Cordelia, promptly forgetting her own lack of desire to accomplish anything but a successful family life, lost her temper.
Not that anyone but her closest relatives would have known, for Lady Delby had long ago drilled into her daughters that one must never show strong emotion in public, and that anger was better when channelled into more constructive measures, such as engineering the social ruin of one's enemies in such a way that it could never be traced back to the originator.
"I have always fancied setting myself up as a portraitist," she declared without thinking things through. "I own that my landscapes are pretty enough, but my true talent lies in capturing the likenesses of people I have never met when I have only a description to work from."
Christopher raised a brow. "Is that so, my dear?"
She suddenly itched to slap him, but maintained control.
"Standish, I need you!" she called out to William.
"What is it, Cordy?" he asked as he languidly strolled towards her.
"Can I or can I not draw people from description alone?" she asked. "Christopher does not think it possible."
"I'll say she can," said William with a wide grin. "Lord, it's been her top parlour game for years! One of us will describe a person, Cordy draws them from the description, and we all have to guess who the mystery person is. She's devilish good at it as well!"
"It sounds like a lot of fun," said his wife, Lydia. "Do you only do people you know?"
"Cordy can do famous people, notables from history, and even those she's never met in person," said Herbert as he joined the group, his young wife on his arm. "I say, you should do some of the old Roman emperors and the like for the museum."
"I think they are happy with their statues and coins rather than modern creations," said Christopher with a laugh that only he understood. "I confess that I would like to see some of these little drawings of yours, Lady Cordelia. Perhaps I can test you by describing some of Jack's family to you."
"Oui, like my sister, Marie-Thérèse," replied Monsieur Jacques with studied innocence.
Christopher looked embarrassed for a moment, but quickly hid his discomfort.
"Indeed, or perhaps Le Grand Bruin," he continued as though the awkward moment had not passed. Cordelia longed to question him about his reaction, but had a sneaking suspicion that she would not like what she heard.
"Could Lady Cordelia sketch an image of your father, Monsieur Gautereau?" asked Miss Juneberry in her soft tones. "You said that the likeness you have is a poor one, after all."
"Je regrette, my father died when I was an infant, so I have no description to give," he replied, before turning to smile at Cordy. "I have no doubt, however, that Mademoiselle Cordelia would be able to capture his likeness to perfection if I were able to provide the details."
She flushed at his praise, but in the same moment felt terrible that she could not use her skills to his advantage. It seemed so unfair to be surrounded by statues and likenesses of people dead for almost two thousand years, and yet there was no way for Jacques to know his father's face.
"A pity that," said Christopher, patting his friend on the shoulder, "but we could challenge Cordelia to sketch your mother."
"Bon," said Jacques with a small nod, but his attention had already returned to Miss Juneberry. "Shall we proceed to the next room, Mademoiselle? I wish to regard the bust of Napoleon, for he is at least a name that I know!"
"Napoleon!" said Lady Standish enthusiastically. "Oh please do, if only so I can tease Father about it!"
The whole party made their way quickly through the rest of the Gallery without stopping to admire any more of the sculptures on display, for as Christopher so succinctly put it, once they had paid their respects to one Roman emperor, they had done so to them all.
It rained on Thursday, but even the unrelenting drizzle did not prevent the Ton from attending the ball hosted by Lord and Lady Fitzburgh in honour of their daughters, both of whom where out despite a four year age gap. It was popularly supposed that Lady Fitzburgh had given up on her eldest girl, Lucille, and was pinning her hopes on making a splendid match for Miss Caroline instead, which would explain why poor Lucy was wearing a gown from last Season while her little sister was festooned in more yards of lace than advisable for one not yet sixteen.
There was no love lost between the Delbys and their hosts, but manners dictated that both families at least pretend to be on good terms. At least it did for the ladies, which was why Cordelia and her mother had arrived just late enough to be fashionable without being rude. Lord Delby, who had stated only that he would rather gouge out his own eyeballs with the sugar tongs than be forced to share a roof with Lord Fitzburgh for a moment longer than necessary, had chosen to retire to his club for the evening, etiquette be damned. It was possible that it was due to a bitter argument that had occurred in the House of Lords, but it was far more probable that the lifelong animosity between the two men had boiled over again, as it was wont to do.
