur if he thought she would do.

    Settle for the Princess Anna von Maltzahn-Dressen? She was a well-mannered, conformable little thing. Pretty enough, in a limp way. He had thought, towards the beginning of the Season, that Arthur was all for it. But lately he seemed less enthused. Er, was it merely, though, that he was fed up? Geddings was not sure, and he felt that sounding His Grace out on the topic would be entirely the wrong tack: if he were not already fed up, guaranteed to make him so. Certainly the Princess Anna was the most suitable of the débutantes. Miss Buffitt, of course, would not do. A country nobody only vaguely connected to the Beresfords? No. Jeremy Corrant was conscious of a feeling of considerable irritation over the thing: she was so very, very pretty, with a distinguished air to her that the rest of the Season’s crop notably lacked, she was highly intelligent, she had an original mind, she was well read… And if she had not the precise attributes required of a hostess in political and diplomatic circles, was more than bright enough to acquire them very quickly. His Lordship had at more than one point found himself mentally planning out a delightful scheme for teaching her, and had irritably brought himself up short. Nonsense. Quite unthinkable! He had gone so far as to find out exactly who the father’s family was. Ted Buffitt was a nobody, and in his time had damned nearly ended in the Fleet, but he was respectable enough now, if he had married a cit, and the place in Somerset was decent enough. The father, of course, was hopeless, but with the minimum of effort could be made into quite an amusing dinner-table story; after all, there was nothing positively undesirable about mild eccentricity. And one need not invite him to London. Er—no. Quite unthinkable. There was the limp, too. It would probably get worse with age. And utterly penniless: one would have the family forever on one’s hands. If only she were not so devastatingly pretty, there would be no question—!

    It was not that he was in love with the chit. He was past that sort of Romantick nonsense, at his age. Merely, if one had to settle down with a helpmeet at one’s side, one would prefer it to be something one could encounter over one’s breakfast table without wincing! Not to say, in one’s bed.

    For quite some years now his Lordship had not been in the habit of consulting his numerous relatives on any point whatsoever. Indeed, the boot was very much on the other foot: his father had died very young and he had been the head of his family since his boyhood. And from the age of about eighteen in fact had had the reins of the family fortunes firmly in his hands, his trustees being an amiable Uncle Algernon Corrant who confessed cheerfully he knew nothin’ about managing nothin’ but was very willing to give “little Jerry” the name of his tailor, and an even vaguer Uncle Percy Wentworth interested only in fine china, who presented the startled Jeremy on the occasion of his eighteenth birthday with a collection of amazing Famille rose pieces with the smiling assurance that they would become heirlooms. Which even at eighteen the dazed Jeremy had had sufficient taste to perceive they would, indeed: they were glorious. But pink bowls and dishes, for a boy of eighteen?

    By the time he reached his majority and the beaming Uncle Percy presented a complete dinner set especially commissioned from the Worcester manufactory, with the Corrant coat of arms in golden scrollwork cunningly placed on the deep blue rim, much more tasteful than putting it in the middle of the plate, the which allowed the designer to offer you “something much more attractive”—long-tailed birds and pink roses, quite—Geddings had virtually been his own master for three years, and was more than accustomed to make all the decisions that needed to be made about the estates and the family fortunes. And had already ordered Uncles Algie and Percy to turn down offers from three penniless hopefuls for his sister Harriet, and to accept an offer from Sir James Bullivant for Susan, quite some ten years his elder.

    Unaccustomed, then, though he was to seeking advice or aid from his family, on this occasion his Lordship, having mulled it over for some time, went to call on Lady Bullivant.

    Susan was now an astounding matron of some fifty-odd summers, with a family of hopefuls of her own. Her daughter Diane, indeed, being one of the débutantes cast this year very much in the shade by Miss Buffitt.

    “Of course you should marry,” she said calmly, pouring tea. “I have been saying so for years, Jeremy.”

    “Mm.” His Lordship sipped the tea glumly. He blinked.

    “It is one of the new teas that are being trialled in India. I had it from a supplier recommended by Lady Stamforth.”

    “Er—yes, I thought I had tasted it in her house. Excellent, Susan.”

    “Thank you. You might consider her stepdaughter. Her father was Hugo Benedict: a very decent sort of man. I think the mother was a connection of the Howards. Quite respectable, at all events.”

    “I dare say she would make some fellow a conformable hostess, then, but I do not care for the whey-faced variety,” he said glumly.

    “I think,” said her Ladyship calmly, sipping tea, “that she is rather immature.”

    “I agree with you. But I am not inspired to offer to assist her to grow up,” he said with a wry smile.

    “Would you be, if she were prettier?” replied his sister on a dry note.

    He grimaced. “Very probably. As you know, pretty faces have ever been my besetting sin.”

    “Since you turned nineteen, at all events, ”she noted majestically.

    His Lordship had to bite his lip. “I grant you that Lady Marianne S. was always horse-faced, even back in my salad days—but of the Roman-nosed, fiery-blooded equine variety, Susan!”

    Her ladyship’s massive shoulders shook. “Aye!”

    “Lady Percy S. was an attractive creature, though.”

    “Oh, certainly. If not young.”

    He grinned. “Yes. Well, never mind ancient history. Cannot you suggest anyone that might combine sufficient breeding with not being an antidote?”

    “Is the Princess Anna an antidote?” enquired her Ladyship, eating cake.

    “No, that would be an exaggeration. Just very, very dull and rather dim, poor little thing.”

    “Quite unsuitable, then. You would make her very unhappy,” she said calmly.

    He blinked. “Thank you!”

    “My dear, you would not mean to, but a dull, dim little thing in whom you found it impossible to take an interest? Just imagine it, Jeremy: do not fly up in the boughs.”

    Geddings sighed; he was not in the habit of flying up in the boughs.

    Her ladyship ate cake. “She would pine.”

    “Pine! –Oh,” he said slowly. “Yes. I see. Very graphic, Susan.”

    Her Ladyship passed him the cake. “Try it, I beg.”

