Emily May - The Unmasking of a Lady

Arabella blinked and shook her head, dispelling the momentary dizziness. She stepped forwards firmly in the direction of Rosemary Lane.

Adam sipped from his champagne glass and scanned the ballroom again. A quadrille was playing. Grace was in one of the sets, a brave smile on her face.

Miss Knightley’s advice on that score had been unerring, but her other advice—

His fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. Damned impertinence, is what it is.

He scanned the ballroom again, searching for dark curls.

A familiar face caught his attention. The lady had dark hair and pale skin, but there the resemblance to Miss Knightley ended. Lady Vane’s height was above average, her figure ample, her manner gracefully languid.

Adam relaxed his grip on the champagne glass. His mood lightened. He swallowed another mouthful of champagne and set off towards his former mistress.

‘Darling!’ Mary Vane’s smile was both delighted and sleepy at the same time. She held out her hand to him.

Adam bowed over her gloved fingers, inhaling the faint, familiar fragrance of her perfume. ‘I have a favour I’d like to ask of you.’

‘A favour?’ Mary waved her fan in a leisurely, graceful movement. ‘For you, anything.’

Adam lowered his voice. ‘I’d like you to write to Lady Bicknell, inviting her to your next charity function.’

‘Lady Bicknell?’ Mary wrinkled her nose. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that? If the woman has any interest in soldiers’ widows, I’ve yet to hear of it!’

Adam hesitated, then bent his head and spoke into her ear. ‘I believe she’s been dabbling in a little blackmail. I need to see a specimen of her handwriting.’

‘Blackmail!’ Mary stepped back a pace. The sleepiness was gone from her eyes. ‘Is everything all right, Adam?’

‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘I just need to prove something.’

Mary chewed on her lower lip for a moment, surveying him, and then nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll write to her.’

‘Thank you.’ Adam took her hand again. ‘You’re an angel.’ He bowed and kissed her fingertips.

Mary uttered an unladylike snort. ‘Hardly.’

Adam grinned at her. Their affair was over—Mary no longer a widow, but once again a wife—but the fondness remained. ‘Would you care to dance?’

‘Far too fatiguing!’ Mary hid a yawn behind her fan.

Adam laughed and took his leave of her. He retreated to an embrasure, where he leaned against the wall and sipped champagne and thought about what precisely he would say to Arabella Knightley. How dared she have the effrontery to discuss marriage with Grace—

There she was.

He experienced a moment of déjà vu, brief and dizzying. He’d stood like this once before: leaning against a wall, a glass dangling from his fingers, and watched as a young lady with sable-dark hair and an elegant face and eyes that looked almost black entered a ballroom. He’d been six years younger, half-foxed—and he’d stared at her and thought I want her.

Adam straightened away from the wall. This time it wasn’t with appreciation that he watched Arabella Knightley across the ballroom. No one could deny she had style; it was in the way she moved, the way she held her head. Her beauty—the lustre of her hair, the darkness of her eyes, the pale glow of her skin—was merely fuel to his anger. He lifted his glass again, swallowed the last of the champagne, and set the glass down on a mahogany side table with a sharp clunk. He began to walk around the perimeter of the ballroom, pushing his way through the other guests.

He had a bone to pick with Miss Arabella Knightley.

Arabella escorted her grandmother to the card room. Playing cards—a pastime the fifth Earl of Westcote had thought unseemly for a lady—was his relict’s favourite activity in her widowhood.

‘Supper at midnight,’ Lady Westcote said, reaching for a pack of cards. Her hair gleamed like silver in the light falling from the chandeliers.

‘Yes, Grandmother.’

Arabella turned her back on the card room and its elderly inhabitants. On the threshold of the ballroom she paused, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Armour, she told herself, touching a light fingertip to her gown. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the ballroom again.

Someone spoke her name quietly, ‘Arabella.’

‘Helen!’ Arabella turned, smiling. ‘How lovely to see you. Are you well?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ Helen Dysart said.

As always, Arabella had to stop herself from hugging Helen. That silent misery could so well have been her own.

‘Ah, the lovely Miss Knightley,’ drawled a voice.

Arabella’s smile stiffened. ‘George.’

George Dysart pushed a glass of champagne into his wife’s hand, not caring that it slopped over her gloved fingers. He raised a second glass in Arabella’s direction, as if toasting her, and swallowed a large mouthful. His face was flushed and he swayed slightly as he stood. Nine-tenths drunk.

Little was left of the man who’d courted her six years ago. George’s hair still fell in golden waves over his brow, but the blue eyes were now bloodshot. His figure had lost its slenderness and his face—which she’d once thought angelic—was almost unrecognisable beneath a layer of fat. He looked precisely what he was: a man given to dissipation.

George raised his glass again, this time towards his wife. ‘Helen,’ he said. ‘Named after the most beautiful woman in the world.’ He hooted with laughter, making heads turn, ended on a hiccup, and swayed slightly. ‘Her parents made a mistake there, didn’t they? Should have called her Medu—’

‘George, would you mind getting me something to drink?’ Arabella said. ‘Lemonade, please.’

George Dysart shut his mouth. His hand clenched. Arabella saw Helen tense, as if expecting a blow.

George’s gaze lifted, catching on the faces still turned in their direction. He seemed to swallow his rage. ‘A drink? Certainly.’ He brushed past Arabella, buffeting her deliberately with his shoulder.

‘I apologise,’ Helen said quietly. ‘George has had a little too much to drink.’

‘Would you like to go home?’

Helen’s eyes followed her husband’s progress. She shook her head. ‘It’s best if I stay.’

Arabella reached out and touched the back of her friend’s hand lightly. ‘Helen, if I can help in any way…’

Helen shook her head again.

Arabella bit her lip, wishing she could pay George a visit as Tom. It wasn’t possible; everything George Dysart owned came from his wife. ‘Come riding with me tomorrow.’

‘Thank you.’ Helen’s smile reached her eyes. ‘That would be lovely.’

Arabella surveyed her. Helen wasn’t beautiful—her nose was too aquiline for that—but her face had character. There was quiet strength in her eyes, courage in the way she held her chin. George Dysart was a fool not to realise the value of his wife. The sooner he drinks himself into the grave, the better.

The quadrille came to its end. There was a surge of movement off the dance floor. ‘I’d best leave before George returns,’ Arabella said.

‘I apologise for my husband’s behaviour—’

‘Don’t,’ Arabella said, swiftly clasping her friend’s hand. She turned from Helen, halting as a man stepped into her path and bowed.

‘Miss Knightley.’

Arabella gritted her teeth and smiled. ‘Lord Dalrymple.’

During her first Season, her admirers—what few there’d been—had fallen into two categories: men who were prepared to ignore her mother’s reputation for the sake of the Westcote fortune, and men who courted her because of her mother’s reputation.