"Revelry By Night"

9

“Revelry By Night”

    The Marquis and Marchioness of Rockingham were holding a ball. Miss Buffitt, Miss Hortensia Laidlaw, Miss Mina Benedict and Miss Nancy Uckridge were, of course, all highly gratified to have received an invitation. Even though there had been an huge receiving line, with the consequent effect upon the feet, before the thing had even begun. Now they sat meekly by the wall under their chaperone’s care like good little girls. Or rather, since Lady Stamforth was their chaperone tonight, they sat meekly by the wall waiting until the usual crowd of admirers should have released her Ladyship to her duties. It was true that Mrs Uckridge was also present, but oddly enough she had appeared extremely gratified to see Nancy absorbed into Lady Stamforth’s party. And, indeed, was at this moment crossly informing Miss Uckridge, who had criticised this absorption, that it could do Nancy nothing but good to have the entrée to those circles.

    Miss Uckridge looked with disfavour at the spectacle of the elderly Admiral Dauntry fawning over Lady Stamforth’s hand. “Yes, it will offer the opportunity of meeting such eligible men.”

    “Ssh! He is a widower, you know.”

    “And in his dotage,” she said blightingly.

     The Admiral was not that. And to be left a wealthy widow when one was still under thirty was not the horridest fate that any young woman might contemplate. “Well, we shall see,” she said vaguely.

    All the world being present at Lord and Lady Rockingham’s ball, there was plenty of opportunity for observation and comment.

    “That, of course,” said Miss Cantrell-Sprague on an acid note, “must be preferable to his dangling after the Buffitt creature.”

    Mrs Cantrell-Sprague looked. Johnny was whirling round the floor in the waltz with Lady Stamforth clamped to his chest. Her lips tightened.

    Miss Prudence gaped. “Mamma, I thought you said that dancing the waltz in that fashion was vulgar?”

    “Frightful woman,” said Mrs Cantrell-Sprague coldly.

    Her eldest daughter shared this opinion: nevertheless she gulped, and hissed: “Mamma, hush! She has the entrée everywhere!”

    “I know not why. –Prudence, sit up straight and smile, if you please! Here is Mr George Potter!” She beamed upon him. Highly gratified, Mr George came up, bowed very low and led out the shrinking Prudence, who had never dared to point out to her mamma that he was notorious amongst the younger set for bestowing unwanted kisses upon unwilling débutantes.

    After a moment’s contemplation of the dance Miss Cantrell-Sprague pointed out: “Young Potter is as bad as his brother was in his day, you know, Mamma.”

    “Can it signify? They know everybody,” she said tightly.

    Miss Cantrell-Sprague shrugged slightly and did not press the point. Clearly Prudence was fated to be led into a little alcove and kissed by a junior Potter, just as she and Lilian had been led into little alcoves and kissed by the senior Potter…

    Since it was Hammond House, the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen had arrived early. Reasonably early. She and Anna were escorted this evening by one Hans van Boltenstern, a military attaché at the Prussian Embassy. He was a stodgy bore, like all Prussians, but it was preferable to accepting Admiral Du Fresne’s offer, the which could only have encouraged that gentleman to believe she was interested in a further offer. She herself was in an unusual combination of a pale fawn satin, frosted with palest lemon-yellow lace in the most delicate of patterns. With the tortoiseshell lorgnette, and a spray of pale yellow feathers on the head. The fan featured more of the yellow lace, with tortoiseshell sticks. She was quite pleased with the effect, though not absolutely sure that she should have worn her diamonds. But the topaz set had been just maddeningly the wrong shade of yellow. Anna was Missish but correct in white organdie over silk with this year’s fuller puff sleeves and wider sash, the sash being in a pale blue which went well with the delicate necklace of pale sapphires—just right for a young girl. The Fürstin allowed the lorgnette to linger for a moment on the horridly overdressed Miss Highetts: both in elaborate silk creations.

    “Oh, dear,” said Anna under her breath.

    “What is it?”

    “Nothing, Mamma!” she gasped, but too late: the lorgnette was refocussed.

    “Geddings dancing with the P.W.? What can that signify, my dear: she is a married woman,” she said lightly.

    The point was that Lord Geddings was here at all. He would inevitably request a dance of her, because, it had recently dawned on the Princess Anna, it was the fell intent of Mamma and His Grace the Duke of Wellington to marry her off to his Lordship. It was doubtful that his Lordship himself would have any say in the matter. And in any case, once he knew that the Duke wished for it, the thing would be settled.

    “Arthur is quite interested in the stepdaughter for one of his nephews,” said her mamma lightly.

    “What? Oh—yes, Miss Benedict,” said Anna glumly. That was it, then. Relations between the House of von Maltzahn-Dressen and that of Wellesley had not always been entirely harmonious but now that Adélaïde had married one of his nephews and Mamma had started calling him “Arthur” once more…

    Lady Highett had at one point had hopes of Lord Geddings for Caroline. She watched with annoyance as he whirled in the waltz with the P.W. clasped far too tightly to his chest. “That woman is ubiquitous,” she said under her breath.

