London Again

41

London Again

    Mr Beresford hesitated. Then he shrugged, very slightly, and ran up the short flight of steps before the imposing façade of Stamforth House. He knew Lady Benedict was in the house: old Tobias Vane had told him she was going round there this morning. –To say truth, Jack Beresford was more than aware that he was on a fool’s errand. Somehow this did not seem to stop him.

    He was shown into what the footman referred to as the green salon; Lady Benedict would be with him directly. Mr Beresford looked around him in horror. It was green, all right. Largely, dark green marble. Pillars an’ all. The presence of a number of darkly glooming Vane faces in elaborate frames did not improve it, to his mind.

    “Ees eet not tairrible?” she said gaily.

    He swung round, flushing slightly. “Well, yes! How are you, Lady Benedict?”

    Nan gave him her hand, declaring herself to be very well. Mr Beresford, to her eyes, seemed a bit hagged, but declared himself to be very well.

    “Please: sit down, Mr Beresford, and try not to look at all the green!” she said with a gurgle. “I have had an architect look at thees room, and he assures me that these horrid pillars are holding up nothing at all, so I theenk we shall have them out.”

    “Very wise. I collect you are fixed in town for the Season?” said Mr Beresford with something of an effort.

    “At all events, while the Parliament sits, yes. Eet ees steell vairy cold, no?”

    Jack agreed that London was still cold. And how were Miss Baldaya and Miss Benedict?

    “So you do not know? Well, how could you, after all?” She revealed that the girls were staying with Mrs Urqhart at The Towers until Susan’s wedding. Daphne had not wished to come up to town without Susan. She hesitated. “You may not be aware of thees,” she murmured, “but we theenk that Mr Urqhart  affects Daphne. Mrs Urqhart and I would like to see eet work out, between them.”

    “Of course,” said Jack politely, without interest.

    Oh, dear, thought Nan. She took a deep breath, leant forward, and though it was not the thing, laid her hand gently over his. “Mr Beresford, I theenk eet would be a good idea for you to spend some time on your property een Cumberland, no? I know your uncle looks to eet, but your people up there must feel sadly neglected.”

    Jack went very red. “Uncle George does a better job than I could.”

    “Yes, but my dear,” said Nan very kindly indeed, “you weell never be able to feel comfortable in your rightful position there unless you make the effort to take up the responsibilities that go weeth eet.”

    “Mm,” said Jack, biting his lip. “You are right, of course.”

    “I— Well, Mr Bobby Amory has been a kind friend to me, but I would not like to see you spend the next twenty years in the empty sort of life led by such men-about-town as he.”

    Mr Beresford’s chiselled nostrils flared. “No. And I am not so fortunate as he: I have not the excuse of being a younger son.” He rose. “I take your point, Lady Benedict. You are perfectly correct: I have been neglecting my duties. I shall see whether Mamma would care to accompany me up there, but whether or not she wishes to, I shall go.”

    Nan also rose, and held out her hand. “Good. I weesh you well, my dear.”

    Jack bowed very low, raised her hand to his lips and closed his eyes.

    There was a long moment of silence in the hideous green salon of Stamforth House.

    “Goodbye,” he said abruptly, releasing her hand and striding out before she could ring for the footman.

    Nan sank down limply on a hideous dark green sofa. Help! But it was just as well.

    She was still sitting there ten minutes later, when her fiancé wandered in.

    “I collect we are to have young Beresford’s assistance in redecorating the house?”

    “No such theeng! And eef you weesh to know, he ees going up to Cumberland, to look to hees estates!”

    Lewis eyed her drily. “Would this have been his own idea?”

    Nan stuck out her lower lip. “And eef eet were not?”

    “Was it?” he said baldly.

    “No, eet was mine, but deesabuse yourself of the notion that because you are my fiancé you have the right to spy upon me!” she shouted, bounding up.

    “There was no spying in the case, I assure you. Merely, the footman informed me he had called. I am very glad to hear you had the sense to send the boy packing. Do I flatter myself, if I wonder if it was a little on my account?”

    “NO!” she shouted. “Eet was for hees happiness, poor fellow!”

    “Good,” he said unemotionally, wandering out again.

    Nan took a very deep breath. “OH!”  she shouted furiously, flinging a hideous dark green brocade cushion across the room.

    In the hideous lobby, Lewis smiled slightly. At least he had managed to break down her cool composure!

    Her Grace of Purle very rarely, as Lewis had complained earlier in the engagement, left the affianced pair alone together in the house in Green Street which Nan was once again hiring; but this evening, Lewis declaring his wish to discuss the plans for the house with his fiancée, she withdrew to an adjoining salon with Lord Mount Abbott for a bout of piquet.

    “So,” said Lewis eventually, as Nan stared obstinately into the fire, “apart from sending young Beresford about his business, what have you been up to, today?”

    “I saw the architect again, and he says that those pillars may go.”

    “Mm?”

    “Eef—eef you do not mind,” she faltered.

    “I don’t mind. The place is frightful, isn’t it? Representative of all the worst taste of the last two centuries, I think.”

    “More: Mr Mountjoy—the architect, you know—tells me that that theeng een the front hall ees Tudor and probably vairy valuable.”

    “That monstrosity that’s a combination of a prie-dieu, a wardrobe and Castle Howard?”

    “Mm,” said Nan, biting her lip.

    “Consign it to an attic,” he drawled. “Er—did Mountjoy clarify its purpose?”

    “Um—well, he theenks eet ees a cupboard. Probably.”

    Lewis twinkled at her. “Then it will do very nicely in an attic.”

    “Yes, but eet ees a part of your—your p—” Her lips moved silently, to Lewis’s entertainment.

    “‘P—?” he prompted.

    “I cannot theenk of the English word: how seelly! Eet ees patrimoine, een French.”

    ‘Patrimony. It can still be that in an attic.”

    “Ye-es. Eef you are sure. –Was that accent correct?”

    “I beg your pardon?”

    “Patrimony,” said Nan, frowning over it.

    “Certainly.”

    “English ees vairy confusing and illogical!”

    “Rubbish. Parsimony. Matrimony.”

    “Yes, but eet ees ‘matrimonial’ and ‘parsimonious’!” she cried.

    “Er—true. Not in one hundred percent of cases, however, one hopes.”

    Nan went very pink. “You are being seelly. I shall have the Tudor cupboard put een an attic eef you weesh. Though I warn you, eet weell no doubt make the hall draughtier than ever.”

    “Mm. We must do something to make the house warmer for you,” he said, frowning.

    She went pink again and looked at him doubtfully.

    “I’ll talk to Mountjoy about having a fireplace put into the damned hall. And I really think, if you would not dislike it, we should investigate the possibility of some porcelain stoves, after the German fashion.”

    “I do not know those,” she said.

    More amiable discussion of such topics as stoves and carpets followed. Lewis had already given her carte blanche to do as she liked with the house. Now he repeated it.

    “Ye-es... I theenk, eef you would not deeslike eet, I should like to consult your Cousin Tobias’s opinion about some of the pieces.”

    “My dear, his own house is like a dark green cave!” he protested with a laugh.

    “Yes, but that was hees late Mamma’s taste, which he has not cared to change. At least he weell know which pieces are truly family heirlooms, that should not be put een an attic. And eef you are to be vairy busy, then I cannot ask you about every other armoire or chair, you know.”

    “Very well, my dear, by all means ask old Tobias!” said Lewis with a laugh. “Dare say Cousin Miranda Fenwick-Lacey and Cousin Caroline Bennington—oh, and that daughter of hers, too—dare say they will happily poke their noses in, too. if you give ’em the slightest hint. And then there is Aunt Julia Dinsdale, though I admit she is entirely without taste, and—”

    “I see. You do not weesh to have your relatives poke their noses een. Vairy well, I shall not ask heem.”

