At just that moment there was another jingle-jangle of bells as a man entered the shop. It was Lord Gilbride. He made his bow to Elizabeth and blinked at Serafina, still in her mask.
“You have come to equip yourself with a mask for the Latymers’ ball, I dare say,” Elizabeth said, as Serafina untied the mask and held out her hand to Gilbride.
“Here you are in town again, Lord Gilbride,” she said. “Is there some great debate that has brought you to London?”
He looked somewhat astonished, took a step back and then recovered himself. “I have some matters to attend to in town and propose to make a stay of several weeks. It was my intention to do myself the honour of calling upon you, I believe you stay at Dover Street with Mr and Mrs Darcy?” An enquiring look at Elizabeth, and another bow.
“She will spend the season with us,” Elizabeth said, her voice as solemn as his.
“To meet you so soon after my own arrival is an unexpected pleasure,” he said to Serafina. His eyes fell on the mask which she had laid upon the counter. “I cannot suppose… that is, I assume you do not go to the Latymers’ ball. In the circumstances… and yet, you are trying on a mask?”
“I do go to the ball,” said Serafina, a touch of defiance in her voice. “I am quite taken with this mask. Mrs Darcy has kindly offered me a beautiful costume, also in scarlet and black, and I think this mask is the very one to go with it.” This was true enough and she need not mention that she had chosen not to wear the scarlet and and black dress.
“A scarlet dress! My dear Miss Darcy…”
“It becomes her well,” Elizabeth said, repressing a smile and trying to match Lord Gilbride’s grave looks. “And for a costume ball one may defy the conventions, do not you think?”
“I should never advise a young lady to defy convention, but if you think it fitting, then there can be no objection.” He hesitated and then said, “If you are to be at the ball, Miss Darcy, may I engage you for the first quadrille?”
Serafina could not say no, and he looked pleased at her acceptance.
Elizabeth said, “Now, we have not yet concluded our business, Lord Gilbride, for I have still to decide upon my own mask and to choose one for my husband. Do let Mr Busoni attend to you; I shall be a good while making up my mind as to which ones I prefer.”
It was impossible for him to refuse, much as Serafina thought he would like to linger. His decision was quickly made; a mustard coloured mask with a gold trim. “I intend to wear a three quarter coat and waistcoat, quite in the fashion of the last century,” he announced. He held the mask up against his nose; the ladies approved, the purchase was made, and then with more bows and promises of calling in Dover Street, he took his leave.
“You do not intend to wear the scarlet dress and this mask, do you?” Elizabeth asked. “No, of course you do not, you were just teasing poor Lord Gilbride. Which you should not.”
“I couldn’t resist it. I knew he would be shocked by the thought of a scarlet dress. I shall take the mask in the peacock colours and feather. Shot taffeta and peacock feathers; I shall resemble that show-off bird when I am dressed in all my finery.”
Chapter Twelve
Serafina couldn’t think of the ball with any enthusiasm. As the day drew nearer, she began to wonder whether her dread was at the prospect of seeing Ranulph again, now a married man—or was Mr Talbot the person she was most reluctant to meet? He might not attend the ball, but she knew in all likelihood he would do so, and she must expect to meet him there. He was, after all, Ranulph’s closest friend.
On the other hand, he was by profession a diplomatist, and such men spend a considerable amount of their time overseas. He might be in China, perhaps, or Australia; he couldn’t be far enough away from England to satisfy her. She almost screwed up her courage to ask Mr Darcy outright whether he knew Marcus Talbot, whether he was at present in this country or had taken up a position abroad. But she could not bring herself to do so. She had her pride, and even if Mr Darcy were not to ask directly why she wanted this information, he would at least raise a quizzical eyebrow in that rather intimidating way of his.
Yet she didn’t sit at home and fret; she was not such a poor-spirited creature, and to indulge such behaviour would be the height of bad manners. It might also distress Elizabeth and annoy Mr Darcy. Or possibly amuse them both, since they had a pleasant habit of being amused by the follies of their fellow beings.
