Denzell, happening to be deep in conversation with Sir John Frinton, did not see Verena and her mother enter the room. But a sudden break in the old man’s attention alerted him.
“Ah, there she is at last,” uttered Sir John on a note of satisfaction. “Would that I were forty years younger.”
Turning to follow the direction of the old man’s gaze, Denzell at once espied Verena, and his breath caught. If she had beenbeautiful in a brown pelisse and a ribbon-trimmed bonnet, she was ravishing in full dress.
An open robe of white muslin with a low pleated bodice, sleeved to the elbow with beaded trimming covering the long gloves of York tan, was worn over a dull yellow petticoat. The shade perfectly complimented the honeyed tresses, simply dressed with a ribbon-bandeau threaded through so that one or two curling locks fell across her white breast. A fairy princess, truly.
Staring in wonder, Denzell became aware of a sense of hushed expectancy pervading the room. It held a moment, and then broke, as every male in the place seemed to converge upon Miss Verena Chaceley.
Denzell did not move. With difficulty, he brought his gaze to bear upon the woman standing by Verena’s side. The resemblance was plain, although the mother — there could be no doubt of her identity — was but a pale echo of the daughter, a waif-like creature in violet silk. She was of slighter stature, seeming so frail that she might break.
Before the various gentlemen could reach her, he watched Verena turn to her mother, solicitously drawing her towards a chair by the fire. Then she was engulfed and he could no longer see her plainly.
“Well?” came Osmond’s probing voice at his side. “What are you doing standing there? You will never make any headway if you do not thrust your way into the mêlée.”
“What, and make one of a crowd?” said Denzell with scorn, turning his head. “You know me better than that.”
Both gentlemen were suitably attired for the occasion, Osmond in his favourite purple, while Denzell once again sported the claret suit with its black silk accoutrements.
Osmond had his attention on the area by the fire where the portly Mr Cumberland and the wheezing Mr Yorke were vyingwith a number of other gentlemen who tried, regardless of the proprieties of rank or station, to be first with Miss Chaceley. It was Sir John, Denzell saw, who succeeded in procuring her smile, however, for he was so adroit as to set the chosen chair for Mrs Peverill, thus evidently earning the beauty’s gratitude. The little circle widened as Miss Chaceley herself took a seat, enabling Denzell to watch her as she turned, from one to another gentleman in turn, to answer whatever sallies they might be making.
“I cannot see that she favours any one above another,” he observed in a pleased tone.
“Told you so. She always metes out exactly the same treatment to all — just as she did to you.”
“For pity’s sake, what is she made of, ice? Or is she just soulless?”
Osmond grinned at him. “Love dying already, eh?”
Denzell shook his head. “Growing, Ossie. I tell you, I am intrigued past any bearing. I swear to you, she was so vital, so alive. This is — well, I don’t know what this is, but I can see that it is apt to drive me insane.”
“You’re piqued, Hawk, that’s all. Too used to having your own way in these matters, and you can’t abide to lose.”
Denzell looked round at him. “Is it that? Did I imagine it, then?”
Osmond raised his brows. “Taking this a mite seriously, ain’t you, Hawk?”
“Am I?”
“Come on, man. What is it to you, barring a trifle of fun and gig? You’re as bad as Unice, laying some fanciful notion of your own on the girl’s head. Face it. She’s a handsome piece, but cold. That’s all there is to it.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Denzell with decision. “I know what I saw. She’s acting — wearing some kind of public mask. Only look ather. How could any woman remain indifferent, being so feted and fawned over? It’s unheard of.”
“It don’t sit well, I must admit,” mused Osmond. “What do you mean to do, then, if you won’t join the throng?”
Denzell grinned. “Draw her attention, of course.”
“Ha! Playing that game, eh? A bow and a smile, and not a word said, in the hopes you’ll pique her vanity. It won’t work.”
“You’ve tried it, of course,” returned Denzell on a sarcastic note.
“No, but I’ve seen you at it. I know you, Hawk. But I’m telling you. This time it won’t work.”
Denzell remained unconvinced. If he was right, if Verena Chaceley was presenting a façade to the world, then it was incumbent upon him to find a chink in her armour.
He bided his time, waiting until the crowd about her thinned a little, giving meanwhile his attention to the elegant Sir John Frinton — blue silk tonight with silver lace at his waistcoat — who, having paid his respects to the beauty, wandered close by apparently for the sole purpose of twitting his junior slyly.
“Do you believe her to be aware of your absence, my dear young friend?”
