Читать книгу Scandal At The Midsummer Ball: The Officer's Temptation / The Debutante's Awakening - Marguerite Kaye, Bronwyn Scott - Страница 7

Chapter One

Saturday June 14th, 1817

Brockmore Manor House Party

Programme of Events

Welcoming Party in the Drawing Room

Exhibition by the World-Famous

Russian Acrobat Troupe

The Flying Vengarovs in the Ballroom

The drawing room of Brockmore Manor faced due west, looking out over the extensive formal gardens of the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore’s country estate. The heady scent emanating from the nearby rose arbour wafted in through the open windows on the faintest of breezes. A veritable cornucopia of English roses both inside and without, Colonel Fergus Kennedy of the Ninety-Second Regiment of Foot thought wryly, eyeing the fluttering groups of ladies, their pale afternoon gowns in stark contrast to the vibrant cobalt blue of the heavy painted silk wall hangings that gave the room the appearance of an underwater cave. The marine theme was continued on the blue damask sofas which lined the drawing room walls, where naked mermaids and grotesque sea creatures were carved into the gilded arms and legs. Similar creatures were carved into the white Italian marble fireplace, and the works of art which adorned the walls had a maritime theme.

Fergus tugged at his starched neckcloth and edged closer to the open window. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. It was unseasonably hot. It seemed his host, who had a formidable reputation for scheming and machinations, had also organised the weather. He envied the ladies their light muslin gowns, so much more suited to the heat than his silk waistcoat and heavy dark-blue coat, but a quick glance around the room confirmed that he had correctly interpreted the ‘informal’ dress code stipulated for this welcoming party as being ‘London-smart.’

Fergus was not particularly in the frame of mind to be welcomed. In fact, the prospect was distinctly unwelcome. The truth was, Fergus was beginning to have some reservations as to the wisdom of accepting this invitation and the potential consequences.

‘I have made a small wager with myself that you are Colonel Kennedy. May I pat myself on the back and preen indulgently?’

The man who stood before him was of indeterminate age. Clad in what looked to Fergus like an emerald-green silk dressing gown emblazoned with gold-and-scarlet dragons, he carried a similarly painted fan. His skin was powdered, but he had a disconcertingly determined chin, and the pale-blue eyes which shone beneath the perfectly plucked arched brows were piercing.

‘You may do both if you so wish, though attempting them simultaneously may prove problematic. Fergus Kennedy, at your service. I am afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.’

The thin mouth formed into a delighted smile. ‘I knew it! One look at those shoulders and that ramrod straight back, and I knew you must be a military man. What a shame you decided against wearing your regimentals, Colonel, the ladies do love a Red Coat. I’m rather partial myself. But where are my manners! Allow me to introduce myself. Sir Timothy Farthingale, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

‘How do you do.’ Farthingale’s exotic appearance was decidedly at odds with his firm handshake, Fergus noted. ‘May I ask if you are acquainted with our hosts? I have not yet introduced myself to them.’

‘Never fear, they will make an appearance directly,’ Sir Timothy responded with an airy wave. ‘Marcus and Alicia always choreograph their grand entrances carefully, and I believe we are still several guests short of a party. You have been based in London since Waterloo, I believe?’

‘I am, at the War Office, on Horse Guards.’ Fergus winced inwardly. How he hated that blasted desk in that poky office. Tedious did not begin to describe his administrative duties. Someone had to keep track of supplies and equipment but why did it have to be him? It had been bad enough when he was recuperating from the injury he’d sustained at Waterloo, but he’d been fighting fit for at least eighteen months now.

‘I am surprised our paths have not crossed before now, Colonel,’ Sir Timothy said, ‘I know everyone who is anyone. It cannot be a lack of invitations which keeps you squirrelled away, for I understood you to be one of Wellington’s brightest protégés.’

As had Fergus, though his belief had waned, as request after request for a transfer to active duties had been refused, and Wellington’s vague promises of saving him for the right appointment had remained unfulfilled. Until now. ‘You seem uncommonly well informed about a man you have never met,’ Fergus said.

Sir Timothy’s smile was knowing. ‘Oh, I make it my business to be well informed, Colonel. One never knows when the information may prove useful. That man over there, for example, the one who is dressed like a vicar with the face of a cadaver, is Desmond Falkner. A very rich fish indeed, though he reeks of the city. I might—or I might not—choose to dangle a little business proposition in front of him. The three young bucks standing beside him are Douglas Brigstock, the Earl of Jessop, Jessamy Addington and Jeremy Giltner. Now, they are the duke’s ideal pawns—personable, popular, not too bright, not too dim, well connected and, I am sorry to say, utterly interchangeable.’ Sir Timothy smiled archly. ‘No doubt Brockmore has plans to match each of them up with one of the gaggle of young ladies over by the fireplace. They make a pretty picture, do they not? And don’t they know it!’

