Suddenly, a loud trumpet sounded signifying the start of the evening’s entertainment, and a surge of guests bore down upon them, racing in the direction of the horn.
Greer tightened his hold on her arm, and Beatrice was grateful not to be swept away from him on a tide of wigs, massive hoop skirts, and sea captains’ sabers.
“I think we should go back to where my sisters can discover us.”
Greer led the way, and she held onto him with a firm grip, fearing if she lost hold of his arm, she would never see anyone she knew for the rest of the evening. A lost Dresden china, without her flock.
“As long as we can see something from that vantage point,” he said. “Let’s keep a little away from the wall.”
All at once, the music began, and crowds surged again to give space to the dancers getting into formation.
Beatrice and Greer were both tall enough to see what was happening, but she feared Amity and Charlotte would miss the royals dancing unless they were on the very front edge of the enraptured audience. With all the participants of the first dance dressed as Venetian characters, including the Princess of Wales in a ruby-colored satin dress, with a blue paneled front and sleeves of satin puffings edged with gold and pearls, the first quadrille was underway.
Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice saw a small group approaching. Assuming it was her sisters and the duke, she turned with a welcoming smile.
Lord Melton, wearing a furious expression, came to a halt, putting hands to his hips. Of all people, Lady Emily accompanied him. She was dressed as Faust’s Marguerite with the telltale square neckline and sleeves with horizontal puffs, looking far more sophisticated than Beatrice, she noted with dismay. With them was the St. George cousin with whom Charlotte had once danced, dressed as a gondolier with long striped pants and a cap.
The one who’d asked questions,as Beatrice recalled with a start. She caught her breath, knowing by the countenances of Lord Melton and the two St. Georges that the jig was up.
“You are an imposter!” Lord Melton said with evident virulence while still two yards away, in a voice loud enough to rival the musicians in the distance and causing a circle of onlookers to back up and make room for this latest entertainment. “I have been deceived all Season by this woman.” He raised a hand and pointed toward her, as if there was any doubt as to whom he referred.
Beatrice felt the blood drain from her head. Finally, the icy viscount showed a little mettle. Unluckily, it was directed at her. She wished he’d retained his cool, aristocratic head rather than demonstrating he had a depth of emotion after all.
Glancing around himself, perhaps gauging the attention he was drawing, he appeared satisfied that he’d enticed at least a few to listen to his diatribe.
“She is a deceiver, an avaricious husband-hunter. A commonshopgirl!” he bit out with absolute derision.
Beatrice swallowed, thinking she heard a collective gasp. She’d half-convinced herself the viscount had known all along. Apparently she had been mistaken, for he was genuinely irate. Moreover, by the smug look upon the face of Lady Emily’s cousin, standing watching with amusement and crossed arms, he had been the arbiter of the news leading to her denouncement.
“A shopgirl as a guest at Marlborough House,” Lord Melton continued in a rage. “Can anyone else imagine such impudence?”
What could she say?She certainly couldn’t defend herself, for everything he said was blatantly true. Lady Emily, to her credit, was not enjoying the scene at all. She looked as shocked as Beatrice felt, her face white and pinched.
“You are out of line,” Greer said, stepping forward to place his leather-clad self between her silly pastoral persona and the outraged viscount.
Beatrice had forgotten he was there as all eyes were upon her. Ladies dressed as the subjects of famous paintings stared and gestured with their fans, and men as court jesters and long-dead soldiers scowled. Someone dressed as Zenobia turned and gave her the cut direct, a bold Cleopatra sneered at her, and a cavalier stared as if she were a farm animal someone had let inside to run amuck at the ball.
If only the floor tiles would open up and let her slide beneath them!
“You are behaving badly, sir,” the American said heatedly. “This is neither the time nor the place for your vicious accusations.”
Lady Emily, with her glance slicing between Beatrice and Greer, took a step toward him, perhaps wondering if he also was not who he claimed to be.
“She isnota toffee heiress,” Lord Melton proclaimed, causing a murmur to go up around them. Some people were plainly confused. A few snickered.
Beatrice knew she ought to be as ashamed as she had been mortified a moment earlier. Yet, the viscount’s ridiculous statement made her shake her head while holding back a laugh. That Charlotte had managed to make anyone believe such a thing, even for a second, was a wondrous achievement.
“Not as such, no, I am not,” she told him, feeling crabby. “But then, who is?”
A few more people laughed. “A toffee heiress!” someone exclaimed.
Lord Melton’s face reddened. “You work at Rare Confectionery. That’s why you were on New Bond Street.”
“I never claimed otherwise,” Beatrice told him.
“You said you were shopping that day I rescued the hat,” he persisted.
“Rescued the hat?” someone repeated, and loud guffaws ensued.
