Chapter Two

 

The Lower Rooms, whither Denzell Hawkeridge, on the very next evening, dragged his hosts in search of the lovely Verena Chaceley, were situated at the back of the Sussex Inn. They were relatively thin of company at this time of year, opening for assemblies twice a week only for the benefit of the increasing number of residents settling in Tunbridge Wells.

The cold this Friday night had driven everyone to seek refuge in the smaller of the two plain, unadorned rooms where a good fire blazed, creating an illusion of a greater gathering than was actually present. But the weather did not prevent the inhabitants from appearing in the silks and muslins of full dress, as Unice had warned Denzell.

He was himself attired in town gear of a suit of claret-coloured cloth and a black Florentine waistcoat, with stockings striped in black and white, his cravat knotted in an intricate bow. Not, he told himself, that he had taken extra special care with his appearance this evening.

Since the Ruishtons were among the very few of a younger element that the town could boast, and had been missed during their absence in London for some part of the autumn Season, they received an enthusiastic welcome, which was extended equally to the charming young man who accompanied them.

‘Ah yes, Hawkeridge, is it not?’ mused Sir John Frinton, the elegant old roué who led the Wellsian gentry. ‘I fancy I knew your father.’

‘Indeed?’ responded Denzell, smiling. ‘I will not say that I have often heard him speak of you, Sir John, for I am sure you will refuse to believe me.’

The old gentleman laughed. ‘I should. It is far more likely that you will have heard your mother speak of me.’ He twinkled at Denzell’s surprised look. ‘You need not look at me so, my young friend. I have been, in my day, quite as much a devil of a fellow as are you—with the ladies.’

Denzell grinned. ‘I don’t doubt it, sir. But unless my friend Osmond has been giving me away, I cannot see how—’

‘My dear boy,’ interrupted the elder man, ‘you must not think that we are all of us unacquainted with your exploits, merely because we no longer have the energy to show our faces in Town. We contrive to keep up with the world, you know, despite being quite out of it.’

‘Oh, indeed?’ Denzell muttered, faintly grim. The scandalmongers had been at it again, had they? He should be used to the tattling tongues of the old tabbies by now, but it could not but gall him to find himself a subject for speculation even in this out-of-the-way place. ‘And who is your particular informant, sir, or shouldn’t I ask?’

In fact, there was no need to ask, for at that moment he saw a rather sturdy dame, alarmingly garbed in lilac and yellow with a heavily feathered turban, moving in on Unice, her interested glance flicking in his direction. Sir John’s wry smile was all the intimation needed that this was the local gossip whom Unice had mentioned at breakfast.

The inflection of distaste in his voice had been noted. Sir John’s smile grew.

‘There is a price to be paid, my young friend, if you pursue the path you are treading, as I know.’

Denzell eyed him. Yes, he had heard of this man, now he came to think of it. There was that about him that stirred a vague memory. The air of elegance exuded by the grey silk suit of ditto; with its fine embroidered waistcoat; the white toupée, the powder and paint, now so outmoded as to be ridiculous; and the wry, twinkling humour.

But Sir John Frinton had ever been a rake, according to Lady Hawkeridge, which Denzell himself was not.

His own flirtations were harmless enough. He frowned at the man.

‘Even when it is merely a pleasant game?’

Sir John nodded, the teasing gleam in his eye pronounced.

‘Even then. To those with an ear for tittle-tattle, motive has no meaning. But you may easily stop it, you know.’

‘May I, sir? How?’

‘Take a wife, my dear boy, take a wife.’

Denzell burst out laughing. ‘Sage advice, sir, and of course I must do so in time. But I shall indulge myself a little more yet, despite such wagging tongues as your—what the devil is the woman’s name?’

‘Mrs Felpham. And I’ll wager there is not one item about you that is in the public domain of which she has not already made herself mistress.’

‘I would not take you, Sir John,’ Denzell responded, grinning. ‘There cannot be the least doubt of it. Oh, deuce take it,’ he added in an under-voice, ‘now I am for it.’

He had just caught sight of Unice heading his way, with the wretched gossip in tow. Her quiet, dead-leaf muslin gown, despite the disadvantage of her shorter stature, looked remarkably well against the overpowering Mrs Felpham.

Denzell turned instinctively for help to his companion. ‘Sir John—’

But the old man, with an adroitness that Denzell envied, had melted away. With an inward sigh, he braced himself to counter a series of impertinent questions that he could see forming behind the eager eyes drinking him in from within a raddled countenance, yellow with age and the ruthless application of cosmetics.

