‘Just us three?’ Fanshawe enquired.
Hazelmere considered the question, the hazel gaze abstracted. ‘For the moment,’ he eventually replied. ‘We can call in reinforcements if necessary.’
‘What are they doing now?’ asked Fanshawe.
‘Resting,’ replied Ferdie. Seeing their surprise, he explained. ‘Went to the theatre last night with your parents, dear boy. Result—Cecily’s exhausted.’
‘Ah,’ said Hazelmere with an understanding grin. Fanshawe frowned.
‘Going riding with them this afternoon,’ continued Ferdie, ‘then the Diplomatic Ball at Carlton House this evening. That’s easy—we’ll all be there.’
‘Well, Ferdie, m’lad,’ said Fanshawe as he rose to leave, ‘you’ll just have to keep us informed of where Miss Darent means to be and then make sure at least one of us is there. Shouldn’t be too hard. They can’t be gallivanting all over town still, can they?’
Ferdie reflected that their lordships, normally engrossed in their own pursuits, had very little idea of just how crowded a young lady’s calendar could be. He sincerely hoped they would not have to keep up their surveillance for long.
Moments later, as he descended the steps in their company, arriving on the pavement ahead of them, he gave voice to an idea that had been rolling around in his head for some time. ‘Actually, as far as I can see, the easiest way to solve all these problems is for you two to hurry up and marry the chits! Then Marc could spend his entire day with Dorothea, if necessary, and Cecily wouldn’t be moping around, and I could go back to living a quiet life again.’
Seeing that their receipt of this advice was not favourable, he hurriedly waved at them. ‘No? I’m off! See you tonight at the ball.’
The Diplomatic Ball at Carlton House was so named because all the diplomatic corps and delegations stationed in London attended. Sponsored by the Prince Regent, attendance by all those invited was virtually obligatory. These included all the year’s débutantes, the majority of the peers present in London and the élite of society. It amused the Prince to think that for one night in the Season they all danced attendance on him. While the cream of the ton considered this function supremely boring, the necessity of being present when the Prince arrived ensured that all summoned came early.
Knowing his Prince, Hazelmere realised that, while it was hardly likely that Dorothea would be kidnapped from the ball, both she and Cecily could face a threat from a different source. After discussing the possibilities, he and Fanshawe called at Merion House when they knew the sisters were riding with Ferdie. They found Lady Merion at home and, having outlined the perceived problem, it was agreed that both of them would accompany the Merion party to Carlton House, using the large Hazelmere town carriage.
Ferdie was taken aback at finding them in attendance when he called at Merion House that evening. A quick word from Hazelmere brought comprehension to his eyes. ‘Good heavens! Never thought of that!’
‘Never thought of what, Ferdie?’ asked Dorothea. She had witnessed the exchange and, her curiosity aroused, had come to see if she could surprise from him some explanation for the appearance of their lordships.
Ferdie could never think quickly in such situations. He could find no glib words to answer her. Dorothea knew that if she waited long enough he was bound to say something helpful. She had reckoned without Hazelmere, who calmly stepped in with a blatant lie. ‘Ferdie, I believe Lady Merion has been trying to catch your eye these minutes past.’
‘What? Oh, yes! Got to see your grandmama.’ With this explanatory aside to Dorothea, he crossed the room to her ladyship’s side with the alacrity of a rabbit escaping a snare.
Dorothea looked at Hazelmere in disgust. ‘Spoil-sport,’ she said.
‘It’s hardly fair to try to trip Ferdie up. He’s definitely not in your class. You can attempt to get the story out of me if you like.’
‘As you obviously have no intention of telling me, it would be wasted effort, I fear,’ she replied, adding, ‘In such matters, I am, after all, definitely not in your class.’
‘True,’ returned Hazelmere, taking the wind out of her sails. The emerald glance he received in reply spoke volumes.
