St. Ryne glanced toward his desk, where lay the book he had been reading, along with the notes he’d taken. He smiled wryly, and wondered what his mother’s reaction would be to his chosen bride, for that afternoon at White’s, he had decided he would marry Elizabeth Monweithe. He laughed out loud when he realized he had not yet met the woman. It was best that he settle with her rather than one of the whey-faced young paragons of virtue his mother found suitable for the position of Countess of Seaverness. He tossed off the last of the wine, and rising from his chair, gathered the book and papers from the desk. Atop them all he placed the cream-colored invitation to the Amblethorp rout.Still chuckling to himself, he left the library to change for the evening’s entertainment.
It was late, after eleven o’clock, before St. Ryne arrived at Lady Amblethorp's. Inasmuch as the receiving line in the hall before the ballroom had long since dispersed, his entrance went unheralded—to his great relief. Pulling on the sleeves of his evening coat, he found himself glancing into a pier glass between tall windows in the ornate rococo-styled hall. Now, as the play was about to unfold in earnest, he wondered at his audacity. Sir James Branstoke had given impetus to this wild idea by his bet. For his own part, he knew he could do no worse. He smiled grimly at his reflection before turning toward the ballroom. The die was cast, he thought, walking forward.
Stopping at the ballroom doorway, St. Ryne glanced around. He grimaced at the hothouse effect Lady Amblethorp made of the room; flowers, probably the last of summer’s bounty, were everywhere, and the room, already quite warm and denied by the rain the respite of doors opened onto the terrace, was heavy with a heady floral scent. To the right he noted a crowd of gentlemen around a honey-haired beauty. Recognizing a few of her entourage, St. Ryne concluded she must be La Belle Helene. Descending the steps into the room, he moved toward the beauty and her entourage. If Freddy was correct, the shrew would not be far away.
He made his way slowly, stopping to talk with various acquaintances, most of whom he had not seen since his return. Lady Amblethorp scurried forward with one of her daughters.
“Viscount St. Ryne! We are honored by your appearance. Isn’t this the first social function that has been graced with your presence since your return?” she cooed. Inwardly crowing at her success in snaring thatparti, she gleefully thought of a few hostesses she would enjoy advising of his lordship’s attendance.
St. Ryne murmured all the proper phrases: delighted himself; yes, this was the first; and Lady Amblethorp was an accomplished hostess.
Lady Amblethorp smiled delightedly, tapping him playfully on his arm while the puce plume in her turban swayed wildly. “But please, though you’ve known her since she was a child, let me officially present you to my third daughter, Janine, who made her debut while you were out of the country,” she enthused, pulling her shy youngest daughter forward.
St. Ryne grimaced at Lady Amblethorp’s flirtatious forwardness, gauche in any woman, let alone a woman of her years. As the poor girl couldn’t help her parents, however, he turned to smile at Janine. “I didn’t realize, Miss Amblethorp, this was to be your year. Sometime you must tell me how you have enjoyed your first season,” he said smoothly. Then, before her mother could interrupt, “As I told Lady Amblethorp, this is my first function since my return, and I am delighted to see so many familiar faces. If you’ll excuse me, I must continue my reacquaintance.” Bowing low to the Amblethorp ladies, he turned to continue toward his goal, thankful to have made his escape without having to stand up with the young debutante and knowing he left behind a pleased yet exasperated Lady Amblethorp.
“Adroit, as usual,” a dry voice at his side murmured in the wake of a rustle of silk and a waft of French Musk perfume.
“Sally! Your humble servant.” St. Ryne bowed to Lady Sally Jersey. As one of the vaunted patronesses of Almack’s, there was not much going on in town she missed. It was on his tongue to inquire of his prey, desiring a woman’s summation on the situation, but her nickname of Silence—for everything she was not—gave him pause.
“And you are an impertinent pup!” she said rapping his hand with her fan. “Sally, indeed!”
“A thousand pardons.” St. Ryne raised her hand to kiss it. “I have been told I received a surfeit of sun on my trip to Jamaica, and it has left me with an addled mind,” he explained lightly.
Lady Jersey pulled her hand away quickly, though a little smile lifted the comers of her thin aristocratic lips. “Trip! A euphemism for escape. I know. But who trifled with his health by that remark?”
He laughed. “The day of the duel for such stupidity is past. I’ll save that for the young bucks and old goats. If you must know, and I can tell by that gleam in your eye you’ll have it out of me, ’twas Carlton Tretherford.”
“Bah!” she snorted, waving her arm in dismissal. “The man has more hair than wit. That’s one randy old goat who thinks to stay amongst the bucks. Look at him over there, with this year’s jewel of the Marriage Mart.”
“La Belle Helene.”
She eyed him shrewdly. “Do you seek to join the ranks?” she asked, slowly unfurling her fan and waving it languidly before her.
“Acquit me, madam. I choose more sprightly game.”
Lady Jersey laughed. “You would, or else you'd have one of Lady Alicia’s protégés. Do you have someone in mind?” she asked archly.
He merely smiled.
“Oh! I know you’ll not say, and I’m wasting my breath to ask.” She closed her fan with a snap. “Be off, you arrogant jackanapes,” she commanded petulantly.
St. Ryne bowed again, leaving an amused and exasperated Lady Jersey staring after him.
He had almost made his way to La Belle Helene and her tail, when out of the corner of his eye he saw the older girl. She was standing between a pillar and a tall vase filled with large white roses. He recognized her immediately from Freddy’sdescription, but was surprised she did not appear the glittering shrew of his imagination. She was dressed all in white, in a ridiculously childish muslin gown trimmed with pink rosettes. By its appearance, it was a gown more suited to her sister. Lady Elizabeth would appear to better advantage in dark, vibrant colors.
She was turned toward her sister’s coterie, her face relaxed, almost devoid of all expression, yet St. Ryne felt sure he noted an odd trace of sadness in the fine set of her mouth and the expression of her golden eyes, fringed with coal-dark lashes. He knew then she was not one of Lucifer’s angels, as Branstoke had described her; more like a lost and confused child lashing out to protect herself, her temper giving her the strength not to shatter into a thousand pieces. Child? Nay—young woman, for that was not the figure of a child, he thought, looking her over with a practiced eye.
Coming up on Freddy Shiperton, St. Ryne hooked his arm in his.
“Oh, there you are. Wondering if you’d show. Shocking squeeze, you know,” Freddy said over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the object of his adoration.
St. Ryne objectively studied Lady Helene Monweithe for a moment. He granted she was a diamond of the first water, and deserving of the sobriquetLa Belle, yet every season saw another more lustrous than the last. These jewels had never engendered interest by him in all his years on the town. It was as if in having beauty, they suffered some deficit of character, and whereas character lasts while beauty fades, he’d come to value its coin above beauty. He was amused to note that, like the jewels before her, she had the requisite harridan by her side.
“Who’s the chaperone?” he asked Freddy, pulling him out of his worshipful reverie.
“Huh? Oh, Lady Romella Wisgart, her mama’s sister. A very starchy sort.”
“She seems to favor Tretherford,” St. Ryne observed, watching a small by-play of words and smiles.
