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Her shoulder struck a muscular arm, her hip an equally hard limb. The shock of contact, brief though it was, caused Lilith to drop her book. She did not pause to retrieve it, but, palms perspiring and heart thumping, marched off in search of Cecily.
He did not follow her.
Chapter Four
On the day Lord Brandon had reached Town, the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg had arrived as well. She put up at the Pulteney Hotel; or rather, was put up, for it was the Lievens who paid the two hundred ten guineas a week; or rather, was put up with, for the Czar’s sister was a difficult guest, having promptly declared her own private war upon the Prince Regent.
On this same day, Czar Alexander and the King of Prussia had entered the French capital at the head of their triumphant troops. Immediately thereafter, the Czar and Talleyrand met to settle Buonaparte’s rate. Within five days, the news had burst upon London, to drive the populace into a frenzy of celebration.
Nonetheless, these and other international sensations took second place one evening in early April to weightier issues: that is, the appearance—at an informal gathering of two or three hundred of the Countess Lieven’s dearest friends—of the Marquess of Brandon and his cousin, Lord Robert Downs.
Lord Brandon’s notoriety had not at all dimmed in the seven years of his self-imposed exile. True, he had returned from time to time, but only briefly, and rarely to good company. He had become a shadowy figure, occasionally glimpsed among the more infamous of the demimonde, like a dark Lucifer among a host of lesser fiends.
One might wonder then, on this particular evening, why the virtuous did not shrink from him in fear and revulsion. Instead, they crowded about his tall, athletic, black-coated figure as though he were Baal and they the idol worshippers. Perhaps virtue was a commodity in short supply in the ton, as Elise had hinted, or perhaps virtue was no match for an unimpeachable bloodline, a strikingly handsome face, a powerful masculine figure, a devastating charm, and an obscenely large income. In any case, there was scarce an individual at the gathering who did not talk either to or about the Marquess of Brandon.
Lord Robert was a lesser light. Still, he had some claim on the company’s attention, for he had not been seen at a Society affair since he’d commenced one of his own with a French-born courtesan.
Even the most jaded of the countess’s guests could not resist speculating what had brought these two elusive prizes back into the Great World.
Lord Robert, at the moment, was equally perplexed.
In the blaze of thousands of candles, the glitter and flash of jewels was nearly blinding. Dashing silks and satins of every tint mingled with fragile white muslins, like a bouquet of vivid summer blooms set off by delicate sprays of baby’s breath, amid the darker foliage of expertly tailored superfine and velvet. The affair, in short, was as insipid as every other.
Lord Robert had rarely been in polite company in nearly two years, yet the faces were depressingly familiar. The few new ones belonged mainly to the latest crop of misses, who were, naturally, exact replicas of the previous crop. Lord Robert had arrived very late, scarcely half an hour ago, and already he was bored nearly frantic.
He had agreed to accompany his cousin because he was curious as to what it was Julian said and did that drove women of every station and every shade of virtue to lose their hearts, minds, and—if they had them to lose—their morals.
What Lord Robert had observed at Hookham’s only whetted his curiosity: the quiet conversation with the clerk, the glint of coins changing hands, the discreet positioning of both the steps and Julian himself. Robert had not been near enough to hear the exchange, unfortunately, or even to observe the widow’s expression, until, to his very great surprise, she had thrust his cousin out of her way. Even then, her face had appeared carved from stone.
Julian, naturally, had not mentioned a word of the matter afterwards. He could be irritatingly inscrutable when he liked. Now, for instance, he conversed with Sidmouth and Eldon as though dreary politics were all he lived for.
Since there was nothing at present of interest there, Robert looked about him for an acquaintance whose conversation would not put him to sleep.
He spied two of his Mends, Lord Maddock and Mr. Reginald Ventcoeur, forming part of a court around the species of china doll who appeared every Season under different names. Lord Robert sighed and made for his friends.
He was not sure afterwards how it had happened. He remembered being introduced to a pair of eyes the colour of a bright summer sky and a voice as clear and musical as the rippling of a country stream... and the next he knew, they were dancing.
Miss Cecily Glenwood was fresh from the schoolroom and country-bred, as she was quick to confess.
“Now, you must keep a sharp lookout,” she warned as the music commenced. “I have had ever so many lessons, but I haven’t yet danced in fine company very often, let alone with a sophisticated gentleman. It would be too mortifying for me to trample on your slippers—but even more painful for you, I promise. Rodger reminds me constantly I’m no featherweight.”
