The Wedding Challenge

by Candace Camp

  “Lady Calandra!” Daphne swept forward to meet her, holding out both hands to take Callie’s. “I am so pleased that you are here. Come, let me introduce you to the others in our little party.”

  The men were dressed in the latest styles, with the most up-to-date affectations and ornamentations. One wore a nosegay as big as his fist in the button-hole of his lapel, and the other’s watchchain contained so many fobs that it was a wonder the chain did not break. Their speech was peppered with cant, and they amused one another with frequent witticisms that left Callie wondering why they thought themselves so funny.

  However, Miss Swanson and the other young woman, a blond girl possessed of a high-pitched giggle, seemed to find the two young men inordinately charming, and they hung upon their every word, letting loose peals of laughter whenever one of them made a bon mot.

  Lady Daphne, wincing a little as the blond girl let forth a particularly piercing shriek of laughter, introduced Callie to the others. The blond woman turned out to be Miss Lucilla Turner, and the gentlemen were Mr. William Pacewell and Mr. Roland Sackville. No sooner had they been introduced than Callie found herself unable to remember which man was which, but as she quickly realized that she had little interest in speaking to either of them, it did not really matter.

  She nodded at Mr. Swanson and his sister, relieved to see someone she knew, and looked around the room for the rest of the party.

  “Ah, I see you are looking for my brother,” Lady Daphne said with a knowing smile. “He is not here yet. He will meet us later at Vauxhall. You know how it is. Young men are so busy.”

  “I see.” Callie smiled, doing her best to hide her disappointment. “I presume Lord and Lady Radbourne have not arrived yet?”

  “No, but it is early yet. Let me get you some refreshment while we wait for them.”

  Lady Daphne motioned to a servant, and in short order Callie had a glass of ratafia in her hand. She sipped at it and talked to Lady Daphne, feeling a little strange and out of place. Callie was not a shy person, but the absence of anyone she knew well made her quieter than normal, and she found the young men’s self-conscious posing and boisterous talk off-putting.

  The minutes crawled by, but still Irene and Gideon did not appear. Lady Daphne had begun looking repeatedly at the clock and frowning, then smiling and saying airily that she was sure they had just been delayed and would be there shortly.

  Finally, however, after Miss Turner had asked yet again when they were going to leave, Lady Daphne sighed and said, “Well, I suppose it would be best if we went on to Vauxhall. After all, it is not long until Lord Bromwell is to meet us there.”

  “But what about Lord and Lady Radbourne?” Callie asked.

  “I have no idea why they have not come. But no doubt they are merely a trifle late. I shall leave word with the butler for them to join us at Vauxhall.”

  “Perhaps I should wait for them,” Callie began uneasily. She knew that Francesca would not like her going off with Lady Swithington and the others without Irene and Gideon along.

  “Heavens, no,” Lady Swithington replied gaily. “What if one of them has fallen ill and they do not come at all? Then you should miss all the fun. Or they may simply decide, being so late, that they will meet us there and will not even come to the house. You would not wish to stay here all evening by yourself.”

  That was certainly true. Callie had no desire to sit in a strange house alone for hours, doing nothing. She knew that she should probably tell Lady Swithington that she would just go back to Francesca’s. But she could think of no way to tactfully tell Bromwell’s sister that Francesca—and no doubt her own grandmother and brother—would not consider Lady Daphne an adequate chaperone. Surely Irene and Gideon would arrive eventually, and then she would have missed it all for nothing. Besides, she wanted very much to see Bromwell and walk along the romantic lighted pathways with him.

  Anyway, she reminded herself, she could hardly ask all the others to wait even longer while Lady Daphne’s carriage took her back home first. So she summoned up a smile and said, “You are right. We had best go on.”

  The four women rode in Lady Swithington’s carriage, while the men hailed a hansom to transport them, and they started out for the gardens. Callie’s doubts ebbed as they rode along. The conversation with just the four women in the carriage was much quieter and more pleasant, and with every passing moment, she grew more eager to see the sparkling gardens and, most of all, to be with Bromwell.