    “She is old, and married,” retorted Miss Penelope Highett with a pout.

    “By my count, all of a year older than your sister!” snapped her mother. “And not content with three husbands of her own—”

    Miss Penelope, scowling, stopped listening.

    … Miss Chambury’s august mamma having signally failed to capture anything that even looked like asking Miss Chambury to dance, Miss Chambury had plenty of leisure for observation. She looked bitterly at Miss Nancy Uckridge, all pink and smiles, whirling round with Mr Shirley Rowbotham, Miss Benedict, elegant in pale blue, whirling round with Senhor Carvalho dos Santos, and that miserable little Buffitt creature flirting outrageously with young Mr Calhoun as they whirled round. As the dance ended and Mr Calhoun escorted his prize tenderly back to her chair, her gaze sharpened. “Look,” she said in her mother’s ear: “it is true, the Buffitt creature is lame.”

    Lady Chambury raised the lorgnette. “Er—I cannot see it,” she admitted reluctantly.

    No, and more that that, she could apparently not see Lord William Fitz-Clancy and his horrid hussar friends propping up the wall talking and laughing while she, Alexandra Chambury, was forced to sit beside her mamma like a wallflower!

    Her Ladyship was examining Lady Stamforth’s group. “That Carvalho dos Santos boy must marry money.”

    “Oh, quite; and Miss Benedict is reputed to have no less than thirty thousand pounds, so will that not be convenient for both of them?” said Alexandra arctically.

    “Really? I wonder…”

    “If you are thinking of Peter or Freddy, Mamma, I dare say she would do for them, only most unfortunately as of this instant Freddy is begging the Buffitt creature for the next!”

    So he was. “Good Heavens! We must nip that in the bud, Alexandra.”

    “How?” said Miss Chambury arctically. “Or do you wish to alienate at one blow, Lady S., Lord S.—that would please Papa—and Mr Beresford?”

    “N— Really, Alexandra,” she said without conviction.

    Miss Chambury ignored her.

    “And at all events, Mr Beresford is not here,” said Lady Chambury on a weak note.

    Miss Chambury had, actually, noticed that. She ignored her.

    Observation had also made the Miss Abbotts and their cousin, Miss Nugent, aware of several facts. One of which was Mr Beresford’s absence.

    “I told you the Buffitt creature limped!” said Miss Ariadne Abbott on a vicious note.

    “Added to which,” noted Miss Abbott icily, “she is positively fairylike in that white with the yellow embroidery, whilst your choice of yellow tonight was definitely a mistake.”

    “Oh, my dear!” protested Miss Nugent with a titter. “It is charming!”

    “Not, however, as charming as the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen’s yellow creation—what that woman spends on lace alone in a year, I shudder to think. But that cannot, of course, signify, unless one should wish to attract Herr von Boltenstern away from her,” she said sweetly.

    As the entire family knew of Miss Ariadne’s passion for the burly Prussian, Miss Nugent bit her lip and was silent.

    “At all events you may give up any hope of Jack Beresford,” hissed Miss Ariadne furiously, “for I know it for a fact that they are laying bets in the clubs that his engagement to the Buffitt creature will announced before the Season is out!”

    Miss Nugent took one look at Miss Abbott’s face, smiled palely and uttered valiantly: “Only in the event his mother does not return from Austria, Ariadne!”

    The Abbott sisters, both white-faced and tight-lipped, ignored her utterly, and Miss Nugent shrank into herself. Though not without a certain veiled gleam in her eye. The position of poor relation was not a comfortable one, and neither of her cousins had ever made any effort to ease it for her.

    … The orchestra played nobly, servants in the maroon and black Hammond livery circulated with trays of champagne, and yet more eligibles were observed, imprimis, to join the queue for a dance with Lady Stamforth and, secundus, to join the growing crowd begging dances of her young charges.

    Lady Margaret Fitz-Clancy was in the care of an aunt: her mamma did not care for London. Lady Margaret was crossly aware that if perhaps Mamma took the trouble, she might have rather more chance of being brought to the notice of some eligibles. Or to that of their mammas, even more crucial for a young woman wishing to establish herself creditably. “Uncle Michael is dancing with that Portuguese creature again!” she pointed out in a low, angry voice.

    Lady Catherine Fosdyke was an amiable, rather fussy-mannered woman who was not, apparently, aware that a Fitz-Clancy might have done very much better for herself than a mere Mr Fosdyke. She peered at the floor; she was rather short-sighted. “Oh, yes! They make a striking pair.”

    Lady Margaret’s aristocratic lips tightened angrily.

    “Well, I would not worry, my dear,” she said, putting a plump, hot hand on her niece’s arm. “She is married, you know.”

