Tangled Reins

Chapter Three

Early next morning, before the appointed time and without further incident, the Grange party set off from the Three Feathers, watched, appreciatively, by Jim Hitchin.

The day was cool but the thaw had set in. The roads improved as they neared the capital, so the motion of the coach was more even and their progress noticeably more rapid. Dorothea was in a subdued frame of mind. On her return to their chamber the evening before she had been subjected to a barrage of questions from Cecily and Betsy. Her head still swimming, she had let the tide flow over her, knowing from experience that silence would more effectively stop the inquisition than any argument. This time, her normal stratagem had failed. The questions had continued until she lost her temper. ‘Oh, do stop fussing, both of you! If you must know, I had an encounter with an extremely impertinent gentleman on my way back from the coachyard, and I’m quite vexed!’

Cecily, piqued at her subsequent refusal to recount the incident, had only been diverted by the appearance of their meal. In August, in a moment of ill-judged candour, Dorothea had told her sister of her impromptu meeting with Lord Hazelmere in the woods. The memory of the tortuous explanations she had had to fabricate to conceal from Cecily’s avid interest the full tale of that encounter had ensured that this time she easily refrained from blurting out the name of the gentleman involved. In no circumstances could she have endured another such ordeal. Not when she was feeling so unusually exhausted.

She had had little appetite, but to admit this would only have reopened the discussion. So she had forced herself to eat some pigeon pie. After the brandy she had not dared to touch the wine. The meal completed, she had pointedly prepared for bed. Cecily, thankfully without comment, had done likewise.

A light sleeper, Dorothea had found it impossible to even doze until dawn, when the racket in the inn finally abated. She therefore had had ample time to reflect on her second encounter with the Marquis of Hazelmere. His calm assumption of authority irritated her deeply. His arrogant conviction that she would do exactly as he wished irked her beyond measure. The knowledge that, despite this, he possessed a strange attraction for her she resolutely pushed to the furthest corner of her mind. The last thing she felt inclined to do, she had sternly told herself, was to develop a tendre for the odious man! In all probability he would spend the night enjoying the favours of some doxy elsewhere in the inn. For some reason she found this thought absurdly depressing and, thoroughly annoyed with herself, had tried to compose her mind for sleep. Even then, when sleep finally came, it was haunted by a pair of hazel eyes.

Once they were under way, the swaying of the chaise quickly lulled her into slumber. She woke when they paused for lunch at a pretty little inn on the banks of the Thames. Only partially refreshed, she forced herself to consider how she was going to handle the coming interview with her grandmother. How, exactly, was she to broach the subject of Hazelmere and his promised visit? Back in the carriage, she dozed fitfully while her problems revolved like clockwork in her mind. She came fully awake when the wheels hit the cobbled streets. Gazing about, she was astonished by the hustle and bustle of life in the capital. As the carriage moved into the areas inhabited by the wealthier citizens the clamour was left behind, and both sisters were soon engaged in examining and pronouncing sentence on the elegant outfits they saw.

After asking directions, Lang finally drew up outside an imposing mansion on one side of a square in what was clearly one of the more fashionable areas. In the centre was an enclosed garden in which children and nursemaids were taking the late-afternoon air. The sun’s last rays were gilding the bare branches of the cherry trees there as the sisters were assisted from the carriage by the stately butler who had answered Lang’s knock.

Relieved of their cloaks and escorted to the upstairs drawing-room, the sisters made their curtsy to their fashionable grandmother. Lady Merion surged towards them, enveloping them in a mist of gauzes and perfume. Her blonde wig was perfectly set above a face still graced by traces of the pale beauty she had once been. Sharp blue eyes watched her world, set above a long straight nose and a mouth only too ready to laugh at what she saw.

‘My dears! I’m so glad to see you safely arrived! Now sit down and let me give you some tea. My chef, Henri, has sent up these delicacies to tempt you after your journey.’

Drawing them to sit around the fire, already burning brightly, Lady Merion noted that neither sister was looking her best. ‘Tonight we’ll have a very quiet time. You must both retire immediately after dinner. Tomorrow morning we’ve an appointment with Celestine, the most fashionable modiste in London. You must have recovered from your journey by then.’

As soon as they had eaten the delicious pastries and drunk their tea, Lady Merion rang the bell. It was answered by Witchett, a tall, angular woman with sparse grey hair whose peculiar talent in life lay in being able to turn out her elderly mistress in the most suitable of the currently fashionable styles. She was burning with curiosity to view the latest challenges to her skill. A quick glance at the Misses Darent told her that Mellow, the butler, had not exaggerated. In spite of their tiredness, their potential was apparent. The younger, properly dressed, would be a hit. And Miss Darent had that certain something that Witchett, a veteran campaigner, instantly recognised. The sisters were therefore favoured with a thin smile.

