The Conqueror's Dilemma (11 page)

Lady
Drumbeg was convinced he must be there. Her criticisms notwithstanding, it was
evident Eva had the intention to accost him. The advantages of accepting Sir
Lambert Chicheley were forgotten. There was all to play again, and her chaperon
was determined to play with a vengeance.

Unfortunately,
Tiffany did not share this wholehearted enthusiasm for the Conqueror’s society.
She dreaded any encounter with him, convinced he would again treat her to his
haughty look of disdain. The thought of it filled her with an afflicting
mixture of fury and apprehension. She longed for the courage to meet his eyes
with complete indifference, but she doubted her ability to carry off such a
charade. By the time she trod up the steps of the Membury house for the second
time, a feeling of trepidation had her in thrall.

Following
in the wake of Lady Drumbeg, who was led by the butler, she was taken to a
small room where a plethora of protective outer garments against the inclement
weather had been left. Having divested herself of her cloak to reveal the
ubiquitous white, relieved only by a green net cloak to match her reticule,
Tiffany was taken with her chaperon into a much larger saloon than on their
first visit.

Situated
on the ground floor, it was obvious at once to Tiffany that it had, unlike the
other, suffered a transformation. Her tutored eye instantly recognised
Hepplewhite in the uncluttered simplicity and elegance of the furniture. Shield
back chairs, nearly all occupied, were scattered about, as well as sofas with
the same back pattern in double and triple formation, all of light mahogany
with plain straw-coloured upholstery to the seats. The walls were painted dull
yellow with light gilding to the woodwork, and reefed curtains in old gold hung
over the windows. The effect was unfussy and pleasing, leaving the major impact
to be made by a fine colourful rug of intricate design, obviously oriental.
Tiffany had seen many imported carpets of the kind pass through her uncle’s
dockyard warehouses.

There
was no announcement to usher them in, so they stood near the door where the
butler had left them, surveying the company. It consisted mainly of ladies, and
an air of ease and relaxation was at once evident. A deal of laughter and
chatter was going forward, while music penetrated below the hubbub from a
pianoforte at the other end of the room. From out of a standing group close by,
Mrs Membury emerged, elegant as ever in a leaf-coloured round gown, its ruff of
muslin edged with lace and a cap adorned with ribbons of darker green that set
off her chestnut locks. Her hand was held out and her merry features wore a
welcoming smile.

‘I am
so glad you could come,’ she said, clasping both hands about Tiffany’s. She
turned to nod to Lady Drumbeg. ‘Thank you for bringing her, ma’am.’ She turned
to survey the room, while keeping hold of Tiffany’s hand. ‘Now where would you
care to sit? Ah, there are seats to be had over by the window.’

Led
willy-nilly towards the first of two big windows, Tiffany sat down on the
vacant chair before it. Mrs Membury indicated the one beside it.

‘Do
you make yourself comfortable, Lady Drumbeg. I shall hope to return presently
to chat a little with you both.’

And
they were left alone. Never had Tiffany’s lack of acquaintance felt so
alarming. None approached them, although she caught one or two surprised
glances coming their way. She wished fervently she had not yielded.

Eva
did not appear to be similarly affected. There was a note of triumph in her
carefully genteel voice, for all she spoke in an undertone. ‘This is better
than I could have hoped for. See, Tiffany, it’s not a large party, yet everyone
is of the first stare. I think the lady in the green net curricle is Lady
Altass, a high stickler, I’m told. And that’s likely her daughter leaning on
the pianoforte. Yes, for the gentleman talking to her is Kilbride. He don’t
usually attend such affairs. I suppose he must have come to oblige his sister.
The other young fellow is Jeremy Brundish. It must be Melinda Loscombe, for
she’s supposed to be a great beauty and all the men are said to be after her.
Good God, there’s Lady Yelverton!’

Tiffany
had been trying to see the partially hidden features of the beautiful Miss
Loscombe, but this last made her turn her head sharply. She was not surprised
at the muffled note of panic in her chaperon’s voice. Her own heart bumped
uncomfortably. She could only hope that if Lady Yelverton should happen to see
them sitting there, she would prefer to ignore than to notice them.