    “He is making himself,” she said, glaring at her uncle with loathing, “remarkable.”

    “Goodness, my dear, I wouldn’t say that! All the gentlemen admire Lady Stamforth!” she said with a comfortable chuckle.

    “She was a nobody, before she caught him. And that mother of hers was notorious.”

    “Well, perhaps she was, but it was nigh on thirty years back,” she said comfortably. “And the Vanes, you know—”

    Quite. And why had none of her damned family made a push, once it was clear that Lewis Vane would inherit from the old uncle, to introduce her to his notice? She was far better bred, and far more aware of what was due to the position of Viscountess Stamforth than that Portuguese creature, as witness tonight’s conduct!

    “Now that is a very pretty woman,” said Lady Catherine comfortably. “Look, my dear, in the very pale green silk. Now, you could wear that shade!” she encouraged her.

    Lady Margaret’s aristocratic nostrils flared. “She has red hair,” she said shortly.

    “Why no, my dear! Auburn: delightful!” She peered. “I am not absolutely sure who she is.”

    Lady Margaret looked with loathing at the Countess of Sleyven whirling around the floor with Lord Geddings. “Lady Sleyven,” she said shortly.

    “Oh, of course! Now, that was a most romantic story! And if we are to talk of nobodies making great matches,” she said, lowering her voice, “one could not go past that! Some obscure family from his county, of which no-one had ever heard. And to catch a Wynton—!”

    Quite. Not only a Wynton, but the Wynton. And why had none of her damned family made a push, when his cousin died and Jarvis Wynton inherited the title, to introduce her to his notice before some ill-bred little country mouse could get her claws into him?

    Lady Catherine’s gaze returned to her brother, whirling round with Lady Stamforth. “I dare say dear Michael might dance with you, my dear.” She waved hopefully.

    Dance with one’s own uncle, at the Rockingham ball? Lady Margaret’s thin bosom swelled ominously. If that was all Aunt Catherine could do for her, why the Devil had they bothered to send her to London for the Season at all?

    … “So?” said Peg, a twinkle in her eye, as Mr George Potter deposited Horrible back with them after their dance. And after the sitting-out in a little alcove after their dance.

    “Yes!” she choked, going into a paroxysm. “I shall write Nobby this very night!”

    “What was it like?”

    “Horrid!” she squeaked, going off in further paroxysms.

    Peg grinned. “Alas, you are not grown up yet, then!”

    … The orchestra played nobly, servants circulated with more trays of champagne, and still the queues for dances with Lady Stamforth and her young charges swelled.

    The Fürstin and Senhora Carvalho dos Santos had naturally gravitated together. No remarks had been passed about Lady Stamforth; in the first instance, she was connected to one of the oldest families in Portugal, and in the second instance, they were aware that their sentiments were precisely the same. The Senhora’s little dark eyes had merely flickered over her Ladyship’s form, glorious in silver satin, the sleeves very puffed, the neckline wholly expectable, and the diamonds at the throat and in the hair a blaze of blue-white fire; and the Fürstin’s lorgnette had merely passed fleetingly over the spectacle of the said form plastered to His Grace of Wellington’s chestful of ribbons and medals in the waltz.

    After a little Senhora Carvalho dos Santos was seen to stiffen alarmingly.

    The Fürstin’s lorgnette followed the direction of her gaze. “Ma chère! In-sup-por-table,” she breathed.

    The ladies watched avidly as Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton entered on the arm of the stout party who had been observed in her company at the opera.

    “One wonders,” said the Senhora in an undervoice, “that dear Lady Rockingham invited the creature.”

    “It will have been a courtesy only. The sort of invitation,” said the Fürstin on a grim note, “which is never intended to be accepted, n’est-ce pas?”

    “And which one should never accept: absolument, ma chère.”

    They looked with distaste at Lady Reggie’s idea of mourning: the diadem again, with the veil. The gown black gauze over black satin, featuring a wide satin sash with a giant gauze rose, satin-edged, centred. More such giant roses featured in the huge flounce at the hem. The arms glimmered through the gauze of the unlined puffs.

    “The veil,” said the Senhora in a detached voice, after quite some time, “of course must signal the mourning.”

    “Then possibly she does not intend to dance?”

    “Doubtless all things are possible, Fanny, ma chère.”

    Peg had just finished a dance with Mr Valentine. “Oh, do but look! I am sure that is the lady of the wonderful portrait!”

     Mr Valentine experienced a sinking feeling. He looked. Oh, God.

    “You remember, dear sir; at the Royal Academy!” she urged.

    “Er—yes. Dare say it might be.”

    “I wonder who she is? –You know, we thought we saw her at the opera. She was in black, then, too. Oh, dear; do you think she is in mourning?”

    Mr Valentine’s amiable face assumed the very same expression of distaste which had just adorned that of two of the stiffest grandes dames in London. “Dare say. Something what she imagines passes for it.”

    “That is a wonderful gown,” she murmured.