‘Ah, there you are, Witchett. Please conduct Miss Darent and Miss Cecily to their rooms. I suggest, my dears, that you rest before dinner. Witchett will see your things are unpacked, and she’ll take charge of your dressing until we can find suitable maids. Off with you, now.’ She dismissed them with a wave of one heavily beringed white hand.

They followed Witchett to two pretty bedchambers, obviously newly refurbished, Dorothea’s in a soft pastel green and Cecily’s in a delicate blue. Everything was already unpacked, and Witchett helped them undress. ‘I’ll return to assist you to dress for dinner, Miss Darent.’

Dorothea sank thankfully into the soft feather bed and immediately fell asleep.

Lady Merion had instructed her chef that a light and simple meal was all they required that evening. Consequently there were only three courses, each of some half a dozen dishes. Luckily both Dorothea and Cecily had recovered their appetites and were able to do justice to their first experience of the culinary delights of London.

Their grandmother was pleasantly surprised to find them considerably restored. Throughout dinner she monopolised the conversation. ‘First and by far the most important task is to have you both suitably gowned. For that, Celestine’s is first on our list. She’s the best known of Bruton Street’s modistes for good reason.’

Lady Merion had paid a visit to Celestine as soon as she had decided to launch her granddaughters into the ton. She had made it clear that she required that lady’s best efforts. Celestine had built her highly successful business through shrewd assessment of her clients’ abilities to display her creations in ton circles. Lady Merion’s granddaughters would be paraded at all the most exclusive venues. Having extracted a description of the young ladies, she had graciously agreed to do all possible to ensure their success.

‘Celestine’s talents are truly stupendous. After that, we’ll have to get your hair seen to, and I’ve organised a dancing master as well. I don’t expect you know the waltz?’ She paused to help herself to some buttered crab. ‘Once you’re presentable, our first outing will be a drive in the Park. We’ll go about three, which at this time of year is the right time to meet people. I’ll introduce you to a number of the leaders of the ton, and hopefully we can find some of the younger generation for you to make friends with. In particular, I hope we’ll meet Lady Jersey. Her nickname is “Silence”, because she chatters all the time. Don’t be put out if what she says seems rather odd. Princess Esterhazy should also be there. Both these ladies are patronesses of Almack’s. You need vouchers from them to attend. If you’re not admitted to Almack’s you may as well give up the Season and go home.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Dorothea. ‘I’d no idea it was that important.’

‘Well, it is,’ answered her grandmother with absolute conviction. She continued in this style, pouring forth an abundance of information. Dorothea and Cecily listened avidly. Possessing a fair degree of common sense, they needed no urging to learn all they could of the mores and practices of the fashionable from their experienced grandmama before their first venture into the critical world of the ton.

At nine o’clock, seeing Cecily stifle a yawn, her ladyship brought her lecture to an end. ‘It’s time both of you were in bed. Ring for Witchett, Dorothea. She’ll help you change. Go along, now. You’ve had enough for one day.’

As the door shut behind the sleepy girls Lady Merion settled herself more comfortably in the corner of her elegant sofa. She was going to enjoy this Season. Lately, her accustomed routine of fashionable pleasures had been sadly lacking in excitement.

She had not spent over sixty years at the hub of aristocratic life without learning to gauge the qualities of those around her. Every bit as shrewd as she was fashionable, she had been agreeably impressed by her rustic granddaughters when she had met them, for the first time in many years, at Darent Hall. On the basis of one afternoon’s reacquaintance she had decided it would be highly diverting to unleash them on the ton. While she had little doubt she would become sincerely fond of them, her main purpose had been purely selfish. Now, having re-examined their fresh faces and charmingly assured manners, she wryly wondered whether she would be able to cope.

Thinking again of the girls, she frowned. Dorothea had seemed strangely preoccupied. Hopefully she had not conceived a tendre for some country gentleman. Still, even if she had, the delights of a London Season would soon distract her from her sleepy country past.

Her cogitations were interrupted by a knock on the door. Dorothea, clad in a delicate pink wrapper with her dark hair swirling over her shoulders, put her head around the door. Seeing her grandmother, she entered.

The fair brows over the sharp blue eyes rose to improbable heights. ‘Why, child, what’s the matter?’

