Kitabı oku: «The Incomparable Countess»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

Chapter One

1817

Frances, Countess of Corringham, paintbrush in hand, looked up from her easel at her sitter. Lady Willoughby was extremely fat; she had innumerable double chins, made more obvious by a heavy necklace of diamonds, and her small eyes were sunk in folds of pink flesh. Her ginger hair peeped from the edges of a huge pink satin turban which sported a sweeping feather fastened with a diamond pin.

The picture on the canvas bore little resemblance to reality, for Frances knew that she must flatter her sitter if she was ever going to be paid for her work, and though she had caught the eyes and the shape of brows and nose, the flesh had been toned down, there were fewer wrinkles and only the merest suggestion of a double chin. But it was still undeniably a portrait of Lady Willoughby.

One day, she mused, one day she would paint what she saw and never mind the consequences. Now she had done enough for one day. She was just picking up a cloth to wipe her brush, when her ladyship spoke. ‘I heard the Duke of Loscoe was come to town and intending to stay for the Season,’ she said with a note that sounded uncommonly like triumph.

Not by a single flicker of an eyelid did Frances reveal any sign of agitation, though it took all her considerable self-control. ‘Is that so?’ She cleaned the brush with more than usual care.

‘Yes, I had it from my son, Benedict, who was told by the Marquis of Risley, the Duke’s son, so it came from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Benedict is at school with the Marquis, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t know,’ Frances murmured, wishing she could add that she didn’t care either.

‘Oh, yes, Benedict, being seventeen, is two years older, but they are great friends.’

‘You don’t say!’

‘Yes and Lady Lavinia will soon be making her come-out, though what the ton will make of her I cannot imagine.’

‘Lady Lavinia?’ Frances was determined to feign ignorance of the progeny of Marcus Stanmore, third Duke of Loscoe, though she was perfectly aware of the undercurrents in Lady Willoughby’s words. She did not want that old scandal dragged up again. Oh, it did not hurt now; widowed and approaching her thirty-fifth birthday, she considered herself mature enough to let the gabble-grinders have their say and not mind, but she could not deny a twinge of something that might have been regret. Or was it anger? Could she still be angry?

‘Oh, you know very well Lady Lavinia Stanmore is the Duke’s daughter and by all accounts thoroughly spoiled by her father, especially since the Duchess died. I have heard she rides astride and drives a curricle all over the Derbyshire estate without so much as a groom beside her. And her father lets her meddle in estate business and allows her to dine with his friends and say whatever she likes to them and her not yet seventeen.’

‘I am sure the Duke knows what he is doing.’ Frances stood up and began gathering together her easel, canvas and paints, prior to leaving.

‘Give me leave to doubt it, Countess. What that girl needs is a mother, someone to show her how to go on or she will never take. I heard that was why he had come to town—he’s looking for a new wife.’

This time Frances did give a small start which she disguised as annoyance that a smudge of paint had got on to her blue jaconet gown, while her informant carried on blithely adding salt to a wound which should have healed long before. ‘He is all of forty, but well preserved and still very handsome. I do believe he will be the catch of the Season.’

‘I am glad my stepdaughter is already happily married,’ Frances said as she packed her painting accoutrements into a large case made for the purpose. ‘And I can watch events from the sidelines. Now, I must be off. The portrait will be finished in a couple of days, I think.’

‘Good. Bring it round on Thursday, when Lord Willoughby will be at home, though I am sure he will approve. You have an incomparable reputation for excellence or he would never have engaged you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I am having a few friends in for tea. Please do join us.’

Frances thanked her again and took her leave. A servant conducted her to the front door where another servant restored her pelisse and gloves to her and yet another carried her painting things out to her carriage and put them on the seat before letting down the step so that she could take her seat. John Harker, her groom and driver, set the beautifully matched horses to a steady trot, along Upper Brook Street, before turning into Duke Street and pulling up at the front door of Corringham House.

‘I shan’t need you any more today, John,’ she told the groom, as a footman came out of the tall mansion and took her case, canvas and easel from the carriage and carried it indoors.

‘Yes, my lady.’ He drove away to the mews and she followed the footman into the house, where she took off her hat, a scrap of straw with a small brim and a large feather, and handed it to Rose, her maid, before following the footman up to the studio. He leaned the easel against the wall and put the case on a table in the middle of the room.

‘Thank you, Creeley,’ she said. ‘Please tell Cook I will have my dinner in half an hour.’

‘Very well, my lady.’

He went about his business and she was alone, alone in a room so full of memories, it was almost unbearable. But she had learned to bear them, even sometimes to welcome them. Her painting had become her life. It was not that she needed the income from it; her husband, the late Earl of Corringham, had left her well provided for, but a streak of independence, which had always stood her in good stead, had made her want to do something for herself. And besides, it kept her from brooding.

She wandered round the room, looking at the pictures she had produced over the last seventeen years. Her early efforts did not have the finesse of her more recent work, but they had a raw emotion and a realism she had since learned to suppress; ladies did not paint distasteful pictures. The tasteful ones, the ones she had been commissioned to do, were gracing the drawing rooms and boudoirs of half the ton; the ones in this room were those she would not sell.

She stopped to look at a painting of the Duke of Loscoe—the Marquis of Risley as he was then, for his father had still been alive—painted when he was twenty-three and she was in love with him. It was three-quarter length and showed him as a pugilist: bare-chested and wearing tight breeches. It revealed his animal strength in every line, his self-confidence, his masculinity, his handsome broad forehead and dark, copper-coloured curls, one of which hung over his forehead, as it would have done in the ring. Sparring at Jackson’s boxing emporium had been a pastime of his. ‘It keeps me on my toes,’ he had told her between kisses.

It was a good likeness, but it was not a picture she could ever put on display; genteel ladies would be horrified that he had posed before a lady in such a state of undress and their husbands would wonder just what sort of lady she was to allow it. Besides, the dark eyes and expressive mouth said too much of the relationship between artist and subject.

Impatient with herself, she took the picture down and stood it on the floor with its face to the wall, but it left a mark where it had been hung and she began sorting through other pictures stacked around the room to find a replacement. Not all could be called portraits and not all were fashionable; there were subjects taken from nature: flowers, birds and animals, bright and lifelike and, in the case of a fox hunted to death, very bloody. And there were landscapes and street scenes too, and some of those from districts High Society ladies would never have dreamed of entering.

Taking her life in her hands, she had taken her sketch pad to some of the less salubrious parts of the capital and drawn what she saw: the miserable tenements, the squalor, the ragged children and their poverty-stricken parents, just as they were. Surprisingly no harm had come to her, possibly because she paid the people handsomely for the privilege of drawing them. Afterwards, at home in her studio, she had converted the sketches to paintings. She knew they were good, but hardly drawing-room pictures. One day she would exhibit them and prick the conscience of the haut monde with what was going on under their noses and which they chose to ignore.

While sorting through them, she came upon another of the Duke, a hurried sketch done on the day they had gone picnicking at Richmond, not long before that final parting. He had taken his coat off and was lying on the grass with his arms behind his head, watching her work, a dreamy smile on his face and a softness in his amber eyes which betokened his love for her. Or did it? She had never been sure.

‘Drat him!’ she said aloud and hurriedly picked up a portrait she had done of the Prince of Wales in that ridiculous uniform he had devised for his own regiment and hung it on the wall. Then she left the room and went to her bedchamber, where her maid was waiting for her.

She was helped out of her paint-stained gown and stood in her shift while Rose poured hot water from the ewer into a bowl. There was a full-length mirror beside the washstand and she found herself looking into it, wondering what the Duke would make of her if he could see her now. She could not describe her figure as sylph-like, but she was certainly not fat and her dark hair was still thick and black as a raven’s wing. Her violet eyes were said to be her best feature; Marcus always said they were speaking eyes. Did they still give her away or had she since learned how to veil her innermost thoughts and feelings under a cloak of urbanity?

‘What will you wear, my lady?’ Rose asked.

The choice was vast; her wardrobe was extensive and tastefully fashionable, though she did not go in for some of the extremes that were the latest mode. She would not, for instance, be seen dead in that dreadful turban of Lady Willoughby’s, nor the scant muslin that even the mature ladies of the haut monde considered the height of fashion.

‘The pink silk with the bands of green and mauve, I think.’

‘But that’s old, my lady. The last time you wore it, you said—’

‘Oh, I know, Rose, but it is comfortable and I am not going out tonight and shall be dining alone and perhaps later I will finish the portrait of Lady Willoughby. I do not want to spoil a good gown.’

It was unusual for her to be alone. She had many friends of both sexes, led a very full social life, was never short of invitations and entertained widely. Her guests came from a variety of backgrounds and had a wide range of interests, including politics, music, art and science, and she had the happy knack of making them all deal well together. Tonight, she was glad to be alone; it suited her mood.

