“You will take that back at once, de Lamerie!”
The Earl of Wentworth glowered across the green card table as he slammed down his glass of brandy on the rosewood surface.
The Frenchman stayed impassive. He was a proud scion of ancient noble Huguenot blood whose family had not escaped the tyranny of a Catholic France to be dictated to by a mere English Lord.
He merely shrugged his shoulders in an irritating fashion and pursed his lips.
“I will not – it is very clear to me that these cards are marked,” he answered sardonically.
The Earl’s handsome face grew crimson under his black hair and his dark eyes flashed dangerously.
On the other side of the table, his best friend, Sir Thomas Babbington set down his cards and spoke softly,
“Come now, Wentworth. There has obviously been some misunderstanding. I think all the Comte is trying to say is that he would like a new deck.”
He laid his hand on the Earl’s arm to restrain him as he could see that his friend’s temper was near to flashpoint. The Earl was as fiery as Sir Thomas was placid and they compensated for each other’s shortcomings.
What the Earl lacked in restraint, he made up for in artistic ability. His paintings were lauded everywhere and he wrote sensitive and thoughtful verse. “Oh, you Englishmen, you cannot shoulder a mere criticism without taking offence!” spat Comte de Lamerie, dismissively. “It’s I who should be upset – you are clearly cheating and then you attempt to put the blame on me!”
The Earl arose like a striking python from his chair, as Sir Thomas tried at once to diffuse the situation.
“Come, gentlemen. Let’s leave the game and have another drink. There’s a fine Armagnac we’ve yet to try.”
The Comte’s face took on a sour expression.
“You are asking me to back down? Pah! Never!”
He slumped back in his chair and clutched his cards close to his chest, muttering something in French under his breath that the Earl evidently understood.
“Take that back, you blasted Frenchie!” he shouted. “I didn’t spend a year in France to be oblivious to your tawdry insults!”
“Then it’s a great pity you did not learn more from us,” drawled the Comte, “where are your famous English manners and sense of fair play?”
That was enough to incense the Earl, as he leapt over the table and grabbed the Comte by his cravat.
“You damned Frenchie dog!” he howled, his eyes level with the Comte’s.
“Wentworth! Please!” pleaded Sir Thomas. “He has – insulted me for the last time!” choked the Comte, attempting to prise the Earl’s vice-like grip away from his neck. “Richard!” Sir Thomas was beside himself. He had often seen his friend lose his temper and, since his father had died last year, he had been even more volatile than ever.
The Earl’s hands were curiously large and square, not at all the hands of a gentleman and they would not have disgraced a field labourer.
Sir Thomas knew that he was strong enough to kill the effete Comte with them and was terrified that one day it might happen.
Spluttering, the Comte regained his composure and drew himself up to his full height of five foot seven. “Sir, I challenge you to a duel! We shall settle this in the French manner – with swords!”
“As you wish!” muttered the Earl in a tone that was truly bloodcurdling.
The Comte rose from his chair and then ordered the waiter to bring their cloaks.
*
An hour later the two men stood facing each other in the depths of Hyde Park. The Comte had sent his manservant to his house for swords, but he had returned with two pistols. He then furiously flew into a long stream of angry French while the Earl and Sir Thomas looked on.
“You have the advantage, Wentworth,” whispered Sir Thomas. “He is notoriously near-sighted and couldn’t hit a bull chained to a tree!”
“I will kill the blighter,” fumed the Earl, clenching and unclenching his fists. He had stripped down to his shirt and, in his haste, had ripped off the top few buttons. His breast heaved as he tried to steady his nerves. He knew that a shaking hand was as good as signing his own death warrant.
The Comte stood in his shirtsleeves, examining his pistol and was weighing it in his hand when a shout came up from some nearby bushes.
“Stop!”
Both men froze as they saw a Policeman coming towards them.
“Stop!” he shouted again. The Comte thrust his pistol into his waistcoat just before the Policeman drew level with them.
“Sir?” he began, looking straight at the Comte.
“Je ne parle pas anglais,” he sneered.
“Officer, perhaps I can explain,” said Sir Thomas, coming forward and quickly handing the Earl his cloak so that he could conceal the pistol.
“It was a quarrel over nothing and it has now been settled. We will be on our way at once.”
“Just a moment Mr. – ”
“Sir Thomas Babbington.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to report the incident.”
“Surely, there is no need for that? It was a private matter – amongst gentlemen.”
The Policeman stared at him and then at the Earl.
“You know the law, sir. Duels is strictly forbidden. Her Majesty saw to that twenty years ago!”
“Officer, there was no duel. These gentlemen were merely having a difference of opinion.”
“And you assure me, sir, you will take your friend home right now?”
“At once.”
