Tokens of Love

by Mary Balogh

  TOKENS OF LOVE

  Five Regency Love Stories

  Mary Balogh

  Sandra Heath

  Carol Proctor

  Sheila Walsh

  Margaret Westhaven

  Contents

  The Substitute Guest by Mary Balogh

  Saint Valentine’s Eve by Margaret Westhaven

  The London Swell by Carol Proctor

  Dear Delight by Sheila Walsh

  February Falsehoods by Sandra Heath

  The Substitute Guest

  by Mary Balogh

  Lady Florence Carver set the letter down beside her plate and frowned at the toast rack, which was standing inoffensively in the middle of the breakfast table. If she could just get her hands about Hetty’s neck at this precise moment, she thought, she would happily squeeze. Drat the woman! Though she herself was most to blame, she supposed. She might have guessed that Hetty would develop one of her frequent ailments at the last moment and cry off from the house party she had agreed to attend.

  Hetty’s defection meant that only ten guests would arrive on the morrow, six gentlemen and four ladies, five counting Lady Florence—a disgusting and quite impossible imbalance of numbers.

  Tomorrow! There was no point in frantically scouring her mind for another lady to invite, Lady Florence thought, though she found herself doing just that. It was far too late. Everyone was arriving the next day. St. Valentine’s Day was only four days off. Even if someone could be invited in a hurry and could arrive in time for the day of the festival, it would be too late. For St. Valentine’s Day was to be merely the culmination of the events she had planned.

  Lady Florence picked up the letter and crumpled it viciously in her right hand, winning for herself a nervous glance from her butler. Damn Hetty! She hoped the woman really had the migraines this time and was not merely imagining them as she usually did.

  What could she do? Lady Florence drew a deep breath and forced her mind to calmness. This was no time to give in to the vapors. Stop one of the gentlemen from coming? Tell him that she had been forced to cancel the party for some reason? Percy Mullins lived only twelve miles away. But of course he would find out soon enough that she had lied to him. And Percy had a nasty gossiping tongue and would spread the word far and wide. No, she could not do that.

  What about ladies within ten or twelve miles? Were there any worthy of the rest of the company she had invited? Any that would accept an invitation from her on such short notice? Any of suitable age and character? She immediately thought of Susan Dover, elder daughter of Sir Hector Dover. But Sir Hector and his wife would never allow it. Besides, the girl was probably no more than twenty.

  There was Claire Ward, of course. She was the right age—she must be very much closer to thirty than to twenty, and her eldest brother, though a commoner, had a considerable estate and fortune. She lived with him and his family no more than eight miles away. But Miss Ward was a confirmed spinster and a prude. She would not do at all.

  And then there was… There had to be someone, Lady Florence thought, her mind a blank. Ah, there was Edna Johnson, a widow like herself and amiable enough. But Mrs. Johnson, she remembered now as she thought about it, was in the north of England visiting relatives of her late husband.

  Well, she thought ten minutes later, having wandered through to the morning room from the breakfast room and stared out on a damp and gloomy morning, there was no one. No one at all. And everything was going to be ruined. Everything that she had so carefully planned in order to bring herself some amusement after a winter of nothing but dullness. London had been dull without the crowds that the spring Season would bring, and Christmas at the Byngs had been insipid.

  It was going to be worse than ruined, in fact. It was going to be a total disaster. How did one entertain six gentlemen and five ladies—including oneself—for a Valentine’s party? Assign two gentlemen to one of the ladies? The idea had interesting possibilities, but would probably be far more appealing to the fortunate lady than to either of the two gentlemen.

  She rapped her fingernails impatiently on the windowsill. She was going to have to try Miss Ward. The woman would stick out in the company rather like a sore thumb, and some poor gentleman would doubtless return home less than satisfied after the party was over. And the chances were strong that Miss Ward would refuse the invitation. Very strong. But there really was no alternative. She must be tried.

  Lady Florence crossed the room to the escritoire and looked down at the blank sheets of paper and the quill pen and inkwell set out there fresh that morning as they were each day. It was going to have to be a very carefully worded invitation if it was to be accepted. How did one persuade a prudish spinster to attend a house party at the home of a wealthy widow who had acquired something of a reputation for wildness since the demise of her husband two years before?

  She seated herself and tested the nib of the pen with one finger. Well, the words would have to be found somehow. She dipped the pen in the inkwell with more confidence than she felt.

  ———

  She might have decided differently, Claire Ward thought later that evening as she puzzled over what clothes and other belongings should be packed inside the empty trunk open on the floor of her dressing room, if only the Reverend Clarkwell had not been visiting when the invitation arrived. In fact, without a doubt she would have decided differently. But he had been and she had not and there was an end of the matter.

  Should she pack any of her lace caps? she wondered, and she glanced into the looking glass at the one she wore on her smooth brown hair. She looked like a plain and placid spinster—which was exactly what she was. No, she thought, caps would doubtless be inappropriate at a house party. She would leave them at home. Truth to tell, she did not know what was appropriate for a house party, the only ones she had attended having been family affairs, for Christmas or birthdays or christenings. This was to be a party of strangers—”a select group of the most prominent and respected members of society,” as Lady Florence Carver had phrased it in her letter.

