The quarrel is a pretty quarrel as it stands; we should only spoil it by trying to explain it.
—Richard Brinsley Sheridan
The Prince Regent’s fête in honor of the Duke of Wellington was, everyone agreed, a spectacular success. Even those guests who were critically inclined could not help but admire the series of temporary rooms and buildings erected in the gardens of Carlton House. The
pièce de résistance,
a polygonal ballroom, was one hundred and twenty feet in diameter, built of brick with a leaded roof.
Between swagged muslin draperies hung countless mirrors. Sparkling chandeliers illuminated the large chamber and those of the several thousand guests who had managed to cram themselves therein. Representatives of the principal branches of the royal family were present; foreign ambassadors and visitors of varying rank; ministers, officers of state, the
crème de la crème.
Due to the large number of officers in attendance, many of whom had served in the Peninsula, the entertainment had the air of a military fête. The Duke wore full uniform and his decorations, the Spanish Order of the Golden Fleece, made up of diamonds, occasioning much remark.
Lord Saxe stood with Angel Jarrow near the flower-covered structure that screened the bands. The gentlemen were admiring neither the flowers nor the music, but attempting to hold a private conversation in spite of the many ladies who desired to dance — preferably horizontally, and next to that the daring new waltz, but in a pinch a cotillion would suffice.
“Fanny Arbuthnot hasn’t been seen since the
bal masque,
” said Kane. “No one seems concerned.” His attention was fixed on his Regent, who wore a field marshal’s dress uniform that he had designed himself.
Prinny had a talent for designing uniforms. His political opponents said he would have made a splendid upholsterer.
Angel followed his friend’s gaze. “Does
he
know of your missing — ah, dilemma?”
“One can never be certain what Prinny does or doesn’t know.” Or what the Regent might do when some ill-considered notion invaded his brain.
Kane hoped this business wasn’t result of such a notion. “Verity Vaughan — I believe you know the young woman? — has also disappeared.”
Angel searched his memory. Miss Vaughan had been lured to London from the provinces by an offer of employment at Drury Lane. She was a lovely creature with coppery curls and classical features and an animated manner that convinced each of her beaux he was her particular delight.
She had found Angel especially delightful. “You shan’t blame me for it. I didn’t know her all
that
well.”
“Miss Vaughan went to dinner with one of her admirers, a ‘Mr. Falconer,’ and failed to return. Kemble is beside himself, though he can hardly blame the lady if she has chosen a wealthy protector over a precarious career. Miss Vaughan was one of the Burlington House Dianas, in case I haven’t said. One wonders how many people have access to that guest list.”
From the provinces to Carlton House, mused Angel. Miss Vaughan had chosen an odd time to retire from the public stage.
If
she had so chosen. “Horus is often represented as a great falcon with wings outstretched, his right eye the sun and his left the moon; or a lion with the head of a falcon; or a falcon resting on the neck of a pharaoh with wings outstretched. Have you learned any more about this ‘Mr. Falconer’?”
“Other than that he offered her a pair of diamond earrings, no.”
“How unoriginal.” Angel noticed a striking woman making her way across the crowded ballroom. Midnight hair, ivory-pale skin. Exotic dark eyes, set under strongly marked brows. Her lips were a deep burgundy; her nose slender and slightly aquiline. Her luscious body showed to good advantage in a low-cut gown of Paris green crape over a white satin slip.
Isabella Jarrow had made a sensation on her debut. She was making a sensation now. The Polite World (or that part of it privileged to be present) waited with bated breath as she drew near to her spouse.
She awarded Kane a cool nod. “Lord Saxe.”
“Mrs. Jarrow.” The baron made her a small bow.
“
Ma belle,
” said Angel. “As usual you look not mortal but divine.”
Isabella shrugged, drawing all eyes to her bodice. “A pretty compliment, but your delivery is lacking. Mayhap you have practiced overmuch. I see your face is showing signs of dissipation. Whereas I remain perfection, you are not as handsome as once you were.”
She sought, as usual, to annoy him. Angel settled in to enjoy the exchange. “Neither of us is as young as once we were. I believe I detect a sight thickening around your waist. How do you go on, Bella? Myself, I am tolerably well. Be done with this, my pigeon. You will not have the best of me, you know.”
Isabella flicked open her ivory fan. “I have had the best of you. It did not leave me wanting more.”
“You disappoint me, Bella. I expected better of you. ”
“The pair of you might care to save this conversation for a less public venue,” suggested Kane, grateful he had never wed. “Unless you wish to keep the gossips gabbling for a week.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Jarrow chose to ignore this excellent advice. “I hear Cathcart has lost his senses over you,
ma chère,
” said Angel. “Many more notches in your bedpost and the whole structure will collapse.”
