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‘This family,’ Harold snorted. ‘Weak blood. Except for you, I hope, William. What are you going to do now you’re in England again?’
William took a long drink of his own wine, gathering his usual quiet control. He needed it when it came to dealing with his parents. ‘I haven’t decided yet. The office will decide where I’m ultimately needed.’
‘Of course they will. And I’m sure you’ll do us proud. I do miss those days of work.’ Harold sighed. ‘Perhaps you’ll use this time to find a proper wife, set up a house where you can entertain. That’s the best way to make contacts for the long run.’
Beatrice perked up a bit at those words. ‘Oh, yes, William. A marriage would be lovely. There are so many pretty girls out this Season, or so I hear. I’m sure my sister would be happy to introduce any of them to you in a trice.’
William glanced around the gloomy dining room, the burgundy-red silk walls, the gold curtains muffling everything from the outside world, the dark portraits and still lifes staring down at them. The very cushions of the dark, carved furniture seemed seeped with years of loneliness and unhappiness. So filled with bitterness. He certainly had no desire to replicate such a life, to make a lady miserable as his mother had been.
‘I’m not ready for such a step,’ he said. ‘But as soon as I am, Mother, you and Aunt Waverton will be the first to know.’
Before his parents could answer, the dining room door opened and Chris staggered in. His blond hair was rumpled, his cravat half-tied, and he gave them all a crooked grin.
‘Good evening, Blakelys all!’ he said, waving his arm. He grabbed his mother’s still-full wineglass and drained it. ‘Well, Will, are we going to this ball or not?’
* * *
Lady S-T was wearing a gown of yellow...
No. No, marigold.
...marigold silk taffeta and velvet, with rust, olive-green, and beige lily bouquets of satin, with a floral pattern of pearl and gold beads on the hem.
Diana studied the lady’s gown again, jotting down one last detail in her little notebook.
Smaller bustle at the back, falling in beaded pleats, according to the new fashion for narrower skirts.
Lady Smythe-Tomas, a young, wealthy widow, was widely known as one of the most fashionable women in London and tonight, at the most fashionable ball of the Season, she didn’t disappoint. Was it from the House of Worth? It had to be, Diana decided, with that wonderfully intricate beadwork and unusual colour combination in the bouquet trim.
She glanced down at her own gown, a debutante’s pale pink organza, with only the tiniest edge of white-lace frill along the short, puffed sleeves. Her pearl necklace was fine enough, but she knew the wreath of pink rosebuds in her hair was wrong for her red tresses. How dull it all was! Surely if she could visit Monsieur Worth in Paris, look at his sketches, feel the fine lengths of fabrics, cool satins and rich velvets, choose some daring design of her own...
She sighed. It would be heaven. And if she could get these descriptions just right, get them to sound perfect, it could all come true.
In the meantime, she had the next best thing. She could sit here in the corner at one of the most fashionable events of the London Season and observe everything going on around her. All the ladies vying with each other to have the finest, most unique, most up-to-the-minute gowns, and the most glittering jewels.
She could do it—if only her mother didn’t catch her. Diana peeked carefully around the gardenia-and-white-rose-draped trellis she was hiding behind and studied the ballroom. The Duke and Duchess of Waverton, Alexandra’s parents, had one of the largest ballrooms in London and the Duchess never spared any expense in her party arrangements. Tonight was no exception.
The ballroom, a glittering jewel case of a room in ivory and gilt, crowned with crystal chandeliers and furnished with gilded satin chairs and sofas, sparkled even more when crowded with the satin and gemstone kaleidoscope of dancers on the polished floor. More white roses and wreaths of gardenias were draped everywhere, turning the space into a garden bower.
Oh, that was good. Garden bower, she wrote in her notebook.
The Duchess stood beneath a full-length portrait of herself by Mr Sargent, clad in a gown of midnight-blue velvet and tulle embroidered with a dazzling pattern of stars and crescent moons that matched the famous Eastern Star sapphire from India in her tiara.
The Duchess smiled brightly as she greeted each new guest, even though her husband was probably hiding in the card room, and the Prince and Princess of Wales, who were rumoured to be attending because the Princess was Alexandra’s godmother, had not yet arrived. Alex herself, who the ball was nominally in honour of, was nowhere to be seen. Diana was sure she must be hiding just like her father, maybe still in her chamber or in the ladies’ withdrawing room, as Alex so often was at large balls and soirées.