‘Grandmama, there’s something I must tell you.’

Ah-ha! thought her ladyship. Now I’m going to find out what’s bothering her. She motioned Dorothea to sit next to her.

Sinking gracefully down, Dorothea fixed her eyes on the fire and calmly let fall her bombshell. ‘Well, for a start I have to tell you that the Marquis of Hazelmere will call on you tomorrow.’

‘Good gracious!’ The exclamation was forced from Lady Merion as she jerked bolt upright, her fascinated blue gaze riveted on her grandchild. ‘My dear, how on earth did you meet a man of Hazelmere’s stamp? I didn’t know your mother was acquainted with the Henrys.’

Hermione was conscious of a dreadful sinking feeling at the mere mention of Hazelmere’s name. Drat the boy! He’d been the bane of many a hopeful mother’s life, proving so fascinating to their impressionable daughters that there was no doing anything with the silly chits. As he had proved impervious to the charms of all but certain delectable members of the demi-monde, careful mothers were wont to advise their daughters that, in spite of his undoubted eligibility, Lord Hazelmere did not feature on their lists of likely suitors. Dorothea’s words had started all sorts of hares racing in her mind, but why Hazelmere would want an interview with herself was more than she could imagine. She settled herself so that she had an uninterrupted view of her granddaughter’s face. ‘Start at the beginning, child, or I’ll never understand.’

Conscious of the steady scrutiny, Dorothea nodded and carefully began. ‘Well, the first time I met Lord Hazelmere was while I was berrying in Moreton Park woods last August. He had recently inherited the estate from his greataunt, Lady Moreton.’

‘Yes, I know about that,’ said her ladyship. ‘I knew Etta Moreton quite well. In fact, she wrote to me after your mother’s death, urging me to take a hand in your lives.’

‘Did she?’ That was news to Dorothea.

‘Mmm. But what happened when you met Hazelmere? I presume he made himself charming, as usual?’

Dorothea reminded herself that she had no idea how charming Hazelmere might be expected to be. She stuck to her edited story. ‘He introduced himself. Then, because I was unattended, he insisted on walking me home.’

Lady Merion, reading into her granddaughter’s careful tones rather more than Dorothea would have wished, leapt to a conclusion. ‘My dear, you needn’t be shy about telling me he made love to you shamelessly. He does it all the time. That devil can be utterly undeniable when the mood takes him.’

Her gaze wildly incredulous, Dorothea saw the crevasse yawning at her feet only just in time. Lady Merion had used the term ‘made love’ in the sense in which it was used in her heyday, to denote suggestive flirtation. Swallowing the words she had so nearly uttered, she forced her voice to calmness. ‘Charming? Actually, I found him rather arrogant.’

Her ladyship blinked at this cold assessment of one of society’s lions.

Dorothea hurried on. ‘I met Lord Hazelmere again at the inn last night.’

Lady Merion would have described herself as being inured to the ways of those around her. It was consequently with some surprise that she realised that her granddaughter, having been in the house for only a few hours, had managed to seriously shake her calm. She repeated weakly, ‘The Marquis was at the inn last night?’

‘Yes. And so were a large number of other gentlemen, because there’d been a prize-fight on near by.’

Lady Merion closed her eyes, asking herself what next this outrageous child would reveal. She received Dorothea’s carefully censored version of events at the inn in silence. She was, in fact, more than a little puzzled. While Hazelmere had acted most properly in rescuing Dorothea, his subsequent actions were much harder to understand. She could not see why he had been so angry. Highly unlike him to lose his temper at all, let alone with a chit he hardly knew.

Aware that Dorothea was waiting for her verdict, she put the puzzle of Hazelmere’s behaviour aside. ‘Well, my dear, I cannot see anything in your conduct which should cause you undue concern. I would not wish you to go about anywhere unattended, that’s true. But I know your life at the Grange lacked the formality it might have had. The happenings at the inn were highly regrettable, but you could not have known how it would be and thankfully Hazelmere was there to rescue you.’ She paused, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Do you have any idea why he wishes to see me tomorrow?’

Dorothea had given that particular question a great deal of thought. ‘I wonder whether it was because of the other gentlemen in the stableyard. He knew them, and they now know he has met me previously. I assume we’ll have to agree on some acceptable tale to account for that?’

Lady Merion considered this, then nodded. ‘Yes, that’s a likely explanation.’ Hazelmere would be well aware of the possible consequences of that public acknowledgement of their acquaintance, and it was quite in character that he should seek to minimise any damage. Whatever else he might be, Hazelmere would always behave as he ought.

