Scandal in the Regency Ballroom. Louise Allen
all about it when I’ve got out of these clothes, had a bath and we’re eating our luncheon. Is everything well here?’
‘Oh, yes, fine, except I can’t work out what’s going wrong with the oats bill either. But what happened—Bree, you cannot leave me in suspense …’
‘Oh, yes, I can,’ she said, making for the door and the blissful prospect of a deep, hot bath. ‘Just watch me.’
‘If you’re going to be mean, then I’ll spoil your bath by telling you that James sent a message round to ask why you haven’t answered his letter. So I thought I’d better read it in case it was something serious.’
‘And is it?’ Bree stopped in the doorway.
‘He’s getting married.’
‘At long last! To whom? And why is that such a matter of urgency for us to know about?’
‘He’s engaged to Lady Sophia Lansdowne, the younger daughter of the Duke of Matchingham.’
Bree whistled soundlessly. ‘That’s a very good match. Brilliant, in fact. She’s supposed to be very beautiful and extremely well dowered.’
‘Yes, and she’s got a fierce grandmother who has heard that James has some disreputable relations and she’s not willing to give her blessing until she’s inspected us for herself. Apparently she’s heard we run a broken-down ale house and are in the horse-coping business or some such.’
‘Well, why doesn’t James put her right?’ Bree demanded. ‘Snobbish old harridan.’
‘Rich, snobbish old harridan, if you please. Apparently she’s likely to leave the bulk of her fortune to Lady Sophia—if she approves of her marriage.’
‘So we have to be taken to be inspected, I collect? I’m half-inclined to dress like a Covent Garden fancy piece and have you borrow an outfit from one of the grooms.’
‘We’d look very out of place.’ Piers grinned. ‘We’re to attend the ball to celebrate the betrothal and, what’s more, we’re invited to the dinner beforehand.’
‘To make certain we don’t eat peas off our knives and spit in the finger bowls, I suppose. Honestly! We visited with James at the town house only six months ago—he must know we have presentable society manners.’ She sighed. ‘We had better go. James is a tactless idiot, but he is our brother. What will it be, trollop and ostler or lady and gentleman?’
‘Lady and gentleman, I think,’ Piers said reluctantly. ‘Less fun, but we’d only give him heart failure otherwise. And look on the bright side, Bree—you’ll need a new gown.’
Chapter Five
‘Are you writing a poem, Dysart?’
‘A what?’ Max put down the glass of brandy he was nursing and focused on the amused face of his friend Avery, Viscount Lansdowne. ‘Of course not. Are you foxed?’
‘I’ve been holding what I thought was a perfectly sensible conversation with you for the past ten minutes and you’ve just said “The underside of bluebell flowers” in answer to a question about what you were doing next Thursday night.’
‘Was I being coherent up to that point?’ Max hoped so. And he was damned if he was going to explain that his mind had drifted off in an effort to find just the right colour to describe Bree Mallory’s eyes.
‘Probably. You have been saying, “yes”, “no” and “I see what you mean” in approximately the right places. On the other hand, so does my father when my mother’s talking to him, and I know he doesn’t hear a word she says.’
‘I am not your father, thank God. Start again.’
‘All right. But you haven’t seemed to be yourself ever since we had that race to Hounslow.’
‘It was a long night of it, and then I got shot in the shoulder coming back, if you recall.’
‘You’re getting old,’ his friend retorted with a singular lack of sympathy. ‘Don’t tell me that driving a stage is so much more tiring than driving a drag.’
‘Well, it is. You’ve a team that is any old quality, and just when you get used to it, they change it. You’ve a strict schedule to keep to and a coachload of complaining passengers to look after. And it’s heavier than a drag. You’re only nagging me because you lost to both Nevill and Latymer and you want to try a stage.’
‘I expected to lose to young Nevill, with you up on the box alongside him,’ Lansdowne retorted. ‘That was no great shock. But I don’t say I wouldn’t have minded putting Latymer’s nose out of joint for him. And as for driving a stage—now you’ve got the “in,” can’t you arrange for the rest of us to have a go?’
‘No.’
‘Selfish devil. Well, then, forget whatever you’re brooding about and tell me—are you going to come?’
‘To what?’
‘There! I knew you didn’t hear a word I’ve been saying to you.’ Avery crossed his long legs and made himself more comfortable. ‘To my sister Sophia’s betrothal party. Grandmama Matchingham has insisted on the full works—dinner first, ball after, all relatives from both sides mustered.’
‘Who did you say she’s marrying?’ Max ignored Avery’s exaggerated eye-rolling.
‘Kendal. You know, Viscount Farleigh. You must have met him, gets to everywhere that is respectable. Prosy type, if you ask me, but Sophia seems to like him, so there you are, another sister off my hands.’
‘Prosy he might be, but at least with him you can be sure he’s not setting up a chorus dancer on the side, or running up gaming debts for you to settle.’ Max thought about what he knew of Farleigh: all of it was boringly ordinary.
‘There’s that to be said for the match. I’d be as worried as hell if she fancied one of the Nonesuch crew.’ Avery grinned. ‘Anyway, I need some leavening at this party—what with Grandmama Matchingham insisting he bring along his entire family for inspection, and Sophia inviting every insipid miss she calls a friend, it’ll be a nightmare. I’m asking all the Whips in sheer self-defence—at least we can get up a few card tables.’
‘You make it sound so tempting, how could I resist such a flattering desire for my company?’ Max murmured. ‘Why does the old dragon want to inspect all the Kendals—no black sheep in that lot, are there?’
‘Apparently there are some rattling skeletons she’s heard about. Anyway, Kendal pokered up and said he had no concerns about producing the entire family down to third cousins once removed, if required, so I expect it’s all a hum.
‘Say you’ll come, there’s a good fellow. I’ll put you next to a nice girl at dinner.’
‘I thought you said they were all insipid,’ Max grumbled mildly. Of course they’d be insipid; there was only one woman who wouldn’t be. ‘All right, I’ll come. Anything for a friend.’ Anything to take my mind off going to the Mermaid in High Holborn and committing a monumental indiscretion with Bree Mallory.
‘Miss Mallory, I implore you, allow me to cut your hair! How are we to contrive a style even approaching the mode with this much to deal with?’ Mr Lavenham, the excruciatingly expensive coiffeur Bree had decided to employ, lifted the wheaten mass in both hands and looked round with theatrical despair. His assistant rushed to assist with the weight of it, clucking in agreement.
She dithered. It was heavy, it took an age to dry when she washed it, the fashion was for curls and crops. Don’t cut it. The deep voice rang in her head. Bree swung between practicality and the orders of a man she was never going to see again. What is the matter with me? There is no decision to be made—I no longer take orders from anyone.
‘Leave it,’ she said decisively.