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‘I am Lady Revesby, wife of the Earl of Revesby.’
At which point Senhorita Beatriz, or whatever her correct title was, slumped down in a faint. It was too ungainly to be anything but genuine. Laurel caught her before she collapsed on the floor, hauled the other woman upright on the sofa against her and fanned her vigorously. She caught a glimpse of their reflection in one of the mirrors lining the alcove. They could be sisters at first sight, if it were not for Beatriz’s Mediterranean skin tones.
The waiter arrived with the glasses. Laurel dipped her handkerchief in the water and flicked it on Beatriz’s face. When she stirred and moaned Laurel seized the glass of champagne and took a reviving sip. The alcohol seemed to do very little to combat the nausea that was threatening to overset her. This very beautiful, very young Portuguese lady knew Giles and fainted at the news that he was married. What else could a wife deduce other than that they had had an affaire in Lisbon?
But this was not some experienced, sophisticated widow, or dashing but bored wife whose husband neglected her. Laurel would have to be an innocent indeed not to realise that Giles must have had liaisons with ladies like that. His skills in bed alone told her that he had not spent nine years in monkish chastity. But this was, if she was not much mistaken, the pampered daughter of a very important family and a virgin. Or at least, she should be. Giles, what have you done?
She took another gulp of the wine and returned to reviving Beatriz. Betraying anything other than concern for a fainting stranger in this crowd would be fatal. The gossips would seize avidly on any hint of something amiss and worry at it until everything was revealed. Besides, she had her pride. After some determined dabbing with the soaked handkerchief the other woman finally opened her eyes and recoiled from Laurel as far along the sofa as she could manage.
‘Tell me it is not true!’
‘That I am Giles’s wife? It most certainly is. We were married three days ago, here in London. The notice was in the newspapers.’
‘I do not read them, my English is not so good to read. But I do not believe you, you lie to me.’ She seemed one breath away from hysteria.
‘Why should I do that? I have no idea who you are, even.’ Although she was increasingly certain she knew what this woman might be to her husband.
‘But I have come to England to marry Giles—he loves me. We make to be fugitive together, that is the right word?’
‘Elope together,’ Laurel corrected. ‘Unfortunately for you, he and I eloped first.’ She kept her tone dry, ironical, because the alternative was to give way to screaming anger. Tears would come later.
‘I saw you the other day. I had found out what is his house, the house of his father. I know it is a good presságio—omen, you say, I think? A good omen that it is so close to the house my father takes. And then I see you arrive and I think you must be the mistress and I am not happy, but I tell myself that Giles loves me, he has always shown me how much he cares and that he will be lonely and will need a woman. He is a man of the world. Me, I understand this.’
‘I can imagine.’ Laurel stood up and tossed back the rest of the champagne, wishing she had the bottle. ‘Stay there. Do not move.’ She could not think of another thing to say and certainly nothing to do that was either acceptable in a royal household, or even vaguely civilised, so she turned on her heel and went to look for Giles.
She found him easily enough, despite the crowds in the rooms, because he had not left the main reception room and because of his height. Laurel wove her way through to the corner where the sun-bleached blond of his hair was visible and found him in conversation with two men in army uniform and a distinguished man who had a foreign air about him.
‘Ah, my wife.’ He turned, smiling, holding out a hand to draw her into the circle. ‘Let me introduce you.’ She had a smile fixed in place, but he must have seen something was wrong despite it. ‘Laurel? Is anything amiss?’
Yes, you deceiving toad, everything is wrong, she wanted
to say, but bit back the words.
‘An old friend of yours is here and has been taken ill,’ she said. ‘I think they would appreciate your assistance, Giles. If you would excuse us, gentlemen?’
‘Who is it?’ Giles asked as he followed her. ‘I did not think you knew any of my acquaintance yet.’
‘She introduced herself,’ Laurel said tightly. ‘There, in that alcove.’
Giles said something under his breath, a sharp sound more shock than anything. Then, ‘Beatriz?’
It had only taken a brief glance at her partly concealed face and figure for him to recognise her, Laurel realised. ‘As she was expecting to elope with you she was understandably upset when she discovered she was speaking to your wife.’ Somehow she kept her voice low and steady and a bright smile on her lips.
‘Elope? But that is insane.’ Giles seemed to get himself under control with an effort of will and lowered his voice. ‘Of course I was not going to elope with her. I did not even know she was in the country. She is just a girl—and besides, she is betrothed.’
It seemed to occur to him that there was a wealth of information in those few words and none of it anything that Laurel wanted to hear. ‘That is to say—’
‘She appears to believe that she is betrothed to you, or, at least, that the two of you have an understanding,’ Laurel said, cutting him off. She did not want to hear excuses. Not now while she was using up all her energy in maintaining a civilised façade. ‘I suggest you go and speak to her before she informs anyone else that Lord Revesby was planning to elope with her. She thought I was your mistress, by the way. She seemed quite accepting of that—her understanding of men’s needs must be rather better than mine is.’
‘Hell, Laurel—’ Giles turned to face her fully, his face betraying strong emotion, but whether it was anger or guilt or something else, she could not tell.
‘Go to her. You cannot leave her in that state, heavens knows what she might say or do.’
As she spoke Beatriz stirred and looked around, saw them. She made as though to rise.
‘You are right, I will have to try to contain this.’ His voice was tight with what she had no trouble, this time, as interpreting as anger. ‘It is not what it seems. Wait for me, please, Laurel.’ He took her hand, squeezed it, then strode towards the alcove.
Wait for him, stand around while he soothes his...whatever she is. I will do no such thing.