Sitting over a light meal of chicken, ham and fresh vegetables bought in Covent Garden that morning, she reviewed her life. It had not been so bad after all, though when, at the age of seventeen, her hopes and dreams had been shattered by Marcus’s betrayal, she had thought it at an end. How could he? she had cried into her pillow night after night, how could he say he loved her and then marry someone else, just because his father told him to? She had accused him of having no backbone, of playing with her, leading her on with kisses and protestations of love which were as false and ephemeral as snow in summer. And she would certainly not entertain the idea of being his chère amie if that was what he had in mind.

She had told him she hated him, never wanted to see him again, and he had gone from her life to marry his Scottish heiress, whose dowry included a Highland castle. What had he wanted a castle for? He had been heir to a vast estate in Derbyshire, a London mansion, a house in Bath, as well as a hunting lodge in Leicestershire. It was all his now, of course, and he was one of the richest men in the kingdom. Not that she had ever considered his prospects; it was the man she had loved.

It had been her come-out year and she had wasted it sighing after a rake-shame. Most of the other young eligibles that year had found their partners and in any case could not be compared with the man she had lost. Her mother, who had spent a vast amount bringing her out, had been furious with her. ‘Money wasted,’ she had said. ‘You are far too particular, Fanny, and without reason too. Oh, I know you have looks, but what is that to the point when you have no fortune? I cannot afford to bring you to London again next year. It has to be this year or never.’

‘Mama, I cannot help it if no one has offered for me.’

‘Nor will they when you have allowed yourself to be monopolised by Risley. Talk of the ton that has been and mortifying enough without the added humiliation of going back to the country without the sniff of a betrothal.’

To please her mother Frances had accepted the Earl of Corringham. His wife had died the previous year, leaving him with a son of seven and a half and a daughter of six to bring up, and he was looking for a new mother for them. The wedding had taken place quietly just two weeks before Marcus Stanmore had married Margaret Connaught.

There had been no love, nor even any pretence of it, but she had been comfortable with him and had learned to please him and love his children, especially when it became apparent that she would have none of her own. He had been philosophical about that. ‘I have my heir,’ he had said. ‘And we deal well together, do we not? What do we want more brats for?’

She had been married ten years when a heart seizure had carried George off and since then she had made a secure life for herself. She did exactly as she pleased, went out and about, drove her carriage, rode in the park, attended concerts and the theatre, kept abreast of the times by reading newspapers and the latest books, and gambled in moderation but never more than she could afford to lose. She used the talents she had been given and taught young ladies to draw and paint, and was gratified when they did well. And, most important of all, she had her charitable work, the extent of which only John Harker and her banker were privy to. All in all it was a satisfying kind of life and she did not welcome anything that threatened to disturb it.

While George had been alive, she had spent most of her time at Twelvetrees, the family estate in Essex, and, on those rare occasions when she had visited the capital for a few days, she had not come across Marcus. He had rarely come to London, preferring to divide his time between his country estate and his Scottish castle. Since his wife’s death two years before, so rumour had it, he had been something of a recluse. And now he was in Town. Thank goodness she had more sense than to fall in a quake about that!

She finished her meal, then went up to her studio and completed the portrait of Lady Willoughby before retiring. She was going riding with Sir Percival Ponsonby the following morning and they planned to make an early start.

Percy was a lifelong bachelor who rubbed along doing nothing in particular, but managed to be an amusing and undemanding companion and, in spite of the ennui he affected, was also wise and discreet. They had long ago come to an amicable arrangement to be friends and to ignore the matchmaking tattlers who did not see why they should be allowed to enjoy their lives unencumbered when everyone knows that a man with no wife and a widow with a small fortune must surely be looking for partners.

The April morning was blustery but mild. The buds were showing on the chestnut trees and there were daffodils and gillyflowers nodding their heads in the gardens, though these would soon be replaced by the flowers of summer, the roses and delphiniums, and by then the Season would be at its height. Frances wore a blue grosgrain habit with silver frogging and had secured her riding hat with a spider-gauze scarf tied under her chin. According to Percy, she looked very fetching.

They had been riding for perhaps an hour when she spotted the man she had known as Marcus Stanmore, Marquis of Risley, driving a park phaeton down the carriageway. Sitting beside him was a young lady with gleaming copper curls and a proud carriage.

‘Bless me, if it ain’t Loscoe,’ Percy said, putting up his quizzing glass. ‘And looking quite the thing too. I ain’t seen him these many moons. And who’s the filly, I wonder?’

‘I believe it is his daughter,’ Frances murmured.

‘Daughter. My life, the years have flown. Wonder what he’s doing in Town?’

‘According to the latest on dit, looking for a second wife.’ In spite of herself, she was curious. Would he recognise her? After all, she was no longer the gauche girl of seventeen he had known. Nor was he the stripling of twenty-three he had been.

Although he was naturally heavier and his good looks had matured, the years had dealt very kindly with him. The faint lines around his eyes and mouth gave his face character which had not been there before. His jaw was stronger than she remembered it and jutted out a little belligerently as if he did not suffer fools gladly, but he was still excessively handsome.

Percy looked sideways at her. ‘Would you prefer to avoid him? It ain’t too late to turn off the ride.’

‘Goodness, no,’ she laughed. Too many summers had passed, too many winters following one upon the other, for her still to bear a grudge. ‘That would look too much like the cut direct. And I have no reason to cut him.’

‘Water under bridges, eh?’

‘Yes.’ They were almost abreast of the phaeton and she knew etiquette dictated it was up to her to acknowledge him first. She reined in and favoured him with one of her famous smiles, a smile which lit up her whole face and had most of the male population of London in thrall. ‘Your Grace.’ She gave him a small bow from the waist.

‘My lady.’ He pulled his phaeton to a stop and doffed his tall hat. His extraordinary hair was as thick and vibrant as ever, she noticed. She also noticed his smile did not seem to reach his amber eyes and his mouth had a slightly cynical twist, which she was sure had not been there when he was young. ‘How do you do?’

‘I do very well, thank you. You are acquainted with Sir Percival, are you not?’

‘Yes, indeed. Good day to you, Ponsonby.’

‘And you,’ Percy answered. ‘What brings you to the village? It must be years since you were here last.’

‘Indeed, yes.’ He turned back to Frances. ‘Countess, may I present my daughter, Lavinia? Lavinia, the Countess of Corringham.’ His tone was cool and impersonal; there was nothing to suggest he remembered that hot summer when they had been everything to each other. Everything or nothing? ‘And this is Sir Percival Ponsonby.’

‘Lady Lavinia, how nice to meet you,’ Frances said, as Percy bowed in the saddle. ‘I do hope you enjoy your visit to London.’

The only answer the girl managed was a mutter and a scowl which spoiled her prettiness and earned her a telling look from her father.

Frances was startled but, having acknowledged her, turned her attention to the Duke. ‘Do you stay long in town, your Grace?’

‘I think I shall be here for the Season. I have business to attend to and Lavinia needs a little town bronze.’

Frances certainly agreed with that. The child was extraordinarily beautiful and would have all the young bloods at her feet, if only she could learn to smile and be polite. Instead of attending to the conversation she was watching the horses riding past, as if the last thing she wanted to do was talk to her father’s acquaintances.

‘Then we shall perhaps see something of you in Society.’

‘Indeed, I plan to take Vinny to some of the less grand occasions, to give her a taste of what is to come when she makes her bow next year.’ He smiled suddenly and she felt the old tug at her heart and a flutter of nerves somewhere in the region of her lower abdomen and realised she was not as impervious to his charm as she had hoped. ‘Lady Willoughby has already invited us to take tea with her tomorrow afternoon.’

Frances cursed under her breath. Trust Emma Willoughby to be first in the fray. And to choose the very day when she had promised to deliver the portrait. She could take the portrait in the morning and cry off the tea party, but that would be tantamount to cowardice and she had never been a coward. Besides, she could not hope to avoid him the whole Season, so she might as well begin as she meant to go on. ‘How nice,’ she said. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you both there. Good day, Loscoe. Lady Lavinia.’

‘Countess,’ he answered, with an inclination of his head and picked up the reins to drive on. Frances and Percy turned to continue their ride. As a meeting it had been nothing out of the ordinary; simply a greeting exchanged by acquaintances. Had she expected anything else? Fireworks, perhaps? She smiled at her nonsensical thoughts and turned to her escort who should, after all, have her undivided attention.

It was only then, that she remembered what he had said before the encounter. ‘What did you mean, “water under bridges”?’ she asked.

‘I believe it indicates the passing of time, my dear.’

‘I know that. I meant, what was the context of the remark?’

‘Oh, Fanny, do not play the innocent. I know perfectly well there was almost a whole Season when everyone thought Stanmore was going to offer for you.’

‘So?’ she demanded, unexpectedly irritated. ‘The tattlers are sometimes wrong, you know.’

‘Yes, but I wondered how disappointed you had been.’

‘Not at all,’ she lied. ‘I knew we should not suit.’

‘And so you married Corringham.’

‘I was very fond of George, Percy. Now, let us forget this conversation. It is of no import whatever.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘Unless you wish it, I will never refer to it again.’

‘Thank you. And I would be obliged, if you hear others mentioning water under bridges or anything of that nature, you put them right.’

