“Miss Jessica Durleigh.”
The name rang out over the ballroom as if accompanied by a thunderclap. Immediately every head turned toward the head of the stairs. Almost, thought Jessica, as if drawn by invisible strings.
Francis turned from his conversation with Mr. Palethorpe, the magistrate, and walked slowly up the steps to greet her. She was shocked by the way Francis had changed. His good-natured face was cold and he did not smile as he bowed over her hand.
“Francis?”
He said nothing, but took her hand to lead her down the steps. He looked splendid in a black velvet evening coat, and the silver threads of his high waistcoat were shining and costly. A large and complicated cravat bloomed at his throat, and she was surprised at the extreme height of his modish collar.
“Miss Durleigh, I trust that you will enjoy yourself, although I fear that Somerset cannot offer the pleasures and delights of London.”
She inclined her head slowly, noticing how swiftly he dropped her hand. He was so cold and distant, and so very unlike the Francis she had spoken to last that she could only stand alone watching him as he went to greet the next guest.
Curious glances were thrown in her direction and she was conscious of the whispers spreading through the crowded ballroom as she took a glass of punch from the tray held out by a footman. She moved away from the conspicuous area by the tables and went toward a more shadowy area by a decorated pillar. Green leaves and flowers had been carefully twined around the columns in sweet-smelling garlands, with spicy pomanders regularly spaced between. The chandeliers glittered brightly, reflected in the mirrors that lined the walls of the gold and white room. At the far end a fashionable Bath orchestra played a mazurka.
An interested buzz rippled through the crowd as the master of ceremonies struck the floor with his staff to announce Nicholas and Rosamund.
Again the string pulled and all eyes swiveled toward Jessica and then to Rosamund, a vision in gold and green striped silk that shimmered as she descended the steps on Nicholas’ arm. Then it happened. She happened to look across the ballroom straight at Jessica. Her steps faltered and she stopped, her fingers digging into Nicholas’ arm so that he turned in surprise.
Rosamund stared at Jessica, her face suddenly pale and angry, and without a word she turned around and left the ballroom. Nicholas stood alone, undecided whether to go after her or to continue down the steps. After barely a moment he decided that Rosamund must do as she pleased, for he continued the descent to where a startled Francis waited for him. The moment hung, then the orchestra struck up a cotillion and the concentrated attention of the gathering was distracted.
Jessica closed her eyes weakly. However had she been fool enough to come here? It was grossly unfair of her to inflict herself upon Rosamund, and now it was obvious that Francis had thought better of his earlier kindness. She watched Nicholas bowing to Francis, noticing how refined and tasteful he looked in a coat of dark brown velvet and cream trousers that looked straight from Old Bond Street. His hair was fashionably curled around his face, and a discreet cravat burgeoned at his throat. Lace spilled from his cuffs as he sketched another bow and left Francis.
Her heart sank, for it was immediately obvious that he was coming to speak with her. There was nothing she could do but stand by the column and wait for him.
“Miss Durleigh.”
“Sir Nicholas.”
“Perhaps I should have told Rosamund about your being here before she entered Varangian, for then she would have turned away without making so damnable a scene.”
She colored. “She is within her rights to act as she did.”
“No one is within any rights to behave so tactlessly, Miss Durleigh. Surely the fashionable drawing rooms of London taught you that.”
“The fashionable drawing rooms of London were not open to such as I, Sir Nicholas, as you very well know.”
He smiled thinly. “I see no reason why not, for they open their doors to those who conduct their private lives in far more disreputable a manner than you. At least you were honest and open about your affaire de coeur.”
“To be honest was the mistake, Sir Nicholas. Had I married Francis and then commenced an affair with Philip, then, no doubt, all would have been well. But that is a reflection of our times, is it not?” She looked at him without smiling. If he wished to speak of such things, then she would give as good as she got.
“Do not descend to my level, Miss Durleigh, for I swear it does not suit you.”
“Please leave me alone, sir, for I would rather endure the atmosphere of this place than your company.”
His eyes suddenly went to the diamond necklace. “I mark the style of the excellent Mr. Slade,” he murmured, looking at her once more.
She felt the need to defend herself. “I knew nothing of the necklace when you asked me.”
“I did not for one moment think otherwise, madam. Come, let us set our dueling aside and enjoy a glass of champagne together. Please.” He took her hand suddenly. “Please, for I wish to make amends for my lamentable behavior hitherto. Besides, it would seem to me that we are both here against our will.”
“You? However would you be forced into coming if you wished not to?”
“Oh, let us say I wished to please Rosamund.”
“Let us say you are being untruthful, for you would not do anything merely to please any woman, Sir Nicholas. Fashionable London society taught me that much about members of the strong sex. You have another reason—one you obviously would prefer not to mention.”
“And you are too penetrating by far, Miss Durleigh, which amazes me when I consider how my late brother gulled you so completely.”
“Have you already forgotten your resolution to be more agreeable?”