    “Not at all!” said Lewis. laughing again. “Ask old Tobias, or any others of my damned thousands of Vane connexions you wish to. But be warned, asking one of ’em may encourage the others to give you the benefit of their advice, also! And there will not be two opinions the same!”

    Nan smiled weakly. “I see.”

    After a moment she began to talk airily of the furnishings for the upstairs rooms. Lewis let her rattle on without attempting to introduce any more serious topic: getting rid of Mr Beresford was far more than he had expected to see her offering in the way of a conciliatory gesture.

    Subsequent to this conversation Mr Vane apparently became persona grata in the hired house in Green Street, appearing for dinner with some regularity. This evening the baron of beef which Nan had ordered up—Her Grace took no interest in domestic matters—received the seal of approval from the stout gourmet. Lewis explained that the art lay, or so he had gathered, in preventing M. Lavoisier from over-saucing everything. Tobias shook a ponderously playful finger at him, so he could only conclude it served him out for being facetious. Well, the expression on his fiancée’s face clearly indicated as much. Dessert was finally served and Mr Vane, cracking an almond with a complacent expression on his bland, fat face, noted: “You will scarcely care to retain the present appearance of Stamforth House’s main drawing-room, my dear Lewis.”

    “No, of course,” agreed Lewis without interest. His main drawing-room would have held a regiment with ease, was colder than charity, and contained quantities of very dark, heavy old furniture, those pieces which were not merely tortured wood being upholstered in a particularly unprepossessing olive cut velvet. The curtains were a dull mustard, also cut velvet. He had a vague idea that these were Venetian velvets and enormously valuable but he had no intention of revealing this.

    “Lady Benedict,” said the stout gourmet, beaming at her, “thinks that some of the pleasant walnut pieces from the upstairs sitting-room and the long gallery might go in there, and that we might think of a straw-coloured satin for the hangings. I suggested that we perhaps purchase some pleasant modern sofas, and move those dark old pieces out. What do you think, Lewis?”

    “By all means.”

    “Yes, but Mr Mountjoy says that much of the furniture een there ees irreplaceable. Lewis!” she cried anxiously.

    “Yes,” said Lewis hoarsely, flushing darkly. “I am sure it may be. But that does not make it either beautiful or comfortable. If anything is thought to be valuable it can go down to the castle. I dare say it might suit Old Hall, Nan.” He smiled at her.

    It belatedly dawned on Nan that, doubtless under the influence of hearing his cousin do so, she had addressed him as “Lewis.” She went very pink, looked away in confusion. and became momentarily incapable of speech.

    That was, however, the one highlight of a very dull evening.

    “Good afternoon. Miss Gump,” said Lewis in some surprise as, on his return home from a round of committee meetings, his fiancée’s governess shot out into the entrance lobby of Stamforth House with an anguished expression on her thin face.

    “Good afternoon, Lord Stamforth!” she gasped.

    Lewis now became aware of a babble of voices from the direction of the green salon. “I collect my fiancée has some assistance in redesigning the green salon, this afternoon?”

    Miss Gump smiled ingratiatingly. “Dear Mr Tobias Vane is here, of course.”

    He did not, however, possess a high-pitched giggle. Nor yet a rumble of bass laughter. Lewis eyed her drily. “Mm. Is Her Grace of Purle?”

    “Er—well, no. Her Grace wished to rest before this evening’s party, so I said I would— And dear General Sir Francis Kernohan called, and volunteered to escort— Such a gallant man—for an elderly gentleman!”

    “Quite.”

    “And a naval gentleman, also—I think he is a friend of your Lordship’s?”

    “I know several naval gentlemen,” replied Lewis evenly.

    “Er—yes. Of course.” She gave him an agonized smile.

    “Who else is here, Miss Gump?”

    “Well. there are several... A Mr Brentwood, my Lord: he called on us while Her Grace was lying down. And I did try to represent to dear Lady Benedict that he is not a gentleman!”

    “Oh,” said Lewis, trying in vain to recall the name of the damned impertinent young scoundrel who had led Nan astray last year. “Young, is he?”

    “Why, no,” she faltered. “Middle-aged. A stout person, my Lord!”

    Lewis did not think that Nan could be in much danger from a stout middle-aged person, in especial if she had Tobias, General Sir Francis, and presumably the owner of the soprano giggle—there it went again—to support her. Amongst others.

    Miss Gump’s bony hands twisted together. “I did not meet— But I believe he called at Sunny Bay, last summer!”

    “Er—oh! I think I know who it must be. Good, I shall be fascinated to meet him. Have they had a tray sent in, in the midst of all this—er—decorating?”

    “Oh, yes indeed, my Lord!”

    “Good.” With some difficulty persuading her to precede him, Lewis went into the green salon. “Good God,” he said numbly, stopping short. The green salon was scarcely green any more.

    “Oh, there you are!” cried his fiancée, bounding up from a pink brocade sofa that Lewis to his knowledge had never set eyes on before in his life. “Look, the rest of the furniture has arrived from Bath at last! We thought peenk for thees room: what do you theenk? Pretty, no?”

    Lewis agreed numbly. He greeted her companions numbly. The naval gentleman was damned Charles Quarmby-Vine, which he supposed was to be expected.

    Mr Perseus Brentwood, Lewis had to admit, was even better than he had anticipated. He had been holding the floor when Lewis entered. After bowing very deeply and expressing himself wholly gratified and honoured to meet his Lordship, he went back to it. Lewis had nothing to do but sink into a pink brocade chair and listen. And look. The salon’s dark green curtainings had vanished and been replaced by pale pink brocade ones. Several acres of murky Aubusson had vanished. The Vane portraits had likewise vanished from the walls. Actually, the walls looked, above the dark wainscoting, as if they might have been washed. That was quick. The floor was now covered with a riot—yes, positively a riot—of Persian carpets, in pinks and blues and crimsons.

    Mr Brentwood’s immense expanse of pink satin waistcoat certainly went with the new decorations of the room. So did not the extraordinary outfit of the young lady who was with him. The actor-manager had introduced her with the words: “May I humbly beg to present to your Lordship’s estimable notice my niece, Miss Desdemona Brentwood-Jones, one of our budding, an I say it myself, tragediennes.”

    The appellation “budding” certainly fitted her, but Lewis would not have wagered a bent farthing on the tragedienne bit. Nor on the “Brentwood, hyphen.” The very high-pitched giggle was hers. Miss Desdemona Brentwood-Jones was in black and dark blue, neither shade particularly fitted to her round, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed face. She had masses of very fair hair in elaborate twists and ringlets under a lady’s riding hat. To this were attached a variety of gauzy black and blue scarves. the which would almost certainly have blown into her eyes and blinded her had she been so foolish as to attempt to ride. But Lewis did not think she would do that. Her short: figure was very curvaceous indeed and displayed to great advantage by what might have passed for a lady’s riding habit if one was very short-sighted. Black but with a great quantity of dark blue frogging and braiding. It was looped up at the right front to display an extraordinary boot, cut away in a series of scallops around the eyelets, and very elaborately laced, over a blue stocking. Though there was clearly nothing of the bluestocking about Miss Brentwood-Jones.

    There were, incidentally, no other ladies present, but Lewis Vane was not surprised. The company eventually took itself off—Charles Quarmby-Vine with a distinctly sheepish look on his face as he went, Lewis was not wholly displeased to note. He ascertained that Nan would care to walk back to Green Street, and kindly dispatched Miss Gump in the barouche.

    “Well, you appear to have been to have been busy,” he said without emphasis, as they headed slowly down the street.

    “Er—yes. We have not decided which carpets to have een there, that ees why they are all spread out like that. –I know Miss Desdemona Brentwood-Jones ees rather dreadful,” she burst out, “but I could hardly deny Mr Brentwood the door—”

    “No, of course you could not: not after what he and his friends did for little Ruth!” he said with a laugh. “He will always be welcome in my house.”