Cordelia envied her father this freedom, even though she, personally, had nothing against their hosts beyond a dislike of Lady Fitzburgh. She even rather liked Lucy, although tonight in particular she could not even look at the poor girl without seeing her own miserable future should she not find a husband this Season. Lucy Fitzburgh looked miserable, while Miss Caroline was behaving like a spoiled little pet determined to lord her status over her unmarried sister.
It was not a fate that Cordelia could contemplate without shuddering.
The entire Cartwright dynasty, from Lord and Lady Shropshire to Henrietta and Cottingham, had graced the ball with their presence, no doubt causing Lady Fitzburgh to puff up with self-importance. Even Lady Gloucester, who looked less green about the gills than usual, had attended, despite her well-known dislike of her hostess.
"I'm only here to support Jacques," she'd informed Cordelia and Lady Delby after they had exchanged greetings. "I could not let the poor boy face this ordeal alone, not when Lady Harden is sniffing about in search of gossip. Poor boy; he had no idea how many matchmaking mamas he would encounter at these parties, and at least his association with me keeps some of the highest sticklers away from him! Lady Cordelia, please be a darling and help me protect him? I'm only half joking when I say that I'm worried some enterprising female of questionable age might try to entrap him!"
"Surely not," said Lady Delby, taking the seat beside her fellow Countess. "He is a lovely young man, of that there is no question, but not well known enough to be hunted."
Lady Gloucester grimaced. "Blame that ridiculous Douglas boy! Ah, my apologies, Cordelia, for I know you and Christopher are friends, but why he had to go and tell William Standish of all people that Jacques has considerable personal wealth invested with the North West Company is beyond me, for now half the Ton thinks he's the richest man in Montreal, and the other half thinks he owns Hudson's Bay!"
"I'll go speak to William," sighed Cordelia. "He won't have meant any harm by it."
"Anyone who knows Lord Standish knows he never means any harm by anything, but that doesn't change the fact he's got more hair than wit," said Lady Gloucester with brutal honesty rather than malice. "How that darling wife of his manages him is anyone's guess, but one can't deny that he'll do anything for her! Don't worry about William, my dear - just help protect Jacques before he finds himself betrothed to some horse faced minion of Lady Harden!"
She promised faithfully that she would do so, and quickly made her way to the small group surrounding Lord Shropshire, where both Henrietta and Jacques were conversing with the Marquis and Marchioness in a lively manner. A dance was underway on the floor before them, and Cordelia caught a glimpse of Christopher with Miss Juneberry. It took only a moment for her to consider that he was not as fine a dancer as she remembered, but she put the thought to the back of her mind as she made her curtsey to Lord and Lady Shropshire.
"Lady Cordelia, how delightful to see you again," said the Marchioness with a grandmotherly smile. "Please help us to convi
nce these two children here that the Marquis and I are not so old as to need them as our constant companions!"
"They were supposed to dance together this set," said Lord Shropshire, shaking his head in despair, "but they insist that it is too warm to do so, and they would as lief sit and talk about the past with us ancients, as though anyone cares to hear stories from fifty years ago about people one never knew and will never meet!"
"It is far too hot, Grandpapa," said Henrietta as she fluttered an ivory and paper fan that Cordelia herself had painted as a gift in front of her flushed cheeks. "I understand that the rain makes opening the windows a disagreeable option, but then so is baking in this warmth!"
"Dancing is always agreeable, my dear," replied her grandfather.
"I regret that I must disagree, Monsieur Shropshire," said Jacques with considerable good humour. "While dancing with a young lady may well be agreeable, it is not when Loughcroft is partnered beside you, and making all other gentlemen look like they have hooves for feet."
The Marchioness chuckled at this. "Loughcroft is an excellent dancer, and I have always believed it was his ability to execute complex steps with grace that attracted dear Emma to him. But you must not do youself a disservice, my boy, for we have seen you caper about the drawing room with Henrietta after dinner, and know you will not put any of us to shame - not even Loughcroft!"
