Читать книгу Society's Most Scandalous Rake - Isabelle Goddard - Страница 7

Joshua turned abruptly on his heels and headed back towards the Pavilion, his temper frayed. He needed to be alone and Charlotte Severn could easily be left to the escort of Moncaster, whom he had noticed in the distance. He was angry with her for intervening in his conversation with Domino and even more annoyed that she had promised an invitation to one of her celebrated soirées. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to keep Domino to himself, or at the very least not expose her to the intimacies of the Severn household.

He had no intention of seducing the young girl, that was not his style, but neither did he want her knowing a woman such as Charlotte. That lady might be the wife of one of the premier dukes of the land, but she had the soul of a courtesan. The role suited her well and she should stick to it, he thought, rather than attempting to befriend the young and inexperienced. The Royal Pavilion was a suitable milieu for her. Every kind of dubious pleasure was available there and she had a husband happy to look away while she played. His Grace was content in his declining years to puff off his wife’s beauty and retire to the lure of the gaming table. He was one of the Regent’s most assiduous companions, not least because he was so wealthy that it mattered little to him how much money he lost.

Charlotte had access to wealth untold—but that was not enough, Joshua reflected wryly. It hardly compensated for a dull and ageing husband. He remembered when he had first seen her two years ago—Wiesbaden, it was, at the town’s most opulent casino, and seated at the hazard table. She had looked across at him, her eyes staring straight into his, their porcelain blue still and expressionless, but nevertheless saying all they needed to say. That very night they had become lovers and from time to time continued to meet. But for long stretches of the year the duchess could not shrug off the duties incumbent on her position and that suited him well. There were always others happy to keep him company and lengthy periods of absence had until recently staved off the inevitable ennui which acquaintance with any woman produced. Or any woman since that first disastrous love affair.

But things were changing. He didn’t know if it was the sea air stirring his blood and making him restless, but something had altered in him. Charlotte Severn no longer beguiled him and his frustration at being part of the Regent’s sycophantic court was beginning to acquire a sharper edge. And the girl—she had something to do with it, too. It wasn’t just that he wanted to bed her; that was as certain as it was unlikely. It was, he thought, that he had enjoyed their encounters, enjoyed her vitality, her verve, the zest with which she resisted his raillery. He had met her on three occasions and each time behind his gentle mockery he had wanted to explore, to discover more, to begin to know her. Today she had looked enchanting in peaches and cream and yet another rakish bonnet, those dark tragic eyes looking out at him so scornfully from beneath its brim. They could be made to wear another expression, he was sure. If ever he felt mad enough to risk exile again, he would savour the challenge. Charlotte’s companionship had never seemed more irksome; she had stepped between them, muddying the waters, placing her footprint where only his had previously been.

The duchess was waiting for him in the outer vestibule of the Pavilion. If his temper had improved with the circuitous route he had taken, hers certainly had not. He barely had a foot through the door when she addressed him in a voice crisp with indignation.

‘There you are, Mr Marchmain. I had begun to think I had lost you.’

‘Why is that, Your Grace?’ He would be as formal as she.

‘Not unnaturally, I awaited your escort from the Chapel Royal. But when I turned to call on your services, you had gone.’

‘Forgive me. I felt in need of a slightly longer walk and I am aware that it is not a pastime you favour.’

‘A walk with you is always a pleasure, Joshua,’ she replied in a more conciliatory tone.

‘Then forgive me once more. Had I known, I would certainly have requested your company,’ he lied.

She fixed him with a cold, enquiring eye. ‘How is it that you know the ambassador’s daughter?’

‘I was representing the Regent last night, if you remember,’ he said indifferently. ‘We met at her father’s diplomatic reception.’

‘You seem already to be on good terms with her.’

‘Why should I not be? I understand the need for England to maintain a good relationship with Spain.’

‘Ah, so that’s what it is.’

Leo Moncaster strode into the Octagon Hall as they talked and viewed the two tense figures with satirical amusement.

‘Quite a breeze blowing out there,’ he offered with an assumed bonhomie. ‘That’s the problem with being beside the sea, never without a wind. Still hopefully Prinny will soon get bored with coastal delights and leave for Carlton House within the month.’

His audience remained resolutely silent and his eyebrows rose enquiringly.

‘Have I been guilty of interrupting a private conversation? If so, my profuse apologies.’

