Lily started. That was not a name she would ever be likely to forget. “Is that… Lady Montague? The lady who caused Cassandra so much trouble?”
“The very one,” Mrs. Hemming said nodding.
“But why should she—”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Further, why does an invitation for a party come so late? It is for this evening! It does not even specify the nature of the entertainment. And, I hardly dare call it an invitation. We are expected, is what she says. Well, I suppose we’d better eat before we go, I rather think if it were a dinner she might have said so.”
“But surely, we need not attend,” Lily said, the idea of entering Lady Montague’s house feeling rather like contemplating entering a lion’s den. The woman had ruined Cassandra’s ball and drove her out of town with her scheming. “We might invent any sort of excuse.”
“Now that’s a pleasant thought, not at all true, however. Lady Montague has never brooked excuses. Goodness, I remember seeing Mrs. Killion at a rout and I am quite certain she had come down with the measles. She tried to cover the rash with paint, but with very little success. It was a crowded business, but people gave her a very wide berth.”
Lily was unwilling to allow her aunt to travel down a long path regarding Mrs. Killion’s measles. To bring her back to the subject at hand, she said, “I did understand, though, that Lady Montague had been forced to retreat to Yorkshire last season.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Hemming said. “We were all delighted, I can tell you. Nobody said so, of course, but there were vague little things mentioned about forgetting to answer her letters and so forth. I have never been a part of her personal correspondence and so did not need to consider what to do on that front.”
“Then how is it,” Lily asked, her trepidation growing, “that she is come back and seems to be able to order everybody about as she did before?”
Mrs. Hemming squinted her eyes, as if she attempted to peer into the past for the answer. “I am not in possession of all the facts,” she said, “but somehow, Lord Dalton decided to back her return. He’s another nobody dares cross—he’s an earl, but he’ll step into a dukedom one of these days.”
“He’s one of the gentlemen of the pact,” Lily said softly. “How extraordinary that one of those gentlemen, with their connection to Cassandra’s husband, should choose Lady Montague’s side.”
“I do not claim to understand half of it, I assure you,” Mrs. Hemming said. “What I do understand is that it appears the lady is back and none the worse for wear. The best we can do is comply and not attract her ire. You see, dear, she’s quite harmless until you attract her ire. I’ve known Harriet these past twenty years and have been enormously successful by simply agreeing with everything she says. She knows me, but she does not think about me. She invites me to routs and such, but not to anything cozy.Thatis how one needs to get on with the dragon of Mayfair.”
“Perhaps this evening is only a rout,” Lily said hopefully. “We might turn up, make ourselves known to the lady, and then be off. It would be a crush and our departure would not be noticed.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Hemming said. “I do not think it is a rout. She always has those invitations printed and sends them well in advance. This is a handwritten note. Really, I do not know what we are in for this evening, but we will go and find out. Perhaps it is a musical evening and she has decided very suddenly that she did not invite enough people, or somebody has bowed out at the last moment. Whatever it is, if it is awkward or unpleasant, we can content ourselves in the knowledge that it cannot last forever—there are only so many hours in a night.”
*
The Lords Daltonand Ashworth sat in a corner of Destin’s, drinking the owner’s remarkably strong coffee. They had belonged to the club for some years, but ever since their fathers’ pact to force them to marry, they had found it a more and more convenient spot. White’s came with the chance of running into the old fellows; Destin’s did not. It was a young man’s club and there did not seem to be a member over thirty.
“Why don’t we just beg off,” Hayes said. “There is not much Lady Montague could do about it.”
“You forget,” Dalton said, “we gave our word that we would back her. The lady drove a hard bargain in exchange for her assistance.”
“In exchange for her scheming, you mean. God, we did not even succeed.”
“We failed spectacularly. I cannot even stomach the letters Lockwood writes of his darling wife and how she’s managing his house. I cannot imagine why he thinks I wish to know how adorable she is when she is condemning a carpet.”
“One of these days, he’ll realize he should have held off, that there were still a few years left of doing as one pleases.”
“Meanwhile,” Lord Dalton said, “Cabot and Grayson have gone off to Somerset. Cabot wants to look at a baron’s horse. I suspect Grayson only wants to look at the baron’s daughter. It is just us currently in town and so we must attend Lady Montague’s card party.”
“It will be a colossal bore,” Hayes said. “I expect the wagers won’t exceed five pounds.”
“Cheer up, Ashworth. You know the sort of people Lady Montague is bound to invite. It might only be five pounds at a time, but they will all be easy marks.”
“No doubt,” Hayes said.
“Perhaps Miss Farnsworth will make an appearance and you might try to win back your ten pounds,” Lord Dalton said, with one of his rare smiles.
Hayes hid his discomfiture. He was really very tired of hearing of that blasted game. “Miss Farnsworth is a particular friend of Lady Hampton. I imagine she would be the last person Lady Montague would invite.”
Hayes thought that must please him, though he had noticed, twice now, that when he entered a house for a dinner, he looked about to see if Miss Farnsworth was in attendance. He supposed he was only eager to get their inevitable second meeting out of the way. There would be some sort of lingering embarrassment hanging over him until he could show the world that he was not in the least affected by the lady and her cards.
Chapter Five
Harriet Montague surveyedthe drawing room. The usual furniture that adorned the room had been moved out and square card tables moved in. Fresh packs of cards were liberally spread throughout. On a table by the door, a small tray of expensive graphite pencils sat alongside a stack of fine paper cut into small squares for keeping scores. A sideboard had been set up that would hold all manner of cold meats, cheeses, jellies, rolls, pastries, and fruits. A tall rectangular table would be manned by a footman, ever ready to dispense Madeira, tea, orgeat, and her own special recipe cordial—“Lady M’s Restorative,” depending heavily on cinnamon and coriander.
