Chapter Six
Cavendish Square, London,
March 14, 1815
The duke’s home on Cavendish Square was every bit as grand as Sophie expected. The ducal coronet was carved in the stone above the door. The entranceway was white marble with columns and a staircase to the upper floors. An enormous arrangement of roses spread a delicious scent through the air. A butler dressed in black from his coat to his breeches answered the door and gravely accepted John’s coat and hat and Sophie’s coat and muff. “This way, Mr. Mercer, ma’am.”
They followed a liveried footman into the depths of the house. The servant wore a gray wig and forest green livery worked with gold flowers and silver braid. His heeled shoes clicked on the marble floor. The murmur of conversation grew louder as they proceeded down the corridor.
“John,” she whispered when they were shown into a salon with angels cavorting on the ceiling. She came to a halt inside the doorway. Brilliantly dressed men and women filled the room. “You said this was a small party. An intimate one.”
Her brother patted her arm. “It is small.” He laughed. “For His Grace. There’ll be even more guests after we’ve dined.”
“There must be forty people here.” In all her life, she’d never been at a party half as large. Before her marriage, she’d been too young to attend her father’s gatherings. Judging from the bills that came her way, Tommy did his entertaining in London.
“You see?” His mouth turned up at the corners. “An intimate supper.” He raised a hand to acknowledge someone across the room. “Let’s find Vedaelin and get you formally introduced, Sophie.”
Sophie pushed away her nerves and smiled. She knew the value of an entrance, and while she didn’t expect to make a grand one, neither did she wish to be seen as timid or embarrassed. John needed her to make a good impression, and she intended to do so. Her gown was more than appropriate for a woman of her age and station in life, and John had brought their mother’s diamonds from the vault at Havenwood. Her mother had let her wear them once and they’d made her feel beautiful. She wasn’t an antidote by any means, but she had almost nothing of her mother’s looks about her. At least the diamonds helped.
The duke’s guests had separated into distinct groups. In one corner of the room several people were gathered around a gentleman playing the mandolin. He was quite good. Others sat on chairs or sofas; still others stood in conversation, some serious, from the looks of it, others not in the least. One day she would write a story in which her heroine came to London. Her villain would be first seen leaning against a wall, examining every female to enter with a haughty expression.
“There he is. What luck! With everyone you ought to meet.” John’s hand tightened on hers, and she hung back at the pressure of his grip. “This is important, Sophie,” he said. “Most of the men you’re about to meet run Britain.” He touched the tip of her nose. “So, Sophie, please. On your best behavior. No outrageous opinions.”
“John, I’m not a child who needs to be reminded of her manners.”
“Your Grace,” John said when they reached a group of gentlemen standing at the side of the parlor. Sophie scanned the gentlemen for John’s patron. She knew the Duke of Vedaelin was fifty-six. She imagined him gray haired or nearly so, soft about the middle, but with a gravitas to tell the world he was a duke. She would not have been surprised to find he still wore a wig. So many older gentlemen did. None of the men here wore wigs, and the portly ones—there were a few—were too young, too old, or not grand enough. She’d looked up the duke in DeBrett’s months ago when John first began talking to her of his political ambitions, and so she knew His Grace was the third duke, a widower with three sons. His heir was finishing at Oxford, the second son just beginning, and the third recently commissioned to the navy.
“Ah,” said a voice from somewhere in the back of the group. “Is that you at last, Mercer?”
The men closest to John and her moved aside, and a whip-thin man whose dark hair was tipped with gray came forward. He had swarthy skin, as if somewhere in his past was an Italian or perhaps a Spaniard. He was a slender man with dark eyes. He had reached that age, that maturity of life in which he seemed ageless as older men so often were. They clasped hands. “Yes, Your Grace,” John said. He tugged on Sophie’s arm. “I’ve brought my sister to meet you, as promised.”
“Mrs. Evans,” the duke said. He reached for her gloved hand. She curtseyed, and when she’d straightened, the duke continued to hold her hand. He didn’t look anywhere near his age.
“Your Grace. Thank you so much for the lovely flowers you sent to Henrietta Street.”