    “Thank you,” said Nan, swallowing.

    “But I would take issue with the expression ‘rather dreadful’ as applied to Miss Desdemona Brentwood-Jones.”

    Nan looked at him warily. “Oh?”

    “Say, rather, wholly dreadful!” he choked, going into a paroxysm.

    Nan smiled weakly. “Oh, you thought eet was funny. Well, yes, eet ees. But eet ees not what you theenk.”

    Lewis gave a very rude snort.

    “No, no, truly!” she cried agitatedly. “Mr Brentwood expressed a weesh to see a leetle of your house, and when I was showing eet heem, he revealed that she ees hees daughter!”

    “Rubbish!” said Lewis, shaking all over.

    “No, no, she ees! Eet was most affecting: he told me a great deal about her mamma. And eef you look at her closely you weell see she has hees eyes and chin!”

    “Which one?” said Lewis rudely.

    “Do not be horrid! Eet ees so: once one knows, one cannot miss the likeness!”

    “Mm. –No, don’t eat me, my dear: if you say so, then I believe you. So how old is she?”

    “Er—well, she ees sixteen.”

    “I’ll look forward to seeing her in the great tragic rôles, then,” he said smoothly.

    “Mm,” said Nan, wincing. “Er—he presented me weeth thees.”

    Lewis took the ticket. “A box?” he groaned.

    She bit her lip. “I suppose General Sir Francis would take me, eef you do not weesh for eet. But I am afraid he theenks Mr Brentwood ees vairy vulgar.”

    “I am sure he does!” he choked. “I never saw the old fellow look so frosty!’

    “Do you theenk eet would be better eef I told heem that Miss Desdemona ees Mr Brentwood’s daughter?” she asked anxiously.

    Lewis shook all over. “Not very much!” he gasped.

    “Oh,” she said, her face falling. “No.”

    “I’ll take you, Nan, if you really wish to go,” he said, wiping his eyes, “but I am afraid I cannot absolutely guarantee not to laugh in all the wrong places.”

    “No. Thank you,” said Nan, biting her lip. “I do understand.’

    Lewis blew his nose. “Dare one ask what the piece is?”

    She swallowed. “The Tempest.”

    Lewis gave a yelp, and collapsed again.

    “He weell be Prospero,” said his affianced, sticking her rounded chin in the air, and Miss Brentwood-Jones weell be Miranda, and eet ees not that funny!”

    “No, it’s tragic,” he said, grinning, and wiping his eyes. “Oh, Lor’. I cannot recall: does Miranda have much to say?”

    “I do not know. Why?”

    “Setting aside the dubious likelihood of that little blonde piece’s ever remembering more than four consecutive lines, she has a voice like the bleat of a particularly dim lamb: you must have remarked it!”

    Nan chewed on her lip. “He ees teaching her to—to achieve a flexible tone.”

    Regrettably, Lewis collapsed again.

    “Possibly eet weell not be that bad.”

    He nodded helplessly, shaking.

    “Um—as eet weell be a box—”

    “Yes?” he said resignedly.

    “Well, the Duchess does not care for Shakespeare. Could we allow Miss Gump and the girls to come, and eenvite Miss McInnery?”

    Lewis smiled. He took her hand and kissed it lightly. Nan went crimson and snatched it back.

    “An excellent idea,” he said mildly.

    “Thank you,” she said, not looking at him. She walked on very fast.

    Lewis lounged after her. “You are not cold, I hope?”

    “No, I am well wrapped up.”

    “Mm. Then there’s no-hurry, is there?”

    “Not especially, but we must not be late.”

    “Late for what?”

    “You cannot have forgotten! Eet ees tonight that we are to dine weeth Lady Mary and Mr George Vane; her brother, Lord Blefford, weell be there!”

    “Oh—damn. Look, Nan—”

    Nan swallowed. “I do not theenk you should be calling me by my name.”

    Lewis eyed her drily. “I shall try to remember that, in company. But as I strongly doubt that you yourself are shockable, you will have to forgive me if I tend to lapse when we are alone. I was about to ask, how many of those hopeful imbeciles present at the decorating session this afternoon have volunteered themselves to act as your escort on the evenings when I have to be at the House?”

    “Vairy well, they all deed, and they are all harmless!” she cried.

    “Harmless and imbeciles,” he agreed mildly.

    She gave him a baffled look. “So, are you going to forbeed eet?”

    “No.”

    She took a deep, annoyed breath and walked on very fast.

    Lewis grinned. He accompanied her in silence for the rest of the way, wondering vaguely what had happened to all those family portraits that had hung in the erstwhile green salon. Oh, well—let her.

    “What is it?” said Babs Purle as Nan fidgeted before the mirror while they waited for Lewis in the downstairs salon that evening.

    “Oh—nothing.” She twitched at the shoulders of her dress, frowning. “Do you like thees pale grey silk?”

    “I have already said so. Those plain lines flatter you: a short woman should not wear anything too busy.”

    “Yes.” Nan fiddled with her silvery pearls.

    “My dear, the pearls are the most exquisite things in London,” said Her Grace with a sigh. “Oblige me by ceasing to fidget. If Lewis is late we shall go without him; we hardly need his escort to my cousin’s son’s house.”

    “Um—no. Duchess, eet—eet ees vairy intimate!” she burst out, flushing up.

    “What is?” said Babs Purle calmly.

    “Thees—thees decorating of a man’s house for heem!”

    Her Grace smiled, just a little. “Possibly you should have thought of that before you plunged yourself so eagerly into the task.”

    Nan swallowed. “Yes,” she said lamely.

    The Duchess eyed her in considerable amusement, but said no more.

    The slender pair of legs balanced on a chair against the wall of the green salon most certainly did not belong to the stout Mr Tobias Vane. Lewis didn’t speak: he did not want to be the cause of a nasty accident. The gentleman on the chair, to the accompaniment of loud and contradictory directions from Lady Benedict and Lewis’s young cousin Harry Dinsdale, endeavoured to straighten the picture he was supporting. “Well?” he gasped.

    “I think it would look rather better over that occasional table,” murmured a voice from a pink silk wing-chair. Lewis jumped: he had not been aware the chair was occupied.

    “Yes, Commander Sir Arthur ees right!” decided Lewis’s fiancée.

    Lewis strolled forward a little. The gallant Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham jumped, and shot to his feet. “Afternoon, Stamforth,” he muttered.

    “Hullo, Jerningham. Did not know you was an expert in interior décor,” replied Lewis cheerfully. Commander Sir Arthur smiled feebly.

    “I say, this is heavy, y’know!” gasped the figure on the chair.

    “Just hold on a leetle longer; I weell reeng the bell!” cried Lewis’s fiancée.

    She rang the bell. Her two large Indian footmen, whom Lewis had earlier observed lurking outside the door, immediately shot in.

    With a loud sigh the young gentleman on the chair allowed himself to be relieved of the picture.

    “Afternoon, Claveringham,” said Lewis on a dry note. “Taken up juggling, have you?”

    “Oh—ah—good afternoon, Lord Stamforth!” stuttered Mr Edward Claveringham, hurriedly jumping off the chair.

    “Eet’s all right, I made heem take hees shoes off,” said Lewis’s fiancée calmly.

    Lewis had now realised this. His shoulders quivered slightly. “What is this?” he asked, strolling forward to inspect the picture.

    “Very pretty ancestor, my Lords Sahib!” beamed Ranjit.

    Commander Sir Arthur came up to his side. “Er—Lady Miranda Vane, Stamforth. Did try to explain to her La’ship,” he murmured, clearing his throat.

