The Conqueror's Dilemma (13 page)

A
little laugh escaped the elder woman. ‘Oh, so haughty? No, dear Miss Felton, I
am perfectly happy to have your acquaintance.’

‘But
not Lady Drumbeg’s.’ Tiffany’s throat had tightened. ‘Yet we hale from the same
class. I fail to see the difference.’

‘Then
you don’t know your chaperon,’ came the tart response. Mrs Membury leaned
closer, dropping her voice. ‘This is scarce the moment to go into the matter, I
fear. We will talk of it another time.’

Before
Tiffany had a chance to respond, she had risen and moved away. Tiffany was left
with an undirected anger and a foolish rise of feeling in the hint of a further
meeting. At this moment, she had no wish to meet Ariadne Membury again. Neither
she, nor those close associates who must inevitably judge Tiffany unworthy to
come among them. For perhaps the first time in their dealings, her sympathies
were stirred towards Lady Drumbeg. How dared they all judge her, merely because
she was what they termed—in the rudest of parlance—a cit? Was Eva’s crime that
she refused to keep her place? Yet it was only in the cause of furthering
Tiffany’s future that she had been brazen enough to attempt to move into a
higher sphere. Tiffany must count herself ungrateful. Had she not privately
judged her chaperon ill?

Even
as her eyes sought unconsciously for Lady Drumbeg in the room, she was aware of
an inward shrinking. To see the woman pointedly ignored or brushed aside could
not but belittle them both. She wondered at Eva’s lack of pride. In her place,
Tiffany would have abandoned the effort at the first crushing rejection. She
wished fervently they might depart.

As it
happened, when she approached a few moments later, Lady Drumbeg proved ready to
go. ‘I have done everything I can for this present, so we may as well take our
leave. There is no need to trouble Mrs Membury at such an affair. Let us go at
once.’

Inordinately
relieved, Tiffany at once made ready to rise—only to realise she was still
holding the saucer containing her empty cup. Looking about, she could see no
convenient nearby table upon which to set it down. There was one at a little
distance, but she had a hazy notion it was considered unladylike to rise with
cup in hand. Besides, she must manage that and her reticule, and she could not
possibly slide the cord over her wrist if she was holding the saucer. Looking
to her chaperon for guidance, she discovered Eva had already moved too far away
to hear a question that must necessarily be couched in an undertone.

At a
loss, Tiffany sat for a moment of horrid uncertainty, dismayed by the sheer
complexity put upon her by such a simple exercise.

‘Allow
me to assist you, Miss Felton.’

Tiffany’s
heart bumped uncomfortably. The offending cup and saucer were already in Mr
Westerham’s capable hands before she found the courage to look up at him. The
smile was in place, and his eyes were brimful of amusement. He had gauged her
predicament exactly.

‘Your
reticule, I believe?’

He was
holding it out, and Tiffany could imagine neither how he had found it nestling
beside her on the chair, nor how he had managed to pick it up without her
seeing it.

His
tone lowered as he handed it to her. ‘It had slipped to the floor.’

Fumbling
with the recalcitrant cords, Tiffany managed at last to slip it on her wrist.
She was sure she was blushing, but she met his eyes as she stood up on shaky
knees.

‘Th-thank
you, sir.’

‘A
pleasure.’

The
reassurance in his tone was belied by the glinting humour in the brown eyes,
and Tiffany, crumbling under their assault, was beset by a rush of resentment.
Was she so pathetic a creature to be swayed this way and that by the changeable
humours of this man? Merely because he chose today to be pleasant, was she to
forget the vile manner of his greeting when they had been introduced? Or had
that excuse for an apology been intended to make her put it all behind her?

She
would have spoken unthinkingly, but another was before her.

‘Mr
Westerham, so kind of you to assist my charge.’

Eva
had returned. The reason was obvious, and the Conqueror could have been under
no illusion as Lady Drumbeg continued.

‘I
assure you Miss Felton is vastly flattered by your attention, sir. You clearly
know just how to ease a debutante’s path, and I am so grateful for it.’

‘Not
at all, ma’am,’ came the murmured response, and Tiffany edged away, hoping her
chaperon would leave it at that. She was disappointed.