Luckily, Diana’s mother was also nowhere to be seen. She was safe for the moment.
She glanced at Lady Smythe-Tomas’s gown again. The lady was laughing, her golden-blond head thrown back as she languidly waved her rust-red feather fan. She always seemed to be one of those ladies who walked about constantly backlit by an invisible amber sun. She would make a great heroine in a novel—or maybe a villainess.
The heroines of novels, at least novels of the sort she and the other girls at Miss Grantley’s passed around secretly, never realised how beautiful they were. Lady Smythe-Tomas was fully aware of her looks. After all, her photographs were often displayed in shop windows, along with Mrs Langtry and Lady Warwick. All of them always clad in the latest fashions.
‘What is that you’re writing, Diana Martin? It doesn’t look like a dance card,’ a high-pitched voice said behind her, startling her out of her fashion dream.
She gasped and whirled around, her heart pounding. She was sure it was her mother and she did not want another lecture about how she needed to stop writing and find a suitable husband. That her time was running out. She was nineteen! Almost twenty and ancient! And she was wasting her chances.
But it wasn’t her mother. It was Alexandra’s cousin Christopher Blakely, using the falsetto voice that served him so well in amateur theatricals. He burst out laughing at the appalled look on her face and his green eyes sparkled. Or maybe they sparkled from the champagne glass in his hand, which Diana was sure wasn’t his first of the evening. Chris was well known in town for his love of a fun time. Unlike his brother, who was off pursuing some very important career goal far away in India. Though it was William Blakely whose dark eyes were in her dreams.
‘Christopher Blakely, you scared the ghost out of me,’ she hissed. ‘I thought you were my mother.’
‘Fear not, I just saw her in the card room playing a wicked hand of piquet,’ he said, downing the last of his champagne. He leaned out from their hiding place to gesture to one of the liveried footmen carrying silver trays around the ballroom. He took two fresh drinks and handed one to her.
‘Oh,’ she whispered, staring down into the shimmering gold liquid. Maybe champagne was the inspiration for Lady Smythe-Tomas’s gown, with all that iridescent glow. She had to put that in the essay. ‘I shouldn’t.’
‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ he said, leaning against the flower-covered trellis. ‘My aunt gave me strict instructions I could only have two glasses before the midnight supper.’
Diana smiled as she thought about what happened last time the Duchess had a party, a tea in honour of Princess Alexandra. Chris had stolen the large, elaborate hat off the head of the Princess’s lady-in-waiting and given them a wonderful recital from a music hall selection after sneaking rum into the tea. It had all been very amusing, if not strictly proper for a deb to see. ‘And how many glasses does this make?’
‘Four. But they are very small.’
She laughed and tucked her notebook into her reticule before she sipped at her own drink. Heavenly, so bubbly and sweet on her tongue. ‘The Duke does know how to put together a wine cellar, everyone says so.’
‘And the money he spends on it could support ten families for a year, I’m sure,’ Chris muttered.
Diana studied him over the rim of her glass, a bit worried. There had been rumours that he had lost more than he should on horse races. She had dismissed such things as gossip before, but what if he was in trouble? ‘Chris, if you’re in need of a bit of income...’
‘You would come to my rescue with your dowry?’ he said with a comical leer.
Diana laughed and pretended to study him ostentatiously. He was handsome, of course, with his dark golden cap of hair and green eyes, his ready smile. And very funny and always up for a lark. She could see why so many of the other debs sighed over him. He came from a good family, even if he had no career, and was always house-party-visiting with the Waleses. And he was the nephew of a duchess, the cousin of her good friend. Even Diana’s parents would approve of him.
But she could only see him as a friend, someone who made her laugh, helped her and Alex hide at parties. Brought her champagne when debs were meant to stick with lemon squash. He didn’t make her feel all stammering and blushing, didn’t make her daydream as his brother had.
‘There are plenty with better dowries than me. But surely you don’t have to worry about such things?’ she said.
‘Of course I don’t,’ he said. ‘And what are you writing in that little notebook of yours? Scandalous secrets you overhear from your flowery hidey-holes? Are you a spy?’
