Читать книгу The Outrageous Debutante - Anne O'Brien - Страница 9

Judith, Countess of Painscastle, sat alone in the supremely elegant withdrawing room of the Painscastle town house in Grosvenor Square. Thoroughly bored. she leafed through a recent edition of La Belle Assemblée, but the delicious fashions for once left her unmoved. She closed the pages and frowned down at the fair and innocent beauty who graced the front cover. There was absolutely no reason for her lack of spirits! There were so many possible demands on her time, and all of them designed to please and entertain. A soirée at the home of Lady Beech that very night. Lady Aston’s drum later in the week. A luncheon party. An essential visit to the dressmaker. What more could she require in life? She was truly, deliriously happy. But her husband Simon had found a need to visit Newmarket. He would return before the end of the week. But she missed him more than she would ever admit.

Now a married lady of almost seven years, Judith had changed little from the flighty, gossip-loving débutante who had stolen Painscastle’s heart. Her hair was as wildly red and vibrant as ever, her green eyes as sparkling and full of life. Only the previous year she had fulfilled her duty and presented her lord with a son and heir. She was inordinately proud and loved the boy beyond measure. But she could not devote all day and every day to her child. She needed something, or someone, to entertain her.

She sighed again, flicked through the pages again, tutted over an illustration of an unattractive and certainly unflattering walking dress with heavy embroidered trim around the hem and cuffs when, on a polite knock, the door opened. Matthews, her butler, entered and presented a silver tray with a bow.

‘Forgive me, my lady. A morning visitor.’

She cast aside the magazine at once and sprang to her feet. A diversion!

‘A visitor!’

‘A young lady. She says that she is unknown to you, but was advised to call by Lady Beatrice Faringdon.’

‘Mama told her to come? Did she, now? She did not tell me.’ Judith picked up the visiting card from the tray. ‘I do not recognise this name. But if Mama sent her … Pray show the lady in, Matthews.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ There was a stern expression on his face as he retreated from the room to usher forward the lady in question.

‘Miss Wooton-Devereux, my lady.’

‘Thank you, Matthews. Would you be so kind as to bring ratafia?’

‘Of course, my lady.’ With a distinct frown, the butler retired.

The lady curtsied. Judith did likewise.

‘Forgive me, my lady.’ The lady spoke with confident assurance in a low, rather husky voice. ‘I know that it is not usual to pay a morning call on someone to whom one has not been formally introduced, but my mama and Lady Beatrice have exchanged some correspondence of late. Lady Beatrice suggested that it would be of advantage to me to make your acquaintance as we are to be here in London for a little time. Being of a similar age, you understand.’ She saw the lack of comprehension in Judith’s face. ‘I gather that your mama has not told you of this.’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘Forgive me. Perhaps I should not have presumed.’

‘No, no—I am delighted that you did.’ Judith thought that the lady did not look particularly sorry. ‘Come and sit.’ She waved an expansive hand towards a chair. ‘I was only a moment ago thinking that I was in need of a distraction.’ And this, she thought, after an equally brief moment of being in the lady’s company, might be exactly the diversion she needed.

As the lady settled herself on the cream-and-gold striped chair, shaking out her skirts and removing her gloves, Judith took stock of her visitor.

‘I am Theodora Wooton-Devereux. We—my parents and I—have just arrived in town. My mother is set to launch me into society, you should understand.’ The lady’s opinion of this intent was signalled by the faintest of curls to her beautiful lips.

‘Indeed.’

The lady who sat before Judith in her withdrawing room, and somehow seemed to fill it with her personality was, well, striking, Judith supposed. Perhaps not classically beautiful exactly. Stunning might be a better word. She would certainly draw all eyes when she entered a room. She did not wear a bonnet. Her fair hair shone and—oh, my—it was cut quite short into the neck with curls that lay softly, without artifice, against her cheeks and forehead. When it was all the rage to wear ringlets falling to the shoulder from a high crown, Judith could not but stare. It was quite outrageous. But quite—charming, if one had the courage to wear it so. Judith knew that she would never dare. As Miss Wooton-Devereux turned her head, there was a touch of burnished copper amongst the gold where the sun caressed it. And those dark lashes and brows—an interesting combination with the deep blue of her eyes. Were her lashes actually dyed? And was there just a hint, the faintest brush of cosmetics on that flawless skin? Judith feared so—and was entranced. Her gown was both expensive and tasteful, but definitely not that of a débutante, shimmering as it did in pure silk of deepest amethyst, trimmed with knots of ribbon and a profusion of tiny silk flowers, in the same hue, around the hem and low-cut neckline.

