Scandal at the Midsummer Ball

by Marguerite Kaye

  * * *

  The impressive ballroom of Brockmore Manor ran the full length of the house from front to back and opened out on to the large terrace, the ceiling twice the height of the other reception rooms. Painted alabaster white, with only the ornate Adam cornicing to relieve its plainness, the pilasters running down one side gave the room the look of a Roman forum. Three huge chandeliers blazed down, their flames reflected in the highly polished wooden floor. The centre of the space was taken up by the tightrope and poles, set about fifteen feet off the ground now, surrounded by thick mats. A stack of hoops and skittles were laid out neatly to one side, beside a shallow tray of chalk.

  Marcus, the Duke of Brockmore, surveying the scene from his vantage point on the balcony, permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction and a flutter of anticipation. The welcoming party earlier in the day had been but a prelude to the main event. Tonight’s performance would set the tone for the rest of the week. A spectacle never before seen in England. The Vengarov siblings would be a symbol for his guests, a reminder of how they too could fly—with his assistance.

  Marcus leaned over the balustrade to direct a footman in the more precise arrangement of chairs for the audience. He swept his mane of grey hair back from his forehead as he took in the bustling scene below. The Silver Fox, they called him behind his back, and he rather enjoyed his reputation. It was not as if any of the guests were unaware of the subtle games they were being invited to play here. The Brockmore Midsummer Party was well established now, as the stage for all sorts of alliances to be made—and in some cases unmade. He and Alicia did not manipulate, but rather facilitated these affairs—of the heart, of politics, of business. Yes, they greased the wheels of power, but they did not force those wheels to turn in any particular direction. Though more often than not, of course, they did. In their later years, they would be able to look back with pride and satisfaction on their achievements. The children of the marriages they had brokered would be consolation for their own tragic lack of progeny.

  The customary pang this engendered in his heart made Marcus’s thoughts turn towards his wife, and as if on cue, she entered the room ahead of their guests, glancing up and smiling, that special smile she saved for him and him alone. She was looking splendid this evening, her pale-green evening gown carefully chosen to complement the darker-green stripe of his own waistcoat. His diamond-and-emerald cravat pin matched the magnificent set of diamonds and emeralds she wore around her swan-like neck. It was these little attentions to detail that were so important. No, he could have no regrets.

  He watched his duchess making her graceful way through the throng of specially invited guests, admiring the way she gently manoeuvred each into their allotted place with the skill of an orchestra conductor. There were the obvious matches to be made—and by and large he left those in Alicia’s capable hands. Viscount Monteith’s daughter would be marketable enough, a shy beauty and therefore a desirable catch, but that dragon of a mother of hers was bound to interfere. The Kilmun twins—Marcus smiled to himself as he eyed those two ladies. Cecily and Cynthia, wasn’t it? Damned if he could tell which was which. It would be interesting to see if their intended bridegrooms could—or cared to. Brigstock, Earl of Jessop, and Jessamy Addington were lined up for them. Cynthia and Cecily. Jessop and Jessamy. Sound fellows with excellent connections. He had plans for both, and frankly an alliance with either twin would suit his purposes just as well. Let them sort it out between them.

  Verity now—where was Verity?—ah yes, there she was, seated as planned beside Wellington’s protégé. Colonel Kennedy looked to possess a strong will, just the type to take his headstrong niece in hand. It was not a great match in the eyes of the world, not compared to some of the offers Verity had already rejected, but in some ways this man was likely more suitable. If Wellington was in the right of it—and his old friend invariably was—the colonel would very quickly make his mark abroad, giving the Brockmore family another string to their many bows. Mind you, that first meeting between the pair today had not been auspicious. It was to be hoped that Verity had indeed been merely out of sorts due to the heat in the crowded drawing room.