With Ferdie come, there was nothing more to delay their departure and soon they were settled in the carriage and on their way. The Hazelmere town coach was a luxurious affair and easily sat the six of them, despite the voluminous ball-gowns peculiar to this affair. To some extent, the Diplomatic Ball had temporarily replaced the more formal presentations of previous years. Due to the problems besetting the royal family, these had been suspended. But the tradition of all-white, waisted, full-skirted ballgowns for the débutantes, worn with white ostrich plumes in their hair, had transferred to the Prince Regent’s Diplomatic Ball.
The all-white ensemble made Cecily look ethereal. Dorothea, with her dark hair and green eyes contrasting with the white, looked divine. As usual, Celestine had taken full advantage of Dorothea’s age and figure and the bodice was cut low, while the waistline had been subtly altered to emphasise her tiny waist and the swell of her hips. On entering the Merion House drawing-room, Hazelmere, setting eyes on her, knew he was justified in anticipating trouble at Carlton House.
It took no more than ten minutes to drive the short distance to the Prince Regent’s London residence, but, owing to the crowds, it was nearly an hour before they reached the head of the stairs and heard their names announced as they entered the ballroom. As His Highness was convinced that he had a particular susceptibility to colds and chills, the rooms were already overheated. Dorothea was glad she had not brought a shawl. Hazelmere, glancing down at her as she walked by his side, uncharacteristically wished she had.
With Fanshawe escorting Cecily and Lady Merion on Ferdie’s arm, they strolled down the ballroom, stopping to chat to acquaintances and friends. They had agreed that the safest place for the Misses Darent to make their curtsy to the Prince Regent was where the élite of the ton usually congregated. Lady Jersey and the other patronesses of Almack’s would be there, as would most of their lordships’ close acquaintances. In such august company, the chances of His Highness issuing one of his unwelcome commands was considerably reduced.
They had reached this position and were busy greeting their friends when a general stir running through the crowd announced the entrance of the Prince Regent. As the now portly Prince, accompanied by two of his confidants, strolled down the ballroom the assembled ranks of gentlemen bowed and the ladies sank into the deepest of curtsies. This movement passed like a wave down the long room, arrested every now and again as His Highness paused to exchange a word with one of the favoured or, more frequently, to ogle a beautiful woman. Viewing this behaviour as her Prince approached, Dorothea thought it hardly appropriate for one of his years and position. In this, the majority of those around her agreed.
As the wave of curtsying ladies reached her, and the débutante to her left sank down, Dorothea did likewise, bowing her head as she had been taught. She was supposed to maintain this pose until His Highness had passed. While she waited, frozen into immobility, she realised that his feet, the only part of him within her range of vision, gaudily clad in bright red ballroom pumps with huge gold buckles, had stopped a short distance away. Risking an upward glance through her lashes, she discovered the Prince’s protuberant pale blue eyes fixed on her. He smiled archly and came to take her hand and raise her to her feet.
As the others around her abandoned their obsequious stances she was aware of Hazelmere close behind her in the crush, a little way to her right, his hand now resting lightly at her waist. Mrs Drummond-Burrell moved slightly on her left. This movement, almost imperceptible though it was, distracted the Prince, who then became aware of those around her. She watched as the distinctly lecherous look faded, and then disappeared altogether, as His Highness’s gaze met Hazelmere’s over her right shoulder.
The Prince inwardly cursed. He had been informed that the most attractive débutante this year was Miss Dar
ent, but that to suggest she might like to entertain him in private would be unwise, as she was considered by the ton to be virtually affianced to the Marquis of Hazelmere. While there were some among the peers he could ignore, Hazelmere was not one of them. But, seeing the luscious dark-haired beauty curtsying to him, he had entirely forgotten the warning until recalled to his surroundings by the censorious eyes of Mrs Drummond-Burrell and then Hazelmere’s cool gaze. So, instead of what he had been going to say, he smiled in quite a different way, almost charmingly, and said, ‘You are really very beautiful, my dear.’ With a nod, he released her hand and, still smiling, moved on.
Dorothea sensed the almost palpable relief around her. As the Prince continued along the ballroom and the ranks of his subjects broke up she turned to Hazelmere and, not knowing how to phrase the question, raised her enquiring eyes to his.
