The Conqueror's Dilemma (2 page)

‘What I wish you to understand,’
resumed Lady Drumbeg, in a tone marginally less acidic and arctic with
gentility, ‘is that William Westerham is one of the leading lights on the
social scene. Why or how he got to his position I don’t know, but the plain
fact is, if he chose to single you out, others would follow his lead.
Contrariwise, if he chose to ignore you—or worse to cut you—there’s none as
would deign to notice your existence. Let me tell you, it should be the goal of
every young female thrust upon the marriage mart to win his approval.’

The memory eluding Tiffany
surfaced. Had there not been a hint of this in what he had first said to her?
He had suspected her of attempting to waylay him. A faint indignation riffled
across Tiffany’s breast, but it was chased away by bewilderment. She blinked at
her chaperon.

‘I don’t understand. Is he
particularly eligible?’

‘Eligible? No!’

‘Oh, then he must be a man of
rank. What is he, a duke perhaps?’

Lady Drumbeg clicked an impatient
tongue. ‘Nothing of the sort. Didn’t I tell you he is
Mister
Westerham?
He has no title at all. Duke, indeed. D’you think they grow on trees? Besides,’
she added, descending from the heights, ‘a duke wouldn’t hardly be likely to
talk to you, now, would he?’

Which was true enough. How could
a gentleman of neither rank nor eligibility become a leader of society? But she
had best not ask. Her reticence did not answer.

‘I wish you won’t look so
stupidly blank, Tiffany,’ declared her duenna. ‘Anyone would take you for a
noddy.’

Tiffany tried to school her
countenance to an expression of intelligent docility. ‘I beg your pardon,
ma’am.’

But her chaperon was not
attending. ‘You haven’t told me what he said. Nor who presented him to you.’

Dismay swamped her. Before she
could think of a way to prevaricate, Tiffany had blurted it out. ‘No one
presented him. He just—he just stopped to talk to me.’

Lady Drumbeg’s expression
altered. ‘Gracious heaven! Could he have liked the look of you?’

Was it all but impossible to
believe? Tiffany wished she might have evidence to support it, but she could
not truthfully say Mr Westerham had shown any disposition to like her.
Thankfully, the question was rhetorical.

‘I’d best find someone to present
you in form. If only I had the ear of one of these toffee-nosed females,’ Eva
fretted. ‘Not that I might depend on them for favours, if I did. People are so
disobliging. But if the Conqueror can be got to show he thinks well of you, it
would bring you into notice, Tiffany.’

She hurried away towards the
ballroom, full of new determination. Obedient to a beckoning finger, Tiffany
followed, filled with foreboding. To be thrust into prominence was the last
thing she wanted. It was bad enough as things stood. If she was obliged to
demonstrate her ignorance of social etiquette to a larger—and far more
critical—audience, she might as well pack her bags and return immediately to
Bridlington Key.

The thought of home made her
sufficiently heartsore to be less aware of Lady Drumbeg’s attempts to gain
attention than she might otherwise have been. Following in her chaperon’s wake,
she moved as she was bid while her mind drifted to Yorkshire and the sea that
had yielded its favours to pay for her Season.

Tiffany loved the bustle of the
harbour, where brawny men loaded wares for shipment abroad, while fishermen who
had been out all night put in with their catch and threw the wriggling silver
cargo into massive baskets to be carted off to market. From a child, she had
run free among the sailors, welcomed aboard one or other of Uncle Matt’s
vessels before it put out to sea. She loved the movement of the boat as it sat
upon the waves, the plethora of smells on the lye-scrubbed decks mingling with
the odours of the ocean. And the cry of the gulls, the creak of the rigging,
the salt spray on her cheeks.

Entranced, she would watch the
approach of sail signalling the return of a long-gone ship and a hold full of
Indian cotton destined for the mills, banks of muslin drapery in fascinating
colours, bewitching oriental spices and who knew what curios carved of ebony or
ivory and gold. At least it had looked gold to Tiffany, but Uncle Matt had
laughed.

‘That’s brass, lass, not gold.
And brass it means, too. They’ll fetch a goodly sum will those. And your
gentry’ll pay through the nose for yon spices, that’s sure.’

Uncle Matt always called them
“your gentry”, as if to underline that half of Tiffany’s ancestry that had
induced him to send her to London for the Season once she attained marriageable
age.