‘Certainly, I will, though I doubt it will be at the top of the gabble-grinders’ list; it was all a long time ago.’

‘You remembered it.’

‘To be sure, but I am different.’

‘Why different?’

‘Oh, long memory and nothing else to fill it,’ he said vaguely. ‘Now, do we go home, or shall we have a canter across the grass?’

She laughed. ‘A gallop, I think.’

It was not considered the thing for ladies to gallop; indeed, they should do no more than walk or trot along the ride, the whole point of the exercise being to see and be seen, but Frances had never slavishly obeyed the rules and, because she was popular with everyone and considered quite beyond the marriage mart, no one took any notice when she veered off across the grass towards the middle of the park and spurred her horse into a gallop.

Sir Percival followed and half an hour later, exhilarated and free of the cobwebs in her mind which had plagued her overnight, they turned for home.

And that afternoon, just to prove her independence, she took her sketch pad and crayons and asked John Harker to drive her to the East End, where she positioned her stool and easel on one of the docks and drew a tea schooner being unloaded. Its spars and rigging were something of a challenge and totally absorbed her until it was time to return home. Marcus Stanmore, Duke of Loscoe, was banished from her mind and he did not return to it until the following afternoon.

She had taken the portrait to the Willoughby mansion and watched as her ladyship instructed a footman hold it up in one place after another in the main drawing room, undecided where it would look to best advantage. The obvious place was the wall over the Adam fireplace, but that already held a heavy gilt mirror; the fireplace recess was not light enough and the wall opposite the window too light; the sun shining upon it would spoil its colours.

‘Perhaps it should go in another room,’ Frances suggested when the footman had moved it for the fourth time and was looking decidedly bored with the task.

‘Oh, no, it must be in here. I want all my callers to see it. Perhaps I should have the mirror taken down…’

‘I think the heat from the chimney might crack the canvas in time, my lady.’

It was at this point Lord Willoughby arrived and, being asked his opinion, stroked his chin contemplatively and pointed to an empty space to one side of the room, well away from the fire. ‘Leave it on its easel and put it there.’

‘Not hang it?’ her ladyship queried. ‘Will it not look unfinished?’

‘No, why should it?’ He laughed. ‘You can move it about as the fancy takes you. You might even start a fashion for displaying pictures on easels.’

Her ladyship clapped her hands in delight. ‘So I shall.’ She turned to Frances. ‘Dear Countess, can I prevail upon you to let me borrow your easel until we can procure one?’

‘Oh, you do not need to borrow it,’ Frances said, thinking about the fat fee she had only a few minutes before put into her reticule. ‘Have it with my compliments.’

‘I think I will cover it until everyone is here,’ Lady Willoughby said happily. ‘Then I can unveil it with a flourish. It is so good and will enhance your reputation even further, my dear Countess. How you manage to produce something so exactly to life I shall never know, for I was never any good at drawing when I was young.’

Frances stifled a chuckle; the picture was undoubtedly of Lady Willoughby, but a much slimmer Lady Willoughby than the one who faced her in the flesh—mounds of it. And the good lady could not see the difference. But surely her husband could and so would everyone else. Frances began to wonder, and not for the first time, if she was prostituting her art and ought to have more self-respect, when a footman announced the first of her ladyship’s guests.

They came in one by one, were greeted, asked to sit and plied with tea and little almond cakes. The easel stood covered by a tablecloth. Frances wished she could make her escape before the unveiling. She had never been happy publicising herself and her work, thinking it smacked of conceit. She was on the point of taking her leave when the Duke of Loscoe and Lady Lavinia were announced. She had been half out of her seat, but now sank back into it, feeling trapped.

He came into the room, entirely at ease even knowing that everyone was looking at him. He was dressed in a dark blue superfine coat with black buttons and a high collar. His cravat, in which glittered a diamond pin, testified to the attentions of a very good valet and his hair had obviously been cut by one of the haut monde’s best hairdressers. His long muscular legs were encased in pale blue pantaloons and tasselled Hessians. A concerted sigh escaped all the ladies except Frances, who refused to follow the pack.

He made his bow to his hostess. ‘My lady, your obedient.’

‘We are indeed honoured that you could attend our little gathering, your Grace,’ her ladyship simpered. ‘And this must be Lady Lavinia.’

‘It is indeed.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Make your curtsy, Vinny.’

Lavinia did as she was told and even managed a smile as she murmured, ‘My lady.’

‘Now let me introduce you to everyone,’ Lady Willoughby said, and proceeded to conduct him round the room. He bowed to everyone, murmured polite nothings and moved on, followed by his daughter, whose smile was so fixed, Frances wondered what dire threat Marcus had made to produce it.

‘The Countess of Corringham,’ her ladyship said, suddenly looming large in Frances’s vision. ‘But I believe you are acquainted.’

‘Indeed.’ He bowed. ‘How do you do, Countess?’

She managed a smile, wondering if it looked as fixed as Lavinia’s. ‘I am very well, your Grace.’

‘The Countess is the reason for our little gathering,’ Lady Willoughby went on. ‘The guest of honour, you might say, excepting your good self, of course.’

‘Indeed?’ he said again, lifting a well-arched eyebrow at Frances, a gleam of humour lighting his dark eyes. It totally bewildered her. Had he forgotten? Or was he, like her, pretending nothing had ever happened between them? ‘I am sure it is well deserved.’

Lady Willoughby appeared not to notice as she turned away and clapped her hands for attention. ‘My friends,’ she said. ‘This is not a formal occasion, so there will be no speeches, but I particularly wanted you to be the first to see this.’ And with that, she tugged the cover off the portrait. ‘It is the most recent work of the Countess of Corringham.’

There was silence for about two seconds, two seconds in which Frances wished the floor would open up and swallow her, and then there was a burst of applause which was soon taken up by everyone, followed by a babble of conversation. ‘She has caught you to the life, Emma.’

‘The flesh tones are superb.’

‘You can pick out every individual hair.’

‘The hands are good too. Not everyone can portray hands.’

‘I am flattered,’ Frances said, rising to receive the plaudits. It brought her standing uncomfortably close to the Duke.

‘Flattered?’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Methinks it is you who do the flattering.’

‘Why not? It does no harm,’ she whispered back, trying to ignore the frisson of something she refused to identify that coursed through her at his nearness. Seventeen years fled away as if they had never been. Mentally she shook herself, reminding herself that water never flowed backwards.

‘I believe it harms you.’

‘Fustian!’ Just in time she stopped herself adding, ‘And what does it matter to you what I do?’ The last thing she wanted was a personal altercation with him.

‘Are you so in need of funds that you must produce insipid stuff like this?’ He nodded towards the portrait.

‘Lady Willoughby is delighted with it. And that means others…’

‘Will want to fling money at you too.’

‘Nothing wrong with that.’

‘No, but I thought you had more spirit.’ He smiled at their hostess, who was bearing down upon them.

‘Lord Loscoe,’ she gushed. ‘What do you think? Is it not an excellent likeness?’

He bowed. ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said, ignoring Frances’s splutter of laughter at his duplicity. ‘Lady Corringham is indeed very talented.’

‘Have you ever sat for your portrait, my lord?’ her ladyship asked.

‘Not for very many years,’ he answered carefully. ‘It can be a very tedious business, and I have so little time for it.’

‘Ah, but now you are in town, you must surely have some leisure. I can thoroughly recommend her ladyship.’

‘Oh, please, Lady Willoughby,’ Frances put in. ‘You are putting me to the blush.’

‘Oh, you are far too old to be blushing,’ the woman said tactlessly, a statement which made the Duke chuckle. Frances felt colour flood her face, which only proved how wrong her ladyship was. ‘Now, my lord, you must come and talk to my other guests. And Felicity is dying to make the acquaintance of Lady Lavinia.’

He bowed to Frances. ‘My lady, your obedient.’ And then he was gone, followed by his daughter.

Frances watched his tall straight back moving away from her and then her attention was taken by other people who wanted to talk to her about having their portraits painted. She was kept busy for several minutes, making appointments to meet them again to talk about their requirements, and she did not see the Duke and his daughter leave. A few minutes later she left herself.

As a business exercise, the afternoon had been a great success, though she was left wondering why her ladyship was so enthusiastically promoting her. Did she think she needed the money? But she did, didn’t she? Every penny.

That evening she attended a concert arranged by Mrs Georgiana Butterworth in aid of the war orphans, one of her favourite charities, and enjoyed the music immensely. She had not given the Duke of Loscoe another thought and was taken aback to see him during the interval talking animatedly to one of the guests. He was wearing an evening suit of black cloth and a pristine white cravat, simple clothes, but superbly cut, she admitted to herself, while wondering if he was truly interested in war orphans or was simply doing the rounds in search of his new wife, though the company could hardly be classed as the haut monde and not one of the worthy ladies present seemed to qualify. They were either married, too old, or not from the upper echelons of Society and he would never marry so far beneath him, as he had proved seventeen years before.

