Louise Allen - Scandal in the Regency Ballroom - No Place For a Lady / Not Quite a Lady

Her brother grimaced. ‘Isn’t it going to be expensive to hire these people? And won’t you miss it? Working at the Mermaid, I mean?’

‘Yes, I will, and I will miss my freedom as well, but it cannot be helped. Leaving James’s opinions to one side, I do not really want to figure as a hoyden, nor do I want to cut myself off from society altogether. Tomorrow I will try the agencies, see what I can find out about what rates of pay would be expected. We can afford it, Piers. The business is doing well, and I can still keep overall control from a safe distance.’

‘I could leave school,’ he suggested, with a sideways glance from under ridiculously long lashes.

‘And act as my chaperon, do you mean?’ Bree laughed at him. ‘I don’t think so!’

‘As our business manager, of course.’ Piers laughed back. ‘And I think you are quite right, it isn’t proper, and it is not fair that you have to do all that work.’ He bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘Won’t it be difficult at home, though, if you are going to employ a starched-up chaperon to live with us?’

‘Lord, yes! It would be ghastly,’ Bree agreed, taken aback by the thought. Really, the pitfalls of all this respectability stretched way beyond the cost of it. There would be a loss of privacy, the need to run a more regulated and formal household—and the fact that a chaperon would expect to … well, to chaperon her. ‘What I need,’ she said reflectively, ‘is the appearance of rigid respectability combined with the freedom to do whatever I like.’

‘Mmm.’ Piers raised an eyebrow, a skill Bree wished she could perfect. ‘I would love to be a fly on the wall when you explain that at the employment exchange.’

Lord Lucas’s hand froze in the moment of making a discard, then he recovered himself smoothly and laid down the card. His face did not betray any emotion beyond an interest in the fall of the cards. ‘Indeed? I assume that you do not mean to imply that you wish this lady found and then—how can I put it?—removed?’

‘No. Never that.’ Max fanned out his cards with steady fingers. The Queen of Spades, the Knave of Hearts, the King of Diamonds. It summed the whole wretched business up somehow.

‘Forgive me, Dysart, but I was not aware that you had a wife.’ The man opposite did not raise his eyes from his study of his hand.

‘Very few people are. A vicar somewhere in Dorset who may be dead, a certain adventurer who may also be dead—and will be if I ever find him—my grandmother, my man of business, my groom and some old, very loyal servants.

‘It is seven years since money was last drawn on the funds I set up for her. If she is still alive, I will divorce her. If she has died, then I need take no further action.’ How would it feel to see her again? Or to stand by her graveside? Will it still feel as though something is ripping into my heart, or will I still feel nothing, as I have taught myself to do these past years?

‘After seven years she may legally be presumed dead.’ Lord Lucas played a card. ‘My hand, I think.’

‘So my legal advisor tells me, but I wish for certainty. A presumption is not enough, should I wish to marry again.’

‘I see.’ The magistrate—if that was all he was—glanced towards the ballroom, then back at Max. He kept his face shuttered, willing himself to show no emotion. ‘Yes, I see. Despite what my dear wife believes, I do actually listen to what she says, and I begin to see your predicament. Young ladies do have a not unreasonable expectation that a man who courts them is free to do so.’ He hesitated. ‘You contemplate divorce if Lady Penrith should still be alive? You do understand what that would mean?’

‘Legally, emotionally or in terms of my reputation and honour?’ Max enquired, then answered his own question. ‘Yes, to all of those. I understand exactly what it would cost.’

‘Has it occurred to you that the other lady in the case may hesitate to commit herself in the face of such notoriety?’

Max picked up the pack and began to shuffle it. He moved the cards in his hand aimlessly, looking unseeing at the painted faces. ‘If I were to have a lady in mind—and we are speaking hypothetically, you understand—I would need to be very certain of my own feelings, and of hers also. Even then, I must decide whether I can square my conscience with placing her in that position, if I do find myself seeking a divorce.’

‘If there was someone,’ the older man responded carefully, ‘your sudden desire to discover the truth implies that it is a fairly recent acquaintance. Perhaps such a lady would not have the stomach for being at the centre of a scandal.’

‘Do you know, if her heart was engaged in something, I do not think anything would give her pause.’ Max smiled wryly. ‘Speaking hypothetically, of course.’ But one wife left me within weeks—why am I such an optimist as to believe I might find another who will love me? He realised, with a stab, almost of irritation, that he could no longer contemplate simply a suitable marriage. Now, all of a sudden, he was demanding a love match for himself. And that, surely, was an impossible dream.

‘This anxiety may not be necessary,’ Lord Lucas pointed out, cutting across his thoughts. ‘You may indeed be a widower. After seven years and no word of her, that is the most likely assumption.’

‘Yes, I may.’ Drusilla . Sweet, playful, lovely, innocent Drusilla, who had dismissed her responsibilities as Countess of Penrith as a tiresome bore, and himself for a stuffy tyrant, within days of that impetuous secret marriage, and who had set her desires higher than his honour when she found herself a lover within the month. She had not spurned his wealth though, not while it could support both her and the man she fled with. Yet, how could he wish her dead? Even asking these questions seemed perilously close to it. ‘How do I find out?’

‘You need an investigator of experience and discretion. I know a man who fits that description. If you will permit me to consult him, without mentioning names, naturally, I will discover if he is available and what his fee would be. If you decide to proceed, we can then arrange a meeting.’

‘Money is not an object,’ Max said harshly. ‘Speed and discretion are.’ For nine years he had done nothing. Now even nine days of uncertainty were intolerable to contemplate.

After he parted from Georgy’s husband Max made his way back to the edge of the dance floor. His nerves stretched raw by the conversation he had just had, and the memories it evoked, he stared out coldly at the noisy throng, the weaving lines of dancers, the nodding chaperons, the chattering girls, the dark elegance of their men folk. It was all a mask over—what? Did every face, serious or laughing, conceal some painful secret?

‘Are you well, my lord?’ A hand touched his arm and he looked down, startled. It was Bree, her long fingers in their elegant kid gloves startlingly white on his dark sleeve. ‘You look so—’ She wrestled for a word, frowning up into his eyes. ‘So bleak.’

‘I felt bleak,’ he confessed, feeling the blight lift as he looked at her. She seemed so right, standing by his side, as though some benevolent deity had created her, just for him. How long had he known her? All his life, it seemed. ‘What would you say if I told you that I had a secret that would scandalise society?’

‘I know you have.’ She dimpled a smile, lifting her hand to brush fleetingly over the right breast of his waistcoat. Desire hit him like a blow and he was conscious of his nipples hardening at her touch.

‘Not that, you minx.’ He found himself smiling at her and shook his head. ‘No, this is something far more serious.’