    “If you insist.” He ate cake glumly.

    Lady Bullivant eyed him over the rim of her teacup. “Have you asked Wellington’s advice?”

    “Not latterly,” he said, biting his lip. “I think he is a little fed up with the topic.”

    “And who can blame him? Though he did right to warn you off the little Italian creature.”

    Geddings went very red. He had not mentioned the little Contessa to Susan, and he was not aware that the tale of Arthur’s intervention was known all over London.

    “What do you think of the cake?”

    “What? Oh—a triumph, pray tell your cook, Susan,” he said sardonically.

    “Thank you,” replied her Ladyship, unmoved. “Well, let me see. A somewhat older woman?”

    “Lady Margaret Fitz-C., or one of the Abbott hags, perchance? No, I thank you!”

    “No. Had you thought of one of Chelford’s sisters?”

    “Given that there is bad blood in the B.-D.s, as witness that little slut who was Keywes’s first wife, no. And I thought they were all married long since?”

    “Not the last duke. The present duke,” she said calmly.

    His jaw dropped. “Susan, you have not laid eyes on him or his family!”

    “Viccy Grey told Bullivant a week or two back that they have reached England, however. A connection at Dallermaine would do you no harm.”

    “Are there even any sisters?” he croaked.

    “Viccy’s claim is that there are a round dozen.”

    “Americans,” said his Lordship limply.

    “Mm. Possibly the—er—solid pioneering blood will counterbalance whatever it is that the late Persephone B.-D. had.”

    “Not to mention the frightful Eloise Stanhope, née B.-D.! I grant you it takes her in the diametrically opposed direction, but nevertheless!”

    “Well, why not wait and see?” said her Ladyship calmly.

    “Viccy Grey will have told you they are headed for London this very week, will he?”

    “No,” said her Ladyship, a certain gleam in her shrewd grey eye. “He did, however, mention it to Bullivant. At least the B.-D.s are known for their good looks.”

    “Eudora Stevens, neé B.-D.,” he groaned, closing his eyes.

    “Lady Stevens is a beautiful woman, Jeremy. Classically handsome looks.”

    “And appeals as much as damned Elgin’s marbles.”

    “I see. Well, you perhaps do not recall the ghastly Persephone, but she was a very different type. Devastatingly pretty; quite as much as your Miss Buffitt,” she said dispassionately.

    “She is not my Miss Buffitt,” he said with a sigh.

    Susan hesitated. Then she said very kindly: “My dear man, if you truly want the chit, exert yourself to cut Jack B. out.”

    He sighed again. “I do not truly want the chit, Susan, and that is half the trouble.”

    His sister eyed him not unsympathetically. “Mm. May I ask, was there ever anyone, my dear?”

    He shrugged. “Since I fancied myself in love with the horse-faced Lady M., at eighteen? Er—well, if you must have it, the year of Waterloo, I did fall badly for little Nesta Garrity. I know you don’t recall her: of course we all had so much else on our minds that summer. Think the family comes from Sleyven’s county. I—um—went so far as to request the father’s permission to pay my addresses.”

    Lady Bullivant stared at him.

    “To cut a long story short, I offered, she turned me down, and the very next day she talked her ass of a brother into taking her off to the Continent to nurse some damned nobody from a line regiment. –Forget it. She married the nobody,” he said heavily.

    “I see. Talking of Sleyven—”

    “Look, Susan, if I was an utter idiot I would have allowed myself to fall in love with Lady Sleyven, yes!” he shouted. “And what damned good would that have done me?”

    “At least we have that quite clear,” said her Ladyship calmly.

    “Yes. I apologise for shouting in your salon,” he said stiffly.

    “Not at all. I confess, I did wonder, but I do not think that it crossed the mind of anyone else in the entire city that you might feel anything serious for her.”

    “She is highly intelligent, possessed of considerable sense of humour and a deal of charm, and very pretty: why not?”

    “Jeremy, I didn’t mean that. I know you took her about a little the first year the Sleyvens were in London, but you were not seen with her so often as to occasion comment, that is all.”

    “No,” he said dully. “No.”

    “So—er—not the little Contessa?”

    “Susan,” he said heavily, “since we are being so frank, let me admit that I had a silly notion that she might become just such a charming helpmeet and accomplished hostess as Lady Sleyven is to him. That is all it was.”

    “I’m very sorry, my dear,” said Lady Bullivant simply.

    He blinked. “Er—thank you.”

    “More tea?”

    “No, I’d better go, I have a committee meeting. Thank you for listening, Susan.”

    “Not at all, my dear,” said her Ladyship calmly. “I’m sorry I could not be of more help. But I will think on it.”

    “Thanks, I suppose!” he said with a wry laugh. He pecked her large cheek, and was off.

    Lady Bullivant shook her head slowly. “Well, Society would not credit it, but his trouble is, and always has been, that he is a Romantick,” she said with a sigh.

    In contrast to Susan Bullivant, née Corrant, Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy’s family, possibly but not inevitably because they had not laid eyes on him for the better part of the last twenty-five years, did not evince any sympathy for his supposed matrimonial intentions.

    “Our brother will not like it, I fear,” said Lady Catherine Fosdyke with a sigh.

    Lord Michael gave her a cold look. “When did he ever like anything any of us did, Catherine?”

    “No, well, you have a point. But my dear, a little country nobody, less than half your age?”

    “Oh, well,” he said airily, “the age does not signify. In the East the girls are married at twelve or thirteen: I suppose I have become accustomed to the concept. Added to which, if you cast your mind back thirty years or so, was not Katie Molloy all of thirteen years of age when our respected brother got a brat on in her in his own damned haystack?”

    She winced. “Indelicate, Michael,” she said faintly.

    “So is he,” he said with distaste.

    “At least think of what is due to the family name,” she said faintly.

    “The family name never did anything for me, Catherine,” said her brother coldly, walking out and leaving her to her reflections.