  Vauxhall was as magical in appearance as ever, and Callie’s unease disappeared as they stepped out of their carriage and started inside. The men purchased their tickets and reserved one of the supper boxes that lined the main promenade.

  They strolled along the wide walkway until they reached their box, located near the pavilion where the orchestra would soon play. They took their seats and began to watch the passing parade. There was something wonderfully freeing, Callie thought, in being in domino and mask. She could look at everyone who walked by, secure in the knowledge that no one would know who she was and there would be no talk that could make its way back to the duchess.

  A waiter brought out their supper of wafer-thin slices of ham, along with chicken and various salads, and poured freely from containers of the arrack punch for which the Gardens were famous. It was a potent brew and though Callie merely sipped at it, she soon found herself relaxing under its influence, and she settled down to enjoy herself.

  It was great fun to watch the people, who came in all shapes, sizes and classes. There were many young bucks, some of them dandies, others with the athletic builds of Corinthians, and there were a good many unattached women, as well, who boldly flirted with the men. Callie watched them in some fascination, blushing now and then at some of the warm comments that were tossed back and forth.

  Somewhat to her surprise, some of the young men were bold enough to ogle her and the other women sitting in their supper box. Miss Swanson and Miss Turner responded to their bold looks with a rash of giggles. Lady Daphne did not giggle, but Callie was a trifle shocked to see that lady lift her fan and look back over it flirtatiously at one or two of the brash young gentlemen.

  Callie expected the men of their company to send the others on their way. She could well imagine how Sinclair would have responded to such impudence. Of course, when she had come here with her brother, simply his presence in the box had been enough to keep any young man from directing such inappropriate looks her way.

  The orchestra struck up in the pavilion, and people took to the dance floor in front of it. For politeness’s sake, Callie stood up with Mr. Tilford and then with Mr. Pacewell—at least, she thought it was Mr. Pacewell—but he trod clumsily upon her foot, and his breath stank so much of alcohol that she decided after that to sit out any dances, at least until Bromwell arrived…if he arrived. She was beginning to have her doubts.

  Still Lord and Lady Radbourne had not come, and neither had Brom. Callie began to find her pleasure in the evening decreasing. The conversation in their box was growing louder and more boisterous as the evening progressed and more and more arrack punch was consumed. The girls’ giggles increased, and the men’s laughter grew heartier. Their words became slurred, and they tended to set their glasses of punch down too hard, and once Mr. Sackville, or perhaps it was Mr. Pacewell—the drunker they became, the more difficulty Callie had in telling them apart—missed the table altogether with his cup, and it fell to the earth and spilled. Everyone except Callie seemed to find this mishap hilarious. Indeed, Mr. Swanson laughed so hard that he staggered back and knocked into a chair, turning it over, and subsequently wound up sitting on the ground, as well, which set everyone off into even further gales of laughter.

  Callie sipped at her glass and tried to ignore everything that was going on about her. But it was growing more and more difficult by the moment. Mr. Pacewell—or whichever it was of them who had not spilled his drink—was leaning over Miss Turner, boldly staring down the front of her dress, as he murmured i
nto her ear, his lips almost touching her.

  Callie glanced away quickly and looked over at Lady Swithington. However, if she had hoped that that lady would restore some semblance of decorum, she quickly saw that she was wrong. Daphne was sitting at the front edge of the box, her arms on the ledge before her, leaning forward to talk in low tones to a man who stood outside. The man was leaning in toward Daphne, as well, a smile playing about his mouth, and as Callie watched, he reached out and ran his forefinger along her hand, trailing it up her arm to her elbow.

  Callie looked away again, rather uncertain as to where she could direct her gaze. She took a nervous gulp of her drink, then gasped as the potent mixture roared down her throat.

  Where was Bromwell? Why had he not come? She wished desperately that he was there. He, she thought, would set everything in order. At least, she thought a little falteringly, she hoped that he would. What if, when he arrived, he acted the same way as the other men? What if he joined in the drunken revelry, boldly eyeing the women in the other boxes and on the walkway?

