The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

D
espite the oppressive heat of the September evening, the ball given by the Dowager Lady Hall-Bridger was a success. Fans might flutter in a constant attempt to cool pretty but flushed cheeks, fine linen handkerchiefs might be plied surreptitiously by gentlemen far too elegant to be so coarse as to perspire, but nonetheless the ballroom floor was crowded, the dancers merry and clearly enjoying themselves.

The ball was in honour of the come-out of Lady Hall-Bridger’s granddaughter, and to please that very indulged maiden, a larger than usual number of the younger set had been invited. Many of these were variously frolicking or flirting their way through a country dance. Two young ladies, however, stood chatting in a secluded archway that gave onto a corridor adjacent to the ballroom. Their murmurous conversation was frequently interspersed with soft laughter. Both were pretty enough to have attracted male attention, but neither appeared distressed by the lack of a dance partner. Long-time friends who had been separated for some months by the Grand Tour of one family, they were mutually delighted to have discovered
each other at this Society function and had slipped away to share the more noteworthy events each had experienced while parted. Their merry chatter turned very soon to
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gossip, mostly of a nature that their respective chaperones would have frowned upon.

Miss Maureen Coffey uttered a gasp and threw one lace-mittened hand to her cheek. Big brown eyes wide with awe, she exclaimed, “You never
did?
But—but he is
by far
the most adored and adorable gentleman in London!”

Miss Angela Alvelley giggled and agreed, adding pertly, “And the most pursued, though for his fortune rather than his good looks; at least that’s what my aunt says. Every mama in Town with an unwed daughter is on his trail.”

“And some with daughters they’ll never be able to fire off. Like poor Cordelia Stansbury, for instance.”

“That little dowd?” Miss Alvelley patted her powdered hair coquettishly. “Much chance that hatchet-faced mother of hers has.”

Behind them a large potted palm rustled suddenly, but the two damsels were so intent upon their well-bred character assassination that they were unaware of this odd occurrence.

Miss Coffey, who had a trace of kindness in her otherwise selfish heart, said, “Poor Cordelia. I cannot but feel sorry for her, she has such a frightful harpy for a mama! And she has been in love with him forever, you know.”

Incredulous, her friend stared at her. “With Gervaise Valerian?
Cordelia Stansbury?
You never mean it! Why, how prodigious stupid! She must know he can take his pick of all the beauties in the Southland. As if he would so much as glance her way, much less flirt with her!”

“Not with you in the same room, I’ll own. Though he has not seemed particular in his attentions this evening.”

Quite aware that she was judged one of the loveliest maidens in London Town and well on the way to becoming an acknowledged Toast, Miss Alvelley stiffened. “He can scarce flirt
with me while my grandmama is here, watching me like a hawk. She holds him to be dangerous.”

“As does every mama in Town. But they will risk a little flirtation if it may lead to his fortune!” Lowering her lashes, Miss Coffey added archly, “Even so, far from flirting with you, one might suppose he does not even know you are here.”

“Of course he knows, you silly thing! And when you look so smug, Maureen, I vow I yearn to scratch you! I could have him flying to my side in the wink of an eye, Grandmama or not, if I so wished. I will tell you in strict confidence that we had planned to meet here tonight.” The angry flash in her blue eyes faded. She said thoughtfully, “Still, you are right; he has been ignoring me. He is playing one of his sly little games, is all, keeping me waiting. Well, I think I shall teach the so much admired Gervaise Valerian a lesson!” She beckoned a hovering footman, and having captivated him with her delightful smile, sent him off.

Miss Coffey asked curiously, “Why do you want paper and seals? Are you going to write to him?”

“Yes. And beg that he meet me in the green ante-room.”

“Heavens! Angela, you must not! It is the farthest room, and very isolated. If anyone should see you alone with him you would be quite ruined!”

Miss Alvelley’s smile was bright with mischief.
“Do
try not to be so silly! I will be least in sight, and when he gets to the ante-room he can cool his heels waiting for the kiss he will think to win, while you and I enjoy the next dance with less conceited beaux.”

The footman returned, the fatal note was written and despatched, and the conspirators melted into the throng, aglow with the pleasurable knowledge that London’s most courted young bachelor was about to receive a well-deserved set-down.

Mrs. Regina Stansbury had chosen the small sofa in the corridor because it was tucked away, half-concealed by the fronds of a large potted palm, and offered privacy. She had retreated here to controller temper, sadly frayed by the barbed hints of two “friends” regarding her hopes for “Cordelia, poor child.” A lady of strong opinions and uncertain temperament, she prided herself on her impeccable lineage, which she judged superior to most of those present at this function. Her taste in dress was as impeccable as her lineage, and tonight she had chosen to wear a splendid mauve satin ball gown. A diamond-and-amethyst necklace was spread on her bony chest, and there were two curling feathers in her wig, which was of the latest French style. More diamonds sparkled in the bracelets she wore on her gloved wrists, and only a close inspection by an expert would reveal that the gems in both necklace and bracelets were paste.

Her sharp tongue and abrasive hauteur tended to limit the ranks of her friends, but she was acknowledged to be good
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, and as one of the leaders of fashion, was seen “everywhere.” Despite her husband’s rapidly shrinking funds, she refused his every plea for economy and persisted in patronizing London’s most talented (and expensive) modistes. Tall and thin, and blessed with a tiny waist, she wore her clothes well and presented an impressive appearance, but not the costliest gown or the richest jewels could soften the harsh line of her lips, or warm the glitter in the hard dark eyes.

Almost, she had confronted those two insolent girls when they’d dared to name her “hatchet-faced” and a “harpy,” and said she would never be able to “fire off” her “little dowd” of a daughter. How fortunate it was that she had succeeded in controlling her justifiable wrath and had continued to “overhear” their wicked conversation.

Looking after the plotters, her tight mouth became tighter. So Gervaise Valerian would “not so much as glance at” Cordelia! Thanks to a succession of profligate heirs and the hopeless
financial ineptitude of her spouse, the Stansburys no longer possessed a comfortable fortune, but insofar as lineage went, a Valerian might think himself fortunate to win a Stansbury for his bride. From time to time she had attempted to impart such awareness to young Gervaise, but he always contrived to slip away just as she was coming to the point. Once, while at a musicale, the rascal had been so gauche as to pretend not to have met Cordelia. It was a rare mis-step on his part and she had seized the golden opportunity at once, insisting upon introducing him to her daughter. She’d fancied that good manners would compel him to keep beside them, but he’d bowed politely to Cordelia and suddenly recalled he was promised to join another party. She had boxed her daughter’s ears when they returned home, and told her a few home truths about speechless, spotted, and fat females. Almost, she had despaired of Valerian, but now, that conceited little witch Angela Alvelley (whose aunt was
not
good
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and gave card parties of questionable repute) may well have given her the very tool she needed to catch the insolent young rake—and his fortune! Provided, she acted swiftly.