The babble of laughter and the drone of refined conversation vied with the orchestra as the guests assembled in the magnificent mirror-lined ballroom. Their reflections were repeated again and again in the polished glass, so that it seemed as if the ballroom stretched away into glittering infinity on all sides.
Dorothea was not in a good mood as she stood at the top of the ballroom steps with her husband, greeting the guests as they arrived. She was dressed splendidly in a red velvet Turkish gown, with a matching turban, and there were opals at her throat and in her ears. She looked very elegant, and there was a smile on her lips, but her eyes were sharp with displeasure, and beneath her hem her foot was tapping irritably. The cause of her discontent was her lack of success in acquiring either of the men of her choice as a lover. First there was Lord Byron, who had had the audacity to turn down an invitation to the ball, and who was about to leave town for an unspecified period; and second there was handsome young Lord Palmerston, a government minister of very romantic and charming inclination, who had more than caught her eye at the Almack’s subscription ball the night before, and who had danced far too many dances with her friend and fellow patroness. Lady Cowper. Emily Cowper was very beautiful and fascinating, and Lord Palmerston hadn’t looked at another woman all evening. It was all most frustrating and disagreeable, and Dorothea felt decidedly out of sorts as a consequence.
At her side, her husband’ stood in wary silence. Count Lieven was thirty-nine years old and reasonably good-looking, but he was far from impressive, in spite of the light blue cordon of St. Andre across his breast. He wasn’t of the necessary caliber to be the czar’s ambassador, owing his advancement solely to his mother’s influence at St. Petersburg, and he was very much in the shadow of his forceful and clever wife.
Nadia stood a little behind them, her ostrich-feather fan wafting slowly to and fro. Tonight she had forsaken her favorite white and wore a pale pink satin gown with a low, square neckline and an overgown of rich blond lace. Her golden hair was hidden beneath a close-fitting pink velvet hat from which sprang a feathery aigrette, and she wore a magnificent diamond necklace which she had borrowed from Dorothea. She gazed over the crowded floor, thinking about Rupert, now so inconveniently on his way to Althorp. She had been so sure she would succeed with him, but her confidence had been severely shaken by the events at the seminary. Now she was forced to accept that Leonie Conyngham posed a very real threat to her plans; indeed there was even the unpalatable possibility that Rupert had engineered the whole thing in order to gain an introduction to Leonie. Nadia’s lips pressed angrily together and her fan wafted more busily to and fro. She, who was so used to using others, had in turn been shamefully used herself, and her pride had received a considerable blow. But she was still set on winning Rupert, who was too great a prize to let slip through her clever fingers now. From now on she would be much more on her guard, she would play her cards very carefully indeed—and she would make Leonie pay dearly for her interference.
Her wandering glance fell suddenly on Edward Longhurst as he lounged on a red velvet sofa at the side of the ballroom. He sat alone, and looked supremely bored. He wore a tight-fitting blue coat and a ruffled shirt, and there was a quizzing glass swinging idly in his white-gloved hand. His thoughtful, cynical glance surveyed the dazzling gathering, and there was a perpetual half-smile upon his lips. She felt a surge of dislike. Why hadn’t
he
gone to Althorp instead? She loathed him, having from the outset realized that he was no friend to her where her pursuit of Rupert Allingham was concerned. Outwardly he was always polite and friendly, but she could never rid herself of the feeling that he was laughing at her behind her back, as if he found her faintly ridiculous. There was, she decided, something rather malevolent about him; it was there in his sharp, incredibly blue eyes and in that irritating, contemptuous curve on his fine lips. He was not a man to trust, for he would always set himself against her. She studied him for a long moment. He was very like his sister in appearance, but there the similarity ended, for where he was sly and untrustworthy, Imogen was all that she could have wished for in a useful friend.
