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Chapter Five
Miss Duckworth and another lady’s maid were hard at work in the sitting room of Lady Josephine’s chambers. They were styling Lady Josephine’s haira la grecque, with curling tendrils drawn from the upsweep to nestle on Lady Josephine’s lovely bare shoulders. They were placing sparklingdiamantépins here and there among the curls, stepping back occasionally to check whether their work was symmetrical.
“Horace,” called out Lady Seraphina, “come and see how lovely your lady aunt looks. Isn’t she pretty?”
“Very pretty,” said the child solemnly. “I like the sparklers around her neck. May I play with them?”
“No, my dear. They are pearls and diamonds, and they break loose very easily.”
“May I go to the ball with her tonight?”
“There will be a ball here at Clover House in a couple of weeks,” interrupted Lady Josephine. “And if your lady mama says it is acceptable, then you may walk in with me, carrying my train. And then you and your governess may watch quietly from the gallery upstairs for a little while, as you have your hot milk before bed.”
“Huzzah!” cried the child, dashing from the room to go tell his governess.
“You are so kind to him,” Lady Seraphina said.
“He’s a lovely boy,” replied her cousin.
“I’d best run after him, before he causes mischief,” Lady Seraphina said, rising from her seat.
“Let us get the ladies’ wraps—I think the carriage is here,” Miss Duckworth said to her helper.
And so Lady Josephine was left alone, except she knew she was not alone in the anteroom. Her bodyguard was there, standing unobtrusively in the shadows.
Motivated by the exuberance of the moment, she called out, “Ace! Do you not think my dress looks pretty?”
Ace stepped into the light. He was dressed in plain, well-cut black, with a white cravat about his throat and without any ducal livery to identify him. He had never looked more handsome.
“Lady Josephine,” he said, “I am an employee of your lord father’s. When I address you, I pay you the courtesy of using your title. Pray show me the same courtesy. To you, I am ‘Mr. Smith.’”
“‘Mr.’?” said Lady Josephine peevishly. She was hurt by his continued coldness to her...as if they had never kissed, as if he had never touched her body so intimately.Why is he so angry at me? Why does he not just say how much he has missed me, so I can say the same to him? “It’s not much of a title to argue over.”
His usually self-controlled features showed his sudden fury, showed that she seemed to know how to get beneath his skin. “It is a humble title, I agree, my lady,” he said from between clenched teeth. “But it is an honest one, and it is my own. I have never pretended to be someone I am not. Unlike some people.”
Her cheeks flaming in shame and rage at his rejection of her, she was about to retort. But the lady’s maids had just returned to the antechamber with the wraps, so the conversation ended.
* * *
The ducal coach awaited them outside. It was a splendid vehicle, gleaming black, with polished brass trim and the Clover coat of arms painted in gold on the doors. The coachman, resplendent in his livery, sat on a high box seat in front, driving two sets of matched pure black horses, four-in-hand. Two footmen, also in ducal livery, were mounted on the back exterior of the coach, braving the cold.
A small crowd—passersby and gutter urchins—had gathered to see the great Duke of Clover and his family go out in their fine coach for the evening. Manservants had come from inside the house to form a protective perimeter around the coach, so the family could proceed unmolested. The noise of the onlookers troubled the sensitive, thoroughbred horses—the front two rose on their hind legs and pawed the air. This delighted the crowd, who made even more noise.
Lady Seraphina Whyte came out of the house first, on the arm of her escort for the evening, her oldest brother, Alfred Wallace, Baron Roster.
“Is that the daughter?” one old biddy in the crowd called out.
“Nah, she’s only the widow niece,” yelled someone better informed.
Once that couple was seated, Lady Josephine emerged, leaning on her lord father, His Grace of Clover. She was resplendent in rose pinkpeau de soie, a shade that brought becoming color to her shapely cheekbones. Although she was wrapped in furs, sparkling jewels could be seen around her neck, in her hair and adorning her slender wrists.
The footmen in their livery jumped off their perches, as did the coachman, who handed the reins to a groom standing by. Folding steps having been placed by the coach door, the men all assisted Lady Josephine up into the equipage. Miss Duckworth held Lady Josephine’s voluminous skirts off the ground, then climbed into the coach herself.
“Coo! She’s loverly, she is,” called out one of the Cockney dames.
“Ye’d be loverly, too, Madge, if ye were wrapped in diamonds and had that much a year to live on,” a fellow called back jokingly.
“Nah, she wouldn’t at that,” countered one of the street wits. “Old Madge’d still be a cow.”