Definitely not a débutante! Judith decided.

Nor did she wear the single strand of pearls so appropriate to a young girl on the brink of her presentation to society. Instead, a golden necklace of tiny entwined flowers and leaves lay against her throat, coloured stones winking in their depths, and matching earrings dripped exotically from her delicate ears. A stole was draped in artistic folds over her arms, of distinctly eastern pattern with just the hint of sparkle in the weave and the long fringes. Her hands, now revealed as she placed her gloves and reticule on the occasional table beside her, were long-fingered, slender, with a number of intricately worked rings that gleamed gold and silver in the sunlight.

The vision immediately stirred Judith’s jaded appetite. It was as if some exotic butterfly had taken it into its head to land in her withdrawing room and bring it to life.

‘You said that your name was Theodora?’ Judith enquired when she had completed her survey as tactfully as she might.

‘Yes. My mama, Lady Drusilla, called me for the Empress of the Roman Empire, the wife of the Emperor Justinian. She admired her, I believe. But do call me Thea.’

‘Thea. Yes, of course. An unusual name.’

‘Unfortunately. We do not choose our own and my mama has eclectic tastes.’ A glinting smile touched Thea’s face. ‘I have to be grateful that she did not name me Cleopatra. Or Dido.’

‘No, indeed! That would be most unfortunate!’ The Countess of Painscastle had no idea who Dido might be but decided that it did not matter. Ah—you must call me Judith. You say that you are to have a London Season?’

‘Yes.’

‘Forgive me, but …’

‘I know what you are thinking.’ Thea smiled with cheerful composure. ‘You think that I am too old to be a débutante. My mama warned me that it must be so.’

‘Well … That is to say … You are very forthright!’

‘I was brought up to be so. And your comment is certainly accurate. It is not my choice to have a Season at all. I wish to go to Russia instead. But my mother insists. She wants an Earl for me, you see.’

‘Really.’ Judith blinked. ‘Well—that is to say … I expect she might …’

‘Yes. So my father has taken a house in Upper Brook Street and we are set to entertain. Your mama is acquainted with mine—and so suggested that you might give me some advice—how to go on here. I know the protocol in Paris and Constantinople. Even Vienna. But I have never lived in London before.’

‘I see.’ Judith didn’t, but she was sure that this fascinating creature would soon explain.

‘And so I thought I should come and see if you are willing—or if you would rather not. I hope that you would tell me what you truly feel. Parents can be so thoughtless and inconsiderate when they compromise their offspring—particularly when that offspring has no inclination for it at all!’

‘Very true.’ Judith found herself returning the smile in astonishment—and total agreement.

‘Perhaps I should have not come here before we were introduced. Perhaps it is not comme il faut?’

Judith found herself sitting on the very edge of her seat. ‘Perhaps not—well, no, it is definitely not the done thing, but I am delighted that you did. I was suffering from such a megrim before you arrived.’

‘I have never suffered from a megrim in my life, but it pleases me that I can restore your spirits.’ Miss Wooton-Devereux laughed gently, showing perfect teeth, her eyes gleaming with amusement. What an odd creature she was, to be sure.

‘Tell me—’ Judith had to satisfy her curiosity and decided that she felt no compunction in asking ‘—why have you not been presented before?’

Thea was perfectly willing to explain. ‘My father, Sir Hector, is in the diplomatic service. He has been Ambassador to the Court of Constantinople of late. And we have travelled extensively so I have never had the opportunity to stay long in London or enjoy a Season. But now he is between posts. He expects to be sent to St Petersburg later in the year, but for the present we are to remain in London.’

The simple explanation was interrupted by Matthews, who brought in a tray bearing a decanter of ratafia, two glasses and a plate of little biscuits. He arranged them on the table beside Judith’s chair and left, but not before directing another disapproving glance in the direction of their guest.

‘I can not think what is wrong with Matthews.’ Judith watched him as he left the room, shoulders rigid.

