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  “Oh, Alabeth, I’m so looking forward to the fete at Carlton House, for I shall see at last if the Prince of Wales is as handsome as they say.”

  “He’s certainly as plump as they say.”

  “And then there’s Ascot week at Stoneleigh Park, and the water party there before that.” Jillian looked ashamed then as she glanced at Alabeth. “I’ve been atrocious, haven’t I?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “I shall be very good from now on, you’ll be proud of me, you’ll see. I shall absolutely dazzle Charles Allister at Lady Dexter’s.”

  “I feel quite sorry for him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the poor fellow was at your feet when you were being disagreeable; he’ll be positively devastated if you begin to be agreeable instead.”

  “I know that Father wishes me to marry him.”

  “But you do not find him to your liking.”

  “Oh, I like him, it’s just that—well, he’s so very dull. He isn’t exciting at all; he’s just nice and gentle, he says nothing to provoke me at all, and I feel that I could scream sometimes, truly I do.”

  “Please contain that urge at all costs.”

  “I will.” Jillian gave a rueful smile. “I won’t let rip at Carlton House, if that’s what you fear.”

  “You do, and I’ll personally extinguish you.”

  They smiled at each other then and suddenly Jillian ran to her sister, kneeling beside her chair and flinging her arms around her. “Please forgive me, Alabeth.”

  Alabeth kissed the soft curly hair. “I forgive you, you wretch.”

  Jillian sat back on her heels. “And what about you and the Count?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Will you take it further with him?”

  “Jillian!”

  “Oh, come on now, Alabeth—”

  “I have no intention of taking anything further with anyone.”

  “He is remarkably like Robert, everyone was commenting upon it.”

  Alabeth looked away. “It makes no difference.”

  “Doesn’t it? I thought he would eat you, and I didn’t think you were exactly shrinking away from him.”

  “You have too much to say for yourself.”

  “But isn’t it the very height of romance? You were swept off your feet by Robert; you were passionately in love with each other and he made you his bride. Now he’s gone from you, but instead the Count steps into your life. Oh, Alabeth, I think it truly the most romantic coincidence, and I know that if a man like the Count looked at me the way he looks at you—well, I’d most certainly take it further; in fact, I’d take it to the ends of the earth.”

  “Jillian Carstairs, you are incorrigible, do you know that? I’ve never known anyone so totally immersed in a search for romance. You see it at every corner.”

  “And I’ll truly find it one day, you see if I don’t. I’ve made mistakes so far, but there won’t be any more.”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  “I still think you should encourage the Count. Octavia says you should, because it would do you good.”

  “Octavia would.”

  “And if you did, you’d be able to put in a word for me, tell him that I’m just the very one to be his first pupil—” She ducked as Alabeth threw a cushion at her.

  Chapter 14

  It was well known that the Prince of Wales’ fete at Carlton House for important figures in the world of French art was much frowned upon at Court. Indeed, anything connected with France was frowned upon, the King and Queen finding it justifiably impossible to forget that the French had beheaded their own Royal Family. However, the Prince was torn between his own repugnance at what had been done in Paris and his desire at all costs to thumb his nose at his father. Being an important and genuine patron of the arts, and a sincere admirer of the Whigs and Charles Fox, who admired anything to do with the revolution, he had decided upon his fete as being the perfect vehicle for his purpose. The beau monde found itself able to accept the invitations, for whatever one thought of the French, art was always art and must be encouraged.

  The invitations stipulated an arrival time of nine in the evening, but already by eight there was a solid block of carriages and chairs reaching from Carlton House to the top of St. James’s. By nine the Wallborough landau was part of a crush which extended to Bond Street, and Alabeth and Jillian were resigned to a long delay.

  It was a splendid evening, warm and sunny, with a hint of approaching coolness after an almost thundery heat all day, but Jillian was hardly aware of the weather, she was too excited about seeing the Prince for the first time and inspecting the magnificence of Carlton House, which was said by many to be one of the most superb mansions in the whole of Europe.