‘I
wonder if I might ask your advice, Mr Westerham?’ Without waiting for
permission, Lady Drumbeg plunged on, to Tiffany’s intense embarrassment. ‘While
I am eager to pander to Miss Felton’s particular wishes, I am not entirely
certain of the desirability of some of the places she would like to visit. What
think you of the Pantheon? To be sure, it is said to be perfectly respectable
now it has re-opened, and I have promised to take Tiffany to a masked ball
there next Tuesday, but—’

‘You
are the best person to judge of her movements, ma’am, surely?’ interrupted the
Conqueror.

‘Pray,
Eva, should we not—?’ Tiffany’s tentative question was ignored.

‘Of
course there can be no harm in her attending Miss Harriet Mellon’s performance
at Drury Lane next week. Such a pity Elizabeth Farren has retired, don’t you
agree? Are you fond of the theatre, Mr Westerham?’

‘Very.’

His
tone was clipped, and Tiffany noted, with a resurgence of that curious mixture
of resentment and dismay, the pokering of his features into the beastly mask to
which he had treated her in this very house. The recent sympathy she had felt
for her chaperon began to dissipate as Eva pressed on, evidently undeterred by
the signs of rising contempt.

‘Then
we shall no doubt see you there. In all probability, we will meet you at the
Haymarket too. And Vauxhall? In a week or two, when the weather improves, we
shall follow the flock and congregate there, I don’t doubt. Do you care for
Vauxhall?’

Since
her object was now perfectly clear, Tiffany was not surprised to hear the
Conqueror disclaim any liking for the place.

‘One
cannot go there without running the gauntlet of every scaff and raff upon the
town.’

Which was
as much as to say he was bound to run into such persons as herself and her
chaperon. And that was precisely what Eva was fishing for. To know just where
the Conqueror liked to go so she might be sure and choose the same places—and
all to draw the loathsome look from him that must both crush and infuriate
Tiffany. She listened with a sinking heart to her chaperon’s further pretended
musings, praying for deliverance.

‘But
it is yet fashionable, is it not? I vow I have heard people of the best society
say so.’ No answer being forthcoming, Eva pressed on, uttering a humourless
laugh. ‘Well, I shall look for you there, Mr Westerham, despite what you say,
for I believe I have spied you there in the past.’

Before
any reply could be made—should the Conqueror deign to give one—a new voice
entered the discussion.

‘Oh,
Will is always to be found wherever fashion dictates, you may be sure,’ said a
laughing Mrs Membury. ‘Are you meaning to leave us, Lady Drumbeg? What a pity.
Goodbye, Miss Felton. I trust we shall find an opportunity to continue our
delightful discussion in the near future.’

Tiffany
could only be thankful that her chaperon, ushered away willy-nilly, was obliged
to lead her out. She was fairly bursting with congested spleen, overlaid with a
deep sense of mortification. Reaching the door, she could not resist glancing
back.

Mr
Westerham was looking after them and, without meaning to, Tiffany caught his
eye. She had no idea how her emotions were evident in her face. Nor, as she
left the room, could she have any inkling of their effect upon the Conqueror.

At sight
of the crowded floor below the gallery, William had a momentary regret that he
had gone to so much trouble to come. His companions, masked like himself, were
evidently experiencing similar symptoms.

‘Don’t
know how you think to find the chit in this crush,’ said Hector, leaning over
the low wall, the insets of which, like the high ceilings, were painted with
highly decorative and colourful scenes of classical origin.

‘What
is more to the point,’ said his sister, eyeing the shifting throng below, ‘is
why he wished to find her.’

William
turned his head to survey Ariadne, who had dressed for the occasion in the
costume of a shepherdess, its petticoats flounced and its décolletage
deliciously enticing. Her chestnut locks escaped from under a pretty flowered
straw bonnet, and her features were largely concealed by a jewelled half-mask.

‘Don’t
pretend you came only for that, my dear, for I know well you took it as an
excuse to attend a masquerade. You would not otherwise have set foot in the
Pantheon, now, would you?’

