by Mary Balogh
Her eyes had brightened.
“My grandmama?” she asked.
“Did you even know she existed?” He hugged her a little more tightly to his side.
But part of his mind was always elsewhere.
How had Grayson killed Lady Muir’s husband?
How had she?
The questions had buzzed about inside his head like bees trapped inside ever since that ride in the park three days ago.
Had she meant the words literally? Well, of course she had not. He knew her better than to believe her capable of coldblooded murder. But she had not been joking either. One did not joke about such a thing.
So in what sense had she killed her husband? Or why did she feel responsible for his death?
And why had she coupled her own name with that of Grayson? He would be quite happy to consider Grayson capable of murder.
If he wanted answers, he thought, he was going to have to go about getting them in his usual way. He was going to have to ask.
The evening of the Ravensberg ball inevitably came despite Hugo’s attempts to think about it as something comfortably far in the future. Feeling it creep up on him was not unlike knowing a great and bloody battle was in the offing, except that with the battle he could at least look forward to action and the knowledge that once it began he would forget all else, even fear.
He had the horrible feeling that fear would paralyze him when he walked in upon a ton ball.
He could get out of going altogether, he supposed, since Lady Muir had agreed to sponsor Constance, and his presence was not strictly necessary. It would not be fair, though, to Lady Muir, who was being kind to Constance only because of him. And it would not be fair to Connie, whom he had promised to take to a ball.
It would help if he could dance. Oh, he could prance about in approximate time to music as well as most other people, he supposed. He had attended a few country assemblies in the last few years and had never quite disgraced himself—except perhaps with the waltz. But dancing at a ton ball in London during the Season? It was a three-pronged combination to fill him with terror. He would rather volunteer for another Forlorn Hope.
He was to escort his sister to Redfield House on Hanover Square, the site of the ball. Lady Muir would meet them there. Hugo dressed with care—Connie was not the only one who had new clothes for the occasion—and waited in the downstairs sitting room with Fiona and her mother and sister. The latter two had called for the first time the day before. Hugo had not witnessed their meeting with Fiona in her bedchamber. But as they were leaving, they had informed him that they would return this evening to give her their company while Constance and he were at the ball.
Fiona had come downstairs for the first time in a week and sat, limp and uncommunicative, close to the fire. Her mother, plump, rosy-cheeked, and placid, sat beside her, holding one of her limp hands and patting it. Fiona’s sister, twelve years younger than she, sat across from them, working quietly at some crochet she had brought with her. She resembled her mother more than she did her sister though she still had the slimness of youth.
It was a promising situation, Hugo thought.
“I shall go to the kitchen myself, Fee, as soon as Constance and Hugo have gone, and make some soup,” Fiona’s mother was saying when Hugo came into the room. “There is nothing better to coax an invalid back to health than good, hot soup. Oh, my!”
She had spied Hugo.
He made conversation, but only for a few minutes. Constance was not about to risk being late for her first ball. She burst in upon them, looking as if she were literally about to burst, and then stood inside the sitting room door, blushing and selfconscious and biting her lower lip.
“Oh, my!” her grandmother said again.
Like a bride, she had not allowed anyone to see the gown she would wear tonight or even to know anything about it. She was all white from head to toe. But there was nothing bland about her appearance, Hugo decided, despite the fact that even her hair was blond. She shimmered in the lamplight. He was no expert on clothing, especially women’s, but he could see that there were two layers to her gown, the inside one silky, the outer one lacy. It was high at the waist, low at the bosom, and youthful and pretty and perfect. She had white slippers, white gloves, a silver fan, and white ribbons threaded through her curls.
“You look as pretty as a picture, Connie,” he said with no originality at all.
She turned her head to beam at him—and her grandmother wailed and spread a large cotton handkerchief over her eyes.
“Oh,” she cried, “you look like your mama all over again, Constance. You look like a princess. Doesn’t she, Hilda, my love?”
Her younger daughter, thus appealed to, agreed with a smile after setting down her crochet in her lap.