It was some moments before he saw her and then his eyebrows rose in surprise as if she was the last person he had expected to see. He excused himself from the matron who was engaging him in conversation and made his way over to her.

‘Countess, I had not anticipated seeing you again so soon.’

‘Nor I you. It is not a gathering I would have thought would interest you.’

‘Why not?’ he asked sharply. ‘The plight of children orphaned by war is a worthy cause and you must think so, too, or you would not be here.’

‘Indeed, I do.’

‘Then we have a mutual interest,’ he said.

She did not reply, and he looked quizzically at her. ‘Do you find that unacceptable, my lady?’ he asked softly.

‘What?’

‘That we are both interested in the orphans and wish to improve their lives.’

‘Not at all.’ She forced herself to ignore the swift beating of her heart. She was behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl and her thirty-five years old in a few weeks! ‘The more help they have the better. Some of them are in dire straits.’

‘Good. I should not like to think my presence in any way deterred you from your good work.’

‘Now why in heaven’s name should it?’ she retorted, her voice rising a fraction. She immediately dropped her tone to add in a hoarse whisper, ‘You are insufferably conceited, if you think that your presence or otherwise makes the slightest difference to me.’

‘Then I beg your pardon for my presumption.’

Mrs Butterworth joined them before she could answer. ‘I see you have made the acquaintance of the Duke,’ she said to Frances.

‘Oh, we are old sparring partners,’ Marcus said, a remark which sent Frances’s thoughts flying back to her studio and the painting of the pugilist. ‘We have not met these many years and were enjoying a coze about old times.’

‘How delightful! You must be gratified, my lady, that the Duke has joined our little band of subscribers. His name on the list will encourage others, do you not think?’

‘I am sure it will,’ she murmured.

‘We are looking for a good property to give some of them a temporary home until we can find new permanent homes for them,’ the lady told him, while Frances surreptitiously studied his face for signs of boredom and found none. But then he was always good at pretending. ‘At present they are housed in a dilapidated tenement in Monmouth Street, but the lease is running out, so we must find something more substantial and comfortable very soon.’

‘Then you may count on me for a donation, Mrs Butterworth,’ he said with a smile which totally captivated the good lady. Little did Mrs Butterworth know, Frances mused, that his smile hid a heart as cold and rigid as stone.

‘Oh, thank you, sir. This concert has been such a success that we are thinking of holding a ball to raise more funds. May we count on you to purchase a ticket?’

‘If I am not engaged on the evening in question, then I shall be happy to do so,’ he said with a smile.

The orchestra began tuning up their instruments and everyone was moving back to their seats for the second half of the programme. Marcus gave Frances a thin smile and inclined his head. ‘My lady.’

‘Your Grace.’

Frances returned to her seat, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. Was her every move to be dogged by the Duke of Loscoe? Was he to be everywhere she went? She had never dreamed she would come across him at this unfashionable gathering. It had been a severe shock, more than the shock of meeting him in the park, or the encounter at Lady Willoughby’s. Was nowhere safe from his odious presence? But she could not hide herself away at home, could she? She had told him his presence made no difference and she must school herself to make that true.

It had to be true. If he had not been so long absent from London, if he had always been in the forefront of Society these last seventeen years, she would have become inured, she told herself; it was his sudden reappearance that was causing the upheaval and reminding her of that summer in 1800. One summer. One summer could not possibly be important now. She was making a mountain out of a molehill. And there was far more to life than dwelling on the past.

It was when they were all taking their leave that she saw him again. She had just taken her pelisse from Mrs Butterworth’s footman, when she felt a hand helping her on with it. She turned to thank whoever it was, only to find herself looking into the amber eyes of the Duke of Loscoe, and like amber they seemed to have a light and depth of their own, as they surveyed her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said coolly.

‘You seem to be without an escort, my lady—may I offer my services?’

‘I have my carriage, thank you.’

‘Then I will say goodnight.’ He took his hat from the footman and clamped it on his head before striding down the path to the road where his own coach waited. ‘Take the carriage home, Brown,’ he told his driver. ‘I will walk back.’

It was a good walk, more than two miles through some of the less fashionable areas of London, but he felt in need of the exercise. Since coming to London he had missed the long walks and exhilarating gallops he enjoyed at his Derbyshire home; he was becoming a sloth and putting on weight. Perhaps he should take up sparring again. Was he too old for that now? It might be interesting to find out if he had retained any of his old skill.

Thinking of sparring made his thoughts turn to Fanny Randall—Lady Frances Corringham, he corrected himself with a wry smile. She had painted a picture of him stripped for a bout. He had been amazed at her skill and wanted it for himself, but she would not give it to him. ‘I did it for our eyes only,’ she had told him. ‘I will never part with it.’

But that was before… He shrugged his shoulders as he skirted the notorious Seven Dials district towards Covent Garden. Had she kept it or had his perfidy made her hate him and the painting along with it? He had behaved badly towards her, but how was he to know she was expecting an offer? He had been in no position to make one; the match between him and Margaret Connaught had already been negotiated by their respective fathers and there was nothing he could do about it.

He should never have sought her company so assiduously that summer, should never, never have told her he loved her, however true it was. But he had been a green twenty-three and not yet clever enough to hide his feelings, nor think of the consequences. He wanted to be with her, often compromised her by taking every opportunity to be alone with her, to hold her hand and smother her in kisses while declaring he could not live without her. And her eager responses had flattered him. He had even managed to take her on a picnic to Richmond, driving her in his curricle which had no room for anyone but the two of them, so they went without so much as a maid or a groom for a chaperon.

He had not given a thought to what he was doing to her until the whole Connaught family descended on London from their home near Edinburgh and he found himself having to escort his intended for the rest of the Season and escaping to see Fanny became almost impossible. And when at last he did, at one of the Duchess of Devonshire’s balls, they had quarrelled.

He had tried, after partnering her in a country dance, to explain about Margaret, telling her that it was an arranged marriage and did not in any way alter his feelings for her, but she would not listen. ‘If you think that I am such a bufflehead as to allow myself to become your chére amie—that is the term, is it not?—then you are glaringly abroad, my lord,’ she had hissed angrily.

He had been shocked at her language and tried to deny that such a thing had ever entered his head, but afterwards, in the cold light of the following day, with his head aching from the wine and brandy he had consumed, he realised that she had been right. There was no way he could marry Margaret and continue to enjoy the company and kisses of Frances, except to take her as his mistress. But one did not make light o’ loves of seventeen-year-old girls only lately out of school. He wrote apologising for his behaviour and that was the end of the affair.

Had she forgotten it? He did not think so, but she had certainly made a quick recovery because she had married Corringham almost immediately, making him wonder if the Earl had been waiting in the wings all along. And now they were both free again.

It did not make any difference; they had grown up, matured, their characters had been forged on the anvil of life; they had become different people, strangers. He smiled, as he strode past the back of Carlton House towards St James’s Street and home—the latest on dit was that he was looking for another wife, but that was far from his intention. He was enjoying being single and was in no hurry to be leg-shackled again.

If it had not been for pressing business, he would not even have come to Town, certainly not in the Season, but because he had to come and because his daughter was sixteen and behaved like a boy of twelve and it was about time she was taken in hand, he had brought her with him. He was even now awaiting the arrival of his sister from Ireland, whom he had asked to come over and give her some polish. Charlotte had been delayed by her children having measles and here he was alone in London with a far from acquiescent daughter. And he had not the faintest idea what to do with her!

What he needed was someone like Frances Corringham. Fanny was cool and urbane, in the thick of everything, known by everyone. She was fashionably attired, knew how to conduct herself. She also had a prodigious talent. He laughed aloud, making one or two people nearby look sharply at him. They probably thought he was foxed, he did not care; it had come to him in a flash of inspiration, a way of keeping Lavinia occupied. He would ask the Countess of Corringham to paint her portrait and give her drawing and painting lessons.

He need not be present and it would leave him free to go about the business which had brought him to London. But would she do it? Was she still angry enough to turn him down? But she did not seem particular about whom she painted and was prepared to flatter her sitters for a fat fee, so why should she treat him any differently, if money was all she cared about? Tomorrow he would call on her.

Chapter Two

Frances smiled as she left the door of the rundown tenement in Monmouth Street which was home to some twenty orphans. If her Society friends could see her now, they would have apoplexy, she decided—that is, if they recognised her at all. Hatless and dressed in a grey wool dress and a short pelisse, she looked the image of a very ordinary woman, the wife or widow of a clerk or some such, respectable but nondescript.

Although, as Countess of Corringham, she was in the forefront of the charity which raised money for the orphans, it was as plain Mrs Fanny Randall that she worked at the orphanage, rolling up her sleeves to help bathe the children, or serve them the plain food which her money helped to provide. She loved the work and the children.

‘A real pied piper, you are,’ Mrs Thomas, the plump matron of the home, had said, adding that she must be sorry she had had no children of her own. Frances had passed it off with a smile, but her childlessness was the biggest regret of her life and something she found difficult to talk about.

