As the carriage from 1 Royal Crescent arrived, two of the footmen hurried to open its doors, lower the rungs, then present supportive elbows for those inside to alight. Smoke from their torches swept into the vehicle, as did the raw cold of the night and the racket of the band, which was now playing a rousing march. Polly was assisted down first, and as she paused to shake out her skirts, she glanced into the vestibule. The royal party had progressed farther into the building, and above the band she could just hear as the ballroom orchestra began to play the national anthem. She turned as her uncle alighted next. He was very awkward because of his gouty foot, and he grumbled a great deal as the footmen did their best to ease him down gently. Polly quickly positioned herself next to him and linked her arm lightly at one of his elbows in order to prevent Lord Benjamin offering to escort her.
Bodkin and Ragwort had climbed out of the luggage boot, and saw numerous happy groups of brownies converging excitedly on the entrance. They were all laughing and giggling as they prepared to enjoy the night ahead, and many of them waved at Ragwort before disappearing into the building. Ragwort grinned at Bodkin. “You see?
Everyone’s
here! Come on.”
“I must speak to Miss Polly first,” Bodkin replied, hastening over to tug at her skirt. “We’re going straight inside. Miss Polly,” he whispered so that Hordwell would not hear.
“Just behave,” she whispered back, recalling only too well what had happened at the review.
“I will,” Bodkin promised, then he and Ragwort threaded their way inside.
At last Polly and her uncle, followed by Lord Benjamin, were able to enter the warmth and brilliance of the vestibule, where a chandelier tinkled gently in the draft from the constantly opening doors. Flags and flowers were everywhere, and the babble of conversation was quite deafening. More footmen waited to divest new arrivals of their cloaks and other outdoor items, and although the heat in the vestibule was quite considerable, Polly trembled as she stood in just her gown and silver lace shawl.
Everyone was edging slowly toward the octagon in the heart of the building, from whence opened the three main rooms, the tea and supper room to the right, the card room straight ahead, and the ballroom itself to the left. The crush and heat were quite oppressive, and already several ladies had been carried in a faint to the various chairs and sofas against the walls. Displeased elderly chaperones, whose territory the octagon usually was, were obliged to stand wherever they could, and footmen with trays of iced drinks found it virtually impossible to cross from the tea room to the ballroom opposite. The occasion was an intolerable press—and therefore assured of being a resounding success.
Polly glanced around for Dominic, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Nor could she see any brownies, although she knew them to be present. But because she was more accustomed and sensitive to them, she did occasionally hear their voices and feel them brush gently past. Indeed a lot people heard and felt them, but in a jam like this, such incidents were put down to the close proximity of other people, certainly not to brownies!
Now that she was here, Polly was so nervous and apprehensive about what Dominic might say or do when they eventually came face-to-face, that she almost felt sick. She resorted frequently to her fan and tweaked her shawl so many times that she began to fear she would pull threads in it. At last the octagon was reached, but to her dismay her uncle and Lord Benjamin made for the card room. “But, Uncle, aren’t we going to the ballroom?” she asked.
Hordwell waved her away. “Go there if you choose, for I know you look forward to its frivolities. At present Lord Benjamin and I prefer the green baize.”
She seized the chance of escape before he changed his mind, and entered the ballroom to stand beside the red velvet sofas that were arranged in three tiers around the edge of the hundred-foot-long, blue-and-gold room. From here she could see everything.
The ballroom walls were very plain at the bottom, punctuated only by chimney pieces, where fires roared, and doors that led into a single-story passage that enclosed the outside of the building. However, the top half of the walls, too high for anyone to look in or out, was lined with fine windows that were flanked by Corinthian columns. The ceiling was deeply coved, and from it hung five magnificent chandeliers. There was an orchestra apse set high in the wall behind her, but the musicians were actually on a special dais at the far end of the room. The royal party had by now settled in a fine box that was so overhung with leaves that it resembled a bower. In his uniform, the Duke of York stood out against such a background, but his wife was lost in the foliage, for she wore clinging green silk and matching green plumes that undulated like water whenever she moved.