    “Overdone,” said Mr Valentine grimly.

    “Oh, but she has the figure to support it, do you not think?”

    The question was, rather, what the Devil was supporting the figure, especially at her age. Because that gown certainly weren’t. “Not actually, Miss Buffitt, no. Um—care for a glass of something?” he said desperately.

    Smiling, Miss Buffitt allowed Mr Valentine to lead her off in search of refreshment.

     –“That,” noted Miss Highett evilly, “will get her precisely nowhere. Unless she imagines it will make his friend jealous?”

    Miss Penelope Highett had just had a dance with one, Captain Hoxham, and was feeling quite pleased with herself on account of it. They were an old county family, Papa knew his papa slightly, and if a dragoon’s uniform did not appeal, nevertheless one could put up with it. She adjusted her large sapphire bracelet slightly, and drawled: “As his friend is not here, one fails to see how it could do that.”

    Miss Highett’s well-bred nostrils flared angrily. “Have you remarked the P.W.’s diamonds this evening?” she said airily.

    Her sister stared at her. “Er—yes.”

    “That blaze of blue-white: I dare say the finest in the room,” said Miss Highett dreamily.

    “Er—yes,” agreed Miss Penelope uneasily.

    “One does so admire,” said Miss Highett evilly, allowing her gaze to wander from the blue drops in her sister’s ears, to the large blue pendant round her neck, and thence to the large brooch on her bosom and down to the bracelet, “her restraint in the matter of brooches and bracelets. The tiara, the collar, and the earrings alone: exquisite taste. Just right.”

    At the which Miss Penelope, alas, was reduced to snarling: “How would you know?”

    Still the orchestra played its arms out of its sockets, his Lordship’s iced champagne circulated, the crush grew… Lady Stamforth had now danced with everything in the peerage from the rank of Duke down that was not positively halt or blind. Not excluding the foreign notables. She had also danced with the prettiest of the younger men, a fact which had not gone unnoticed. Certainly not by their mothers and the unfortunate débutantes whom they were ignoring. And their mothers.

    The young ladies in Lady Stamforth’s charge had also been favoured with dances by the most of her court. None of it had gone unremarked.

    … “You’re dashed late,” said Mr Valentine mildly as his old friend appeared, looking bored.

    “Can't dance with the dashed arm, Val,” replied Mr Beresford indifferently.

    “Affects your legs, do it?”

    “No, but a fellow does not wish to discommode all the ladies in the set.”

    “Dare say. A fellow what was interested might manage a waltz, however. –The McDiarmid seems mighty taken with Miss Buffitt,” he noted.

    Mr Beresford shrugged. “The family would never countenance it. Got some squint-eyed Scotch heiress lined up for him, in any case.”

    “I dare say they may, but it don’t become you to speak of your cousin in such terms, Jack.”

    Mr Beresford blinked at him. “Eh?”

    “Saying they would never countenance it,” he said grimly.

    “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he drawled.

    “Shut it. It ain’t mine what needs begging. Added to which, the P.W. has let her dance with half her own dashed court: it don’t look too good.”

    “What? With whom?” he said with a laugh.

    Scowling, Mr Valentine began to tell them over on his fingers. “Old Dauntry—never thought the human body could get so close in a mere waltz, and may I remind you, he may be a senior officer, but he is far from immune. Damned Fitz-Clancy: had two with him.”

    “He has a big red nose, Val,” he drawled.

    Mr Valentine took a deep breath. “And one of the fattest purses in London. What, as if you needed telling, the Fitz-Clancy clan has been relying upon to restore the family fortunes. And half of them is here tonight, and looking daggers at the poor little soul!”

    “What, that hag Lady M. Fitz-C.?” he said with a laugh.

    “That’s right. She’s looking at you as of this minute. If I was you I’d go and dance with her, never mind no damned busted wing.”

    “Oh, I don’t think you would,” he drawled.

    Mr Valentine gave him a baffled glare.

    “Go on. Or was that it? Nothing under fifty?”

    “Geddings,” he said tightly.

    “He is not so very much under fifty. And possibly he did not wish to make his interest in Mina Benedict too obvious,” he drawled.

    “He ain’t interested in Miss Benedict, y’fool! Your Aunt Fanny and Old Hooky between ’em are lining him up for your poor little Cousin Anna!” he hissed furiously.

    Mr Beresford, alas, at this collapsed in splutters.

    “Look, Jack, it ain’t funny. The man’s a gazetted flirt. And all the damned P.W. did was laugh!”

    “Ain’t he interested in her, too?” he drawled. “Or do he dance like that with anything with a nabob’s fortune in diamonds round her neck?”

    “Not amusing, Jack.”

    Mr Beresford raised his eyebrows slightly but said mildly: “Val, I think you are taking it all too seriously. It is but one ball, after all. Whom else did she allow to dance with Miss Buffitt?”