Thea laughed again, an infectious low chuckle that instantly encouraged Judith to smile in response. ‘I believe that I have the answer. I am the cause of your butler’s disapproval.’

‘Why? What can you have done?’

‘I came unchaperoned. Without my maid. He appears to disapprove.’

‘Yes. I imagine that he would.’

‘But it is only a step,’ Thea explained. ‘Hardly a stroll. Why should I need a maid with me? I am hardly likely to be set on by footpads in Mayfair in broad daylight, I presume.’

‘No. Of course not. But it is most unconventional. It is not considered … seemly for an unmarried lady to venture on the streets unaccompanied.’

‘I do not see—’ She broke off as Judith handed her a glass of ratafia. She sipped it reluctantly, but with a practised pretence at enjoyment.

‘It would not be good for you to be seen as fast,’ Judith explained after taking a sip from her own glass, ‘if you are to be accepted by the haut ton. You are not in Constantinople now—or Vienna.’

‘I suppose not. I think your mama had the right of it. I need advice. Are you indeed willing to give me your support, Judith?’

‘I think it would be the most delightful thing.’ Judith put down her glass and all but clapped her hands with pleasure. ‘It is just that you must be careful not to offend. You will wish to acquire tickets for Almack’s, I suppose. And the patronesses are so strict, unpleasant even. The slightest whiff of scandal and they could refuse—and that would be fatal for anyone wishing to cut a dash in London.’

‘Oh, there is no problem there.’ Thea wafted away the problem with an elegant sweep of her hand. ‘My mother is thick as thieves with Princess Esterhazy. They have known each other for ever—in diplomatic circles, you understand.’

‘Oh dear. I did not mean to imply …’ Instant colour rose in Judith’s cheeks to clash with her hair.

‘No matter. I know that she is not liked. But she can be very informative when she is not lecturing or finding fault. Perhaps you would be so kind as to drive or ride with me in the Park and point out some of the people I should know. And not know, of course, for I have not the least idea. Unless they are very entertaining. Have you noticed that those who are most scandalous and shunned by polite society are the most pleasurable to know?’

‘I suppose so. I had not thought.’ Judith’s eyes grew round with astonishment.

‘One has only to look at Lord Byron. Most unacceptable, but totally fascinating.’

‘Well—yes. I agree. I suppose … Are you acquainted with my Lord Byron?’

‘I know of him—all the scandals and the notoriety that he enjoys. And read his works of course. I thoroughly enjoyed The Corsair, but I think my mother would not welcome his lordship as a visitor to her withdrawing room. However free thinking she might claim to be, she disapproves of unbridled volatility above all things.’

Judith could think of no reply to this revelation.

‘So will you help, Judith?’ Thea returned to her original plea. ‘I think we should deal well together.’

‘I should be delighted.’ Judith found her voice at last. And felt as if she had just been swept along by a positive whirlwind!

‘On first acquaintance, I think that London could offer me a deal of pleasure.’ Thea took another sip of ratafia with remarkably smooth features and looked hopeful.

‘Oh, yes.’ Judith gave a sigh of satisfaction and silently thanked her mama. Theodora Wooton-Devereux could just be a gift from heaven. But what polite society would make of Miss Wooton-Devereux, Judith could not imagine. It would be just too fascinating to discover. She decided to take the matter in hand immediately.

‘If I might say, Thea—that is a very pretty stole. Quite eye-catching.’

‘Yes. I like it.’ Thea rearranged the folds of the scarf. ‘I bought it in Palmyra. It is considered to be very typical of the delicate work produced in that city.’ She caught a look in Judith’s eye. ‘Is there perhaps a problem with it? You must tell me, for I have not the slightest inclination.’

‘Well—yes, it is certainly very attractive—but perhaps not for morning wear, you understand, as it is rather … decorative! For an afternoon visit it would be unexceptional. Or an evening at home. I hope that you do not mind me mentioning it?’

‘Why, no.’ Thea held up the luxurious fringing for inspection. ‘Really? I would not have known. And I would dislike above all things to be considered lacking in taste. There! I said that we might deal well together, dear Judith.’

‘I do hope so.’ The Countess nodded with satisfaction.

‘Now, enough of me. Tell me about yourself and your family.’ Thea folded her hands in her lap and set herself to be sociable. ‘Is your husband at home?’

