The women were another kind of ordeal, ranging from watchful neutrality in the wives to outright venom in Lady Haycroft. Lord St. Aubyn himself ignored her, not acknowledging her presence by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Since fashionable couples were not supposed to live in each other’s pockets, he could avoid her all evening and no one would think anything was amiss.
Gervase’s neglect was like an icy wind from the north, and it took every ounce of Diana’s control not to flee to some private place where she could cry in peace. It was infinitely difficult to see his familiar face, to watch the controlled power of his movements, yet be so utterly estranged.
At dinner, she was given the hostess’s place at one end of the table as was her right. Gervase probably welcomed that arrangement because it put the full length of the shining mahogany table between them.
The meal seemed endless, a mosaic of countless dishes appearing and disappearing, footmen presenting bottles of wine, the two gentlemen next to her vying for her attention. She spoke little, but she had always been better at listening, and her dining companions liked that very well. Throughout, she sensed Gervase’s gaze on her, yet when she glanced toward him his eyes were always elsewhere.
Dinner was easy compared to the session with the ladies while the gentlemen sat over their port. Even the most congenial of the women were curious, and less inclined than men to approve of her. Most were too well-bred to ask direct questions about her origins, but Diana felt their curiosity and measuring glances.
Oddly, Lady Haycroft said nothing, simply sitting with watchful malice. Wanting the largest possible audience, she did not bring out her guns until the gentlemen joined the ladies. As people circulated and looked for new conversational partners, she attacked. In a clarion voice, she asked, “Tell me, Lady St. Aubyn, is it true that you were a London courtesan?”
Her words cut through the babble of voices, leaving absolute silence. Dismayed but unsurprised, Diana curled her hands around the carved arms of her chair as she gathered her defenses. She had guessed that Veseul might give her away, and that Lady Haycroft would be a willing ally.
The other women drew back, and she felt the avid curiosity of everyone in the room. Gervase was part of the nearest group of men and she saw his shoulders tense as speculative glances were sent in his direction. If she did not answer well, her disgrace would reflect on him. He would not easily forgive her for shaming him before his friends.
Humor was the best defense. If she showed fear or guilt, the good ladies would rip her character to shreds. Raising her chin, she laughed with complete unconcern. “Where on earth did you hear such a foolish tale? It is even more absurd than the story that I was mad and locked up in Scotland.”
Glancing at her husband, she said, “You were right, my dear. I should have joined you sooner. The tales that have sprung up are quite remarkable.”
Her eyes narrowing, Lady Haycroft spat out, “Do you deny that you lived in London under the name of Mrs. Lindsay and that you earned the nickname the Fair Luna? Or that you visited Harriette Wilson and danced at the Cyprians’ Ball?”
Without hesitating, Diana widened her eyes. “Ah-h-h, I see. You have my sympathies, Lady Haycroft. Some mischievous person told you a few tidbits of truth, just enough to lead you to false conclusions.”
She raised her silk fan and casually wafted air across her heated face. Her eyes limpid with sincerity, she said, “It was very bad of me to go to such places. Growing up in the country, I had always heard ladies had more freedom in London, and I decided to use that freedom to satisfy my curiosity.”
She sighed, letting her long lashes flutter for a moment. “When I went to the Cyprians’ Ball, I realized I had greatly misjudged and gone far beyond the line of what is pleasing.”
Raising her gaze again, she glanced innocently at the other ladies, the ones who would be her true judges. “I must confess that, like every respectable woman, I wondered what our rivals are like. Surely some of you have done the same?”
Lady Castlereagh, a conservative matron with an unusually devoted husband, chuckled a bit. “What decent woman hasn’t? The stories one hears . . .” Shaking her head, she added the indulgent warning, “Still, it is quite unacceptable to actually visit such places, my dear.”
Diana smiled at the older woman with real gratitude. “You’re quite right. I would never do so again.”
Another woman, whose name Diana didn’t recall, leaned forward intently. “Did you recognize many of the gentlemen?”
This time a number of the men tensed. Several had been at the ball. Diana promptly said, “I fear I know very few members of the fashionable world. Most of the men at the ball were young bachelors, I believe.” Her words produced a palpable wave of relief.
“How did you gain admittance? Did you go alone?”
“I went with my husband’s cousin.” Diana looked apologetically at Francis, who was watching with fascinated amusement. “Francis was absolutely against it, but reluctantly agreed to escort me when he saw that I was determined to go.”
She cast an anxious glance at her husband. “I quickly realized how foolish I was and we left early. St. Aubyn was away and didn’t know, of course. I’m afraid you are bringing my husband’s disapproval on me, Lady Haycroft.”
While Gervase watched with the angry stillness of white-hot iron, Lady Haycroft returned to the attack. “What about living as Mrs. Lindsay? One would think that if you were Lady St. Aubyn then, you would have used your title.”
Diana laughed with a touch of shy embarrassment. “I fear you have found us out. It amused my husband and me to . . . play at just what you are suggesting.” With delicate suggestiveness, she continued. “Surely you know the games lovers play, Lady Haycroft. Pretending to be what they are not for the pure pleasure of it.”
Most of the listeners knew exactly what she meant, their faces reflecting their own fond memories of games they had played when they were in the bright throes of love.
When the moment had stretched long enough, Diana moved to the offensive. It was time to wield her strongest weapon in this social battle. “I called myself Lindsay because it was my mother’s name. Unlike Brandelin, it’s common enough to go unremarked. My mother was a daughter of General Lord Lindsay, you know.”
The famous name struck the room like thunder. Alisdair Lindsay had been the greatest soldier of his generation, ennobled by the crown, a much-loved warrior who had fallen while winning his greatest victory against the French in the Seven Years’ War. The younger son of an ancient family, he and his achievements were legend.
Diana shot a quick glance at Gervase, but his impassive face showed no surprise. No one would guess that her ancestry was as much a surprise to him as to the other guests.
One of the older women, Mrs. Oliphant, said with interest, “We must be related, my dear. My second cousin married into that branch of the Lindsays. Who was your father?”
“James Hamilton, a clergyman in Lanarkshire,” Diana replied.