As he fielded the probing of Mrs Felpham with practised charm, he found himself wondering at Unice and Osmond’s having decided to settle here.

To be sure, it was close to Unice’s parental home in a more easterly part of Kent, and Osmond having no estates of his own—his small fortune deriving from the will of a favoured uncle—it had been prudent of him to purchase an affordable house and invest the remainder of his capital to provide a reasonable income. But to seek a home amongst this elderly and valetudinarian company was not what he himself would have chosen.

‘Regretting your visit already, are you?’ murmured Osmond’s teasing tones in his ear, the instant Unice had borne Mrs Felpham away.

Denzell turned to his friend, resplendent in a suit of purple cloth, and spoke his mind in a disgusted under-voice.

‘Deuce take it, Ossie, how can you bear it? That female for one. Not to mention an old bore of a playwright—Richard Cumberland, is it?—and your ancient nabob Martin Yorke, to name but two trials I have already undergone. It is small wonder that you come posting up to town at every opportunity.’

Osmond grinned. ‘I suppose your opinion has nothing to do with the fact that you find Verena Chaceley to be absent from the company?’

A reluctant laugh was drawn from Denzell. ‘On the contrary,’ he admitted, ‘it has everything to do with it. Were my beautiful maiden of the snow here, I am sure I should be in raptures over the entire population. But in truth, I cannot blame her for absenting herself.’

‘No doubt if she had known you were to appear, she would not have done so,’ said Osmond ironically. ‘Don’t know what you’re complaining about, however. Everyone is in such a flutter over you, I should think even your appetite for attention must be satisfied.’

Denzell grinned. ‘Indeed, dear boy, I am quite set up in my own conceit. According to Sir John Frinton, my fame goes before me in these parts.’

‘Ha! Nothing special about you, Hawk. Anyone new is welcome here, if they had a hunchback and a crippled leg.’

‘I thank you. Now that you have thoroughly deflated my pretensions, let us, for pity’s sake, extract Unice from that busybody of a female and leave this place forthwith. The light of my life is clearly not coming here tonight, and I have no mind to spend the rest of the evening in this insipid fashion for nothing.’

How he managed it even Unice was unable to tell, but in a very short space of time Denzell had whisked them away from the company with only a word here and a word there, and nobody in the least put out. Apart, that was, from Osmond.

‘It is too bad,’ he complained as, wrapped in greatcoats against the winter night, they walked home beside the chair that carried Unice. ‘First you tell me you have come here on a repairing lease. Then, merely because you catch sight of a pretty face—’

‘Not merely pretty, dear boy, a face of stunning beauty.’

‘—you insist on hauling us out in the cold from our comfortable home just so that you may parade about in the vain hope of attracting her interest—’

‘We shall see about vain!’

‘—and as if this was not enough, when you don’t find her, you dash out of the place as if all the devils of hell were after you.’

‘They are,’ retorted Denzell, as if his friend’s ridiculous exaggeration had some truth in it, ‘and will be until I meet Verena Chaceley. I will not give up. I have conceived the most cunning plan.’

Osmond scoffed when he learned that Denzell meant to enlist the aid of his godson Felix.

The very next morning found Denzell Hawkeridge up and about at a most unseasonable hour for a Saturday, and, having consumed a hearty breakfast, ascending the stairs to the nursery.

Young Felix was only too delighted to oblige his godfather, and set off happily through the back garden with Nurse Dinah and Miles in tow, to show him the famous snowman. Sadly, there having been no further fall, it was somewhat the worse for wear. The flakes that had lain most of Thursday and Friday had now turned to ice underfoot, and the thaw showed patchy areas of rough ground through the white film.

Disappointed, Felix nevertheless embarked on a description of the snowman as it had been at the zenith of its short life, while Denzell contemplated the remains. He was listening with only half an ear, while his eye searched this way and that about the square whenever his godson’s gaze was engaged with the melting snowman. But no glimpse of a brown pelisse rewarded his covert diligence, and no sign of Felix’s friends appeared to relieve him of his self-imposed charge.

He was obliged to hear his godson out, to make what he might of the additional information fed to him in baby prattle by Miles in concert with his elder brother, to admire what was left of the unfortunate man of snow, and to endure a barrage of hardened icy balls thrown by both boys in the fit of exuberance induced in them by his presence.

It was left to Dinah to call a halt to the proceedings, decreeing that the boys had been out in the cold air long enough and must return to the nursery forthwith.

Denzell, with one last forlorn look around the area, desolate now with the lack of his fairy princess, allowed himself to be dragged back to the house with one shrieking child clinging to either hand.