“Constance.” Her mother reached out a pale hand toward her. “Your father would advise you not to forget your roots. I would advise you to do whatever will make you happy.”
It was a remarkable pronouncement coming from Fiona. Constance took her hand and held it to her cheek for a moment.
“You do not mind my going, Mama?” she asked.
“Your grandmother is going to make me soup,” Fiona said. “She always made the very best soup in the world.”
Five minutes later Hugo and his sister were in his traveling carriage, on their way to Hanover Square.
“Hugo,” she said, setting one gloved hand in his, “you are like a rock of stability. I am so frightened that I am sure my chattering teeth will drown out the sound of the orchestra when I get there and everyone will frown at me and Lady Ravensberg will accuse me of ruining her ball. Of course, you do not have to be afraid. You are Lord Trentham. My grandparents are shopkeepers. Is not Grandmama a dear, though? And Aunt Hilda has eyes that twinkle kindly when she talks. I like her. And I still have my grandpapa and my uncle and aunt and cousins to meet—and Mr. Crane, Aunt Hilda’s betrothed. I have a whole other family, as well as Mama and you and all Papa’s relatives, even if they are only shopkeepers. That does not matter, does it? Papa always used to say that no one, not even the lowliest crossing sweeper, ought to be ashamed of who he is. Or she. I always used to tell him that—or she, Papa, I used to say, and he would laugh and say it back to me. I think Mama is happy to see Grandmama, don’t you? And I think she is getting better again. Do you think—Oh, I am prattling. I never prattle. But I am terrified.” She laughed softly.
He squeezed her hand and concentrated upon being like a rock of stability. If she only knew!
They were unable to drive up to the grand, brightly lit mansion on Hanover Square and disappear indoors to find some shadowed corner in which to hide. There was a line of carriages, and they had to await their turn. And when it was their turn, they had to allow a grandly liveried footman to open the carriage door, and they had to step down onto a red carpet, which extended from the edge of the pavement all the way up the steps of the house.
And when they stepped into the house at last, they found themselves in a large, high-ceilinged hall beneath the bright lights of a large candelabrum and in the midst of a chattering throng of gorgeously clad ladies and gentlemen. Hugo, glancing around, discovered without surprise that he did not know a blessed one of them. But at least Grayson was not among them.
“We will go on up, then, Connie,” he said to his silent sister, his voice sounding to his own ears remarkably like that of Captain Emes ordering his subordinate officers to form the battle lines.
But the broad staircase, which presumably led up to the ballroom, was no better than the hall. It was just as brightly lit, and it was crowded with chattering, laughing people who were awaiting their turn, Hugo soon realized, to be announced prior to passing along the receiving line.
Oh, good Lord, give him two Forlorn Hopes.
“Not too much longer now,” he said with hearty jocularity, patting his sister’s cold, clinging hand.
“Hugo,” she whispered, “I am here. I am really here.”
And he looked
down at her and realized that it was excitement and brimming happiness that she was really feeling. And he had been toying with the ignominious idea of suggesting that they flee.
“I do believe you are right,” he said, and smiled at her.
And then they were at the top of the stairs, and a stiffly formal majordomo, who reminded Hugo of Stanbrook’s butler, bent an ear to hear their identities, and announced them in loud, firm tones.
“Lord Trentham and Miss Emes.”
The receiving line was made up of four persons, Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg, whom Hugo remembered from the drawing room at Newbury Abbey, and the Earl and Countess of Redford, who must be Ravensberg’s parents. He bowed. Constance curtsied. Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged. Lady Ravensberg admired Constance’s dress and actually winked at her. She looked assessingly at him and did not wink. It was all surprisingly easy. But then the aristocracy were adept at making such occasions easy. They knew how to make small talk, the hardest talk in the world to make in Hugo’s experience.
