The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch. Louise Allen
‘That’s as may be…’ The glance he shot Decima plainly said he did not believe a word of it and had wandered into a house full of lunatics. ‘…But I am afraid I must insist. Hermione will depend upon Dessy for her companionship and support, and, as family, that is where she belongs.’
‘No,’ Decima said baldly, knowing she should have waited to discuss the matter until they were alone. But if she did, she had the terrible fear that Charlton would simply sweep her away with his bullying and she would feebly agree. ‘No, I am afraid that would not be convenient. I am fixed here, I promised Lady Freshford; in any case, I have so many engagements I really would be of little use to Hermione.’ She smiled at her sister-in-law. ‘Would Cousin Gertrude not be free?’
‘Engagements? What, pray?’
‘Four balls during the next sennight, a luncheon engagement—’
‘Lady Hale’s At Home,’ Caroline chimed in. ‘And you promised you would take me for my court-dress fittings because Mama finds that too fatiguing,’ she announced inventively.
‘And Miss Ross will be chaperoning Miss Channing on an expedition to Richmond,’ Adam added. It was the first Decima had heard of it, but she nodded in agreement.
‘Then there are my own fittings, and so forth,’ she improvised. ‘I am sorry, Hermione, not to be able to oblige you at such short notice, but I am sure Cousin Gertrude would be only too happy to join you.’
Charlton surged to his feet, his face red. Decima feared an outburst, but at the last moment he seemed to recall that he was in company and refrained. With a stiff bow to Lady Freshford and a curt nod to the rest of the company he took his leave, Hermione anxious on his heels.
There was silence, then an almost collective drawing of breath. Adam put down his cup and tactfully took his leave, Olivia pressing Decima’s hands and assuring her she was looking forward to seeing her again at the Laxtons’ ball tomorrow.
When the door shut behind them Lady Freshford regarded Decima anxiously. ‘Did I do right, my dear? Somehow I did not think that you wished to leave us, but if I am wrong, please do not hesitate to say so.’
‘I am delighted to stay, if you wish me to, ma’am,’ Decima assured her, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to quell their shaking. She would not have heard the last of this from Charlton, and, thankful though she was for the support of her friends, she could have wished for that unpleasant little encounter to have been in private.
She had her opportunity for a private conversation with her half-brother rather sooner than she would have wished for. No sooner had the Freshford party entered Lady Laxton’s ballroom for her masquerade ball the following evening, than she saw Charlton and Hermione, deep in conversation with their friends the Fosters.
Decima’s hands went instinctively to put on her mask, then she realised that not only would it give rise to ill-bred gossip if she avoided her own family all evening, but her height made her easily distinguishable in any event.
Henry, dressed as Robin Hood, found them a comfortable alcove with sofas from where they could admire the multi-coloured throng in front of them. Lady Freshford had been so taken with Henry’s costume that she had decreed a greenwood theme for the party. Caroline was Maid Marion, Lady Freshford was a sweetbriar with rose petals covering her mask and Decima had decided upon going as a willow tree in a gown of shimmering fresh green and a mask created out of silk leaves.
Charlton, so far as they could make out, had unwisely decided upon dressing as a Roman emperor. The effect was more pleasing on his wife, who carried off the lines of a classical tunic with somewhat angular elegance.
‘Charlton is certainly visible in that outfit,’ Decima observed in a whisper to Henry, who turned, saw him and succumbed to a regrettable fit of stifled laughter.
‘I thought it was the Regent for a moment,’ he gasped, snorting despite his mother’s reproving look. ‘What he needs are a set of corsets and a much more concealing mask.’
He had to pull himself together rapidly, for the first of a steady stream of gentlemen began to arrive to beg the hands of Miss Ross and Miss Freshford in almost equal numbers.
‘It is most unfair,’ Caro observed teasingly as she viewed her dance card with complacence. ‘You are attracting all the tall gentlemen, Decima, and I only get the short ones.’
There was one tall gentleman whose name did not appear on Decima’s card, however. Of Adam Grantham there was no sign. Decima had just concluded that Mrs Channing had decreed the more free and easy atmosphere of a masquerade ball unsuitable for Olivia when a familiar dark head appeared amidst the throng. Decima blinked. Adam seemed taller than she recalled, then she saw that he was in the dress of the middle of the last century—severe black, laced with silver, his coat skirts stiffened with whalebone, his feet in buckled shoes with red heels. He looked magnificent. By his side Olivia was in the dress of a Meissen figurine, all bouffant blue skirts and tight-laced waist, her hair arranged into a cascade of ringlets. Her mother, nodding graciously from side to side, was gowned in a rather more restrained version of the same period. Like many of the chaperons, she had dispensed with a mask.
Henry took a step forward, hesitated and remained where he was. ‘Are you not going to ask Miss Channing to dance, dear?’ his mother asked. ‘She is a nice child, is she not?’
Henry hesitated, avoiding Decima’s gaze, then took himself off across the room. ‘I like Miss Channing, too,’ Caro remarked. ‘What a pity she is betrothed to Lord Weston—she is just the girl for Henry.’
This innocent observation seemed to hang in the air and Decima saw Lady Freshford’s gaze sharpen and focus on her son. She turned slightly, her eyes meeting Decima’s with startled realisation.
Decima stayed silent until Caro’s partner came to claim her, then said quietly, ‘I am sure Henry would do nothing…imprudent.’
‘No, of course not,’ his mother said stoutly, her anxious gaze fixed on the small group across the floor. ‘I expect we are refining too much upon it.’ She collected herself and observed, ‘Here comes Lord Carmichael.’
Charlton was, indeed, making his way towards them, laurel wreath slipping dangerously on his balding pate, toga draped like a vast bath towel.
‘Ma’am.’ He bowed to Lady Freshford and glared at his sister. ‘Dessy.’
‘I hope you have not come to ask me to dance, Charlton,’ Decima remarked, sounding regrettably pert to her own ears. ‘I believe I have virtually nothing left but country dances and you certainly cannot perform those in that costume.’
‘Of course I am not intending to dance,’ Charlton fumed. He took Decima’s arm and steered her away from Lady Freshford’s seat. ‘I attended only to accompany Hermione and to remonstrate with you about where your duty should lie.’
‘If Hermione had invited me to join her in London when I was with you at Christmas, I would most certainly have been glad to oblige her.’ Decima had qualms about whether that was the truth, but she was not going to refine upon the matter now. ‘But to expect me to change my plans and to inconvenience Lady Freshford, who has been most kind to me, at no notice whatsoever—why, Charlton, that is the outside of enough.’
Her brother began to splutter, then his face went rigid. Decima was conscious of a presence close behind her and somehow knew who it was before he spoke. ‘Miss Ross, Carmichael, good evening.’
‘Lord Weston.’ She turned and dropped a slight curtsy. ‘May I say what a very fine costume group your party makes.’
‘Why, thank you, Miss Weston. You present the most elegant of willow trees, if I may be so bold. And, Lord Carmichael, what an admirable guise! But where is your barrel?’
‘Barrel?’ Charlton boggled at Adam ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Why, you are representing Archimedes, are you not? At the point where you have leapt out of the barrel, wrapped a bath towel