His hosts, he learned from Mayberry, the manservant who combined the duties of butler and footman with innumerable other functions, had already left the breakfast parlour, and might be found in the green saloon next door.

This large term described, as Denzell knew, the small chamber where the family were wont to gather informally through the day, being comfortable enough for sitting in, with a good fire in the wide grate, and yet sufficiently well appointed, with its green brocade wallpaper and toning upholstery to the Sheraton sofa and chairs, for receiving any visitors who might chance to arrive.

‘Thank you, Mayberry,’ Denzell said, with a smile, as he handed the man his greatcoat and brushed down the dark blue coat beneath.

Osmond, who was warming his plum coat-tails before the fire as Denzell entered, moved forward to greet him. ‘Ah, Hawk. You are up betimes, old fellow. I wonder why?’

‘You know very well why,’ Denzell retorted, provoked. ‘I told you I meant to use Felix to effect an introduction to that glorious creature. Didn’t you believe me?’

Osmond’s grin was wicked. ‘Oh, I believed you. Your mission did not prosper, I take it?’

‘No, and I’ll thank you to refrain from cheap gibes.’

‘Gibes? Me?’ said Osmond, all innocence. ‘I was only going to say that the gods favour you after all, Hawk.’

He stepped aside on the words, and Denzell looked past him and stopped dead, staring at a vision seated in the round armchair to one side of the fireplace.

A vision in a furred brown pelisse, with a bronze velvet bonnet set at a charming angle above the most beautiful face in the world.

‘Chaste stars!’ gasped Denzell, shocked out of his customary sangfroid. ‘Verena Chaceley, as I live and breathe!’

‘None other,’ murmured Osmond beside him. ‘I found her visiting Unice.’

The vision’s features did not stir, although her eyes were turned in Denzell’s direction. Without conscious thought, he found the word that Unice had used playing in his mind: serene. Beautiful, calm and serene. She might have been carved in marble.

Then Mrs Ruishton spoke from the sofa opposite Verena, pulling Denzell back to reality.

‘Miss Chaceley, allow me to present to you our guest, Mr Hawkeridge.’

She moved then. The slightest nod of the head, the faintest of polite smiles.

‘How do you do?’

A musical tone, but flat with disinterest.

Denzell could not respond. He was utterly disconcerted. He must seem the completest fool. An odd laugh shook him. He shrugged helplessly, his eyes riveted on her face.

‘I am—confounded,’ he managed.

It was Osmond’s low laughter, redolent with glee that snapped him back to himself again. He took a breath, smiled and moved forward, holding out his hand.

‘Miss Chaceley, I am enchanted to make your acquaintance.’

She lifted her hand, and the ends of her bare fingers—for her gloves were held in her other hand—clasped his for the briefest instant. There was no change in her expression, however. But her fingers, Denzell felt, had been warm. He took courage, moving back a step.

‘Miss Chaceley, I confess I am so discomfited that I know not what to say.’

Her brows lifted very slightly. ‘Indeed? Why so, Mr—?’

‘Hawkeridge,’ he supplied, as she hesitated.

‘Why so, Mr Hawkeridge?’ repeated the pleasant voice, although Denzell could descry no real interest in any answer that he might make. No matter. He would force her to notice him somehow. He must. She had been fashioned in heaven, no doubt about it.

But Unice, who had been fidgeting uneasily with the many folds of her muslin gown that spread about her, broke in. ‘Denzell has been looking at the snowman you were building with the children the other day, Miss Chaceley. Felix insisted upon it, you know.’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Denzell, seating himself in the chair closest to Verena. ‘It was I who insisted upon Felix taking me there.’ He smiled in a winning fashion. ‘You see, Miss Chaceley, I was in hopes that I might find you.’

‘Hopes!’ muttered Osmond, taking his seat beside his wife on the sofa.

‘And so you have met her after all,’ Unice interrupted. ‘Such a fortunate chance that you came to visit me this morning, Miss Chaceley.’

Again Denzell smiled, leaning towards Verena’s chair. ‘Unice would have me dissemble, but I vow I will have none of it. The truth is that I saw you from my bedroom window when you were playing with the children—oh, an eon ago—and instantly conceived the strongest desire to meet you.’

There was nothing in her face to encourage him to continue in this vein. She made no attempt even to reply to him, but sat calmly, the wide-set gaze clear on his face, apparently unmoved. This close, her features, still as they were, showed to even more perfection, and the frame of curling tresses that surrounded them, peeking beneath the bonnet’s ornamented brim and trailing their way onto her shoulders, were of the colour of warm honey.