‘Apologies are unnecessary. Your manners are never anything but perfect, Moncaster,’ Joshua remarked acidly, unable to conceal his dislike. ‘Her Grace and I were just about to part.’ And with that he strode off to his rooms, leaving Leo Moncaster looking quizzically at the duchess.

‘I realise I am hardly a favourite of Marchmain’s, but, beyond my unwelcome presence, what ails him?’

‘I imagine no more than a tedious sermon and a cold walk from the Chapel Royal.’

‘He seemed ruffled—uncharacteristically so.’

‘I may have annoyed him,’ the duchess admitted, her voice carefully neutral.

‘How so?’

‘I invited a young woman who appears to have become his protégée to one of my soirées. That apparently is not something to be done.’

‘And why not exactly?’

‘Possibly he thinks I may corrupt her innocence,’ Charlotte said with a knowing little smile. ‘Would you be so good, Leo, as to escort me back to Steine House? A trifling distance, I know, but I prefer to have a reliable man by my side.’

Lord Moncaster offered his arm and they sailed past the waiting footman. He was not to be put off the scent, however, and as they walked through the Pavilion Gardens enquired, ‘And what innocence would that be, if she knows Joshua Marchmain well?’

‘Don’t be so crude, Leo. Joshua is a gentleman.’

‘You think so? Never trust a man not to sully innocence.’

‘I suppose you should know,’ she answered in a bored voice, ‘your reputation precedes you.’

‘At least I make no pretence to be other than I am,’ he responded harshly. ‘Marchmain is as much a rake; his pretence is to be something else.’

‘Joshua is a man of the world, but he is not a rake. He has discrimination.’

‘In seeking you out, dear lady?’

‘In seeking out a woman who is mature and experienced and with whom he can enjoy life to the full.’

‘As opposed to a girl who is young and naïve, yet sends his heartstrings singing.’

She bit her lip viciously, Moncaster observed with a sly glance. ‘Don’t say, my dear, that you’ve fallen in love with him. Not a good policy, not at all.’

‘Joshua and I understand each other very well.’

‘I wonder.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I wonder how well. After all, you knew nothing of this girl.’

‘That is because he made her acquaintance only yesterday.’

‘And who is this paragon of unsullied innocence?’

‘Her name is Domino de Silva. Domino, what a ridiculous name! Why, what’s the matter?’ The man beside her had stiffened imperceptibly.

‘De Silva, you say?’

‘Yes, do you know her?’

‘Shall we say I have had dealings with her.’ It was Lord Moncaster’s turn to look grim.

‘It sounds as though they were not entirely to your liking.’

‘They were not. I have a score to settle.’

‘I see.’ Charlotte Severn glanced covertly at the polished man accompanying her. He took his time before he spoke again.

‘Are you interested, perhaps? We might work well together.’

‘We might,’ she replied consideringly, ‘but for the moment I prefer to see what I can accomplish alone.’

‘Then let me give you a hint. Gaming.’

‘Gaming? In what way?’

‘A small chink in the armour. It is so fatally easy, is it not, when one is young and inexperienced, to find oneself adrift in a world one does not understand? Fatally easy to lose money, for instance, that one does not have. Then think of the shame, the scandal that would necessitate instant withdrawal from society.’

‘You are a wicked man, Leo.’

‘A practical man, my dear. And practical is what you should be. Marchmain may be the gentleman you profess, but he is a man, and a very attractive one, too. Think of that.’

The duchess did think of it. She hurried away to her chambers, a frown on her otherwise unblemished forehead, and immediately called for paper and pen.

Domino thought little more of Charlotte Severn. If her invitation ever materialised, she was sure she could depend on her father to rescue her. Alfredo was busier than ever and it seemed to Domino that whole days passed when she barely saw him. Looking for occupation, she decided to seek out one of the many art galleries that had sprung up in and around Brighton under the Regent’s patronage. Prince George loved art and so, by default, did his courtiers—or, at least, they maintained the pretence that they did. But rather than attend the Picture Gallery on Grand Parade, which boasted an unrivalled collection of Italian and French art, she chose a newer and much quieter gallery situated to the north of the town. It was an unfashionable area and little visited by the nobility, but Domino had recently seen a flyer advertising the Grove Gallery’s latest exhibition and had been intrigued by the more experimental art it was offering for sale. Mindful of Carmela’s repeated injunctions, she took Flora with her.