    Lewis’s lips twitched. Lady Miranda Vane was a Lely. She had been a Hammond before she married the Mr George Vane of the day. It was said that one of Lewis’s ancestors had tried to persuade the Hammonds to take the picture off him, but they had refused. It was a very daring Lely, there was a lot of Lady Miranda on view, but the main reason the Vanes had not wanted to retain the picture was not that it revealed so much of her Ladyship, but her Ladyship’s fugue with Mr Vane’s groom after three years of marriage. It was more than likely that Commander Sir Arthur knew of the story because of his family connexion to the Hammonds.

    “Ees she not pretty, Lord Stamforth? She weell be just the theeng to brighten up thees room!” cried his fiancée, all lit up.

    “Mm, the exact same shade of pink,” agreed Lewis drily, looking hard at it.

    Mr Edward Claveringham gave a strangled laugh, followed by a strangled cough, and directed an agonized look at him.

    “Have you asked Tobias’s opinion yet, Lady Benedict?” Lewis added calmly.

    “Why, no, but I theenk he would agree? See, there ees a leetle green een her dress, as well as the peenk ribbons!”

    “Mm. Have you decided to retain the green pillars, then?”

    “Well, not absolutely. I shall leave them for thees Season, I do not weesh to make the house uncomfortable for you. They may go during the summer.”

    “Very wise. –I agree with Jerningham, it will look well over the occasional table. There’s a cupboardful of pink china down at the castle, my grandfather used to collect it: I’ll have it sent up, if you intend this room to be more pink and less green.”

    “Duh-do you mean Guh-Grandfather Stamforth’s collection of Famille rose?” gasped Harry Dinsdale.

    “Something like that,” Lewis agreed.

    Harry swallowed hard but did not say that it was priceless, possibly noticing the gleam in Lewis’s eye just in time.

    “Peenk china? Yes, that would be vairy pretty...” approved Lewis’s fiancée vaguely. “Richpal, lift your end a leetle! We can put a bowl on that table—no? And the picture above! Perfect! –Ees there a bowl, Lord Stamforth?”

    “Mm? Oh—I think there may be a bowl or two, yes.” Lewis picked up a posy. One of three posies that rested on the table off which the company had clearly at one stage been taking tea. “They will be useful for posies and such-like.”

    “Of course! I eentend to have lots of flowers een thees room!” she agreed happily.

    Lewis glanced from the stuffed-cod expression on Harry Dinsdale’s face to the mottled puce of Mr Edward’s, and Commander Sir Arthur’s deeper mottled maroon. “That should be relatively easy to manage,” he murmured.

    After that he was not particularly surprised when they all discovered how late it was getting and had to take their leave.

    “My dear Nan, in the case that that noddy Jerningham did not get it into your pretty head,” he groaned, sinking limply into the pale pink silk wing-chair vacated by the gallant naval posterior, “that painted lady, pretty though she is, was notorious in her day.”

    “I dare say no more than half of London Society ees aware of eet, however,” retorted Nan, going very red. “And all your other paintings are awful and heedeous!”

    “I admit that that is the only Lely. Very well, my dear, have it.”

    Nan swallowed. “Not eef you do not weesh for eet.”

    “I think it’s charming. I am merely warning you that people may couple, er, your taste, the Lady Miranda’s history and, er, your mother’s history.”

    “Let them!” she cried, flags flying in her cheeks.

    Lewis shrugged. He supposed he could always claim it was he who’d wanted the damned thing in his downstairs salon. And it was pretty—very. “Where is Miss Gump? Or did you not bring her? Not that I mind, but possibly I should point out that this is still a bachelor household.”

    “Do not dare to reprove me,” said Nan through her teeth. “I brought her and Johnny, but he began to whine, so she has just taken heem for a leetle walk.”

    Raising his eyebrows slightly, Lewis strolled over to the window and looked at the ultra-respectability of Blefford Square. He smiled. Outside the imposing façade of Blefford House a very small boy could be observed talking excitedly to a pretty dark lady—hatless. This lady was holding a tiny child. There was absolutely no doubt at all in Lewis’s mind that Miss Gump and Johnny had encountered the Countess of Blefford herself.

    “Can you see them?”

    “Yes: they are talking to Lady Blefford en cheveux,” he murmured.

    Nan shot to his side. “Help,” she said faintly.

    “One gathers that she observed them from her window.”

    “Um—yes. Um—she has two leetle ones.”

    “Yes. Possibly you should have responded appropriately when she attempted to chat nicely the other night at George and Mary’s about your children: she was, you see, quite genuine.”

    “YES!” shouted Nan, turning puce. “Vairy well! So she ees domestic and—and genuine, as well as being good and charming! Only eef eet were I standing een Blefford Square een my hair, you would be sure to find fault weeth eet!”

    “Not if you were talking to a child attended only by a governess.”

    Nan took a deep breath and rang the bell. One of Lewis’s footmen came in and she said on a grim note: “Pray tell my footmen and coachman we are going immediately, and send to fetch een Miss Gump and Johnny, please.”

    Less than five minutes later the barouche was rattling out of Blefford Square. Lewis leant in the window of his erstwhile green salon, watching it go, his face expressionless.

    The company was very select. Very. And Lady Benedict’s black muslin gown was very low-cut. Lewis eyed it from across the table with very mixed feelings. He also eyed His Grace of Wellington looking down it while he murmured amusing nothings into Lady Benedict’s ear.

    “Oh, Your Grace!” she cried with a gurgle of laughter. “You are vairy, vairy naughty!”

    Lewis swallowed a sigh. Plus ça change...

    He had called early—though not, true, in the hope of anything, very much—in Green Street. Lady Benedict was already in the downstairs salon with her bonnet on.

    “Why are you fidgeting?” he asked blandly.

    “I am not feedgetting!”

    “Yes, you are, Nan,” said Lewis mildly.

    “I am waiting for Tobias, we are to go to your house to oversee the decorating, thees morning. He ees late,” she said, frowning.

    “Then I shall stay with you until he comes.” He sat down opposite her. “By the way, where did that pink silk wing-chair come from?” he murmured.

    “What? Oh: een your green salon? Eet was een the beeg drawing-room.”

    His giant and hideous drawing-room had not featured anything pink. “Mm?”

    Nan frowned. “Covered een a horreed crimson cut velvet. I had eet re-covered. And do not tell me that the silk weell not last, for the velvet was heedeously faded!”

    “I see. Did my eyes deceive me, or is that plastering, that is going on in the main dining-room?”

    “They are re-washing the walls, because they are so horreed!” she said, pouting dangerously.

    “Mm. What happened to the Chinese wallpaper?” asked Lewis without emotion.

    “That—that horrid brown-y stuff? Was eet Chinese?” she faltered.

    “Mm.”

    “I gave eet to Tobias,” she said faintly, giving him a plaintive look.

    “Oh? Well, I’m glad it’s gone to a good home,” said Lewis unemotionally.

    Nan smiled weakly. Lewis took up a paper. He pretended not to notice his fiancée fidgeting.

    Soon one of her Indian footmen trod in softly with a posy on a salver. “Mr Edward is sending compliments, Nanni Begum.”

    “Thank you, Richpal. Vairy pretty!” she cried. “Yellow!”

    “Jonquils. They have a very strong scent. Personally, I like it, though many people do not. You’d better pop ’em in a vase,” said Lewis calmly.

    Nan arranged the jonquils in a vase, looking defiant. Lewis pretended to ignore her. After a few moments he heard her sniff the flowers cautiously. He smiled a little.

    Soon Richpal was back. “Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham has sent flowers with card, Nanni Begum.”

    Lewis took a deep breath. “Possibly I called too early.” He held out his hand and Richpal put the card into it, bowing deeply. Lewis did not fancy he was imagining a wary look in the man’s dark eye.

    “‘Best compliments, A.J.’” he read. “Very restrained.”

    His fiancée smiled palely.

    “These are what we in England call daffodils,” explained Lewis courteously.