Relieved of the nagging worry that she had committed some heinous social sin, Dorothea enjoyed a blissful night’s sleep. Cecily, too, slept the sleep of the innocent and was fully recovered from their travelling. Arriving in Bruton Street, they were met by the great Celestine herself. One look sufficed to tell that sharp-witted modiste that in the Misses Darent she had models equal to her talents. Five minutes in their company convinced her that, with their charmingly open manners and that unconscious air of the truly well bred, they were destined to be among the foremost hits of the Season.

The last thing needed to make her throw all her most prized designs at the Darent feet was provided when, on their arrival, Lady Merion took her aside. ‘My granddaughters’ affairs are moving apace, madame. Miss Darent has made the acquaintance of one of the unmarried peers. I can’t, of course, reveal his name, but he is most eligible. Lord H is definitely behaving with very much less than his usual sang-froid. I have every hope to see her creditably established before the Season ends.’

No mean player of society's games, Lady Merion was confident of the response her indiscretion would elicit. At the very least, Hazelmere’s intrusion into her granddaughter’s life should be put to good use. She had no illusions about her elder granddaughter. Cecily would take very well; she was virtually the epitome of the current craze for blonde beauties. Dorothea was striking, but would, she was sure, pale into insignificance in her ssister’s companyister’scompany. And, on top of that, she was far too much in command of herself to appeal to any gentleman’s chivalrous instincts. Although a brilliant match was wishful thinking, a good match was still well within her reach. Particularly with Celestine’s help.

On the matter of style, Celestine, a superbly gowned dark-haired woman of indeterminate age, made her pronouncements with a slight French accent. ‘Miss Cecily is so young and so fair that she must be dressed à la jeune fille! For Miss Darent, however, I would recommend a more sophisticated style. With your permission, my lady?’ She glanced speculatively at Lady Merion.

‘We are entirely in your hands, madame,’ responded her ladyship.

Celestine nodded. If that was so, she would seize this opportunity with both hands. Dressing the simpering daughters of the ton rarely gave her scope for her genius. To be presented with a client of the quality of Miss Darent was a God-given chance to display her true skill. Good bonestructure, perfect poise, regal deportment, striking and unusual colouring, a truly elegant figure and an arrestingly classical face-what more could a first-class modiste desire in her client? When she had finished with her Dorothea Darent would stand out in any crowd and, thank the lord, had the confidence to carry it off. Her black eyes sparkled. ‘Bon! Miss Darent’s colouring is sufficiently unusual. Also her deportment…so much more-how should I say?-elegant, poised. We will use daring colours and severe styling to make best use of what God has created.’

The next two hours were spent in a haze of gauzes and silks, muslins and cambrics as the relative merits of the various designs, materials and finishes were discussed and measurements taken.

After giving an order for a staggering number of gowns, some to be delivered later that evening for their first promenade in the park the next day, Lady Merion triumphantly led her granddaughters back to their carriage.

Returning to their rooms after a light luncheon, the girls found that in their absence Witchett had been shopping too. Opening their drawers, they found them fully stocked with underwear liberally edged with lace, stockings of the finest silk, ribbons of every hue, together with gloves, reticules, scarves, fans-in short, everything else they could possibly need. Witchett, coming up to see if they needed any assistance, found them exclaiming over their finds.

Seeing her at her bedchamber door, Dorothea beamed. ‘Oh, thank you, Witchett! I’m sure we would have forgotten all these things until we were about to go out!’

Witchett found herself, uncharacteristically, returning the smile. ‘Well, miss, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other things to think about.’ Really, it was very hard not to fall under the spell of these happy young things. ‘Now, Miss Cecily! I see you’ve crushed that pretty dress of yours terribly. You’ll have to be more careful with your new London gowns. Betsy can press it while you rest. She’s waiting in your chamber to help you undress.’

‘Oh, but I don’t want to rest!’

The querulous tone alerted Dorothea. Cecily could wilt rapidly when over-tired, and it was only the day before that they had been travelling. Catching Witchett’s eye to enjoin her silence, Dorothea, examining a lace collar by the window, calmly said, ‘If you don’t wish to rest then no one shall make you. Of course, we’ll have to pay attention this evening while Grandmama teaches us about society’s ways, but as long as you’re sure you’ll be awake I see no point in resting. It’s such a beautiful day that I think I’ll take a stroll in the park in the square. Why don’t you come with me?’

Witchett held herself aloof.

