A Debutante In Disguise. Eleanor Webster
them. And don’t flatter yourself. They are likely more interested in me than you.’
It was true, Letty realised. The group of onlookers had grown and stared openly with an avidity at the gentleman which seemed oddly devoid of good manners—particularly among a group who could forgive murder more readily than a lapse of etiquette.
Letty nodded. ‘Indeed, I would strongly advise moving out of the heat.’
‘It is still quite cool indoors,’ Flo said, now also bending. ‘I can help.’
‘Rest assured I can support my sister,’ the gentleman said, putting out one hand to help the young woman.
This single-handed gesture seemed oddly awkward, Letty thought, as she stood, also supporting the young woman.
‘Perhaps—however, you appeared injured when you walked here. You are only offering one hand and, depending on the nature of your injury, the strain might do further harm.’
‘You need not concern yourself. I am quite capable of managing my own physical condition,’ he said tersely.
‘Now, rise slowly and you will be less likely to feel vertiginous,’ Letty said, ignoring the irascible gentleman as they helped his sister rise.
Together, they moved towards the familiar stone bulk of her family’s home, crossing the lawn, an odd, unwieldly threesome, while Flo walked ahead. They left the crowd behind and the quiet deepened as the chatter of voices fell away and Letty could better hear the young woman’s laboured breathing.
With her arm about the woman’s waist, Letty could feel the bulge of pregnancy—about five or six months along—although these new fashions made her belly less noticeable. Occasionally, she peeked at the gentleman, but he kept his face averted and largely in profile, silhouetted against the bright summer sky.
Although tall and broad, he had a thinness also, likely due to whatever hardship he had endured. There was a familiarity about him. She saw it in his profile and the timbre of his voice. She could not place him, but she had likely met him during her eighteen months in London and her peculiar double life, that odd mix of days and night within London’s brightest ballroom and the morgue.
‘The front Salon will be hot,’ Letty said, as they stepped out of the warmth into the familiar front hall. ‘We should go into the library. It will be cooler.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Flo agreed. ‘And is there anything you need? Smelling salts? Brandy? Well, there is brandy in the library already. But if there is anything else?’
‘Solitude and quiet would be nice,’ the man said.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Flo replied, her hands making the fluttering motions she always made when nervous. ‘I will let Letty—Miss Barton—take you to the library.’
‘You didn’t need to be rude,’ Letty said to the rather formidable gentleman, as soon as Flo had left.
‘It proves effective in clearing a room.’
‘So does the discussion of pustules—that doesn’t mean one has to do it.’
The man gave a sharp, spontaneous bark of laughter, which struck her as familiar. ‘You speak from personal experience?’
‘Yes. Well, it was actually an abscess.’ It had been during her adolescence and her mother had spoken rather harshly to her on the issue of suitability. She had learned some restraint since then.
He looked her, his expression intent, and she had the feeling he had not properly noticed her previously. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Might we focus on my sister and not my manners? Elsie, why don’t you sit here on the sofa?’
‘Thank you,’ the young woman agreed as they helped her sit. ‘I am Lady Beauchamp, by the way, and this delightful creature is my brother, Lord Anthony. And thank you, Miss Barton. Truly I appreciate your kindness.’
‘It is nothing. Hopefully, you will feel better after a rest. Oh, and I would advise keeping your feet elevated,’ Letty said, placing a brocade cushion under Lady Beauchamp’s feet and helping her to lift them. ‘Are you in any pain?’
‘No. I was just dizzy.’
Letty stepped back, trying to better study the woman’s face and wishing she could wear her glasses, but she dared not. Whenever possible she only wore them as Dr Hatfield.
‘Your lips are dry,’ Letty said.
‘Yes, my doctor advises that I do not drink too much.’
‘What?’ Letty straightened. ‘You mean wine or spirits?’
‘No, anything.’
‘Then we will get you lemonade or water immediately.’
‘Miss?’ Lord Anthony said, his tone again sharp and any hint of humour eradicated. ‘It would seem you are contravening the doctor’s advice.’
‘I am contravening a load of nonsense,’ Letty retorted.
‘You base that opinion on your extensive medical knowledge?’ His tone was unpleasant and yet again oddly familiar. Letty glanced at him, but he had turned away.
‘Some. I used to talk to the midwives,’ she said, truthfully enough.
She narrowed her gaze, looking carefully at Lady Beauchamp. Even without glasses, Letty could see that Lady Beauchamp was definitely increasing and her face had a fullness that did not look right. There was a puffiness about the wrists. Indeed, the skin just above her gloves appeared taut as though stretched too tight.
‘Lady Beauchamp, are your ankles similarly swollen?’
‘What? Why, yes, my slippers no longer fit. Indeed, I had to order new ones and now they are also dreadfully uncomfortable.’
‘Headaches?’
‘A few.’
‘Double vi—?’
Before Letty could finish the question, Lord Anthony turned, cocking his head towards the far end of the room. ‘If I might speak to you for a moment, Miss Barton.’
Letty nodded and followed him. When he turned, she noted that one side of his face had been recently injured, a mark like a burn snaked down his cheek while the skin was stretched taut, an odd mix of red and white until the scar disappeared under the collar.
‘I was injured at Waterloo,’ he said.
‘A burn, I would surmise.’ She studied the tautened skin with a clinical regard. ‘About third-degree, according to Heister and Richter.’
‘Are you insensitive or just plain rude?’
‘Interested. I have not seen that many burns and I have an interest in their care.’
For a moment, he said nothing. He fixed her with a steely grey-blue gaze, his expression unreadable.
‘You are unusual. What did you say your name was?’ he asked at length.
‘Lettuce Barton.’
The words, the voice, melodious but firm, brought everything back. Tony remembered that last Season before he went to war. He remembered the dances, music, laughter, warm, perfumed rooms glittering with mirrors and chandeliers. He remembered card games, horse races, fox hunts and his facility for wit and humour—for saying the right thing.
Now, he said nothing or said nothing right. He was in a foreign landscape, uncomfortable within his own skin. He avoided his friends, hiding within the fog of alcoholic stupor.
Whereas before he’d enjoyed friendships and a good story or joke, now he was the story, always under curious scrutiny. Or an observer