    “Every pretty lad in the room. Bobby C.-S. got two, but of course, one need not take it seriously,” he said with awful irony, “because he also got two with the P.W.!”

    “Anything of an age, disposition, and fortune to support her?” he drawled.

    “Jack, if it were not for that arm, I swear I would drop you where you stand!” he hissed, walking off and leaving him.

    Mr Beresford shrugged. He propped his shoulders against a pillar and looked around the Hammond House ballroom with a bored expression on his handsome face…

    “He is here!” said Miss Abbott tensely, clutching her sister’s arm.

    Miss Ariadne jumped, and dragged her eyes off Herr von Boltenstern waltzing with the Fürstin. “What?”

    “Ooh, yes!” squeaked Miss Nugent. “Is he not saturnine?” She gave a little shiver.

    “Fatuous, Pamela,” said Miss Abbott coldly. She endeavoured to catch Mr Beresford’s eye. It was plain to all three ladies that he saw her: but he ignored her.

    … “Oh, my!” said Lady Catherine Fosdyke happily, “that very handsome Mr Beresford is here after all, my dear. Look: by the pillar!”

    Lady Margaret had already noticed him. “Really?” she said coldly.

    “My dear, give him a little encouragement!” she hissed.

    Lady Margaret had followed the direction of Mr Beresford’s gaze. Her aristocratic lip curled. “I believe he is getting that. I beg you will not class me in the same category with that frightful woman Reggie B.-D. married, Aunt.”

    Lady Catherine looked from Mr Beresford to the dimpling, signalling Lady Reggie and back again. “Oh, dear!”

    Lady Chambury was chatting to Lady Lavinia Dewesbury, who was not launching a daughter this year. And as she had recently married off the Dewesbury heir and the next boy was still in the schoolroom, it was, really, a restful experience for both ladies. At least until Lady Lavinia’s daughter, Lady Ferdy Lacey, came up to them and enquired sweetly whether Alexandra were not dancing, this evening. Lady Lavinia endeavoured to repress Gwennie by the power of her eye alone. It generally worked quite well. This evening, however, it had no effect, and she registered with annoyance that Ferdy Lacey had once again deserted his wife in favour of the card room and that in consequence Gwennie was again drinking too much champagne. “I believe she was dancing, Gwendolyn,” she said majestically.

    Gwennie giggled, and opened her big blue eyes very wide. “Then perhaps she would care to dance with Mr Beresford? Look, he has just come in! –Ferdy and I know him quite well,” she said to the hapless Miss Chambury. “Let me take you over to him. In spite of all those rumours, he does not appear positively obsessed by the country cousin, does he?”

    “Thank you, but I think he is not dancing, with his poor arm,” said Miss Chambury tightly.

    Giggling, Gwennie fluted: “Oh, I shall go and ask him!” And flitted off to do so. The three ladies watched, perforce. Gwennie was observed to flutter the lashes, and simper. Mr Beresford was observed to say something cold. Gwennie was observed to collapse in helpless giggles, shaking her head at him and hitting him with her fan. Then she was observed to be heading somewhat unsteadily back to them. “I cannot possibly tell you what he said, my dear!” she gasped. “But I can utterly promise you he is not dancing!”

    Poor Miss Chambury was very red. “Of course,” she said tightly.

    Again Lady Lavinia tried the power of the eye, but again it had no effect in the face of Gwennie’s Cousin Rockingham’s champagne. She seized her arm. “I apologise for my daughter, Lady Chambury; Miss Chambury,” she said grimly. “–Gwendolyn, you have had too much champagne. Come with me.” Grimly she led her giggling form off.

    The Chambury ladies looked at one another limply.

    “Doubtless a Hammond,” said Lady Chambury eventually, “may feel free to indulge in that sort of directness, in her nephew’s ballroom.”

    “Er—yes.”

    Lady Chambury directed an evil look at Mr Beresford. “As for him! Well, my dear, he may be one of the most eligible bachelors in London, but he is certainly one of the worst-mannered. I think we need not bother our heads further with him.”

    “No, Mamma,” she said bleakly.

    Lady Chambury looked around the room. “Ah: dear Charles Q.-V. I have known his sister-in-law, Lilian Q.-V., this age, you know.”

    “Mamma, Captain Quarmby-Vine has been at the P.W.’s feet these past—”

    “Nonsense, dear child,” she said majestically. “She is a married woman: what can that signify? Come along!”

    Sourly Miss Chambury allowed herself to be led off and laid at the feet of the bluff middle-aged sea-dog. The laughingstock of all London, what with his unrequited and very public passion for the P.W., followed in rapid succession by his unrequited and far too public passion for the little Contessa— Oh, horrors! Just like Jack B.: what would people say?

    … The orchestra was still playing valiantly. Lady Stamforth descended upon Mr Beresford, all smiles. “The next ees the supper dance, and after eet you must join us for supper!”

    “Delighted. Er—I am afraid this arm is preventing my performing on the floor, ma’am.”

