She was to spend four nights at Carver Hall and three and a half days. With total strangers. Even with Lady Florence herself she had only a nodding acquaintance. Oh, dear, Claire thought, her hand stilling on her russet velvet riding habit, what had she done? Twenty-eight seemed a very advanced age at which to decide to be impetuous and adventurous.
But there was nothing much she could do about it now. She dragged the habit from its hanger. She had already weathered the vicar’s lengthy sermon and Myrtle’s vapors and Roderick’s frowns. It would be just too anticlimactic if she were to change her mind now. Besides, she had written an acceptance of the invitation.
“An adult party,” the Duke of Langford said, following his hostess upstairs to the room that had been allotted as his bedchamber. Lady Florence Carver would not do anything as formal and proper as having one of her servants show him there. “The emphasis you put on the wordadult,Florence, would suggest that you mean more than that we need not expect nursery infants to be chasing between our legs.”
“There is not a guest below the age of six-and-twenty,” she said, leading the way into a large, square chamber and crossing the room to throw back the heavy curtains a little wider. “And not one who does not know a thing or two about life, Gerard.”
“Interesting,” he said, his hand toying with the ribbon of his quizzing glass, though he did not raise it to his eye. Lady Florence had crossed to the bed and was fussing with the bedhangings, though they were already looped back quite firmly.
“I can recall your saying just this past winter,” she said, “that you were bored with all the sweet young things fresh every year on the marriage market. Your very words, I believe, Gerard.”
“Oh, very probably,” he agreed. “Not that I have any quarrel with sweet young things as such, Florence, but only with their eagerness despite everything—or more accurately, the eagerness of their mamas—to believe that I am shopping.”
“Then I believe that this will be just your kind of party,” Lady Florence said, sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling at him. “And it is a Valentine’s party, Gerard. Did I mention that? It is a party for love and merriment and—love.” She smiled archly at him.
“Intriguing,” he said. “Depending, I suppose, on the guest list?” He lifted his eyebrows and ignored the invitation of her hand, which was patting the bed beside her as if unconsciously.
“Lady Pollard is coming,” she said. “Mildred always livens any party. And Frances Tate. Her husband is busy as always at the Foreign Office. She finds life in town quite tedious. And Lucy Sterns and Olga Garnett. Oh, and Claire Ward.”
The duke pursed his lips. “And yourself, Florence,” he said. “An interesting guest list. Who is Claire Ward?”
“A neighbor,” she said. “Hetty let me down at the very last minute, the tiresome woman. The migraines again. I invited Miss Ward to take her place.”
“Ah,” he said, strolling to the window and glancing out at the park that stretched to the front of the house, “your tone is dismissive, Florence. I gather Miss Ward is the weak link in this chain of delight that you have forged for yourself and your guests.”
“No matter,” she said. “Tomorrow I will have everyone paired, Gerard. An old Valentine’s game, you know. I shall see that she is paired with Percy Mullins. I was obliged to invite him because he considers himself a neighbor and would have pouted for a year if I had omitted him from my guest list and would have gossiped viciously about me at the gentlemen’s clubs for five.” She got up from the bed and strolled toward him. “I shall leave you to freshen up if you do not need me,” she said, setting a hand on his arm.
“Everything seems to be in perfect readiness,” the duke said, turning from the window and surveying the room through his quizzing glass. “No, I think I have no further need of you for the present, Florence. And doubtless your other guests are beginning to spill downstairs. I was not the first arrival, you said?”
Left alone a short time later, he lowered his glass and looked about the room again. An adult party. A guest list that included two widows, a married lady whose infidelities to her husband were an open secret, and two unmarried ladies who had one foot each in the demimonde and one in the world of respectability. He had not asked about the other male guests.
And a Valentine’s party. One intended for love and—love, according to Florence. He did not doubt that she would ensure that it was just that, though perhaps love was a euphemism for what she really had in mind.
Well. He shrugged. It might be interesting. All five of the ladies with whom he was acquainted would make amusing companions for three days. Probably a good deal more than amusing too. As for Miss Claire Ward ... He shrugged again. Florence seemed to have everything organized so that he would not have to concern himself with the substitute guest.
He wandered through to the adjoining dressing room, where his valet had already laid out a change of clothes for him. Steam was rising from the water in the basin on the washstand.
Let the party begin, the duke thought.
One thing at least she could feel relieved about, Claire thought at dinner that evening. She was not to be the grandmother of the gathering, as she had rather feared—though, of course, she had known that Lady Florence was older than she. Indeed, it was quite possible, Claire thought, that she was the youngest guest present. It was good to know that she was not going to feel uncomfortably elderly.
There was little else to be relieved about. Everyone else was acquainted. Only she knew no one. And though Lady Florence was graciously condescending and a few of the other guests courteous, she felt uncomfortable. They all talked about London and common acquaintances and appeared to derive a great deal of amusement out of being nasty about the latter.
She wondered if the three remaining days would creep past at snail’s pace and if she would soon regret more than she already did that the Reverend Clarkwell’s visit had coincided with the arrival of Lady Florence’s invitation.
“Ladies,” Lady Florence said, rising from her place and smiling about the table, “shall we leave the gentlemen to their port? Make the most of it, gentlemen. This will be the only evening we will allow you such an indulgence.”
While the other ladies laughed and some of the gentlemen protested, Claire got hastily to her feet and followed her hostess from the room. She should have worn her best blue silk, she thought, looking at the very fashionable gowns worn by the other ladies and aware that her own must look almost shabby in contrast. But then if she had worn it tonight, she would have had nothing suitable to wear for the Valentine’s party Lady Florence had planned for the final evening.
“Do let us have some music,” Lady Florence said, wafting a careless hand in the direction of the pianoforte in a far corner of the drawing room. “Who plays? Lucy?”
“Not since my come-out year when it was obligatory to play and sing in order to impress the gentlemen,” Miss Sterns said with a laugh. “Not me, Florence.”
It seemed that the other ladies had similar objections to playing.
“Miss Ward,” Lady Florence said, “you play. I am quite sure you do, being a lady who has cultivated all the country virtues. Do play for us.”
“Yes, do, Miss Ward,” Lady Pollard said, smiling charmingly.