Diana laughed and shook her head. ‘Never you mind, Chris. It wouldn’t interest you at all. And shouldn’t you be dancing? I’m sure your aunt expects you to do your duty as a single gentleman?’
He grinned. ‘Why do you think I’m in hiding, too? There’s no one else worth dancing with here yet, except for Emily, and her card is full.’
Diana glanced back to the dance floor and saw Emily waltzing past with a young viscount something or other, her mint-green silk skirts swirling. Usually Emily, the daughter of well-to-do Brighton wine merchant, would never be in the Waverton ballroom. But it was Alex’s party, supposedly, and her best school friends were invited. And Emily had proved to be most popular with the fashionable set, indulging in her love of dancing and music, her open-hearted good humour.
They liked her father’s wine, too. Just look at the Duke’s cellar.
Diana smiled to see her friend having such a good time. She turned back to Christopher and was startled to catch an unguarded look in his eyes as he stared at Emily. A raw, solemn instant of—was it longing?
But it was quickly gone and he laughed, back to his usual careless self. ‘Did you hear? William is back from India for good.’
Diana blinked at the sudden change of subject and remembered the scene of William by the lake, laughing in the golden sun. ‘William—your brother?’
‘Yes, or St William, as my mother would call him if she could, now that he’s been given a knighthood at only twenty-eight. Above and beyond in service to Her Majesty.’ He took another glass of champagne from a passing footman. ‘And he’s returned just in time to be sent off to Paris, the lucky beggar.’
‘Really? Paris?’ All the talk in London for weeks had been of the upcoming Exposition in Paris. Eiffel’s great iron tower, the Turkish villages, the art pavilions, the American Wild West show. Just like everyone else, Diana was wild for stories of the Exposition.
And, if she was very lucky, she might just get to see it, too. She tried not to imagine William Blakely strolling along the river at her side, smiling down at her, his dark eyes glowing. That would surely never happen, not after she had been so stammering and gawky the few times they met before. But it was a lovely image.
‘What sort of work does a diplomat do there?’ she asked. ‘Eat at the café atop Monsieur Eiffel’s tower? Deliver letters from the Queen to other visiting monarchs? Ride a horse in the Wild West show?’
Christopher laughed. ‘I have no idea. Will is infuriatingly tight-lipped about everything. He’s here somewhere, I know, but I doubt dancing or playing cards. Probably working. He’s always working.’
Diana suddenly glimpsed her mother at the other side of the ballroom. Lavinia Martin was hard to miss, tall and stately, prematurely white-haired, clad in beaded bronze satin. ‘Oh, no. Speaking of cards, I think my mother’s hand of piquet is over.’
‘Let’s dance, then. We shall both do our duty and escape a lecture.’
Diana nodded. She had already been able to hide out much longer than she had expected. She put down her empty glass and took Chris’s hand, letting him lead her out on to the dance floor.
It was a polka, lively and quick, and he spun her around and around until she was dizzy with laughter. ‘Maybe we could take ourselves to the Exposition and do dance demonstrations!’ he said. ‘The Whirling English Pair.’
She giggled. ‘I doubt they would pay us for our dance skills. Toss us out and tell us never to darken France’s door again, rather.’
‘It’s all in the attitude, my dear. Pretend you know how to dance and you will do it.’
‘Excellent advice.’ She would have to remember it. Pretend she knew what she was doing and others would believe it. Eventually she might even believe it herself.
As they spun around, Diana saw that Alex had appeared at last, standing beside her mother as the Duchess whispered to her through a gritted-teeth smile. Alex wore a beautiful gown of white tulle and pale blue satin, perfect with her angelic looks and spun-gilt hair. A wreath of red roses and pearls was woven through her upswept curls, matching the triple strand of pearls with a large ruby clasp at her throat.
Yet Diana could tell that her friend was unhappy. Alex bit her lip, her eyes downcast as she nodded to her mother. Her gloved hands twisted at the ivory handle of her fan. Diana wanted to go to her, but Christopher spun her around again and Alex and the Duchess were lost to view. Instead, Diana found herself facing the last person she wanted to see at any party.
Lord Thursby.
She hadn’t seen him in a few days, not since a tea her mother had given. She’d hoped he had left town, but there he was, chatting and laughing with one of the Duchess’s friends, a marchioness famed for her dyed red hair and diamonds. The lady’s cheeks were glowing pink as she waved her fan at him.
