Mistress in the Regency Ballroom. Juliet Landon
from distortion or, worse, amnesia. This night, the notebook stayed locked in her drawer while she lay against the pillows to watch the shadows move over the bed-curtains, not because she was too tired to write, but because her thoughts were torn by conflict, her heart entering a period of slow ache in anticipation of the pain that was sure to come unless she armoured herself against it. Of course he was teasing her. Her sisters said he was a tease. This was nothing but a game to him. Nothing but a game.
For the next two weeks it began to look as if Letitia’s reading of events was accurate, the only communication from Lord Rayne being a formal note of thanks for an enjoyable evening, then a brief visit in person to return her mended spectacles. But since she was out with her pupils at the time, they did not meet. In a way, she was relieved to have missed him, for she had nothing to say except to offer him her thanks.
She was even more certain of her ground when, only two days later, she took her pupils to London to the Royal Academy Annual Exhibition at Somerset House where she found her sisters and mother in Lord Rayne’s company. By chance, Miss Melborough was not one of the party, having twisted her ankle the day before and, in some discomfort, had been left to work on her watercolour until their return.
Letitia’s sisters, as always, were glad to see her and to unload on her their latest experiences, shopping trips and parties, their mama’s dinner party and the men who had caught their attention most. Lady Boyce greeted her eldest daughter more formally with a stand-off embrace and a showy kiss past each cheek that could hardly have been called motherly. After relating to Letitia what she had missed by not being at home, her remarks centred around the attention being shown to Garnet, especially by Lord Rayne. ‘There’ll be an announcement soon, Letitia,’ she said, waving her fan to friends Letitia could not quite identify. ‘Mark my words. I’m never wrong about these matters. I can always tell when a man is about to declare himself. Well, heaven knows, it happened to me often enough before your dear papa snared me. Lord Rayne is very keen, you know.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘So these are your gels, are they?’she said, glancing round. ‘They look respectable enough. Isn’t that Sir Mortimer Derwent’s daughter?’
‘Maura. Yes. They live in Farnham. She boards with us.’
‘Your papa used to hunt with them. And there’s your Mr Waverley. Still faithful, is he? Who are the other two?’
‘That’s Mr Dimmock, our watercolour teacher, and Mr Ainsley, our drawing master. Rosie has stayed at home with one of the girls, but the lady over there in brown is Mrs Quayle, our next-door neighbour. Would you allow me to introduce her to you? She’d be so thrilled.’
‘Another time, dear. Nice to see you. Keeping well, are you?’
It was pointless for Letitia to reply when the orange turban had already turned towards other faces and, since that exchange appeared to be the sum total of her mother’s interest, she adjusted her spectacles and moved away to the walls lined with pictures.
Softly, Lord Rayne’s voice spoke into her ear. ‘You’re using them I see, Miss Boyce?’
She turned to face the dark serious eyes and immaculate form of the one man she had hoped not to see. ‘Yes, my lord. Thank you for returning them to me. They’re quite perfect. I cannot tell where the mend is.’
‘Ayscough on Ludgate Street,’ he said, gravely. ‘My mother gets hers there. He recognised them.’
‘He should. That is where they were bought. But please don’t let me keep you from your obligation to my sisters. I had not expected to see them here, nor my mother. They don’t usually show much interest in this kind of event.’
‘I did not come with them, Miss Boyce. I came with Lord Alvanley and George Brummell. Over there…see? They’re helping me to find something suitable for my study.’
‘Oh…I thought…’
‘Yes, I can see you did. I believe that’s what you were meant to think.’ His quick glance in Lady Boyce’s direction qualified his remark. ‘If I may offer you a word of advice, it would be not to—’
‘No, please don’t offer me any advice, my lord,’ she said, quickly cutting him off. ‘It’s no concern of mine what my sisters do or don’t do. All I wish for is their happiness, not to interfere in it. Have you seen a painting you like?’
He paused, obviously not content to be diverted. ‘I’ve seen one prime article in particular I like the look of, Miss Boyce,’ he said. ‘I wish it was as easy to purchase as a painting.’
‘For your study wall?’
‘For my study, certainly. For my wall, no.’
‘Good day, my lord,’ she whispered, trying to hide her flushed cheeks behind the panel of her bonnet. ‘I shall leave you to make your choice.’
‘And you don’t wish to give me the benefit of your advice?’
‘I don’t wish to incur any more of my mother’s disapproval than I have already, my lord.’
‘By talking to me? Surely not.’
‘She would misunderstand, and so would my sisters. Need I say more than that?’
‘Usually you say too much, Miss Boyce, but on this occasion you have said too little. I thought you had become independent of Lady Boyce’s management.’
‘I have taken a very big step, my lord, but I have hopes that she will visit me, one day, not cut me out altogether. I am already well outside her plans.’
‘But not her influence, apparently. Time you were, then. So, if I am not allowed to advise you, I shall tell you this. Lady Boyce may be allowed to keep a finger in your pie, for the time being, but, by God, she won’t put a finger near mine unless she wants it snapped off. When I want a woman, I shall not be asking her permission.’
‘Not even when the woman is her daughter, my lord?’
‘Not the eldest one, no. Good day to you, Miss Boyce.’
Her cheeks were still very pink when Mr Dimmock joined her to discuss some of the paintings with her and found, to his dismay, that she had so far seen very few of them.
Chapter Six
Leaving William Lake’s lending-library in Leadenhall Street, London, Lord Seton Rayne tossed a pile of books on to the seat of his curricle and climbed up beside them, having accomplished what he had promised to do for his mother, the Marchioness of Sheen, who had been unable to find extra copies for her friends anywhere. He was about to call to his tiger to loose the horses’ heads when he noticed the tall hurrying figure of the Honourable Bart Waverley leap down the steps of the library and dash across to the other side of the street carrying a leather briefcase under his arm. This was singular, Rayne thought, because there had been no sign of Bart inside the library.
Watching the striding figure disappear round the corner, he then looked up at the windows above the library where the gold-printed words read, Mercury Press, Est. 1790. Publisher W. Lake, Esq. Did Bart know William Lake personally? Was there some business between them? Not being one to poke his nose into other people’s affairs, Rayne let the matter rest beside a strange feeling that a connection was escaping him.
Later that afternoon, he made a detour through the winding corridors of Hampton Court Palace on his way from the barrack block and stables to his own apartments bordering the Outer Green Court, his home during weekdays. Pausing for a moment outside the dingy little room where he and Miss Letitia Boyce had exchanged kisses—oh, yes, she had exchanged kisses, he was convinced of that—he smiled and closed the door, continuing his walk round to the gardens on the sunny south side of the palace’s grace-and-favour apartments.
Residents and their elderly guests strolled along the overgrown pathways and sat on benches in the shade, snoozing, reading, or watching the boats on the distant river. One erect