‘No, he is not. Simon has gone to Newmarket! I am quite vexed about it.’

‘Ah! I understand that you have a young son.’

‘Oh, yes. Giles. Now he is quite adorable. Come and see.’

Thea sighed a little, but was determined to fulfil her social duties. After all, she owed Judith much for her unaffected welcome of an unknown lady to her home, and suspected that she would owe her more before her sojourn in London came to an end. With a not quite enthusiastic smile, but a sharp relief at being able to abandon the much disliked ratafia, she followed Judith up the sweep of the staircase to the nursery to meet the heir to the Painscastle inheritance, prepared to admire and be charmed as was required.

Why her mother thought she needed a husband and children of her own, she could not imagine!

Thea returned to the smart rented property in Upper Brook Street, worthy of one of his Majesty’s Ambassadors, to find a chaotic scene of boxes and packages littering the generous entrance hall. Their luggage, it appeared, had finally caught up with them. Servants, hired with the house, were in evidence and in the centre of it all, directing operations with imperious manner and a list in her hand, was Lady Drusilla. As wife to the Ambassador, she had successfully moved homes—and countries—many times. Sir Hector was, sensibly, nowhere to be seen. There was no hope, Thea realised, of her making an entrance undetected, so she did not try.

‘Theodora! Where have you been? And without your maid—do not even try to deny it! Agnes informed me of your sneaking off within minutes of your leaving the house! As you must know she would!’

Thea bridled at the onslaught, even if it was expected. It was simply one more nail in the coffin of her much-prized freedom. ‘If you had wished me to follow every social convention, you should have brought me up differently, Mama.’ Her eyes snapped with irritation. She would have a few well-chosen words with Agnes Drew, her childhood nurse and now her maid—or perhaps more of a companion and confidante—whose loyalty seemed to be as much to Lady Drusilla as to herself.

‘True. I myself have no time for many of them. That one. And that.’ The lady pointed at two boxes and crossed them off her list as they were carried away. ‘But here in London—it is important to have a care.’

‘I have been out of the house barely two hours—and done nothing to draw attention to myself.’ Thea narrowed her eyes at her mother’s back. ‘How should you think otherwise! Your opinion of me is not flattering, Mama.’

‘Nonsense! My opinion of you is of the highest as you are very well aware. But by the end of the Season I hope to have acquired a rich and titled husband for you.’ She announced her intentions with supreme disregard for the interested audience of maids and footmen around her.

‘I know. An Earl. Any one of them will do, however old and ill favoured. As long as he is titled and rich! And available!’

‘Now, Theodora! I have it on the best authority—from your father, no less—that the Earl of Moreton is in town. He is neither old nor ill favoured and has, I am given to understand, considerable address. Since he also has the advantage of being unmarried, he sounds to be just the thing. I have every hope.’ For the first time, Lady Drusilla gave her daughter her full attention and noted the heightened colour in her cheeks, hardly engendered by a gentle stroll along Upper Brook Street, plus the sparkle in her eyes, which denoted a flash of temper. ‘What have you been doing to put yourself so out of countenance?’

‘Nothing. I am not out of countenance.’ Except that she was after listening for an hour—was it only an hour?—to Judith singing the praises of a husband who seemed pleasant enough, but dull in the extreme. An equally tedious lifestyle of trivial pursuits and pastimes in London, of visits and conversations with the same set of acquaintance day after day, week after week. Winter spent incarcerated in the depths of the country, trapped by bad weather and worse roads. Was that the life for which she was destined? She shuddered at the prospect. There was no point telling her mama, who had quite made up her mind, of her fears, her depressing thoughts. But she did not have to like it. Or the unknown Earl of Moreton!

‘So, where have you been?’

‘To pay a morning call on Lady Painscastle.’

‘I see. I am quite sure that you should not have done that without an invitation, Thea.’ Lady Drusilla frowned her disapproval, but kept her tone light.

‘Oh, she did not mind. I liked her. And she did not turn me from the door—although her butler would have dearly liked to.’ A faint smile illuminated Thea’s face at the memory.

‘It is all your own fault if you allow servants the opportunity to patronise you, my dear.’ Thea had to admire her mother’s worldly wisdom expressed so casually. ‘Take your maid in future! And wear a hat. I expect it is not at all the thing to go about with your head uncovered. At least you had the sense to wear gloves.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘So?’ Lady Drusilla raised her brows. ‘What has ruffled your feathers?’

