Barbara Metzger (25 page)

“My lord,” Sydney began.

“Forrest.”

She nodded. “My lord Forrest, I have been thinking about the thousand pounds you lent me.”

His hand tightened on her fingers and closed on her waist. Trying to maintain a smile with his teeth clenched, the viscount ground out, “Don’t.”

“But your mother agrees with me.”

For the first time in ten years the viscount missed his step and trod on his partner’s toes. “Sorry.” Then Sydney found herself being twirled and swirled across the dance floor and right out the balcony doors. Forrest led her to the farthest, darkest corner. With any luck no one would find her body until the servants came to clean up in the morning.

“You haven’t even heard our idea,” Sydney complained as his fearsome grip moved to her shoulders. She was glad the shadows hid his scowl.

“Ma’am, every time you get an idea in that pretty little head of yours, I am slapped or kicked or beaten or poisoned. I am always out of pocket and out of temper. Add my mother into the brew and I may as well stick my spoon in the wall now.” But his fingers had relaxed on her shoulders. Actually he was now caressing her skin where the gold tissue gown left her bare, almost as if he were unaware of what his fingers were doing.

Sydney was very aware. Her breath coming faster than her thoughts, she stumbled through an explanation of the ball. Farmers’ roofs and family pride mixed with wine-merchants’ bills and Winifred’s betrothal. “But it’s really for you, Forrest, so I can give you the money and you can give it to a noble cause. What do you think?”

“I think,” he said, pulling her to his chest, where she filled his arms perfectly, “that you are the most impossible, pig-headed, pea-brained female of my experience. And the most wonderful.”

He moved to tip her chin up for his kiss, but she was already raising her face toward him in answer, an answer to all of his questions.

Just as their lips were a breath apart, someone coughed loudly. Forrest was tired of watching her glide around with every fop and sweaty-palmed sprig. No more. She was his and he was not going to give her up, not even for a dance. He turned to scare the insolent puppy away. The fellow could come back in a year or two, maybe.

The insolent puppy, however, was the Duke of Mayne, and he was grinning. Forrest decided he liked his father better when he stayed in his office.

“I’ve come for my dance with the prettiest gal here,” the duke declared, winking at Sydney.

She chuckled softly, reaching up to straighten the tiara of daisies in her hair. “Spanish coin, Your Grace. There are hundreds of prettier girls here.”

“Yes, but they all agree with everything I say. You don’t. Just like my Sondra. That’s true beauty. Did I ever tell you about...”

The viscount opened the hand that had held Sydney’s in parting. He smiled when he saw the daisy there in his palm and nodded when he brought it to his lips. She was his. He could wait.

Chapter 26

Bella of the Ball

It was going to be the best ball of the Season, or Sydney would die trying. She’d likely kill everyone else in the household, too, working so hard on decorations, foodstuffs, guest lists, the millions of details an undertaking of this proportion required. Sydney was in her element. The rest of her friends and family were in dismay.

Finally the invitations were all printed and delivered. General Harlan Lattimore, Ret., was proud to invite the world, they indicated, to witness the betrothal of his granddaughter Winifred to Brennan, son of, etc., on such a date. The engagement would be celebrated at a benefit ball, the proceeds enriching the War Veterans’ Widows and Orphans Fund, with paid admission at the door and other donations gratefully accepted.

The invitations went out under the general’s name, in Winifred’s copperplate, with the duke’s frank, at Sydney’s instigation, according to the duchess. Nearly everyone accepted, even the Prince Regent, who declared it a novel idea and Sydney an original.

Sydney did not have time to be anything but an organizer. There were measurements and fittings— for the rooms as well as the girls. Lists of guests, lists of supplies, lists of lists. Sydney met with musicians, caterers, hiring agencies. She heard out Aunt Harriet and took Lady Mayne’s advice. The duchess was delighted, not just that she was preferred over that clutch-fisted Lady Windham, but that Sydney had such an aptitude. The minx would make a worthy duchess, if that scrod of a son of hers would get on with it.

The duchess had high hopes for the ball. There was nothing like the excitement of a fancy affair to bring a sparkle to a maiden’s eyes, and nothing like seeing how popular a chit was to make a man take notice. Like her dogs with their toys, a favorite ball could lie untouched for days, but let one dog play with it, they all had to have it. Men were no different. Nothing would make a male claim possession quicker than others sniffing around his chosen mate. And the duchess intended them to sit up and howl.