  She looked very lovely, with tiny strings of pearls in her golden hair and a jeweled comb which flashed in the evening sunlight. Her gown was of particularly delicate white lawn, its dainty bodice stitched with more little pearls, and her shawl was embroidered with beautiful sprays of pink roses. She looked every inch a young lady of quality and had begun to really enjoy the Season, being very much the center of male attention wherever she went. She had been true to her promise on the afternoon of Alabeth’s confrontation with Piers, and was now her old self, being sweet, charming, and very agreeable company indeed, as the large numbers of admirers at Almack’s had been certain evidence. Almack’s had disappointed her, however, for although Octavia’s acquisition of the coveted voucher had been greeted with squeaks of excitement and she had set off in the Seaham carriage that Wednesday evening in a high state of anticipation bordering on the ecstatic, she had returned in a very different frame of mind. The temple of high fashion had taken a considerable tumble in her estimation and she stated quite bluntly that she could not imagine why everyone wished to be seen there. The proceedings had been very dull, the orchestra uninspiring; there had been no iced champagne to liven things up, only lemonade and stewed tea, and the food consisted of bread and butter and stale cake. Yes, indeed, Almack’s had definitely failed to live up to its reputation, and Alabeth had had to point out at some length that being on its list was very important and necessary to a young lady, and that she would therefore have to put up with bread and lemonade. Jillian had grumbled a little, but had consoled herself with the fact that at least the place had been filled to capacity with eligible young men, nearly all of them flatteringly attentive. Her faux pas at Octavia’s ball and in Hyde Park seemed to have been forgotten, her more recent appearances in society having been much more decorous and acceptable, and all in all, she was approved of. There seemed no hint of regret about the ending of her affair with Piers Castleton; it was almost as if it had never been, and now she was set upon enjoying the Season to the full. Her eyes shone as she sat impatiently on the edge of the landau’s velvet seat, and Alabeth would not have been at all surprised if she had suggested they got out and walked, which would not have done at all!

  Alabeth did not display any of Jillian’s excitement or impatience, for she had been to Carlton House a number of times, both before her marriage and then as Robert’s wife, for Robert had been a great favorite with the Prince. She looked cool and composed as she sat opposite her sister, her gossamer light muslin gown looking very white indeed in the fading sunlight. It was a plain gown, unadorned in any way, but she more than made up for it with the jaunty crimson plumes in her jeweled hair and her favorite ruby necklace at her throat. Her shawl was a dazzling affair, embroidered all over with golden threads, as was her reticule, and she looked very elegant and poised, as if nothing in the world could ruffle her. But inwardly she was not so calm and assured; in fact, she was more than a little apprehensive. Tonight she would undoubtedly see Piers Castleton again, for the first time since he had humiliated her with his scornful kiss, and she was not looking forward at all to the encounter, for she felt more shamed than ever when she remembered how very close she had come to responding to him.

  Tonight, too,
she would see Count Adam Zaleski again, for he was to play for the French guests of honor. She had thought a great deal about the Count, knowing full well that he intended to pursue her, but how would she react? She knew that she found him attractive, but then there could be very few women who would not have been unsettled by such a man. When he played the pianoforte, he could make love with his music; his looks had been justifiably described as divine, and his charm was no less formidable. His reputation as a lover was such that half the ladies in London seemed to be intent upon beginning a liaison with him, but for Lady Alabeth Manvers there would be no difficulty at all in finding her way into his arms—she would only have to beckon and he would be there. But was that what she wanted? Did she even consider this possibility now because she found him attractive for himself, or did she really consider it, as Piers Castleton had said, because she saw in him the image of her dead love? Whatever it was, Piers had been right about one thing: she was at risk.

