Parfit Knight (16 page)

Isabel gazed
after her ruefully and said, ‘I am sorry, Mistress Vernon. Mama is
a dear – but just a little eccentric.’

Rosalind
laughed. ‘Please don’t apologise – I think she’s delightful. But
who on earth is Robert?’

‘My brother.’
There was a marked lack of enthusiasm in Isabel’s tone and,
realising it, she proceeded to change the subject. ‘The engagement
that Mama spoke of is Lady Crewe’s assembly. Do say that you will
come.’

‘I – I don’t
know. Philip mentioned it last night but everything is moving so
very fast and I’m not at all sure that I’m ready for it,’ confessed
Rosalind, carefully understating a condition that closely resembled
pure panic. ‘And then there is your mama to be considered. Philip
told me that he asked her to chaperone me but I’m persuaded that
she will find it very tiresome.’

‘No she won’t,’
announced Isabel candidly. ‘Mama never does anything she dislikes
so she won’t accompany you anywhere she would not have gone anyway.
And her notion of chaperonage consists of handing one over to the
hostess – whoever it may be - and then vanishing into the card room
from which she only emerges in time to call for the carriage.’

‘Oh.’ Rosalind
was faintly stunned. ‘Is that usual?’

‘For Mama it
is. But don’t worry. Your brother has promised to escort us and I
know a number of agreeable girls who will be present. And, if you
will permit me to say it,’ she added shyly, ‘you are so very pretty
that the gentlemen will probably be falling over themselves to gain
an introduction. Please come, Mistress Vernon!’

Rosalind was
inclined to regard the latter part of this speech dubiously but it
was somehow impossible to disappoint Mistress Dacre so she threw
caution to the winds and said lightly, ‘Well, I suppose one has to
start somewhere and you are so kind that I can scarcely refuse.
Thank you – I will come.’

Isabel smiled.
‘I am so glad.’

‘But only on
condition that you will call me Rosalind – for the truth is that I
would very much like to ask you to look at my evening gowns and
tell me whether or not they are hopelessly unfashionable. And I
really can’t do that if we are to be formal.’

‘Thank you. I
shall be delighted,’ replied Isabel, flushing a little. ‘And if –
if you should wish to visit a mantua-maker, I’d be happy to take
you to Phanie. For Mama is quite right. Her gowns are much the
nicest.’

‘And shockingly
expensive?’ teased Rosalind.

‘Well, yes.
They are a
little
dear.’

The violet eyes
gleamed wickedly.

‘Splendid,’
said Rosalind with relish. ‘If I’m going to do this thing at all, I
may as well do it in style. And, as your mama pointed out, I am
well able to afford it.’

Exquisitely
gowned in cream silk, delicately embroidered with lilac over a
matching petticoat, amethysts at her throat and in her hair,
Rosalind sat on a cabriole-legged chair at the edge of Lady Crewe’s
ballroom and grew more tense with every minute.

It was noisy; a
cacophony of differently pitched voices and laughter, footsteps and
scraping chairs, all set against the continuo of my lady’s hired
orchestra. It was so crowded that, having arrived safely at her
seat, she did not think she would dare leave it again with even the
strongest arm to guide her. And the rooms were stuffy. Scents of
ambergris, cassia, heliotrope, musk and lavender battled with those
of cosmetics, hair-powder and perspiration. Rosalind knew nothing
of brothels of Turkish seraglios – but she didn’t think that those
places could smell any worse than did this noble company.

And then there
were the introductions. Several young gentlemen had made a point of
greeting Lord Philip and were duly presented to his sister only to
become constrained either by the discovery that Mistress Vernon was
blind or by his lordship’s hawk-like surveillance. And, at the end
of an hour, Rosalind had the greatest difficulty in distinguishing
one of them from another.

Two of Isabel’s
‘very agreeable girls’ had been so embarrassed by her disability
that they had not known what to say, while the third had had asked
so many patronising and impertinent questions that Rosalind had
finally lost her temper and delivered a snub. This had served the
purpose of ridding her of Mistress Hawley but had called forth a
low-voiced but nonetheless annoyed reproof from Lord Philip.
Rosalind raised sardonic brows and informed him that neither for
him nor anyone else was she prepared to be treated like the freak
at the village fair – after which they maintained a state of frigid
neutrality thoroughly unnerving to Mistress Isabel.