“Then, I’ll bid you goodnight, sir, but you mark my words, if I catch you in the Park again with pistols, then I’ll have no alternative but to arrest you all, whoever you be.”
“Thanks, good night, Officer. Let’s go, Richard.”
The Earl threw the Comte a hate-filled look and wrapped himself in his cloak. As he turned to leave, the Comte muttered,
“Lâche!” just loud enough for him to hear.
“Go to hell!” answered the Earl, bridling with fury.
It was only the firm touch of his friend on his arm that restrained him.
“You should not rise to every insult that’s thrown your way,” advised Sir Thomas, as they ran to their waiting carriage. “It’s imperative that you control your temper, Richard. One day it will prove your undoing. We are very lucky that the Officer stopped us and let us off with a caution as it could have gone badly for you otherwise.”
“I have faith enough in my own ability to shoot to kill, Thomas,” he answered, glowering darkly.
“And too much confidence in the lack of ability on the Comte’s part. He may yet have surprised us and I don’t want your mother grieving over your corpse!”
Climbing in and throwing his athletic frame into the seat, the Earl turned his face to the window as the carriage sped off into the night. “I should have killed the bounder,” he muttered, as they made their way through the damp streets of Mayfair. “And I will, if he ever crosses my path again!”
*
On the dark Southern approach road into London, a solitary carriage made its way towards the Capital. Inside a very tired Temia Brandon and her mother, Lady Brandon, were sleeping.
Temia had spent the last few years at a Finishing School in Paris and had now returned that very day.
Her mother had been forced to meet her from the ferry alone, as her husband, Sir Arthur Brandon, was busy with his horses. The stables at Bovendon Hall were justly famous and people came from far and wide to buy the handsome animals bred there.
Lady Brandon had waited for hours for the ferry to dock, and, when it did, she hardly recognised the elegant young lady who walked down the gangplank towards her.
“Temia! Is that really you?” she called, marvelling at her daughter’s sophisticated hairstyle and clothes. “Mama!” she exclaimed, hurrying towards her.
Lady Brandon embraced Temia and kissed her soft cheek. She smelled as delicious as she looked – a faint odour of vervain and rose wafted from her.
“My darling. Welcome home!”
“Where is Papa? Is he with the horses?”
Lady Brandon laughed, almost girlishly.
“Naturally. I need never worry about your father straying very far from home – no, my only rivals for his affections have four legs and not two!”
“Oh, Mama! I have had such a wonderful time in France. I almost feel more French than English.”
“You must not let your father hear you say that, dearest. He is so proud to be British and a subject of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.”
“You must tell me all the news,” said Temia, as she swept a tawny blonde curl from the corner of her mouth. Her blue eyes were the colour of cornflowers and her striking face was sweetly heart-shaped.
It had been a windy crossing and Temia was proud that, unlike so many passengers, she had not been seasick.
The wind still blew across the quayside and made chill an otherwise crisp and fine autumn day.
“Wait until we get into the carriage,” said Lady Brandon, signalling to their coachman. “We have a long journey ahead us and will be staying tonight with Cousin Georgiana and Aunt Marianne in Kensington.”
“It will be lovely to see her after so long,” replied Temia, climbing into the jet-black brougham. “We will only be there overnight and before we go home to Bovendon Hall, I had hoped that we should be able to visit Jasper’s memorial.”
At the mention of her dead son’s name, her eyes filled with tears. Jasper had fallen at Scutari in the Crimea some five years earlier and the family had plunged themselves into a long state of mourning. Indeed, Bovendon Hall became known as the ‘vale of tears’ locally. None mourned more deeply than Lady Brandon and although he had been buried in the Crimea, the family had raised a memorial for him in the churchyard at Bovendon.
*
A huge lurch of the carriage awoke Temia with a start as it jolted over a pothole. Rubbing her eyes she attempted to peer out of the window. They were nearing the outskirts of the Capital and the roads were becoming more densely lined with houses. As they turned towards Kensington, a carriage that was racing like the devil was on its tail came towards them and sped off towards Mayfair.
‘Goodness! They are in a hurry!’ she thought.
Ten minutes later, at the crossroads at Kensington, their carriage came to a halt. Temia looked out of the window and saw a large theatre set back from the road and, although it was almost midnight, the streets outside were still dotted with people.
A crowd of girls stood giggling on the pavement along with a few gentlemen in top hats and Temia noticed a board that read,
“Tonight – Les Jolies Mademoiselles.”
At the front of the building, the name Royal Kent Theatre was emblazoned in ornate silver letters.
She watched as the girls acted as if they had not a care in the world. They seemed very gay in their bright Indian shawls and fashionable bonnets. ‘Show girls!’ she smiled, a little excitedly. In Paris she was aware of the demi-monde that was inhabited by glamorous actresses and artists. The girls in her class had whispered of nothing else and of the many scandalous goings-on in the theatres of the City.