Uniforms were all around, of course, together with the formal black velvet that was otherwise
de rigueur
for gentlemen at such occasions. For the ladies, plumes were very much in evidence, many of them ridiculously tall, but there were also tiaras, hair slides, jeweled combs, and artificial flowers. Circlets were few in number, and no one else appeared to have had the happy notion of wearing a necklace around her forehead. Fans fluttered in the intense heat, ringlets bobbed against naked shoulders, and rich gowns of rainbow colors swung to the steps of the polonaise that was in progress. Incongruously, Polly found herself wondering if there were brownies dancing as well. What a comical sight it would be, all those little brown-furred creatures moving among the high and mighty of Bath society!
The polonaise ended, and as the master of ceremonies announced the next dance, a
ländler,
she moved a little closer to the floor. This was the measure Dominic had asked her to reserve for him, and she wondered if he had seen her yet. Was he coming toward her right now? Her heart quickened hopefully, but as she glanced around again, she didn’t see him anywhere.
Without warning. Lord Benjamin stepped before her. “May I have this dance, Miss Peach?” he inquired in a tone that was more statement than request.
She gave a start of dismay. “Lord Benjamin? But I... I thought you and my uncle were—”
“I could not permit you to come in here on your own,” he replied, and without further ado he took her by the arm and steered her firmly onto the floor.
She had to let him command her, for it would hardly have done to make any protest in the presence of royalty. But, oh, how she wished to tell him to unhand her, to leave her alone, to go to a very hot place! The orchestra struck up, and she could hardly conceal her revulsion as Lord Benjamin twined his arms in hers to dance. He was all smiles as they moved around the floor; indeed he bestowed such gushing beams upon her that she began to wonder if the moon was full. When at last the
ländler
ended, he caught her hand and kissed it so profusely that it was almost as if he were hungry. Her cheeks flamed at such an unwarranted display, but when she tried to pull her fingers away, his grip tightened, holding her a few seconds more, and then, to her in tense relief, he left her. What on earth was the matter with him? It
must
be the moon, she decided, wiping the back of her hand surreptitiously against her skirt to remove all trace of him.
She returned to the edge of the floor to watch the next dance, a minuet. It had been in progress for some time before she saw Georgiana among the dancers. Lord Benjamin’s sister was resplendent in a cream taffeta tunic over a nasturtium undergown, with a nasturtium turban from which sprang one of the tallest plumes in the room. Her dark eyes were warm and laughing, and her beautiful profile much displayed as she turned her head flirtatiously one way and then the other. Her lashes fluttered, and the glances she bestowed upon her partner were very inviting indeed. Polly’s heart twisted with pain, for the partner wasn’t the Marquess of High-tower, but Dominic.
He looked superb in a tight-fitting corded black silk coat and clinging white breeches, and his waistcoat was a rich white brocade. A solitaire diamond sparkled in his lace-trimmed neck cloth, his dark hair was tousled, and there was a smile on his lips as he looked at Georgiana. Suddenly, as if he sensed Polly’s gaze, he turned his head. He met her eyes for a long moment without acknowledging her at all, and then looked at Georgiana again.
Polly felt the snub as if it were a slap. In no uncertain terms he had provided the answer to the puzzle of the labyrinth; those kisses had meant nothing at all,
she
meant nothing at all. Fighting back tears, she turned on her heel to leave the ball.
Chapter 27
But as Polly turned to hurry away, she came face-to-face with the tall, skinny figure of the Marquess of Hightower. He bowed. “Why, Miss Peach, what a very agreeable surprise.”
“My lord.” As she sank into a dismayed curtsy, Polly couldn’t help noticing that in spite of his incredibly thin physique. Lord Algernon was wearing a corset! This was in a vain attempt to achieve the puffed-out chest that was considered so desirable in certain circles, but it only succeeded in making him look strangulated as well as gangling. That he was in uniform made his strange shape all the more noticeable.
“May I say you’re looking most delightful?” he declared, smiling.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, avoiding his eyes because she wasn’t too sure of him. First he’d smiled at Miss Pennyfeather’s, now he was smiling again. Was
he
moonstruck as well?
“I trust you will honor me with the next dance?” he said, as the minuet came to an end, and the master of ceremonies announced a cotillion.