“Says the man who doesn’t spend enough time in any one bedchamber to note the color of the wallpaper.” Isabella displayed her splendid teeth. “Major Cathcart worships me with a devotion that borders on fixation. I daresay I will break his heart. Speaking of conquests, I have seen your latest. She should not wear stripes.”
Angel feigned astonishment. “Are we comparing lovers? How world-weary we’ve become. But what have you against Daphne? She is generally held to be a diamond of the first water, or so I’m told.”
Isabella’s fine nostrils flared.
She
was a diamond of the first water and disliked hearing any other female spoken of in flattering terms. “The contessa is a nice enough bauble, but not a first class gem. Be that as it may, I referred to Madalyn Tate. Take care lest you destroy your reputation. The woman is quite commonplace.”
“I’m not certain that personal appearance isn’t overrated,” remarked Angel, as his gaze moved over his wife’s perfect features. “Flesh stretched over bone, no matter how handsomely, must wither and sag. In any event, you misunderstand the situation. Mrs. Tate has two small sons. They were in need of a dog, which I was able to provide. A great exertion, you will say, and so it was. I believe good deeds usually are.”
“Good deeds? You?” scoffed Isabella. “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.”
“Why should I?” inquired Angel. “Your opinion matters as little to me as mine does to you, my pet.”
Isabella curled her lip. “I am not your pet.”
“You are precisely that, so long as I pay your bills. Must I again point out the pecuniary advantage of staying on my good side?”
“You don’t have a good side.”
“Ah, but I do. It is the side where I carry my purse. You must do as you please, of course, but I feel I should remind you that we are not alone
.
”
Isabella scowled so fiercely at the closest observers that they fell back a pace. “One day,
mon ange
,” — this said with heavy sarcasm — “you will tweak the wrong tiger’s tail. I hope I may be present to see you get your head bit off.” She turned and walked away. Soon after, the various eavesdroppers drifted off, to mull over what they had heard and seen, and marvel and embellish on it, and speculate about what
he
had said to cause
her
to act like she’d bit into a sour plum.
“Why don’t you divorce her and be done with it?” asked Kane.
“There are advantages to being married. For instance, matchmaking mamas don’t set their sights on me.” Angel was still watching Isabella. “I wonder if I should warn the major that my wife is one of those bloodthirsty females who strips away a man’s skin so she may eat his heart.”
“You sound almost as if you admire her.”
“In a way, I do. She is so much herself, you see. But enough of Bella. Where were we when she interrupted us?”
Kane didn’t imagine for a moment that Angel had forgotten. “Fanny Arbuthnot. Verity Vaughan. Maddie Tate.”
“Ah, yes. Mrs. Tate spied Henry, decided he was acting oddly, and followed him — unusual behavior for the lady, but she had consumed several glasses of champagne. When Henry entered a closed room, she peered through the keyhole. The pharaoh was already present. She could not make out their conversation beyond — she thinks — ‘slave to an unamiable woman’ and ‘political necessity’.”
“‘Political necessity’,” repeated Kane. “I dislike the sound of that.”
“You will like even less to learn that Horus broke Henry’s head. Mrs. Tate’s hand jerked on the knob, and the door swung open, and she fled. The last she saw of Henry, he lay bleeding on the rug.”
Kane uttered a soft curse. “Did she describe the room to you?”
“As best she could recall it. I know it is in your nature to be suspicious, but I believe she’s told me all she knows.”
“Oh? Did she also mention why her name was
not
on the guest list?” Leaving Angel looking pensive, Kane took himself off to confer with Lord Castlereagh.
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare.
—Lord Byron
To the west of the polygonal ballroom, inside a Corinthian temple, a marble bust of the Duke of Wellington perched atop a column in front of a large mirror engraved with a capital W and a star. Maddie studied the marble Duke. Her companion studied her.
Jordon Rhodes had not risen in the world to associate with Maharajas and Prince Regents by being unaware of what went on in his vicinity. Just now, he was aware that Louise was keeping things from him. The particulars of the business, he intended to find out, and so he informed her long-time partner in mischief.
Maddie protested, “Unfair! I was but a child.”
No child could wear that gown of white mull striped with silver tinsel and embroidered around the hem, its puffed sleeves set low on her shoulders, its high waist finished off with a knotted tasseled cord. Her brown curls had been drawn back and threaded with ribbons and flowers.