It took an effort for Denzell to think about what he was saying. Yet having taken the bull by the horns and told the precise truth, there was nothing for him to do but to go on. He was hardly aware that he was smiling, that his eyes glowed with warmth at the sheer enjoyment of her beauty.

‘Was it presumptuous of me, Miss Chaceley? Failing to discover you at the assembly last night, I went out into the snow expressly to try to scrape acquaintance with you. I cannot begin to tell you how much disappointed I was not to find you there.’ He was aware that he was rattling off his words, but he could not stop. The very lack of response impelled him to continue. ‘And then—to see you sitting in this very room. Now do you see why I said I was confounded?’

A very slight smile curved her lips, but there was no reflection of it in her eyes. ‘What can I say but that I am deeply flattered, Mr Hawkeridge?’

‘Oh no, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘I protest I am not flattering you.’

‘He isn’t,’ put in Osmond, adding his mite. ‘Miss Chaceley, you have not heard the half of it, I promise you.’

‘Osmond, pray hush,’ begged Unice. She turned to Verena. ‘Pay no heed to either of them, Miss Chaceley. They are rascals when they get together. You have no notion what I am obliged to contend with from the two of them.’

‘Indeed?’ said Miss Chaceley.

Denzell could not tear his gaze away from that lovely face. Not a flicker. Not the faintest trace of amusement. It was fascinating. Unice had been right. Where the deuce had all that warmth and laughter gone? He had not imagined it—had he? The memory of her animated countenance hovered in his mind, battling with the present placidity. No, he had not imagined it. There was a joyous creature somewhere inside this apparent shell. He set himself to draw it out, exerting every ounce of his considerable charm.

‘You have never visited London, Miss Chaceley?’ Verena’s gaze turned back towards him and his eyes invited her smile. ‘I am persuaded I could not have forgotten had I seen you there.’

She did not smile. ‘I have not been there.’

‘It is our loss,’ Denzell said, with a gleam that would have thrown any other young lady into confusion. It was met, on this occasion, with a bland note of indifference.

‘You are too kind.’

‘May we look forward to the expectation of seeing you at some future time? During the coming Season, perhaps?’

‘I think not.’

He was daunted, but he tried again. ‘But surely you cannot mean to hide your charms away here in Tunbridge Wells forever? What a shocking waste that would be, Miss Chaceley.’

‘My plans are as yet uncertain.’

Deuce take it, she could not even raise a simper. Deflated, Denzell sat back. Was she so vain that his compliments meant nothing to her? Or was she merely stupid? His gaze, moving away, met the unholy glee in Osmond’s features. He threw his eyes to heaven, casting his friend a rueful smile. Osmond was obliged to turn away, biting his lip on laughter. Unice intervened.

‘Mr Hawkeridge, you must know, is a confirmed man of the town. It is a rare privilege to have him here, for you will hardly find him away from London. Unless he is at home in Hampshire.’

‘Indeed?’

‘In fact, no,’ Denzell cut in, glancing across. ‘At home in Buckinghamshire, Unice.’ He turned back to Verena, speaking in a more natural way. ‘It chances that my father’s estates are on the border, at Tuttingham. Just a village, but the barony extends widely around it. It is near Aylesbury.’

Rather to his surprise, Verena turned to look him in the eye. There was nothing in her voice to suggest anything but politeness, but the words she spoke struck him like a douche of cold water.

‘You are plainly extremely eligible, Mr Hawkeridge. I imagine there must be any number of young ladies only too ready to receive your advances. I hope that it may not be long before your friends are wishing you happy.’

Denzell was so taken aback that he scarcely knew how to reply. By George, but what a masterly stroke! She was certainly not stupid. Before he could gather his wits to find a suitable response—not that he could have thought of one even had he done so—Miss Chaceley was drawing on her gloves. Then she was rising.

‘I must go, Mrs Ruishton,’ she was saying, crossing to take Unice’s hand. ‘No, do not get up. I am happy to find you looking so well.’

Both the gentlemen had stood up automatically, and Verena turned to hold out her hand to Osmond.

‘Goodbye, Mr Ruishton. Do you take care of her, pray.’

‘Oh, I will,’ said Osmond on a cheerful note. ‘But there is no need for concern. She manages these matters very well, does Unice. But let me see you to the door.’

A faint smile was all his answer, and Verena turned her head to Denzell, saying in a voice devoid of expression, ‘I am happy to have met you, Mr Hawkeridge.’