  The landau was coming nearer to Carlton House now and there were interested onlookers lining the way, staring in open admiration at the elegantly clothed ladies and gentlemen en route to the capital’s grand night. Jillian was positively fidgeting with excitement when at last the Prince’s residence came into sight behind its Ionic colonnade. Outwardly Carlton House was unremarkable, but it was set in beautiful, extensive gardens which stretched the length of Pall Mall as far as the wall of Marlborough House. They were natural and informal grounds, as fashion now dictated, and they were noted for some particularly magnificent elms, some charming bowers and grottoes, a waterfall, a temple with an Italian marble floor, and an observatory. Now, in the fading evening light, they were ablaze with little colored lanterns, and it was like looking into fairyland itself.

  It seemed that the landau would never turn into the courtyard, where a band was playing, but eventually it was maneuvering between the columns and drawing to a long-awaited standstill by the dignified Corinthian portico. Servants, wearing the Prince’s livery of dark blue trimmed with gold lace, were waiting to assist the guests to alight, and Alabeth and Jillian stepped down onto a sprinkling of scented moss and rose petals, to be escorted up to the open doors by two liveried Negroes carrying flaming torches.

  There were lanterns everywhere, shining down from the portico and twinkling beneath the colonnade, and the music from the band was vying a little with that of the orchestra playing in the ballroom. Members of the Prince’s household received them in the magnificent hall where more Ionic columns, this time of brown Siena marble, lined the way to an octagon from which rose a graceful double staircase to the state apartments above. The walls were hung with an impressive number of the Prince’s prized Dutch paintings, and high above was a chandelier of such opulence that Jillian gazed at it in wonder.

  The whole house was beautifully and expensively furnished, the pieces mostly chosen by the Prince himself. The French influence, thought by many to have been most undesirable while the war endured, was in evidence everywhere: in the pictures, girandoles, clocks, looking glasses, the bronzes, the Sevres china, the Gobelin tapestries, and the many other objets d’art which combined to make up this fabulous place. All in all, it was a little too ornate for Alabeth—she much preferred the Tudor style of Charterleigh—but Jillian thought it quite exquisite and told the Prince as much when she was presented to him a moment later. She could not have said anything more calculated to make him pleased, and he had beamed at her, pronouncing her a most delightful creature, most delightful.

  Like Almack’s, His Royal Highness had not come up to scratch as far as Jillian was concerned, for although he was handsome and charming, he was also exceedingly fat and not at all her notion of how the first Prince of Europe should look. Behind her fan, she informed Alabeth that he was most unwise to wear such tight-fitting pantaloons, and that to have a coat which fitted him like a glove was surely the very last thing a gentleman of his proportions should be doing. Alabeth was thankful when they were well and truly out of royal earshot, for Jillian’s stage whisper would have done justice to Drury Lane.

  The ballroom was immense and illuminated by myriads of candles. There was a great deal of noise, both from the orchestra and from the hundreds of guests, and Alabeth soon perceived a number of French voices, proof positive that half Paris was in London and half London in Paris. A sea of ostrich plumes waved beneath the chandeliers, jewels flashed, orders gleamed on black velvet, and the French guests of honor were arrayed on scarlet and gold sofas, looking as grand as the Bourbons they had striven to overthrow so bloodily.

  As Alabeth and Jillian neared the sofas, they saw quite suddenly that one of the English gentlemen speaking with the French Ambassador was Piers Castleton. Like most of the gentlemen present, he wore black velvet, and he looked relaxed and graceful, conversing easily in French. At that moment, as if he sensed their presence, he turned, but his glance was only vaguely interested as he gave them an unsmiling bow.

  Jillian uneasily returned the bow with a curtsy, Alabeth matched his coolness by merely inclining her head and then walking on. There, it was done, the dreaded moment was over and she had conducted herself with style, but her pulse was racing and all she could think of was the way he had pulled her close and kissed her. She held her head high, pushing the memory from her mind. She wouldn’t let it bother her, she wouldn’t!