Ladies did often seem to like him and Diana could see why. He was handsome, with thick blond hair and bright blue eyes, along with a dashing moustache and perfectly tailored, stylish clothes. He was charming and well connected as a relation to Lord Lansdowne, the Viceroy of India.
That was how he first appeared at her parents’ dinner table when he returned to London for the Season, with a letter from the Viceroy and questions for her father about his time in India. It was rumoured that Lord Thursby sought a career there himself. Her parents liked him and invited him back. Her mother seemed especially fond of him, laughing at his jokes, watching him carefully.
And, for some reason, he seemed to have taken a liking to Diana. He made such a point of sitting beside her at tea and at musical evenings, bringing her refreshments at the interval at the theatre. Smiling at her, even touching her hand as he mentioned how very much she looked like a ‘Titian goddess’ with her hair.
At first, she had been flattered. Who wouldn’t be? A handsome, sought-after man who sought her out and complimented her red hair, which had always been the bane of her life.
Yet then something changed. She didn’t even know what it was, for he was as complimentary as ever. Perhaps it was the way she some times noticed his conversation never included questions to her, only tales of his life, his career hopes. His compliments were all about her hair, her gowns, her way with the piano—which she knew was mediocre at best, despite the best efforts of Miss Grantley’s fine music teachers. He sat closer, his touches lingered. He had even sent her a bouquet before the ball, which she ‘accidentally’ forgot.
She had no time for such things, not with a man who made her feel so strangely—itchy. As if she wanted to jump up and run away.
Just like now. He hadn’t yet seen her. She tried to pull Chris deeper into the crowd of the dancers as she noticed Lord Thursby was scanning the crowd over the Marchioness’s head.
‘Oh, no,’ Diana whispered.
‘What is it?’ Chris asked.
‘Just someone I would rather not talk to at the moment.’
‘An unwanted suitor? That sounds interesting,’ he said, infuriatingly contrary. ‘Which one is it? Should I call him out for pestering you? I will, if he’s not too large and intimidating.’
Diana laughed. ‘It’s that man over there, the one talking to your aunt’s friend, the Marchioness. And no duelling yet. All he’s really done is send flowers and compliment my non-existent musical skills. I just—can’t like him, somehow.’
Chris frowned as he studied the man. ‘Thursby? Really? He has some kind of investment scheme in India he says he can let some of us in on later.’
An Indian investment scheme? Was that why Thursby had started coming to her father’s house so often? That sounded strange to her. Surely such ideas always ended in calamity? ‘Oh, no, Chris. You aren’t thinking of doing that, are you?’
‘It sounds simple enough and Thursby says we’re sure to double our money very quickly.’
‘I don’t think...’
The dance ended and as they swirled to a stop at the edge of the dance floor, they found themselves next to Emily and her partner.
Emily looked quite pretty, with her cheeks pink with enjoyment and laughter, her amber-brown eyes glowing. Diana quite envied her gown, too, for with only a father, Em had far more control over her own wardrobe. Her mint-green gown, trimmed with black-velvet rosettes, with black and green plumes in her hair, made her look far more elegant and sophisticated than other ladies their age.
‘Oh, Di! Isn’t it splendid?’ Emily said. ‘Such a wonderful orchestra.’
‘Only because you’re the best dancer here and could find rhythm in any old tune,’ Christopher said.
Emily laughed. ‘As can you. Shall we, then, Chris? Show them how a schottische is done?’
‘We shall,’ Christopher said and took her arm to swirl her away.
As they disappeared back into the sparkling melee of the dance, Diana looked around. Her mother sat along the row of gilded chaperons’ chairs by the silk-papered wall, gossiping with two of her friends. At the other end of the room, glimpsed between flower arrangements and groups of laughing people, she saw Lord Thursby. She felt suddenly trapped, caught between two forces she didn’t want to face yet.
On impulse, she spun around and dashed out of the ballroom via the nearest side door. She found herself in a small, domed hall, also draped in carpets of flowers but blessedly quiet. There were only a few people there, whispering together, sipping champagne, the music muffled beyond the door.