“Two feathers,” said Robert, amused. “You can’t be more. Who is Rodger?”
“My brother.”
“That explains it. Only a sibling would tell such outrageous fibs.”
That sounds like the voice of experience,” said Miss Glenwood.
“I’m the youngest of four. I have two elder sisters who tormented me—and still do, even though they have handier victims these days in their husbands.’’
“I’m fourth as well. I have a younger sister, but she can be just as provoking as the others. Are you all fair?”
He nodded.
“Is it not monotonous?” She coloured. “Oh, dear. I did not mean you were monotonous. You are not at all. At least your eyes are not blue—well, not very. They are more grey than blue.”
Her earnest scrutiny nearly put him out of countenance, but she must have recollected herself, for in a moment her long lashes had lowered demurely over her own brilliant eyes.
“I suppose you think me dreadfully forward,” she said after a moment. “Really, I am not. It is just ignorance. The hay yet sticks to my shoes, I daresay.”
“Not at all, Miss Glenwood,” he answered smoothly. “You appear as elegant and sophisticated as any other young lady making her debut.”
She laughed. “Which is to say, not very. But you say it so convincingly I must pretend to be reassured.”
“You can’t possibly want reassurance,” he said, smiling in return. “When I approached, I thought you’d be smothered in the crowd of gentlemen pressing about you.”
“Yes, and the whole time I was terrified of blurting out The Wrong Thing. My aunt,” she explained, “has warned me more than once about my alarming tendency to say precisely what is in my mind.”
“Good heavens! You must never do that in Society. Not unless you mean to throw down civilisation as we know it.”
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “Really, I begin to think a Season wasted on me.” She glanced quickly about her then added in an undertone, “You must promise to tell no one, because they will think me ridiculous, but the truth is I am very, very bored.”
“At the start of your first Season? Miss Glenwood, you are more sophisticated than you pretend.”
“Not at all. I am still a child, I’m afraid. I want to go to Astley’s,” she confided, as though this were a heinous depravity, “and to the Tower, and Madame Tussaud’s—oh, a hundred places. There is so much to see in London, but all I do is shop and dance and talk and dance and talk and shop.”
She appeared so wistful that Lord Robert might have patted her on the head and promised her a sweetmeat if he had not had to mind his steps. As it was, he found himself soberly expressing sympathy and wondering what he could do to relieve the poor child’s boredom.
Being occupied elsewhere, Lord Robert did not observe how his cousin closed in on his prey.
Lord Brandon remained at a distance, seemingly engaged in
renewing old acquaintance. Nevertheless, there was not a moment he did not know precisely where one staid taupe gown was located.
Thus, the instant Mrs. Davenant and the Countess Lieven moved apart from their neighbours to talk, Lord Brandon began making his roundabout yet speedy way across the room. Bexley, he had noted, had wandered out of the ballroom talking earnestly with Count Lieven a quarter hour before. Lady Enders was gossiping with Lady Shumway and a gawky girl with spots.
Lord Brandon was careful to come up on the widow from behind, allowing her no opportunity to withdraw gracefully. Then he greeted the countess and asked for an introduction.
Mrs. Davenant’s slate-blue eyes turned to ice, but she could not, he knew, decline the honour without insulting the haughty Madame de Lieven. Given your political aspirations, this would be most unwise.
The widow did not decline. She even managed not to appear outraged, which he knew she must be. Lord Brandon pressed his advantage.
“Now that we have proper leave to know each other, I wonder if we might dance together,” he said, his tones studiously polite. “Will you favour me with the waltz about to begin, Mrs. Davenant—if only to honour the delightful lady who first introduced it to Society at Almack’s?”
The Countess Lieven acknowledged the compliment with a gracious nod. Mrs. Davenant’s lips tightened.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, “but—”
“Ah, now we are in for a treat,” said the countess. “We have never yet seen Lord Brandon waltz. I am afraid only our allies—perhaps our foes as well—have had that privilege. We shall at last see for ourselves whether he is as accomplished in this as in so much else.”
The marquess raised an eyebrow.
“I referred to your skill in dancing, you teasing creature,” she said with a faint smile. “But go. The music begins and my own partner approaches.”
Followed by many curious eyes, Lord Brandon led his unwilling partner out. Not that Mrs. Davenant appeared unwilling. Her face was perfectly composed. He felt her tense, though, the instant his hand clasped her waist. He suspected she would have wriggled away if she might have done so with dignity. His grip was quite firm, however.