Nadia’s glance moved over the crowded floor again, seeking out Imogen, who a moment before she had noticed dancing with Guy. She saw them almost in the center of the floor. Imogen wore a primrose silk gown and her red hair was twisted up beneath a dainty gold satin hat from which curved a most elegant ostrich plume. She wore the superb Longhurst pearls, a matching necklace and bracelet of the largest and most perfect pearls imaginable, and she looked eye-catching enough, thought Nadia grudgingly, but she could have looked even better had she had the wit to wear blue. The Longhursts all had such magnificent blue eyes, even the loathsome Edward, and in Nadia’s opinion Imogen revealed a lamentable lack of true fashion sense when she neglected always to emphasize this feature. However, in spite of this failing, she was still undoubtedly one of the loveliest women present, although Nadia’s charity did not extend to allowing her the title of
the
loveliest, since that was an accolade she accorded to herself alone.
How handsome and distinguished Guy looked in black velvet, the diamond pin in his intricate cravat sparkling in the warm light. Nadia smiled to herself. He was a man for whom any woman would throw caution to the winds. He had every quality she found desirable in a man: he was titled, more than a little attractive, wealthy, and was possessed of, when he chose, a devastating charm. Her lips pursed in puzzlement as she watched them, for it was a mystery to her how someone as shallow and insincere as Imogen had won the heart of a man like Guy de Lacey. He seemed the sort who would be drawn by a woman’s inner qualities rather than by her looks alone, and yet his choice of bride indicated that looks were after all his sole desire, for Imogen Longhurst had beauty and an infinite capacity for selfish scheming, but precious little else. As Nadia made this detached, disloyal criticism, it did not occur to her that the faults she found in Imogen were just as prevalent in herself.
* * *
Imogen didn’t speak as she and Guy danced; indeed she hadn’t spoken to him for some minutes now. She kept her beautiful eyes downcast, and there were telltale spots of angry color on her pale cheeks.
“How long is this to continue?” he asked suddenly.
“As long as you persist in your attitude toward Nadia.”
“I simply don’t like her.”
“She’s my friend.”
“I’m fully aware of that, but I still don’t like her. Nor am I best pleased that you’ve invited her and the Lievens to Poyntons in February for our betrothal. The Lievens may be all that society desires at the moment, but they aren’t exactly to my taste.”
“Are you to choose my friends for me when we’re married? Is that the sort of husband you intend to be?” Her eyes filled with tears.
His fingers tightened around hers. “Don’t wrong me, you know that there isn’t any truth in that,” he said gently.
“But you wrong Nadia. Please, Guy, like her for my sake.” She looked imploringly at him, determined to make him do as she wished.
“Imogen, I love you dearly, but I think you are very misguided in your choice of confidante. Nadia Benckendorff is an adventuress, and her breeding and background shouldn’t blind you to that fact. She has come to London solely to find a husband.”
“Isn’t that what every woman wishes to do?” she countered. “Isn’t that why I was launched upon society?”
“It isn’t quite the same thing, and you know it.”
She stopped dancing then. “You cannot love me if you say such things about my dearest friend.”
“Imogen, you aren’t being fair,” he said, drawing her hand through his arm and leading her from the floor before attention was drawn to the friction between them.
She halted by a column, drawing away from him once more. Her cheeks were still a little pink and she wasn’t yet prepared to be mollified. She was too angry with him to be reasonable, and she was determined to make him give in, even though she knew full well that on this occasion, as on many others, she was the one who was in the wrong. Her voice was haughty. “You may speak of fairness, Guy de Lacey, but are you being fair yourself? If you despise Nadia and the Lievens so very much, you shouldn’t have accepted the invitation to come here tonight.”
“I accepted because you begged me to,” he reminded her.
She drew herself up furiously then. “So, it’s all
my
fault, is it?”
He sighed inwardly, for she was quite impossible when she was in this mood. He had no desire to quarrel, but she was making any other course very difficult indeed. He tried again, putting his hand gently to her cheek and smiling. “No, my darling, nothing’s your fault—in fact I really cannot imagine why we’re arguing.”