She climbed up beside John Harker, who had been instructed to come and fetch her at noon in her tilbury. He was used to her ways and made no attempt to stop her when she picked up the ribbons and drove them towards Oxford Street, which was lined with shops and businesses, its pavements full of pedestrians and street hawkers. She tooled the horses with consummate ease, weaving the light carriage neatly in and out of the medley of riding horses, carts and carriages of every description which filled the road. No one paid any attention to an unmarked vehicle being driven by a nobody, but the slight chance she might be seen and recognised led an added piquancy to the adventure.

Less than twenty minutes later she turned into Duke Street and drew up with a flourish at the door of Corringham House, only to discover the Duke of Loscoe, dressed for riding, standing on the top step, apparently having found she was not at home and about to leave. She would have driven on in the hope he would not recognise her, but it was too late; he was standing quite still, staring at her. Was it in distaste? She could not be sure.

There was nothing for it but to carry off the situation as if it were nothing out of the ordinary for ladies of the aristocracy to drive themselves about town in what was considered to be a single man’s carriage. Throwing the reins to Harker and instructing him to see to the horses, she jumped down with an agility which the ladies of the ton would have described as hoydenish if they could have seen her, and advanced towards him, smiling.

‘Your Grace, I did not expect you, or I would have been at home to greet you.’

‘Good day, Countess,’ he said, doffing his curlybrimmed hat and bowing, while at the same time his dark eyes appraised the simple clothes she wore and his eyebrows rose just a fraction. ‘If it is inconvenient…’ His voice tailed off.

She smiled inwardly to think that he was more discomfited than she was. She could easily have asked him to come another time when she was prepared to receive him, but she had to admit to being a little curious. Why was he visiting her? Surely they could have nothing to say to each other after all this time? ‘It is not inconvenient, my lord. Please come in.’

The door had been opened by a footman who stood on the threshold, waiting for her to step inside. She led the way. ‘Creeley, show his Grace into the green salon and ask Cook to bring refreshments.’ She turned to the Duke. ‘Please excuse me while I change. I will not keep you long.’

Once in her bedchamber, she stood and looked at herself in the mirror. She was a perfect antidote. The gown, although it had been clean when she left the house three hours earlier, was spotted and rumpled and some of her hair had escaped its pins and was curling about her neck. There was a smudge on her nose and a scratch on the back of one hand where the kitten they had bought to help keep down the mice at the orphanage had scratched her. It had been her own fault for teasing it.

Rose was waiting for her, clucking her disapproval. ‘And the Duke of Loscoe standing on the step,’ she said, pulling the gown over Frances’s head. ‘What must he have thought of you?’ Rose had been with her a very long time and considered that gave her the right to speak her mind.

‘I do not care a fig what he thinks, Rose.’

‘What shall you tell him?’

‘About what?’

‘This,’ she said, throwing the grey dress into a corner in distaste.

‘Nothing. It is none of his business.’

‘It will give him a disgust of you.’

‘Do you think that bothers me, Rose? Do you think I lay sleepless at night, wondering what people think of me?’

‘No, my lady.’

But there had been a time when she had lain sleepless because of the man who waited for her in her drawing room and that thought brought a wry smile to her lips. She had pretended not to care then for her pride’s sake, but she did not need to pretend now, she told herself firmly, she did not care.

But even so, she had a feeling her ordered way of life was about to be eroded by a man she thought she had left far behind in her youth. If she had not known him before, if they were only now making each other’s acquaintance, would she feel any differently? Would she find him elegant and charming? She did not know. It was not possible to rewrite history.

Marcus prowled round the room and wondered what the lovely Countess was up to. The house was furnished in exquisite taste, with carpets and curtains in pale greens and fawns. There were paintings by the masters on the walls and one or two that were unsigned and which he guessed she had executed herself. There was a cabinet containing some beautiful porcelain and vases of fresh flowers on the tables.

In his experience, when aristocratic owners of beautiful houses fell on hard times, it showed in threadbare carpets or peeling paint or walls bare of valuable paintings, but this was a room of quiet opulence, with not a hint that there was anything wrong with its owner. So why was the Countess so shabbily attired? The Earl had left her well provided for, hadn’t he?

But she didn’t own the house, he reminded himself. It belonged to her stepson, the present Earl of Corringham. Did he keep his stepmother on short commons? Was that why she had to paint those sickening portraits and teach young ladies to draw? Oh, poor, poor Fanny. He was glad he had decided to visit her. Teaching Vinny would add to her income and he felt he owed her something for the way he had treated her in the past.

He was standing at the window, looking out on a perfectly maintained garden when he heard her enter. He turned towards her, a smile on his lips which he only just managed to stop becoming a gasp of surprise.

She was dressed in a dark green silk day gown. It had bands of velvet ribbon around the skirt and a low-cut square neck. But what was so startling was that it showed her figure off to perfection: the trim waist, the well-rounded bosom, the long, pale neck and the raven hair, pulled into a topknot and arranged in careful curls at the back of her head. Without the least attempt to appear girlish, she presented herself as still a young woman of astonishing beauty and great poise. She wore no jewellery; her lovely neck was unadorned. He felt a sudden urge to bury his face in the curve of it.

‘Countess.’ He bowed towards her, realising his smile had become a trifle fixed, as if he were afraid he would let it slip and all his thoughts and emotions would be laid bare.

‘I am sorry to have been so long,’ she said, without explaining why. ‘I hope refreshments were sent to you.’

‘Indeed, yes.’ He nodded towards the tray which a maidservant had put on one of the tables and which contained a teapot, cups and saucers and a plate of little cakes. ‘I have been waiting for you to come and share them with me.’

‘Then do sit down.’ She sat on a sofa and indicated the chair opposite. ‘I prefer tea at this time, but if you would rather have Madeira or sherry…’

‘No, tea will suit me very well.’ He lifted the skirt of his coat and sat down, his long legs, clad in buckskin riding breeches, stretched out in front of him. There was no fat on him, she realised; the shape of his calves and thighs was due to well-toned muscle.

She poured two cups of tea and handed one to him, pleased that her hand was as steady as a rock. ‘Please help yourself to a honey cake.’

‘No, thank you, though they do look delicious.’

She sipped her tea with what she hoped was cool detachment, but this mundane conversation was driving her mad. What did he want? Why had he come? He appeared to be sizing her up, as if he was trying to make up his mind whether she had been pining after him all the years they had been apart. Surely he did not hope to take up where they left off? If that were so he was insufferably conceited and she would soon show him how mistaken he was. ‘It is a lovely day,’ she said. ‘I am surprised you are not out riding. I believe Lady Lavinia is very fond of that exercise.’

‘She is indeed. We had a ride this morning, and I took her home half an hour since, but she finds riding in the park somewhat restricting and, as I have not brought her mare to London, she has perforce to use a hired hack.’

‘She will be glad to return to Derbyshire, then.’

‘Oh, I have no plans to return in the immediate future, so if she wants to ride, she must learn to bear it.’ He was waiting for her to ask why he was visiting her, she decided, and she would not satisfy him on that score, even if they sat exchanging small talk all day. He put his cup down and she smiled and asked him if he would like a second cup of tea.

‘No, thank you,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘You have a beautiful home.’

‘Thank you. I have enjoyed refurbishing it over the years. Of course, it now belongs to the present Earl, my stepson, but he has said I may consider it my home for as long as I wish.’

It would be different when he came fully into his inheritance on his twenty-fifth birthday, when the Essex estate and the London house would be handed over to him. Then she would have to find somewhere to live; she did not like the idea of living there under sufferance and certainly not after he married. And before long he would. Her steady, unruffled life was about to change, but she had been putting her head in the sand and doing nothing about it. However, sooner or later, she must.

‘It would be an inconsiderate son who said anything else, Countess.’

‘He is far from inconsiderate, my lord. I cannot have wished for a better son, and, before you ask, I have not been so fortunate as to have children of my own.’

‘I would not dream of asking such a personal question, my lady.’

She was cross with herself for allowing her agitation to show and picked up his cup and saucer and put it on the tray to give herself something to do with her hands. ‘Stanmore House is said to be a very fine example of a London house,’ she said, doing her best to retrieve the situation with an easy smile. ‘I am told the staircase is unique and the decoration of the reception rooms superb.’

‘Yes, but old-fashioned. My late wife did not like London and never came, so it has remained as it was in my mother’s time.’

She longed to ask why the Duchess had not liked London, but that would be as personal a question as asking her about her childlessness and she would not give him the satisfaction of pointing that out to her.

‘My daughter has never been to the capital,’ he said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘And until now I did not feel she needed to, but next year she will be seventeen and must make her mark on Society if she is to take well.’

‘Surely there is plenty of time for that? I think seventeen is far too young for any young lady to make up her mind about marriage. Why, they are still only schoolgirls at that age and given to all manner of fits and fancies.’ That is one for you to think on, she thought, as she watched his face for a sign that he understood what she was saying; that she had been fanciful at that age and had recovered from it. But the years had taught him to mask his feelings and not for a second did his expression reveal that the barb had gone home.