On the other
side of the ball-room, a striking figure paused in the doorway and
scanned the company without noticeable enthusiasm. Tall and
well-proportioned, the gentleman was exceedingly elegant in a
full-skirted coat of bronze silk over a gold brocade waistcoat;
diamonds sparkled in his cravat and on the buckles of his shoes;
and, in defiance of fashion, his thickly powdered hair was tied
back with long, bronze ribands. His cheekbones were high, his
complexion pale and the heavy-lidded eyes set beneath narrow dark
brows glinted with faint mockery. The gentleman had what might be
called Presence … and something else; something which caused at
least three young ladies to sigh audibly and a couple of older,
married ones to lose the thread of their conversations for a
moment.

Newly arrived
and already wondering what had possessed him to accept Lady Crewe’s
invitation, the Duke of Rockliffe’s gaze rested briefly on Lord
Philip and his betrothed before focussing more particularly on
Rosalind. His Grace experienced a mild flicker of interest.
Finally, entirely without haste and exchanging occasional greetings
as he went, he threaded his way across the room. A new face was
always intriguing; and, of course, if would not do for London to
think him unaware of its latest beauty.

He came to rest
beside Lord Philip and made an elaborate bow. ‘My lord … Mistress
Dacre.’ He cast a glance of mild enquiry at Rosalind then looked
back at Philip. ‘It is quite abominably crowded, is it not? But
then, it always is. My lady Crewe is a notable hostess.’

A gleam of
appreciation dawned in Rosalind’s eyes at the sweetly veiled
criticism implicit in the gentleman’s suave tones and she thought
that here, at last, was perhaps someone with whom she might enjoy a
conversation.

Philip, who had
never before been singled out by the Duke, was startled and a
little wary.

‘Yes, indeed,’
he said lamely. ‘Just so.’

Rosalind sighed
and Isabel, who knew Rockliffe moderately well, having been at
school with his sisters, stepped nobly into the breach.

‘Your Grace – I
believe you don’t know Lord Philip’s sister, Mistress Vernon? She
is but newly come to town,’ she said quietly. ‘Rosalind – his
Grace, the Duke of Rockliffe.’

Smiling,
Rosalind extended her hand and felt it taken in a coolly
insubstantial clasp.

‘Your servant,
Mistress Vernon,’ said the Duke softly. ‘I begin to know why I
came.’

‘Oh?’ The
dimple quivered into being. ‘And why was that, sir?’

‘I think … yes,
I am certain … it was to beg your hand for the gavotte,’ came the
smooth reply. And, raising her fingers to his lips, Rockliffe
lightly kissed them.

Quite apart
from the obvious problem, this was going too far and too fast for
Philip. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid my sister does not
dance,’ he began stiffly. ‘You see – ‘

‘Philip.’
Rosalind spoke his name with flat implacability. ‘You don’t need to
hover over me and I’m sure Isabel must be longing to dance.’

Amusement
lurked in Rockliffe’s heavy-lidded eyes and Isabel directed a level
brown stare at him before turning to Philip and responding to her
cue. ‘Indeed, I am – and I’m sure we may trust his Grace to
entertain Rosalind.’ If there was anything deliberate in her choice
of words only the Duke noticed it and, ignoring the faint curl of
his lip, Isabel went on, ‘Rosalind – you will not mind?’

‘Not at all. I
think I should be glad.’

Lord Philip
frowned. He had nothing against Rockliffe but he had a very
reasonable dislike of having his hand forced. ‘Yes, but – ‘

‘Dear Philip,’
sighed Rosalind, smiling brilliantly. ‘Do go away – or we shall
quarrel. Again.’

And Philip,
left with nothing to do but give way gracefully, offered his arm to
Isabel and experienced a strong desire to wring his sister’s
neck.

‘Lord Philip
takes his responsibilities seriously,’ remarked the Duke as he
watched them go.

‘Yes. There’s a
reason for that.’ Rosalind held her head up to preserve herself
from any suspicion of self-pity and said bluntly, ‘I should perhaps
explain that I am blind.’

The dark eyes
widened suddenly but there was no change in the drawling tone as he
said, ‘Are you? That is a great shame – for it means you are
probably unaware that yours is the most stylish gown in the room.
Er … allow me to mention the fact that there is a vacant chair on
your left.’

Rosalind’s
mouth quivered. ‘Then will you not be seated, sir?’