It was a beautiful early July morning when they struck inland towards New England farm and the scattering of modern houses that had been built nearby. A delighted Flora chattered incessantly as they walked, for accompanying her mistress was a rare treat and she was determined to provide amusement on the arduous walk uphill. Listening to the unending flow with only one ear, Domino hoped fervently that her maid would run out of words well before they reached their destination.

Thirty minutes walking had brought them to the top of the Dyke Road, the main thoroughfare north out of Brighton, and Flora was still talking. They found the gallery easily enough, the only building apart from a scattering of new villas, set amongst fields where cows were placidly grazing amid the shadows. Not even Carmela could find dangers lurking in such a tranquil setting, Domino thought, and felt justified in asking the garrulous Flora to await for her outside. Gratefully she trod over the threshold and felt the silence fall like a gentle cloak on her shoulders. The interior was bright and airy, a large rectangular space, its walls hung with green baize and its floor covered by a rough drugget. The paintings were displayed seemingly at random, but the brilliant light emanating high up from latticed casements that encircled the entire top of the rectangle illuminated them perfectly. She looked about her with pleasure and began to relax.

The paintings were certainly unusual. She wasn’t at all sure she liked them, though they were for the most part ingeniously executed. But there was one landscape that caught her eye and slowed her steps: the Downs on a tempestuous day, the grass, the bushes, the trees, all bending seawards in the westerly wind, seeming to tumble unstoppably towards the troubled and racing waters in the distance. A glorious sense of freedom, brought to life so strongly in the painting, swept through her. She wanted to awake every morning to that wild landscape, feel its energy and be invigorated. But the price tag was far beyond her means. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, she could return next year when she had inherited the very large fortune that awaited her—but then someone else would hold the purse strings. Perhaps that someone else would have a love of art too, would see how very special this picture was. But no, that was too fanciful. If he took any pleasure in painting, it would not be an English landscape that would hang in his bedroom. Our bedroom, she thought, and quaked at the thought of the intimacies that must be shared with a virtual stranger.

‘Are you going to buy it?’

Joshua Marchmain! The man seemed forever destined to disturb her peace. He had expressed a strong interest in art, but why had he chosen to visit this morning, and this gallery? The latter was soon explained.

‘You would be doing a friend of mine a favour if you did—buy it, I mean.’

His voice was light and amused. She looked at him smiling lazily down at her, a shaft of sunlight pouring through the glass atrium above and reflecting pinpoints of light in the gold of his hair. As always he was immaculately dressed: a perfectly cut coat of dark blue superfine, an embroidered waistcoat of paler blue and close-fitting cream pantaloons. Despite the fashionable dress, he was no dandy. Domino was acutely aware of his body so close, so taut and hard, a body a woman could easily melt against. A wave of desire suddenly knotted her stomach and began its destructive trail through every fibre. She was genuinely shocked at her response and there was an uncomfortable pause before she was able to gather her wits together and wish him a prim good morning.

‘I take it that your friend is the painter and this is his exhibition.’

‘It is, and he is doing the painterly thing and starving in a garret.’

‘Then, surely, you should be helping him.’

‘I am very willing, but he won’t hear of it. He maintains that he must live by his brush and his brush alone, and there are only so many paintings one individual can buy. So you see how important it is that you purchase his most treasured work. It’s a splendid scene, is it not?’

He wondered if she would listen to the alarm bells clanging in her head, murmur something innocuous and move on, but her reply was one of genuine warmth.

‘I think it wonderful—so wild and natural, so full of energy and joy.’

‘Now I wonder why those qualities should appeal to you.’

The familiar flush flamed her cheeks and, seeing it, he made a vow to tread more carefully. He was intrigued by this delightful girl and, if he wanted to know her better, he would have to be sure to confine his remarks to the unexceptional. He offered her his arm.

‘Since we are both here, Miss de Silva, do allow me to escort you around the rest of the exhibition.’

She hesitated for a fraction and he was relieved when good manners triumphed over churlishness. A lace-mittened hand was placed lightly on his arm and they began a stately progress around the gallery. He was hopeful that she would share his enthusiasm for the art and delighted when she willingly joined him in appraising the pictures they viewed, her dark eyes glowing with pleasure.

She was simply dressed in sprig muslin, but its soft folds and pleats revealed an exquisite young figure. From time to time her warm limbs touched his as they walked slowly side by side around the vast space and he felt his body stiffen in response. He wondered what those delightful curves would feel like beneath his hands and how soft that full mouth would be in meeting his.