    Lady Margaret received her aunt’s limp report with cold annoyance, and silently determined that where the meek Lady Catherine had failed, she would succeed. It was perhaps ill-advised of her to persuade her uncle into taking her for a drive in the Park in order to tackle the subject. For one thing, before she could so much as broach it, they saw the female.

    “That was only to be expected,” she said grimly, after her uncle had nodded to a phaeton containing a smirking Admiral Dauntry and a smiling Miss Buffitt, exquisite in the striking brown silk bonnet adorned with the big pale yellow rose with which the ladies of London town were by now only too well acquaint, and a tiny yellow jacket over what looked like yet another new walking gown, of white cambric trimmed, not with yellow to match the jacket as any other woman would have chosen, but maddeningly, with the same brown shade as the bonnet. “The chit is making a spectacle of herself.”

    “I thought she looked exquisite,” said her uncle mildly.

    Not taking this very mild tone as a warning, Lady Margaret snapped: “Every stitch the girl has on was bought by that Portuguese woman, I would stake my pearls on it!”

    “Those who maintain that Lady Stamforth has exquisite taste must be adjudged correct, then,” he said, still mild.

    “That is scarcely the point. The girl has nothing.”

    “I dare say. It appears she has some very kind friends, however.”

    “I trust you do not number Admiral Dauntry amongst them?” said his niece with a nasty titter. “He is certainly not a suitable friend for a very young girl!”

    “No? Do you think I should call him out, then? Or merely offer to take his place?”

    “That is not amusing,” she said coldly. “But since we are on the topic, I think—”

    “I think not,” said Lord Michael firmly.

    Ignoring this, Lady Margaret rushed upon her fate. “Uncle, permit me to say, in offering any sort of rivalry to the Admiral in that direction, you risk making yourself the laughingstock of London. Miss B. is less than half your age, and a penniless nobody, come upon the town express to catch a fortune on her hook.”

    “Yes? As a female, you perhaps cannot see it, but any man with red blood in his veins would give his right hand to be that sort of rival, my dear,” he said affably.

    Her flat bosom swelled. “Sir, that was insufferable! You forget yourself; and your years in the East, are not, forgive me, an excuse for so doing!”

    “They may perhaps be adjudged a reason, however, though only by the reasonable. Are you sure that your heat is caused by care for my wellbeing, niece, and not by, not necessarily in this order, the fact that little Miss Buffitt is far prettier than you, the fact that Miss Buffitt has cut you out with Jack Beresford, the fact that Miss Buffitt has a score of suitors at her dainty feet while you have not an one, or the fact that you share with the rest of my respected relatives a strong desire to see my fortune go into their pockets rather than in the direction of a wife and offspring of my own?”

    “How dare you? Put me down at once!” she choked.

    The house which Lady Catherine Fosdyke had hired for the Season was sufficiently far from the Park. He eyed her drily. “And let you trudge back home unaccompanied? I could not reconcile it with my conscience to do so. I’ll drive you back immediately, though. But forgive me if I don’t indulge in genteel chat.”

    Breathing heavily, Lady Margaret said nothing. He shrugged, and turned the curricle.

    Horrible watched glumly as Peg whirled in the waltz in Lord Michael’s arms. “He seems keener than ever.”

    For once, Lady Stamforth was not dancing, but merely sitting out like the other chaperones. “Yes, the beeg red nose ees positively glowing weeth enthusiasm.”

    Horrible sniggered but warned: “Be very careful, or you will find yourself saying that to someone outside the household.”

    “Horrors!” she said with a loud giggle.

    Smiling tolerantly at her chaperone, Horrible then offered: “I shall be quite all right, if you would prefer to go and dance.”

    “They are lovely, of course,” she said with a smile in her eyes, watching as Mendoza endeavoured to whirl with a lumpish Miss Bayldon in his arms, “but their conversation, by and large, palls. But you are too young to regard that,” she said, brightening, as something very lovely in very new dress clothes was seen to head their way, “and you must take thees one instantly!”

    Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague. Horrible groaned, and hissed: “He only wants Peg!”

    “Nonsense,” she said, smiling serenely. “Mr Bobby!” she cried with outstretched hands as the victim approached the snare. “How lovely to see you! And how deleecious you look een that lovely coat, my dear! Ees eet new? –I knew eet! Now, here ees dearest Hortensia, just dying to dance the waltz!”

    Glumly Horrible let the poor fellow lead her out. “Sorry,” she growled, as he started off.

    Mr Bobby was an expert in the waltz, though scarcely in the class of his brother Johnny. Nevertheless he trod on her foot and gasped: “What? Sorry! –What?”

    “I know you really wanted to dance with Peg. I’m sorry,” elaborated Horrible glumly.

    “Er—not at all, Miss Hortensia, assure you!” he gulped, turning beetroot.

    “Don’t lie,” said Horrible heavily. “And for God’s sake don’t call me Miss Hortensia.”

    “Y—um—beg pardon! Was sure I had the name right!” he gasped.

    “You do. But no-one of our ages calls me by it: ask Mendoza. Call me Horrible,” said Horrible on a grim note.

    Mr Bobby gulped audibly. “I couldn’t possibly.”

    “For pity’s sake! You’re the same age as my brothers! Are you so trained up that your mind has become completely rigid in its notions?”

    “I don’t think so,” he said, very flushed, and gnawing on that pouting red lip.

    Horrible sighed. “I never believed, before coming to London, that boys were drilled into propriety as much as girls are, but now I see that if anything their training is even stricter. You cannot, truly, see the opposite sex even as human beings, can you?”

    “Of course I can,” he said stiffly. “My mother is a well-read and intelligent woman with strong views upon the position of women.”

    “Really? If you truly share those views, you could call me Horrible as easily as you call my brother Mendoza.”

    Mr Bobby was silent.

    “No, very well,” she said with a sigh. “It is scarce your fault that they have you as well trained as a poodle.”

    “I am not a poodle,” he said in a shaking voice.

    Horrible relented, the more so as he looked as if he might burst into tears at any minute. “No, I didn’t mean that you were,” she said, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. “I was sympathising with your lot, actually.”