    “I know daffodeels!”

    “They will go very well in that vase with the jonquils. Though they do not have the delicious scent.”

    Nan rose, tight-lipped, and put the daffodils in the vase with the jonquils.

    Very soon Richpal came in again. “Cousin Dinsdale baba is sending note and posy,” he said, handing them immediately to Lewis.

    “Richpal, I believe those are addressed to me. I am not yet married to Lord Stamforth,” said his mistress dangerously.

    Richpal bowed. “Notes from boy is not desirable for young begum, Nanni Begum.”

    “Exactly. Thank you, Richpal,” said Lewis, trying not to laugh.

    Looking gratified, Richpal bowed himself out.

    “I never encouraged heem to send a note, he ees just a seelly boy!” she cried.

    “He is undoubtedly a silly boy. Please, take the note, it is addressed to you.”

    Nan took it numbly. “He weeshes me to go for a drive to Richmond.”

    “The weather is rather cold for that, I think. Perhaps you had best ask him to accompany us to the play, instead.”

    “May I really?”

    “Mm, but don’t include his mother in the invitation, if you have any respect for my sanity.”

    “No!” she agreed with a choke of laughter. “But Harry ees quite an agreeable boy.”

    “Yes; I said: ask him.”

    “Thank you, I shall.”

    He smiled slightly, and retired into his paper again. There was a short silence.

    “What are these flowers?” said his fiancée in a small voice.

    “Mm? Oh! Hyacinths. They should smell quite glorious. Though very different from the jonquils, I would not put them anywhere near them.”.

    “No… Mmm, yes, wonderful! Oh, look: they are growing een a pot!”

    “Mm, I think that’s customary.”

    “I shall put them on my dressing table!” She paused. “Um, ees that suitable?” she said in a small voice.

    Lewis replied calmly: “Of course, my dear. Even if we were already married, it would be suitable, though possibly not entirely tactful. You may find that the scent is too much, at night, however.”

    Nan nodded, and hurried out.

    When she returned she was carrying Pol Parrot in his cage.

    “What’s he done?” said Lewis on a resigned note.

    “I am not vairy sure. He said a bad word, but Miss Gump would not tell me what eet was.”

    Lewis’s shoulders shook silently.

    “Lewis, how could he have learned bad words?” she cried. “You told me he belonged to your elderly great-aunt!”

    Lewis collapsed in sniggers.

    Nan looked huffy. “Bad boy, Pol Parrot!” she said crossly.

    “Pol Parrot! Hullo, Aggie!” he agreed brightly.

    Lewis continued to snigger.

    Richpal came in again. Two posies on a salver.

    “I do not ask gentlemen to send me—”

    “No, I realise that. Their own idiocy prompts ‘em to it,” he murmured. “—Well?”

    “The one weeth the white flowers and the leetle blue beebbles—no, I theenk I mean bobbles—ees from Captain Quarmby-Vine.”

    “Very naval, aye.”

    “And the just white ones are from the Duke, and I do not encourage heem!”

    “Well, he don’t need it,” he murmured. “Freesias. Also a glorious scent.”

    “Spring,” said Nan awkwardly.

    “Something like that.” Lewis folded his paper. “I could discourage these gentlemen,” he said without emphasis.

    Nan went very red.

    “But perhaps you do not wish me to?” he said politely.

    She looked at him grimly. “I theenk the decision ees yours, not mine.”

    Lewis rose. “You mistake, my dear. –Tobias is very late, I perceive. I must beg you will not go to my house without at least his escort. And preferably that of Miss Gump, also, since my aunt seems to be failing you in that regard.”

    “She ees not an early riser. And she says that although planning a room ees an entertaining enough exercise, the tedium of seeing the plan put eento operation ees not entertaining.”

    Lewis sighed. “I am sure she does.”

    “But I—I cannot take Miss Gump away from the girls’ lessons every day.”

    “No. Well, you must fall back on Tobias.”

    “Mm.” Nan looked at him expectantly, but he merely bowed, said: “I have an appointment, or I would wait with you,” and left. Not saying any more about discouraging the gentlemen who sent flowers. or warning her not to make assignations with gentlemen at his house whether or no for the purpose of decorating, or—or anything!

    Nan’s jaw trembled. “He ees the most eerritating man een the world,” she said aloud. Oddly, it came out very doleful, and not at all as grim as she had imagined she felt.

    The three little girls clustered excitedly in the front of the box. Lewis urged Miss Gump and Miss McInnery forward. Lady Benedict and Mr Harry Dinsdale took up their positions in the second row, and Lewis placed his chair firmly behind theirs.

    “Lady Benedict, I do trust you have explained to the children that The Tempest is not precisely a comedy?”

    “Ye-es... Well. they do not know plays.” she said, smiling at him. “I theenk the movement and the colour weell satisfy them.”

    “Er—mayhap. Is it to be very colourful?”

    “Oh, absolutely!” burst out Harry. ‘We went behind the scenes, y’know: you have never seen anything like it! All colour and bustle, and the most amazin’ effects!”

    “I see. When was this?” asked Lewis levelly.

    His young cousin turned puce. “Er—t’other day, sir!” he stammered. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew!”

    “Mr Brentwood,” said Lewis’s fiancée grimly, “vairy kindly sent an invitation. Eet was not eendelicate or unsuitable.”

    “Er—no,” Mr Harry agreed uneasily. “Er—well, the old lady was with us, Cousin Stamforth.”

    “What, Aunt Babs?” said Lewis faintly.

    “Oh, Lord, no, sir! Would not dream of referrin’ to Her Grace as—” Mr Harry broke off, coughing. “No. A Miss Urqhart-Smyth. Friend of Lady Benedict’s„“

    “Uh—oh, good gad,” said Lewis limply. “I think I know. She is a connexion of Mrs Urqhart’s, isn’t she?” he said to Nan.

    “Yes. –See: the orchestra ees coming een now, Mina!” she smiled, leaning forward.

    “I see!” said Mina with satisfaction. “So that’s where they go!”

    “The conductor weell stand up and wave hees steeck,” said Amrita pleasedly. “Eef they are not good, he weell beat them!”

    Lewis smothered a laugh, as Miss Gump attempted agitatedly to correct this misapprehension.

    “Look, here comes the conductor!” cried Mina.

    “Weeth hees steeck!” cried Amrita.

    It was all on about that level. They nearly burst when the curtain went up. He doubted they understood a word of the play. But then, Mr Brentwood as Prospero, in a giant wig and beard streaked green and silver, was so impressive that one scarcely needed to. And they actually got the point that “that pretty lady” was his daughter.

    The production was extremely colourful and faerie-like, if fairyland be composed of choruses of attendant grotesques amongst myriads of tiny lanterns, enormous paper palms painted silver, billowing coloured gauzes, large flats moving up, down and sideways mysteriously and almost silently, and puffs of brightly coloured smoke accompanied by loud bangs, plus, in the case of their box, loud shrieks. Lewis passed some time silently figuring out the quickest and safest route out, should the damned stage catch alight.

    Amrita yelped each time Caliban came on: after not very long at all, Caliban was observed to be directing his playing at their box. Ariel caused much puzzlement. Eventually Clara Vane hissed hoarsely: “’Ere! Is that a boy or a girl?”

    “Er—well, strictly speaking, it’s an airy spirit, dear,” whispered Miss Gump.

    Lewis at this point exited hurriedly from the box. Surprisingly enough, Harry Dinsdale joined him not two seconds later. When they were both over it and wiping their eyes, Lewis produced a couple of cigars with the remark: “I don’t usually indulge, but Noël Amory gave me these t’other day.”

    Harry lit up gratefully. “By God, ain’t it awesomely bad?”

    Lewis’s shoulders shook. “Indeed.”