‘How have you become so knowledgeable, Mr Marchmain?’

Her words cut through this delightful fantasy and he was forced to administer a sharp mental shake before he could reply calmly, ‘I think you might find the experts would quarrel with your use of the word knowledgeable. But I have travelled widely in Europe and have always made a point of seeking out the very best art each city could offer.’

‘And have you kept travelling?’ she asked wonderingly.

His voice when he answered was unusually sombre. ‘There were a few years when I stayed put, years when I rented rooms in a Venetian palazzo. I found that an ideal location for painting.’

‘It must have been. I’ve only ever seen pictures of Venice and I long to visit myself.’

‘Then you must and as soon as possible. I would say that you were made for that city.’

And his gaze swept lingeringly over her: creamy olive skin, upturned nose and sorrowful dark eyes did not make a classical beauty, but something infinitely more charming. She blushed again and he silently chided himself. She was bewitching, that was the problem. She was so serious and yet so full of youthful energy that he wanted to open up the world for her and watch her smile. He was surprised by the force of his feelings.

‘Do you still stay in Venice?’

‘No longer, I fear. I inherited a property in England and it became necessary to return and become a responsible proprietor.’

‘And where is your home now?’

‘I would hardly call it home, but the house is known as Castle March. It’s in Norfolk. Do you know it?’ She shook her head. ‘It is a large estate and needs managing. I ought to spend more time there, but ruralising in the depths of the English countryside is not exactly my forte.’

‘I am sure that country living must have its own attractions.’

‘Possibly—but only, I imagine, if you have someone to share them with.’ Instantly he wished he had remained silent. That was the kind of remark that sent her into retreat. ‘It can be pretty bleak in the fens for much of the year, so company is always welcome,’ he offered, trying to retrieve the situation.

But she had taken alarm and detached herself from his arm. She adjusted the ribbons of her bonnet and thanked him prettily but firmly for his escort. In a moment she had disappeared out of the door and he was left to fume at his clumsiness. For a man of his address, he was managing extremely poorly, he thought. What was it about her that made him as maladroit as some untried adolescent? It could only be the enchantment of youth. For years he had strictly confined his most intimate attentions to experienced women; he had forgotten how utterly disarming innocent beauty could be.

The minute Domino stepped through the front door she saw the letter lying menacingly on the hall table and knew immediately from whom it came. The envelope was of thick cream vellum and bore a ducal crest. Charlotte Severn’s invitation had arrived. The duchess’s words uttered in the heat of the moment had been made good, but Domino had no wish to open the letter. She had taken the woman in dislike; why exactly she was unsure, but her father’s condemnation had served only to underline the distaste she felt.

It was clear that the duchess was a close friend of Joshua Marchmain and he was certain to attend her social events. For that reason alone she would be reluctant to go. She had spent an engaging hour with him this afternoon, but he was a man she needed to avoid. He was dangerous to her peace of mind; the laughing eyes flecked with gold, the languorous gaze, had made her whole body burn in shameful response and promised the kind of pleasure she dared not think of. He was most definitely not a gentleman. He might dress as one and mix with ease in ton society, but he was rash and reckless and constantly put her out of countenance. How very unlike Richard, who was just as handsome but mindful of the proprieties and careful never to overstep the line. Joshua would not even recognise the existence of a line. He was undoubtedly a rake—a charming one, but someone with whom she should have no further commerce.

Her assumption that her father would prevent her attending the entertainment at Steine House proved false. When he walked into the dining room that evening, he was waving the duchess’s card in his hand.

‘The Duchess of Severn.’ Then, seeing his daughter’s long face, he said firmly, ‘I think we must attend, Domino.’

‘Could you not go alone, Papa?’

‘I would prefer to, certainly. I am not at all keen that you further your acquaintance with the lady. But I fear we would give grave offence if you were to refuse.’

‘But I am of no importance,’ she persuaded eagerly. ‘It is your position as ambassador that has prompted her to write.’

‘I think not. The invitation was issued directly to you at the Chapel Royal. And my position, as you put it, means that I dare not offend anyone as influential as the Severns. The duke belongs to the Regent’s inner circle.’

Domino made no reply, but sat erect, hands in her lap, and looked blankly ahead.

‘Will it be such a trial, querida? We will stay no more than a couple of hours, I promise. And you will have me by your side the whole time.’