    “Oh,” he said doubtfully.

    “I suppose your family expect you to marry money? All the grand families seem to.”

    “Er—more or less.”

    She squeezed his hand again. “Yes. It’s very sad. I’m lucky to come from a very ordinary family.”

    “But I thought you were in town for the Season?” he fumbled.

    Horrible laughed her cheerful laugh. “No! I am just here to keep Peg company, and get a little town bronze before they dare to expose London fully to me, and to support poor Aunt Sissy when the task of chaperone and mistress of Cousin Jack’s house threatens to become too much for her! –I say, Mendoza says there is to be a cockfight tomorrow at Golder’s Green: shall you go?”

    “N— Ah—surely they will not let you go?” he gasped.

    “No, I’m afraid not. –Good, it’s ending: your hour of trial is over,” she noted drily. Seizing his hand, she unaffectedly towed him back to Lady Stamforth’s side.

    “So?” said her Ladyship as Mr Bobby succeeded in getting a dance with Peg.

    Horrible gave her a minatory look. “Inane. You know that, Lady Stamforth, so why did you make me dance with him?”

    “Well, Horrible,” she said, the head tilted a little to one side, the big dark eyes twinkling gently, “I suppose I thought that perhaps you might geenger heem up a leetle—no?”

    Horrible grimaced. “Mm. I suppose I thought so, too, if the truth be known.”

    “No?” she said.

    “No.”

    “Never mind, my dear, there are many, many more feesh een the sea, and by the law of averages, they cannot all be inane!” she said with her soft, low laugh. “Now, here ees dearest Cousin Tobias Vane, and he weell weesh to gossip,” she warned.

    “I don’t mind gossip,” said Horrible sturdily as the stout gourmet approached.

    Laughing, her Ladyship patted her hand, told her that it was a lie but a gallant one, and kindly gave her the choice of joining the Princess Anna or Nancy Uckridge.

    Horrible looked wryly from Anna, tonight under the joint protection of her old governess—it was a very boring débutantes’ party—and her Cousin Emilie’s companion, Fräulein Müller, to Nancy, lone prey of Mrs Uckridge, Miss Uckridge having reportedly refused point-blank to join in a children’s party. And apparently not having had the information that Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy would be present.

    “Scylla and Charybdis,” she noted drily. Lady Stamforth forthwith collapsing in helpless giggles, she grinned, and went off to join Anna with a good enough grace.

    “So?” beamed the stout gourmet, kissing his cousin’s wife’s hand eagerly.

    Lady Stamforth hit him lightly with her fan. “Stop that these eenstant, you naughty boy!” The smiling Mr Vane sat down beside her and she admitted: “Pretty leetle Mr Bobby has been tried een the fire and found wanting.”

    He nodded happily. “Nothing much to any of those C.-S. boys, my dear.”

    “No. Though Horrible’s fire ees vairy scorching!”

    “Now, now,” he said, patting her hand. “And Miss Buffitt?”

    She grimaced. “Tobias, I do not know what to do! She ees encouraging all the wrong ones! Yet Sissy and Horrible both assured me eet was going splendidly when Jack left for Lincolnshire, and she was tairribly grateful, and threelled when he said Anne must come to them!”

    “You had best get that letter off her.”

    “I tried, my dear, but she was adamant! Vairy polite but eensisted eet was private!”

    “Hm. In that case you had best get Lewis to do it.”

    “Horrors! Need eet come to that?” she gasped.

    “Silly one,” said the stout Mr Vane comfortably.

    She smiled. “No, well, eet could work. She vairy much admires heem, you know. At first I thought eet was because she had read the reports of hees speeches een the House, and then, meeting heem, of course she had the intelligence to see past the face!”

    “Naughty,” he said mildly, tapping her knee reprovingly.

    Hitting him lightly him with her fan, her Ladyship pursued: “But I theenk there ees more to eet. Someone appears to have given her the whole story of hees duel een the Peninsula weeth the princeling who had dishonoured a poor leetle serving-girl, for which Wellington had to send heem home.”

    “Possibly someone thought his young guest had best be apprised of what a thoroughly honourable fellow he is,” he said stolidly.

    “Was eet you?” demanded Lady Stamforth baldly.

    “Yes,” said her husband’s cousin simply.

    She smiled, and unaffectedly dropped a kiss on his large cheek. “I weell ask Lewis eef he would care to do eet. But mind, I shall not eensist eef he would rather not!”

    “I know that, Nan,” he said calmly.

     She sighed, and tapped his hand lightly with her fan. “Yes…” she said vaguely.

    “Is he quite well?” asked Mr Vane grimly.

    “Vairy well, but he does too much,” said Lady Stamforth with a sigh. “I have told heem he ees not to come to any more stupeed evening parties thees Season. And when we get down to the castle he can spend the entire summer playing weeth the children and pottering een the garden.”

    “Quite right,” he approved. “Quite right.”

    “So!” she said, trying to smile brightly. “You weell have to resign yourself to escorting me to the seelly parties, my dear!”

    Mr Vane’s plump, warm hand covered her little one and squeezed it comfortingly. “Of course, Nan. Now, do not upset yourself. This chaperoning business is too much for you, that is what it is.”

    “Why, no! Of course eet ees not!”

    Mr Vane frowned at her.

    “Oh, dear. Yes, you are right: I am hopeless at eet, my dear: hopeless! For I cannot forbear to dance weeth all the lovely ones, which ees not what a chaperone should do, and then I cannot seem to make the right ones pay the girls any attentions, and when the wrong ones do so, I cannot stop them! Why, I frowned dreadfully at Admiral Dauntry only yesterday, and he came straight up to me, kissed my hand in a most improper fashion, and offered to soothe the worry away!”

    In spite of himself the proper Mr Vane shook slightly. But he said firmly: “The thing is, my dear, these things cannot truly be managed unless one belongs to the school of thought that refuses to consider the wishes of the young people in the case. Mina is too young to fix her affections, as yet. Just let her enjoy herself, mm? I should not be surprised, you know, if it turned out to be young Laidlaw, in the end. But he is too young to settle down, too. And as for little Miss Buffitt… Hm. One cannot proceed further without the facts, my dear. Get Lewis to speak to her. Then we may decide on a course of action.”