‘I’ll not do my poor brother down,
and that’s flat. His dearest wish it was to see you take your rightful place
among the nobs. Never forgave himself when Emma’s family disowned her. Not that
your mama ever complained, mind. He was a fortunate man, was Benjamin Felton,
and so I told him often and often. Loved the sea, did Emma. And she loved your
pa.’

At this point in his narrative
Uncle Matt invariably stuck, having recourse to his handkerchief. Aunt Peggy,
her kindly features creased in worry, would shake her head and sigh, turning to
Tiffany with a conspiratorial look and lowering her voice as if in the vicinity
of a sickbed.

‘It still grieves your uncle
sorely, Tiffy love, as you see. I never trusted the sea myself, but dear Emma
would never consent to be left behind when your papa went off with one of the
ships.’ A quick glance at her afflicted husband, and another gusty sigh. ‘Such
a tragedy. And you but a scrap of a girl, my lovey, left to be raised along of
our boys, and none to teach you the finer ways of life.’

Well, Tiffany had learned them—or
thought she had at the time—at an academy in York, among other daughters of the
merchant class desirous of moving up in the world. Which had disappointed Uncle
Matt, who had hoped for more useful acquaintance. Balked, he had hired Lady Drumbeg
to bring her out. A scheme which was rapidly falling foul of her uncle’s
purpose, although Tiffany was as yet unable to fathom the reason why Lady
Drumbeg’s acquaintance apparently did not extend into the circles in which the
erstwhile Emma Partington had allegedly belonged.

Having little memory of her
mother, and even less knowledge of the world she had left behind to marry, for
love, into the merchant class, Tiffany was unable to appreciate the niceties of
social distinction that excluded Lady Drumbeg from such affairs as this ball.
Indeed, she was at a loss to account for the invitation and wondered uneasily
if there had been one at all.

The reception being accorded to
her chaperon at this very moment was not encouraging. Tiffany could only be
sorry her ruminations had led her back to endure the sight of one silk clad
shoulder after another turning away from Lady Drumbeg’s eager approaches. By
the time she had followed her chaperon’s serpentine path through the groups of
chattering humanity cluttering the ballroom—the musicians apparently having
taken a well-earned break—Tiffany was ready to sink with embarrassment.

To her dismay, she caught sight
of Mr Westerham again. He was standing among a group occupying prime position
before the massive fireplace. No flames leapt in the grate, which was, Tiffany
thought, just as well. The ballroom was overly hot, despite the cold winds of
early March battering at the tightly closed long windows. Schooled by a canny
Yorkshireman, Tiffany guessed the heat was to be laid at the door of the myriad
candles burning in three massive chandeliers suspended from the ceiling,
together with the press of persons below. In a constantly moving river of
colour, handkerchiefs dabbed at damp foreheads and fans fluttered madly, while
rouged cheeks plumped in smiles and lips mouthed a jumble of words.

In the coterie surrounding the
Conqueror, Tiffany counted only two gentlemen against five ladies, who all
burst into laughter as she watched. One folded her fan with a quick flick of
the wrist and rapped it across Mr Westerham’s knuckles. Her voice carried
clearly across to where Tiffany stood behind her duenna, who had at last
managed to insert herself into one of the conversations going forward.

‘Fie, Will, you have a tongue
like a knife!’

Mr Westerham replied, but too
softly for Tiffany to hear. Since the ladies were again laughing, it was to be
supposed he had made a humorous remark. An unidentified pang smote Tiffany. It
could not be envy. She had no wish to be part of this gaily-painted group.

Recalling that her chaperon was
hunting for someone who might introduce her, she was instantly attacked with
agitation. Heaven send she was not thrust into the intimate little circle. Was
not the lady who wielded the fan vaguely familiar? It was only a moment before
Tiffany placed her—at the head of the stairs on their arrival. She had not
precisely repudiated Eva, but Tiffany had spied a hint of question in her face.

‘My friend Mrs Murrell asked me
to tender her apologies, Lady Yelverton,’ Eva had said in her best social
manner, glossing over the moment. ‘She had depended upon being here, only she
was attacked by an indisposition late in the afternoon. The poor thing is laid
flat out upon her bed.’