She hurried down a flight of stairs to the next floor down, where there was the card room, the billiards room, and a large sitting room that had been turned into the ladies’ withdrawing room. She heard a burst of giggles from that chamber and she knew she could easily join them, but she suddenly only wanted to be alone. To hear her own thoughts for a minute.
Unlike most London houses, including her own parents’ narrow dwelling on Cavendish Square, Waverton House was vast, four storeys of chambers like a series of jewel boxes, sparkling with treasures. She went down one more set of stairs and peeked through a half-open doorway to find a library. Perfect.
The silence was heavy, deep and echoing after the hum of the ballroom. She could almost hear herself think again. She wandered along the rows of books, studying the gilt titles on the leather spines, the paintings on the panelled walls between the shelves.
Next to the curtained window nook was a table laid out with the day’s newspapers. She studied the headlines. They were all about the Paris Exposition, of course, swooning praise for the delicious cafés, the wonders of the pavilions for the arts, the exotic mock-souks, the fashionable ladies arriving to parade along the Champ de Mars.
A loud voice suddenly burst the silence, making Diana jump.
‘Oh, please, just listen to me this one last time! Don’t you owe me that at least? For all we were to each other?’
It was a woman’s voice, low and urgent, filled with choking tears, and it was coming from the corridor outside. Moving closer to the library with every word. Diana held her breath, hoping whoever it was would just keep moving past.
‘Laura, what we had was over long ago,’ a man answered, weariness barely hidden in his soft, kind tone. ‘We can’t revive it now. You know that.’
‘Why not?’ the woman demanded. ‘Everything has changed this time. It could be even better! I have missed you so much...’
To Diana’s horror, the quarrel wasn’t moving away. The door swung open and she instinctively dived behind the heavy velvet window curtains before they could see her and they all faced a most embarrassing scene. It seemed to be a night for hiding out.
‘We should return to the party,’ the man said, still so calm and steady, so horribly quiet. Diana couldn’t help but wince for the woman. ‘Neither of us wants a scandal.’
‘Of course that’s not what I want! Some horrid, shabby court case like Bertie Wales and the Aylesfords. That won’t happen now. We’re both free!’ the woman said sweetly. ‘Oh, my darling Will, don’t you remember what those heavenly days at Beresford Hall were like? It could be that way all the time now.’
Quite against her will, Diana found herself rather curious. It sounded like one of those delicious French novels they had once passed around at Miss Grantley’s! She cautiously peeked around the edge of the curtain.
The couple stood near the carved onyx fireplace, the lamplight throwing them into silhouette. The woman was Lady Smythe-Tomas, Diana could tell that from her luminous champagne gown, the golden swirl of jewel-bedecked hair. She reached out with her elegant gloved hands to grasp the man by his lapels, her fingers curling against him sinuously. Diana was quite surprised she would have to beg any man for his attentions; they all seemed to fall right at her feet.
Who was this man? He surely had to be vastly attractive. Her curiosity growing, she pushed the curtain back just a bit more so she could see his face.
She gasped and quickly stifled the sound with her satin-covered fingers. It was Sir William Blakely.
Sir William was handsome, of course, arrestingly so. The perfect counterpoint to Lady Smythe-Tomas’s golden, sunny beauty, with his glossy dark hair and fathomless brown eyes. If Diana was a casting agency for the theatres, she could do no better than those two for looks. But he was so solemn! So dedicated to his career.
Or maybe he wasn’t always so solemn. She remembered him laughing by the lake, his damp shirt clinging to his shoulders, all bright and full of youth in the sunshine. Surely that man could have a passionate affair.
‘Laura, this can’t go on,’ he said, still so calm, so cool. Diana wondered why the lady hadn’t slapped him yet, for staying so unruffled about the whole passionate business.
‘Why not? Do you not still find me beautiful?’
‘Of course you are beautiful. Your photo in every shop window tells you that. And you deserve more than a man buried in his work.’
‘But surely I could help you with that, too! Every diplomat needs a hostess.’ She leaned towards him with an enticing smile, her fingers smoothing the satin lapel she had crushed. ‘And there is always this...’
She went up on her toes and tried to press her lips to his. But the promised kiss didn’t last long at all, the merest brush. He pushed her away, gently but firmly, his hands unwinding her arms from around his neck and holding her away. ‘I need to return to the ballroom.’