Jordan regarded the deep dip of her neckline. A great deal of Maddie was on view. There was something pleasantly perverse about admiring the bosom of a childhood friend.
The bosom’s owner eyed him. “You’re staring,” she said.
“So I am,” agreed Jordan. “I daresay you consider yourself grown up.”
Maddie’s childhood companion had grown into a handsome man. Dark evening clothes complimented his tanned skin and gold-streaked auburn hair. “So grown up,” she informed him, “that I now have two children of my own.”
He offered her his arm. “My sympathy for your loss. I believe that is what I am required to say. Louise is jumpy as a cat treading on hot bricks. You may as well tell me why, because I will find out.”
So much for catching up with old friendships. “You refine too much on it. Louise is merely high-strung.”
“Louise has no more sensibility than a stone. You and she were always thick as thieves at a fair.”
“That was once true. But we have grown apart.”
“Louise does not think so.”
“She feels an old affection. It is the attraction of opposites, perhaps.”
“In other words, Louise is a dasher and you a pattern-card of propriety? Trying it on much too rare and thick.”
His arched eyebrow was perfection, not too slight a gesture and yet not too extreme. Maddie suspected that, like Louise, Jordan practiced his poses in front of the looking-glass.
He had the same bright green eyes. Amusement twinkled in their depths. Maddie said, “You doubt I am a pattern-card?”
“Pattern-cards don’t go driving in the park with Angel Jarrow. Ah yes, I heard about that. Do you believe him to be less wicked than the gossips say?”
“I believe he is every bit as wicked, if not more. What concern is this of yours, pray?”
Definitely, those green eyes twinkled. “I must assure myself that you are a fit companion for my sister, of course.”
“Of course not, I think. You haven’t told me what has brought you home.”
“Nothing I can discuss with you. What is Louise keeping from me?”
“Nothing I
would
discuss with you, even if I could. Tell me about India.”
“Curry and kabobs, cholera and monsoons.” During this conversation, they had walked the length of the covered promenade, which was hung with rose-corded draperies, and re-entered the ballroom. “Here we are. I am returning you to your friends, thereby proving that I didn’t forget my manners while I was away.” Jordan lowered his voice. “You do Louise no favors in shielding her from me. And there is one other thing.”
“Oh?”
“A pattern-card would never wear that dress.” Before she could respond, he strolled away, pausing to speak with his half-sister, who stood flirting with a gaggle of military gentlemen. Mrs. Holloway was, as she had predicted, exquisite in celestial blue crepe and pearls. Maddie hated to imagine what the gown might have cost.
Louise extricated herself from her military escort and made her way to Maddie’s side. “What a slyboots you are, stealing off like that. What did Jordan say to you?”
Maddie doubted Louise would be interested in comments on pattern-cards. “He suspects you’re in trouble. You should tell him the truth.”
“If Jordan learns the whole he will lock me away with Great-Aunt Mathilda and I’ll have no moe pleasure in my life.” Louise scanned the crowd. “Here comes Lord Maitland to claim his dance. However did you manage to catch the eye of a marquess?”
Maddie cherished no illusions about her sudden popularity. It was Angel Jarrow’s fault. First he had stood flirting with her at his sister’s rout, and then he’d taken her up in his phaeton for a drive around the park, and now the fashionable world wanted to discover what he saw in her that they had not.
Grateful this was a country dance, Maddie allowed the marquess to lead her out onto the wooden floor, which was chalked with elegant devices radiating from the center of the room to the pillars at the side. If almost her father’s age, Maitland remained a fine figure of a man, with silver-threaded hair and a pleasant face belied by watchful grey eyes. She imagined
him
practicing his poses, and bit back a smile.
“Something amuses you?” the marquess inquired.
“I am merely enjoying myself, my lord.”
The babble of voices, the strains of the orchestra, the movements of the country dance, made conversation difficult. Maddie returned perfunctory responses to her companion’s remarks, which centered on Princess Charlotte’s broken engagement to the Prince of Orange, result of her attachment to England, which she refused to leave (as well as her fear of being cut out of the succession to the throne), and her devotion to her mother (who alternated between ignoring her entirely and deploring her want of character), and had nothing at all to do with the fact that the prince bore an unfortunate resemblance to a frog.
Every dance must end, and this dance was no exception. The marquess escorted Maddie from the dance floor. “You intrigue me, Mrs. Tate. Your father has no love for the Regent. What will you tell Sir Owen when he learns you
have entered the foremost den of Tory iniquity? I suggest you disarm him with a speech of your own, along the lines of ‘we have a starving population, an overwhelming debt, impoverished landholders, bankrupt traders, soldiers returning home to penury if they can make their way home at all — while the Regent holds shockingly expensive balls at Carlton House’.”