Fergus, who himself was required to have a particular interest in one as yet unidentified young lady, eyed the group with a mixture of dread and anticipation, though he made sure to keep a neutral expression, having quickly deduced that the apparently eccentric Sir Timothy was as sharp as the proverbial tack. ‘Your knowledge of our fellow guests is positively encyclopaedic,’ he said, knowing full well that the man would be unable to resist rising to the bait, thus providing him with much-needed intelligence.

He was rewarded with an indulgent smile. ‘But I have barely scratched the surface. The buxom blondes are, needless to say, the Kilmun twins, Cecily and Cynthia. Anything you wish to know about anyone—provided you cannot locate me—you will glean from them. The demure-looking lady in white over by the windows is Florence Canby. Don’t be fooled by those innocent doe eyes of hers, Colonel Kennedy. A kissing miss, who never misses a kiss, if you take my meaning?’

Fergus shifted uncomfortably. Sir Timothy tittered. ‘I see you do. I see also that one of the most lovely of the ladies has not yet arrived. Miss Zara Titus, are you acquainted? No? She is indeed a true beauty but, I regret to say, a jilt. Quite a scandal, our Miss Titus caused less than a month ago. I will wager you any amount that her mother will bag a husband for her before the week is out. There are a few candidates, though she would do well to ignore that tall, rather intimidating gentleman who has just joined the young bucks. That is Mr Kael Gage. I am not at all sure why he is here, but it is certainly not to make a match. I wonder, Colonel, if you could possibly be a candidate for Miss Titus’s hand?’

‘You have, then, eliminated yourself from the list of runners and riders?’ Fergus quipped.

‘Most people of my acquaintance would assume that I would ride a horse of a very different colour.’

‘I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d like most people of your acquaintance to think, Sir Timothy, but over the years, I have commanded men from all walks of life, and all persuasions. Your secret is safe with me.’

‘Bravo,’ Sir Timothy responded with a silent clap of his hands. ‘A man who has a sharper eye even than I. I congratulate you, Colonel Kennedy. I find that my little charade encourages people to underestimate me, which from a business perspective suits my purposes very well. You are no doubt wondering where Lady Verity is. If you will cast your eyes to the doorway, you will be rewarded. A lovely piece, the duke’s niece. You see, I do know why you are here, but your secret is safe with me. You will excuse me now. I do believe I must delve a little further into Mr Gage’s motives for turning up uninvited.’

Alone again, Fergus watched the Brockmore party make their stately progress around the room. The Duke of Brockmore, known as the Silver Fox, was a handsome man, with a broad intelligent brow under a thick coiffure of silver hair that was more leonine than fox-like. His wife, her gown of watered silk the exact same shade as her husband’s waistcoat, Fergus noted with amusement, had the kind of elegance and grace that gave the impression of timeless beauty.

And then there was the duke’s niece. Feeling slightly sick, Fergus turned his attention to Lady Verity Fairholme. Lustrous golden locks, china-blue eyes, a swan-like neck, a retroussé nose and a rosebud mouth, she was, in her blue-and-cream gown, perfection itself. Wellington had not, for once, exaggerated in order to get his way. Fergus, ridiculously, wished he had. He ought to be relieved, and extremely grateful. He ought to remember why he had agreed to be here.

He did not need much reminding. Wellington’s summons a week ago had been an enormous relief. Finally, his days languishing behind a desk were over. ‘Egypt,’ Wellington had told him with one of his rare smiles. ‘Henry Salt is the Consul-General in Cairo. A good man, though his penchant for collecting antiquities could prove a problem. Locals don’t like it. Italians and French want to beat him to it. Tricky situation, potentially. We need a practical, trusted man on the ground, and that’s where you come in.’

Relief had given way to excitement. Until Wellington explained the price. The diplomatic posting required a suitable wife to host social events and entertain guests. Apparently his friend, the Duke of Brockmore, required a husband for his niece. An excellent piece of serendipity, Wellington called it. Unfortunately, Fergus could not have one without the other—and on this, his commander-in-chief was implacable. ‘Such prestigious postings as this come up very rarely, Colonel. You may have to wait two, three, perhaps even four or five years before another becomes available. Do you really enjoy counting muskets that much?’

The Duke of Wellington’s smile this time had been thin. The threat was barely veiled. Sixteen years, Fergus had served obediently in the army. Now he must march to a different drum, or he might never march again. It stuck in his craw to be manoeuvred in this way, but if he was to be stuck behind a desk for the rest of his service, he’d likely die of boredom. A wife, an apparently beautiful, accomplished and well-born wife, was a small price to pay for such an exciting posting. Egypt—that was the thing he had to keep in mind. Egypt and escape from drudgery. Though now he was here...