  As for the rest of his guests? His Grace scanned the audience, now seated, and made a rapid inventory. Sir Timothy Farthingale would be easy enough to accommodate, all he desired was to be pointed in the direction of a generous benefactor with deep pockets, but Desmond Falkner might prove just a little tricky to bleed. A canny man, he had seemed at dinner earlier, and something of a prude, if truth be told. Farthingale’s flamboyant appearance had made quite the wrong impression. What possessed the man to wear a pair of Turkish slippers and a scarlet coat to dinner, Marcus could not fathom. Alicia had seated him in the back row, but he looked more like he should be performing in tonight’s entertainment. A quiet word might be in order. A task for Lillias, perhaps? By odd coincidence, the woman he and Alicia liked to think of as their eyes and ears was already seated by Sir Timothy in her customary scarlet. The duke winced at the clash of colours. Though the Titian-haired Lovely, Luscious Lillias Lamont was a stalwart of their Midsummer Party, her flamboyant taste in clothes was really almost as suspect as Farthingale’s.

  ‘Your Grace?’ He turned, to find the Russian duo whose services he had secured at great expense beckoning him from the doorway. ‘We are ready to begin the performance.’

  Marcus fought the urge to inform the rather arrogant young Russian man that the performance would commence when he decided it could begin. He was paying a small fortune to hire the pair for the whole week, yet each time they spoke, he had the sense the man was looking down his nose at him. There were not many people who discomfited the Duke of Brockmore. Marcus couldn’t understand it, but there was something about Alexandr Vengarov that made him feel as if he should be doing the kowtowing.

  Though the blasted man was right, it was high time to get the evening’s entertainment underway. Marcus nodded his assent and the Russian performers disappeared. Moments later, the pair of them appeared in the doorway of the ballroom.

  His Grace leaned over the balcony and cleared his throat. ‘My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great privilege to present, for your delectation, the most extraordinary, the most talented, the most graceful and indeed the most flexible acrobatic performers in the civilised world. Prepare to be both astounded and amazed. I give you the Flying Vengarovs.’

  Conversation stilled. Skirts rustled, painted fans were snapped shut and quizzing glasses prised open as the audience settled into their gilt-edged chairs.

  The duke gestured to the performers. They were a striking pair, he so tall, and she so tiny in comparison. Both wore long cloaks, hers dark blue and his black, studded with paste diamonds that sparkled and shimmered in the candlelight. There were paste diamonds in her burnished auburn hair too. They seemed to float across the floor together like a walking constellation of stars. A hushed silence pervaded the ballroom as they stood in front of the tightrope, facing the expectant crowd. He had to admire their professionalism, the pair possessed real stage presence. The duke felt his own heart pick up a few beats. Catching his wife’s eye, they shared a smile, but his eyes were drawn, almost against his will, to the duo below. They did not look like siblings. Vengarov’s square-cut jaw, brown eyes and dark-brown hair were in stark contrast to his sister’s colouring and appearance, though they shared the same high Slavic cheekbones, and there was something about the mouth too.

  They made their bow. Vengarov’s cloak dropped to the ground and there was a sharp intake of breath. The man was half-naked, wearing only a shockingly tight pair of knitted pantaloons. His muscled torso gleamed in the candlelight. The duke smothered a chuckle. Fans were being hurriedly opened, but he had no doubt that behind them the ladies were gazing with flagrant admiration at the chap’s sculpted physique. The men present, on the other hand, were bristling with purported indignation. Intimidated no doubt, rather than offended. Save Kennedy
, who was smiling. And Farthingale who was looking like a dog salivating over a particularly juicy bone.

  Another sharp intake of breath followed when the female acrobat dropped her cloak, and to this the duke contributed enthusiastically. She was virtually naked. A scant flesh-coloured tunic studded with more paste diamonds and little else clung to her perfectly proportioned body. It was indecent. It was also rather exciting. The rumours he’d heard regarding the exotic allure of the Vengarov siblings had not been wide of the mark. If anything, they had been understated, especially regarding the delicious Katerina. No bristling from his male guests now, that was for sure. And the smile had been wiped from Kennedy’s face. Rapt, was an accurate description of his expression. Marcus congratulated himself. He had provided something for everyone, an audacious spectacle no other host would dare commission.