    Gratefully the P.W. clutched the hand of the dull, stout Tobias Vane, known as one of the most boring men in London, and said fervently: “Yes, I shall do that! Thank you so vairy much, dearest Tobias!”

    Mr Vane just smiled his complacent smile. And told her all about the very different receet for, of all things, boiled cod, which he had sampled only yester night at the board of, of all people, Lady Middleton…

    “I see,” said Lord Stamforth placidly, handing the letter back to Peg. “Thank you for showing it me, my dear. Er—am I correct in saying that until he wrote this, your papa did not seem to be overly concerned with the outcome of your Season?”

    “Quite correct,” said Peg tightly.

    “Mm.”

    “In any case,” she said grimly—though Lord Stamforth had not asked, or even looked a further comment—“it is all quite irrelevant, for Mr Beresford has never had any intention of offering, and if he should do so, of course I shall refuse!”

    “Mm.”

    “And,” said Peg in a very angry voice, “he need not put himself to the trouble of finding me any eligibles, whatever Pa says, because I am quite capable of finding them for myself! And it is not his responsibility!”

    “I think it would be generally accorded to be a little his responsibility,” he murmured.

    Peg looked at him in amazed indignation.

    “As your father says, when one accepts the obligation of sponsoring a young lady for the Season—”

    “He is not sponsoring me!” cried Peg furiously.

    “Society would say he was, I think; but let us say, housing, merely. When one accepts that obligation, one is generally held, ipso facto, to have accepted also that of finding the young lady a suitable mate.”

    “It is the most outdated rubbish and fustian, and I think Pa must have run mad!” she cried with tears in her eyes.

    Stamforth did not think so. “Mm,” he said thoughtfully.

    “And how he could ever dream of ordering Mr Beresford to offer—!” she choked.

    “Many fathers would do just that, I think.”

    “He mistook me for a country wench,” said Peg, her cheeks scarlet. “And I shall never forgive Lance for telling!”

    “I can sympathise with a father’s wish to see you comfortably established with a man who can support you and your children,” he murmured.

    “Lord Stamforth, Pa never had such a notion in his life!”

    “No? Possibly your mother has persuaded him?”

    Peg was about to refute this notion hotly. Then she thought of Ma’s face when she had agreed to go to London, and hesitated.

    “My dear Miss Buffitt, there is no need at all to make any precipitate decisions. But it cannot do any harm for any young woman to consider her options.” Lord Stamforth rose, nodded kindly, and went out.

    Peg looked bitterly at Pa’s letter. “You may make him offer,” she said to it between her teeth, “but you cannot make me accept! I would not marry anyone who was totty-headed enough to conceive he has some sort of obligation towards me merely on the strength of a stupid kiss or because he has been kind enough to house me for the Season! And if he does, it—it will demonstrate that he is an imbecile! And I would sooner go to Aunt Honeywell!”

    … “You said what?” screamed Lady Stamforth.

    His Lordship looked at her calmly. “Can it do any harm for her to consider her options?”

    “To consider that one of them ees to take Jack B. because her father has forced heem to offer? You are an eediot, Lewis Vane!”

    “Well, not quite, I think,” he said mildly. “But the thought did occur, what if Beresford never offers—whether voluntarily or not?”

    “Lewis, that ees too cruel,” she said between shaking lips.

    “A little, perhaps. But life is cruel, my dearest. What are the girl’s options?”

    Her Ladyship looked at him mutinously.

    “Well?”

    “I shall never let her throw herself away on Admiral Dauntry! And—and I should never have encouraged the leetle Contessa to take old Uncle Érico Baldaya, and though I meant eet for the best and eet has turned out all right now—”

    “Yes—hush. It is not the same case at all. Miss Buffitt is not a widow and she does not have a dubious background, merely an obscure one. And Dauntry cannot be much more than sixty: one could certainly not contemplate with equanimity the idea of that child tied up to him for perhaps the next twenty years.”

    “No,” she said gratefully.

    “I suppose Fitz-Clancy might do, if he can be brought up to scratch. Or any one of the pleasant boys who are dangling after her.”

    “Lewis, none of them can afford to support a penniless wife!”

    “I do not think that is quite the case. Most of them could afford it, were they to give up town life, their clubs, their horses, and so forth.”

    “A decent man would, if he were truly een love,” said the P.W. grimly. “But imprimis, are they decent men, and secundus, are any of them truly een love weeth her?”

    “I think we must wait and see,” he said mildly.

    She glared.

    He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But it may all be irrelevant. The letter seemed to me most unlike Buffitt, if all Peg has said of him be true. It occurs to me that there might be more than one explanation for his writing it.” He watched with some satisfaction as his wife’s big brown eyes narrowed, the perfect ivory brow wrinkled, and finally the perfect rounded jaw dropped. “Mm,” he said wryly. “Judging by Miss Sissy’s report, Buffitt did not at all make a favourable impression on Jack Beresford. And if the boot be also on the other foot?”

    “Lewis,” she cried, “he weell have written eet to ensure she does not take the man!”

    “Quite.”

    “But we must— No: wait,” she said tensely.

    “My advice—though I am not your mentor, out of course—would be to let Nature take its course,” he said mildly.

    “But— No, wait; eef— No. Oh, bother!” she cried.

    He looked at her in some amusement, but said only: “Let Nature take its course, then?”

    “Er… But what eef she shows signs of taking someone unsuitable?”

    “You mean, someone other than Jack B., I think,” he said, looking prim. “Write her mother on the instant. I engage to see the letter carried by special courier.”

    “I shall hold you to that, Lewis Vane! For eet ees taking the most tairrible reesk!” cried the P.W. vividly.