Thea sighed a little. ‘Do I really need a husband?’

‘Yes. We have had this conversation before. You know my reasons—and your father’s, of course.’

‘But I have enjoyed independence for all my twenty-one years. Travel. Culture. Pleasing myself. Why can I not continue to do so?’

‘You cannot travel for the rest of your life, Theodora. It is not suitable.’

‘But you have.’ Thea sat herself down on one of the unopened wooden packing cases, swinging her reticule carelessly by its silken strings.

‘I had the felicity to meet and marry your father. Such opportunities as wife to a royal Ambassador are not given to everyone. You need a husband who will admire you for your qualities and allow you freedom to express yourself. As Sir Hector allowed me. I hope you will not break anything in that case on which you are sitting!’

Thea hid a smile. Secretly she doubted that Sir Hector had had any choice in his wife’s chosen lifestyle. ‘Does such a husband exist for me, do you suppose?’

‘Of course.’

Thea pursed her pretty lips, looking sceptical, but made no reply.

‘It is merely a matter of learning a few rules, knowing how to go on. And if you could pretend to be demure and biddable for a few weeks—’

‘Ha!’

‘And converse in a genteel and respectful manner, without interruption—’

‘About fashion and embroidery, the latest dance and the latest on dit.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Oh, Mama. What have you committed me to!’

‘It is not purgatory, my love.’

‘And growing my hair into curls and ringlets again, if the glances I received today are anything to say to the matter.’

‘I told you that you should not have been so extravagant! But you would do it!’ Lady Drusilla stepped round a pair of leather travelling cases and leaned to kiss her daughter lightly on the cheek. She understood and sympathised with her concerns very well. ‘You are a lovely young woman of whom I am very proud. Whether you grow your hair again, my love, is purely a matter of your own personal choice.’

‘I have no intention of doing so.’ Thea returned the salute and rose to her feet. ‘By the by, I arranged for us to pay an afternoon call on Lady Beatrice Faringdon tomorrow if that suits.’

‘Certainly. An excellent idea. My acquaintance with Lady Beatrice is from the very distant past, when we were still girls, but she is, I think, knowledgeable and accommodating. And, most important, has entrée to the best families in London. So begins our first step in the campaign.’ Lady Drusilla crossed off two more items on her list. ‘Did you learn anything other of import?’

‘No. Except that this stole is pretty enough, but far more suitable for evening wear than for a morning visit.’ The lady raised her brows, her mouth curling into a mischievous smile, as she lifted the delicate scarf from her shoulders.

‘Oh.’ Lady Drusilla inspected the garment with sudden interest. ‘Perhaps we shall need a new wardrobe. It would not do to be regarded as provincial. Or oriental in our case! What is suitable in Constantinople is quite plainly not suitable here.’

The two ladies exchanged smiles, their differences reconciled.

‘Let us go and discuss the matter with your father. Who, you will notice, has absented himself from all this.’ She waved her hand in an expansive gesture at the chaos around her feet, then handed her list with great willingness to one of the footmen. ‘And then, dear Thea, when we have some funds at our disposal, perhaps a stroll down Bond Street would be in order.’

On the following afternoon Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux and her daughter, with Agnes Drew discreetly, if a trifle smugly, in attendance, applied the knocker to Lady Beatrice Faringdon’s imposing establishment in Berkeley Square. Expected, they were admitted and ushered into the lady’s withdrawing room.

‘Drusilla. My dear.’ Lady Beatrice surged to her feet with a rustle of the puce damask that shrouded her opulent figure and clashed uncomfortably with her fading red hair. ‘And this must be your daughter. Theodora.’ She held out a hand in greeting, then halted, the hand falling to her side, and raised her lorgnette to deadly effect. She did not need to apply the lens as her eyesight was perfect. But the gesture was guaranteed to make an impression. She levelled the glass at her friend’s daughter, surveyed her with a critical thoroughness from head to foot, and drew in a breath.

‘Well. Caro Lamb, as I live and breathe!’

