The Man in the Buff Breeches by Susan Lodge Page A

abandoned puppy being offered a bone.
    That dress is a replica of high fashion eveningwear in the Regency period. It has a low neckline and is gathered under the bust to drop in a straight sweep of pale green silk. It does nothing for my small chest and hips, but the fabric is lovely and I did have to pay a hefty fee to hire it for this evening.
    Lyn’s gorgeous and successful boyfriend, Henry, obtained the tickets for the event. He thought it would be a fun way to celebrate Lyn’s birthday. She is mad on the Regency period and always reading historical romances. Amazingly, it was such a book that brought them together in the first place, which even I have to admit was bone meltingly romantic. Lyn accompanied me on the Caribbean cruise, and whilst she returned with Henry in tow, all I came back with was a wooden elephant. A parting souvenir from Stephen. I have been collecting elephants for years and have amassed all sorts in glass, porcelain, wood, bronze, and even one sculptured from a coat hanger.
    I envy the fact that Lyn has found true love with Henry, as I now feel I’m on the outside, looking over the fence at their domestic bliss. Jealously is not a nice trait, but it lurks there all the same, despite the fact that I love them both to bits. Lyn deserves happiness after being married to a pig like Trevor. He was such a spineless specimen, it was a wonder he didn’t collapse when he took his coat off.

    I manoeuvre myself into my Fiesta with some difficulty and untangle my Regency skirts from the gearstick. I’m late as usual, and it’s pouring with the sort of rain that defies umbrellas. I hope it stops before I have to poke my satin shoes out of the car. Lyn was insistent I should stay the night at the country house, but I’m not keen on the idea, and although I have packed an overnight bag I decide to keep my options open.
    One hour later, I turn up the sweeping drive of Woolbury Manor, gritting my teeth at the number of potholes my wheels endure. Aren’t these places supposed to have staff to look after the grounds? A vision of Lady Chatterley’s Mellors comes to mind, and my silk clad thighs tremble a little at the thought of him striding out of the undergrowth into my path.
    The main car park is full, so I edge around the rows of vehicles and follow the signposts into the field that is acting as an overflow for the night. The tyres squelch uninvitingly into the only space left. Great! I turn and rustle amongst the debris on the back seat and thankfully locate a pair of boots. Adopting several yoga positions, I exchange them for my satin shoes, which I shove into my jacket pocket. Hauling up my silk skirts, I get out the car and sink into the muddy grass.
    At least the rain has stopped.
    Once in the confines of the hotel’s sumptuous restroom, I tweak myself into a respectable Regency lady and then deposit my boots and holdall with the cloakroom assistant. As I head towards the ballroom, I notice the country house is hosting two different functions tonight. They are clearly signposted: Regency Grand Ball, to the left of reception; Sid’s Eightieth Birthday Party, to the right.
    The Regency ballroom is very impressive. It’s decorated with burgundy and gold upholstered reproduction furniture with matching floor to wall drapes. Chandeliers and wall lights with candle-shaped bulbs give the room a nice glow. As I have come unaccompanied, I adopt a style of feigned self-confidence and saunter around the perimeter of the room seeking a familiar face. The fancy dress is impressive, everyone has made an effort. But although the Regency style is prominent, several have erred into the wrong era. Great Victorian skirts and Edwardian elegance mingle with silk stockings, breeches, and assorted military uniforms. There is even a man wearing a tabard . Is history still on the syllabus at school ? Some of these people are centuries out.
    I step forward to cross the room, as I have spotted Lyn and Henry, but I’m