    She gave a trill of delicious laughter. “My dear, one ees flattered, but we have all been booked up for eet thees age! Come and talk to Lewis: he ees so bored, poor angel!”

    Resignedly Mr Beresford let himself be dragged off to Stamforth’s side. His Lordship did not appear precisely bored but then, as all London knew, that face gave nothing away. Mr Beresford watched limply as Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy claimed the P.W. for the supper dance, young Lord McDiarmid claimed Miss Buffitt, a young fellow with hair as red as her own claimed Horrible—oh, yes: Douglas Lacey, of course—and Mendoza claimed Mina Benedict. Oh, and a very young hussar claimed Peg’s friend the mop-headed giggler, Miss Nancy Whatsername.

    “Dear me,” said Lord Stamforth very, very mildly as they all whirled off into the waltz.

    Mr Beresford took a deep breath. “Yes?”

    “Well, as you know,” he said on an apologetic note, “Nan is doing it to annoy every hag in the room who might have her eye on Fitz-Clancy’s nabob’s fortune for her daughter.”

    Mr Beresford had to swallow. “Mm.”

    “And since Mina and Mendoza have known each other for something like eight years, during which time they have shown no interest in each other except when plotting mischief together—remind me to tell you of the pugs’ chariot race: it was quite a spectacle, your Cousin Charlotte was in hysterics over it—I rather think they are doing it to spite, on the one hand, any dashed silly notion that Wellington and his court may have conceived about linking Mina’s dowry and incidentally her share of Nan’s fortune, in the years to come, to the Wellesley name, and on the other hand, Nan’s dashed silly notion that the Lacey boy and Mina might suit. Which is also why he and Horrible are dancing together.”

    “I see,” he said feebly.

    “And although I do not know her very well, I suspect Miss Buffitt accepted to dance it with McDiarmid for rather the same reasons Nan is dancing it with Fitz-Clancy.”

    Mr Beresford looked at young Lord McDiarmid’s handsome face and the glinting smile adored by the ladies. “And possibly he is doing his best to make her reconsider.”

    “Oh, I think they all do that,” he said mildly.

    “How the Hell do you—” Mr Beresford broke off abruptly. That had just come out.

    “Stand it?” said Lord Stamforth mildly.

    “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said stiffly.

    “Not at all; the question is one that must spring to mind. Largely, by understanding it, and by understanding her.”

    “Mm.”

    Lord Stamforth’s eyes followed the spectacle of the auburn-haired, pink-cheeked Lady Sleyven being whirled competently in the waltz by a tall, handsome, bald man quite some years her senior. “Sleyven, of course, takes the opposite tack: sheer force of character,” he murmured.

    “Aye!” said Mr Beresford with a short, unamused laugh. The handsome older fellow at the moment very much in charge of Lady Sleyven was the Earl himself.

    “Besides, I’m a rotten dancer,” said his Lordship mildly.

    Jack Beresford grinned feebly at him. “I see.”

    The dance was over soon enough and they all went off to supper in a bunch. Mr Beresford was in not much doubt that with the P.W. in charge of the group, nothing was as haphazard as it seemed. Miss Buffitt, for instance, ended up between Fitz-Clancy and McDiarmid. Mr Valentine coming up with the brazen declaration that he was lonely, a place was made for him between Horrible and Mina. Old Q.-V. coming up looking as plaintive as a bluff sea-dog of rubicund complexion could do, he was allowed to “squeesh een” between her Ladyship and his Lordship. Stamforth’s face of course remained unmoved. Understanding or not, how in God’s name did he manage to put up with it? wondered Mr Beresford.

    After the supper the P.W., laughing that gurgling laugh, declared she was “exhausted, and vairy, vairy full of those delicious leetle savouries”—whenever she said “vairy, vairy” old Q.V.’s cheeks observedly took on a violet hue—and would sit out for a spell “like a proper chaperone.” Funnily enough Q.-V. and Fitz-Clancy immediately offered to help her sit. Stamforth just wandered off to the card room. How the Hell did he stand it?

    Sitting out of course devolved into holding court, and by the time a couple of country dances had passed she was surrounded by them. Johnny Cantrell-Sprague was literally sitting at her feet. Even with the width of the Hammond House ballroom separating them his mother’s face could be seen to be frozen into an expression of icy disapproval. Possibly the fact that young Bobby C.-S. was yet again dancing with Miss Buffitt was not helping…

    “If you was to join me and Wilf,” noted Mr Valentine, wandering up to his old friend, “a hand of écarté would be possible.”

    It was getting very late but the P.W. showed no signs of recollecting that her young charges might need their beauty sleep. Shrugging, Mr Beresford accompanied him to the card room.

    … “You could stop, now, Wilf,” offered Mr Valentine kindly after three games had rapidly ended with Mr Beresford very much the victor. And Mr Rowbotham considerably out of pocket.