Lady Brandon yawned and turned to Temia,
“Where are we?” she asked a little sleepily.
“I think we are almost there, Mama. Look, there is the Royal Kent Theatre.”
She paused for a second before enquiring,
“Mama, who are Les Jolies Mademoiselles?”
“I hear they are the toast of London, although I don’t really concern myself with such matters. They sing and dance and have been known to entertain at the very best house parties. Mainly to an audience of gentlemen – ”
Her voice trailed away.
“But, Mama, you suggest they are not ladies?” “No woman on the stage can count herself equal to a lady, Temia. Did they not teach you that at the Finishing School?”
Temia did not answer. She liked the sound of Les Jolies Mademoiselles as they reminded her of Paris. She thought that Mama would have been shocked had she known that she had dined only the week before at a fashionable Parisian house where a company of actresses had sung and danced for everyone.
“Besides,” added her mother, “I have some good news for you. Your father has decided to hold a ball to celebrate your homecoming and we have invited everyone we know!”
“Oh, Mama! Thank you!” cried Temia, thinking excitedly of the new ball gowns she had purchased in Paris. She had been wondering how she could justify the expense and now she had the perfect excuse!
“We shall be employing a French chef for the event and there will be an orchestra. Your father has spared no expense, as he is so happy to have you home again. You must promise not leave us again for a very long time.”
“Of course, Mama!” replied Temia, waiting as the coachman climbed down to let them out of the carriage.
She thought for a moment and then suggested, “Mama, might we have Les Jolies Mademoiselles at the party? If they are as fashionable as you say, then a turn from them would certainly be applauded.”
Her mother froze for a moment.
“Your father would never allow such women in the house!” Temia sensed that there was more to this remark than mere comment.
The light was still on in her aunt’s house and then the next moment, the door was open and two footmen and a butler were soon by her side, supervising her luggage.
“Good evening, Lady Brandon, Miss Brandon. Her Ladyship will receive you in the drawing room.”
“Oh, silly Marianne!” cried Lady Brandon. “Did I not write and say don’t wait up as we might be very late?”
Even so, Lady Brandon and Temia went into the house and were immediately shown into an elegant room.
A small woman wrapped up in a dressing gown was waiting for them by the fire and Temia immediately ran towards her Aunt Marianne.
“Temia! Why, you have grown incredibly tall and beautiful!” she exclaimed, kissing her on the cheek.
“Thank you, Aunt. I am very glad to be back in England, but I shall miss my friends a great deal.”
“Paris is a beautiful City, is it not?”
“Very,” replied Temia, sitting down by the fire. “I expect Georgiana will wish to hear everything about it in the morning. I am afraid she went to bed early with a headache. She is very sorry she could not stay up.”
“How is Georgiana?”
“She is well and as grown up as you are! There is but a year between you, you will recall.”
Temia laughed. “Yes, of course. She is, I believe, twenty-two?”
“Next month and you are twenty-two at the end of the summer?”
“Yes,” said Temia, “and it was such a pity to turn twenty-one and not be in England. However Papa is giving a ball for me and I do hope you will be able to come?”
“The invitations have just arrived,” answered Aunt Marianne. “Georgiana cannot wait – she says she is bored with all the London gentlemen and is looking forward to meeting a good country Lord!”
“I am afraid that we are somewhat lacking in titled Lords, Marianne,” came in Lady Brandon. “I have sent invitations poste chaise to Lord Wentworth and the Duke of Northampton, but not heard a word from either.”
“The Duke of Northampton is very old, is he not? I cannot imagine our daughters wanting to limp around the dance floor with him. What of Wentworth?”
“Something of an unknown quantity. He has not been in the County for long. He lives in London and has only just taken up residence at Yardley Manor. His father, the old Earl, died only last year.”
“Then, he will still be in mourning – ”
“I could not say. In any case I am so tired that if I don’t go to my bed now, you may have to carry me!”
“You must forgive me, but I am so excited to see you both. It’s a pity you cannot stay for longer.”
“We must return home as soon as we can. Arthur dislikes being on his own.”
Aunt Marianne’s butler showed them to their rooms and made certain they were comfortable.
*
Temia fell asleep almost at once and slept, deep in dreams, until the maid woke her at eight o’clock.
“Good morning, miss,” she said, putting a tray on the bedside table. “Shall I open your curtains?”
“Yes, please. I hope the sun is shining! It will be a miserable journey back to Northamptonshire if it’s not.”
The maid pulled back the curtains and a thin beam of sunlight illuminated the room.