Besides, she soon found that the pleasures of London life which she had been so eager to forego still held an appeal for her. She was often able to forget the threat of the Venetian ball for quite an hour at a time. Or even for a whole morning or evening. She went with Elizabeth to pay calls, attended one of the Concerts of Ancient Music, where they heard a performance of a most pleasing sonata by Haydn, saw a performance of Macbeth at the Haymarket Theatre, dined out and attended a few private parties, which sometimes ended with an informal dance.
Several of the season’s new debutantes were there on these occasions, most of them pretty, shy, wide-eyed and nervous at the leap from the schoolroom into society. The gap between seventeen or eighteen and Serafina’s four-and-twenty years was a considerable one, and what a gulf of life and feeling and experience lay between her and these delicate damsels just venturing forth into the world.
Ready, she thought with some cynicism, to be gobbled up by the men who would be descending on the town to look for a wife, preferably possessed of a good fortune, from a suitable background, with pretty manners and a pretty face—although the fortune might count for more than the face.
When they were introduced to her, she could see the alarm in their eyes at the thought that in five or six years they, like her, might not have found a husband. The horror of such a prospect!
On these occasions, part of her longed to bring the conversation around the subject of Mr Talbot, rather as one bites on a sore tooth. One evening at a dinner party, she did hear his name mentioned. But it was in passing and gave her no information as to his whereabouts. She was annoyed that whenever she went out to a party, she would feel on edge as she entered the room, wondering if either Mr Talbot or Ranulph would be there. They never were.
Caroline Bingley was, as always, full of information. “Young Mr Latymer and Julia are not expected in town until the day before the ball.” Her eyes darted towards Serafina as she made this pronouncement, but Serafina preserved a serene countenance. Her hostess, a kindly woman who knew of the misfortune that had befallen Serafina the previous year, turned the conversation in a different direction, not allowing Caroline Bingley to pursue a topic that she knew would upset her other guest.
That meant there was no chance of suddenly finding herself face to face with Ranulph Latymer—but there was still the threat of Mr Talbot. He was responsible for all her present difficulties. He had treated her with contempt, had disrupted her life in a way that she found unforgivable.
She had to stop her thoughts running in that direction. The past was the past, and she would in time overcome the mortification the jilting had caused her. Yet however often she told herself that it was over, that there was no place for strong feelings on the subject, her fury welled up when she thought of Marcus Talbot.
Which happened far too often. He was her evil demon; it was as though he sat upon her shoulder taunting her. He had chosen to interfere in her life in a most ostentatious and public way; how could she forget or forgive? She wished she were a man, and able to challenge him to a duel and settle matters with swords or pistols at dawn. Or even indulge in a bout of fisticuffs, to lash out at him and land him what her brothers called a flush hit.
But when these thoughts rampaged about her head, she always ended by concluding that he was most likely not in town and that he would not be at the ball. And if he were, she would do best to avoid him entirely. That would not be difficult; if the man had an ounce of feeling, he would take care to come nowhere near her.
Chapter Thirteen
It was time. The carriage was at t
he door.
Elizabeth was dressed elegantly in a gown of her favourite jonquil and had decided on a matching mask to cover her eyes. As for Mr Darcy, he looked tall, imposing and handsome in his dark evening clothes. A beautifully cut coat, perfectly fitting knee breeches, a foaming white cravat, and an elegant waistcoat made him the model of how a well-dressed gentleman attending a formal ball should look. He held a mask disdainfully in one hand, a plain black silk one on the end of a little pole.
Serafina suspected that while he might, as a matter of form, hold this up before his face as he entered the ballroom, it would soon be discarded. And she doubted if he would prove to be the only male guest averse to dressing up in a costume.
Latymer House was near to the Darcys' town house, but there was no question of their little party walking; apart from the drizzle, the ladies’ gowns would collect all the dirt of the pavement. The carriage was not, however, any quicker than walking would have been, since the line of carriages drawing up to deposit guests stretched far down the street. All too soon, it was their turn to draw up in front of the house. A carpet had been laid to protect the ladies’ delicate slippers, and flambeaux flared on either side of the pathway as they went up the steps and into the house.