Which unwise comment was guaranteed to bring about a distinct pause in the proceedings. Lady Caroline Ponsonby, as she was before her marriage to William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, was a spoiled capricious beauty whose appearance, behaviour and wild, tempestuous affair with Lord Byron some years previously had scandalised a notoriously decadent society.

Theodora took it upon herself to reply, with the politest of smiles, before her mother could intervene. But there was a noticeable edge to her voice and a glint in her eye, which might be interpreted as a challenge to their hostess. ‘I hope that my upbringing has been more respectable than that of Lady Melbourne. It is certainly not my intention to distress my relatives by my outrageous behaviour or to take the town by storm in quite the same manner as that unfortunate lady. I would consider it exceptionally bad ton either to fly into a fit of rage in public, or to attempt to slash my wrists with broken glass.’

Lady Beatrice actually coloured at the implied set-down.

‘Forgive me, my dear girl! Drusilla! It was not my intention to be so ill mannered. It is just … The hair, you understand. So fair … and so short. And so slender a figure. A mere fleeting impression, I do assure you.’ She thought for a moment and raised her glass again. ‘You have not been ill, have you?’

‘Of course she has not.’ Lady Drusilla stepped into the breach with calming words, a gracious smile for Lady Beatrice and a narrowed glance toward her daughter. ‘We have travelled extensively in recent months in Arabia to see some of the archaeological sites. Theodora found it expedient to cut her hair. The sand is a great trial, you understand, and not kind to long hair. Theodora is always excessively healthy!’

‘Of course. Forgive me, dear Drusilla …’ Lady Beatrice almost gushed.

‘And is nothing like poor Caro Lamb.’

‘Indeed no. My wits must have abandoned me.’ Lady Beatrice managed to recover her air of self-assurance and smiled with a trifle more warmth at the young lady who still regarded her with the coolest of expressions. ‘And so charmingly dressed. I remember seeing Lady Melbourne in the most inappropriate gowns—if you could call them that—with not a stitch on beneath them, I warrant. Little wonder that she always looked as if a brisk breeze would demolish her. Some of the young girls today …’ Lady Beatrice shook her head and brought her thoughts in line. ‘But that is of no account. I am so delighted to see you again. Come and sit. And you, Theodora. How long is it since we last met, Drusilla?’

‘Far too long to contemplate!’

The difficulties over, the three ladies sat, the two older ones intent on catching up over a dish of tea. Their paths had not crossed since school girls at Miss Felton’s Academy for Young Ladies in Bath. Drusilla Hatton, as a daughter of wealthy parents, had even then nursed ambitions to travel and experience for herself what life could offer. Beatrice had been destined for a Season in London and as advantageous a marriage as she could achieve. The two girls had parted with many tears and protestations of undying loyalty. They would keep in touch. But they had not. And so of necessity the ladies had grown apart.

As the two ladies set to reminisce, Thea let her thoughts wonder, listening with only half an ear to the less than exciting doings of her parent at the Academy in Bath. What could they find to talk about that was of interest after all these years? It all sounded desperately dull and hedged about with restriction and parental expectations. She hid a yawn with considerable expertise. It reminded her of the worst of formal diplomatic receptions where nothing happened to relieve the tedium and no one had anything of moment to say after the introductions had been made. Thea fervently wished that she had found another occupation for the afternoon—until a stray comment from Lady Beatrice caught her attention.

‘You had a sister, I remember. A year or so older, at school with us. Mary, I think.’

Thea’s eyes snapped to her mother’s face.

‘Yes. You have a good memory.’

I did not know that my mother had a sister! Why did I not know? Lady Drusilla’s reply was smooth enough, and yet Thea sensed the slightest of hesitations, a hint of reserve in her voice. She turned her attention fully.

‘Does she live in London?’ Lady Beatrice went on to enquire.

‘No. Mary lived her whole life in the country. And is now dead. Some years ago.’

‘I am sorry. Did she perhaps have family?’

‘Yes. Two … two children. But we had not kept in touch. There was … an estrangement. Her marriage was not an easy one. I was not made welcome in her house.’

‘You need not tell me about difficult marriages …’

The conversation moved on, leaving Thea to wonder about this branch of the family of which she was completely unaware.

The visit drew to a natural close when the ladies ran out of events and people to recall, criticise and chuckle over.