    “Don’t think the luck might change?” said the elegant one hopefully.

    “No,” replied Mr Valentine brutally. “It never does, when one is playing with Jack.”

    “It is not entirely luck,” noted Mr Beresford in a bored tone.

    Mr Valentine nodded fervently, and, his brother Rollo coming up with the loud complaint that it was still impossible to get near Miss Buffitt, considerately got up and, with the declared intention of taking him home, removed him.

    “Piquet?” suggested Mr Rowbotham.

    “If you insist.”

    They played. Mr Rowbotham was again a heavy loser, and called for brandy. “Luck all runnin’ your way. Reminds me of that sayin’,” he noted, sipping.

    “Yes?” said Mr Beresford coldly.

    The elegant one shook his head in an irritated manner. “Always get it mixed up with that Young Lochinvar thing. Something about laggards in war, or some such. –Talking of poetry, know what this evening reminds me of?”

    “No.”

    “Thing by that Byron fellow, think it was.”

    Me Beresford eyed him sourly. “‘It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count, I took no note; I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary note’: that it?”

    “No, that weren’t it. Puts it not half well, though; all these dashed balls are the same, hey? Don’t know why one bothers, really.”

    “No, quite.”

    “Something about this ball, y’see.”

    Sighing, Mr Beresford replied: “‘There was a sound of revelry by night’: that.”

    “No, thing I was thinkin’ of, y’see, was about this dashed ball—’member me sister Claudia bawling over it, because all these fellows and their horses ended up weltering in their own blood. Said to her, not the sort of thing a lady would wish to hear in her own drawing-room. Only Mamma said it was a great poem, or some such. Literature, y’know.”

    Mr Beresford looked at him wildly, but he merely nodded mildly at him. “Wilf,” he said, unable to stop himself, “you are talking about The Eve of Waterloo, are you?”

    “Oh, were that it?” He shook his head sadly. “Frightful thing, y’know. Knew several very decent fellows what died in the dashed thing. Well, of course, great victory for our side, all that; not sayin’ it weren’t. But always thought, meself, that it were a great pity Wellington couldn’t have managed it better.”

    Fighting down the impulse to shout at him—after all, he was doing damned well to remember there was a poem at all, what with the twenty years on the town encouraging whatever had been between the ears in the first place to melt away to slush—Mr Beresford said: “Wilf, are you trying to give me a delicate hint that tonight’s about to end in disaster?”

    Mr Rowbotham coughed. “Wouldn’t say that, dear fellow. Not disaster, y’know. Thing is, all the cats was glarin’. Er—well,” he said as Mr Beresford did some glaring of his own, “take the Fitz-Clancy female—face like a particularly well-bred horse. Lookin’ daggers at Miss Buffitt, dear boy. Then you walk in, ignore her, looks daggers at you.”

    “Is that all?” said Mr Beresford with a snort.

    “No,” replied Mr Rowbotham simply. “The P.W.’s in on the act, too, y’see, dancing with Michael Fitz-C. Not to say, sittin’ out with him. –Worse, in a way,” he said judiciously. “Think it’s the way she looks at ’em. Head on one side, y’know the style of thing. Wouldn’t call it languishing, meself,” he decided, frowning over it. “No. Me sister Claudia claims it’s lang— There’s more,” he warned as Mr Beresford began to get up.

    Mr Beresford sat down again. “Go on, get it over with.”

    “Well, the P.W. don’t count, in a way, because in the first place she's married already and in the second place she don’t need old Michael Fitz-C.’s gelt; got a nabob’s fortune of her own.”

    “Two,” he said drily.

    “Two, is it?” responded Mr Rowbotham amiably. “No, well, the cats all hate it, of course, but they can see it’s harmless. Thing is, old Michael’s been dangling after Miss Buffitt. –As well, y’see,” he clarified kindly. “If it was only young William Fitz-C., dare say it wouldn’t signify. Not a penny to bless himself with. But the Fitz-C.s don’t want old Michael to marry and leave the fortune out of the family,” he spelled out kindly.

    Mr Beresford sighed. “Yes. Well, thank you for bothering to tell me, Wilf, but all the world knows that. If his sister-in-law were in town possibly I might feel some alarm, or feel inspired to warn Miss Buffitt, or some such. But I doubt that Lady Catherine Fosdyke wields much influence with the cats. Er, William Fitz-C.?” he added in spite of himself.

    “Think you missed that. Fairly early on. Think he only got the one dance.”

    Mr Beresford opened his mouth to say: “I see,” but before he could utter Mr Rowbotham added: “Then there’s Bobby C.-S. –The youngest boy. Pretty young fellow.”

    “Pretty or not, I doubt Miss Buffitt is very much interested in him.”

    “No, well, she gave him several dances, y’see, and he didn’t take no notice of any of the other débutantes, so all the mammas was glarin’. Know them C.-S. boys have got nothing, but thing is, his Ma has influence in certain circles. And they’re dashed well connected. The Greys, ain’t it? And the Wyntons, through them.”