    “If he’s got him wearing a dashed great cod-piece—” noted Mr Harry, blowing out a cloud of blue smoke.

    “Don’t, there’s a good lad,” said Lewis faintly.

    Grinning, Harry concluded: “—then why the Devil’s he given him a pair of tits?”

    Regrettably, the gentlemen collapsed again.

    Mr Brentwood had sent a pressing invitation to come round after the performance: Lewis consented, but with the proviso that they should not stay long: it was very late for the children. Not unexpectedly Caliban put on an impromptu extra performance. to the accompaniment of shrieks of mingled delight and horror. The removal of Mr Brentwood’s beard and make-up also caused horror and delight, Clara being quite stunned to discover that the beard came off. Mina disappeared quietly at one point and there was a mild panick, but she reappeared in a little, hand-in-hand with a pink-cheeked, curly-haired young man. “I found him. He’s a boy,” she announced definitely. Mr Harry thereupon disgraced himself by breaking down in helpless sniggers.

    To great cries of disappointment, Lewis decided it was really too late to stay for supper. He let them all have a sip of champagne, however, to congratulate the players and to toast the run of the play and, dragging Harry almost forcibly from the grip of Miss Brentwood-Jones, got them out of it at long last.

    The three little girls fell asleep in the carriage almost immediately.

    “Well?” said Nan on a defiant note, as little Miss McInnery, nodding and yawning and beaming all at once, was dropped off at Lumb Street.

    Lewis re-seated himself, smiling, as the carriage set off for Green Street. “Colourful. Almost as good as I had hoped, indeed.”

    Harry Dinsdale collapsed in sniggers again.

    “That girl’s sixteen,” said Lewis detachedly.

    “Eh? Oh,” he said sheepishly, ceasing to snigger.

    “Billy Quipp was vairy good, I thought,” said Nan, sticking out her chin.

    “Er—oh, the Caliban? Er—he was certainly grotesque, yes,” Lewis allowed.

    “The brats liked him,” said Harry tolerantly.

    Nan bit her lip.

    “It will run for weeks,” Lewis predicted, yawning. “The gauzes and the damn’ lanterns of themselves should guarantee it. Not to mention all those flashes of coloured powder.”

    “And the engine, sir!” urged Harry.

    Lewis had borne up remarkably well, considering. At this point he disgraced himself utterly by collapsing in yelps of laughter.

    “You do not understand!” cried Nan loudly. “Eet was designed to reflect the new mechanical age weeth—weeth the spinning jennies and the manufactories!”

    Lewis just shook his head helplessly, tears of laughter oozing from his eyes.

    “Oh, dear,” said Nan limply. “Eet was rather awful, I fear.”

    Lewis just nodded helplessly.

    … “Oh, Lor’, no, Lady Benedict!” said Harry Dinsdale next day. “He was not bored at all. Loved every minute of it!”

    Nan sat down rather suddenly on a very new straw-coloured satin sofa whose positioning was posing severe problems. “Are—are you sure, Harry?”

    “Absolutely! Why, one can always tell when Cousin Stamforth is tryin’ not to laugh!”

    “Can one?” said Nan wistfully.

    Mr Harry looked at her dubiously but did not pursue the topic.

    Lady Benedict whirled, laughing, in the waltz, in the competent arms of Mr Bobby Amory.

    “I had not known Bobby Amory was in town,” said Lewis levelly.

    “No?” replied his aunt. “Attractive creature, isn’t he?”

    “An attractive creature who, one had heard, was about to contract an engagement with a pretty, sensible woman within ten years of his own age.”

    Her Grace raised her finely plucked brows. “Cold feet?”

    “More than like,” replied Lewis grimly.

    “Put a stop to it,” said Babs Purle lightly.

    “I was hoping that I would not have to.”

    “My dear boy, I cannot imagine what made you think that!”

    In the front hall of the house in Green Street Lewis’s hat and stick were taken by Ranjit. Bowing very low, he imparted the news that Nanni Begum was holding a tea-party. Lewis winced.

    “Is only ladies, my Lords Sahib,” explained the footman.

    Lewis winced again. Was he that transparent to Lady Benedict’s servants? “Then I shall not intrude.”

    “Ah, but ladies will wish to see my Lords Sahib. Ladies is Missy Iris and Lady Amory Memsahib!” he beamed.

    “Lady—oh! Sir Noël Amory’s wife?”

    Bowing very low, Ranjit assured him it was so. Smiling, Lewis let him show him into the downstairs salon.

    Cherry greeted him with cries of joy. Iris Jeffreys was not so ecstatic; Lewis fancied he read a certain sympathy in her expression, however, and repressed another wince.

    “And only guess, Lord Stamforth!” Cherry concluded a breathless account of their plans for London: “Mr Brentwood has sent us tickets for his production of The Tempest!”

    Lewis looked at her helplessly.

    “Er—yes, we’ve seen eet. We took the girls. Eet—eet ees vairy colourful,” said Nan limply.

    Lewis coughed. “Yes. Er—so what are your plans, Miss Jeffreys?”

    Iris’s plans, it seemed, did not amount to much more than quietly enjoying the fact that the Keywes newly-weds had now departed for Rome. She was not staying in Robert’s house, but with Lady Creigh, Anne and Lilias at the home of a Mrs Curtiss, who was Sophia Creigh’s sister-in-law. “We shall hover humbly on the fringes of Society, avoiding all such events as Embassy receptions, large balls, and rout parties,” she ended with satisfaction.

    Lewis laughed a little, and nodded.

    “Sir Noël wishes us to have a ball,” announced Cherry glumly.

    “Why, for God’s sake?” said Iris blankly. “You are not launching a daughter.”

    “That is what I said,” replied Cherry with a sigh. “I don’t know, exactly. He’s bought the house: I think he wishes to show it off. –I don’t know if you know it, Lord Stamforth? Just a few doors down.”

    “Of course: the Green Street house that Noël was used to hire? Well,” he said kindly as she nodded gloomily: “it’s a very pleasant house, Lady Amory.”

    “Yes,” said Cherry with a sigh. “It’s rather big, though. –I can’t get used to being called Lady Amory,” she confided ruefully. “I keep looking over my shoulder for his mamma or grandmamma.”

    “That’s understandable: I find it very odd being addressed as Lord Stamforth,” Lewis agreed.

    Cherry stayed on to talk to Nan, but Iris accepted Lewis’s escort home. It was a mild afternoon: she walked along energetically at his side.

    After a while he murmured: “By the way, Ursa was threatening to come and keep me company until we hear definitely that Curwellion is no more.”

    “Oh, was he, by the way?” said Iris very airily, turning pink.

    Lewis laughed suddenly. “Yes. I’ll write and tell him I’m shaking in my boots! –Don’t let’s spar, Miss Jeffreys, I like you too much.”

    “I like you, too. Odd thing, life, isn’t it?” she said ruminatively.

    “Mm,” agreed Lewis, somewhat drily.

    They strolled on amicably, arm-in-arm, not talking.

    The Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen’s dinner party. There must be very few persons here, reflected Lewis dispassionately, inclining his head courteously as old Lady Mandeville embarked on a long, rambling story, who were in any doubt that the Fürstin had placed Noël Amory next Fenella Hartington-Pyke on purpose. Little Cherry was down at the other end of the table between, good Christ, Lieutenant Brinsley-Pugh and one of the Carvalho dos Santos brothers. She did not seem to be aware that Brinsley-Pugh was trying to flirt with her—but she must be the only person at the table who was not. Lewis’s fiancée was placed at some remove from himself. To her right, his young cousin Guy Purle, quite undoubtedly the prettiest lad in London. To her left, the handsome Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham. If there was anyone at the table who imagined that any of that was a coincidence, they must be blind, deaf and doddering. Or as innocent as Cherry Amory.