  Why had she been invited? Claire wondered as she had wondered when the invitation arrived soon after luncheon. But the answer was as obvious now as it had been then. Someone had let Lady Florence down and she had had to make up numbers at a moment’s notice. There could be no other possible reason.

  She really ought not to have accepted the invitation. She had had no inclination to do so even at the start. Had she been alone when it had arrived, there would have been no decision to make. She would simply have penned a polite refusal and sent Lady Florence’s messenger on his way. But she had not been alone. And when Myrtle, her sister-in-law, had asked her what the unexpected letter was all about, she had answered truthfully.

  “Lady Florence Carver?” Myrtle had said, her usual breathless little-girl voice sounding shocked. “Oh, Claire, love, she is very fast.” And she had colored up as if she had just used one of the worst obscenities one of the stablehands might have uttered.

  “Her guests are to be a select group,” Claire had said. “The most prominent and respected members of society.” But neither Myrtle nor the Reverend Clarkwell had recognized the gleam of amusement in her eyes as Roderick, her brother, would have done.

  “I do believe, my dear Miss Ward,” the vicar had said, “if you will excuse me for voicing my opinion, which I make bold to do only because I am your pastor and you one of my flock, my dear ma’am. I do believe that for the sake of propriety and your reputation you should return the most formal of refusals. I only lament the fact that Lady Florence is one of the lost sheep of my flock and that any kindly words to point out the e
rror of her ways would only fall on dry ground.”

  “They cannot be respectable, Claire, if they are to be Lady Florence’s guests,” Myrtle had said. “Indeed, I do believe it is an insult that she has invited you, and I am sure that Roderick will agree. I wonder why she did so. But of course, you will take the Reverend Clarkwell’s advice. Indeed, love, we will excuse you now so that you may write your reply immediately. I believe you may mention that Roderick disapproves of such country parties.”

  “May I?” Claire had asked. “Without his permission, Myrtle?”

  “It is quite seemly, my dear Miss Ward,” the vicar had said, “for a dutiful sister and wife to use the name of the gentleman of the house in his absence under such circumstances, especially when they have the advice of a sincere man of the cloth such as myself, if I may so call myself without losing my humility.”

  “It is settled, then,” Myrtle had said, looking and sounding relieved.

  “Is it?” Claire had tapped the invitation against one palm. “I am rather inclined to accept. I am curious to know what such a party will be like and who the select and respected members of society are.”

  Myrtle had had to ask the Reverend Clarkwell to ring for her maid so that her vinaigrette might be brought to revive her. And that gentleman had launched into a speech that almost rivaled one of his Sunday sermons for length and moral rectitude and dullness.

  And so she had accepted her invitation, Claire thought with a sigh, drawing her best blue silk out of the wardrobe and trying to remember when was the last time she had worn it. How could she have resisted? And if the truth were known, she had really felt that twinge of curiosity she had pretended to. What did happen at such parties? What were such people like? What sort of people associated with the widow of a baron and daughter of an earl, a woman who was known as “fast”?

  Her life had been so bounded by respectability and duty, Claire thought. And it was not an exciting life, she had to admit. Those people who had assured her during the years she had devoted to her ailing father when she might have been getting married and starting a family that she would one day receive her reward had been merely mouthing platitudes. The truth was that she had been left on the shelf and that being forced to live with a brother and sister-in-law and their two children, however kind and affectionate they were to her, was nothing like any reward she might have imagined.

  She was twenty-eight years old and had never done anything remotely out of the ordinary or exciting. Perhaps after all it was a good thing that the pomposity of the vicar and the timidity of her sister-in-law had tempted her into being rash for once in her life.

  She was to spend four nights at Carver Hall and three and a half days. With total strangers. Even with Lady Florence herself she had only a nodding acquaintance. Oh, dear, Claire thought, her hand stilling on her russet velvet riding habit, what had she done? Twenty-eight seemed a very advanced age at which to decide to be impetuous and adventurous.

  But there was nothing much she could do about it now. She dragged the habit from its hanger. She had already weathered the vicar’s lengthy sermon and Myrtle’s vapors and Roderick’s frowns. It would be just too anticlimactic if she were to change her mind now. Besides, she had written an acceptance of the invitation.

  “An adult party,” the Duke of Langford said, following his hostess upstairs to the room that had been allotted as his bedchamber. Lady Florence Carver would not do anything as formal and proper as having one of her servants show him there. “The emphasis you put on the word adult, Florence, would suggest that you mean more than that we need not expect nursery infants to be chasing between our legs.”

  “There is not a guest below the age of six-and-twenty,” she said, leading the way into a large, square chamber and crossing the room to throw back the heavy curtains a little wider. “And not one who does not know a thing or two about life, Gerard.”

  “Interesting,” he said, his hand toying with the ribbon of his quizzing glass, though he did not raise it to his eye. Lady Florence had crossed to the bed and was fussing with the bedhangings, though they were already looped back quite firmly.