‘I have no wish to saddle her with marriage before she is ready for it,’ he said, evenly. ‘But she must make her bow at court and I would not like it said she lacked polish.’

‘You propose to polish her, my lord?’ She spoke with the hint of a teasing smile which jerked him back seventeen years—the young Fanny Randall had had a finely tuned sense of humour—and made him stand up and go to look out of the window. The view was no different from the one he had been looking at earlier, but it was an excuse to keep his face turned from her until he had brought himself back under control. This was a business meeting and he must not allow emotion to gain the upper hand.

‘No, that would be foolish in me. I shall employ others to do it.’ He turned back suddenly. ‘You, for one, if you agree.’

‘Me?’ She could not hide the surprise and dismay in her voice. ‘I am persuaded you are jesting.’

‘Not at all. I am told one of the accomplishments a young lady needs, besides being able to sew a fine seam, play a musical instrument and dance the latest steps, is the ability to draw and paint and I can think of no one more suited to teach Lavinia that.’

He sat down beside her on the sofa, which did nothing for her hard-won control. He was so close, she could almost feel the warmth emanating from a body which was still lithe and muscular. Her own body seemed to want to lean towards his, to feel again the contact of thigh against thigh, his arms about her, lips on lips. Shocked to the core, she stood up and went to pull the bell for the maid to remove the tray.

Because she was on her feet, etiquette demanded he should rise too. She sat down abruptly and motioned him to the other chair. He sat down again, far enough away to allow her to breathe more easily. ‘It is true I have a certain facility, but…’

‘You are far too modest, Countess. You have an incomparable reputation…’

‘Fustian!’ She smiled, remembering those were the words that Lady Willoughby had used; she had probably repeated them in his hearing. ‘You have seen my work for yourself, at Lady Willoughby’s. And criticised it too.’

‘I would not presume to do so, my lady. I simply made a comment that you had flattered your subject.’ He smiled suddenly and his amber eyes lit up in the way she remembered; it made his somewhat sombre face come alive, the light in his eyes giving depth to his expression. ‘And considering your subject, you should take that as a compliment.’

Chapter Three

Frances was called upon to exercise her indifference sooner than she expected. The Duke of Loscoe was invited to the ball which she had helped to organise in aid of the orphanage. She and a committee of ladies had been planning it for some time and it was to be as grand an affair as they could manage to which all the ton had been invited. He had already made a generous donation to the cause of the orphans and it would have been unthinkable to exclude him.

The choice of venue had been the subject of great debate; should it be held in Almack’s Assembly Rooms, at an hotel, or in a private house? The Assembly Rooms were considered stultifying and there was hardly a hotel with large enough rooms, and besides, their owners would not wish to turn away their ordinary customers to make room for them. If it was to be a private house, then it must have a ballroom big enough to accommodate all the guests they hoped would pay for the privilege of attending.

‘It had better be Corringham House,’ Frances had said.

‘But, Lady Corringham, are you sure?’ Mrs Butterworth had asked. ‘There might be people wishing to come who might not be quite top of the trees. You never know how they might conduct themselves.’

‘If they are prepared to pay, then I am sure we can handle any problems of behaviour. After all, beggars cannot be choosers.’

‘My lady!’ Lady Graham, another member of the committee, cried in horror. ‘We are not beggars. Never let it be said that we are begging.’

Frances had smiled. ‘No, but we are going to ask an exorbitant amount for a ticket, are we not? They deserve Corringham House for that.’

It was some time since Frances had entertained on such a lavish scale; usually she gave small intimate suppers at which conversation, listening to music and playing a few hands of whist were the main ways of passing time. There had not been a ball at the house since Augusta’s come-out five years before and the ballroom had not been used since. She thought she would enjoy the challenge.

And so, on a warm Saturday evening in May, when London was just beginning to fill up for the Season, Corringham House was ablaze with light. Extra servants had been busy all day, polishing the ballroom floor; others were scurrying about carrying chairs, tables, plates and glasses to wherever they were needed. The dining room had been laid out with one long table covered with a pristine damask cloth, ready for the food to be set upon it, and dozens of smaller tables were arranged round the room for the guests to eat supper in small intimate groups. In the over-heated kitchen an army of specially contracted caterers were frantically preparing food, getting in each other’s way and cursing volubly. By early evening, banks of fresh flowers were in place and the musicians had arrived.

Frances made one last tour of the rooms, including one on the first floor for those who did not care to dance and preferred cards, and two others set aside for gentlemen and ladies to leave their hats and cloaks and refresh themselves. There was an attendant in each. Satisfied that all was in readiness, she went up to her bedroom on the second floor, where Rose was waiting to help her dress. She felt hot and sticky and glad to soak in the bath which had been put on the floor of her dressing room and filled with warm, perfumed water.

Until then she had been too busy to reflect on the possible success or otherwise of the enterprise. What would her aristocratic friends think of being asked to pay for the privilege of being her guests? And would they come, knowing that others, just as rich but less socially acceptable, might also pay and they would be obliged to mix with them? It was too late to worry about that now. She stood up and stepped out of the bath. Rose wrapped a towel round her and began rubbing her dry.

When the first carriage rolled up the drive and deposited its occupants on the doorstep, she was ready to greet them. She had chosen to wear an open gown in amber crepe over a silk slip in pale lemon. It had a scooped neckline and puffed sleeves. The amber crepe and the sleeves were sewn with tiny seed pearls and the bodice was caught under the bosom with tiny yellow flowers, the eye of each one studded with a pearl. Her hair was arranged à la Grecque and studded with more pearls. Apart from her rings, she wore no other jewellery.

After the ladies of the committee, who had all arrived promptly, the first guests to arrive were Augusta and her husband, Sir Richard Harnham. Frances, always pleased to see her stepdaughter, kissed her fondly. ‘I am so glad you are here. I have been thinking it will be a very poor do and no one will come.’

‘Fustian!’ Richard said, smiling at her and raising her hand to his lips. ‘Nothing you do is a poor do. It will be a great squeeze, you see if I am not right.’

‘I do hope so.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Even if no one comes, they have already paid for their tickets. We have banked the money and plans have already been made to spend it.’

‘Oh, Mama, please stop worrying,’ Augusta said. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

Considering there was only twelve years between them, Frances found it amusing that Augusta, now that she was grown up and married and had children of her own, still insisted on calling her Mama, but it did not displease her; she was very fond of Augusta.

Her stepson, James, was the next to arrive, dressed in a black evening coat, skintight pantaloons and shirt points high enough to scratch his cheeks. His muslin cravat had been tied to an intricacy that would have done credit to Beau Brummell. He had a young lady on his arm whom Frances had never seen before, but whom she immediately knew to be a very expensive chère amie indeed. She was dressed in a cream satin high-waisted gown embroidered all over with gold and silver thread. Her hair had obviously been dressed by someone skilled in the art and she wore a diamond necklace, diamond ear drops and several gold bracelets.

‘May I present Miss Annabelle Franks, ma’am,’ James said, drawing her forward.

‘My lady,’ she said, dropping into a curtsy. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’

‘You are welcome, Miss Franks.’ Then, to her stepson, ‘James, Augusta is arrived, do go and speak to her.’

She watched them go with some trepidation. James had succeeded to his father’s title at the age of seventeen and now, at twenty-four, was something of a scapegrace. Frances had had many a run-in with him over the coils he landed himself in, but for all that she loved him dearly. When not living at the Corringham estate in Essex, he stayed in bachelor chambers in Albany, rather than at Corringham House. She suspected it was because he did not want her to know everything he was up to.

He and the young lady had hardly passed into the ballroom when Sir Percival arrived. He looked like a peacock in his green velvet knee breeches, silk stockings and mauve satin coat. There was a froth of lace at his throat and more spilling over his wrists. He took her hand and bent to kiss it, smiling at her. ‘Fanny, you look beautiful tonight.’

She laughed. ‘Well, thank you, Percy. And I must say, you look magnificent.’

He preened himself in his old-fashioned clothes, unaware of the slight irony in her tone. ‘I shall expect at least one dance.’

‘You may have it, if I have time to dance at all. I might be too occupied.’

‘Gammon! You must make time. I did not pay a ransom for a ticket to be deprived of the pleasure of dancing with you, which was the only reason I came.’

‘Not to help the orphans?’ she teased.

‘I could have made a donation without coming.’

‘I hope not too many of our guests share your sentiments or we shall have an empty ballroom.’

‘No, for half London is agog to see the inside of a house they know only by repute, and observe the haut monde at play. They will come.’

And they did. Almost everyone who had purchased a ticket arrived in their finery and some even came without tickets, prepared to pay at the door. Richard had forecast a squeeze and he was certainly right. By nine o’clock the ballroom was crowded and noisy with music, talk and laughter, even if the different social echelons did remain in little groups, each observing the other. Frances decided that no one else should be admitted and left her post to join the throng and encourage everyone to mingle. She was immediately besieged by well-wishers and it was some time before she was free to dance herself; Percy came to claim her.