  Then the girl put her bare foot on her brother’s linked hands and he propelled her upwards on to the tightrope. He followed her, too fast for the duke to work out how he’d managed to leap so high. The show began, and Marcus, along with everyone else in the enthralled audience, forgot everything else and concentrated on the two graceful and impossibly skilled acrobats.

  Chapter Two

  Sunday June 15th

  Brockmore Manor House Party

  Programme of Events

  A Tour of the Gardens for the Ladies

  Al Fresco Luncheon at the Lake Summerhouse

  Boating to Follow

  Cards and Conversation

  Katerina gazed out of the window of her bedchamber. A ripple of wispy mare’s-tail clouds streaked the hazy blue sky. It was another beautiful day, the sun already warm on her face, though it was not yet eleven in the morning. She pushed the casement as high as it would go and leaned out. A light breeze ruffled her hair, which was coming loose from its tight night-time braid. The sleeping quarters she and Alexandr had been allotted were on the top floor, one below the servants’ cramped garrets which were squashed into the attics, and one floor above the luxurious guest chambers. It summed up perfectly their place in the grand scheme of things: coveted by the elite but excluded from polite society; envied by the hoi polloi but treated with a mixture of admiration and circumspection.

  Her window overlooked the working gardens. From this height, she could see down into the stables, over the top of the glinting glass of the succession house, pinery and orchid house, and into the walled garden beyond. Alexandr was walking on his hands along the practice rope. She had never seen anyone more skilled than her brother, and though she had watched him perform this trick countless times from much more vertiginous heights, she still felt that familiar combination of fear and awe. She had only managed to complete just over half the rope in this manner herself, and certainly never attempted to perform it in public. Alexei was most likely going to feature it in his solo performance scheduled for later in the week.

  A small group of women had entered the walled garden. They did not usually permit an audience to watch their practice sessions, but the Duchess of Brockmore was paying them well over the odds for their residency this week, so even Alexei would not be so bold as to deny her female guests this unscheduled opportunity to gawp at him as he went through his paces. He did not look at all enamoured though, his brow furrowed deeply in one of his most formidable frowns.

  He was however, like her, an artiste above all, and once back on the rope lost himself in his performance. His audience watched him, rapt, their expressions as openly admiring as ever. To those rooted to the ground, there was a cachet and glamour attached to skilled exponents of the tightrope. For those at the very peak of their profession—as the Flying Vengarovs were—this manifested itself as a form of fame, and sometimes notoriety. Alexei professed to despise the slavish admiration he habitually received from women, but he was no saint—there had been countless affaires over the years.

  She could not blame him. It was a lonely and itinerant life they led. But while her brother was happy to take what he called comfort in the arms of his admirers, Katerina had foolishly longed for something more lasting. What she had discovered was what she should have known all along. There was nothing more thrilling than the tightrope. Not for the performer. Certainly not for the men who watched her, who had no interest in the woman who walked it. And most certain of all, not that particular man who had caused her to fall to earth, where she had landed with such force that she carried the bruises still, two years later.

  In a way, she envied Alexei. He stuck to the rules. He never made false promises. He never pretended to emotions he did not feel. He loved and he left. He was no more interested in the woman behind the beguiled spectator than his lover was interested in the man behind the artiste. When the Flying Vengarovs packed up their act and headed for the next venue, the next country, he did not leave behind any broken hearts or shattered dreams. He never dallied where he could compromise. His lovers were as discreet as he. Being women, they had to be. It was different for men.

  Katerina pulled a chair over to the window and sat down, resting her chin on her hands. With the possible exception of the voluptuous redhead in the clinging gown, the ladies down in the walled garden were quite safe in their summer gowns the soft shades of the English countryside—rose-pink, primrose-yellow, leaf-green. Clustered together, their parasols in matching colours raised to protect their complexions from the sun, they looked like a posy of pretty blooms. Very elegant, delicate and much-prized hothouse flowers.