  He passed from their sight as they mingled with the throng of people, searching for Octavia and the party they were to join. Charles Allister was also of the party, and his delight at being greeted so pleasantly by Jillian was quite touching. Encouraged, he remained close by her side from that moment on, making his displeasure quite plain to every gentleman who made so bold as to ask her to dance, but it wasn’t until the subject of the Count came up in conversation that his smile most definitely faded.

  “The fellow may play the pianoforte perfectly, but he plays cards imperfectly,” he declared, glancing almost defiantly at Jillian, who had been once again praising the Count’s many virtues.

  Octavia was appalled. “Oh, surely you are mistaken!”

  “I’m convinced he was palming cards, but I could not catch him at it. If I do, I’ll—”

  Octavia tapped his arm reprovingly with her fan. “By your own admission you didn’t catch him doing anything, so until you do, you had better keep a still tongue in your head, sir, for it isn’t done to call another gentleman a sharp unless you have proof. Come now, Charles, it isn’t like you to be so hotheaded.”

  “I don’t care for the fellow.”

  “That much is obvious,” Octavia replied, glancing at Jillian. “And I believe we know why.”

  Jillian flushed a little and fidgeted with her fan. Charles continued to look stormy, quite unable to be placid where the Count, whom he obviously regarded as a rival, was concerned.

  Alabeth smiled at him. “I do believe I hear a cotillion being announced, Charles, and I am sure Jillian would be delighted to dance with you.”

  He smiled then. “Am I being a bear?”

  “You are.”

  “Forgive me, I shall endeavor to improve. Lady Jillian, will you honor me with this dance?”

  She accepted his hand and they went to join the other dancers on the floor. Octavia sat back thoughtfully. “I detect a definite improvement in her of late, Alabeth. Has she come around at last?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And is she viewing Charles with favor?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Hmm. Well, we must hope. Now, then, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the arrangements for her ball. I’ve been thinking that it would be good to….” Octavia launched into her extravagant notions for Jillian’s great day, and Alabeth listened, hardly having to add a single word, because it was obvious that Octavia had it all settled in her mind and the ball was as good as arranged.

  The dance ended and Jillian and Charles returned to the sofa, which Octavia had deliberately chosen as it was a considerable vantage point from which to survey the whole
room. Octavia’s fan was raised now to conceal her lips and she leaned conspiratorially toward Alabeth. “Have you seen our fashionable impure?”

  “Who?”

  “Why, Lady Adelina Carver, of course, over there, slightly to the side of the orchestra. In virginal white from head to toe.” This last was said with considerable acidity.

  Adelina’s full-bosomed figure was quite easy to pick out, for she was very tall and wore immense plumes, which made her even taller. There was too much rouge on her lips, her gown revealed too much bosom, and it was so flimsy that when she moved it was quite possible to see her long legs.

  Octavia sniffed. “She’s given Seaham his marching orders once and for all and he’s totally devastated, foolish fellow. How he couldn’t see that he was but one of many, I’ll never know, but then men ever were fools in that direction, weren’t they? She arrived very early on and attached herself to Harry Ponsonby—he’s over the other side of the room, the one in Guards uniform by that column, d’you see him?”

  Alabeth nodded, glancing at the slender young officer with his soft brown eyes and winning smile.

  “Well,” went on Octavia with relish, “they stayed together for a little while, she clinging to him like a vine, but then they had a tiff and he walked off, nose in the air, and he’s refused to glance at her ever since. She’s done everything to catch his attention, but he’s not having any of it, and now she looks fit to burst into tears at any moment—and serve her right.”

  “How very sympathetic you are.”

  “She’s had a veritable string of lovers and has been disgracefully indiscreet with all of them, Seaham included. It would be bad enough had she been a married woman, but she is not and so her sins are all the greater.”

  “Oh, Octavia—”

  “Alabeth, I am set upon this. There are rules which should be observed, and Adelina Carver observes none of them. There is no discretion whatsoever and I find that quite unacceptable. This business with Ponsonby may possibly be a little different, for I do believe the chit actually loves him, but she will receive scant sympathy from society because of her atrocious conduct in the past.”