Lucinda’s smile slowly dissolved. Of course, the late Lord Mays had also been a man of considerable charm and exquisite manners. It was a pity that Lord Mays had proven to be at heart quite cold and self-centered.
Lucinda shrugged aside the somber memories. Not everyone that she met in London would be like her departed husband. There were some whose outward manner was a true reflection of their genuine character. One of those was certainly Lord Wilfred Mays. He was as open as a book. Lucinda liked Lord Mays very much for his innate kindness. Another that Lucinda felt that she could trust was Lady Sefton. Her ladyship also had proven herself to be kind.
The trick was to discern those that she could confidently call her friends from those who were more interested in her position and her wealth than in herself.
Lucinda was well aware that she should be wary of those who professed their goodwill toward her in overly lavish accents. She wrinkled her nose as she thought of her cousin, Ferdie Stassart, and his foppish friends. It did not take a great deal of intelligence to recognize into which category she could place those gentlemen. Lucinda had experienced enough hypocrisy during the trial of her marriage to know that those sorts never made true friends. They dropped one from their acquaintance when it was no longer an advantage to claim one’s recognition.
It was hard-won wisdom that decreed that she guard her innermost feelings and thoughts from any whom she met until she felt convinced that her trust would not be misplaced. That maxim must certainly be applied to the charming Lord Pembroke should she ever meet him again.
Lord Pembroke was the kind of gentleman who could more easily than not undermine a lady’s defenses if she was not careful. He was in truth devilishly attractive, Lucinda thought, recalling his laughing eyes and imposing physique.
Lucinda wondered idly why she had not met Lord Pembroke before. Surely she would have recalled if she had ever been introduced to his lordship during the Season of her come-out or later in the months of her disastrous marriage.
But that chapter of her life had taken place the same year as Waterloo, she remembered. Perhaps it should not be so surprising that Lord Pembroke had not previously come in her way. The war with France had lasted for a long time. Despite Bonaparte’s abdication in 1814, many young men of birth had remained in the army or had traveled to Vienna to attach themselves to famous personages attending the Congress of Peace.
When Napoleon Bonaparte had escaped from Elba and returned triumphantly to France to raise the standards of his army again, the forces of a dozen countries, including Britain, had removed to Brussels and the Lowlands in anticipation of a last desperate fight to wrest the control of Europe from the self-styled emperor once and for all. The
ton
had all flocked to Brussels as well, making it overnight the most glittering capital in all Europe.
The Season of Lucinda’s come-out, the company in the London salons had been somewhat thin. A much more brilliant and cosmopolitan society had formed around the Congress of Peace. If her parents had had the means, Lucinda had no doubt that they would have carried her to Vienna for her debut. If she had not taken there, they would undoubtedly have followed everyone else of note to Brussels.
However, in light of the Stassarts’ financial restraints and the opinion voiced by her mother that there would be no one who could possibly compete with their daughter’s looks left in England, Lucinda had been brought out in London. Sir Thomas and Lady Stassart had anticipated only success for their loveliest daughter.
Despite Lucinda’s obviously superior attributes, her opportunities to make a successful marriage were unfortunately and ironically limited by that same lack of competition, for not only the daughters of the
ton
but their sons, too, had gone to Brussels. The number of eligible young gentlemen in residence had been negligible. Lucinda’s parents had been grateful and eager to cement the attachment that Lord Mays had apparently formed for their daughter.
It had been hoped that Lucinda’s position as the wife of a prominent peer would enable her to sponsor her sisters into society and assure them also of advantageous marriages. Perhaps Lord Mays could even be persuaded to remove his household to Brussels on a wedding trip, allowing Lucinda’s sisters to accompany the newlywed pair so that they might be presented in Brussels. But such grand expectations had fallen flat when Lucinda’s husband had banished her
from London to the country just seven months after they were wed.
