“I always behave.”
“You could try to enjoy yourself,” she returned.
Arch did not trouble himself to answer that.
Lord Upton entered shortly thereafter, his presence altering the room in a quieter fashion than his wife’s, but no less decisively. He carried with him the air of Parliament—the weight of gentlemen who had spent their day in argument and left none of it behind.
“Augusta,” he said, glancing about, “are we negotiating a treaty, or a war?”
“My dear,” she replied, turning at last, “it is all the same.”
He smiled faintly, then looked to Arch. “Have you the intention to stand near Miss Vale when the guests arrive?”
“I will dutifully stand where I am told,” Arch said.
“How novel.”
Before Arch could protest, the first carriage was announced.
Sir Percival entered with Miss Vale at his side. He greeted Arch warmly, nodded to Lord Upton, and allowed Lady Upton to direct him into position with the ease of a man accustomed to being deployed in the service of others.
Then Miss Vale stepped forward to Arch’s side. He bowed. “Welcome, Miss Vale.”
“Major Manners.” She inclined her head.
Arch had seen her in lavender, composed and thoughtful beneath the pale light of morning. He had seen her in emerald, glowing by candlelight and the spectacle of a ballroom. He had seen her in the quiet of her own parlour, where intelligence had been her most striking adornment. None of it had prepared him for the impression she produced now.
She wore deep blue—not the colour a young girl would wear—and yet it suited the occasion perfectly. The gown was cut with deliberate restraint, its lines clean, its movement unencumbered, as though it had been chosen to display her, not the other way around. Her hair was arranged with elegant precision, and a slender chain rested at her throat; the rest was left unadorned. Ornament would have been superfluous.
She inclined her head with composed civility as Lady Upton approached, her expression neither eager nor reluctant, but entirely her own.
“How lovely you are, Francesca!” his mother exclaimed as she crossed to her at once and took her hand.
Miss Vale looked not like a girl presented to Society, but like a woman who had chosen to enter it—and intended to do so on her own terms.
Renforth arrived next, unobtrusive and the most dangerous presence in the room. He did not announce himself as a soldier; nor as the son of a Duke. He stood slightly apart, observing, assessing, as though the arrangement of chairs might conceal something worth discovering.
Shortly afterwards, Dandridge appeared in the doorway. Arch’s brother entered with the composure of a man to whom Society was not merely natural but agreeable. Where Arch endured, Dandridge excelled. He greeted their mother with easy affection, their father with measured respect, and Arch with a glance that contained both amusement and curiosity.
“So,” he murmured under his breath, as momentarily they stood aside from the company, “you have been put to work.”
“I am always at work.”
“Not like this,” Dandridge said, his eyes darting briefly towards the side of the room, where Miss Vale stood. “This is infinitely more entertaining.”
“For you, mayhap.”
“For everyone,” he corrected, “and particularly for Mother.”
Arch did not dispute that. The room had filled with the elite of London as well as politics.
Lord and Lady Jersey entered with the air of people accustomed to being watched and determined to reward the attention. Lady Jersey’s gaze moved swiftly, cataloguing everything and everyone with a precision that bordered uponruthlessness. Lord Jersey followed more placidly, though Arch had learned long ago not to mistake quietness for indifference.
Lord and Lady Castlereagh arrived next. Castlereagh himself carried the weight of office as though it were both armour and burden; his wife, by contrast, moved with a grace that softened his severity without diminishing it. Arch watched him closely. If there were currents in London that ran towards danger, Castlereagh would feel them first.
Prince and Princess Esterházy followed—foreign elegance, diplomatic ease, and the subtle authority of those who represented more than themselves. Princess Esterházy’s smile concealed a mind that Arch suspected missed very little; her husband spoke lightly, but his attention never strayed far from the room.
Then, at last, Count and Countess Lieven were announced. If Lady Jersey assessed, Countess Lieven interpreted. Her entrance altered the air in a manner difficult to describe but impossible to ignore. She saw everything; she judged everything; and she did so with an intelligence that made most other observers appear merely industrious. It was well known she was the true politician of the couple.
