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"Lady Quamby." He stopped to bow, glancing down quickly to ensure the buttons of his fall front were done up correctly.
They were. So he rose and said with all the charm of which he was capable, "You are looking very fine today, ma'am, despite the onerous responsibilities that must accompany such a grand event as the Christmas Ball. I’m told there will be more than sixty guests."
"I'm used to organizing far bigger and more complicated entertainments than that, Mr Wells," she said with a wave of her hand. "Though I do confess this has its singular challenges."
"Indeed?"
"A couple of late additions to the invitation list that I had not counted upon." She sighed but, he noted, looked even more closely at him as she added, "And upon whose specified absence I had received the assent of others."
"Really?" Sebastian wasn't particularly interested in the minutiae as long as it didn't pertain to his sister or his beloved. Unfortunately, Lady Quamby's next words filled him with concern.
"Yes, your father is one of them."
"My father!" he said with more energy than he should have. His first thought was of Libby, whose last letter had outlined her bold plan in having her beloved Mr Clayton introduced to the company by Lord Quamby as the man she intended to wed. It was a big step for a timid girl who’d spent nearly seven years waiting to be granted approval by her father to marry a man he deemed unworthy of her.
Yet, from Sebastian’s own perspective, his father was not a welcome addition to the guest list. The old man had taken a dim view of Sebastian’s interest in Venetia all those years ago. And although Sebastian was his own master, and in full receipt of a comfortable inheritance, he knew that his father’s displeasure at learning that Sebastian intended to marry 'down' as he'd once termed such a marriage to Venetia, was hardly likely to have softened.
"So, my sister went so far as to declare she'd not come if he were to be in attendance?" Sebastian was surprised that Libby would be so transparent.
"She did not. In fact, it was Miss Reeves who said she would not come if her father were in attendance."
Sebastian noticed that Lady Quamby continued to look very meaningfully at him. He sighed. "What does Miss Reeves fear from her father?"
"Exactitude." It was Lady Quamby’s turn to sigh. "Miss Reeves’s father has ideas for his daughter's future that do not accord with her own, apparently. As you well know, she left his house in high dudgeon some weeks ago and has been staying, first with her aunt and now with us. With her father arriving unexpectedly, I felt it only fair to warn you that there may be...discord ahead." She hesitated. "Unless someone can persuade Miss Reeves’s exacting father that he really has no say in the affairs of his daughter's heart."
Sebastian was surprised that she felt it necessary to apprise him of this. And that she was looking at him as if he might volunteer to be that someone. Feeling awkward, he cleared his throat. "I've heard you are skilled in achieving every desired outcome, Lady Quamby." Sebastian recognized that she was a woman who thrived on praise, and he hoped it would release him. He was suddenly anxious to quit this exchange now that he'd noticed, to his horror upon glancing down once more, that one of Venetia's white stockings had inadvertently become lodged in his boot. The end was dangling out of the top cuff. It was not greatly in evidence, and he was certain he'd be the only one to notice, but he needed to remove it—and return it to its owner—a
s quickly as he could, else the loss might occasion great embarrassment to Venetia.
“You are too sweet, Mr Wells.” His hostess looked like a delighted schoolroom miss, but fortunately she let him go after, confusingly, squeezing his arm and saying with unsettling intensity, “Have no fear, Mr Wells; I’ve certainly worked hard to achieve this desired outcome. All will be well, I promise.”
He hadn't gone more than a few hundred yards when he was waylaid by another feminine voice.
Tinged with anxiety, and sweetly breathless, he imagined for one lovely minute that it was Venetia, rushing after him to reclaim her stocking. Instead, he turned to find Miss Reeves gazing at him from the path along which he had just trodden. Her cheeks were flushed, and some of her hair had come loose from its confines.
"Mr Wells, I have been looking for you! I believe you are the only person who can help me!" She hurried forward, her face a picture of distress, and to his surprise, gripped his wrist before she dropped it, stepping back quickly. "Oh Mr Wells, I don't know what to do. I've just learned my father is arriving for the Christmas Ball and it is the worst news, ever!"
To his even greater dismay she immediately began to cry, great shaking sobs, which left him standing like some oaf before he felt it incumbent upon him to take an awkward step forward and pat her on the shoulder.
"What shall I do!" she cried, taking his awkward attempt at comfort as an invitation for more, for suddenly her arms were about him and she was weeping, her head against his chest. "He wants me to marry Lord Yarrowby, and I’ve heard it’s possible that Yarrowby might accompany him. But I have my heart set on someone else. Someone Papa will find completely unworthy, yet our love is so strong and pure no one can ever come between us! You know who I mean. What can I do? Please, will you help me?”
Sebastian did the best he could. He could hardly push her away, so he let her cling to him while he patted her back and asked, "I suppose you just have to persuade your father of the merits of your beloved. I'm sure if your young man has some worthwhile occupation to compensate for the title or pocketbook your father requires, all will be well."
"Why, it's the music master, Signor Boticelli!" she wept. "How will I persuade my father that his address is every bit as equal to Lord Yarrowby’s."
"It will be difficult," Sebastian conceded, mentally comparing the oily-haired dancing tutor, whom he was sure must be a good fifteen years older than Miss Reeves, with the tall, broad-shouldered, easygoing Yarrowby that Sebastian knew as a jolly decent fellow whose legendary calm and patience had unfairly earned him a reputation for being dull and boring.
“Did you really not know?” she asked, raising her tearstained face to his. “About Signor Boticelli, I mean. I’ve been so afraid that everyone would have suspected, since we are so in love!”
Sebastian shook his head and wondered what else he’d failed to notice these past two days.
Really, he’d had eyes only for Venetia.
"Then...will you help me?" She continued to look up at him pleadingly. "Oh, I beg of you, Mr Wells, you can have no idea how eternally grateful I would be if you were to lend your assistance to my cause."
Sebastian, who was just glad she'd put a respectable distance between them since he’d gently disengaged her arms from about his neck, nodded dubiously. "Of course I will assist if it is in my power. Though I have no idea how anything I might say or do would lend any weight."
"But you would help me if you could?"