"I hope you mean to keep your engagement to dance with me," said Cordelia. "I had to turn down Mr Percival for the waltz as you had already asked."
"Oh, how awful for you!" said Henrietta with genuine dismay. "Even Loughcroft cannot waltz as well as his brother, for he gets ever so flustered about having to hold hands with someone other than Emma."
Jacques assumed an expression of haughty innocence. "Do you mean to tell me, Mademoiselle Cordelia, that you would prefer to waltz with another gentleman?"
"Well yes, but only because it's Perry," replied Cordelia.
Jacques started for a moment, and then let out that roar of laughter that invariably drew eyes towards him.
"Touché, ma petite! I see I have much to learn about manners and humour in the Ton."
Henrietta patted her cousin on the knee. "Don't be offended, Jacques! There's not a woman in London who would willingly turn down the chance to waltz with Mr Percival, even those who oppose the dance, or who are monstrously in love with another! He makes even the most wooden or cow-footed girl look like a graceful fairy when he twirls her about, so it is very good for our consequence."
"While I am but a foreign nobody," sighed Jacques, making Cordelia startle and worry that she had described him as such out loud.
The Marquis, however, misunderstood her reaction. "You've heard the rumours going about as well, then, my dear girl? The last version we heard, Jacques is the Governor General of Rupert's Land, and possibly the Chief of all Indians."
"Of which neither position exists, unless you count Monsieur Williams of the Hudson's Bay Company which naturally I do not, but the latter seems to be a misunderstanding about mon pere," explained Jacques, his mouth twisting into something between a smile and a sneer. "Le Grand Bruin is thought to be the title given to the Chief of Chiefs, but why they think the Iroquis, Cree, or Blackfoot would use French is not something I comprehend."
"But it makes you mysterious," said Henrietta, her eyes dancing with merriment, "not to mention rich. No wonder all the matchmaking mamas are asking you to dance with their daughters!"
Her friend was obviously pleased with this outcome, Cordelia noted, but for unknown reasons, her own heart was less than amused.
"If it were just to dance I would not be so confused, ma cousine, but then there are the questions, and the arched eyebrows," said Jacques, feigning a shudder. "The eyebrows are things of horror, non? It is though they have a language of their own, and I am afraid to twitch in case I convey the wrong meaning."
The dance ended, and conversation paused while they politely clapped. Lord and Lady Loughcroft, both red-cheeked and smiling, left their place in the set to come and join the group.
"Lady Cordelia, how lovely to see you! Has Henrietta asked you to help protect our cousin? Poor thing was almost cornered by Lady Pulford earlier, and I don't know who was made the most uncomfortable, Jacques or poor Eugenia."
"Eugenia knows how to take care of herself, Lady Loughcroft," replied Cordelia with a careless wave of her hand. "I have just been informed, however, that Monsieur Jacques is now the heir to some ancient title or other, so no doubt the Mamas will be redoubling their efforts to court him - and no doubt mine will be in that number!"
Her jest did not provoke the expected laughter, but rather some meaningful looks between the various people present. The knowledge that she had committed some sort of social error was horrifying, but without knowing what, precisely, she had done wrong made it impossible to find a way to apologise.
"It seems the next set is already forming," said Jacques as he got to his feet. "You English do not rest long between your dances."
"That's Lady Fitzburgh's doing," said Lady Loughcroft, as though the awkward silence had not just occurred. "She is so determined to be a leading light of society that rather than risk leaving something out, she makes sure to cram everything and everyone in. No wonder it is so abominably hot!"
Jacques held out his hand towards Cordelia with a smile. "I am no Monsieur Percival, but I promise I will not put you to shame."
She smiled back, suddenly feeling rather shy. "I know you will not."
She took his hand, and together they walked over to the dance floor. Cordelia glanced around and then frowned as she counted the number of couples joining them. Lady Fitzburgh's home was not made to house so many guests without being an intolerable squeeze, and as a result there was not enough space for so many dancers.