The next moment, she had left the saloon. Osmond flung a speaking glance at his friend before following her from the room, and Denzell grimaced at Unice who was looking at him rather anxiously. Neither of them spoke until the front door had closed and Osmond walked back into the room.

‘What did I tell you?’ he demanded, grinning. ‘Unice, did you see his face? I’ve never enjoyed anything so much in my life!’

‘For shame, Osmond. Poor Denzell, she was quite brutal to you, I think.’

‘No such thing,’ argued Osmond, hugely entertained.’ ‘After being given due warning, he flung himself to the wolves, and he has only himself to blame.’

Denzell sank back into his chair, shaking his head. ‘You are quite right, Ossie. I am deservedly set down.’

‘Oh, don’t say so, Denzell,’ protested Unice. ‘I do think she might at least have acknowledged the compliments you paid her. Really, I am quite out of charity with her. I had no idea she could be so horrid.’

‘No, no, Unice. She was politeness itself, just as you predicted would be the case.’

‘I’m dashed if I’ve ever seen you so crestfallen, Hawk,’ observed Osmond, raising his brows. ‘Giving up the notion already, are you?’

Denzell frowned. ‘No, not giving up. Just—oh, I don’t know. Yes, I do, though. I’m confused. When I saw her yesterday, she was so...’

He paused, at a loss for words to describe the difference between the girl he had seen in the snow and this cold statue. He looked from one to the other of his friends, and suddenly smote his knee. ‘I don’t believe it! I simply do not believe that this was the true Verena Chaceley.’

He might have been cheered could he but have seen Verena at that moment, left alone outside the Ruishtons’ front door. Breathless, she put a hand to her breast, as if to still the fluttering there within. Dear heaven, but what charm there was in his smile. Had she not trained herself all these long years to suppress even the slightest outward display of emotion, she feared she must have given him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had moved her. Her control had never been so severely tested.

She drew a steadying breath, and came away from the door, her half-boots crunching along the worn path that was once again showing beneath the dissipating snow and ice. Lost in her thoughts, she had forgotten the short cut and began along the longer trail that led back to the road.

Heavens, but she did not wish to have any man affect her this way. Least of all, such a man as that. Eligible, indeed. Heaven send Mama did not get wind of his interest. If there was any substance to it, which she frankly doubted. That winning smile, the limpid gaze from those misty eyes, had all the hallmarks of the accomplished flirt.

She had not been so out of the world that she could not recognise these signs. The society of Fittleworth might be limited, but she had not been the reigning belle for several years without schooling herself to nip these sorts of pretensions in the bud. It would surprise her very much if Mr Denzell Hawkeridge took the matter any further.

A sneaking regret caused her to quicken her pace, lashing herself mentally. None of that, Verena Chaceley. Did she so easily forget the horrors that lay in store for the unwary female who allowed herself to be beguiled by such men as this? How could she forget?

She dismissed the idea. She was but human, and a comely countenance, accompanied by such an onslaught of determined charm, was bound to have its effect. She need not concern herself over that. Particularly when she guessed him to be singularly experienced at this game.

All at once she checked her pace. No harm in arming herself, just in case Mr Hawkeridge should not have been sufficiently deterred by this one meeting. Turning away from the route home, she passed back along the row of houses that bordered the lane and crossed beyond them towards the New Inn. Two houses down, she stopped and knocked at a certain door.

Mrs Felpham, her sturdy frame planted in a chair by her own fireside, expressed herself as being delighted to welcome Miss Chaceley. Of course she was. She had been trying these few months to penetrate the wall Verena had erected to keep out just such intrusions. Verena could almost feel sorry for her. This was her purpose in life.

A widow, settling here some few years since, she had nothing to do but busy herself in hunting out all the little details that made up the lives of those around her. What else had she, except a very obvious pride in her dress—up to the minute in a spotted lawn open robe whose high waistline could not be said to be becoming to a flat chest in a square frame?

There was no need for Verena to touch upon the subject of her visit, because the lady herself brought it up the instant the greetings were over.

‘A most charming young man, and quite eligible. His father is Lord Hawkeridge, and I believe the estates are in very good heart. No other sons to be provided for. There is a sister, I believe, and she is out already so that she must soon be off their hands.’

‘Indeed?’ Verena said, maintaining the cool company manners that stood her in such good stead.

‘What a pity you were not there last night, Miss Chaceley, for I am sure you could not fail to catch his eye.’