She was about to politely decline, when she suddenly realized he was presenting her with a heaven-sent opportunity to get even with Dominic, to show her indifference. Scuttling away from the ball would only show how hurt she was, but staying and dancing with Georgiana’s dukeling would snap her fingers at Sir Dominic Fortune! Oh, how excellent a riposte! So she smiled. “That would be most agreeable, sir,” she said.
The floor filled rapidly with sets for the cotillion, and she prayed Dominic and Georgiana were observing her actions, but although she surreptitiously inspected the bystanders and tiers of sofas, they were nowhere to be seen. The cotillion commenced, and the marquess proved a surprisingly graceful partner—provided one kept one’s eyes on his feet, not on the rest of him. To be truthful, she still did not dare meet his eyes too often, for he kept smiling at her in the same way he had in the haberdashery. The last thing she wished to do was encourage him, although she realized that in her desire to cock a snook Dominic, she might already have done so.
Polly knew that a number of her recent actions had been foolish. First she stayed at Lord Benjamin’s house, and then allowed Dominic some monstrous liberties, now she danced with the Marquess of Hightower, who seemed to have formed some sort of penchant for her! “You’ve been very silly over the past few days, Polly Peach,” she murmured to herself, deciding that the moment the dance ended, she would have nothing more to do with Lord Algernon. Or with Sir Dominic Fortune. Or with Lord Benjamin Beddem. Least of all with the latter!
The cotillion proceeded, the sequences obliging couple after couple to pay and receive forfeits, and it wasn’t until it was almost her turn that she realized with a shock that Dominic and Georgiana were not only in the next set, but had observed her with the marquess. Dominic’s expression was unfathomable, but Georgiana’s was thunderous. It seemed that it was all very well for her to flirt outrageously—and more!— with Dominic, but quite out of the question for the Marquess of Hightower to show even mild interest in someone else. Polly’s propensity for foolishness surged irrepressibly to the fore again, and as Lord Algernon bent toward her for the forfeit, which providently happened to be a kiss, at the last moment she turned her head slightly, so that instead of kissing her cheek, he kissed her lips. Her eyes remained open, and she saw him blink with surprise, but then the dance carried them apart once more. She didn’t look at him again, nor did she glance toward the adjacent set, but she could feel Georgiana’s eyes boring into her. Whether Dominic looked or not, she could not tell, but she was satisfied that her bruised pride had been soothed. A little, anyway.
The cotillion ended, and she hastened from the floor before the marquess could fix himself to her side again. She thrust through the onlookers standing almost four deep at the side, and then made her way quickly toward the door into the octagon. It was now her definite intention to leave the ball, so she had to find her uncle, plead one of her headaches, and then flee to her secret haven at the Sydney Hotel!
She soon found Hordwell and Lord Benjamin in the card room, and Hordwell was so inordinately pleased to see her that she should have guessed something was afoot. But all she could think of was getting away in order to pack her things to go to the Sydney Hotel, so she didn’t even wonder why her appearance in the room caused a stir of interest among nearby tables. Hordwell seemed disappointed that she wished to leave so quickly, but was immediately wreathed in smiles when Lord Benjamin offered to escort her safely home. The prospect of Lord Benjamin seeing her back to the crescent was too horrible, so she quickly protested that there was no need for him to tear himself away from the green baize, but to no avail. He rose to offer her his arm, and short of creating a scene, there was nothing she could do but accept. However, she had every intention of giving him his
conge
before they reached the vestibule!
The murmurs at the other tables at last communicated themselves, and she looked back curiously as Lord Benjamin led her into the octagon. What was going on? she wondered, but Lord Benjamin was steering her as quickly as possible through the squash in the octagon. As they reached the vestibule, and she prepared to rid herself of him, he suddenly dragged her aside into a corner between a fine arrangement of tall, luxuriant ferns and the draped regimental standard of the Duke of York’s Own Light Dragoons. “What are you doing? Why are—?” Her voice dried, and she became alarmed as he forced her against the wall, and then leaned a hand beside her head. His face was only inches from hers, and his manner was threatening, although no one else knew because of the concealment afforded by the ferns and the standard. Conversation and laughter echoed all around, but in this secret little place, all she could hear was the pounding of her heart.