Vedaelin’s smile was warm yet did little to dispel his penetrating gaze. He reminded Sophie of a hawk, and a hungry one at that. John was six feet tall, and Vedaelin was only an inch or two shorter. He was decidedly handsome. “You are the sister of whom I’ve heard so much.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” John said. He made the formal introduction and Sophie curtseyed, again, aware the other gentlemen among the duke’s companions were staring, some with open curiosity.
“Mrs. Evans,” Vedaelin said, taking her hand in both of his. The lines of his face bespoke experience, a man who’d seen too much of life not to understand his place in it and the consequences of the power he wielded. “Shame on you, Mercer. You never mentioned your sister was a beauty.”
“What?” John’s eyebrows headed for the ceiling. He grinned. “Do you mean Sophie? My sister?” He ended on a note of feigned incredulity.
“Of course I mean your sister. A more compelling woman I’ve never met.” He shot an amused glance at John then returned his attention to her, continuing to hold Sophie’s hand. “Or have you another beautiful sister hidden away somewhere?”
Rather than greet her and let her go, which Sophie had expected, Vedaelin brought her into the circle of gentlemen. There were more than she’d initially thought. Two or three had been standing in the shadow of a column, and she simply hadn’t seen them when they approached. Her heart tripped, because one of the gentlemen was Banallt, and he was watching her intently.
Her reaction to seeing him shook her confidence. John looked at her, and she realized she’d taken a sharp breath. “What is it?” he asked softly.
“Nothing.” Their meeting again was bound to happen. She just hadn’t thought it would be so soon. She didn’t believe in Banallt’s disappointment over her, if even he had been so affected. All the same, her heart beat faster. His effect on her had not altered. Vedaelin began to introduce her.
Male eyes moved from her brother to her. She kept her smile. The contrast between her and John was striking, she knew. He so tall and dark with his curls and green eyes, and she… well. She was quite the opposite. John had always been the beauty of the family.
Though her attention stayed on the duke, or the man to whom he introduced her, Sophie remained aware of Banallt. She’d never seen him in a social setting before. Her previous interactions with him had been exclusively at Rider Hall. He looked splendid and very much at ease.
The earl wore buff trousers tonight, cashmere and very daring. His burgundy coat was cut rather long in the back. His waistcoat was striped gold and cream, his black cravat tied à la Mathematique across pure white linen. He’d already tugged on it enough to destroy the symmetry required of the knot. That about him had not changed.
Cabinet ministers, nearly all of them. One of the gentlemen was Major William Haggart of the Guard Dragoons. He was, Sophie knew, a close friend of Banallt’s and had already shaken hands with John. He leaned heavily on an ebony cane as he waited to be introduced to her. He’d been wounded at the battle of Salamanca and was lucky, Sophie knew from Banallt first, but later from John, to have kept his leg.
“Major Haggart,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
He bowed over her hand, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so. “I assure you, the pleasure is mine, Mrs. Evans. We admire your brother immensely, you know.”
Banallt was the last to be introduced.
She curtseyed to Banallt after Vedaelin presented her. She spoke without any inflection to betray the pounding of her heart. As always, his eyes trapped hers with that dark silver gaze. He did not reach for her hand, nor did she offer hers. Best not to. “A pleasure to see you again, my lord.”
He bowed, a slight nod of his head, as cold and haughty as she’d expected of the duke. Seeing Banallt like this, among his peers, disturbed her. It made her feel she’d misjudged him, or that he’d deceived her all this time, pretending to be barely acceptable company rather than a man others held in esteem. “Mrs. Evans.”
What a cold, cold voice. She was not used to that from him, either. Silence fell, one of those awkward moments that sometimes happen. She was too aware of John watching her and of Banallt’s gaze on her, and she was deathly afraid she’d say the wrong thing. Banallt’s face might lack any semblance of warmth, but that didn’t stop him from being outrageously handsome. “Are you well, my lord?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He looked bored. Excessively bored. And why wouldn’t the infamous Lord Banallt be bored by a woman as undistinguished as she was? She felt she was confronted by a stranger. The man she’d known at Rider Hall was not this man. Not at all. She turned away only to be stopped by a question. “I know you’ve always wanted see the City. Are you enjoying London now that you’re here at last, Mrs. Evans?”