    Jennifer Mallory’s card party. Jennifer was Lewis’s cousin and quite a decent woman, within her lights. Unfortunately the lights did not extend as far as editing her guest list in his favour.

    “Oh, Prince! But I do not theenk I am allowed to play piquet weeth you!” cried Lady Benedict with a delicious gurgle of laughter.

    Lewis came up and placed a hand under her elbow. This time he was aware he was using the steel grip. “She is correct in her not thinking, Prince,” he said coolly.

    Henri-Louis rose and bowed, a wary look in his eye.

    “Her piquet is so very bad, indeed, that I do not let her play outside the family,” said Lewis with finality, leading her away, steel grip well to the fore.

    “That was really quite uncalled for,” said Nan in a weak voice.

    Lewis peered at her face in the sufficiently dim lighting of his Cousin Jennifer’s crimson salon. “Are you trying not to laugh?”

    Nan nodded frantically. “Please take me out, Lewis!” she hissed.

    Lewis led her hurriedly into the adjoining salon, where she collapsed in helpless giggles. He looked at her with a certain sensation of despair. It was the very last reaction he had expected from her.

    Nan wiped her eyes. “Oh, dear! –And why on earth deed you not warn me your cousin’s salon ees that horrid colour?” she hissed.

    Lewis’s jaw dropped.

    “Look at what I am wearing!” she hissed.

    Silvery lilac satin, embroidered with tiny clusters of seed pearls: utterly delicious. “Er…”

    “Eet ees deesastrous weeth all that crimson: eet kills eet dead!” she hissed.

    “I’m sorry,” he said lamely.

    She looked at him with a sort of kindly, tolerant superiority. “Men have no notion, really.”

    “No,” said Lewis numbly. “None at all.”

    Her Grace of Purle, delicious in palest blue silk frosted with exquisite lace, watched idly as Lady Benedict whirled in the waltz, laughing up into the Duke of Wellington’s eyes.

    “I really do think you could have prevented that, Aunt Babs,” said Lewis grimly.

    “You will have to get used to the fact, soon or late, that your future wife’s tastes in men have nothing in common with your political leanings, Stamforth,” she drawled maliciously, slowly fanning herself with a fan of lace dyed the same pale blue as her dress.

    He ignored that, with some difficulty. “Well, for God’s sake! You’ve known him since your mutual cradles: couldn’t you at least give him a hint not to hug Nan to his bosom like that?”

    “Oh, is that what he is hugging her to?”

    Lewis breathed very hard through flared nostrils.

    “Dance with her yourself, if that is how you feel,” said Babs Purle, shrugging.

    He ignored that, too.

    It was not absolutely clear why Lady Benedict required the assistance of Captain Quarmby-Vine, Lieutenant-Commander Peter Haydock and Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham in decorating the dining-room of Stamforth House. Unless she intended giving it a naval touch? Oh—no, that could not be: Major-General Sir Percy Wayneflete and Captain Lord Vyvyan Gratton-Gordon were there, too. True, little old Miss Urqhart-Smyth was also assisting, in fact she was standing on a chair fighting with a length of curtaining when Lewis walked in, but that did not make it all that much better, in his eyes. Though it did make it impossible to object to the thing.

    Some little time later it dawned that possibly Lady Benedict had invited the old lady to chaperone her at these occasions not to play propriety, and not to propitiate him, but precisely so that he could not object to the thing.

    Lady Benedict whirled in the waltz, laughing up into the bright blue eyes of Guy Purle.

    “Is that intended to annoy yourself, or me?” drawled Lewis.

    “It cannot annoy myself, Lewis, I at least am aware that she is spoken for,” drawled his aunt in precisely the same tone.

    Lewis went very red, turned on his heel, and left her.

    “Hm,” said the Duchess.

    “Captain Lord Vyvyan Gratton-Gordon is here, my Lord,” his footman reported, taking his hat and stick.

    “Indeed?” replied Lewis evenly.

    “With a chair, my Lord.”

    “With—Ah. Pray convey my thanks for the chair, and show him out again.”

    “Oh, Lord Stamforth! Delightful!” twittered Miss Urqhart-Smyth.

    Lewis bowed and greeted her politely. Apparently Miss Urqhart-Smyth was to chaperone himself and his fiancée to the opera this evening in Her Grace’s place: it was a piece that the Duchess did not care for.

    After a few moments Nan came in. Miss Urqhart-Smyth gasped, and dropped her fan.

    The dress was the delightful black lace one she had worn at Vaudequays. Lewis had no objection to it, and he did not see that the little elderly spinster could have, either. So it must be the flowers she had pinned to the bosom.

    “You look delightfully, Lady Benedict,” he said, bowing formally over her hand.

    She eyed him warily. “Thank you.”

    “May I ask whose flowers are being honoured tonight?”

    “My Lord,” faltered Miss Urqhart-Smyth, “I—I did suggest to her Ladyship, after your disagreement with him in the House—”

    “Dear Cousin Cloreenda, that has nothing to do weeth the case!” said Nan with an airy laugh.

    Lewis took a deep breath. Wellington, again. “I do trust you do not expect His Grace to visit my box, Lady Benedict. After our—er—falling out in the House, I fear he will not, even for the pleasure of your company.”

    “No? Then I shall just wave to heem!” she said cheerfully.

    That presented a charming picture. “I must beg you merely to bow, Lady Benedict.”

    “But he has been such a kind friend!” she cried.

    One of the functions of Miss Urqhart-Smyth, it belatedly dawned on Lewis Vane, was very possibly to prevent any such confrontation with Lady Benedict as that which now threatened. He took her elbow: the grip of steel again, yes. “If you wish to come to the opera this evening, you will agree merely to bow to the Duke. Otherwise I shall escort Miss Urqhart-Smyth home again. I have many other things I should be doing this evening.”

    “Certainly I shall just bow, eef that ees your weesh,” she said coldly. “And I must beg you not to bruise my arm.”

    Lewis released her, reddening. Hell and damnation!

    Wellington was at the opera. She did just bow. Well, smile and bow. His Grace did not visit their box. She continued cold all evening.

    Lady Benedict whirled in the waltz, laughing up into Prince Henri-Louis’s eyes.

    “One was under the impression,” said Noël Amory on a malicious note, “that that had been nipped in the bud.”

    “Really? I am saddened to learn that you could be that naïve, Noël,” replied Lewis smoothly.

    Noel laughed a little, but said not without sympathy: “Lor’, why do you not put your foot down, sir? I would have said you were the last man in London to stand for that sort of nonsense!”

    “Would you?” he murmured, his eyes on the dancers. “You are not the only one,”

    Noël gave him a baffled look.

    Lewis came into his breakfast room and stopped short at the sight of an elegant male back in the window. Before breakfast? This was becoming too much!

    “May I help you?” he said coldly.

    The back turned. “Hope so! How are you, sir?”

    “Dom!” Lewis hurried forward to wring his hand. “My dear boy! I am so glad to see you!”

    Cheerfully Dom explained that he couldn’t miss Susan’s wedding! And he thought it was safe enough, he hadn’t heard from Italy but he calculated that Curwellion must be at his last gasp. He had breakfasted, but professed himself in need of a cup of coffee. As Lewis had expected, he then joined him eagerly in ham and rolls, talking nineteen to the dozen.

    “And have you seen your sister?”

    He rubbed his nose. “Aye. Arrived last night: pretty late, y’know, went round to the address she had given me, found her and Her Grace was both out at some dashed ball: waited up for ’em forever. They eventually got een around three. Er—I know she’s your aunt and all that, sir, but ees she the right person to be lookin’ after Nan?”

    Lewis looked thoughtfully at the coffee-pot. “She is a suitable chaperone, in that she takes her into unexceptionable company. And her connexions are irreproachable.”

    “That ain’t all there ees to eet, though!”

