received an even smaller smile and curtsey.
“A great pleasure, Lady Helen,” he said, bowing low, as if she were Queen Charlotte. “I have been looking forward to tonight. That is, to the ball. Standing up with you.” He struggled through the greeting as if it were a bramble bush.
Lady Milchamp was also with them. She was an older lady, plump, smiling, and complacent, in a puce gown and satin turban with three short ostrich feathers. She had made her own debut thirty-odd years before, married, and removed to the country.
It was not until the death of her husband ten years ago that she had returned to London for her own daughter’s debut. She had bounced her bran-faced Amelia off with such stunning success (a marquess with twenty thousand a year) that she was much sought after to chaperon motherless debs. Lady Milchamp would accompany Newton and Lady Helen in Newt’s carriage, leaving Dolmain and Caroline to use his rig. They all had a glass of wine, then left for Lady Sefton’s ball.
“You are in high feather this evening, Caro,” Dolmain said, when they were on their way in the carriage. ‘“Very distinguished. I like that hairdo.”
“Thank you, kind sir.”
“We can drop in at Addie’s later in the evening for a quick visit, if you like.”
“I am not a veteran gambler,” she said with a touch of asperity. “Everyone who matters will see me at Sefton’s.”
Dolmain stiffened at her curt reply. It sounded as if she was only going with him to reclaim her reputation. The drive continued a moment in silence. He had been looking forward to the evening, and wanted to clear the air. “Have I inadvertently done something to offend you, Caro?” he asked.
She would not charge him with having her followed, but she decided to mention Newton’s discovery. “Newt saw your daughter today at Hyde Park,” she said, and told the whole story.
“I am sure there is an innocent explanation,” he replied. “Helen often mentions Bernard. She and Miss Blanchard help to raise funds for the French émigrés. Bernard is the secretary for the group. Very likely this woman they spoke of is some émigré they are helping, now that I think of it. He could have called on Helen at home. He does not run tame there, but he is allowed to call on her, with Miss Blanchard present.”
“I thought I ought to mention it,” she said. His explanation jibed with what Newt had said, that it was not a romantic tryst.
“I appreciate your keeping an eye on Helen for me,” he said warmly.
The ball achieved its aim of removing any shadow from Lady Winbourne’s character, but it achieved nothing else. Caro was on pins and needles with Dolmain. Every word he uttered was examined for a second meaning. She tried to behave as if she cared for him, but human nature can only be pushed so far. Dolmain sensed her reserve, and was impatient with it, and her.
Newt’s evening was even worse. It was plain as a pikestaff that Lady Helen had no use for him. She did not care much for horses, her speech was liberally peppered with French, and after standing up with him for the first set, she joined a younger group and ignored him until supper was served. When Newt and Helen joined Dolmain and Caroline at their table, further unpleasantness ensued.
Caroline made a few efforts to engage the chit in conversation, but received only monosyllabic replies. Yes, she had her court gown already prepared. When asked to describe it, she said only, “It is white silk.”
This was a definite snub, and the other guests at their table knew it. Any deb could rave for hours over her presentation gown. Dolmain tried to cover her rudeness by making a joke about how much it had cost him, but it fell flat.
“You told Aunt Milchamp to do it up in style,” his daughter snipped. “You know I would have preferred to give the money to charity, Papa. Comte Edouard de Lyons — so talented — is practically starving in a garret. Many of the aristos are suffering.
“A great pleasure, Lady Helen,” he said, bowing low, as if she were Queen Charlotte. “I have been looking forward to tonight. That is, to the ball. Standing up with you.” He struggled through the greeting as if it were a bramble bush.
Lady Milchamp was also with them. She was an older lady, plump, smiling, and complacent, in a puce gown and satin turban with three short ostrich feathers. She had made her own debut thirty-odd years before, married, and removed to the country.
It was not until the death of her husband ten years ago that she had returned to London for her own daughter’s debut. She had bounced her bran-faced Amelia off with such stunning success (a marquess with twenty thousand a year) that she was much sought after to chaperon motherless debs. Lady Milchamp would accompany Newton and Lady Helen in Newt’s carriage, leaving Dolmain and Caroline to use his rig. They all had a glass of wine, then left for Lady Sefton’s ball.
“You are in high feather this evening, Caro,” Dolmain said, when they were on their way in the carriage. ‘“Very distinguished. I like that hairdo.”
“Thank you, kind sir.”
“We can drop in at Addie’s later in the evening for a quick visit, if you like.”
“I am not a veteran gambler,” she said with a touch of asperity. “Everyone who matters will see me at Sefton’s.”
Dolmain stiffened at her curt reply. It sounded as if she was only going with him to reclaim her reputation. The drive continued a moment in silence. He had been looking forward to the evening, and wanted to clear the air. “Have I inadvertently done something to offend you, Caro?” he asked.
She would not charge him with having her followed, but she decided to mention Newton’s discovery. “Newt saw your daughter today at Hyde Park,” she said, and told the whole story.
“I am sure there is an innocent explanation,” he replied. “Helen often mentions Bernard. She and Miss Blanchard help to raise funds for the French émigrés. Bernard is the secretary for the group. Very likely this woman they spoke of is some émigré they are helping, now that I think of it. He could have called on Helen at home. He does not run tame there, but he is allowed to call on her, with Miss Blanchard present.”
“I thought I ought to mention it,” she said. His explanation jibed with what Newt had said, that it was not a romantic tryst.
“I appreciate your keeping an eye on Helen for me,” he said warmly.
The ball achieved its aim of removing any shadow from Lady Winbourne’s character, but it achieved nothing else. Caro was on pins and needles with Dolmain. Every word he uttered was examined for a second meaning. She tried to behave as if she cared for him, but human nature can only be pushed so far. Dolmain sensed her reserve, and was impatient with it, and her.
Newt’s evening was even worse. It was plain as a pikestaff that Lady Helen had no use for him. She did not care much for horses, her speech was liberally peppered with French, and after standing up with him for the first set, she joined a younger group and ignored him until supper was served. When Newt and Helen joined Dolmain and Caroline at their table, further unpleasantness ensued.
Caroline made a few efforts to engage the chit in conversation, but received only monosyllabic replies. Yes, she had her court gown already prepared. When asked to describe it, she said only, “It is white silk.”
This was a definite snub, and the other guests at their table knew it. Any deb could rave for hours over her presentation gown. Dolmain tried to cover her rudeness by making a joke about how much it had cost him, but it fell flat.
“You told Aunt Milchamp to do it up in style,” his daughter snipped. “You know I would have preferred to give the money to charity, Papa. Comte Edouard de Lyons — so talented — is practically starving in a garret. Many of the aristos are suffering.
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