For all his cold demeanor toward her, he wasn’t going to pretend they had a small acquaintance. Just as well. Others always knew more than one expected. Best not to make a secret of it. His association with Tommy had been well-known. She turned back. “I’ve not seen much of Town, but yes, thank you.”
She was glad to quickly find herself in the hands of Mrs. Llewellyn, Banallt’s cousin by marriage, who was Vedaelin’s hostess tonight. Now that was an interesting discovery. Were Banallt and Vedaelin so close, then? Mrs. Llewellyn introduced her to several people, including her daughter and Lord Banallt’s goddaughter, Miss Fidelia Llewellyn. She was young, not twenty, and breathtaking. Her hair was raven’s wing black, her eyes sky blue, and her skin had the same striking paleness as Banallt’s. She was perfect. Everything Sophie was not.
Before she quite knew it, Sophie was left to her own devices. John had been absorbed into Banallt’s group, and Mrs. Llewellyn had left her with several other women who were organizing aid for sailors wounded in the war. She was not, she discovered, very good at the sort of small talk necessary for a gathering like this. The weather as a subject of conversation went only so far, and not far at that. She felt separate, ill at ease, a foreigner who did not speak the language. Some of the people she’d met had known her late husband, and she didn’t think she was wrong that they thought the less of her because of it.
Not once did she lose her sense of where Banallt was. Never. Before long she gave up trying to fit in and sat near the mandolin-playing gentleman. It was quite easy to pretend she was listening to the music. Her brother remained on the far side of the parlor where Banallt stayed with the Vedaelin group. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, precisely like the villain she’d thought of one day sketching in words. One of the other men was speaking animatedly, hands cutting through the air. She’d much rather be listening to their conversation.
She must have stared too hard, because Banallt’s focus was on her. The shock of the connection of their gazes reached across the room. He didn’t look away but left Sophie to break the contact. He ought not stare like that. He oughtn’t. She turned back to the music, but she felt his eyes on her.
At last, though, dinner was called. She’d been paired with Mr. Reginald Tallboys, who was too handsome for his own good with his golden brown hair, short and neatly trimmed, and eyes the color of old honey. He was older than the other young gentlemen here, perhaps thirty, she guessed. Around Banallt’s age. Her brother had mentioned him a few times as a man of good sense. He came from an old and respected Cheshire family. He had the good manners to appear delighted to be her dinner partner. John’s partner was, of all the miserable luck for him, Miss Fidelia Llewellyn. He could not be very happy about finding himself obliged to converse during the entire meal with Banallt’s relative. Banallt himself was partnered with the very lovely Lady Harpenden. Blondes, she recalled, were a preference of his, and Lady Harpenden was a curvaceous blonde. She remembered too well that Banallt never thought a married woman was off-limits. Much the opposite. A perfect match for Banallt, wasn’t she?
Mr. Tallboys offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Sophie liked Mr. Tallboys’s smile. They walked into dinner and he held her chair for her. When he was seated beside her, she leaned toward him and said, “I’ve been introduced to so many people tonight, I’ll never recall all their names.” John would expect her to remember everyone she’d met. “Will you rescue me, Mr. Tallboys, and whisper names to me?”
“I will, ma’am,” he replied with an engaging grin. He had one of those smiles that made you smile back without even thinking why.
She and Mr. Tallboys were closer to the head of the table than she’d expected to be. Close enough to easily overhear Banallt’s conversation. A servant placed a bowl of clear consommé before her, and when she leaned back, she saw Lady Harpenden lean to Banallt, her mouth by his ear. As he listened to the countess, his eyes settled on Sophie with a dark, unreadable gaze. She looked away. Mr. Tallboys sat on her right, but to her left was an academician, a member of the Royal Society whose name and occupation she’d already forgotten. Mr. Jacob Nolan, an astronomer—so Mr. Tallboys whispered to her.
She was horribly aware of Banallt. Not only was he seated closer to her than she would have liked, he was on the opposite side of the table and perfectly within her line of sight. Mr. Tallboys leaned toward her again and she tipped her ear toward his. “You know Lord Banallt, of course,” he said. He’d been going around the table, whispering names and occupations to her. “I saw you being introduced to him tonight.”
“Yes.” She had no desire to eat. None whatever.