What
if she were to object publicly to their presence? And the Conqueror not here to
rescue her once more. And then remembrance hit. Was not the dark-haired matron
intimate with Mr Westerham? A wholly unfounded stab of feeling attacked her.
Tiffany refused to give it a name, too afraid to identify what it might be. She
was glad when Eva’s voice distracted her.

‘Someone
is sure to come over to talk to us soon. And if not, I’ll circulate. It’s the
done thing at this sort of party.’

Tiffany
shrank from the notion. Heaven send she would not be expected to trail about
after her duenna. There was indeed a constant coming and going among the
ladies. Tiffany caught sight of Mrs Membury, and watched her thread a way
through her guests, laughing here, smiling there. She paused at the pianoforte,
where the girl who had been playing was on her feet.

After
a little, it became clear what Mrs Membury had been at, for the beauty Eva
thought to be Melinda Loscombe took her place and began to sing, accompanying
herself upon the instrument. A spontaneous hush fell upon the room, and all eyes
were for a while trained upon that corner of the room.

Miss
Loscombe, although gowned as simply as any debutante in the pervasive white,
was indeed lovely, Tiffany decided. She was blessed with a head of hair like
spun gold, caught up at the back, the rest trained in a few long curls draping
upon her shoulders. Her smile, in a pair of shapely lips, was angelic, her
complexion pure, and her eyes bright. Tiffany could not make out their colour
from where she sat, but their sparkle was evident, as was the air of
confidence. Well, why should she not be confident, endowed with the combination
of birth, beauty and breeding? There could be no doubt Miss Melinda Loscombe
would receive no haughty looks down his nose from the Conqueror.

The
mesmerised moment did not last long. A murmur of voices started up again, and
grew in volume as people took up their interrupted conversations. Again,
Tiffany could appreciate why. The picture Miss Loscombe made was enough to take
one’s breath away. But her singing was merely pleasant, and the mistakes in her
fingering were easily to be heard. Tiffany could not forbear a faint feeling of
satisfaction, for which she scolded herself severely. She had no right to be
glad to find all was not perfection with the lucky Miss Loscombe. That must
show her to be jealous, and she was not. At least, she did not envy the lady
her radiant looks. Aunt Peggy had long ago nipped any such tendency in the bud.

‘We
are as we are, Tiffy love. Where is the sense in making yourself unhappy merely
because others may be blessed with an attribute you do not possess? We have
each our unique attraction, and some day you will meet the man who will see in
you what none other has noticed. Only look at your uncle and me. Can you
imagine a more unlikely combination?’

Aunt
Peggy had ever been homely, but she had caught the eye of Matthew Felton, a man
with enough character for ten, so Tiffany’s aunt had always said. His was a
strong personality, but he had chosen the quiet humility of his wife above a
number—so Aunt Peggy said—of far more attractive females.

‘There
again, who can say what prompted your mama to throw her cap over the windmill
for Matt’s young brother? Benjamin was as unlike your uncle as you could
imagine, Tiffy. He hadn’t Matt’s height, nor his figure. I don’t know what it
was. Something in his eyes, Emma always said, but what, I can’t for the life of
me tell you.’

No,
Tiffany allowed Miss Loscombe all her considerable beauty without a pang. But
she would give much for the air of belonging. No, that was silly. She did not
wish to belong in this milieu. Had she not often said it? Aunt Peggy was right.
She was who she was, and no amount of pushing in and being noticed by
conquerors or anyone else was going to change it.

‘
Tiffany
!’

The
sharp undervoice recalled her wandering thoughts. She glanced quickly at her
chaperon and saw the familiar false smile upon her mouth, unmatched by the
glare in the eyes. What had she done now?

‘You
are offered tea.’

Blinking,
Tiffany looked round, and found a cup and saucer of tea was held out to her by
a male hand, which she took to be that of a servant. She stared at it, beset
immediately with a difficulty. Should she take off her gloves? No, she should
leave them on, should she not? Or did this count as an informal affair, in
which case she might do as she chose? The correct procedure eluded her. She
decided on removal.

As her
fingers began to fumble at one wrist, a gentle murmur reached her. ‘You may
leave them on if you wish, you know.’

