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‘There could well be army men I met in Portugal and possibly diplomats home on leave or between postings. And I might discover the odd childhood friend, although probably I won’t recognise anyone at first sight—or them me. My father put me up for both Brooks’s and White’s clubs, so once I’ve shown my face there things will be easier. Are any of your acquaintances likely to be there?’
‘I have no idea. Amanda Pettigrew married the Earl of Preston last year, so she might be. Maria Foster’s husband is a Whig Member of Parliament, a Mr Tompkins, but he is a great critic of the Regent, so they most definitely would not be invited to Carlton House. Look—we are through the gates at last.’
‘What are you saying under your breath?’ Giles leaned down and asked, low-voiced, as they joined the line snaking up the steps and under the great portico, trying not to tread on trains and flounces.
‘I am reminding myself not to look over-awed and not to giggle at things that are in terrible taste,’ she whispered back.
‘Like this hallway, for example.’ Giles looked round at the oppressive gilt and crimson, studded with mirrors, all as bright as daylight under the mass of candles and lamps. ‘I suppose there is some marble left, somewhere, in Italy. They cannot have used it all, whatever this looks like.’
The rooms were laid out so that they had to process through front hall, main hall, a series of anterooms, the throne room—which was almost too much for Laurel’s equilibrium—and finally the Great Drawing Room and the Regent himself.
She was proud of her curtsy, right down to the ground and then up again without a wobble, and prouder still of Giles. The Regent knew who he was and had obviously heard good things, although Giles was looking exceedingly uncomfortable at the praise.
‘Behind enemy lines, what? Damn dashing, I call it. Good show. No wonder we beat Boney hollow with men like you on our side! What do you say, eh, Lady Revesby?’
He creaks when he moves, Laurel was thinking, fascinated by the man in front of her. It must be corsets. What if he goes pop?
‘I am exceedingly proud of my husband, your Royal Highness. Although he is too modest to enjoy praise, however w
ell merited, your approbation must be deeply moving and valuable to him, as it is to me.’
They backed away to make room for the next arrivals. Giles was quivering with either indignation or laughter. Both, it turned out when he had her behind a vast potted palm.
‘You baggage! It was a miracle that I did not dissolve into whoops there and then. Moving and valuable approbation, indeed. You deserve spanking.’
‘You wouldn’t—’
‘Only in play.’ He lowered his voice to a husky murmur. ‘You would enjoy it.’ He straightened up abruptly. ‘General Hastings, good evening, sir.’
Laurel got her expression under control, although not either her pulse rate or the half-scandalised, half-aroused thoughts that Giles’s words evoked. She was introduced and said all the right things and then waited patiently while her husband was drawn into an analysis of some border issue in the Peninsula that he, apparently, had viewed on the ground.
They could be involved discussing it for ages, she thought, becoming bored. She was interested in Giles’s life in the Peninsula—not that he showed any willingness to talk to her about it—but discussions of catchment areas and river flood levels were not enthralling. She looked around. There were other ladies strolling about without partners and the room was full, with people clearly spilling into adjacent reception rooms, so she would not be conspicuous if she walked around by herself, too. She might see someone she knew and, if nothing else, she could glean a wealth of impressions for some very lively letters to Stepmama and Jamie.
The next room was slightly smaller and rather less crowded, although the reflection of the myriad candles on so many reflective surfaces hurt her eyes and the heat was stifling. She looked up at the chandelier and then down again abruptly as she bumped into someone who gave a sharp squeak of alarm.
‘I do apologise—you are not hurt, are you? I was not looking where I was—Oh, we have already met. We are neighbours, I believe.’ It was the hostile young lady from the Portuguese household in the Square.
She did not look any more pleased to see Laurel than she had the other day, but at least she appeared to be about to speak. Laurel smiled encouragingly. Perhaps the young lady was shy, or her English was poor. She should make an effort because it did not do to be on poor terms with neighbours.
‘Tell me,’ the young woman said in heavily accented English, ‘is St James’s Square a place where noblemen keep their paramours...’ She moved her hands as though searching for a word. ‘Amantes...their mistresses?’
Does she mean what I think she means? That she thinks that I am a courtesan? Yes, that question was just as rude and just as direct as it sounded.
‘No, it is not,’ Laurel said, with a smile that showed her teeth. ‘It is where they keep their wives.’
Whatever it was that was agitating the young woman, that response seemed to knock her completely off balance. The delicate olive complexion turned an unhealthy shade of grey, her eyes widened and she stepped back, her hand to her mouth. ‘Wives?’ she said. ‘Esposas?’
Chapter Eighteen
Heads were turning. Laurel took the young woman firmly by the arm and walked her towards an alcove, partly screened by looped-back curtains. ‘Please let us through, the lady feels faint.’ It worked, the crowd parted and a footman hastened over with offers of water and smelling salts.
‘Water, if you please. Oh, and a glass of champagne.’ Laurel had a suspicion she was going to need that herself. ‘Now, sit down, fan yourself and tell me what is the matter? Who are you and what have I done to deserve such rudeness?’ Or such hostility.
‘I am Beatriz do Cardosa, daughter of Dom Frederico do Cardosa.’ She put up her chin and said it as though she expected Laurel to know the significance of those names and be cowed.
‘Your father is with the Portuguese Embassy?’
‘Certamente, in a position of the most important. And who are you, senhora?’