At mention of Mrs Murrell,
recognition had flashed in the eyes of the hostess. She had graciously inclined
her head, but Tiffany was convinced she disapproved mightily. She had murmured
a brief acknowledgement and requested them to proceed into the antechamber.

‘We brushed through that pretty
well, if you ask me,’ had been Eva’s low-voiced verdict. Tiffany had been less
pleased, the suspicion burgeoning that Lady Drumbeg had traded shamelessly upon
the mentioned name to gain entry where neither of them had been invited.

And the hostess who surely knew
as much was leaning in to exchange whispered pleasantries with the Conqueror,
to whom her chaperon was attempting to gain her a formal presentation. She
could only pray Eva found none to perform the office.

Whilst he gave ear to Juliana’s words, William kept a
surreptitious eye upon the girl. He had noticed her at once, peeping from
behind the back of the very woman he had briefly encountered in the doorway as
he passed from the antechamber into the ballroom. She had slipped half out of
sight again, for which he must presumably blame the apprehension clearly
visible in her face. Did she fear he would approach her again? Against all
reason, he found himself wishing he might. But it would not do. Unless Juliana
could vouch for the wench? Or the chaperon.

 ‘Will, are you attending to
me?’

He gave his hostess his full
attention, summoning a rueful smile. ‘I beg your pardon, Juliana, I was
distracted for the moment.’

Lady Yelverton’s hazel eyes appraised
him. A handsome brunette, she was draped in silks that effectively enhanced the
voluptuous curves of which William had at one time been privileged to have
intimate knowledge. They had no effect upon him now, nothing remaining of the
attraction between them but a steady affection.

‘Prospecting for pastures new,
Will?’

His lips twitched at the tease in
her voice, but he lowered his own that those about them would not hear. ‘Merely
intrigued.’

Juliana’s countenance took on
interest, and William inwardly cursed. He might have anticipated this. She was
searching the immediate area, lighting upon one female after another. He was a
little relieved when she lowered her tone to match his.

‘Which one? I can see none to
whet your appetite.’

William sighed with deliberate
exaggeration. ‘Don’t you ever listen, Ju? Intrigued was what I said.’

‘Ah, but enough to distract you.
I ought to feel insulted, I dare say. Except I can no longer remember what
particular piece of gossip I was relating to you.’

‘Neither can I.’ Taking her by
the elbow, William steered her a little away from the chattering group.
‘Quickly now, take a look behind me and see if you can spot a skinny female in
a beribboned turban. Pasty-faced and on the shady side of forty, if I don’t
miss my guess.’

Lady Yelverton had been scanning
the crowd over his shoulder, but at this her fine eyes returned to his face,
and he read her amusement without difficulty.

‘Fie, Will, am I to understand I
have been slighted for a creature such as you describe? How mortifying.’

‘Have a little sense, Ju,’ he
begged in a weary fashion. ‘It is the child with her that caught my eye.’

‘Child? I had rather it was the
matron. Oh, I see her now. Upon my soul, it’s that Drumbeg creature!’

William turned, following her
glance. ‘Then you do know her?’

‘Know her? Of course I don’t know
her.’ Indignation threw pockets of colour into Juliana’s cheeks. ‘The wretched
female muscled in without so much as a by-your-leave.’

A faint feeling of satisfaction
drifted through William as he surveyed his hostess. ‘Driven against the ropes,
Ju? That’s not like you. Why did you let her in?’

‘I had little option. The
brass-faced hussy took her place in the line. How she got past Topsham I really
don’t know, but—’

William cut in with a cynical
snort. ‘No mystery there, my lovely. I’ve done it myself scores of times. There
is always so much chaos in the hallway at this sort of affair, provided you
arrive with the crowds, it’s a simple matter to slip in without being noticed
by the butler.’

‘You, yes,’ agreed Juliana,
dismissing this. ‘You’re the Conqueror. No sane hostess is going to repudiate
you, even if you weren’t invited.’

‘But this was before I rose to
illustrious heights. However, that is by the by. How is it you didn’t repudiate
this Drumbeg woman?’

‘The wretch claimed to bring a
message from Amelia Murrell. You know how little discrimination Amelia is apt
to show in her choice of acquaintance. I was flustered for the moment.’ A
determined look William knew of old entered her face. ‘But I am not flustered
now.’