    “Is it?” said Lewis Vane calmly. “I wonder…”

    It had also occurred to Peg, after the first shock of Pa’s letter had worn off, that the young gentlemen who were pursuing her with offers of drives in the Park, etcetera, were far from poor in her family’s terms, and might be considered not wholly ineligible partis, and alternatives to her elderly admirers, after all. For a person—two persons—did not need an elegant house in town, and a phaeton and pair, to survive! And very probably the amount that Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, to name but one, spent on his coats and gloves alone would support a little family in modest comfort in a decent cottage—even a small house, like the one that Maria and Paul had had on the Chelford Place estate. So on due consideration she did not positively discourage these younger gentlemen. And in fact graciously consented to allow Mr Bobby to drive her in his phaeton to Mr Greenstreet’s showing. Not suspecting that her escort had said hotly to his older brother: “I shall invite her, by God, and be damned to Beresford and his fat purse! Because what with damned Fitz-Clancy and that fat flawn Dauntry, one cannot hardly get near her, these days!” To which Johnny had laconically replied that he had best think up in advance a tactful phrase by which to convey to the lady that he could not afford any of the fellow’s dashed daubs.

    The page having assured them that Mr Greenstreet was receiving in the studio, up they went. For once the artist was minus the velvet bonnet, the flowing smock and the pink bow: looking, in fact, like any plumpish merchant one might pass in the street without a second glance. With, upon what he did not neglect to assure Miss Buffitt and Mr Cantrell-Sprague was this auspicious occasion, Mrs Greenstreet on his arm, resplendent in purple silk with a large cameo brooch and splendid cashmere shawl.

    “Delayghted, Ay’m sure, to make the acquaintance of one whom Greenstreet has assured me is the most perfect latter-day Greuze,” she smiled.

    Peg smiled weakly. Though admittedly it was her fell intent, in the wake of that letter, to urge Mr Greenstreet to continue with the portrait and sell it to whomsoever he wished. The which would, of course, show Mr Beresford.

    “But Greenstreet!” cried his wife, throwing up her hands just as Mr Bobby was making his bow. “What, if one may be permitted the expression, a perfect pair! A young Venus and Adonis, Ay think?”

    “Er—delighted, ma’am,” said Mr Bobby lamely.

    Graciously Mrs Greenstreet pursued: “Of the most refayned type, naturally, Mr Cantrell-Sprague. Chaste, you understand: chaste.”

    Mr Bobby had turned a strange shade and obviously did not know where to look; kindly the artist, though not neglecting to cast a connoisseur’s eye over his perfect person, explained: “Mrs Greenstreet is referring to the eventual portrait she is envisaging of yourself and the young lady, sir, not to yourself.”

    “Ah—oh! Quite!” he gasped.

    “That sounds like an excellent idea,” said Peg, an evil glint in her eye, “and then you would be able to sell it to whomsoever you pleased, would you not, Mr Greenstreet?”

    “Naturally, my dear Miss Buffitt; in the case, be it understood, that neither of the two leading, if one may so phrase it, figures, should not stake, or their nearest and dearest not care to stake, a prior claim,” he bowed, with a sideways look at Mr Bobby.

    “I have no nearest or dearest in town,” stated Peg grimly.

    “Er—no,” said Mr Greenstreet feebly.

    “And while we are on the subject, I wish you to complete that portrait of me.”

    “Er—” Again Mr Greenstreet looked sideways at Mr Bobby.

    “You did not tell me you had had a portrait commissioned, Miss Buffitt,” ventured that young man on an uneasy note.

    “Oh!” cried Peg airily. “But it is not commissioned, at all! Mr Greenstreet very kindly suggested it, and I was only too happy to sit for him! And it will go on public exhibition in his next showing, will it not, sir?”

    “Er—mm,” said Mr Greenstreet, clearing his throat and this time not looking at anybody.

    “May dear Miss Buffitt, far be it from mayself to interfere in anything at all pertaining to the artistic sayde of Greenstreet’s endeavours,” said Mrs Greenstreet with a gracious smile, “but was there not a prior understanding that that painting, delayghtful though it be—and the best Fred’s done this many a long year,” she noted—“be, as it were, set asayde? Until further permission?”

    “I dare say there was,” admitted Peg grimly. “But my father has just writ me in relation to the gentleman who established that understanding, and in the wake of that letter I can assure you, Mr Greenstreet, that there is no further let or hindrance to your completing the picture, displaying it publicly, and selling it for whatever you can get for it.”

    Mr Greenstreet shot her a shrewd glance but bowed and said smoothly: “In that case, there can be no further impediment, indeed, Miss Buffitt. Now, may I urge some delicate refreshment upon yourself and Mr Cantrell-Sprague? And perhaps you would care to circulate?”

    “Thank you very much. Indeed we should.” And on that Miss Buffitt towed Mr Cantrell-Sprague firmly on.

    As no further callers were immediately presenting themselves, Mrs Greenstreet had leisure to say in her husband’s ear: “He’ll be one of the noddies, then, Fred?”

    “That’s right. Weak as water, the lot of them, Mrs Watt was saying.”

    “Looks it, too, don’t ’e? So, where’s the rich cousin?”

    “Dunno.”

    The Greenstreets looked glumly at the young Venus and Adonis admiring a large landscape somewhat after Mr Turner. And Mr Greenstreet concluded—redundantly, for it was clear his spouse had immediately grasped the point, but nevertheless with a certainly gloomy satisfaction: “That ain’t no paying customer, or my name’s not Fred Greenstreet.”

    Vividly Miss Buffitt gave the scowling Roddy Calhoun an account of the visit with Mr Cantrell-Sprague to Mr Greenstreet’s showing. Mr Calhoun immediately invited her to drive out with him in the Park. As this had, more or less, been the object of the exercise, Peg smiled blithely…

    “Lord Michael Fitz-C. has eenvited us all,” said the P.W. on a weak note, “to join hees party to Richmond. For a peeckneeck,”

    “Delightful,” replied Miss Buffitt grimly.

    “Mamma, we have been to Richmond I know not how many times,” said Mina uneasily.