Now he was here, he’d better stop wasting his time wishing that he were not. Whatever doubts he might harbour about this arranged marriage, he had no doubts at all about Wellington’s judgement. If he said that his friend’s niece would suit Fergus ‘admirably’ then it was up to Fergus to make sure that she did, because the consequences, if he failed to make a match of it, were unthinkable.

The Duke and Duchess of Brockmore were now only a few feet away. Fergus braced himself. Looking across the room, he saw Sir Timothy Farthingale deep in conversation with a statuesque flame-haired woman of about thirty, clad in a scarlet dress which clung in all the right places to her voluptuous figure. Sir Timothy, he noticed with an inward smile, was having to work very hard to keep his eyes from that magnificent bosom. Maintaining an act was hard work, it seemed.

‘Colonel Kennedy, I presume? A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I have heard a great deal about you from my friend, Wellington. May I present my wife, the Duchess of Brockmore, and my niece, Lady Verity Fairholme?’

Fergus bowed first to the duke, then to the duchess, and then to the niece. Lady Verity’s hand was limp in his. While they made the usual introductory small talk her eyes glazed over and her gaze drifted to the painting behind his head. Suppressing his irritation, he nodded and smiled, responding automatically to the duchess’s remarks about the weather, the duke’s enquiries as to Wellington’s health. Lady Verity’s eyes continued to drift around the room. She fluttered her fan in the direction of the Kilmun twins. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, to no one in particular, then turned her back, making for a large footstool in the middle of the room, where she ensconced herself, and was immediately joined by the twins.

‘It may be that my niece finds the heat trying,’ the duke said stiffly, for the affront was clearly deliberate. ‘I am sure she did not intend to be rude.’

‘Indeed not,’ Fergus said tightly. ‘I am sure that if Lady Verity intended to be rude she would make a better fist of it than a mere flounce.’

‘Touché, Colonel Kennedy,’ the duchess said with a forced smile. ‘Now, who else would you like to be introduced to?’

He had already met the one person he’d come here to meet, and it had been a far from auspicious beginning. His nerves had given way to a horrible flat feeling, as if he’d been waiting all day to confront an enemy who did not show up. Not that Lady Verity was the enemy—though dammit, she had appeared more enemy than ally.

One of the many lessons Wellington had taught him was that on occasion it was prudent to beat a strategic retreat and regroup. ‘Thank you,’ Fergus replied, making his bow, ‘but I’m finding the unseasonable heat a little oppressive myself. If you will excuse me, I think I will retire outside momentarily for some fresh air.’

* * *

The sun blazed down from a cloudless, azure sky. Fergus glanced at the handy little map he’d found in his bedchamber—another example of the Duke of Brockmore’s legendary attention to detail—and reckoned he was at the top of the steps leading down to the South Lawn. Sure enough, the waters of the ornamental lake glinted in the distance. It would be much cooler there. He’d be tempted to wander down, were it not for the fact that he’d be spotted from the drawing-room windows.

He descended from the terrace to a lawn so perfect he reckoned the Duke of Brockmore’s gardeners must have trimmed it with grape scissors. Behind him, the house itself seemed to glitter in the sunshine, looking as if it was constructed from spun sugar. The beauty of the country mansion could not be denied, with its pleasing symmetry, its surprising lack of ostentation. It reminded him of an Italian palazzo he’d been billeted in once. He couldn’t remember where, but he did remember it was summer, like this, and the marble floors had been blissfully cool on his feet, which were aching and blistered from long days of marching. There had been a lake there too, where he’d swum.

And there had been a woman. Fergus smiled. There had been a good many women back in those days, and a good many wild parties too, when they were not fighting wild battles. Though he did not forget the tedium of endless drills and weeks of tense waiting, though he did not wish to relive the horrors of the aftermath of battle, he missed—oh, how he missed—the excitement, and the danger, and the thrill, the desire to make the most of every single day, knowing it might well be his last. His smile faded. Those days were most definitely long gone. He tried to conjure the elation he’d felt when he’d first heard about the Egypt posting, but that awkward moment with the woman he would have to share his future with made his doubts surface once more. He couldn’t afford to have doubts.

The formal gardens were laid out on the right-hand side of the house. There was a maze there. He’d be sure of some privacy in the maze, but his thoughts already contained enough dead ends and wrong turnings to be going on with. Instead he took the left-hand path, which his plan informed him led to the kitchen gardens.