‘I told you so, did I not?’ he said as they took the first steps of a cotillion. ‘You cannot say this is not a huge success and the Season hardly begun.’

‘Yes, it was a good decision to have it early, before everyone was engaged in their own round of social events. There are to be several balls in the next three months and no doubt everyone will be exhausted.’

‘Then will you please stop worrying and enjoy this dance, you are as stiff as a ramrod.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled and allowed the music to take over and it wasn’t until the end of the dance, when Percy raised her from a deep curtsy, that she saw the Duke of Loscoe, standing in the open doorway, surveying the crowd. Her earnest hope that he would be otherwise engaged on the night had gone unanswered.

He was immaculately clad in black. His superfine coat looked as though he had been poured into it, so closely did it fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His trousers, strapped beneath his dancing shoes, emphasised his muscular thighs and long legs and proved that, for a man who had lived in the country for years, he was very much abreast of fashion. A rose-coloured waistcoat, embroidered in gold thread, and a fantastically tied cravat of the finest silk completed a look which had all the young ladies sighing, notwithstanding he was known to be forty years old.

‘Complete to a shade,’ Percy remarked drily.

Frances excused herself and went, as a good hostess, to greet the Duke and make him welcome. ‘Your Grace, I am sorry I left my post and was not waiting to greet you. I thought everyone who was coming had arrived.’

He smiled down at her. ‘Is that a rebuke for my tardiness, my lady? If so, I beg forgiveness. My business kept me longer than I intended.’

‘Goodness no, you are not late, but punctual as ever. It is I who am at fault for assuming everyone was here and beginning the proceedings too early.’ That, she thought, would tell him that she had not been looking out for him and had not even noticed his non-arrival.

‘Then you must make amends by dancing with me.’

There was no help for it and it was better to have it over and done with before her courage left her. She laid her fingers upon the hand he held out to her and allowed him to lead her into the dance just beginning.

Time stood still—more than that, it seemed to go backwards as they did the steps of a stately minuet, just as they had done in that Season seventeen years before. She felt a young girl again, but though the years had passed, inside she had not changed. The same things still excited and thrilled her, the same things made her sad; it was only on the outside she was older and she hoped wiser, able to meet both joy and calamity with serenity.

‘Over all the years, this is what I remember most about you,’ he murmured. ‘The graceful way you move when you dance.’

‘Really, my lord?’ she said, deciding to accept the compliment as a tease and answer in like manner. ‘Is that all?’

‘No, it is far from all, but I doubt you want to hear what other things I remember.’

She should bring the conversation to an end, she knew that, but the seventeen-year-old inside her loved compliments and it was the seventeen-year-old inside her who was holding sway at that moment. She looked up at him and laughed. ‘Are they so dreadful, these other things, that I should be ashamed of them?’

‘Not dreadful at all, but delightful. The way you laugh, which is more like a husky chuckle. And the way your hair curls in your neck so lovingly and the way your eyes light up when you are animated. And your mouth. I do not think I can begin to describe that…’

She stumbled, but his firm hand held her upright and she was able to bring her steps and her swiftly beating heart under control. ‘Loscoe, I do believe you are trying to flirt with me.’

‘Of course,’ he said solemnly, though there was a twinkle in his eyes. ‘And you are not indifferent, are you?’

She wished he had not used that word. The years rolled on and the seventeen-year-old faded to be replaced by the mature woman, the cool Society hostess. ‘Every woman likes compliments, but she would be a ninny to take them seriously, especially when they are delivered by someone so obviously skilled in the art.’

‘You think I am skilled? My goodness, that must mean your swains are singularly inept for I have been buried in the country for years and am sadly out of practice.’

‘Then I should hate to be one of this Season’s innocents, if you are going to practise on them. Heartbreak does not come easy when you are seventeen.’

‘I have no intention of breaking anyone’s heart,’ he said, serious now. ‘I cannot think why you should imagine that I would.’

‘It is said you are looking for a new wife and that is why you are come to London.’

‘Now, do you know, that is news to me.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘And you speak of being seventeen. Is that significant?’

She, who prided herself on the way she could guide a conversation, keep everything light when it needed to be light and serious when seriousness was called for, seemed to have lost control of this one. ‘Not especially, but I think you are expected to make your choice from this Season’s debutantes.’

‘Am I indeed? I wonder what Lavinia would say to a stepmother who is little older than herself.’ He smiled. ‘Can you imagine it?’

Frances smiled to herself. Lady Lavinia would make short work of anyone who could not master her. ‘I am only twelve years older than my stepdaughter and we are very fond of each other,’ she said.

‘Ah, but you are you.’

‘And what does that mean?’

The dance was coming to and end and he did not answer, as she dipped into a deep curtsy and he bowed with a flourish and offered his arm to escort her from the floor. ‘I shall come back for the waltz before supper,’ he said, as he relinquished her.

She could not help it; she had to have the last word. ‘My, how can someone buried in the country for goodness knows how many years know the steps of the waltz?’

His smile, as he turned from her, faded almost to a grimace. She still had the power to make him tremble with desire, but she was so elegantly detached, so cool, that even her banter was meant to put him in his place, inform him that she, just as well as he, could flirt and mean nothing by it. But his compliments had been genuine; he had surprised himself when he uttered them. Had he really been harbouring such memories for seventeen years?

He shook himself and strode across the floor to where Lady Willoughby guarded her daughter and bowed before them. ‘Miss Willoughby, may I request the pleasure of this country dance?’

Felicity, prompted by her mother, sank into a deep curtsy, her face red with pleasure, then laid her hand upon his arm to be led onto the floor, which set the mamas a-twitter again.

Frances watched them, feeling drained. He had been arrogant seventeen years before and he was arrogant now. He had enjoyed making her squirm, enjoyed the buzz of conversation which followed him wherever he went, positively glowed with satisfaction when he was surrounded by sycophantic mamas, all trying to put forward their daughters. Surely he would not marry one of them?

It was not beyond the bounds of possibility. After all, she had married George and he had been older than Marcus was now. It often happened when a widower needed heirs or someone to be a second mother to the heirs he already had: he chose a very young lady. Wives who were young were usually also strong, able to bear children and look after elderly husbands when they became frail. They did it for the jointure they would receive on becoming a widow. And widows had more freedom than spinsters. As she did. She valued that freedom.

Smiling, she mingled with her guests, thanking them for coming and engaging them in light conversation before moving on. She looked in on the card players, but they hardly noticed her so absorbed were they. When she returned to the ballroom, she found Percy leaning nonchalantly against a pillar, surveying the scene through his quizzing glass.

‘What are you looking at?’ she asked him.

‘His Grace, the Duke of Loscoe,’ he said. ‘Already there is speculation about which he will choose.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I think he has more sense than to shackle himself to one of those ninnyhammers, though he is wise enough to leave the door open.’

‘That sounds so cold-blooded. You’d think he was buying a cow at market.’

He smiled and let the glass drop on its ribbon to dangle on his chest. ‘Well, he is, isn’t he? Nothing so commonplace as love comes into it. And they cannot see it. Or perhaps they do not care to.’

‘Percy, I do believe you are envious.’

‘Not while he confines his attentions to those empty-headed chits, though if he were to turn his eye in another direction, I might not be so easy about it.’

She was intrigued. ‘What other direction?’

‘Oh, it is of no consequence,’ he said airily. ‘Come, they are making sets for the Sir Roger de Coverley. Let us take to the floor and show how it is done.’

It was not easy to converse during the country dance, but she was puzzled. Sir Percival Ponsonby, the confirmed bachelor who always maintained that marriage was nothing more than enslavement, in love! She could not imagine it. ‘What did you mean, another direction?’ she demanded as they left the floor at the end of the dance. ‘I cannot believe you are in love. You have always been outspoken against marriage. Leg-shackled, I believe is the word you are wont to use.’

‘Being in love has nothing to do with marriage, Fanny. It is only women who insist on linking the two.’

‘Oh, you are talking about a light o’ love,’ she teased. ‘Who is she this time?’

He turned to look down at her, smiling. ‘Now, you do not expect me to tell you, do you?’

‘No, of course not, you would be too much the gentleman.’ She laughed. ‘Go and dance with someone else or you will have the gossips talking about us and that I will not have.’

‘Very well.’ He bowed and left her with Mrs Butterworth, whose plump face was wreathed in smiles.

‘It has been a wonderful evening,’ that good lady said. ‘Of course we have yet to deduct your expenses, but I think we can safely say the orphans will benefit by a considerable sum.’

‘I will cover the expenses,’ said a voice.

Frances whirled round to find the Duke at her elbow. ‘Your Grace, I did not know you were there.’

‘I came to claim my waltz and overheard. Please allow me to meet the cost of the ball. It will mean all the money you have taken will be profit.’

‘My lord, I cannot allow that,’ she said.

‘Surely it is not for you to refuse,’ he said, looking past her to smile at Mrs Butterworth. ‘I am sure the ladies of the committee will urge acceptance.’

‘Indeed, yes,’ Mrs Butterworth said, simpering up at him. ‘How very generous you are, your Grace.’