  Though her own petite frame suited her artistic requirements to perfection, Katerina felt a pang of envy watching the tall, willowy figures possessed by the duke’s aristocratic guests. Two in particular stood out, one a disdainful blonde, the other a dusky brunette, perfect foils for each other. Perhaps one of those two was Fergus Kennedy’s intended bride. Though he’d tried not to show it, he had been hurt yesterday by whatever snub she had handed him. Perhaps she was the type who took pleasure in humiliating her admirers, or perhaps she was the type who thought her value enhanced by constant refusals. After all, men desired most what they could not have, Katerina thought bitterly, until they had it, and then it became a mere trophy.

  But the Duke of Brockmore’s niece had no need to play games. Foolish woman, whichever of these beauties she was, if she continued to do so, for Fergus Kennedy was most certainly not the type of man who would meekly play along.

  At least, she would not have thought he was. But then, she would not have thought he was the type of man who would allow himself to be ordered to marry. He was neither spineless nor passionless. Yesterday, when she had worked the rope as he looked on, desire had connected them like another, more ethereal, rope. Last night, when she was performing, she had had felt it tug powerfully at her again. He never took his eyes off her. Knowing that he was watching had given her display a new soaring quality, almost as if she had grown wings.

  It was a sobering thought. Rather a frightening one. She could fly perfectly well without Fergus Kennedy. He was no different from all the other male admirers who found her skimpy costumes and flexible limbs alluring. Men who would boast to their friends of their exploits, but who would never dream of introducing her to their family. Men for whom the conquest was all, and the woman they had conquered—valueless. She knew that. She could not afford to forget that. Yesterday, Fergus might well have seemed interested in her, but yesterday, Fergus had arrived in the walled garden with a bruised ego and a wish to forget, for a moment, why he was here at Brockmore Manor in the first place. She had been a short-term distraction, no more. She’d do well to keep her distance from him.

  A burst of applause startled her from her melancholy musings. Alexei stood in the centre of the circle of women, his arms crossed, his expression stormy. Finally, the duchess realised that she and her ladies were persona non grata, for she was leading the way out of the garden, presumably to resume their tour of the gardens and the legendary orchid house. A posy of tra
ditional English roses to be introduced to the duchess’s exotic blooms.

  * * *

  Fergus grasped the oars of the rowing boat and concentrated on gently pushing it away from the little jetty on the island and out on to the lake. Lady Verity had been his allotted passenger for the return trip after the picnic luncheon, but when he’d dutifully invited her to step aboard, she had demurred, thrusting the Kilmun twins at him in her stead.

  He had not attempted to cajole her. In truth, he’d felt guiltily relieved. She was very beautiful, but there was something about the haughty way she surveyed the world, the cold, clipped way she conversed, that he found most off-putting. At dinner last night he’d tried to be attentive, but to little avail. He had tried to persuade himself that she was most likely nervous given the circumstances, but today during the picnic, watching her perfectly relaxed with the other guests, he had caught glimpses of the vivaciousness that had by all accounts made her the toast of the ton. Yet in his company, he could almost see the icicles forming. And if he was brutally honest, lovely as she was, eminently suitable as she was as a diplomat’s wife, as a woman, she left him as cold as he appeared to leave her.

  He wasn’t the kind of conceited dolt who expected every woman he met to fall at his feet, though he’d never before failed to charm when that was his stated intention. Was she one of those women who were incapable of feelings? No, that was his male pride talking. Besides, the point of this week was not to charm or woo, but to forge an alliance. A matchmaking fair, Katerina had called this Midsummer Party, and she was right. A marriage market is what it was.

  Clear of the shallows around the island, he began to row towards the boating house with long, powerful strokes. The Kilmun twins smiled their almost-identical smiles at him.