Lord Thomas flushed and said, “Well, I just thought you knew.” He hurried away from Roland, clearly wishing he’d not brought the subject up.
But what a subject! Howcouldit be true?
He’d wished to rush to Lady Viola, but then he’d paused. What in the world could he say? What could he ask?
She’d smiled at him as she was led out by Miss Mayton.
The two of them seemed so pleased with the evening. Did they not know what was being said?
If Roland had wondered about howoftenit was being said, all he’d had to do was watch the many stares as Lady Viola and Miss Mayton took their leave.
Who invented this pack of lies?
He briefly thought of his mother. But then, he dismissed it. He knew her so very well and while she was capable of sharp words and harsh opinions, she did not invent stories out of the air.
Roland had since got home, his thoughts racing in a hundred different directions. He’d tried to explain the whole thing to Markson, as he must pour it out to somebody.
His valet remained looking perplexed. “So you think she went on some ill-advised trip with a gentleman?”
“Not even a gentleman! A tinker. No, not even a tinker, but the tinker’s son!”
“That don’t sound promising,” Markson said. “Do you think it’s true?”
“No, it cannot be true,” Roland said. “Lady Viola would never… But then, where did it come from? Why should anybody say such a thing?”
Markson shrugged. “Lords and ladies are notoriously unreliable ’cause they got too much time on their hands.”
This was a near constant refrain from his valet. Whenever somebody put a foot out of place, he blamed it on excess time. Roland thought it a rather ironic opinion since, out of all his servants, it was Markson who had the most extra time on his hands.
“On the bright side,” Markson continued, “you was waiting for a chance to defend her and this chance has come in like a monsoon to Bombay. I suppose you gave that old scallywag Lord Thomas the what-for over it.”
Roland blanched. He had not, in fact, given Lord Thomas the what-for. He’d not said very much of anything. He’d been so bowled over that all his ideas of railing against a thing or issuing the cut direct or arranging a duel had gone up in a puff of smoke.
“Uh, I would not say I delivered the what-for, precisely. The story did hit me as a surprise.”
“Well, now you know what’s out there. You don’t believe it’s true and you got a job ahead of you proving you’re all in for Lady Viola.”
His valet was right. Hewasall in for Lady Viola and now it was time to prove it. He would not ask her to explain the talk going round about her. No, he would put his full faith in Lady Viola. He knew who she was and he would not stoop down to questioning. It was a ridiculous story and there was not a thing true about it.
His mother would attempt to make hay over it. But then, his mother’s opposition began to feel like a minnow swimming an ocean. If this story about Lady Viola took flight, he’d be up against circling sharks.
No matter. Let the battle with thetonbegin.
*
Viola rode inthe carriage with the earl, Darden and Miss Mayton. They were on their way to Lady Bloomington’s masque, and she was quite looking forward to it. She’d not ever been to one and it had been great fun to don a costume.
She was coming as Mary, Queen of the Scots, and wore a lovely tartan gown. Her crown, while not as elaborate, nor heavy, as the real Scottish crown, was edged in pearls and fur as a nod to that item.
Miss Mayton remained dressed as a widow, though she had decided to give it a medieval flavor. She wore a high conical hat with a sharp point from which yards of black chiffon hung down all around her. When she’d come into the drawing room before they’d set off, she’d appeared as a ghostly triangle, a specter that nearly shook the feathers off of poor Chester.
Viola’s father and Darden were not half so interesting, as they had come in their usual dominos.
As entertaining as the fun of dressing as a person one was not had turned out to be, Viola was hoping for so much more from this night. She’d sent a rumor going round and of course she could not know how widely it had spread at this early date, but had Lord Baderston heard it? What would he say about it? Would this be the night he proved his loyalty beyond any shadow of doubt?
“Be cautious tonight, Viola,” Darden said. “Beatrice might have mentioned Lady Bloomington’s style of entertaining.”
Viola nodded, as of course Beatrice had told her all about it. Rather than a supper to provide her guests with sustenance, Lady Bloomington sent round trays with glasses of champagne between all the dances. Other footmen would come round with what Lady Bloomington called entremets—bitesize pieces of food speared with a toothpick and handed to guests, accompanied by a linen napkin. Then there were sideboards in every room of the house, laden with all the good things from the lady’s kitchens.