They stepped into the ballroom. Hugo had a quick impression of vast size, of hundreds of candles burning in candelabra overhead and in wall sconces about the perimeter, of banks of flowers and a gleaming wooden floor, of mirrors and pillars, of the flower of the ton dressed in all its finery and wearing all its most costly jewels. For Constance the impression was more than momentary. Hugo heard her gasp and saw her turn her head from side to side and up and down as though she could never get enough of a look at her very first ton ballroom at her very first ton ball.
But it was a very small piece of the scene that soon riveted Hugo’s attention. Lady Muir was coming to meet them.
She was dressed in pale spring green again. The fabric of her gown—silk? satin?—gleamed and glittered in the candlelight. It skimmed the curves of her body, revealing a delicious amount of bosom and a tantalizing suggestion of shapely legs—even if one was shorter than the other. Her gloves and slippers were a dull gold. She wore a simple gold chain with a small diamond pendant about her neck, and gold and diamonds winked from her earlobes beneath her hair. An ivory fan dangled from one of her wrists.
She was all that was beautiful and desirable—and unattainable. How could he have had the effrontery to make her an offer of marriage not so long ago? Yet he had once possessed that exquisitely gorgeous body. And after refusing his offer, she had invited him to court her.
Did he dare? Did he even want to? And exactly how many times had he asked himself those questions?
She was smiling—at his sister.
“Miss Emes—Constance,” she said, “you look absolutely delightful. Oh, I would not be at all surprised if you dance every set and even have to turn prospective partners away. Fortunately this is not anyone’s come-out ball, so all the focus of attention will not be upon any other young lady in particular. Come.” And she held out her arm for Constance to take.
She did glance at Hugo then, after Constance had linked an arm through hers. And Hugo had the satisfaction of seeing the color deepen in her cheeks. She was not quite indifferent to him, then.
“Lord Trentham,” she said, “you may mingle with the other guests if you wish or even withdraw to the card room. Your sister will be quite safe with me.”
He was being dismissed. To mingle. That simple activity. But with whom, pray? It would be a bit ridiculous to panic, however. She had mentioned a card room. He could go and hide himself in there. But before he went, he wanted to see Constance dance her first set at a ton ball. He could trust Lady Muir to see to it that she did dance and that it would be with someone respectable.
He spoke before she whisked Constance away into the crowds.
“I hope, Lady Muir,” he said, “you will yourself be dancing tonight. And that you will save a set for me.”
She did dance despite her limp. She had told him so at Pen-derris.
“Thank you,” she said, and he was interested to note that she sounded almost breathless. “The fourth set is to be a waltz. It is the supper dance.”
Oh, Lord. A waltz. The vicar’s wife and a few of the other village ladies had undertaken the gargantuan task of teaching him the steps at an assembly eighteen months or so ago, amid much laughter and teasing from them and every other mortal gathered there for the occasion. He had ended up actually dancing it with the apothecary’s wife at the end of the assembly, to much applause and more laughter. The best that could be said was that he had not once trodden upon the good lady’s toes.
He had promised himself that he would never dance it again.
“I would be obliged, then, ma’am,” he said, “if you would reserve it for me.”
She nodded, holding his eyes for a moment, and then moved away with Constance.
Hugo was saved from feeling horribly conspicuous and self-conscious, and perhaps from scowling ferociously at a ton ball, when the Earl of Kilbourne and the Marquess of Attingsborough joined him and made that small talk with which their kind was so accomplished. Other men joined them for brief spells and were either introduced or reintroduced. Some of them had been in that drawing room at Newbury Abbey. Then Hugo saw Ralph.
He actually knew someone.
Constance, glowing visibly with happiness, danced the first set with a ginger-haired young gentleman who looked good-humored and who might or might not be considered handsome by a young girl despite his freckles. He was smiling at her and making conversation and dancing the intricate steps of a vigorous country dance with practiced ease and polish.
Lady Muir was dancing with one of her cousins. Her limp was altogether less noticeable as she danced.
Her eyes met Hugo’s and remained on them for a few moments.
He held his breath and heard his heartbeat drumming in his ears.