  “I can recall your saying just this past winter,” she said, “that you were bored with all the sweet young things fresh every year on the marriage market. Your very words, I believe, Gerard.”

  “Oh, very probably,” he agreed. “Not that I have any quarrel with sweet young things as such, Florence, but only with their eagerness despite everything—or more accurately, the eagerness of their mamas—to believe that I am shopping.”

  “Then I believe that this will be just your kind of party,” Lady Florence said, sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling at him. “And it is a Valentine’s party, Gerard. Did I mention that? It is a party for love and merriment and—love.” She smiled archly at him.

  “Intriguing,” he said. “Depending, I suppose, on the guest list?” He lifted his eyebrows and ignored the invitation of her hand, which was patting the bed beside her as if unconsciously.

  “Lady Pollard is coming,” she said. “Mildred always livens any party. And Frances Tate. Her husband is busy as always at the Foreign Office. She finds life in town quite tedious. And Lucy Sterns and Olga Garnett. Oh, and Claire Ward.”

  The duke pursed his lips. “And yourself, Florence,” he said. “An interesting guest list. Who is Claire Ward?”

  “A neighbor,” she said. “Hetty let me down at the very last minute, the tiresome woman. The migraines again. I invited Miss Ward to take her place.”

  “Ah,” he said, strolling to the window and glancing out at the park that stretched to the front of the house, “your tone is dismissive, Florence. I gather Miss Ward is the weak link in this chain of delight that you have forged for yourself and your guests.”

  “No matter,” she said. “Tomorrow I will have everyone paired, Gerard. An old Valentine’s game, you know. I shall see that she is paired with Percy Mullins. I was obliged to invite him because he considers himself a neighbor and would have pouted for a year if I had omitted him from my guest list and would have gossiped viciously about me at the gentlemen’s clubs for five.” She got up from the bed and strolled toward him. “I shall leave you to freshen up if you do not need me,” she said, setting a hand on his arm.

  “Everything seems to be in perfect readiness,” the duke said, turning from the window and surveying the room through his quizzing glass. “No, I think I have no further need of you for the present, Florence. And doubtless your other guests are beginning to spill downstairs. I was not the first arrival, you said?”

  Left alone a short time later, he lowered his glass and looked about the room again. An adult party. A guest list that included two widows, a married lady whose infidelities to her husband were an open secret, and two unmarried ladies who had one foot each in the demimonde and one in the world of respectability. He had not asked about the other male guests.

  And a Valentine’s party. One intended for love and—love, according to Florence. He did not doubt that she would ensure that it was just that, though perhaps love was a euphemism for what she really had in mind.

  Well. He shrugged. It might be interesting. All five of the ladies with whom he was acquainted would make amusing companions for three days. Probably a good deal more than amusing too. As for Miss Claire Ward… He shrugged again. Florence seemed to have everything organized so that he would not have to concern himself with the substitute guest.

  He wandered through to the adjoining dressing room, where his valet had already laid out a change of clothes for him. Steam was rising from the water in the basin on the washstand.

  Let the party begin, the duke thought.

  ———

  One thing at least she could feel relieved about, Claire thought at dinner that evening. She was not to be the grandmother of the gathering, as she had rather feared—though, of course, she had known that Lady Florence was older than she. Indeed, it was quite possible, Claire thought, that she was the youngest guest pre
sent. It was good to know that she was not going to feel uncomfortably elderly.

  There was little else to be relieved about. Everyone else was acquainted. Only she knew no one. And though Lady Florence was graciously condescending and a few of the other guests courteous, she felt uncomfortable. They all talked about London and common acquaintances and appeared to derive a great deal of amusement out of being nasty about the latter.

  She wondered if the three remaining days would creep past at snail’s pace and if she would soon regret more than she already did that the Reverend Clarkwell’s visit had coincided with the arrival of Lady Florence’s invitation.

  “Ladies,” Lady Florence said, rising from her place and smiling about the table, “shall we leave the gentlemen to their port? Make the most of it, gentlemen. This will be the only evening we will allow you such an indulgence.”

  While the other ladies laughed and some of the gentlemen protested, Claire got hastily to her feet and followed her hostess from the room. She should have worn her best blue silk, she thought, looking at the very fashionable gowns worn by the other ladies and aware that her own must look almost shabby in contrast. But then if she had worn it tonight, she would have had nothing suitable to wear for the Valentine’s party Lady Florence had planned for the final evening.

  “Do let us have some music,” Lady Florence said, wafting a careless hand in the direction of the pianoforte in a far corner of the drawing room. “Who plays? Lucy?”

  “Not since my come-out year when it was obligatory to play and sing in order to impress the gentlemen,” Miss Sterns said with a laugh. “Not me, Florence.”

  It seemed that the other ladies had similar objections to playing.

  “Miss Ward,” Lady Florence said, “you play. I am quite sure you do, being a lady who has cultivated all the country virtues. Do play for us.”

  “Yes, do, Miss Ward,” Lady Pollard said, smiling charmingly.