“Because you never passed a single test!” her twin said, hooting with laughter and running round the sofa as Olivia dashed after her, brandishing a napkin.

Sixteen

Various Anxieties Related to Children and Canines, but Not to Canapés

Whenever the Dowager Duchess of Sconce announced a ball—even a smallish affair—plans changed at all the great houses within a forty-mile radius. No one who claimed gentry status or higher would even consider missing such an occasion, unless it were for their mother’s funeral.

And for some, even that would be a distinct wrench.

It wasn’t that a Sconce ball was especially fashionable. Her Grace never bothered to import two hundred lemon trees heavy with fruit, or blanket the ballroom with orchids, or even send to Gunter’s for specially made ices.

Rather, she followed the prescribed routine of the duchesses who had come before her: one ancestor had hosted King Henry VIII on two different occasions, greeting two different wives, and another had welcomed Queen Elizabeth three times.

To wit: The ballroom was scrubbed and polished to a fare-thee-well, a smallish orchestra was hired, a reasonable amount of food was ordered, and a great deal of excellent wine was brought up from the cellars.

And that was that.

The rest would take care of itself, to the dowager’s mind, and it always did. There was nothing more pitiable than the sight of an anxious hostess.

As was her custom, in the early evening in question she presided over a small meal, to which were invited those guests who would stay at Littlebourne overnight, having traveled a goodly distance. Following the meal, the assembled guests were asked to proceed to the music room. Some time remained before the ball was to begin, and Her Grace had judged this interval an opportune time to address another item on her suitability inventory.

To this end, she issued a command, faintly disguised as an invitation. “I believe we should all be grateful if the young ladies among us would give us some light entertainment.”

Lady Althea and Miss Georgiana immediately rose, as did the two Miss Barrys. (The Barrys lived on the other side of the county and were all very well in their way, but not eligible as daughters-in-law as a consequence of the unfortunate existence of an inebriate great-uncle. One never knew when that bad strain might pop up in the blood.) Her Grace positioned herself on a settee with a clear view to the instruments, instructing her friend Mary, Lady Voltore, to sit with her.

The Miss Barrys conducted themselves tunefully. Lady Althea sang very prettily. Miss Georgiana not only sang very well—a piece from an opera and then a light ballad—but she also accompanied herself on the harpsichord. It was eminently clear that Miss Georgiana Lytton would be an entirely commendable Duchess of Sconce. The dowager never permitted herself an excess of emotion, but she was inwardly aware that if she confessed to a weakness, it was her only son. The pain he had suffered after his first marriage was unacceptable.

“Your Grace?”

She looked up to find the Miss Barrys curtsying before her. “Yes?”

“Your Grace,” one of them said, rather breathlessly, “would you be so kind as to allow Lord Justin to sing something for the assembled company?”

The other one dropped another curtsy. “Everyone would love it, we are sure.”

The dowager allowed one eyebrow to arch. Yes, she had made the right decision when she dismissed the Barrys from her list of possible duchesses. “If Lord Justin would agree, I’m sure I have no objection,” she said rather frostily.

Naturally, her nephew didn’t take a hint from her tone, but leapt up in an unbecoming manner to sit at the pianoforte. It wasn’t proper, to her mind. Ladies sang and played musical instruments. The only men who sang, let alone played, were of the professional sort, with whom one did not associate.

In fact, Justin was unsatisfactory in more than one way. This evening, for example, he was wearing purple. To her mind, wearing purple was like singing: gentlemen one knew simply didn’t do it. But there was her own nephew (if by marriage), wearing the color of lilacs, with dove-gray lace at the cuffs, which made it worse. Vulgar was the word for it. The late duke would turn in his grave if he could see such a garment on a family member, half-French or not.

And why on earth were all those girls clustering around the pianoforte as if they were minnows nibbling on a crust of bread?

She shushed Lady Voltore, who was rambling on about a new type of rose, and turned her attention back to her nephew and his flock of admirers.

“What’s that he’s singing?” Mary bellowed. She was more than a little deaf. “It doesn’t sound like ‘Greensleeves.’ I like it when they sing ‘Greensleeves.’ Tell him to play it, will you, Amaryllis?”

The dowager tolerated being on a first-name basis with Lady Voltore only because they had known each other since they were two years of age. “I cannot simply tell him to sing that,” she said now. “I can request it, if you wish.”

“Don’t be absurd, Amaryllis. You paid for the fellow; you might as well get your money out of him.” Mary had always been a touch crass, to put it charitably.

“I didn’t pay for him,” she said reluctantly. “He’s a relative.”

“Decorative? Yes, I’d say so. Does he work for the circus? I don’t think I’d invite the circus into my house if I were you.”

The dowager contented herself with giving Mary a look.

“I don’t know where you hired that boy, but I have to say, I rather like him. Nice song. Nice face.” Mary had a quite ribald chuckle. “Not so old but that I can appreciate a face. Why, he almost looks like a gentleman, barring that coat, of course. Makes him look like an organ-grinder’s monkey.”

Justin was surrounded by a positive flowerbed of young girls. One Barry hovered at each elbow, and Lady Althea was hanging over his shoulder.

The dowager duchess cocked her ear and listened for a moment. “She was his sun,” Justin crooned. “She was his earth.” Well, that sounded foolishly innocuous enough. But given that Lady Althea had been granted the incalculable honor of even being considered for the title of Duchess of Sconce, the least she could do was to behave in a dignified manner. The truth was that Althea was dizzy as a doorknocker, and she’d never make Tarquin happy.

Justin had started a new song, something about love. Love! Love was a destructive, disagreeable thing, to her mind. Just look what it had done to Tarquin: almost torn the poor boy to pieces.

She turned away, noting with approval that Miss Georgiana was sitting beside an elderly aunt on the late duke’s side, engaging in a quiet conversation. She showed no signs of joining the throng around the piano, which said a great deal for her common sense.

And Tarquin?

It took a moment, but she managed to find her son. He was seated in a corner, and appeared to be watching Miss Lytton, who was sitting in another corner talking to the Bishop of Ramsgate. This evening Olivia Lytton looked the very picture of the future Duchess of Canterwick, the only possible objection being that her neckline was a bit daring.

The dowager squinted until she could see more clearly. The bishop, that old goat, seemed to be enjoying the view afforded by Miss Lytton’s embonpoint.

But it was Tarquin whose face caught her eye. The expression on his face was somehow familiar. In fact, she had seen that look before, and she had hoped never to see it again. Before she even realized it, she was halfway out of her chair.