He smiled. “But you must be beginning to wonder about Philip.” He dragged his forefinger over the diamonds at her throat. “You are no fool, Jessica.”
“I wonder only why everyone disliked him so, for I saw only good in him. I loved him dearly, and ever will.”
“I pray you will not shed tears right now, Miss Durleigh, for I would find it uncommon disturbing, especially in front of so many inquisitive eyes.”
“I shall not embarrass you, Sir Nicholas.”
“I thank heaven for it. Now, some champagne?” He did not wait for a reply but snapped his fingers at a footman who in a moment brought a bottle and two glasses which he sat on a small pedestal table close by.
She sipped it, watching him as he replaced the bottle on the table. “Miss Durleigh, about our ... er, encounter ... in Ladywood.”
“Encounter? Sir Nicholas, I cannot think what you mean.”
He smiled. “I thank you, madam, for I would greatly dislike my activities to become common knowledge.”
“What were you doing?”
“One day perhaps I shall tell you, but for now—a toast. To the coming year of 1818, may it prove more gentle than its predecessor.”
“To 1818.”
“Yes, and I trust it will bring an inkling of sanity to Rosamund.”
“In what way?”
“She is infatuated with Varangian.”
“And why should that be termed ‘insanity’? Philip gave her nothing; she has no reason to mourn his passing. Francis is a good man, kind and. . . .”
“Spare me the man’s undoubted virtues.”
“Why so contemptuous? You don’t like Francis?”
“One must like him?”
“One must like someone in this world, Sir Nicholas, and I fast come to the conclusion that you neither like nor respect anyone at all.”
“On the contrary, madam, for against all my better judgment, I both like and respect you.” He raised his glass to her.
“You mock me I think, sir.”
“No, Miss Durleigh, I am perfectly serious.”
Embarrassed by the expression in his eyes, she looked away past him to the unsteady figure of Mr. Palethorpe. The old-fashioned magistrate was quickly seizing a full glass from a passing tray before wending his way toward Nicholas.
Nicholas turned as the magistrate tweaked his arm. “My dear Palethorpe, you do appear to have enjoyed your evening thus far.” He rescued the brimming glass from the wobbling hand.
“ ‘Pon my soul, yes. Been waiting since this time last year.” He dug Nicholas in the ribs and laughed uproariously. “D’you know, Woodville, I’ve tasted the finest cognac I’ve ever sampled in my life. Here, here in Varangian. Would that my merchant stocked the same.”
“Your merchant, no doubt, does not creep through Ladywood with a train of donkeys, Palethorpe.”
“Eh?” The magistrate straightened his periwig, only managing to make his squiffy appearance all the worse. “Donkeys d’you say? Oh! Oh, yes, donkeys. Oh, well, that explains it, of course.”
“Being magistrate, I fear, excludes you from the fraternity enjoying the spoils of smuggling.”
“I’d close me eyes for the sake of a bottle or so, Woodville,” he said wistfully.
Nicholas smiled. “I see that the Widow Claybone is smiling and nodding at you so, I fear her head will shake loose from her neck. Pray go and make her evening complete.”
Mr. Palethorpe glanced surreptitiously at the lady in question. “Can’t stand crimson taffeta, d’you know; a thoroughly disreputable fabric if ever I saw one.” He took a deep breath and snatched his glass from Nicholas, draining it in one gulp, then straightening his periwig again. “An uncommon handsome woman though, eh, Woodville?”
“Uncommon indeed.”
The magistrate glanced down at his buckled shoes and carefully wiped one clean against his white hose before walking in a reasonably straight manner toward the widow Claybone who was all blushes and dimples as she curtsied to him.
Jessica’s attention was drawn back to Nicholas. “This is rumored to be a dance, Miss Durleigh, and yet we have not taken to the floor.”
“Nor have I any wish to. I feel sufficiently conspicuous already. Tell me, Sir Nicholas, is anything wrong here at Varangian?”
“Wrong? In what way?”
“Francis seems—well, upset.” She watched Francis as he partnered a pretty dark girl in lemon muslin.
“Something in that wayward mail bag would appear to have disturbed his equilibrium, or so Rosamund informs me. I, too, had remarked his pallor and uncertain temper.” He held out his arm. “This dance, Miss Durleigh?”
She shook her head. “No, Sir Nicholas, I thank you, but I am too fainthearted. Surely there are many excited female hearts fluttering at the thought of a measure with you.”
He inclined his head. “I am sure you would never be fainthearted, Miss Durleigh, so please do not shatter my new illusions by saying such regrettable things about yourself.” He raised her hand to his lips and then was gone, mingling with the crowd on the floor until she could no longer make him out.
She jumped as a footman bowed before her. “Miss Durleigh? Sir Francis begs to speak with you in private. If you will accompany me to the study.”
Unaccountably her heart fell, for Francis’ earlier behavior on greeting her did not bode well for any interview. She nodded to the footman and followed him from the ballroom.