Deciding that he could risk some concession to the heat, Fergus shrugged himself out of his dark-blue coat with some relief. Why was it that fashion went hand in hand with discomfort? He tugged longingly at his starched neckcloth, but knowing he’d only have to re-tie the blasted thing before returning to the drawing room, contented himself with rolling up his shirtsleeves.

Peering curiously into the Duchess of Brockmore’s famous Orchid House was like opening an oven. Hastily closing the door, Fergus decided against an investigation of the pinery and the huge succession house where reputedly grew the largest vine in England.

The stone archway in front of him must lead to the walled garden. Sure enough, neat vegetable plots vibrant with greenery took up most of the available space. Precisely pruned peach and apricot trees fanned against the walls, and regimented ranks of raspberry and gooseberry canes filled one sunny corner. In the centre of the garden, on the large rectangle of lawn, stood two tall poles with a thick rope strung between them. And on the rope, improbably, dressed in a tiny tunic, balanced a woman.

Fergus drew back against the archway out of the line of her sight. She was slim, slight in stature, but the flimsy fabric she wore revealed a lithe and extremely supple body, with shapely legs and slender, elegant feet clinging to the rope. Her hair was auburn. Her skin, in contrast, was creamy white. She moved expertly and fluidly along the rope, her arms spread wide, as if she were about to fly.

He watched, fascinated, as she balanced, first on one leg and then on the other, traversing the length of the rope before, to his astonishment, she leapt high into the air, executed a perfect, graceful somersault in impossibly slow motion, and landed soft as a cat on the grass. Bouncing back to her feet, she tumbled over and over in a series of one-handed cartwheels so fast that her body was a blur of cream and auburn, until she came to an abrupt halt and finished with a theatrically flourishing bow. Fergus could not resist giving her a round of applause.

Startled, she glared fiercely at him. Her eyes were emerald green, her heart-shaped face flushed. ‘This is a private area,’ she said in heavily accented English. ‘The Duke of Brockmore assured us that we would not be disturbed. Mr Keaton, the head gardener, has instructed his men to work elsewhere. Though you,’ she said, raising one brow and giving him the faintest of smiles, ‘I do not think that you are an under-gardener?’

He made an elaborate bow. ‘Colonel Fergus Kennedy at your service. And you can only be Madame Vengarov. I am sorry to intrude, but in truth, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You looked as if that rope was glued to your feet.’

‘Spasibo. Thank you, but I am a novice compared to Alexandr.’

‘Your husband, and the other half of the famed Flying Vengarovs, I presume?’

‘Yes, but you presume too much. I am not married. Alexandr is my brother.’

‘Then I am even more delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Vengarov.’

She smiled. Her teeth were very white. Her lips were very pink. There was a smattering of freckles across her little nose and a teasing light in her almond-shaped eyes. ‘I don’t know why my lack of a husband should cause you delight.’

‘You are quite correct,’ Fergus said, with a guilty pang. ‘It should not, especially under the circumstances.’

‘Which are?’

‘I am here at the behest of one duke to make a match with the niece of another.’ His words, spoken without thinking, wiped the delightful smile from Miss Vengarov’s face. Put like that, she would think him the worst sort of social climber, and worse, a compliant pawn in someone else’s game. Fergus could feel himself flushing. What he ought to do was beat a retreat. Though he told himself the exotic Miss Vengarov’s thoughts were irrelevant, he felt compelled to explain himself. ‘It’s not how it sounds,’ he said. ‘The first duke in question is Wellington, my commander-in-chief. The second, my host the Duke of Brockmore.’

‘Wellington ordered you to marry Brockmore’s niece?’

Her tone was starkly disbelieving, and no wonder. ‘Not ordered, precisely. I am to take up a diplomatic posting to Egypt. A wife is apparently standard issue in such situations,’ Fergus said, more flippantly than he intended.

* * *

Katerina eyed the soldier in some surprise. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, clearly regretting blurting out such private matters to a complete stranger. She ought to allow him to drop the awkward subject, but she was intrigued. He must want this posting very much if he was prepared to marry a stranger in order to secure it. ‘What is so appealing about Egypt?’ she asked.

‘It is not Whitehall, for a start,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I won’t have to sit behind a desk and compile endless lists that no one will read. I won’t have to drag myself out of bed knowing that today will be the exact same as yesterday and the day before. In Egypt, every day will present a new challenge.’ His smile lightened. ‘I’m a soldier. Peacetime can be a bit of a double-edged sword. Inactivity doesn’t suit me at all.’

‘That, I can understand. When I am not performing, I am not living. Inactivity does not suit me one little bit either,’ Katerina said with a smile. ‘We have that in common, Colonel.’

‘It’s Fergus. Call me Fergus.’

