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Mrs Priddy had been watching Charlotte and Mr Lockwood’s eyes as this sudden revelation of their attraction to each other occurred. She had wanted it to be her beloved Leonora who caught George Lockwood’s imagination and would thus be saved from leaving her childhood home but, although Charlotte and he may not yet have recognised it themselves, Nanny P understood that for them their worlds had shifted, and she was glad.

9

THE GALLANT AND THE PRICE OF GALLANTRY

For those in the highest society of Regency England, noble blood and old money were all that mattered. This was displayed in the possession of extensive acres of parkland and fertile tenant farms encircled by great hunting forests with a magnificent house at the centre. Here resided the power. There was a hierarchy within the aristocracy of which the Duchess of Hungerford was close to the apex. Her mansion in Grosvenor Square was on the opposite terrace from Rokeby House and had been built to show off its owner’s fortune and status. In a discreet display of class and long-established wealth, the Hungerford establishment was not ostentatiously embellished. As Leonora and Charlotte entered, with George Lockwood and Mrs Priddy in their wake, they were struck by the grandeur of the building and the modesty of the night’s decorations. There was no gold leaf in sight. Whole glasshouses of exotic flowers had not been devastated to conjure one night’s scented paradise; instead, there was ivy and the sweet smell of conifer and apple-wood burning in the grates in the many grand fireplaces.

The ballroom was on the first floor, adjoining the drawing room, and music floated down to the hallway below. Everyone was masked except for Mrs Priddy who, as a chaperone, was excused. As the Hasterleigh party joined the crowd mounting the serpentine stone staircase, Leonora slipped her arm through Mrs Priddy’s and Charlotte was left to place her hand on Mr Lockwood’s arm. Feeling some protection in the anonymity afforded by a mask, Leonora could not suppress a giggle as she pointed out a particularly portly old nobleman, so corseted he could not bend without creaking. ‘Beware, Mr Lockwood, what awaits you if you indulge too much in Cook’s famous boeuf en croûte,’ she said.

George Lockwood patted his trim torso and replied, ‘I’m hoping that fashions will be more accommodating by the time I get to that stage.’

Charlotte glanced up into his face and said with a serious expression, ‘By then, Mr Lockwood, you’ll be deep in country life and barely concerned with what you wear and how you appear.’

He put his gloved hand on hers curled through his arm and replied, ‘What a comfortable thought indeed, but my wife may not agree.’ His eyes were mischievous in the flickering candlelight.

They arrived in the ballroom to the sight of dancers in the middle of a reel, their gorgeous gowns, jewelled masks and headdresses captured multiple times in the looking glasses that lined the walls. It felt as if they had entered a kaleidoscope continually turning with fragments of every colour and shape to the exhilarating accompaniment of music. The small string orchestra was playing its heart out and there were claps and cries as the couples in each set parted and came together again.

The guests were from the grandest echelons of Society. Here the stately and elderly rubbed shoulders with the well-behaved young. Jowls and bosoms trembled, feathered caps bobbed and dipped, real jewels sparkled, some even wore their tiaras; the cream of the haut ton were out in force and determined on enjoyment.

Mr Lockwood bent his head to murmur to Charlotte, ‘Under this one roof is to be found half the wealth of the entire nation.’

The Duchess of Hungerford’s guest list was so select that even in masks most people recognised each other. The advent of Leonora and Charlotte as evident newcomers caused some tongues to wag. Any news of an heiress spread like a gorse fire and the combination of unexpected wealth, beauty and noble birth, albeit of rather irregular provenance, added extra frisson to the gossip. It was the first time Charlotte felt the full beam of attention on her and she was taken aback.

The reel came to an end and the couples dispersed with much clapping and chatter. Out of the crowd appeared Captain Ormonde in his full regimentals, handsome and sleek as a panther. Nodding at George Lockwood, he bowed to Charlotte. ‘Miss Blythe, what a vision to soothe my war-sick heart. I’m hopeful you may honour me with the next dance?’ Once again, his smile dazzled while his eyes remained calculating. It was a compelling combination.

‘But sir, you are not meant to be able to identify me. This is a masquerade ball, is it not?’

Her response was arch and Captain Ormonde chuckled, responding perhaps not as flatteringly as she had hoped. ‘I recognise you by your companion who appears like Gulliver among the Lilliputians.’

Charlotte turned an uncertain face to George Lockwood, whose arm she still held. A muscle in her companion’s jaw twitched but he smiled and said, ‘Perhaps, Miss Blythe, I can claim you for the dance after this one?’ Charlotte nodded and took Captain Ormonde’s proffered hand and followed him to make up the nearest set.

George Lockwood turned to Leonora and muttered, ‘I thought the Duchess did not approve of the waltz, but it seems Lord Dearlove has persuaded her otherwise. I just hope it will be no excuse for the Captain’s indecorous behaviour should he request a further dance.’