    “No. But Lady Benedict is not a child. Possibly I might have found a chaperone who would be... shall we say, stricter, and who would be prepared, in fact, to treat her like a wayward child. That was not, however, what I wanted.”

    Dom swallowed. “No. Well. eet’s your business, sir.”

    Lewis looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. “Would you prefer to put up here, Dom, instead of in Green Street?

    “Oh, would I!” he said with a sigh.

    “Then you must, of course.”

    “The Duchess was asking me eef I knew all these dashed deeplomatic people,” he revealed glumly.

    “She would do, mm.”

    “At three een the morning?” he said indignantly.

    “At that or any other time. Well, you will be free of that here. But I must warn you: your sister is decorating the house.”

    “Hey?”

    Lewis passed him the rolls. “This house. She has not as yet touched this room.”

    Dom looked round it in a puzzled way. “Wouldn’t have to, would she?”

    “I would not take any bets. Oh, and if Vyv Gratton-Gordon walks in with the odd chair or so, I shall not object if you feel inclined to knock his teeth down his throat for him.”

    “Oh, Lor’,” said Dom limply. “Like that, ees eet?”

    “It is considerably like that: mm.”

    Old Fioravanti shook his head. “Sir Noël, I do not advise you to fight-a Lord Stamforth today. You have not been-a practise.”

    “Never tell me you is claimin’ Stamforth actually has the science, Fioravanti!” said Wilfred Rowbotham with a laugh.

    “He has science a leetle,” said the fencing master temperately.

    Laughing, Sir Noël noted that he would enjoy a bout with him, in that case.

    He lasted five minutes. Then his foil was sent spinning from his hand. Noël stood there stupidly, staring at it.

    “Hah!” cried Mr Rowbotham. “And you thought fencing was your sport!”

    “Sir Noël, Sir Noël!” cried Fioravanti. “What did I tell-a you?”

    “What did he tell you?” asked Lewis drily.

    “That you have science a little and I have not been practising. I suppose I should have been warned. But I thought I had improved since that time in the regiment when you disarmed me, young McBride and Little Billy all in a row, within the space of five minutes.” He wrinkled his straight nose.

    “You are much improve’, Sir Noël, but it is not bull-at-a-gate with Lord Stamforth. Where is your tactics?”

    “Aye: tactics, Noël!” said Lewis, frankly laughing.

    “Yes, hah-hah. Er—well, I apologize profoundly for not giving you a bout, sir, and for—er—several mistaken assumptions,” said Noël ruefully. “Yes! I see it!” he said irritably as Mr Rowbotham pointed out his foil was still on the floor.

    Grinning, Mr Rowbotham retrieved it. “Words was passed on the subject of your advanced age, sir,” he explained politely to Lewis.

    “I see.”

    “Added to which, he claimed the pistol is your weapon.”

    “Oh, I’m no swordsman,” said Lewis mildly.

    Mr Rowbotham sniggered. “No? Here’s Jerningham just come in. Now, he claims he is a swordsman!’

    “Commander Sir Arthur has-a no science,” moaned Fioravanti. “Always he is a bull-at-a-gate.”

    “Pooh: saw him disarm Henri-Louis and Vyv Gratton-Gordon at the same time, once, with a sabre in each hand. –Well, party trick, y’know!” said Mr Rowbotham hastily as the veins on Fioravanti’s forehead were seen to bulge.

    “Party tricks are not fencing, however,” said Noël mildly.

    “Go on, sir! Give him a bout!” Mr Rowbotham urged Lewis, sniggering.

    “Shut it, Wilf,” ordered Noël. “He’s giving me a bout.”

    Mr Rowbotham sniggered, but retired to a place by the wall.

    … “Well?” he said, as the friends strolled slowly homewards.

    Noël rubbed his chin. He had done a little better once he started to take Stamforth seriously, but not all that much. “He’s damned fit, as you saw. According to old Fioravanti, he’s in there every day. Not preparing to fight that ass Jerningham, before you start!”

    “Never thought he was. He’ll be workin’ it off,” concluded Mr Rowbotham sapiently.

    It was a country dance. Lady Benedict was honouring Captain Quarmby-Vine. Every time they met in the figures he appeared to pay her a more outrageous compliment. To judge from the giggles.

    Dom fidgeted. “I say, thought old Q.-V. had been given hees congé?”

    “It appears he does not think so,” said Lewis levelly. “And it is, after all, but a dance.”

    “Ees eet, just? Look, sir, eef you don’t care to, I—”

    “No.” said Lewis, grasping his sleeve. “Thank you very much for the offer, dear boy, but no.”

    Dom lapsed into baffled silence, fidgetting.

    … “Eef I were you,” he muttered, as the gallant Lieutenant-Commander Haydock was seen to sit down to piquet with Lady Benedict. “I would get on over there and make eet a hand of écarté.”

    “Would you? I, on the other hand do not care to make myself publicly ridiculous,” said Lewis-calmly.

    “But—Oh. Um, look, shall I?”

    “Well, she is your sister. But do not deceive yourself that the entire room will not grasp your intent.”

    “Let ’em.” He strode over to his sister’s table, looking grim.

    Lewis did not stay to watch.

    “Well?” he said, as Dom joined him in the adjoining salon less than two minutes later.

    “You knew what would happen, deed you not?” he said grimly.

    “No. But I have known Haydock for many years.”

    Dom took a deep breath. “l said: ‘Evening, Haydock, Shall we make thees a hand of écarté?’ And he said: ‘Lud, is Stamforth sending a boy to do a man’s job, these days? Weell eet set a new fashion, one wonders?’ And she—”

    “Burst out in giggles. Mm. Sit down, for the Lord’s sake, the whole room is watching us.”

    Dom perceived they were. He gulped and sat down limply.

    “Piquet?” said Lewis blandly.

    “Thought you deed not play?”

    “Not much, no. And not for money, with those to whom I am about to become related.”

    “But— Oh, vairy well.”

    … “All I can say ees, thank God that was not for money!” concluded Dom dazedly, at the end of the game.

    Lewis smiled slightly. “Cards bore me.”

    Dom gulped, but rallied to say: “Look, on the day you challenge Haydock or dashed old Q.-V. or damned Arthur Jerningham to a hand, can I be there to watch?”

    “I have no intention of challenging any of them to anything,” he murmured.

    Dom smiled weakly.

    Lady Benedict whirled in the waltz, smiling up into His Grace of Wellington’s eyes…

    “For the Lord’s sake, sir, she’s doing eet on purpose to annoy!” hissed Dom. “That row you had weeth Hees Grace een the Parliament ees all over the papers, and you may say, she don’t look like the sort what reads the political reports, only she do!”

    “Yes.”

    Scowling, Dom added: “And they ees talkin’ of eet everywhere you go! Senhora Carvalho dos Santos made a point of mentioning eet to us t’other night!”

    “Mm. I am not liked by the Portuguese,” said Lewis calmly.

    “Uh—oh. No, I’d forgotten that. Never mind that, sir: what I’m sayin’ ees, Nan ees doing eet on purpose to provoke you, you must see eet!”

    “She is not merely doing it to provoke me, Dom. She is also doing it because she genuinely enjoys His Grace’s company. And, before you say it, his attentions.”

    “Never tell me you don’t mind, sir!”

    “I would scarce be human if I did not mind. But it is only a dance.”

    “Maybe. Um—look, ask her for a dance!” said Dom desperately. “I am certain she ees only waiting to be asked! Well, you know what women are, sir!”

    “I would not dare to make that boast, dear boy. But I shall not ask her for a dance; it is not my habit nor my intention to stand in line. Pray excuse me, Hugh Throgmorton has very kindly offered to give me a hand of piquet. He,” said Lewis with a tiny smile, “can play the game.”

    Dom barely supressed a groan as he walked off. The fellow was as pig-headed as Nan herself!