She ought not to call him anything. She ought to ask him to leave. This was precisely the kind of situation and he was precisely the kind of man that experience had taught her to avoid, but against her will, she was interested in him. And yes, also against her will, she had to admit she was attracted.

His eyes were the most startling shade of blue—or was it green? Turquoise? Colonel Fergus Kennedy was tall, several inches taller even than Alexei, and every bit as muscular, though the colonel’s physique was broader, more solid than her brother’s, the result of a lifetime of marching and fighting presumably, rather than endless hours of acrobatic training. War had etched the tiny fan of lines around his eyes, though the grooves at his mouth, the natural curve of his lips, made her wonder if laughter had also been a significant contributor. His fair hair was cropped close to his head, though there was a rebellious wave, a little kink on his brow that mitigated the severity of it. Attractive, he was most certainly, in a rugged way, but first and foremost, the impression she had was of a man of authority, a man accustomed to giving rather than receiving orders. Slightly intimidating, he was the kind of man that turned heads when he walked into a room. Or a walled garden, come to that!

‘Fergus,’ she said. ‘And I am Katerina. Forgive me, but why can’t you marry someone of your own choosing if a diplomat must have a wife?’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘I cannot believe that you would be lacking in eager candidates.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence,’ he said mockingly. ‘If only it were true.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, making the kink stand up endearingly. ‘It has been decided that this will be strictly a one-horse race, if I am to claim the prize.’ He sighed heavily. ‘And so, Miss Vengarov, I fear that I have no choice at all, if Lady Verity—that’s the Duke of Brockmore’s niece—will have me.’

‘Do you doubt that she will?’

‘I don’t know what to think. She was certainly not been effusive in her welcome.’

‘So you have already met her?’

‘A wee while ago.’

‘And she did not warm instantly to you?’

He laughed shortly. ‘Is that so difficult to believe?’

His smile was charming. Not that there was any possibility of it charming her. ‘Come now, you do not need me to tell you that you are an attractive man, Colonel—Fergus,’ Katerina said. ‘Most likely, under the circumstances, the lady was simply nervous, embarrassed or both. Everyone knows the Duke of Brockmore’s Midsummer Party is simply a notorious matchmaking fair.’

‘You disapprove?’

‘I am sure it is a foolproof way to find a wife. As you see, we lowly performers are kept within the boundaries of this walled garden so there can be no confusion as to whom are the suitable candidates.’ On either part.

Fergus Kennedy was looking quite taken aback. She had not meant her own bitter experience to colour her tone quite so much. Katerina gave a careless shrug. ‘It is none of my business.’

‘True enough,’ he replied, ‘though in a sense I’ve made it so, by confiding in you. Perhaps I should not have. I don’t know why I did, to be honest, save that perhaps I disapprove a wee bit myself.’

His admission disarmed her. For some reason, she was relieved not to have to think quite so ill of him. ‘I don’t know you at all,’ Katerina said, ‘but I confess I find it strange that a man like you, so clearly accustomed to command, is allowing someone else to make such an important decision for him.’

‘The “someone else” is my commander-in-chief.’

‘Yes, you said so.’

‘I did.’ He was silent for a moment, before sighing heavily. ‘You’re right. If I was happy with the situation, I’d be back there at that welcoming party making myself amenable, instead of out here, embarrassing you with my problems in the hope that you’ll reassure me.’

She had no idea how to reply to this, as confused by his indecisiveness as he was. Was it simply an ingenious way of engaging her sympathy? He did not seem the ingenious type, but she had been fooled before. ‘I am sorry,’ Katerina said, somewhat helplessly.

‘Ach no, don’t be. You’ve not said anything I’ve not thought myself. That’s enough about me,’ he said, giving himself a little shake. ‘You’re much more interesting. Brockmore pulled off quite a coup bringing you and your brother here. The Vengarov name is one of the most respected in your field.’

‘What do you know of my field?’

‘I’ve seen a few acts such as yours in my travels, and I’ve visited that man Jahn’s gymnasium in Berlin.’

Despite herself, Katerina was impressed. ‘The Duke of Brockmore will spare no expense in obtaining the very best entertainment for his guests,’ she said drily. ‘He does not, however, share your respect for our reputation. Or our artistry. We are, in his eyes, I suspect, little more than performing monkeys.’

‘Then the man is an idiot. What is it like up there on the tightrope?’

‘Oh, there is nothing to compare it with.’

‘Save flying? You must feel as if you’re in your own wee world.’

He had one of those smiles that was impossible to ignore, and his interest really did seem genuine. ‘Wee world,’ Katerina repeated, surrendering to the temptation to smile back. ‘Your accent is strange. You are not English?’