She looked sharply away. She didn’t want to accept the olive branch. The argument was outwardly about Nadia, but she was also angry with him on another count—his attitude toward his niece, Stella de Lacey. The girl was impossible, and Imogen was determined to be rid of her for all time, but all she’d so far achieved was the promise that the brat would be sent to the seminary for a few weeks, with a view to her returning home in time for the betrothal! That didn’t suit Imogen at all, although she’d managed to hide the fact adequately enough behind a screen of concern about the child’s welfare. Guy loved his niece and took his responsibilities as her guardian seriously. He’d been loath to agree to send her to the seminary; indeed he’d only been persuaded to a temporary measure after yet another bitter argument and floods of reproachful tears from his future wife. As Imogen deliberately reminded herself about all this, she was making herself angry all over again, but then, quite unexpectedly, a sudden thought struck her. When Stella was sent to the seminary after Christmas, Miss Hart would be requested to send Guy frequent reports on her conduct, a favorable report being necessary if the girl was to return home. It would be a simple enough matter to persuade Miss Hart to send only favorable reports, for the headmistress would be willing enough to please her favored ex-pupil. If Stella was apparently not mending her ways in the slightest, Guy would be placed in a difficult, if not impossible, position. Stella had been told that she was being sent to the school because her behavior was impossible and unacceptable; he could hardly capitulate in the face of out-and-out defiance! Imogen’s fan tapped thoughtfully, and then she smiled at him, She would have her way yet. “Forgive me,” she said softly, slipping her hand into his and moving closer. “I’ve been disagreeable tonight, I’m always disagreeable when I have a headache.” She lowered her eyes in a way calculated to look conscience-stricken.
“A headache? You should have told me earlier,” he said in concern. “Would you like me to take you home?”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly, for that was the last thing she wished. “Perhaps we could sit for a while in the orangery?”
“Of course.” He drew her hand through his arm again and they walked through the press toward the steps. The Lievens had left their post there now and were nowhere to be seen, but Nadia stood at the top of the steps. She came down toward them, her glance flickering momentarily to Guy before she smiled at Imogen. “Oh dear, you surely aren’t leaving already?”
“No, we’re going to the orangery,” replied Imogen, deliberately halting even though she knew Guy would have preferred to walk on and cut the time spent with Nadia to an absolute minimum.
Nadia smiled again. “What a fortunate coincidence, I was just about to retreat there myself. It’s so very noisy in here, isn’t it? One cannot hear oneself think.”
Guy strove to hide his exasperation, for he could tell by Imogen’s manner that she had decided to renew the battle. There were times, he reflected, when he simply couldn’t understand why he loved her so much.
She was smiling at Nadia. “You were going to the orangery too? Oh, I’m so glad, for you can come with us. Can’t she, Guy?” Her eyes flashed challengingly toward him.
His own anger stirred them. “If you and Miss Benckendorff wish to go to the orangery together, I’m sure you won’t mind if I leave you to your chatter,” he said smoothly.
Imogen’s lips parted in astonishment, for she hadn’t been expecting this response. Her fan snapped open then and her eyes flashed. “Very well, if that’s the way you wish it,” she said coldly, slipping her arm through Nadia’s.
He watched them walk away, but they’d hardly gone out of sight before a voice suddenly spoke behind him. “Well, Guy, my laddo, it looks as if you’ve put yourself beyond the pale again.”
He turned with a quick smile to see his old friend Sir Henry Fitzjohn standing there. “Harry! I thought they’d dispatched you to Bengal!”
“To all that heat and curry? Perish the thought. No, the East India Company, bless its heart, decided that I was indispensable here after all.” He took out a snuffbox and flicked it open with a slight movement of his wrist. “I never thought I could become so attached to Leadenhall Street, but I fear that of late it’s become a positive paradise as far as I’m concerned.” He was a tall, thin man with sparse brown hair which was receding prematurely. He looked older than his thirty-five years, the more so because he was shortsighted and had a habit of wrinkling up his eyes in order to see into the middle distance. He was dressed informally, and consequently looked very out of place.
Guy glanced curiously at his clothes. “Aren’t you a little ordinary for a Lieven diversion?”
“I’m not a guest, I’ve come to beg a favor of the countess.”
Guy gave a quick laugh. “Good God, what a picture that conjures!”
“Not that sort of favor!” Harry smiled. “Guy, would you mind if I made use of you?”
“That depends.”
“It isn’t anything very much. You are acquainted with the countess, I’m not, and I merely wish you to introduce me to her.”
Guy looked at him. “I presume you have good reason?”
“I do.” Harry sighed. “I only wish that I didn’t.”