Serafina halted at the entrance to the ballroom and Elizabeth gave her a slight nudge, “You must move forward, you know; you are holding up the line.”
She realised with dismay that she had been standing stock still. She took a step forward, greeted Sir Roger Latymer with a smile and murmured a few meaningless words, noticing that he looked as awkward as she felt. She had been his son’s intended bride, and now there she was, still a Miss Darcy, while while the quondam Miss Julia Congreve stood beside her new husband.
A vague smile from Lady Latymer, and then she was in front of Ranulph. He was smiling, an uncertain smile that stayed on his lips and didn’t reach his eyes. He was not at ease. He wore the costume of Harlequin, a costume better suited to man of a different build.
Her eyes flitted to the slender creature beside him. Julia was, inevitably, dressed as Columbine in a flouced skirt, an apron and a velvet jacket. She looked about sixteen years old, and Serafina felt that her smile was not insincere at all. It was a smile of delight. The smile of a woman who had bested her rival?
No. To do her justice, although it irked Serafina to be fair, she was sure that Julia had never considered her a rival. Once she had swept Ranulph off his feet, she knew there was no threat from her or any other female, despite the fact of his engagement to her.
Ranulph and Julia looked at one another, as though for support at a difficult moment. A tender exchange of glances; speaking glances that overflowed with affection.
At first, nursing her wounded pride and, she had thought, her wounded heart, Serafina had almost persuaded herself that Julia was a scheming Miss who had been determined to carry off the young man she had taken a fancy to.
Not so. Much as she hated to admit it, Mr Talbot had been in the right of it with his prediction that this union would prove to be a deep and lasting one. She also noticed that Julia was breeding. Perhaps that was why she had chosen the costume with its disguising apron, although that was hardly the kind of secret that would be kept in town for two minutes.
Probably everyone knew of her condition. It was surprising that Caroline Bingley had not mentioned it. Nor had Elizabeth, but that would be from an unwillingness to upset her cousin and an assumption that her feelings on this matter were still raw.
In which she was mistaken. As they walked into the ballroom, Serafina was overwhelmed by a surge of relief. Face to face with Ranulph, she did not look at him with the despair of a spurned love, nor with any regret that she was not his wife. Indeed, he appeared to her almost a stranger, and one who held no power of attraction for her at all.
The animosity that had festered within her towards Julia, strive as she might to subdue it, had in those few moments completely dissipated. Julia seemed to her to be as she always should have been: the rather charming, very young, not very interesting sister of an old friend. Who had found in Ranulph her heart’s desire.
As Serafina once thought she had done, but she had been wrong. She knew, if the gossips didn’t, that her love for Ranulph wasn’t deep and lasting. She had been in the grip of a strong attraction; he hadn’t. Passion faded. Love wouldn’t.
Serafina passed into the ballroom. Her colour was slightly high, but that wasn’t noticeable beneath the mask. Plying her fan, she drew to one side to collect herself, but to her dismay, she was not left alone for long. As though she had arisen in a puff of smoke from the ground in a pantomime, there was Caroline Bingley beside her.
Her cream gown was extravagant, with enormous hooped skirts and lace frothing in all directions. Her eyes were hidden by a jewelled mask, but her face was wreathed in smiles as she said, “You are fanning yourself, do you find it a trifle hot in here?”
She was not talking about the temperature of the room.
Serafina said, “It is a little stuffy. It is always so in a ballroom lit with so many candles.”
Caroline Bingley didn’t want to discuss candles, and she dismissed the subject with a lift of a gloved hand. She then embarked upon a eulogy of the young couple, her eyes darting to and fro me looking to see what emotions might show on Serafina’s face. Since she was purged of all the unpleasant sensations she had formerly felt, she had no problem in keeping an even countenance.