He nodded, very slightly, in the direction of her brother, who was sitting next to Miss Llewellyn. He was smiling, putting on an excellent show of being delighted with the girl at his side. Her brother’s manners were faultless. “Everyone thought she’d marry last season. Any number of young bucks wooed her.” Tallboys shook his head. “But with her beauty and connections, she might look very high indeed. The woman on Lord Banallt’s left is Lady Harpenden.”
All Sophie could think was that Lady Harpenden was a lovely blonde who seemed to have no trouble making conversation with anyone around her. She was gay and light and completely comfortable in company so lofty.
“Her husband, Lord Harpenden, is farther down the table. With the dowager countess there. She’ll talk his ear off.”
“The poor man.” She picked up her spoon and pulled it through her soup, though she did not taste it. If she ate anything, she’d be ill.
“The gentleman on the dowager countess’s other side is Mr. Underhill. He’s a director at the Bank of England. A notorious snooze. If you’re introduced, whatever you do don’t mention British monetary policy. He’ll lecture you until your brains congeal.”
Sophie smiled at Tallboys. “I presume you’ve heard the lecture.”
His expression turned so serious Sophie had a strong urge to giggle. “Took me a week to recover.” He shuddered. “Nightmares for months after.”
She laughed. “Thank you for the warning.”
Lady Harpenden let out a peal of laughter. Nearly the entire table looked in her direction. “I suspect she’s set her cap at him.” Mr. Tallboys chuckled. “Should be amusing to watch.”
Sophie set down her spoon and turned to look at Tallboys. “Amusing? Why is that?” She had no right to be angry at Banallt, but she was. Why should it matter to her if he embarked on a sure-to-result-in-scandal affair? “I should think with his reputation she should have no trouble whatever.”
“Ah,” Mr. Tallboys said. The smile faded from his eyes. “I daresay you’re right. But I think all the same she will not succeed.”
“Why not? She’s quite a lovely woman. Why, she’s even a blonde.”
“True.” He chuckled. “In the event, Mrs. Evans, Lord Banallt has been notoriously hard to catch since he was recalled from Paris.”
Sophie lifted her eyebrows, looking at the earl and Lady Harpenden. Banallt’s eyes slid away from her. Had he been watching her?
“From what I’ve heard,” Tallboys continued, “he’s not been interested in any particular woman this last century.” He shrugged. “Although…”
“Although?”
“The rumor is that he’ll marry Miss Llewellyn.” She did not have a good view of Miss Llewellyn from her seat.
“Rumor seems to follow him,” she murmured, turning her attention to the gentleman on her left. She passed the remainder of the meal refusing to look in Banallt’s direction. Eventually, the ladies left the men in possession of the table and returned to the salon, where Sophie discovered she liked Banallt’s cousin, Mrs. Llewellyn, a great deal. She was a sensible woman. And Miss Fidelia Llewellyn was breathtaking. If the talk was true, she wasn’t Banallt’s usual sort. She was beautiful, no denying that. Sophie had never heard his name connected with any woman who wasn’t, but she was plainly a lady.
The arrival of guests who had not been invited to dine increased the noise level in the parlor considerably, despite the fact that the gentlemen had still not yet come in. The news from France was on everyone’s tongue. Doubtless the gentlemen were discussing the Corsican yet. She wished she were a fly on the wall in that room.
“My dear Margaret,” a woman said.
Sophie, who had been looking in the direction the men would come from, didn’t see the woman approach; she only heard her voice. She looked back and was shocked beyond words to recognize the woman.
“Constance,” said Mrs. Llewellyn. “Good evening to you.”
“We’ve just come from the Duke of Portland’s.” She was still quite beautiful. “I’m glad we’re not too late to see you.”
Mrs. Llewellyn put a hand on Sophie’s shoulder. “Constance, you really must meet the delightful Mrs. Evans. Have you met?”
Sophie’s chest constricted. Smiling was impossible. Her throat threatened to close off.
“No,” Mrs. Peters said. “I’ve not had that pleasure.” She extended a hand to Sophie. Either Mrs. Peters did not remember her, did not connect her with Tommy, or intended to brazen out their meeting. Any case was intolerable.
A door opened across the room, and the gentlemen came in just as Sophie stood up and headed for the door. It was either leave or tear out the woman’s deceitful eyes.