“If he does orate, Mrs. Pariseau will be in heaven.” Their guest Mrs. Pariseau was in her middle years and was thoroughly enjoying her relatively monied widowhood. And while she had no interest at all in ever marrying again, she loved few things more than handsome men and arcane debate.
And not even men like Lord Kirke, whose name regularly appeared on the front pages of the newspaper and the dripping-with-innuendo gossip pages that Dot read to the rapt maids in the kitchen, would be exempt from the rules. And that included gathering in the sitting room four nights a week with all the other guests.
“Does Tristan vote Tory?” Angelique wondered, on a yawn, as they tidied the sitting room for the night. Their new guest was a Whig.
“I don’t know how he votes, to be honest. Except that he’s exhibited an independent streak when it comes to voting againstThe Ghost in the Attic.”
“Ah. About that. I think Mrs. Pariseau is actually plotting a rebellion,” Angelique said cryptically, and they headed for their rooms. “Perhaps she’ll recruit him and make a revolutionary of Captain Hardy yet.”
Laughing at this notion, they made for their bedrooms.
Chapter Three
Catherine fixed her eyes on the plume merrily bobbing atop Lady Wisterberg’s big, handsome head as they navigated the river of humans—London’s finest—filing into Lord and Lady Clayton’s grand Grosvenor Square house. Lucy, in lavender figured satin, was just ahead of her, spirals of brown hair bouncing at her temples with her every step. But Catherine had scarcely been able to do more than exchange compliments and greetings and smiles with Lucy: delighted to have a captive audience and full of high spirits, Lady Wisterberg had chattered about Lady this and Lord that, so many people and places Catherine didn’t know the whole of the way there in the hack. She remembered none of it. Nerves melted all of her chaperone’s words like snowflakes before they could settle into her brain.
At last, the crowd inside the ballroom came into view like jewels spilled from a pirate’s chest. Splendor assailed her: bunting swooped from the ceiling, flowers and ferns exploded from urns, silk and satin gleamed on the women, and voices tumbled all over each other in shouts and laughter, competing with the sounds of a fine little orchestra.
Cat’s heart fluttered like a trapped bird with excitement.
Lady Wisterberg expertly marched her chargesforth through the throng, yodeling greetings and waggling her be-gloved, beringed fingers to people who turned to waggle theirs at her. It was already sultry with heat from all the bodies. Catherine was happy to have a chance to use her best silk fan, painted with a Northumberland scene.
At last they emerged into a clearing of sorts, spanned by a long table bearing enormous bowls of ratafia and rows of cups.
Lady Wisterberg made certain the three of them were served. Then: “Cheers!” she said, and tossed the whole of her cup back in a gulp.
Catherine blinked.
Lady Wisterberg filled another one. “I find it’s always best to begin as you mean to go on!” She winked. And apparently she meant drinking, because she drained that one in only two gulps.
Catherine cautiously sipped at hers. Tasty enough, but nose-crinklingly strong. She knew better than to drink it quickly. She’d been too full of jittery, delighted anticipation to do much more than poke at dinner, and she’d decadently slept through breakfast, awaking to coffee and a scone surely fresh from the ovens of heaven. Thankfully Lord Kirke had not been about to further abrade her nerves; he’d clearly been off somewhere being important. He wasn’t at dinner, nor had she heard him rustling about upstairs. But at intervals throughout the day she’d amused herself by muttering under her breath,I suspected cavorting, in a Welsh accent.
Lucy sipped hers, too. They shared a wry glance.
“Oh look, Lucy, isn’t that Mr. Hargrove and Miss Seaver?” Lady Wisterberg waved at a young man and woman. “Such fine young people. They’re your age, Miss Keating, I’ll warrant you’ll...”
She trailed off and went as rigid as a hunting dog flushing game.
A startling, raw yearning skittered across her expression.
Catherine whipped her head wildly about to see if anyone was watching Lady Wisterberg with similarly restrained passion.
“She heard the pop of a faro box,” Lucy stage-whispered to Catherine.
“Goodness.” Catherine wasn’t certain what expression she ought to wear in response to this news. She tried to look supportive.
It seemed the room adjacent was scattered with little game tables. People wearing rapt expressions were collected around them.
“My dears.” Lady Wisterberg’s voice was tense and abstracted. Catherine realized her body had been ever so slowly rotating away from them, like a spring coiling. “I’ll... I’ll just be... a moment...”
And in a blur of ruby silk she bolted to the game room.
“That’s the last we’ll see of her this evening,” Lucy said matter-of-factly.
“Oh no!” Catherine reeled.
“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said, somewhat desperately. “I didn’t know how to warn you! I think it would have been different if your aunt were here. They would keep each other company. But, ah, allow me to introduce Miss Bernadette Seaver and Mr. Hargrove.” Her two friends had come to join them. “Come and meet my friend Miss Catherine Keating, who is visiting London from Northumberland.”
Dizzied by Lady Wisterberg’s potentially catastrophic defection, Cat nevertheless managed to curtsy. “How do you do?”