‘As it chances,’ Verena said, ‘I have just met him at the Ruishtons’. I called to see how Mrs Ruishton did, and am happy to report that she seems very well.’

‘Oh yes, dear Unice carries her children most comfortably. And, pray, what did you think of Mr Hawkeridge?’

Verena met the eager gaze under the large lacy cap with a show of complete unconcern. ‘I do not know that I thought very much about him at all, Mrs Felpham. Except perhaps to form the impression that he is a practised flirt.’

‘Quite accomplished, so I have been informed,’ averred Mrs Felpham. She leaned forward in a confidential way. ‘Dear Miss Chaceley, allow me to put you a little on your guard, although I am persuaded it is not necessary, so sensible as you are.’

If it was not necessary, Verena thought, why bother to say it? But outwardly, she was all polite attention.

‘How thoughtful of you, Mrs Felpham.’

Excitement showed in the woman’s eyes. ‘You are so young, my dear. You can have no notion of the sort of tactics that young men such as Mr Hawkeridge are apt to employ.’

‘What sort of tactics, Mrs Felpham?’

‘Well,’ said the dame, settling down to enjoy herself. ‘I am led to believe that there have been few female hearts held proof against him. Do you know what is his practice?’

‘No, Mrs Felpham,’ said Verena, though she was sure the lady was going to tell her.

‘What will he do, dare you imagine, but select some poor wretch, and then tantalise and tease until she does not know whether she is coming or going.’

‘Indeed? How might he do that?’

Mrs Felpham’s avid eyes sparkled. ‘Why, pay her a battery of compliments and attention. Then, the very next time he sees her, what will there be? Nothing but indifference and withdrawal.’

She stopped, eyeing Verena as if waiting for some comment. There was much Verena might have said, but she waited politely, allowing no change in her own expression. Mrs Felpham sighed, and resumed.

‘Of course it means nothing. For on the next occasion, he will be all smiles and charm, declaring that it had been her rebuff and he only feared to approach her. Once she is softened by such mouthings, he will desert her once more, sometimes for days, not paying court elsewhere, you know, but keeping company instead with his particular cronies.’

‘And that is the end of it?’ asked Verena, unable to help herself.

‘No, indeed,’ exclaimed Mrs Felpham, brightening at this show of interest. ‘He returns again. For by now, as you may imagine, the unfortunate female is on tenterhooks and positively tearing her hair out with yearning.’

The more fool she, thought Verena, as Mrs Felpham sat back with an air of utter satisfaction.

‘What do you think of that, Miss Chaceley?’

There could be no doubt what Verena thought of it. She had never heard of anything more shabby. Disgust rose in her at the thought of such arts being employed, so as to turn some poor girl’s head into a whirl of confusion. Dear heaven, she ought to know how dangerous a pastime was being played here! So he blew in turns hot and cold upon his victim, did he? All to satisfy his own vanity, no doubt. What a conceit. Little did he know how well aware was she of the effects of such erratic conduct.

Mrs Felpham was waiting for her answer, a look of such comical anticipation in her face that Verena must have laughed had she not been so disappointed. Disappointed? Well, she had as well admit to it. It had been flattering to be the recipient of such strong attentions. To hear now that it was but a prelude to a practical campaign could only drop Mr Hawkeridge in her estimation.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that any female who is taken in by such blatant posturings must be a complete fool.’

Damped, Mrs Felpham was silenced for a moment. But she rallied. ‘Then I have only to say, Miss Chaceley, that London is full of a great many fools.’

Verena permitted herself a faint smile. ‘In that case I must be happy that I have no place there, Mrs Felpham.’

She left the widow dissatisfied, she thought, but herself secure in the knowledge that her words would be carried through the town as swiftly as possible, so that none would be able to suppose her to be falling under the spell of Mr Hawkeridge. It would rather be the gentleman himself they would watch, waiting to see his failure with the female whom no one in the spa town had as yet succeeded in touching.

Hurrying home, Verena resolved she would remain aloof, nevertheless. She might be disenchanted, but she already knew herself to be vulnerable to him, and she had seen too much of Mama’s sapped strength not to suspect her own.

She was able to maintain her resolution for several days, Mama offering her the best excuse possible by her current bout of weakness. They did not attend Sunday service at the King Charles Chapel, and Verena caught herself out wondering whether Mr Hawkeridge had missed her, instead of she being compelled—according to Mrs Felpham—to miss him.

Furious at herself for even this slight show of interest in the man, she spent Monday at her bureau in the parlour, handling overdue accounts and some belated correspondence with the lawyer who had charge of Grandpapa Whicham’s trust fund, to which she owed her present independence.