  Another man had stopped to lean into their box and talk, and before long, Callie saw to her horror that Lady Daphne and Miss Swanson had invited the strangers to join them. Callie pushed her chair back as far as she could against the side wall and away from the others, and contemplated what she ought to do.

  She had given up all hope that Irene and Gideon were going to appear, and she was growing doubtful about Brom. The evening had developed into a veritable romp, and she was keenly aware that she should not be there. The problem was that she did not know how she was to get away. The thought of making her way alone through the throng outside the box made her shudder. This was not the sort of place where a woman alone was safe from crude remarks and lascivious glances—and, she suspected, far worse.

  However, she hardly knew any of the men in her party. She was not at all certain, given the way they had been acting, that any of them could be trusted to protect her from the advances of another man—or, indeed, trusted at all. Even if she could rely on them, she was not sure that any of them were sober enough to help her, anyway.

  Callie set down her glass on the table beside her and rubbed her forehead. Her own thoughts were a little muzzy, and she wondered how much she had drunk of the strong punch. One glass—no, two, for she rather thought that whenever she set a half-empty glass down, it was soon replaced by a full one. Lady Daphne had been assiduous in making sure that everyone stayed well-refreshed.

  Even as Callie thought this, a waiter was at her side, filling up her glass again. She shook her head at him, but he seemed not to notice, simply topped off her glass and moved away. Callie sighed and tried to clear her thoughts. She was going to have to stop sipping at her drink, no matter how nervous she felt. She was going to need a clearer head to deal with the situation.

  “What, all by yourself?” a male voice slurred, and one of the two strangers whom Daphne had let into their box sat down heavily in the chair closest to Callie’s. “Can’t have that, pretty young thing like you.”

  He smiled at her in what he doubtless thought was a charming way.

  “I am perfectly content by myself,” Callie told him in a frosty tone.

  For some reason he seemed to find her remark amusing, for he chuckled. “My, my, bit high in the instep, aren’t you?” He reached for the glass she had set down earlier and offered it to her. “Can’t have fun like that, can you? Here, have a nip. It’ll set you up right.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He shrugged and drained the glass himself. Then he leaned closer, peering into her face. “Whassa matter? Don’ you want some fun?”

  Callie recoiled. His breath stank of alcohol, and his eyes were bloodshot. “No,” she told him firmly. “Now, please, move somewhere else.”

  She was not normally rude, but it was clear that no polite rejoinder would have any effect on him. He regarded her for a moment, his eyes narrowing, and for an appalled moment she thought he was going to say something vicious. But then he shrugged and hauled himself to his feet, reeling away toward the others.

  Callie saw with dismay that while she had been occupied with the man, several of their party had left their box. Neither Miss Swanson nor Miss Turner was there, and the two dandies were gone, as well. She turned to look out across the promenade and was a little relieved to see that the four young people had decided to dance; they would come back soon. As she watched, they were swallowed up by the crowd of dancers.

  She looked around at the occupants of the box. Mr. Swanson, it seemed, had reached his limit, for he was sitting slumped over one of the tables, eyes closed, snoring heavily. Mr. Tilford picked up a cup, filled it with punch, then toddled out the rear door, apparently seeking more lively companions.

  Callie glanced at Lady Swithington. She was sitting between the two men whom she had invited into the booth, talking and laughing and flirting with them over her fan, now and then folding it to lay a light, teasing tap upon one or the other of them.

  One of them took her hand and raised it to his lips, lingering far longer than was acceptable, but Daphne made no move to take her hand away. She simply laughed throatily and leaned closer to whisper something in the man’s ear.

  “Lady Swithington,” Callie said urgently. “I—I must leave. I am sure that Francesca will be worried about me.”

  It took Daphne a moment to focus on Callie. “But, my dear, it is still early yet. You cannot mean to leave so soon.”