Her own dressmaker was in charge of the Lattimores’ gowns; that was to be her betrothal gift. Winifred’s dress was a delicate shell pink with a lace overskirt, selected to set off the ruby pendant the duchess knew Brennan intended to give her. But Sydney’s dress was not going to be any sweet pastel or wedding-cake froth. It was a simple one-shouldered fall of watered blue-green silk that clung to her lush form and changed colors with movement and light, just like her eyes. With it she would wear a peacock-eye plume mounted on a gold fillet in her hair, gold sandals, and gold silk gloves. If that didn’t stir a declaration out of the sapskull, his doting mother vowed, she’d stir his brains with a footstool!

Sydney was too busy to worry about the viscount, but she knew what she knew, and smiled inside.

She was too busy for morning calls and such, but she made time for Bella, not wishing to appear to slur old friends, even when the duchess said Mrs. Ott reminded her of a housekeeper at some Irish hunt party.

Bella thought a benefit ball an excellent idea, especially when she heard the name of the charity. “Why, it’s a sure stroke of genius, dearie, seeing how you’re an orphan and I’m a widow. Ha-ha.”

“I know you’re only teasing, Mrs. Ott. You don’t think anyone will suppose I am keeping the money, do you?”

“Stealing from the needy? Lawks, dearie, who’d ever think a thing like that?”

* * * *

There would never be another ball like Sydney’s. Decorations were joyous, with holly garlands and white satin bows draping the succession of rooms. Food was lavish, not confined to one refreshments area, but set up on tables in each room, with servants constantly circulating with wine and lemonade and champagne and trays of stuffed oysters and lobster patties and sweets. Music was everywhere, an orchestra in the large ballroom, a string quartet in a smaller reception room where sofas and comfortable chairs were placed, a gifted young man playing the pianoforte in the corner of another parlor. There was a card room with no music at all. There were candles and mirrors and a lantern-strung balcony, footmen to take the wraps, maids to repin hems and hairdos, majordomos to call out the names of the distinguished guests.

All of Sydney’s careful planning was coming to glorious fulfillment, not just the details of the ball. Winifred was angelic in her happiness, Bren looking like the cat in the cream pot as they greeted each guest coming through the receiving line. The general was resplendent in his full-dress uniform, sword, medals, and sash, as he beamed proudly from his wheelchair between Winifred and Sydney. Aunt Harriet stood next on the line, formidable in magenta taffeta and ostrich feathers, her nose only slightly out of joint at having to pay admission. Not even family was exempt. The duchess stood nearby with her duke for a brief while, gloating. And the viscount had sent Sydney a gold filigree fan.

Best of all, the huge punch bowl in the entryway was filling up. Willy and Wally flanked the bowl like handsome bookends in their new red and white livery, exchanging party favors for the admission fee, boutonnieres of holly and white carnations for the gentlemen, dance cards on white satin ribbons for the ladies. As the delighted guests wandered around the rooms, some of them strolled back to congratulate the Lattimores again. They often dropped a stickpin or an earring or a snuffbox in the bowl, for such a good cause.

And the Prince did come for a brief, memorable moment. His equerry handed Willy a check, which everyone knew would be generous and not worth the paper it was writ on. Prinny did toss one of his rings in the bowl for the benefit of the poor families of those who gave their lives for God and country— and for the benefit of everyone who gathered in the reception area to see him. He smiled and waved as all the ladies in the room went into their deepest curtsies. Sydney’s knees turned to pudding when he stopped in front of her after saying a few kind words to the general, then a firm hand was under her elbow, helping her wobbly knees lift the rest of her uncooperative body off the ground. Forrest was there next to her, and she could do anything, even smile at the heavy-handed flirtation of the heavy head of state.

Then it was time to start the dancing. The general was enjoying himself so much, smiling at old friends and accepting the well-wishes of old adversaries that Sydney asked if he wanted to stay on to greet latecomers.

“Go on, go on,” Aunt Harriet scolded, “I’m paying those musicians by the night, not the song. I’ll stay and see the old tartar doesn’t fall off his seat or stab anyone with his sword.”