It was Mrs Peverill who undid her daughter’s best laid plans not to appear in sight of the flirtatious Mr Hawkeridge. Having spent Monday resting contentedly on the day-bed, reading one of Miss Burney’s romances borrowed from the circulating library, she greeted Verena as she came to breakfast on Tuesday morning with what was, for her, a deal of enthusiasm.

‘Dearest, I am feeling much more myself today. I should so much like it if we were to go down to the Rooms tonight. Do you not feel we might enjoy keeping company for a change?’

***

Denzell, happening to be deep in conversation with Sir John Frinton, did not see Verena and her mother enter the room. But a sudden break in the old man’s attention alerted him.

‘Ah, there she is at last,’ uttered Sir John on a note of satisfaction. ‘Would that I were forty years younger.’

Turning to follow the direction of the old man’s gaze, Denzell at once espied Verena, and his breath caught. If she had been beautiful in a brown pelisse and a ribbon-trimmed bonnet, she was ravishing in full dress.

An open robe of white muslin with a low pleated bodice, sleeved to the elbow with beaded trimming covering the long gloves of York tan, was worn over a dull yellow petticoat. The shade perfectly complimented the honeyed tresses, simply dressed with a ribbon-bandeau threaded through so that one or two curling locks fell across her white breast. A fairy princess, truly.

Staring in wonder, Denzell became aware of a sense of hushed expectancy pervading the room. It held a moment, and then broke, as every male in the place seemed to converge upon Miss Verena Chaceley.

Denzell did not move. With difficulty, he brought his gaze to bear upon the woman standing by Verena’s side. The resemblance was plain, although the mother—there could be no doubt of her identity—was but a pale echo of the daughter, a waif-like creature in violet silk. She was of slighter stature, seeming so frail that she might break.

Before the various gentlemen could reach her, he watched Verena turn to her mother, solicitously drawing her towards a chair by the fire. Then she was engulfed and he could no longer see her plainly.

‘Well?’ came Osmond’s probing voice at his side. ‘What are you doing standing there? You will never make any headway if you do not thrust your way into the melée.’

‘What, and make one of a crowd?’ said Denzell with scorn, turning his head. ‘You know me better than that.’

Both gentlemen were suitably attired for the occasion, Osmond in his favourite purple, while Denzell once again sported the claret suit with its black-silk accoutrements.

Osmond had his attention on the area by the fire where the portly Mr Cumberland and the wheezing Mr Yorke were vying with a number of other gentlemen who tried, regardless of the proprieties of rank or station, to be first with Miss Chaceley. It was Sir John, Denzell saw, who succeeded in procuring her smile, however, for he was so adroit as to set the chosen chair for Mrs Peverill, thus evidently earning the beauty’s gratitude. The little circle widened as Miss Chaceley herself took a seat, enabling Denzell to watch her as she turned, from one to another gentleman in turn, to answer whatever sallies they might be making.

‘I cannot see that she favours any one above another,’ he observed in a pleased tone.

‘Told you so. She always metes out exactly the same treatment to all—just as she did to you.’

‘For pity’s sake, what is she made of, ice? Or is she just soulless?’

Osmond grinned at him. ‘Love dying already, eh?’

Denzell shook his head. ‘Growing, Ossie. I tell you, I am intrigued past any bearing. I swear to you, she was so vital, so alive. This is—well, I don’t know what this is, but I can see that it is apt to drive me insane.’

‘You’re piqued, Hawk, that’s all. Too used to having your own way in these matters, and you can’t abide to lose.’

Denzell looked round at him. ‘Is it that? Did I imagine it then?’

Osmond raised his brows. ‘Taking this a mite seriously, ain’t you, Hawk?’

‘Am I?’

‘Come on, man. What is it to you, barring a trifle of fun and gig? You’re as bad as Unice, laying some fanciful notion of your own on the girl’s head. Face it. She’s a handsome piece, but cold. That’s all there is to it.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Denzell with decision. ‘I know what I saw. She’s acting—wearing some kind of public mask. Only look at her. How could any female remain indifferent, being so feted and fawned over? It’s unheard of.’

‘It don’t sit well, I must admit,’ mused Osmond. ‘What do you mean to do, then, if you won’t join the throng?’

Denzell grinned. ‘Draw her attention, of course.’

‘Ha! Playing that game, eh? A bow and a smile, and not a word said, in the hopes you’ll pique her vanity. It won’t work.’

‘You’ve tried it, of course,’ returned Denzell on a sarcastic note.