‘Scottish. And you, I believe, are from Russia.’

‘R-r-r-russia,’ Katerina repeated, in a fair enough imitation of his accent to make him smile. ‘Yes, I am Russian.’

‘You speak excellent English.’

‘And French, and German, passable Italian and a smattering of Spanish. All my life, I have been travelling, you see, and performing too. I come from a great tradition, as you said, a long line of performers. The Vengarov family, we are the aristocrats of our world.’

‘I am aware of that, even if Brockmore is not. I’m looking forward very much to tonight’s performance. I see from the Programme of Events that you’re also holding a demonstration class for the party guests.’

‘Aristocrats from one world, mingling with the aristocrats of another,’ Katerina said sardonically. ‘Will you be taking part, Colonel Fergus?’

‘I most certainly will. Do you include the ladies in this class? I’m not sure I can picture the duchess wearing one of these wee tunic affairs. Or, indeed, care to!’

Caught up in their conversation, amazingly, astonishingly, Katerina had quite forgotten that all she was wearing was what he called her wee tunic affair, in part because Fergus too seemed to have forgotten. But now he had drawn attention to her state of dishabille and was looking at her most appreciatively, she became acutely aware of how much of her flesh was on display, and Fergus seemed to be having difficulty dragging his eyes away from her modest cleavage, and the way he was looking at her was making her flush more, with a mixture of awareness of him and anger at herself, rather than embarrassment.

‘It is not possible to practise real acrobatics in corsets and morning gowns,’ Katerina said tightly. ‘We will restrict ourselves to teaching more seemly and decorous moves.’

He flushed very faintly, making a point of turning his gaze away. ‘Curses, then I will be denied the sight of a tumbling duchess.’

‘And I will be denied the opportunity to witness a soldier falling from the tightrope.’

‘You seem very certain I will fall.’

‘You won’t have a chance. It will not be offered as an activity in the masterclass,’ Katerina told him. ‘It is too dangerous.’

Fergus eyed the rope speculatively. ‘It doesn’t look so high.’

‘Because this is merely a practice height—so I can reach it without a ladder. It makes no difference to me what height the rope is set at, but for the spectacle—oh, then the higher the better, as you will see tonight.’

‘Aren’t you ever afraid of falling and injuring yourself?’

‘The trick is to convince yourself that you are not afraid.’

‘It’s the same on the battlefield.’

They were no longer looking at the tightrope. He was smiling at her again, but there was something more than laughter in his eyes. Though he was not touching her, her skin tingled. Heat, that’s what it was. Katerina’s stomach fluttered in response. ‘There is no comparison,’ she said. ‘I am not brave in that way.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he replied softly, ‘but definitely fearless.’

There was a trickle of sweat on his brow. She noticed a tiny shaving nick, right in the cleft of his chin. His fair lashes were absurdly long for a man. A sharp gust of desire took her by surprise. She saw it reflected in his eyes, and the air in the walled garden seemed to still, the sun’s heat to intensify. Even the birdsong seemed momentarily muted. She curled her toes into the grass and realised she was waiting, longing for him to kiss her.

Confused and startled by her reaction, Katerina launched herself up on to the rope, taking them both aback. Safe from her own desire, she perversely fed his, wanting to show him what he could never have, what he could never attain, walking, leaping, dancing, tumbling on the rope, aware of his eyes fixed on the shapes her body was making, her naked limbs, her supple flesh. Only when she stopped, her chest heaving with the effort, and her eyes met his again, did she realise that desire fed desire, that her feelings were as nakedly exposed as his.

She hovered on the rope, furious at herself for surrendering to temptation, yet unwilling to put an end to it, waiting for the proof that he was, after all, exactly like the rest. When he gave a tiny shake of his head, turning deliberately away, it took her off guard. She vaulted down. Still averting his eyes, he disconcerted her further by holding out her robe, the robe she should have donned the moment he had appeared in the garden. Her fingers fumbled with the sash.

Fergus made a show of consulting his watch. ‘I’ve deserted the reception currently underway in the drawing room for far longer than I intended. I must re-join the others lest I blot my copybook at the first opportunity. Even in a one-horse race, one can’t afford to fall at the first fence.’ Finally, his extraordinary eyes met hers again. ‘It has been a privilege to see you practise, a privilege to make your acquaintance, but you will be wishing to return to your practice. I should not have taken up so much of your time.’

She was in danger of liking this man. She was in danger of thinking him different. She’d thought that before, and look what had happened. ‘I spend most of my time with my brother, Colonel Kennedy,’ Katerina said dismissively. ‘Any other company is a welcome distraction.’

‘Well, that’s a fine compliment indeed. Here was me thinking you enjoyed my company for its own sake. And it’s Fergus, remember?’