    “Mm.”

    “Then dashed Johnny C.-S. makes it worse by making a cake of himself sitting at the P.W.’s feet. –Er , not a figure of speech,” he said on a dubious note.

    “Yes. Well, thank you again— More?” he groaned.

    Mr Rowbotham coughed delicately. “Thing is, dear old boy, it’s one of them things what when you add ’em all up, um—they all adds up.”

    “Cumulative?” he sighed.

    “That’s the word, aye!” he said happily. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, the Highetts ain’t much, but them and those bosom-bows of theirs was all glaring. Not Fosdyke, that’s Lady Catherine Fitz-C., ain’t it? Uh—”

    “Uckridge,” said Mr Beresford in a bored voice.

    “That’s it. Knew it was some name like Fosdyke. Then there’s the Chambury gal. ’Nother one what looks like a horse,” he discovered. “Well, young Freddy Chambury gets a dance with Miss Buffitt, and that puts Lady C.’s nose well and truly out of joint. Then you come in, and dashed Gwennie Lacey shoves her nose into it.”

    “Oh!” he said with a laugh.

    “You may say, Lady C. don’t count. Thing is, she’s bosom-bows with most of the cats what do. Added to which, they had their eye on Michael Fitz-C. before your cousin came to town.”

    “Oh? I had heard they had their eye on Geddings,” he drawled.

    “Them and some others,” said Mr Rowbotham significantly. He began to count on his fingers. “The Highetts, for one. Think they wanted him for the eldest gal—well, been on the town this age, ain’t she?’

    “Added to which, do she not look like a horse?” he said sweetly.

    “M’brother Ceddie claims, a camel, but then, he’s been to them foreign parts. Dash it, where was I? Oh, yes: that’s two. Three, you won’t have noticed, out of course, but your aunt ain’t too pleased.”

    “She is not here tonight— My Aunt Fanny?” he said, goggling at him. “My dear Wilf, the goings-on of little débutantes are far, far beneath Aunt Fanny’s notice!”

    “Dare say. What I’m saying is, she noticed Geddings dancing with the P.W., and Geddings dancing with your Miss Buffitt.”

    Ignoring this last lapse, Mr Beresford returned: “There is some scheme afoot to marry off the little Benedict gal to yet another of Old Hooky’s dashed nephews. Geddings was no doubt acting as his deputy.”

    “Didn’t need to: Old Hooky had a waltz with the P.W. himself. She may not mind being crushed to that chestful of medals, but meself, I’d have thought it damned uncomfortable.”

    Mr Beresford had to cough. “Er—mm. Well, Geddings will just have been—”

    “He won’t, see, because the Fürstin’s plan is to marry him off to the Princess Anna. Ceddie had it from the Prussian Embassy. Evidently the Fürst himself is in favour.”

    “My cousin Georg?” he said feebly. “Aunt Fanny don’t take no notice of him, old man.”

    “He’s got the title, ain’t he? Dare say,” he said brilliantly, “she don’t give a fig if he disapproves, but if he do approve, it lends weight.”

    Mr Beresford winced. “Mm.”

    “Well, there y’are. The cats have all got their backs up because your Miss Buffitt has snared all the pretty young lads as well as lookin’ like the best candidate yet to do the Fitz -C.s out of old Michael’s nabob’s fortune. And the P.W.’s makin’ it worse by introducing her to all of them, and by distracting anything that might have looked like glancing twice at all them horse-faces, not to mention anything that might have looked twice at your Cousin Anna. –In a nutshell,” he ended on a proud note.

    “Dreadful,” responded Mr Beresford primly.

    Mr Rowbotham scratched his carefully arranged brown locks. “Haven’t made me point, have I? The cats is starting to hiss in corners. Sayin’ nasty things about the poor little soul. No, well,” he admitted, shifting uncomfortably under the icy Beresford stare, “sayin’ the poor little gal limps, that sort of stuff. Not to mention not being satisfied with your fortune, old man, and aiming at higher game. Them Abbott cows was bandying the phrase ‘gold-digger’ about. Said to me niece Louisa—Ceddie’s second gal, not a patch on her sister Jane—said to her, they ain’t worth givin’ the time of day to.”

    “Er—I suppose I thank you, Wilf,” he said limply.

    “Not at all, old man.,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “Told, you, it's like that dashed poem. Looks all right on the surface, y’see, and then it’s— What was the dashed word?”

    “Anticlimax?” said Mr Beresford sweetly.

    “No. Ah! Cumulative,” he produced proudly. “Like you said: cumulative.”

    Mr Beresford raised his eyebrows very high, got up, and wandered out, looking bored.

    Mr Rowbotham poured himself another brandy and began to lay himself out a hand of Patience. “Cumulative,” he said solemnly. “Would not sneer if I was you, Jack.”

Next chapter:

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