‘No, but I’ve seen you at it. I know you, Hawk. But I’m telling you. This time it won’t work.’

Denzell remained unconvinced. If he was right, if Verena Chaceley was presenting a façade to the world, then it was incumbent upon him to find a chink in her armour.

He bided his time, waiting until the crowd about her thinned a little, giving meanwhile his attention to the elegant Sir John Frinton—blue silk tonight with silver lace at his waistcoat—who, having paid his respects to the beauty, wandered close by apparently for the sole purpose of twitting his junior slyly.

‘Do you believe her to be aware of your absence, my dear young friend?’

Denzell cocked an eyebrow. ‘By “her” you mean...?’

‘Come, come, Hawkeridge, do you take me for a fool?’

‘No, sir,’ said Denzell, laughing. ‘But I’m damned if I know how—’

‘I should imagine the whole room must know how, my dear boy,’ chided Sir John. He added, as Denzell, looking rather startled, glanced round, ‘No, no, you will not find them advertising their interest. But if you do not wish the world to know where your interests lie, then you must become more master of your eyes, my friend.’

‘Chaste stars, but how can I?’

Sir John’s smile grew. ‘She is very beautiful.’

‘In this case, sir, I find the word inadequate.’

‘But it is a surface beauty,’ continued the elder man. ‘Or don’t you think so?’

Denzell met his eyes, a frown in his own. Was he being quizzed? Had Sir John also seen beyond the veil of that polite serenity?

‘I don’t, sir,’ he said bluntly. ‘And I mean to seek what there may be beneath it.’

A soft laugh came from the aged exquisite. ‘I wish you well. Though the odds, I fear, are against you.’

‘I care nothing for the odds, as long as it is not Miss Chaceley who is against me,’ retorted Denzell, grinning.

Sir John glanced across to where Verena could be seen listening with an air of attention to Mr Cumberland’s ponderous speechifying.

‘I imagine you must inevitably receive a welcome if you were to rescue her from our poet, poor girl.’

But Denzell had no intention of rescuing Verena Chaceley. He had quite other plans in mind. When at last he moved in her direction, he did not look at her, but kept his gaze on Mrs Peverill instead, who had risen from her chair and was weaving a slow path through the room, chatting with a number of acquaintances.

As he passed close to where Verena still remained seated, with now both Cumberland and Martin Yorke vying for her attention, Denzell paused in his way, turned his head and looked her full in the face quite suddenly.

She caught his eye, and blinked, but her features did not alter. Denzell gave her his most dazzling smile and nodded a greeting. She gave him a slight inclination of the head.

Before she could turn away again, Denzell averted his own gaze and continued on his way.

He had reached the circle containing Mrs Peverill before he dared to glance back to see how his treatment of Miss Chaceley might have affected her.

Deuce take it, but she looked quite unconcerned!

The statuesque vision was speaking to Mr Yorke, her gaze concentrated upon the old man. Piqued, Denzell turned to greet the mother with an excess of enthusiastic charm.

‘May I introduce myself, Mrs Peverill? Denzell Hawkeridge. I am staying with the Ruishtons. I was fortunate enough to meet your daughter a few days since.’

Pasty features looked up at him, gaunt and shadowed. The woman was shockingly ill. Frail, too, if he was any judge. But she answered him readily enough.

‘You have met Verena? She said nothing of it to me.’ A smile came, echoing the look he originally saw in Verena’s face. ‘I have heard of you, Mr Hawkeridge, if only tonight. One does, you know. So few newcomers in a place like this. Not that we are...’

Her voice faded, and she seemed to sway a little. Denzell put out a hand, catching at her arm to steady her.

‘May I see you to a chair, Mrs Peverill?’

But the Master of Ceremonies, Mr Tyson, bustled up. He was a dapper gentleman of middle years, with a respectful manner that diminished a trifle the air of self-importance that he assumed from his position in the town. This, his attitude seemed to say, was peculiarly his own task.

‘Mrs Peverill, allow me. You should be keeping your bed, ma’am.’ He shook his head at Denzell, including him even as he ousted him from the lady’s side. ‘She is not in the best of health, not at all.’

Tucking the lady’s hand into his proffered arm, Richard Tyson guided her towards one of the sofas that were ranged about the sides of the room, chattering as he went. Denzell watched them go, and then glanced back at Verena. She did not appear to have so much as moved a muscle. She had not even noticed! Perhaps Osmond had indeed gauged her correctly. Such an apparent carelessness of her sickly parent argued a lack of feeling, as well as a cold heart.