    “Yes, and Lord M. has a beeg red nose!” she conceded with a gurgle. “Do you truly weesh to go, Peg, my dear?”

    “Yes, please,” said Peg grimly.

    Sighing, the P.W. gave in.

    During the picnic their host, it was fair to say, entirely monopolised Miss Buffitt. On the other hand it was also fair to say that Miss Buffitt monopolised him. Miss Benedict, Miss Hortensia Laidlaw and even their lovely chaperone herself were left to the tender mercies of young Lord Ludo Delahunty, Mr Roddy Calhoun, and Mr Rollo Valentine.

    This morning’s proposed exercise being nothing more exciting than a stroll in the Park with Miss Nancy Uckridge, Mina and Horrible had both firmly refused to go. They would walk Mina’s pug-dog, instead. In the opposite direction, noted Horrible redundantly. Peg raised no objections, and duly set off with Nancy and one of Lady Stamforth’s footmen.

    Scarcely had they set their dainty toes within the Park gates than two young gentlemen, beaming and waving, were espied.

    “Did you make an assignation with them?” hissed Nancy. Not in tones of disapproval, by any means.

    Peg looked prim. “Certainly not. I merely conceded that if they were walking here at such-and-such an hour, they might see us.”

    Giggling, Nancy clutched her arm ecstatically and hissed, as the eager Messrs “Jimmy” Sortelha from the Portuguese Embassy and “Panardouche” Carvalho dos Santos approached: “You have improved wonderfully!”

    Two encounters with other young gentlemen followed, their Portuguese escorts coming off victorious in the resultant slight skirmishes. And Nancy made a mental note to persuade Peg to go walking more often. Then came an encounter which almost made her change her mind.

    “I theenk,” said Senhor Carvalho dos Santos on a sly note, “that that lady was geeving you an eveel glare, my dear Miss Buffitt.”

    Nancy gulped. That barouche had held Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton, accompanied by a fat gentleman who was not Lord Reggie.

    “So she was,” said Peg airily. “Which is odd, you know, for today I am not even accompanied by a fat cit!”

    Nancy gasped, and tried to smile, as the two young men dissolved in gales of somewhat unseemly laughter. Peg had most certainly changed since coming to London.

    “The Fürstin will be furious, Peg!” she concluded in some awe, as, two sets of broad naval shoulders having been sighted and signalled, the young gentlemen reluctantly sheered off into safer waters. “Whether Geddings intends making you an offer or no, you have most definitely caused him to ignore the Princess Anna all Season, and so she will have to fall back on her alternative plan. The which will also fail, because it is Senhor Carvalho dos Santos!”

    “Yes, I think you told me as much,” said Peg, her eyes on the two naval figures, “the very first time we walked here. –The gentleman with the bubbly white curls,” she said, as the hat was doffed to reveal them, although the gentlemen were still at a little distance, “is Captain Foxe-Forsythe. Be careful, he is an even worse flirt than the Admiral!”

    Nancy smiled weakly, and did not even have time to say that she knew this, from his reputation if not direct experience, before the gentlemen were upon them. The young ladies presented, apparently, the most delicately lovely of appearances, the whole effect being that of two delightful zephyrs. Nancy, not of a poetical turn of mind, eyed the gentlemen dubiously, so Peg explained kindly: “Two breaths of spring, I think is possibly the image intended. But in my experience spring winds can be very hard and cutting.” She looked hard at the gentleman who had produced the image. Laughing delightedly, Admiral Dauntry assured her that sailors were used to navigating in any sort of weather, but that he sincerely trusted the zephyrs would be kind today! And walked off with her on his arm.

    Gallantly the gentleman known to Society as “Micky Fox” offered his arm. Limply Nancy took it. Her mother would undoubtedly lock her up on bread and water for the rest of the Season should she ever get to hear of it…

    The great day had come: Miss Benedict’s ball. The Stamforths’ household had been in a ferment over it for weeks. The fact that Mina herself was not so excited had gone unremarked by all save her kindly step-papa. And even he had not gone so far as to stop Lady Stamforth. Noting, in fact: “There was no hope that she would let you off lightly, my dear. Think of it as a cross to bear.” Mina had conceded she would, not noticing a certain ironic gleam in Lord Stamforth’s eye.

    Mr Beresford was not yet back from Lincolnshire, alas. But that, of course, need not stop them! So they had it. The blonde Mina was exquisite in white spider gauze over pale blue silk, with tiny white knots of mixed pale blue and white satin ribbons. Horrible was almost equally exquisite in white muslin over pale green silk with pale green ribbons—Lady Stamforth having vetoed, with a gurgle of laughter, the victim’s glum suggestion of black bombazine. Her Ladyship was, according to herself, matronly in deep emerald silk. With the diamonds. However, they were all outshone by the glowing Miss Buffitt, in a simple white muslin over white silk, with a plain white sash and no jewellery at all. But a couple of white rosebuds pinned to the bodice, and one in the curls. After a moment Horrible, not bothering to ask how she did it, for it was obvious she did not do anything, that face and those gold curls did it all for her, croaked feebly: “Where is Cousin Jack’s brooch?”

    “What? Oh, that. I have mislaid it,” she said airily.

    “Who—who sent the flowers, Peg?” quavered Mina.

    “Oh—these? I think it was Lord Michael Fitz.-C. Or was it Mr Rollo Valentine? I forget,” she said airily.

    Horrible had predicted grimly that the dance would be a disaster. The young lady in whose honour it was supposedly being held had agreed fervently with this prediction. In the event, the girls were not far wrong. For one thing, the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen and the Princess Anna, though most certainly invited, did not attend. Horrible merely drew a very deep breath when Mina pointed this out to her.

    “But Geddings is come!” she hissed.

    Horrible’s mouth tightened. “Well, quite.”

    The girls watched in despair as Lord Geddings solicited Peg’s hand, was smilingly accepted, and bore her into a country dance…

    “Not that I want poor Anna to be forced to have him,” conceded Horrible sadly.

    “No,” she agreed, squeezing her arm.