Mischief
curved her mouth and her eyes glittered at him through the mask. ‘Well, it is
not precisely respectable, but I do love this sort of affair, I confess. And it
would hardly be the thing for a matron of my years to be seen disporting
herself in such company.’

‘I
only hope Membury don’t find out and blame me for it,’ said Kilbride huffily,
from beneath a concealing mask and an old brown domino. ‘Wouldn’t have
mentioned it to you if I’d known you meant to insist on accompanying us.’

‘Yes,
you would,’ argued Ariadne. ‘You’re as baffled as I am by Will’s conduct, and
as I’m the only person you can tell, you were bound to discuss it with me.’

As her
brother embarked upon a heated rejoinder, William turned away and left them to
it. If his friends were baffled, he was not. But he had no intention of
burdening them with the real reason. Let Ariadne think him lost in love, if she
chose. It was better than the truth. Tiffany Felton had succeeded, with one
reproachful look, in causing him to question his entire
raison d’être
.

It was
infuriating—and, to say truth, sobering. Had he become so apt to range himself
with his present peers he was now insufferably high in the instep? Until
Tiffany had thrown him that glance, he had been unaware of his manner towards
Lady Drumbeg. Instinct or self-preservation had rendered him merciless in
dealing with the pretensions of chaperons with charges they sought to thrust
into prominence. But he treated them always with polite indifference, not
contempt. Had he been led into it by the expressed opinions of Juliana and
Ariadne?

He
scarcely knew Lady Drumbeg, but her thrusting manner might deserve his disdain.
The trouble was that, by association, he had shown contempt for Tiffany Felton,
and he felt none. What he did feel for her was ruthlessly closed to all
speculation. He refused to dwell upon that, convinced he had fallen victim to a
regrettable and foolish whim. It would not last, and once he had remedied his
earlier errors and set her feet upon a more comfortable path, he would be able
to leave her to make her own way in society as best she might. At which point,
he anticipated no difficulty in putting her from his mind. He had done it
before when attraction threatened to deepen to something more. He would do it
again. Indeed, he must. He dare not risk a throw with intense passion of that
kind.

But at
this present, it suited ill with him to indicate his previous fault to Tiffany
only to repeat it within a short space of time. She had done nothing at all to
deserve that of him, and he was more sorry than he could bear. Hence this
expedition.

Impossible
to further his acquaintance with the girl in any public way. Not, at least,
until he had found a solution to the puzzle Juliana had set him. He could
scarcely ask Tiffany to meet him clandestinely, which would be worse. He
thought at first of cultivating that fringe of society he guessed Lady Drumbeg
must inhabit, but that could only endanger his own position. He cherished no
illusions about his circle. Let him be seen in such company and gossip would be
rife. Censure must follow, and from there to a precipitate downfall was but a
small step for a man of his stamp. Society was as eager to crush its idols as
to make them. And Juliana would be furious.

Recalling
mention of the Pantheon in Lady Drumbeg’s artful disclosures, he found the
answer. The one place where he might go incognito and escape recognition was
the palatial Oxford Street building, which had been remodelled yet again after
its interior was destroyed by fire the very year William had come to town.
Since its re-opening three years since, it was used mostly for exhibitions, but
the company attending the occasional masquerades held here was, he knew,
composed of a motley crowd. Peers rubbed shoulders with pickpockets. As many
dishonourables frequented the place as honourables, and the majority of the
females present were demireps and cits. It was precisely the venue for a woman
of the Drumbeg’s origins. And not at all the sort of event to which a careful
chaperon would bring a debutante.

Disguise
was imperative, for vast chandeliers hung over the ballroom and along the
galleries, throwing a good deal of light over the scene. An orchestra played
throughout, although it was doubtful any but those situated closest to the
stage could hear much of their music. The hubbub was intense, and a deal of
licentious freedom was apparent in the antics of many of the couples allegedly
engaged in the dance. People hung over the galleries, bandying words with those
below, and frequent feminine shrieks gave witness to liberties perpetrated by
so-called gentlemen.

William
had a sudden swift vision of the innocent Tiffany Felton caught in an
indecorous embrace. Something gave in his chest. He turned quickly to his
companions, who were still engaged in argument.

‘I’m
going down to look for her.’