Lucinda had lived in virtual exile. She had had Carbarry and its income, but there was not enough available to her in rents where she could have supported the cost of a second household in London. Nor would she have really wanted to do so, for the humiliation of her circumstances would have been too much to have been borne.
Lucinda had maintained a correspondence with some of those who had claimed her friendship, but inevitably the exchange of letters had dwindled. Her life was too separated from society. Those acquaintances whom she had thought to be her friends had for the most part gradually forgotten her existence.
Three years later, Lord Mays’s totally unexpected death while in the arms of his mistress had freed Lucinda from her cage. Not only did she have Carbarry, but her husband’s demise had made her a rich young woman. Suddenly, the world was open to her.
During Lucinda’s exile, each of her three sisters had managed to get herself a husband. Though a curate, a squire, and a baronet were not the exalted personages that Sir Thomas and his wife had envisioned for the rest of their daughters, they were able to be content. Mere respectability, after all, had proven in each young woman’s case to provide a fuller and more satisfying marriage for her than had Lucinda’s spectacular social triumph.
Lucinda sighed. She turned her eyes to the glazed window and looked out at the bustle of the street. She was no longer close to her sisters. Their comfortable lives and the growing families that they were beginning to establish had put a gentle wedge between them. On the rare occasions that she saw her sisters, there was expressed between them a fondness that had its roots in a common childhood. Perhaps if her marriage had worked out differently and she had had a child of her own, there would have been a strengthening of those old ties.
A well set-up gentleman on a showy hack passed the window. Lucinda was reminded of Lord Pembroke. As Lucinda recalled again the details of their encounter, she realized that there had been an awkwardness about how his lordship had extended her parcels with his left hand, as though the arm or shoulder was stiff.
Lucinda decided that he must have been a soldier. Lord Pembroke had not struck her as the type of man that would attach himself to a diplomat’s coattails. He had probably seen action at Waterloo, she thought. So many had.
Many of the survivors of the war had retired to the country with their wives and children, having learned what was important to them and what was not. Others had simply grown indifferent to the machinations and gossip of the society that they had once been a part.
Lucinda had not been in London for much more than a fortnight before it had been brought home to her how many had taken part in the greatest and most horrific battle of the hard-won war. The fortunate ones had emerged from the carnage that was named Waterloo unscathed or with only minor wounds. Others who had survived had not been so fortunate. There were many gentlemen who had empty coat sleeves, like Mr. Weatherby, or who used crutches or canes to compensate for missing or permanently damaged limbs.
Lucinda hoped that in making her first gathering a supper and ball she would be able to entice even those who did not dance. The success of the function was extremely important to her. She hoped it would serve to reintroduce her to the society that three years before she had been compelled to forsake.
Lucinda looked forward to the evening with a mixture of anxious anticipation. She had done her utmost to ensure a smashing success. She had provided herself with a prominent address and an eminently respectable chaperone. She had returned all of the polite morning calls that she had received, and she had reestablished old ties. Lucinda could foresee no reason why she should not shortly, be able to enjoy every amusement that was offered by the
ton.
Her supper and ball was the first step in launching her into the desired waters.
For the hundredth time she mentally reviewed her preparations. The orchestra had been engaged. The florists had agreed to transform the ballroom at Mays House into a blooming hothouse wonderland. The parlor adjoining the ballroom would make a very suitable cardroom with the addition of several game tables, which had already been acquired. The menu had been reviewed and revised countless times before she, the cook, and Mrs. Beeseley had been satisfied. Lucinda’s gown and Miss Blythe’s had been delivered.
Lucinda had pored over her guest list, adjusting and adding as she thought best. At last she had been satisfied. The gilt-edged invitations had been addressed in Miss Blythe’s elegant hand and had been sent out just the day before. Already they had received acceptances.
Lucinda was shrewd enough to know that the function would be well attended simply out of curiosity. After all, she had left society under humiliating and rather mysterious circumstances. She had not been granted the opportunity to graciously cancel her engagements nor to say her good-byes. It was therefore inevitable that she should come under close scrutiny. It would be unpleasant, of course, but it had to be borne. The gossip mill would tire quickly enough of her when she was no longer a novelty.