‘I’m sorry, Papa, I’m being a goose.’ Domino leaned across the table and gave him a loving hug. ‘I had hoped the duchess had forgotten me.’

‘Unfortunately not. I only hope her remembrance does not signify that she wishes “to take you up”, as they say here. Your standing would not be enhanced by her favour.’ Alfredo sighed deeply. ‘Negotiating our way successfully through the English Court was never going to be easy, but I may have underestimated the difficulties.’

A thought struck him and he brightened. ‘Carmela can attend with us, then your being singled out for an invitation will not look so particular.’

Carmela, who had retired from the table and was sitting on the cushioned window seat reading an improving work, put her book down with a sharp slap. Her face glowered.

‘I mean no disrespect to you, cousin, but nothing on earth would induce me to attend that woman’s party.’

‘Carmela, how is this? She may not be precisely to our taste, but she is a great noblewoman,’ Alfredo chided her.

‘Is that what you call it? We have a different word for it in Spain.’

He looked warningly at her and then back to Domino.

‘What is that, Carmela?’ Domino asked innocently.

Her cousin compressed her lips. ‘Suffice to say that she is a married woman, but does not behave as one. She would not be welcome at any house belonging to our family.’

Domino looked shocked. ‘You mean she has lovers?’

Carmela appeared to struggle with herself for a moment, but then decided where her duty lay.

‘I do not generally indulge in idle gossip, as I hope you know,’ she said repressively, ‘but I think it right that you should be on your guard. In the few weeks we have been in Brighton I have heard disquieting things about the Duchess of Severn. I believe that her current lover has followed her here and is even now residing at the Pavilion.’

Domino glanced at her father, urgently seeking his reassurance, but no denial was forthcoming. His face was set and he refused to meet her eyes. Suddenly she understood. Joshua Marchmain was that lover. That was why he had been so irritated at the Chapel Royal. He had not wanted her to make the duchess’s acquaintance, had not wanted her to know the truth of their supposed friendship. She felt herself flushing hotly, embarrassed at having been so naïve. Flushing, too, with a kind of pain. But why on earth did she feel that? Had she been stupid enough to think there was any kind of connection between them?

It was true that he had singled her out at her father’s reception and engaged her in lengthy conversation. He had even talked sensibly and interestingly about art. But that was misleading. She should remember her first encounter with him as she walked by the sea; his conduct had been predatory, light-hearted and amusing, it was true, but nevertheless predatory. Even outside the church on Sunday he had not been able to resist throwing out lures to her. He was a womaniser for whom every female was fair game, even as his mistress was living a mere stone’s throw away. The thought of visiting Steine House was loathsome.

A few days later, an unwelcome message arrived at Marine Parade. Señor de Silva was required to return to London immediately. News had arrived from Spain too confidential to be entrusted to a messenger and it was necessary for the ambassador to post up to Manchester House. He would spend only one night away, but it looked unlikely that he would return to Brighton in time for Charlotte Severn’s soirée.

Alfredo was faced with a quandary. He had no wish to expose his daughter to the malign influence of Steine House without his protection but, at the same time, he knew that it was essential he was represented at what would be a prestigious affair. He would let Domino herself decide.

‘I hardly like to ask this of you, my dear,’ he began tentatively, ‘but would you be willing to go to the duchess’s concert by yourself for a short while? I could no doubt arrange for an older lady to take you under her wing until I return. Once I am back in Brighton, I will make haste to join you at Steine House. Or perhaps Carmela could swallow her misgivings? If she would agree to attend, it would make things a great deal more comfortable.’

The women’s despondent expressions hardly promised comfort. Attending the event without the support of Señor de Silva was the last thing either of them wished to contemplate. But they both found themselves agreeing to his suggestion, Domino because she loved her father dearly and knew that he would not ask this of her unless it was necessary and Carmela because the family’s honour was at stake and that was sufficient to call forth her loyalty.

So it was that at six o’clock on a balmy Friday evening the two of them set off in a hired carriage for Steine House. It had an infamous reputation, for it was the home the Regent had purchased for his long-standing mistress and unofficial wife, Maria Fitzherbert. She still resided there and was hardly ever seen beyond its walls, though the Prince was said even now to visit her frequently, despite a legal marriage and many subsequent lovers. Rumour insisted that a tunnel ran via the adjoining Marlborough House to the basement of the royal palace. The Duke of Severn was an old friend of Mrs Fitzherbert and he and his wife were always made welcome in her home when they visited the town. The duke in particular could not bear to live permanently in the overheated Pavilion and always availed himself of this hospitality.