Chapter 16
Gwen danced the first two sets with her cousins. She was able to relax and make light conversation with them while keeping an eye upon Constance Emes. But there was nothing to worry about there. She was pretty and vivacious enough to attract more than enough partners even if she had nothing else to recommend her. But in fact there was much else. She had Lady Muir as her sponsor, and she was the sister of Lord Trentham, the famed hero of Badajoz. That fact buzzed quickly about the ballroom after it had been whispered in a few ears, probably, Gwen guessed, by her own relatives. And, perhaps most important of all, Miss Emes was rumored to be as rich as any of the most eagerly courted heiresses of the ton.
Gwen’s task for the rest of the evening would consist of nothing more onerous than screening the gentlemen who would vie to dance a set with the girl so that no blatant rakes or fortune hunters would be granted the favor. Constance danced the first set with Allan Grattin, youngest son of Sir James Grattin, the second with David Rigby, nephew through his mother of Viscount Cawdor, and the third with Matthew Everly, heir to a decent property and fortune of ancient lineage even though there was no title in the family. They were all perfectly respectable young gentlemen. The Earl of Berwick, one of the members of the Survivors’ Club, had bespoken the supper set with Constance though he was aware of the fact that she could not waltz until permitted to do so by one of the patronesses of Almack’s. Being seen in his company for that set, though, and during supper could do the girl nothing but good.
Gwen danced the third set with Lord Merlock, with whom she had been on amiable terms for the past two or three years and whom she had allowed to kiss her at Vauxhall last year. They smiled warmly at each other now, and he complimented her on her looks.
“You are the only lady of my acquaintance,” he said, “who actually gets younger each year. It will surely get to the point at which I will be accused of trying to rob the cradle.”
“How absurd,” Gwen said, laughing as the figures of the set separated them for a few moments.
After kissing her, he had asked her to marry him. She had said no without hesitation, and he had taken her rejection in good part. He had even chuckled at her prediction that he would probably be vastly relieved in
the morning.
She wondered now if he had been relieved. She might have encouraged him to renew his courtship this year if she had not already invited Lord Trentham to do the same thing. She wished she had not done that. Although she did not know Lord Merlock very well, she was quite confident that he would be an agreeable husband. He was well bred and good-natured and mild mannered and—well, uncomplicated. If there were any skeletons in the cupboard of his life, she did not know of them. Though one never really did, did one?
Anyway, she had extended that invitation to Lord Trentham, and she was definitely not going to complicate her own life by stringing along two suitors at the same time.
Lord Trentham had left the ballroom ten minutes after the first set began. Gwen had known the moment of his leaving even though she had not been watching him directly. She had wondered if he would return. But of course he would. He had asked her to dance. Besides, he would want to keep an eye upon his sister.
He came back. Of course he did. And he did not even wait until the last moment before the fourth set began. He came to stand beside her as soon as the third set ended, and then he completely ignored her. He spoke instead to his sister, who was eager to give him an exhaustive account of every moment of the ball so far. She fairly bubbled over with excitement as she spoke. The girl knew nothing about fashionable ennui, Gwen thought—thank goodness. There was nothing more ridiculous than a young girl, fresh from the schoolroom and the country, decked out in virginal white, and looking bored and world-weary at yet another ball and yet another partner.
The Earl of Berwick joined them, and Miss Emes eyed his facial scar.
“You were an officer, my lord?” she asked. “And you knew Hugo in the Peninsula?”
“Alas, not, Miss Emes,” he said, “though I did know of him. There was not a soldier in the allied armies, from the generals on down to the newest recruit in the ranks, who did not know of Captain Emes, later Major Lord Trentham. He was what we all aspired to be and failed to become. We might all have hated him with a passion had he not been so dashed modest. I met him at Penderris Hall in Cornwall while we were both recovering from our war experiences, and I stood in speechless awe of him until he invited me not to be so daft. He did mention the existence of a sister. I am sure he must have. But he did not, the rogue, mention the fact that she was—and is—one of the loveliest ladies in the land.”