Leaving Griffith behind the general’s chair ready to wheel him away if he got tired, Sydney and Winifred went into the ballroom. The newly engaged couple led the opening cotillion and the duke and duchess followed, looking more in charity with each other than anyone could remember.

“Must be the season for love,” one old dowager commented.

“Stuff,” another replied, “they just ran out of reasons for fighting.”

Then Forrest held his hand out to lead Sydney into the dance. There was not much chance for conversation in the pattern of the steps, but the touch of his hand brought a tingle she felt to her toes, and his smile almost filled her heart to bursting. The ball, the world, was a lifetime away. Soon, his eyes promised.

But too soon it was time to trade partners and get back to being hostess. Sydney danced with the duke, Brennan, her own admirers, and some of Winifred’s disappointed suitors, even Baron Scoville. Between dances she checked on the refreshments and the card room and the general in the entry hall.

* * * *

Bella and her party arrived late. She kept her cloak with her, saying she was leaving early. She was not surprised to see Willy and Wally still near the door, for they were to stand there all night, guarding the punch bowl now gratifyingly full of donations. Bella handed over the price for two admissions.

“She’s my new Indian maid,” she told Willy, nodding toward the small woman draped in fabric who walked behind her. “She ain’t going in, so I don’t have to pay for her. This is for me and the captain.” Bella’s escort also tried to walk behind her. She dragged him to her side when she saw the general and Lady Windham, whom she had not expected to be where they were, not at all. While she was thinking, she yanked off one of her rings and tossed it in the bowl. “For the starving children.” Let them eat paste.

Then she jerked the Indian girl forward and told the general, “This here’s Ranshee. She’ll stand here and look decorative for the folks. You can ask her to help; she understands English fine, don’t you, Ranshee?”

The girl salaamed to the general, holding the edge of her veil across her face. Her eyes were darkened with kohl; her skin with tea. Her sari was yards of silk; two coffins were going naked into the earth.

The general had seen many an Indian maid in his day. Some even had hairy arms. None, however, had green eyes and wisps of red hair beneath their headpieces. Few were liable to have knives tucked in their sandals either. The general made his growling noises.

“Hush up, you old lecher,” Lady Windham hissed in his ear. Griffith turned the general’s chair away in case the sight of the Hindu girl was bringing back bad memories.

General Lattimore was now directly facing Bella’s male escort, whom she introduced as Captain Otis Winchester. One of the naked coffins belonged to an officer of the Home Guard who went out for pistols for two, breakfast for one. He wasn’t the one. Bella sewed an old shoe buckle over the heart-high rip, like another medal. The captain walked with a limp and a cane and had a patch over one eye. He also had a full beard and mustache and muttonchop sideburns, which were not all the exact same shade, but close enough. Like the general, he wore an ornamental sword and a sidearm pistol.

“One of our brave boys wounded in battle,” Bella told the general, who promptly saluted, even though he couldn’t quite make out the lad’s rank and medals.

Bella had to kick the captain and whisper, “Salute, you dunderhead.”

So Chester saluted. Ah, the old bar sinister, Chester’s inheritance from his true father, was to have its day. Chester saluted with his left hand.

The general’s face turned red. He gurgled in his throat and started pounding on his chair arm. Griffith wheeled him closer to the door for a little fresh air.

The Indian maid Ranshee, meanwhile, having taken up a serving tray from one of the waiters, went to offer an hors d’oeuvre to Lady Windham. Unfortunately the poor girl tripped over her sari and spilled the tray of hot lobster patties right down Lady Windham’s magenta décolletage. One of the Minch twins came running over when the countess shrieked.

Captain Winchester, praying the remaining footman was Willy of the fragile mandible, hit the fellow a resounding blow. It was Wally and he hit back, sending Chester’s mustache flying in the general’s direction. Griffith wheeled him around in time to see Bella pick up Winchester’s cane and whap Wally over the head a few times until the footman went down.

By now the Indian girl had torn off her veil and headpiece and was holding a knife to Willy’s throat, or as close as pint-sized Randy could get. If that was Wally, though, this must be the easy one, so toothless Randy hit Willy alongside the jaw with the heavy silver tray. They got it right that time.