Her
heart jerked and she jumped, very nearly cannoning into the hand. If it had not
been miraculously lifted out of the way, the cup and its contents would have
been sent flying. Tiffany’s eyes lifted and found the owner of the hand.

Dear
heaven, it was he! No distant look of contempt was upon Mr Westerham’s handsome
features. There was the old kind smile, inviting her participation in its
friendly warmth.

William
took in the rapid transition from shock, then pleasure—he was certain her eyes had
lit briefly—and finally, doubt. Her voice was breathy with it.

‘Mr Westerham! Oh—I mean, thank you, but I—’

He
offered the cup again, turning on his most charming smile. ‘Your tea, ma’am.’

Her
gaze dropped down to the cup, and slid up again to meet his. Was it merely hurt
in the clear blue eyes? Or did he detect a hint of reproach? A riffle passed
across his chest. Ignoring it, he lowered his voice to the confidential murmur
he had first used.

‘It is
polite to take the cup from me, you know. Your hesitation will be remarked.’

He
caught a flash of something in her eye before she looked quickly away, putting
out an automatic hand. William gave the saucer into her keeping. She looked as
if she did not know what she should do with it. A pang struck at him. Rabbit
it, the damage was worse than he had thought. He exerted himself to please.

‘Miss
Felton, is it not? Have I that right?’

Tiffany
sat mumchance, a constriction in her throat making speech impossible. For once,
she was relieved when Eva answered for her.

‘Just
so, Mr Westerham,’ she gushed. ‘Most condescending of you to bring the tea.
Tiffany is vastly flattered, are you not, sweet child?’

Flattered?
She was anything but. The remark, however, served to strengthen her. She took a
steadying breath and directed a straight look up at the gentleman.

‘Indeed,
I find Mr Westerham inordinately condescending.’

William
was almost betrayed into a laugh. His heart warmed. Bravo, Tiffany. He wanted
to agree he had well deserved that, but the risk of being overheard was too
great. He met her clear gaze with a bland look of his own.

‘I
assure you, the condescension is all on your part, Miss Felton, in speaking to
me at all.’

Surprise
flickered in her eyes and he was tempted to pursue the theme. But he was all
too aware of other eyes upon him from various parts of the room. He could
almost feel Juliana’s boring into his back. He could not afford to make his
action look particular. He took a second cup and saucer from the tray held by a
footman hovering beside him, and handed it to Lady Drumbeg.

A
slight bow. ‘Your servant, dear ladies.’

Moving
off, he led the way to the pianoforte, where Melinda Loscombe was coming to the
end of her performance. Hector, lounging to one side, had evidently been
watching him from the questioning look in his eye. Jeremy Brundish, jealously
guarding the fair performer, gave William one of those belligerent glances apt
to come his way from the younger gentlemen of his acquaintance.

‘Have
no fear, Brundish,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I am come merely to administer to
Melinda’s inevitable thirst.’

‘That’s
what you call it, is it?’ came
sotto voce
from Kilbride.

William
ignored him, turning his charm upon Miss Loscombe as she arrived at the last
note to the accompaniment of sporadic applause. Her bright eyes had
acknowledged him as he came up, and she clapped delighted hands as he conjured
her cup of tea from behind him, apparently out of thin air.

‘Will,
you magician! How did you guess this was precisely what I needed?’

‘Intuition,
my dear Melinda. Do take it from me, or I shall be obliged to set it upon the
pianoforte and annoy Ariadne.’

Melinda’s
girlish laugh rang out as she reached out for the beverage. ‘That would never
do.’ Her eyes widened at him. ‘But what in the world are you doing here, Will?
You never come to such affairs.’ A stifled snort from Kilbride attracted her
attention. ‘Hector, you know something.’

‘No, I
don’t,’ said the culprit hastily. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

To
William’s annoyance, Melinda’s curiosity grew. ‘Then there is something. Is it
a secret? Oh, do tell.’

A
harassed glance came William’s way from Kilbride. He intervened smoothly.
‘Don’t be a widgeon, Mel. Is it likely Hector would tell you if he was in a
secret with me?’

Her
face fell, the lovely mouth drooping. ‘Oh, I suppose not. How dull of you both
to be so loyal to one another. I shall ask Ariadne instead.’