    The Duke of Wellington was also present and in due course—in the intervals of soliciting Mina’s stepmamma for far too many dances—was observed to be smiling benignly upon the spectacle of Geddings again dancing with Miss Buffitt.

    Mina sat down beside Horrible. “Did you see? Old Hooky is smiling at Geddings and Peg!”

    “Yes,” said Horrible with the scowl. “I could hardly miss it. Added to which, I could hardly miss the fact that he is doing it not to signal his approval to G., the which he must already have done, or the man would never have asked Peg for those two dances, but in order to signal his approval of the thing to the whole of Society!”

    “Oh, my God,” said Mina in dismay. “You are right, of course! Horrible, this is dreadful! Why is your cousin Jack delaying his return so long?”

    “Ssh. Well, I don’t know. Nursing the dashed team back in easy stages?”

    “Knowing gentlemen,” she said evilly, “that is not impossible.”

    “Quite.”

    After that it was clear it could only go from bad to worse. The which it duly did.

    “I am not dancing any more,” said Horrible brutally as a very young hussar bowed low before her. Gulping, the military man retreated, and Horrible went over to where Mina was chatting to Mendoza and his friends Douglas Lacey and the G.-G. twins. “Leave those fribbles: they are not worth the time of day.”

    “Hoy!” cried her brother indignantly, but too late, Horrible had dragged Mina away.

    “Peg is allowing Lord M. Big-Red-Nose to offer G. a challenge,” she said grimly.

    “What?”

    “Not literally, you imbecile! Has consorting with Mendoza and his stupid little pals addled your brain? No, they are competing, and she is encouraging them! Look!”

    Mina looked. Peg was sitting on a sofa, smiling. No, smirking. To her right, Lord Geddings in his faultless evening clothes, smiling eagerly. To her left, Lord Michael, less sartorially remarkable but just as smiling and eager. “Help,” she concluded limply.

    “Your mamma will not do anything!” her friend pointed out fiercely.

    Mina smiled limply. “Well, do not blame me, Horrible.”

    “No, sorry. But I was supposed to keep an eye on her. Mamma will—um, well, she is too decent to say I have failed,” she admitted. “But she’ll be upset.”

    Mina looked despairingly at the spectacle of Peg flirting with two old men. At last she ventured: “Horrible, could you not appeal to his mamma?”

    “What? Whose?”

    “Mr Beresford’s,” she said, going very pink.

    The valiant Horrible’s jaw sagged. “Write Aunt Beresford?” she croaked.

    Mina stuck out her chin. “Why not? Can it do any harm?”

    Horrible looked at the flirting Peg. She winced. “Er—help. What could I say? No, very well!” she said hastily. “I’ll think about it.”

    Mina sagged in relief. “Good.”

    Lady Bullivant was not amused by débutantes’ balls but she was present for Diane’s sake. And because one did not turn down an invitation from Stamforth House. She also goggled at the spectacle of Jeremy endeavouring to engage the attention of the Buffitt chit. And when the encounter of the sofa had resulted in Lord Michael’s leading the prize onto the floor under the interested gaze of all Society, made her way to her brother’s side.

    “Have you changed your mind, or is it perhaps the weather?”

    Geddings winced. “Don’t be like that, Susan. No, well, my sentiments remain unchanged,” he said, eyeing Miss Buffitt laughing in the Fitz-Clancy arms. “But Arthur’s have—er—apparently undergone a change.”

    His sister’s jaw dropped.

    “Mm,” he said drily.

    “He approves?” she gasped.

    “I would not go that far. Let us say, rather, he sympathises,” he murmured.

    “Jeremy, sympathy is not a word in the man’s vocabulary!”

    “Puts it rather well. Er—no, well, as far as is within his nature, my dear, he sympathises. What he actually said was: ‘I expect I shall see you at the Stamforth ball? Dare say y’might dance with the little Buffitt, hey? Pretty child. And nothin’ against her, really, is there?’”

    Her Ladyship’s large blue eyes bulged.

    “Quite,” said Geddings drily.

    “Buh-but— Well, shall you, dear old boy?” she said limply.

    “Rather then let Fitz-C. marry her and immure her in a damned Irish dungeon for the rest of her days?”

    “Do not be silly: the property is the brother’s, of course.”

    “No, well, the sentiment, not the letter, Susan.” His sister was looking at him in some concern. He smiled a little. “Should you dislike it?”

    “My dear, I should prefer it if you could truly feel something for her. But I should not dislike it, no.”

    “Then perhaps I shall,” he murmured.

    “What lovely posies!” cried Mina admiringly, as the Stamforth House butler presented them to Miss Buffitt.

    Peg shrugged slightly.

    “Who sent them, Peg?”

    Peg read the card on the yellow one. “Senhor Carvalho dos Santos. His mother will never allow it. And nor will the Fürstin, of course. A pity: yellow is quite my colour.”

    The girls smiled weakly.

    Peg pinked up the pink one. “Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy,” she said in a bored voice. “Lovely. But pink is not my colour.” She read the card on the third: very pretty, and rather more suited to one of her colouring, being composed of white rosebuds set round with little green ferns. “Geddings. Delightful. Faultless taste, of course,” she said coolly, walking out.

    “Horrible, it’s obvious she does not care the snap of her fingers for any of them!” cried Mina. “You must write to your Aunt Beresford!”

    “Um, well… but she’s in Austria. A letter will take forever to reach her.”

    Mina’s little pointed face hardened. “It will not, for I shall ask Papa to send it by courier.”

    Horrible turned puce. “You cannot do that!”

    “Yes, I can. Well, I have never asked for such a thing before. But do not suggest we ask Mamma instead, for you know what she is: she is more than capable of saying one thing and doing another, if she should change her mind or have some other silly scheme in mind!”

    Horrible bit her lip, but nodded.

    … Lord Stamforth looked at Mina thoughtfully. “What is in this?”

    “A full explanation of the whole thing,” replied his stepdaughter grimly.

    “Then in that case, I shall dispatch it at once,” he said calmly, ringing the bell.

Next chapter:

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