‘Yes, that was it,’ he assented, smiling as he drew her hand through his arm. ‘You did very well, my love.’
Ignoring provocation she knew to be deliberate, she asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me he could be so…well, like that?’
‘Because one can never tell if he will be.’
‘Is that why I was with you and not with Grandmama?’
‘His Highness is occasionally misguided enough to make…suggestions, which in your case would be totally inappropriate.’
‘I see. And he would not do so while you were about but might well have done if I had been with Grandmama only?’
Hazelmere, who would have much preferred she had not realised that, merely nodded. He knew it would not be long before she deduced the reason that his presence had protected her from the Prince’s importunities. After one glance at her pensive face he headed for the area of the huge ballroom given over to dancing.
At Carlton House the social rules that applied everywhere else did not hold sway. The principal ladies of the ton deplored the licence permitted under the Prince Regent’s influence. Previously Hazelmere had found these lax standards very useful. Now he was concerned that Dorothea was not unknowingly led into difficulties through her innocence of just what was possible at Carlton House.
Reaching the dance-floor and hearing the musicians strike up, without a word he drew her into his arms and into the waltz. There were no dance cards at Carlton House and the waltz was the only dance permitted. She had not spoken again. Hazelmere, wishing that Carlton House had a deserted orangery, felt how stiff and distant she was as they glided down the floor. But as they progressed, in spite of herself, she relaxed into his familiar arms. He saw that they had attracted the attention of a number of gentlemen not normally present at any of the ton gatherings and determined to return her to Lady Merion immediately the dance ended. Looking down at her calm face, he realised with a jolt that he had no idea what she was thinking. She was normally so completely frank with him that it had not occurred to him that she could withdraw so entirely. Uncertain what to do for once in his life, he remained silent.
As the dance ended he raised her hand to his lips, bringing a familiar green spark to her enormous eyes. Smiling down at her, he drew her hand through his arm and led her to find Lady Merion. Relinquishing her to her grandmother with real regret, he was relieved to see Alvanley claim her for the next dance. To be overly attentive would only exacerbate her mood, so he resigned himself to not dancing with her again and drifted off in search of his friends.
Dorothea was in a state of utter confusion, which having to make a pretence of polite conversation did nothing to help. As the weeks of the Season had passed she had come to accept that she and Hazelmere would, in time, perhaps later in the Season, come to an understanding—a mutually agreed understanding. But now it appeared she was to have no say in the matter at all! Everyone already knew she would marry Hazelmere. Even the Prince Regent knew!
The sensation of being an entirely helpless puppet with Hazelmere pulling the strings fuelled her anger. While she had been falling desperately in love with him, worrying over whether or not he loved her, he had somehow convinced the world that she was his. How dared he take her so much for granted?
She fumed inwardly, her temper simmering, denied the natural outlet of confronting him in person. She spent three waltzes entirely consumed with plotting what she would say to him on the morrow. He would be made to realise that she was no milk-and-water miss to be manipulated to suit his convenience!
Dancing with one after another of his friends, all of whom, she now realised, treated her as they would a friend’s wife, did nothing to improve her temper. None of her partners guessed her true state; her composure was complete, her serenity convincing. It was, therefore, with an air of dangerous resklessness that she viewed the debonair Frenchman bowing before her and begging the pleasure of the next waltz. She had just been returned to her grandmama by Lord Desborough, who had moved away into the still considerable crowd.
With Lady Merion’s consent she allowed the Comte de Vanée to lead her on to the floor. He had, so he informed her, only recently arrived from Paris. As he expertly guided her through the other dancers the Comte kept up a flow of general conversation, to which Dorothea paid little heed. Until she heard him mention Hazelmere’s name.
Without hesitation she broke into his discourse. ‘I’m so sorry, Comte, I’m afraid I didn’t catch what you just said.’
‘Ah, mademoiselle, I was only saying it is so like the Marquis to secure the most beautiful women as his mistresses—the lovely Lady Walford, for instance, whom you can see over there, talking with his lordship.’