Leonora’s face was grave. ‘I must admit I have my reasons to be wary of him, but it concerns me you think he may be a fortune hunter with his eyes set on Charlotte when she appears to esteem him so.’

When Charlotte returned to them, breathless and slightly flushed, Mr Lockwood said, ‘Let me introduce you to my stepfather.’ He led Leonora and Charlotte towards a group of exquisites. Beau Beacham seemed to straddle both the raffish and haut ton. His presence was so distinctive that not even his black mask disguised him. Not particularly tall, he nevertheless seemed in perfect physical proportion, made more striking by the cut of his dark coat and silver satin pantaloons. His calves in his evening hose were as elegant as a woman’s and his face, no longer young, was still handsome and crowned with an operatic head of grey curls, contrived into fashionable disarray. He was surrounded by a laughing group of fellow dandies, willows amongst whom George Lockwood, despite his fine-tailored evening apparel, looked like a sturdy oak.

‘Ladies, my stepfather, Beau Beacham. Sir, may I introduce you to Miss Charlotte Blythe, the Countess of Bucklebury’s kin, and Miss Appleby, chatelaine of Hasterleigh Manor.’

Mr Beacham turned from his admiring acolytes and cast his sparkling gaze on Charlotte. The magic word ‘Countess’ had piqued his interest. He had heard talk too of her fortune. He brought her hand slowly to his lips, his dark eyes continually holding hers. She dropped her gaze and blushed. He murmured, ‘Miss Blythe, I am grateful indeed to make your acquaintance. George will look after you, I’m sure.’

Taking Leonora’s hand, a roguish look came into his eyes. He recognised her as no longer a green girl and treated her in a more gamesome way. Tucking her hand into his arm, he whisked her off into the ballroom. ‘I think I hear the strains of a waltz!’ he said, and without hesitation, slipped his arm around her waist and whirled her into the colourful fray.

Leonora gave a small gasp. The waltz was a new and racy dance and still disapproved of in their country dances back home. She had learnt it along with Charlotte but had not had any occasion to practise it in public; to have this stranger clasp her body so close to his seemed extraordinarily intimate. With a pang she realised it was not Beau Beacham, but a distant lord whose arm she wished to have so insistent around her waist.

The music that poured from the orchestra was thrilling. She had never been at a ball where the musicians numbered more than three and to have this octet of harpsichord, flute, violins, hautbois, double bass and English horn made her heart swell. The ballroom itself was awash with candlelight, the walls lined with looking glasses that reflected the scintillas of light and brilliant dresses like a glittering phantasmagoria of movement and colour.

After a few moments, Leonora began to relax and enjoy the exhilaration of waltzing in the arms of a practised dancer. She did not notice Captain Ormonde watching their progress round the floor with dark narrowed eyes. Nor did she see Charlotte in the arms of George Lockwood, confident, not looking anxiously at her feet but up into his face, and managing to converse a little.

Beau Beacham was amusing and rather shocking with his indelicate gossip about various other guests as they danced past. ‘Ah, mon dieu! That big-bellied cochon is the Honourable Lord Ponsonby and that lady in his arms is no lady. An intimate moment with him, she once told me, was akin to having a wardrobe fall on her with the key still in the lock.’ Leonora was astonished that he should talk to her, a young woman he did not know, with such a lack of propriety or discretion, but his laugh at her shocked expression was infectious and she found herself laughing too. The Beau pulled her close to his hip and whirled her into a showy final spin which left her breathless. Music and dancing never failed to stir her heart, even if it was a disreputable charmer, almost old enough to be her father, whose arms held her close.

The first waltz of the night came to a halt with everyone rather giddy and excited. Beau Beacham gave her waist a final squeeze and leaning close, murmured in her ear, ‘There is something about you, Miss Appleby, or perhaps your estate, that has excited my George beyond measure. I’m afraid once he moves to Hasterleigh, London will never see him again.’

Leonora extracted herself from his embrace and responded with a smile, ‘I don’t think the allure is mine, sir, but Mr Lockwood is certainly excited by the land.’

‘I find that impossible to understand.’ He held her gloved fingers to his lips, appraising her with lustrous eyes, then bowed before returning her to her friends. The orchestra tuned up again just as Lord Dearlove, unmistakeable in his elegance despite a dashing black crystal mask, swept up and grasped Leonora’s hand. ‘Madame, will you do me the honour of partnering me in this cotillion?’ Leonora bowed, not certain if he had recognised her or was just charming to every woman he met. As he led her to the dance, he murmured, ‘Your disguise is not very effective, dear Miss Appleby; your resplendent hair gives you away.’

Leonora laughed. He was vain and frittered his life on gambling and pleasure, but he was handsome and there was something appealing about his warmth and lightness of being. They moved into the circular motion that began the dance. He was a most delightful partner, amusing in his chatter and generous of spirit. She felt entirely easy in his company. As the cotillion ended, he asked her if she needed any refreshment.