His quip, his smile, made the awkward moment pass. She was forced to laugh. ‘Indeed, Fergus,’ she said, ‘if the charming Mr Keaton or one of his under-gardeners should happen by, you will please send him straight in.’

‘A tour of the pinery would no doubt be entertaining.’

‘And there is the orchid house too. I believe the duchess has some rare specimens on display.’

‘Oh, when it comes to displaying rare specimens, I believe her husband has the edge.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You,’ Fergus replied. ‘I doubt very much there’s another exotic flower in the garden quite as fragrant as you. It has been a pleasure, Katerina.’ It was there again, as he covered her hands with his, the tug of desire between them. The long fingers which covered hers were calloused. His knuckles were covered in a fretwork of tiny scars. Powder burns? He lifted her hand to his lips, brushed a tantalisingly brief kiss to the tips of her fingers, then gently released her hand. ‘I very much look forward to enjoying your performance tonight.’

A straightening of the shoulders, a firming of his mouth, and his purpose was set. With a sketched bow, Fergus turned away, marching briskly across the grass in the direction of the house, looking for all the world as if he were marching into battle.

* * *

The impressive ballroom of Brockmore Manor ran the full length of the house from front to back and opened out on to the large terrace, the ceiling twice the height of the other reception rooms. Painted alabaster white, with only the ornate Adam cornicing to relieve its plainness, the pilasters running down one side gave the room the look of a Roman forum. Three huge chandeliers blazed down, their flames reflected in the highly polished wooden floor. The centre of the space was taken up by the tightrope and poles, set about fifteen feet off the ground now, surrounded by thick mats. A stack of hoops and skittles were laid out neatly to one side, beside a shallow tray of chalk.

Marcus, the Duke of Brockmore, surveying the scene from his vantage point on the balcony, permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction and a flutter of anticipation. The welcoming party earlier in the day had been but a prelude to the main event. Tonight’s performance would set the tone for the rest of the week. A spectacle never before seen in England. The Vengarov siblings would be a symbol for his guests, a reminder of how they too could fly—with his assistance.

Marcus leaned over the balustrade to direct a footman in the more precise arrangement of chairs for the audience. He swept his mane of grey hair back from his forehead as he took in the bustling scene below. The Silver Fox, they called him behind his back, and he rather enjoyed his reputation. It was not as if any of the guests were unaware of the subtle games they were being invited to play here. The Brockmore Midsummer Party was well established now, as the stage for all sorts of alliances to be made—and in some cases unmade. He and Alicia did not manipulate, but rather facilitated these affairs—of the heart, of politics, of business. Yes, they greased the wheels of power, but they did not force those wheels to turn in any particular direction. Though more often than not, of course, they did. In their later years, they would be able to look back with pride and satisfaction on their achievements. The children of the marriages they had brokered would be consolation for their own tragic lack of progeny.

The customary pang this engendered in his heart made Marcus’s thoughts turn towards his wife, and as if on cue, she entered the room ahead of their guests, glancing up and smiling, that special smile she saved for him and him alone. She was looking splendid this evening, her pale-green evening gown carefully chosen to complement the darker-green stripe of his own waistcoat. His diamond-and-emerald cravat pin matched the magnificent set of diamonds and emeralds she wore around her swan-like neck. It was these little attentions to detail that were so important. No, he could have no regrets.

He watched his duchess making her graceful way through the throng of specially invited guests, admiring the way she gently manoeuvred each into their allotted place with the skill of an orchestra conductor. There were the obvious matches to be made—and by and large he left those in Alicia’s capable hands. Viscount Monteith’s daughter would be marketable enough, a shy beauty and therefore a desirable catch, but that dragon of a mother of hers was bound to interfere. The Kilmun twins—Marcus smiled to himself as he eyed those two ladies. Cecily and Cynthia, wasn’t it? Damned if he could tell which was which. It would be interesting to see if their intended bridegrooms could—or cared to. Brigstock, Earl of Jessop, and Jessamy Addington were lined up for them. Cynthia and Cecily. Jessop and Jessamy. Sound fellows with excellent connections. He had plans for both, and frankly an alliance with either twin would suit his purposes just as well. Let them sort it out between them.

Verity now—where was Verity?—ah yes, there she was, seated as planned beside Wellington’s protégé. Colonel Kennedy looked to possess a strong will, just the type to take his headstrong niece in hand. It was not a great match in the eyes of the world, not compared to some of the offers Verity had already rejected, but in some ways this man was likely more suitable. If Wellington was in the right of it—and his old friend invariably was—the colonel would very quickly make his mark abroad, giving the Brockmore family another string to their many bows. Mind you, that first meeting between the pair today had not been auspicious. It was to be hoped that Verity had indeed been merely out of sorts due to the heat in the crowded drawing room.