Dorothea glanced where he indicated and glimpsed Hazelmere deep in conversation with Lady Walford, his dark head bent close to her fair one, listening intently. Even to her inexperienced eye, the pose argued a degree of familiarity. Feeling her heart literally descend to her slippers, she required every ounce of her well-practised poise to meet the Comte’s eyes with her habitual calm. But that young man had felt her stiffen when she had seen Hazelmere and Lady Walford and was more than satisfied with his success. Too wise to belabour the point, he continued in his light-hearted recitation of ton affairs.
Unknown to the Comte, his words plunged Dorothea even deeper into misery than he could have hoped. If she was confused before, she was now utterly wretched. The sole vision in her tormented mind was of Hazelmere in intimate converse with Lady Walford. All the rest seemed to sink beneath a miasma of pain.
On the previous Sunday, before her departure for Darent Hall, Marjorie Darent had sought a private interview with Dorothea, in order, as she saw it, to do her duty. ‘As Herbert is your guardian and I am his wife,’ she had carefully begun, ‘I feel it is my duty to tell you it’s common knowledge that Lord Hazelmere is trifling with your affections. I’ve been told he has acted in exactly this manner with many other susceptible young ladies. I regret to say, your resistance to his charm is most likely the attraction that draws him to your side. Neither Herbert nor I would wish to criticise your grandmama, but we are deeply pained to see you in the toils of such a man.’
Dorothea had listened with a patience born of her certainty that none of it was true. Marjorie had no idea how Hazelmere behaved towards her. And there was no chance that Lady Merion would blindly permit his attentions were these other than honourable.
Marjorie had gone on to enumerate his lordship’s many failings—gambling, racing, addiction to boxing and other low forms of sport, finally coming to the point of her visit. ‘It is my distressing duty to speak plainly to you, my dear. Lady Merion likely feels such subjects should not sully the ears of innocent maids, but, in the circumstances, it is right you should know. Forewarned, after all, is forearmed!’
Dorothea’s lively imagination had run riot at this juncture. She was agog to learn what secret life Marjorie had invented for his lordship. The explanation, when it had come, was so mundane that she had almost giggled.
‘My dear, the man is a rake! A very highly born rake, I’ll agree. But a rake none the less! Why, the stories I’ve heard of his mistresses, many
of them as well born as you or I, and all of them the most ravishing creatures. As you are yourself, my dear.’
The insinuation that Marjorie had managed to infuse into this last statement had nearly overset Dorothea. The idea of Hazelmere offering her a carte blanche was so ridiculous that she had had to take a deep breath to stop herself from laughing aloud and ruining her pose of polite attention. As it was, Marjorie had taken the indrawn breath to signify shock at his lordship’s perfidy.
Her cousin had concluded by stating that neither Herbert nor she would countenance any further communication with the Marquis. Dorothea had managed to keep her temper by reminding herself it was her grandmother, not Marjorie, who had charge of her in London.
After Marjorie had left Dorothea had put her warnings entirely from her mind as the ludicrous imaginings she had been sure they were. But now that it seemed as if one, at least, of her cousin’s facts was not wrong she was forced to question whether she really knew Hazelmere at all.
She had assumed there had been many women in his past—he could hardly have attained his undoubted experience of her sex without practice. But she had imagined these women were of the demi-monde and, furthermore, definitely in his past and not cluttering up his present life. Lady Walford, however, belonged to the ton, and she was obviously part of Hazelmere’s present.
Dorothea heard not a single word of the rest of the Comte’s conversation. Just before the dance ended she noticed Cecily dancing with Fanshawe. From her sparkling eyes, Dorothea concluded that they had made up their differences. Fanshawe, catching a glimpse of her through the throng, looked surprised, but they were immediately separated by the movement of the dance, so Dorothea failed to see what had excited his attention. At the end of the dance the Comte punctiliously delivered her to her grandmother and immediately took his leave of them, disappearing into the crowds. His departure was rapid because he, too, had seen Fanshawe’s surprised look and, unlike Dorothea, knew the cause.