The whispers that swirled around Steine House could only sharpen the aversion both Domino and her cousin felt at having to enter its portals. But when their carriage stopped outside, they saw only a graceful white stucco building with an Italian-style façade and a trellised verandah and balcony. A balustrade of carved ironwork led up a single flight of steps to a heavily ornamented glass door. Domino pinned on what she hoped was a polite smile and made ready to greet her hosts. She received a courteous welcome, the duke seeming to her young eyes horribly withered and old. No wonder the duchess looked elsewhere, she found herself musing, then promptly castigated herself for such an appalling thought. Steine House was already having a noxious effect. Once inside the main door, they were directed up a bamboo and iron staircase to a salon from which the strains of music could already be heard.

‘This is the staircase Lord Barrymore once rode his horse up for a bet,’ Carmela hissed in her ear.

Domino paused on the staircase, startled for a moment by her staid cousin’s incongruous knowledge of ton gossip. Where on earth did she hear such stories? As she stood balanced on one foot, she caught sight of her reflection in the long pier glass at the top of the stairs. She was pleased with what she saw. The apricot silk she had chosen, trimmed with gold edging and worn with an overdress of cream-coloured gauze, set off the creamy olive of her complexion perfectly. Her glossy ebony curls hung naturally to her neck in ringlets this evening and her eyes were sparkling, if only in apprehension. Carmela leaned forwards and tapped her wrist sharply with her fan, a painful reminder that in her cousin’s book any sign of vanity was sinful.

In a few moments they were in the large salon, a huge scarlet cavern of a room hung with red satin curtains and upholstered in red plush velvet. A uniformed footman ushered them to one of the rows of little gold chairs that had been arranged in the shape of a wide semi-circle. Domino sat down gingerly on one of the tiny chairs.

‘Be careful, Carmela,’ she warned, ‘these chair legs are so thin that one false fidget and the sound of matchwood will drown out the string quartet.’

Carmela permitted herself a slight smile and looked searchingly around the room. ‘I see nobody who came to our reception,’ she remarked disappointedly. ‘How strange when a most famous soprano is to sing.’

‘Evidently they have decided to miss the delights on offer.’ Including Joshua Marchmain, she noted wryly.

She told herself she was glad that at least this evening she would not have to face him. Yet, unaccountably, she felt a pang of disappointment. She had enjoyed her tour of the Grove Gallery. True, she had been put out of countenance once or twice by his infelicitous remarks, but she had spent nigh on an hour in his company discussing nothing more incendiary than art and European travel. He was interesting and intelligent, and though he had visited places she could only dream of, he had not made her feel the gauche girl she knew herself to be.

But rumour had named him the lover of any number of married women, including Charlotte Severn. Could rumour have possibly lied? In her heart she knew it could not. Mr Marchmain was a thorough-going rake and, if the sensations of her own unruly body were anything to judge by, he did not have to work too hard for his success. The shaft of intense desire that had pierced her so suddenly and so unexpectedly signalled clearly that she was in danger of being drawn into a whirlpool of feeling, with him at its centre. It was well for her that he was not here this evening.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the illustrious soprano, Bianca Bonelli.’

The duke led the famous singer, who had journeyed from Milan at his request, to a raised platform, kissing her hand enthusiastically while the string quartet began to play the opening piece of music. Domino set herself to listen with what she hoped was a thoughtful expression.

A late-arriving Joshua, hovering in the doorway, spotted her immediately and almost laughed aloud at her face, screwed up in concentration—or was that pain? If it was, it was a pain he shared. He made a swift escape to the library, where he would not be disturbed, but from where he could still hear the concert’s end.

And end it did, with a great deal of relief on Domino’s part. Carmela wore her usual severe expression but her spontaneous applause made clear her enjoyment. Hardly surprising, Domino thought, for the music had evinced a moral seriousness sufficient even for her cousin. The latter seemed eager to meet the musicians personally and, when the duchess suddenly appeared at their side, Carmela was whisked away for introductions and Domino found herself led by Charlotte into an adjoining salon where liveried footmen were circulating with drinks and canapés.