‘As you know, we do not expect to remain long in London.’ Lady Drusilla drew on her gloves in preparation to making her departure. ‘But it is my wish to see my daughter married. You were kind enough to offer to ease our entrée into London society. I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently, Beatrice.’

‘It will be my pleasure. At the end of the week I have an invitation to Lady Aston’s drum. All the world and his wife will be there, I expect. It has been my intention to get up a small party—just family and close friends, you understand. I am expecting my nephew Nicholas to arrive here from the country any day—that is, if his recent correspondence rings true. But he is a difficult boy to pin down, with a mind of his own, and getting him to put in an appearance in town is more aggravating than you could possibly believe …’ Lady Beatrice shook her head and huffed in indulgent irritation at the vagaries of her wiful relative. ‘But that aside—you, my dear Drusilla, must come as my guest. It will be the perfect opportunity for you. And for Theodora to make some acquaintances.’

‘We shall be delighted.’ Lady Drusilla rose to her feet. ‘It is my intention to entertain from Upper Brook Street, but we are not yet fully settled, as you might imagine.’

‘Perhaps I might suggest—’ Lady Beatrice cast another assessing glance towards Thea, who stood demurely beside her mother as if the visit had provided her with nothing but delight ‘—the matter of suitable dresses for dear Theodora. Not that she does not look charming. But …’

They both eyed the lady in question as if she were a strange object from antiquity.

‘I thought she looked particularly fetching this afternoon.’ Lady Drusilla stood back to take in the overall impression created by a high-waisted walking dress with long tight sleeves and a ruched hem in an eye-catching emerald and cream stripe.

‘Yes. There is no question of that …’ Beatrice was quick to soothe. ‘But not quite in the way of a débutante.’

Lady Drusilla gave a little sigh. ‘I have to admit that my daughter is not perhaps quite in the way of the usual débutante! I fear that it is my fault.’

‘How old are you, my dear?’ Lady Beatrice asked.

‘I am twenty-one, Lady Beatrice.’ Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Thea could not prevent herself from adding, ‘I fear that I have no control over that unfortunate situation.’

‘Mmm.’ The lorgnette came into play again. Lady Beatrice came to a rapid and sensible decision. ‘Well. We will not allow it to be a problem. Perhaps we should say that Theodora made her curtsy to the Polite World in Constantinople. I am sure there were any number of official functions there which she attended.’

‘Indeed she did. She helped me entertain on numerous occasions. She is perfectly versed in how to go on in such circles, so I have no fears on that account.’

Thea set her teeth against being talked over and around in such a fashion but, more amused than discomfited, allowed the ladies to continue their plans.

‘She will need some suitable dresses. With a less—shall we say, exotic flavour. I am not sure what it is, but … Such a vibrant shade with such intricate decoration is not quite suitable for a young girl …’

‘Very well. I bow to your judgement. Perhaps tomorrow morning we should visit the modistes in Bond Street. If you could recommend …?’

‘I shall do more than recommend, dear Drusilla. I shall be delighted to accompany you …’

And so it was all settled. Theodora would make her curtsey at Lady Aston’s drum, tastefully dressed, as far a possible, à la jeune fille.

The ladies parted in complete accord and satisfaction.

‘Why did I not know of your sister? That I have cousins?’ The two Wooton-Devereux ladies strolled home along Park Lane, parasols angled to shield their skin from the rays of the sun.

‘The subject never came up.’ Thea detected the slightest of shrugs as her mother replied. Nor was she fooled by the bland expression on her face.

‘Mama!’

‘We—Mary and I—were estranged,’ Lady Drusilla explained further. ‘I found it … painful. As I told Beatrice, we had had no contact for many years.’

‘But you knew that she had died.’

‘Yes. It was reported in the Morning Post. When we were in Paris.’

‘I just thought you would have mentioned it—the fact that there were members of the family whom I had never met.’

‘I suppose that I did not see any reason to do so. I had no intention of picking up the connection with that side of the family. There was nothing more sinister than that, I do assure you, Thea. Such estrangements happen in families. You have only to look at your father’s cousin. He has not spoken to his own son for the best part of a decade.’

‘I see.’

‘Mary and I simply did not get on.’

Thea let the matter drop, but did not forget it. And it struck her some time later that during the whole of Lady Drusilla’s explanation her eyes, usually so direct and forthright, had never once met those of her daughter.