"There is something I must know, Lady Cordelia, and feel I have only you to ask," said Jacques, shifting her attention back to him. "Why does Madam Fitzburgh insist on hitting my knuckles with her fan when I say I am engaged for every dance, and especially this one? Does she think I do not know it would be rude of me to break off my existing commitments to dance with her daughter?"
"She was banking on the fact that you did not," she replied, grinning at his expense. "She's been trying to marry off poor Lucy for years, and every Season her standards for a potential son-in-law are lowered."
He raised a brow at her comment. "I have been slighted! Do you mean to say that a year ago she would not have considered me suitable?"
"You're not a Lord, or in line to become one," she said frankly. "Lady Fitzburgh once bragged that her daughters would never marry below the rank of a Marquis. The following year it was a Viscount, then a Baronet, and now she's promoting you who, forgive me if I am being rude, are a foreign nobody who has no intention of remaining in England anyway."
The words tasted oddly bitter, and she was surprised to discover she was irritated at Jacques for not wishing to remain in the country once the Season was out. She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, but her companion did not seem to notice, for his eyes were now on their watchful hostess. Lady Fitzburgh, Cordelia noticed, was not even attempting to disguise the fact she'd marked out Jacques as a future son in law, for she inclined her head towards him with a condescension she rarely showed to anyone she lacked a use for.
"Don't be afraid," she whispered just as the musicians struck up. "I won't let you fall into her clutches."
Based on the quizzical look on his face, he didn't understand her meaning. Cordelia tucked her hands into his, her back to the centre of the dance floor. Miss Clyde and Mr Percival were to her right, and on her left, Christopher was beaming at Miss Caroline Fitzburgh as he took her hands into his with exaggerated reverence. Poor Lucy was not partnered for the dance at all, and was instead hovering to the side of some fish-faced spinsters as though resigned to her fate.
Cordy was far too well mannered to scowl in public, and besides, her mother had long ago warned her that pulling sour faces woul
d lead to excessive wrinkles. So instead she'd locked eyes with Jacques, graced him with her most radiant smile, and concentrated with all that she had in making her movements look effortless. Besides, she was not sure who she was most angry at; Christopher, for staring at the pretty-but-waspish Caroline, or at Lucy for not making more of an effort.
The music began slowly, and Cordelia pushed all thoughts away so that she could focus on her movements. The circle of dancers began to make their way around the ballroom in a slow spiral, the nature of the steps meaning that they did not need to move apart, or even look at anything but the face of their partner. It was not an easy way to look graceful, for it was not considered proper in Society ballrooms to have anything but the lightest touch of the hands during the waltz, even as the beat began to quicken and forced the dancers to spin faster, both with their partner and within the group as a whole.
Lady Fitzburgh, it seemed, was intent on making her ball the talk of the town, and had chosen a waltz that was both longer and faster than those considered de rigeur by even the most dashing of hostesses. Cordelia, even as she was certain that her mother would be watching in horror at the spinning couples threatening to lose balance and crash into each other, found herself beginning to laugh as the tempo increased and the room spun all about them in a whirl of colour and heat. Only the handsome, grinning face of Jacques Gautereau remained in focus, his too-long locks of rich brown hair catching across his eyes. She found herself leaning backwards in an attempt to maintain balance, but even though they still clasped only their hands they had somehow moved closer to each other as they bent their arms to help brace for balance. She could feel the heat of his breaths, and for one dizzy, insane moment she wanted to throw herself forwards and kiss that laughing face.
There was a commotion from somewhere outside their whirling embrace, followed by a sharp shout and an abrupt end to the music. She saw Jacques glance to the side, and then suddenly he tugged her towards him, causing her to loosen her grip on his hands as she went to stumble forwards. Her foot, however, never made contact with the ground, for his hands were on her waist as he lifted her clear from the floor as he completed his spin before setting her down, firmly and safely, a few paces away from where she had been a heartbeat earlier. His hands remained there a moment longer than they needed to before he moved them to gently grip her forearms. The room continued to spin for a few moments longer, and she was grateful for his gentle strength as she waited to regain her balance.
The Unknown Heir: Book Nine in the Regency Romps Series Page 11