“That is an excellent suggestion. I will bear it in mind.” Lord Maitland’s gaze drifted to her bosom. Maddie sent him off to the refreshment tent — this also hung with rose-corded draperies and decorated with plate-glass and embellished with at least one W— in search of something cold to drink.
Relieved to be left alone, Maddie surveyed her surroundings. Could the pharaoh be among the guests? She had never realized that gentlemen came in such an astonishing variety.
“You are enchanting tonight, Diana,” said a voice behind her. Maddie’s heart gave a queer little thump.
She turned. Mr. Jarrow looked so delicious in formal attire that her mouth began to water. Here was no angelic being, he had too much worldly knowledge written on his face, and he was all the more attractive for having fallen from grace.
He added, “That is a most becoming gown.”
Maddie had believed so, before she left her father’s house. Matthew and the boys had pronounced her fine as flinders, and Lappy awarded her an enthusiastic tail-wag.
None of them had ogled her. However, many people had done so since, including Louise, who upon spying Maddie’s neckline, tugged her own bodice a couple inches closer to her waist.
Angel wasn’t ogling. Her bosom must pale in comparison with the countless others presented constantly for his inspection. Maddie realized why she’d worn this gown and was annoyed with herself.
The orchestra struck up a waltz. She wished Angel would invite her to dance. Naturally she’d accept; no female in possession of her senses, offered the opportunity to waltz with this unrepentant rogue, would say him nay. She imagined his hand against her back, his beautiful face mere inches from her own. His scent in her nostrils, clean linen and warm male. The crush of bodies would cause him to hold her so close that his thigh brushed hers; another inch, or two, or six, and her breasts would be crushed against his chest, which seemed to Maddie a splendid place for them to be.
Angel spoke then, as Maddie was considering how she might contrive to stumble and fall against him. “Did I see you talking with Jordan Rhodes?”
“Um?” said Maddie. “Ah. We are old friends. I cherished a schoolgirl tendre for Jordan. Why, I cannot now imagine. Do
you
know him, sir?”
“So formal, my goddess.” Angel awarded her a surprisingly sweet smile. “Tell me how I have offended so that I may make it up to you. As for Rhodes, I was introduced to him tonight.”
He was not speaking the truth, realized Maddie; or not the entire truth, which shouldn’t surprise her, for she was beginning to suspect that few people spoke the entire truth, including herself. “I daresay you tell people what they want to hear, and then do as you please.”
Angel considered this
non sequitur
. “I daresay I do.”
“I envy you.”
“As I understand our conversation,
you
would prefer to tell people what they want to hear?”
“I already tell people what they want to hear. And then I do whatever
they
please. Although I give myself full credit for standing up to Sir Owen about the dog.” As she spoke, Maddie caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Louise, in company with one of her military swains, had managed to position herself nearby.
Maddie made a dismissive gesture, wishing Louise was a fly that she might shoo away.
Angel regarded her quizzically. Maddie explained, feebly, “It is warm in here.”
He offered her his arm. “Prinny has a horror of drafts. We will find you cooler air. How is the dog faring? Shall I come and visit him?”
“Lappy has settled in nicely. And you mustn’t visit unless you wish to give Sir Owen an apoplexy. He says you are a—”
He stiffened. “Do you mean to condemn my morals? Don’t spare me, Mrs. Tate.”
“It’s not your morals that are at issue. You are a Tory, sir. Sir Owen assures me that anyone who lies down with Tories will get up with fleas.”
Angel’s expression lightened. “Would you like to lay down with me? I promise you I am vermin-free.”
Maddie doubted there was a woman in London who wouldn’t like to lie with him. “Are you trying to make me blush? Stop it, if you please.”
“I don’t please,” retorted Angel, “but we’ll leave that for the moment. You have more courage than you realize. It hasn’t escaped the notice of our fellow guests that you are again conversing with me.”
Maddie regarded him, bewildered. “I can hardly
not
speak to you without being rude.”
He grinned. “That will teach me to think too much of myself! Do you not care to talk to me? Shall I go away?”
“No!” Maddie flushed. “That is, of course I want to talk to you. We have an excellent reason to converse: you are inquiring about the dog.”
“We have another reason. Have you seen anyone here tonight who strikes a familiar chord?”
“I have not. And I must thank you for reminding me of what I had almost forgot. Have you learned more? About—?”
Angel interrupted her. “Not here where we may be overheard.”