Her Grace deftly lifted two large flutes of champagne from a passing tray and said with an enticing smile, ‘I am so pleased you were able to come, Miss de Silva, as I collect your father has been forced to post back to London on urgent business.’

‘Indeed, Your Grace. He sends his most sincere apologies and will make every effort to join us this evening.’

‘I understand,’ she cooed, ‘and really it matters not. You are my prize, after all. I was entranced when we met at the Chapel Royal on Sunday and have spent all week wishing to know more of you.’

Domino doubted that very much. The woman’s insincerity was blatant, but she managed a gentle smile in response.

‘Tell me, do,’ the duchess continued, ‘how long are we to have the pleasure of your company in Brighton?’

‘For the Season, ma’am. I have undertaken to stay with my father while the Court is absent from London.’

For a moment the expression on her hostess’s face suggested she was not best pleased by this news, but she rallied immediately.

‘How delightful, for we are also destined to be here until the Prince returns to Carlton House. Let us toast our new acquaintanceship, Miss de Silva. I am sure we will be the best of friends.’

Domino could not think so, but politely raised her glass. Champagne bubbles shot up her nose and she had difficulty in preventing herself sneezing.

‘You see,’ Charlotte continued, ‘one meets so few new people in Brighton, the same dreary crowd year after year. So when a bright new star appears, one is drawn immediately towards them.’

Domino concluded that she must be the bright star, but was at a loss how to answer. She need not have worried, for the duchess was now in full flow.

‘You are so beautiful, my dear, and have such charming manners, that I prophesy prodigious success for you—you will be the toast of the town.’

This was so patently absurd that Domino was hard put not to laugh aloud. She knew herself to be well enough but, against the duchess’s blonde perfection, she was nothing. And she certainly had no ambition to take Brighton by storm. Quite the opposite—she anticipated several agreeable months by the sea, close to her father, before she returned to Spain to make the decision of her life.

The duchess continued to talk while she sipped her champagne. The drink was gradually becoming more acceptable, and when her companion substituted her empty glass for another fizzing to the brim, she hardly noticed. When the older woman took her by the hand, she allowed herself to be expertly steered through the crowd towards a smaller chamber at the far end of the salon.

‘In proof of my friendship, Miss de Silva—but may I call you Domino? Such a sweet and unusual name—I would very much like you to meet some particular friends of mine. Just a few congenial spirits whom I know you will esteem.’

Her head had begun to spin a little, but she retained enough caution to remind her hostess that Carmela should be with them.

‘But naturally, my dear. I shall introduce you to a few dear companions and then collect your cousin and bring her instantly to you.’

They were through the door before Domino could protest further. The room they entered, though smaller than the salon, was still a substantial size, thickly carpeted and curtained, deadening all sound and cutting the space adrift from the outside world. A number of people were gathered around three large tables set at different angles in the room; even in her befuddled state, she knew instantly that this was a gaming room. She pulled back sharply.

‘I am honoured, Your Grace, that you should wish to introduce me to your friends,’ she stumbled, ‘but I do not play cards or any other game of chance.’

‘Allow me to advise you, my dear, since you are still so very young.’ The duchess’s voice was honey. ‘You have undertaken to play the role of hostess for your father. In England, you know, polite society expects always to have the opportunity to indulge in games of chance and a hostess must be as well versed in them as her guests.’

‘I thank you again, Your Grace, but I do not gamble.’

‘Who said anything about gambling? Just a few friendly games, my dear.’

Domino felt deeply uncomfortable. She was finding it very difficult to continue refusing her hostess, but games of chance, whether money passed hands or not, were something she had sworn never again to engage in. She had learned her lesson all too well the last time she was in England. Gambling had a fatal attraction for her and she could not risk getting involved. But she could hardly say this to someone she barely knew, to a woman who occupied such an exalted position. Her head was definitely swimming now and her legs feeling decidedly unsafe. She felt the duchess’s hand on her shoulder and began to sink downwards to the waiting chair. The faces around the table looked up at her expectantly. In the distance other faces at other tables blurred into a misty vision. She longed to get away but she could not, in politeness, leave. Surely just one hand of cards would not matter. She would satisfy the demands of hospitality and then depart straight away. She took hold of the arms of the chair, making ready to sit down, and the support made her feel slightly less shaky. She smiled hazily at the assembled company and then, out of the blur, a face swam into her vision. A dark, wolfish, horribly familiar face. Leo Moncaster!