“How are we to know that others who were there will not talk about it?” Lady Lavender asked.
“Because they are the sort of people who straddle two sides of the Town,” Lord Montclave said. “They like to be accepted everywhere and they also like to attend the sorts of parties Lord Doanellen hosts. They will not speak of it. Had I known you had accepted the invitations, I would have stopped you at the door.”
“But you, yourself, enjoy those sorts of parties?” Grace asked.
“I do not. However, my family does not keep a house in Town and Doanellen offered to have me. When I accepted, I had no idea of any of it, including the existence of Mrs. Featherby.”
Grace was satisfied with the explanation, and very relieved that it did not seem as if reports of that dinner would be widely spoken of.
“May I?” Lord Montclave said, motioning toward her card.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Grace said.
Lord Montclave put himself down for the dance before Lady Luthering’s supper. Grace was not certain how she felt about it, but she supposed at least she would dine with someone she had already met.
The lord put himself down for Lady Lavender’s first. Then he bowed and strolled away.
“I cannot decide if I like him or dislike him,” Lady Lavender said.
Grace nodded, and then proceeded with a shameless fishing expedition. “He is no Lord Dashlend, in my estimation.”
“Gracious no,” Lady Lavender said. “Lord Dashlend is a deal more sophisticated in his manner, I think.”
Grace was not entirely satisfied with that answer. She supposed she was hoping Lady Lavender would wrinkle her nose at the mention of Lord Dashlend. It was a rather stupid hope, of course, as who would not admire that gentleman?
“I understood he attended a musical evening you played at and he noted you were very accomplished.”
Lady Lavender laughed. “He is very kind to say so. I believe the truth is I am like most ladies—I applied myself just enough to learn in the middling style.”
Grace did not answer, as she had done far less than middling. She’d done next to nothing. Their pianoforte at home had been gathering dust for years, they did not even bother to have it tuned anymore.
This uncomfortable conversation was interrupted by a series of gentlemen approaching and writing their names down. Grace’s card was filled, including by a certain marquess with a stern duchess for a mother.
It seemed the secret of Lord Doanellen’s dinner was safe.
*
MILES WAS NOTcertain he’d ever sat through a dinner that felt as long as this one did. He’d promised his father to accept the invitation in his stead, as it was from one of the earl’s oldest friends in the world.
Viscount Harraby was an elderly gentleman that Miles had known since he was a young boy. Harraby and his father had met while the earl attended Eton, and then Miles himself when it was his turn to go to the school. The viscount was closely connected to the institution as he had an estate nearby. He’d acted as mentor and host to the legions of boys coming through those halls. It was considered an honor to be invited to one of the viscount’s Friday evening dinners.
The headmaster looked upon Harraby as a mentor and appropriate example of manhood to his young charges, which he was. However, he was also the person to call upon when one was short of funds, got into a scrape, or required a few bottles of wine for a party.
Miles’ father had maintained a regular correspondence with Lord Harraby ever since his boyhood days. The gentleman, and his lady before she passed on, were often guests at the house, especially during the shooting.
The problem was, the old man looked upon Miles as if he were still a fifteen-year-old lad. The other problem was that Lady Margaret had insisted on requesting an invitation, as those two people had long known one another but not set eyes on each other for some years. Miles had been forced to write Harraby with the request and got a speedy reply in the affirmative.
This had prompted Meg, former burner of toast and current lady’s maid, to be sent with a footman to Lady Margaret’s house with a long list of items to be retrieved from various trunks and closets. A carriageful of who knew what had arrived and been hauled up to the lady’s bedchamber.
When the time came to depart for Lord Harraby’s house, Miles was apprised of precisely what had been gathered from Lady Margaret’s house.
In some sort of bid to be fashionable, Lady Margaret had arrived to the great hall in a puce-colored taffeta concoction that must have long ago, very long ago, been just the thing. It must also have fit better, as the lady had shrunk in her later years and the crinolines puffing it out lent her the appearance of a miniature sailing ship setting off for America. She wore a heavy gilded gold necklace decorated with birds on trees and her fingers sported an array of enameled and jeweled rings. This startling ensemble was topped off by a towering tiara and two molting ostrich feathers waving dangerously atop her head as if they were scanning the savannah for predators. Miles thought Wainwright’s eyes might fall out of his head and roll across the marble floor.
Naturally, they could not escape curious onlookers as they got in the carriage. Miles supposed peoplewouldbe curious to see a little bird of a lady swimming in purple taffeta and sporting overwhelming headgear who needed to be picked up and put inside, as she could not manage the step. Nevertheless, they had set off.
Miles had thought it was to be a usual dinner party of at least fourteen, and perhaps far more. But no, it was just himself, Harraby, and Lady Margaret.
Lord Harraby, being of the same generation as Lady Margaret, was bowled over by her dress, noting he’d not seen such elegance in years. It seemed the old gentleman deplored the simpler cuts of today’s ladies’ dress as the style had “no panache.”