Temia sat up in bed drinking a cup of tea. She mused again about Les Jolies Mademoiselles and how great it would be for them to perform at her ball.
‘It’s a pity Papa is so set against it. It would have given the evening a truly French air that I would love.’
By the time she had got up and the maid had helped her dress, she was looking forward to seeing Georgiana.
As soon as she entered the breakfast room and saw her, she could no longer contain her excitement.
“Georgiana!” she cried, rushing over to her cousin and kissing her cheek. “How lovely you look!”
“I was about to say the same thing to you as well, dearest!” she replied. Georgiana was pale and blonde with such enormous brown eyes.
“How long can it be since we last saw each other?”
“It was the year before you went to Paris, but I did not think it possible that you should have grown so much!”
“It’s an illusion, I am no taller than I was then.”
“Then, it must be your gown and your hair – so very Continental!”
Temia blushed with pleasure and smoothed down the silk skirt of her dress. It was one of her favourites and echoed the colour of her eyes.
Georgiana ushered Temia to a chair at the table.
“And so, after breakfast, you must tell me all your news. It’s a pity that you are leaving after luncheon.”
“But I will see you at the ball, Georgiana?”
“Most definitely, but we shall not be staying longer than overnight. Maybe you can visit London again soon?”
“That would be lovely, but first I want to reacquaint myself with Bovendon Hall before I go rushing off again.”
After breakfast Georgiana and Temia went to the morning room to view Georgiana’s latest sketches.
“These are very good,” said Temia appreciatively, as she took out a portfolio of animals. “How well you have captured the likeness of your little dog!”
Georgiana’s King Charles Cavalier spaniel, Bob, was sitting with his head on his paws by a fireplace. He looked pleadingly up at his Mistress in the hope of a titbit.
“He’s adorable, isn’t he?”
“Very, although I must admit I prefer horses. I am looking forward to seeing new ones at Papa’s stables.”
“What began as a hobby has become a thriving business, Mama says – ”
“Yes, although, as you well know, Papa is first and foremost a gentleman.”
“Naturally,” said Georgiana. “And he will want to make up for lost time by showing you off at this ball.”
Temia laughed. “Yes, he will and, for myself, I am pleased that I will now not have to hide the huge trunk full of gowns that I purchased in Paris!”
“You know Uncle Arthur cannot deny you a thing,” replied Georgiana, putting away her portfolio.
“That is not quite so,” answered Temia.
“Why do you say that? If it is within his power to grant you, then you know your Papa will do so.”
“There is one thing he will not. Georgiana, are you familiar with the Royal Kent Theatre?”
“The one at the crossroads?”
“Yes, the very same. On our way here last night, I saw that there is a singing and dancing troupe called Les Jolies Mademoiselles. Mama says they are the toast of London and if they were to perform at my ball – ”
Georgiana looked shocked.
“Temia!” she gasped, “do you know what kind of women these are?”
“Mama expressed much the same sentiment. She said Papa would never allow them in our house! In France women such as they are feted, not frowned on. Really, the English are so prudish sometimes.”
Georgiana picked up Bob and walked over to the sofa with him. She appeared to be deep in thought.
“No, dearest, it’s not that – ”
“Then, what is it?”
Georgiana bit her lip.
“I don’t know if I should tell you.”
Temia looked intrigued.
“Dearest, now that you have said it – you must!”
“Very well, but you must not speak of this to your parents, as your Mama will be mortified if she thinks that I have told you.”
“Georgiana!” cried Temia in exasperation.
“Promise me you won’t be shocked, but – there’s a rumour in the family that Uncle Arthur, your Papa, was once involved in a scandal with a dancer. It was before he met your Mama, of course. There – I have said it!”
Temia sat down with her mind whirling. What Georgiana had just told her, stunned her. She had always thought of her father as being rather staid and dull. Of course, he was her own dear Papa, but she could not imagine him chatting easily with those girls she had seen outside the theatre yesterday or behaving in any way less than a gentlemanly manner!
“Goodness!” she breathed. “I can scarcely believe it. I have never heard this story before.”
“It’s not something that’s talked about. I am afraid I don’t know details, Temia, and you must not say I have told you or Mama would be furious with me. But you do see why you could never have Les Jolies Mademoiselles set foot inside Bovendon Hall.”
For the rest of the day Temia was curiously quiet and withdrawn. Although she wanted to consider herself a worldly woman, she knew nothing of love or its darker side. ‘I must find out more about this family secret,’ she reflected, as they sat down to luncheon. ‘But how can I discover the truth without upsetting Mama?’
And before they had started their pudding, she had resolved to get to the bottom of the matter.
‘I cannot let this lie,’ she murmured to herself, as she finished her plate of apple tart. ‘I simply cannot!’