Why, Frances asked herself, did everyone fall over themselves to toady up to him—he was conceited enough as it was? ‘But, sir, it was never my intention to ask for expenses,’ she said.

‘No, I am sure not, but that doesn’t change the fact that tonight has been a costly business and it will please me to help. You are, after all, a widow…’

‘An independent widow,’ she said tartly.

He bowed in acquiescence. ‘Just as you please, my lady.’

‘Oh, please do not quarrel over it,’ Mrs Butterworth put in. ‘Can you not share the charges?’

He laughed and looked at Frances. ‘A capital solution, do you not think so, my dear?’

‘Very well.’ She gave her answer reluctantly, not because they could not use the money but because it somehow belittled her, made it seem that she needed a man’s protection.

‘Now that is agreed, let us have our dance,’ he said, unaware of her rancour. ‘I have to prove to you that I know how to waltz.’ And without waiting for her to protest, he took her hand and led her onto the floor.

Not only did he know the steps, he was very accomplished and she was soon whirling round with his hand on her back guiding her. And if he held her a little closer than the regulation arm’s length, she was too immersed in the conversation they had just had to notice. He was insufferably top-lofty. What Mrs Butterworth must have thought she dare not think.

‘Your Grace, you will have the whole room talking about us,’ she protested. With his arm about her waist and his face only a few inches from hers, her determination to be indifferent to him was slipping badly.

‘Why?’

‘That business with Mrs Butterworth. You did it to humble me.’

‘Why, in heaven’s name, should I do that?’ He sounded genuinely astonished. ‘I simply wish to help the orphans, the good lady knows that. You are not the only one to care about them, you know.’

‘I do know, but she thought we were quarrelling. And I am sure other people thought so too.’

‘Are we? Quarrelling, I mean.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then there is no case to answer. And I am the last person to allow a little tattle to bother me.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ she said, thinking of the Season when she had been seventeen and he had humiliated her so badly. The whole town had been whispering. She would not let him do it to her again. No man would ever hurt her like that again.

‘Then there is nothing to worry about. I assure you I have no intention of marrying again, not this Season anyway. If the haut monde chooses to amuse itself by speculating, then that is up to them. You are quite safe.’

‘Me?’ she queried, only just managing not to shriek it. ‘You cannot possibly think that I—’ She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Loscoe,’ she said as firmly as she could manage, ‘I was not asking for reassurance on that subject. I am completely indifferent to your intentions.’

‘Good.’ He laughed and whirled her round in perfect time to the music. ‘It is strange that it does not occur to the gabble-grinders that I am in the capital to do exactly as I said I was, to see to some urgent business and give my daughter a little experience of town life before her Season next year.’

She stopped herself asking what that business was; he must not think she was curious, or even cared. She did not and his conceit did not need curiosity from her to feed it. ‘Lady Lavinia is very talented,’ she said, determined to change the subject. ‘You must be very proud of her.’

‘Am I?’ he said, as if it needed some thought. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘You do not seem very sure.’

‘Of course I am sure. She is my daughter, but she was always with her mother more than me. I am only now getting to know her.’

‘That is a sad thing to have to admit.’

‘Perhaps, but…’ He shrugged and decided not to explain that he and Margaret had been so badly mismatched they could agree on nothing, not even the raising of their daughter. His wife was happiest and so, evidently, were his children when he was from home and so he had spent more time than was strictly necessary at his other properties. In a way, it was a pity he had, for he might have prevented the trouble which had culminated in his present visit to London.

They were silent for the rest of the dance, each trying to analyse how they felt and failing utterly. He was puzzled, she confused. But there was something about the way they moved together, the expressions on their faces, the sadness in their eyes which made those who watched them begin to wonder. And remember.

‘I was thinking of taking Lady Lavinia to an exhibition at the Royal Academy the next time she comes to me,’ she told him when the dance ended and they were walking side by side to the supper room, not touching, but close enough to feel each other’s warmth and know that the lifting of a hand would bring them into contact. Uncomfortably aware of it, she had to find something mundane to say, a safe subject to discuss. ‘With your permission, of course.’

‘You think she will benefit from such a visit?’

‘Yes, there are some fine paintings there, not only of the Old Masters, but from today’s artists too. Lady Lavinia would gain an insight into how the very best have been executed. Do you not agree?’

‘Oh, I agree, but my daughter might not and, when she is determined, she can be very difficult.’ He paused for a moment as they found seats in the dining room and a waiter brought a selection of dishes over to them. ‘I should not like you to have to deal with the sulks.’

She chose chicken in a mushroom and caper sauce, some glazed ham and a small piece of partridge pie. ‘Oh, I think I can win her round, my lord.’

‘Really?’ He piled his plate. ‘This looks delicious. Your cook has excelled herself.’

‘Thank you, I shall tell her.’ She paused, watching the waiter fill their glasses with punch, a speciality of her butler’s which, though refreshing, had a hidden kick. ‘Then you give your permission for the outing?’

‘Yes, yes, but I will accompany you.’

‘That is not in the least necessary.’

‘Oh, but it is. The daughter of one of England’s foremost dukes cannot be too closely guarded…’

Frances laughed. ‘My goodness, do you imagine someone will try to kidnap her between Duke Street and the Strand?’

‘Such things have been known,’ he said drily. ‘But I should like to come. It is many years since I was in Somerset House. It might be very interesting to see what new works of art they are exhibiting.’

What could she do but accept with a good grace? But it meant one more occasion when she was going to be thrown into his company. It was strange that the business he spoke of was not so urgent it prevented him from being available whenever the fancy took him. She smiled to herself as they returned to the ballroom for the second half of the evening’s entertainment.

He could not ask her to dance again without causing comment and even he would not be so indifferent to that as to flout convention. He excused himself and, taking one look at the expectant faces of the young ladies turned towards him and the scowls of the young men, decided to take himself off to play cards.

The card room was occupied by several elderly gentlemen and an inveterate gamester or two who were playing for the highest stakes Frances would allow in her house, which were modest. Marcus, not a true gambler, declined to join them and instead sat with the other men who were doing no more than gossip. And they were every bit as dedicated to it as their wives. He soon learned the latest on dit, who was dangling after whom, who was having an affair, who was the latest favourite with the Prince Regent and news of more unrest among the cotton weavers and stocking makers.

‘The suspension of habeas corpus seems not to have dampened their ardour,’ a Mr Coleman said. ‘They are as determined as ever to congregate. You come from that part of the world, your Grace, have you heard anything of a new uprising?’

‘Not since they stopped the Blanketeers,’ he said, referring to a protest begun by the cotton weavers in Manchester with the intention of marching to London and putting their case to the Prince Regent. The march would inevitably have taken several days and so the men had equipped themselves with provisions and a blanket each, hence their name. The march had been broken up by militia before it reached the capital, but there were some who compared it with the Bread March of the women of Versailles at the beginning of the French Revolution and that was still very much alive in the memories of many. ‘But you can hardly blame them. They are hungry and hunger is the sharpest weapon of all.’

‘Surely you do not condone lawlessness?’

‘No, certainly not, but I can still sympathise.’

Sir Joshua Barber, a fat man with a florid countenance, whose wealth came from cotton manufacture, gave a snort of derision and Marcus, afraid that an argument was about to ensue which he had no wish for, was wondering whether to rejoin the dancers or make his excuses to leave, when Sir Percival came in and joined the group.

‘It’s deucedly warm downstairs,’ he said. ‘And I’m getting to old for prancing about all night.’

‘Know what you mean,’ Lord Willoughby said. ‘Wouldn’t have come m’self except Lady Willoughby insisted, couldn’t be seen to ignore the Countess’s pet cause, so she said. The whole ton would be here and it would look odd if we cried off.’

‘She was right,’ Percy said. ‘Anyone who is anyone is here.’

‘And a great many more besides,’ his lordship said. ‘I never met such a queer set.’ Whether he included Sir Joshua in their number, Marcus could not be certain.

‘Her ladyship has a great talent for organisation,’ Percy said. ‘She has only to smile and everyone falls over themselves to please her.’

‘Whether they will or not,’ Sir Joshua muttered, referring to his wife, who was on the organising committee.

‘Oh, come, sir,’ Marcus said. ‘You are surely not admitting to being under the cat’s paw? Wives, in my book, should obey their husbands.’

Percy laughed suddenly, making Marcus look at him in surprise. ‘I doubt the Countess would agree with that last remark,’ he said.

‘That why you never married her?’ Sir Joshua asked. ‘No wish to live under the cat’s foot?’

‘Question never came up,’ he said loftily.

Marcus knew, as clearly as if Sir Percival had said it aloud, that he was in love with Frances. Had Frances rejected him, or had he never found the courage to ask? He tried to imagine her married to this outdated fop, but all it did was make him smile. And that was followed by a strange sensation in his chest, a sudden tightening of the muscles which made breathing difficult. Concluding it was because he was out of condition, he decided to pay a visit to Jackson’s boxing emporium the following day and have a few rounds with whoever happened to be there. It would do him good.