As for the rest of his guests? His Grace scanned the audience, now seated, and made a rapid inventory. Sir Timothy Farthingale would be easy enough to accommodate, all he desired was to be pointed in the direction of a generous benefactor with deep pockets, but Desmond Falkner might prove just a little tricky to bleed. A canny man, he had seemed at dinner earlier, and something of a prude, if truth be told. Farthingale’s flamboyant appearance had made quite the wrong impression. What possessed the man to wear a pair of Turkish slippers and a scarlet coat to dinner, Marcus could not fathom. Alicia had seated him in the back row, but he looked more like he should be performing in tonight’s entertainment. A quiet word might be in order. A task for Lillias, perhaps? By odd coincidence, the woman he and Alicia liked to think of as their eyes and ears was already seated by Sir Timothy in her customary scarlet. The duke winced at the clash of colours. Though the Titian-haired Lovely, Luscious Lillias Lamont was a stalwart of their Midsummer Party, her flamboyant taste in clothes was really almost as suspect as Farthingale’s.

‘Your Grace?’ He turned, to find the Russian duo whose services he had secured at great expense beckoning him from the doorway. ‘We are ready to begin the performance.’

Marcus fought the urge to inform the rather arrogant young Russian man that the performance would commence when he decided it could begin. He was paying a small fortune to hire the pair for the whole week, yet each time they spoke, he had the sense the man was looking down his nose at him. There were not many people who discomfited the Duke of Brockmore. Marcus couldn’t understand it, but there was something about Alexandr Vengarov that made him feel as if he should be doing the kowtowing.

Though the blasted man was right, it was high time to get the evening’s entertainment underway. Marcus nodded his assent and the Russian performers disappeared. Moments later, the pair of them appeared in the doorway of the ballroom.

His Grace leaned over the balcony and cleared his throat. ‘My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great privilege to present, for your delectation, the most extraordinary, the most talented, the most graceful and indeed the most flexible acrobatic performers in the civilised world. Prepare to be both astounded and amazed. I give you the Flying Vengarovs.’

Conversation stilled. Skirts rustled, painted fans were snapped shut and quizzing glasses prised open as the audience settled into their gilt-edged chairs.

The duke gestured to the performers. They were a striking pair, he so tall, and she so tiny in comparison. Both wore long cloaks, hers dark blue and his black, studded with paste diamonds that sparkled and shimmered in the candlelight. There were paste diamonds in her burnished auburn hair too. They seemed to float across the floor together like a walking constellation of stars. A hushed silence pervaded the ballroom as they stood in front of the tightrope, facing the expectant crowd. He had to admire their professionalism, the pair possessed real stage presence. The duke felt his own heart pick up a few beats. Catching his wife’s eye, they shared a smile, but his eyes were drawn, almost against his will, to the duo below. They did not look like siblings. Vengarov’s square-cut jaw, brown eyes and dark-brown hair were in stark contrast to his sister’s colouring and appearance, though they shared the same high Slavic cheekbones, and there was something about the mouth too.

They made their bow. Vengarov’s cloak dropped to the ground and there was a sharp intake of breath. The man was half-naked, wearing only a shockingly tight pair of knitted pantaloons. His muscled torso gleamed in the candlelight. The duke smothered a chuckle. Fans were being hurriedly opened, but he had no doubt that behind them the ladies were gazing with flagrant admiration at the chap’s sculpted physique. The men present, on the other hand, were bristling with purported indignation. Intimidated no doubt, rather than offended. Save Kennedy, who was smiling. And Farthingale who was looking like a dog salivating over a particularly juicy bone.

Another sharp intake of breath followed when the female acrobat dropped her cloak, and to this the duke contributed enthusiastically. She was virtually naked. A scant flesh-coloured tunic studded with more paste diamonds and little else clung to her perfectly proportioned body. It was indecent. It was also rather exciting. The rumours he’d heard regarding the exotic allure of the Vengarov siblings had not been wide of the mark. If anything, they had been understated, especially regarding the delicious Katerina. No bristling from his male guests now, that was for sure. And the smile had been wiped from Kennedy’s face. Rapt, was an accurate description of his expression. Marcus congratulated himself. He had provided something for everyone, an audacious spectacle no other host would dare commission.

Then the girl put her bare foot on her brother’s linked hands and he propelled her upwards on to the tightrope. He followed her, too fast for the duke to work out how he’d managed to leap so high. The show began, and Marcus, along with everyone else in the enthralled audience, forgot everything else and concentrated on the two graceful and impossibly skilled acrobats.