Displeased, Caroline Bingley returned to the attack with extra vigour and an unnecessary titter. “I just saw an acquaintance of yours—that is, I believe you must be acquainted with Mr Talbot?”
“I have not seen him this evening, I was not aware that he was in England.”
Another artificial laugh. “Indeed he is, and of course he would be present here, everyone knows what a large part he played in bringing Ranulph Latymer and Julia together. Oh, perhaps you are not aware? Not only did he introduce them, but people say he helped to arrange their elopement. Ah, I see you did not know. It was an odd thing for gentlemen to do, but from what I have heard that it would not have been possible for Ranulph to spirit his Julia away without Mr Talbot’s help. It was a risky thing for him to do, as to assist in such a business could have earned him at the very least a reprimand from his superiors. He is a diplomatist, I dare say you know that, and therefore is expected to behave in a certain way.”
Serafina had suspected that Marcus Talbot had been instrumental in helping the couple with their plans for a runaway marriage, and it didn’t please here. Still, it was all of a piece with his other behaviour, and her opinion of him and his interference at that time was so low that it could sink no further.
A man in a mustard dress coat was shaking hands with Lord Congreve. Serafina recognised him at once; it was Lord Gilbride. She could not think his costume became him. He wore breeches, finished, as was the coat, with a quantity of gold braiding and a long silk waistcoat with still more gold braids. Lace at his wrists and jabot adorned with ribbons finished off his outfit.
Caroline Bingley’s eyes lit up as she saw him. “There is Lord Gilbride, I do declare, I had his costume described to me in some detail, so I know it is him. Wealthy as he is and with a famously amiable temperament, it is a mystery to me that some woman has not snared him.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, “People say he is in town to find a wife. Well, he may have his pick among the debutantes.”
Serafina thought Lord Gilbride was the last man in the world to want a very young bride, but she saw no point in saying so.
“Ah, the next dance is the quadrille, so I must leave you and find my partner. Is your hand not taken for this dance?” she added with some satisfaction as she swept off.
Chapter Fourteen
Marcus Talbot had seen Serafina as soon as she had entered the ballroom. He watched her make her curtsy to the Congreves and saw her murmur something to Ranulph, smile at Julia and move on, head held high, no more than a slight flush betraying the fact that it ha
d taken courage to come that evening. He was not the only one watching her; quite half the guests had paused in their conversations and greetings at her entrance.
She was charmingly dressed, he thought, as was Elizabeth Darcy in her silk jonquil gown. Mr Darcy was looking his usual aloof self. A man not disposed to find a Venetian ball anything other than faintly ridiculous, in Marcus’s judgement. Not wanting to ask any of the ladies to dance, he stood back against a pillar. The room was filling rapidly, but he was taller than most of those present and so, looking over the heads of guests in an assortment of wigs and tricornes and feather headdresses, saw Lord Gilbride arrive.
The man might be rich, but he had no taste; what had possessed him to wear those clothes, in that colour? Curse it, he was coming this way.
“Ah, Talbot, I recognised you right away; you will not disguise yourself unless you hold that mask up to your face, you know.”
There was no answer to this, so Marcus made none.
“Have you seen Miss Darcy? She is promised to me for the quadrille. I know that her cousins Mr and Mrs Darcy are here, and I assume she will have come with them. She wears a scarlet and black dress with a most distinctive mask, so I would have expected…”
“She is here, I noticed the dress. Look, over there, by that mirror.”
There indeed was a dark-haired young lady, clad in a scarlet and black gown and wearing the mask that Lord Gilbride had seen in the mask-maker’s shop.
“Why, yes, indeed, that is Miss Darcy, how came I not to see her at once? I must hurry away, there are the musicians making ready. She will be wondering where I am.”
He bustled away, and two minutes later was bowing to the woman in the scarlet dress. Marcus thought he saw a flash of surprise in the lady’s masked eyes, but she curtsied, laid her hand in his and tripped off to where couples were assembling for the quadrille.
Mr Darcy Requests the Pleasure Page 19