Lucinda wanted her party to be remembered for more than her own notoriety, and she had been painstaking in providing all that was necessary for the enjoyment of her guests. There would be nothing to complain of in either the entertainment that was offered or in the refreshments, she thought.
She only hoped that Miss Blythe would be completely recovered from the unexpected chill that she had taken. Otherwise there would indeed be something for the tattle-mongers to whisper about. A beautiful young woman could not readily hostess a social function without a relative or companion to lend her countenance.
Miss Blythe was perhaps even more cognizant of that fact than Lucinda was herself.
Lucinda knew that even if her former governess did not feel up to it, Miss Blythe would insist upon carrying out her responsibilities as chaperone and companion. For the lady’s benefit even more than her own, Lucinda hoped that Miss Blythe would indeed be fully recovered. She did not want her dear Tibby to overextend herself.
However, the date of the supper and ball was yet a week away. In all likelihood there would not be the least occasion for anxiety, thought Lucinda. Miss Blythe would be standing at her side when she greeted her guests that evening.
Chapter Ten
Lucinda’s confidence was not misplaced. Miss Blythe was back to her former self fully two days before the momentous date. On the evening of the supper and ball, Miss Blythe took her place beside Lucinda at the top of the stairs and offered civil greetings to all who entered the august portals of Mays House.
Mays House had been shut up for a twelvemonth since Lord Mays’s scandalous death, and so several that came to the supper and ball were as interested in what Lady Mays might have done to the interior furnishings as they were in the lady and her companion.
Apparently Lady Mays exercised some influence over her cousin-in-law to have persuaded Lord Wilfred Mays to allow her the use of the town house for the entire Season. It would be wonderful indeed if Lady Mays had not also managed to have things changed according to her tastes, for it was widely known that Lord Mays did not enter into his predecessor’s predilection for collections. In fact, Lord Mays had been heard to express the shocking opinion that his cousin’s collections would make a fine bonfire.
Those of Lady Mays’s guests who had expected to find changes made at Mays House were disappointed. Nothing had been reordered or removed, even down to the portrait of Lady Mays herself that was hung in the dining room.
During and after the supper, there was much comment on the portrait. Some ladies wondered that Lady Mays could have kept it on display when it must surely remind her of a painful part of her life. Others thought that she must be very arrogant to keep it up. Inevitably, though, the majority made comparisons between the portrait and the living subject. On the whole, it was generally felt that Lady Mays had preserved very well. She still looked very much like the debutante who three years before had made the marriage of the Season.
“Not a blemish or wrinkle on her,” said one lady to another on an envious note. “What nonsense that she had lost her looks and Mays rid himself of her for that reason.
There
is the proof against it!” The ladies had been upstairs to refresh themselves and had passed the open door of the dining room, where they had had a good view of the portrait, before they reentered the ballroom.
“Then it could only have been over his mistress. What a little fool she was to think it mattered when she had all of this!” exclaimed another lady, looking about her at the priceless objets d’art and expensive furnishings and carpets.
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have liked it if my husband had flaunted his mistress over me. I would certainly have objected,” said Lady Thorpe. She was a petite redhead, known as much for her sense of fun as her absolute devotion to her husband.
Lady Thorpe’s two companions tittered. One worldly matron tossed her head. “Oh
you,
Cecily! You’ve been wed but a sixmonth, and Gerald is besotted with you still. What would you know of the matter?”
“Nothing at all, and I hope that I never shall,” said Lady Thorpe spiritedly.
The other two ladies turned their shoulders and pointedly wandered off, putting their heads together to laugh over Lady Thorpe’s extraordinary naiveté. A particularly condescending statement floated back to her ladyship’s ears. “Give Cecily a year or two and then we shall see how high she is on that husband of hers!”