‘I thank you,
madam – I shall be honoured.’ He bowed and, having occupied the
chair, withdrew a gold snuff-box from one pocket. Flicking it open
with practised dexterity, he proceeded to help himself to an
infinitesimal pinch with his usual languid air while his eyes,
curiously alert beneath their heavy lids, never left Rosalind’s
face. ‘I now know why you do not dance but must confess myself at a
loss to know why you are not … besieged. Never say I am your first
London acquaintance?’

‘No, your
Grace. You are not.’ Mischievous amusement rippled through the
musical voice. ‘On the other hand, you are the first who is in any
way different from all the others.’

Faintly taken
aback, Rockliffe said, ‘I rejoice to hear it. One does one’s poor
best, Mistress Vernon and it’s comforting to be assured that one
does not … labour in vain.’

She smiled
demurely. ‘I’m sure it must be.’

‘It is
reprehensively vulgar of me,’ he continued blandly, ‘but I would
dearly love to know who “all the others” might be.’

The violet eyes
grew speculative. ‘Would you?
How
dearly?’

‘Enough,’
replied the Duke with his peculiar glinting smile, ‘for you to name
your own terms. Or do you think I cannot meet them?’

‘On the
contrary, sir – I’m sure you can. It is simply that I should like
you to describe the gentlemen I’ll name in such a way that I may
hope to remember which one is which if I meet them again. I have a
feeling, you see, that you have a discerning eye.’

‘Naturally.
That is why I am sitting here with you.’

There was a
brief pause and then, ‘Your Grace – are you by any chance flirting
with me?’

Rockliffe
appeared to consider the matter. ‘I believe,’ he said at length,
‘that I am
attempting
to do so. Have you any objection?’

‘Not in the
least,’ she assured him politely. ‘I merely wondered. Please go
on.’

And his Grace
finally abandoned his air of languor and gave way to rare
laughter.

Lord Philip
eyed them suspiciously as he led Isabel down the set.

‘What do you
suppose she’s saying to him? Everyone is staring.’

‘Yes.’ Isabel
spread her skirts and pointed one slender foot. ‘In envy, I
expect.’

As the movement
of the dance drew them apart, he had to wait to demand an
explanation. Isabel pivoted gracefully round him and said, ‘The
gentlemen are jealous for obvious reasons - and the ladies because
Rockliffe doesn’t usually seek out unknown provincials and almost
never laughs. He’s also the most eligible bachelor in London.’

‘Oh.’ Philip
digested this. ‘That’s alright then.’

Rosalind,
meanwhile, was tossing names to the Duke and enjoying his
responses.

‘Viscount
Ansford?’

‘Oh dear,’
sighed Rockliffe. ‘Really? He is one of the worst-dressed men in
London, with a penchant for lilac wigs.’ And, unable to resist the
temptation, ‘He altho hath a lithp.’

She laughed.
‘Oh –
that
one. Yeth. I remember.’ She paused. ‘And Mr
Farraday?’

‘Ah. You will
always have warning of Mr Farraday’s approach because he reeks of
patchouli. One would wonder if he bathes in it – except that one
suspects he does not bathe at all.’ Rockcliffe took her fan and
plied it gently. ‘Next?’

‘Lord
Wrensley?’

‘I am reliably
informed by one of my sisters that his lordship’s hands are like
wet fish.’

‘H-how very
unfortunate for him.’ She tilted her head. ‘One of your
sisters?’

‘For my sins,’
his Grace sighed, ‘I have three. Happily, two of them are married.
The third is still creating mayhem in a boarding school in Bath. Is
your inventory complete?’

‘Not quite.
There was a Mr Sheringham.’

The fan stopped
its lazy motion and a faint frown entered the dark eyes.

‘Mr Sheringham
is an acquaintance of your brother’s?’

‘It would seem
so. Why do you ask?’

‘No particular
reason.’ The fan resumed its motion but the frown lingered for a
moment or two longer. ‘Desolate though I am to disappoint you, I
can think of nothing in the least distinctive about Mr Sheringham.’
A pause. And then, ‘May I ask which lady is sponsoring your debut
into society?’

‘Lady Linton –
Isabel’s mama,’ replied Rosalind. ‘I met her yesterday for the
first time. She … she’s quite original, isn’t she?’

‘That,’ agreed
Rockliffe dryly, ‘is certainly one way of putting it.’

At the far end
of the ball-room, Isabel looked towards the doorway and said
thoughtfully, ‘What does the Marquis of Amberley look like?’