  “I—Lord and Lady Radbourne have not come, and I—I fear I should not be here. If you could send for your carriage…” She was not sure how she would safely reach the carriage, but she felt that she must leave, and soon, before the situation grew even worse.

  Lady Daphne laughed, waving her hand airily. “Now, now, you can’t leave yet. Why, Brom has not even arrived. You must not let Lord and Lady Radbourne spoil your fun.”

  “I am—I do not think that Lord Bromwell is coming,” Callie replied, trying to keep her voice even. “It is quite late.”

  Lady Daphne rose, saying with a laugh, “The evening has scarcely begun. You cannot go yet. Come.” She held out a hand toward Callie. “Come with us. We are going to dance. Poor Willoughby needs a partner, don’t you, Mr. Willoughby?”

  The man in question peered at Callie, then shook his head. “No, she won’t go. Too Friday-faced.”

  “Lady Swithington…” Callie began again. “I truly do not wish to dance.”

  “You see?” the drunken man said, nodding sagely. “Told you.”

  “I wish to leave,” Callie went on. “And I imagine that Miss Swanson and Miss Turner should go, as well. They are in that crowd, completely unchaperoned.”

  “Well, of course, of course, if that is what you wish,” Daphne replied magnanimously. “Just as soon as Brom comes. Though I doubt that Miss Turner and Miss Swanson will welcome your dragging them away, as well,” she added with a chuckle. “Now, if you are sure that you won’t come dance with us…”

  She turned away, looping her hands through both men’s arms and flashing a dazzling smile at them. “Come, gentlemen. I am eager to dance.”

  The man who was not Willoughby chuckled and murmured, “Eager for much else, as well, I trust.”

  Lady Swithington laughed, seemingly not in the least offended by his suggestive words, and said, “We shall see, won’t we?”

  “Lady Swithington!” Callie cried out, appalled, as the group made their way toward the door.

  Daphne appeared not to hear her as she swept out of the box, closing the door behind them. Callie stood there, staring after her in astonishment. Slowly, she turned, taking in the scene. She was alone except for Mr. Swanson, passed out in his chair. Indeed, she had never felt quite so alone. She looked out at the increasingly boisterous scene in front of her. Lady Daphne and her two swains had disappeared into the crowd, nor could she spot any of the others who had come with her tonight.

  Callie frowned and sat back down in her chair to think. What was she to
do? She wanted very much to simply run through the crowd to the entrance and there jump into a hansom cab to take her home. However, she could not help but be concerned about Miss Swanson and Miss Turner, who had clearly had more of the arrack punch than was good for them—and were rather foolish to begin with, if one was being truthful. The men who were with them were hardly people on whom one could rely. She should have done something more to stop them, she thought. And it seemed irresponsible to simply leave them here.

  “Well, what are you doing all alone, pretty one?”

  Callie jumped, startled, and turned to see a middle-aged man leaning on the open ledge of the box. She rose, her heart pounding, and her hands clenching into fists at her side.

  “Please go away. My brother will return soon,” she improvised, her mind roaming over the possibilities the box offered in the way of weapons. One of the empty bottles would be best, she thought, and she started to edge toward the table where Mr. Swanson sat, his head on his arms.

  “Brother, is it?” His smile conveyed his disbelief. “He should have more sense than to leave a lovely like yourself all alone. Perhaps I should come in and keep you company ’til he gets back.”

  “No. You should not.” Callie reached the table, and her hand curled tightly around the neck of the bottle.

  The man laughed. “Oh, ho. ’Tis a dust-up you’re after?” He placed his hands upon the ledge, as though he would climb over it into the box.

  Callie heaved the bottle at him and was surprised to see that it hit him, although on his chest, rather than his face, where she had aimed. The man stopped, looking at her in surprise.

  “Here,” he said resentfully. “No call to do that.” He straightened his jacket and shot her a disgruntled look, then turned and staggered off.

  Callie let out a sigh of relief and moved farther away from the front of the box. She looked around and found another bottle to use in case she needed a weapon again. She straightened and turned to find another man looking into the box.