The expression on Cecily’s face turned thoughtful. On consideration, she was not so sure she could sustain another evening of dos and don’ts without fortification. ‘Oh, maybe Witchett’s right and I should rest. I always find it so difficult to remember things when I’m tired. Enjoy your walk!’ With an airy wave she drifted across the corridor.

Dorothea remained at the window, looking at the cherry trees swelling into bud and the children playing on the lawns underneath. ‘Witchett, I’m not perfectly sure, but is it acceptable for me to walk in that park?’

‘Yes, miss. Provided you have an attendant.’

‘Who would be an appropriate attendant should I wish to go for a walk now?’

‘I’ll accompany you, miss, as is right and proper. If you’ll wait for me in the hall I’ll just get my coat and join you there.’

Witchett was as prompt as her word and within five minutes Dorothea was strolling under the cherry trees, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on her face. Her pelisse kept out the cold breeze as she wended her way around the paths past beds of bright daffodils and early crocus. A child’s ball suddenly landed at her feet. Stooping to pick it up, she looked around for the owner. A fair lad about six years old stood uncertainly on the lawn on the other side of the daffodil bed. Smiling, she walked around to him, holding out the ball.

‘Say thank you, Peter,’ came a voice from a seat under one of the trees. Dorothea saw a nursemaid rocking a baby in her arms, smiling and nodding at her.

She turned back to find the child bowing from the waist, saying, ‘Thank you, miss,’ in a small gruff voice.

Impulsively she asked, ‘Would you like me to play catch with you for a while? I’ve just come out to enjoy the sunshine, so why don’t we enjoy it together?’

The wide smile that greeted this was answer enough, and, after glancing at his nursemaid to see she approved, young Peter settled down to a game of catch with his newfound acquaintance.

So the Marquis of Hazelmere, strolling around Cavendish Square on his way to Merion House, found the object of his thoughts playing ball in the square. Leaning on the railings surrounding the park, he watched as Dorothea taught Peter to throw. She was facing away from him, some distance away. Suddenly a particularly wild throw of Peter’s, greeted with hoots of laughter from the players, sent the ball rolling across the lawn to land in a nearby flower-bed. Dorothea followed. As she bent to pick the ball up Hazelmere couldn’t resist asking, ‘Alone and unattended again, Miss Darent?’

She whirled to face him, an ‘Oh!’ of surprise dying on her lips. For one wild moment his threat to beat her if he found her unattended again took possession of her mind. The appreciative gleam in his eyes left her in little doubt that he had accurately guessed as much. As her equilibrium returned she mustered what dignity she could to reply, ‘Why, no, Lord Hazelmere! I’m now too experienced in society’s ways to make that mistake, I assure you.’

One black brow rose. Hazelmere, unused to having young ladies cross swords with him, noticed Witchett materialising at Dorothea’s elbow. ‘I’m about to call on Lady Merion,’ he said. ‘I think perhaps, Miss Darent, you should also be present.’

‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.’

Unable to see her face as she bent down to take leave of the boy, Hazelmere could not be certain whether the comment had been artless or uttered on purpose to deflate his pretensions. Very little of Miss Darent’s conversation was artless. Well, that was a pleasant game for two to play, and there were few more skilled in it than he. He continued his stroll along the railings to the gate, where he stood, negligently at ease, and openly watched her as she came towards him.

To herself Dorothea made a firm resolution. Henceforth she was not going to let the odious Marquis get the better of her! She was a calm, cool, mature woman-even Celestine had commented on her poise. Why on earth she fell apart whenever Hazelmere was about was more than she could comprehend. She was heartily sick of the betraying flush that rose so readily in response to his taunts. Every second comment he made was designed purely to throw her into confusion and allow him to manage matters as he willed. Well, thought the determined Miss Darent, very conscious of that hazel gaze as she approached the street, that might work on the London misses but I’m not going to let him stage-manage me! With the sunniest of smiles, she met him at the gate.

If Hazelmere entertained any suspicions of this evident change of heart he kept them to himself. His experienced eye registered the countrified pelisse and the tangle of her hair, wind-blown and escaping from its pins. He wondered why such a combination should appear so attractive. In silence they crossed the street and were bowed into Merion House by Mellow. ‘Lady Merion is expecting you, my lord.’

Surrendering her pelisse to Witchett, Dorothea caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror. Arrested by the picture of her hair in such turmoil, she wondered whether she should keep her grandmother waiting while she set it to rights. She raised her glance to find herself looking into the Marquis’s hazel eyes, reflected in the mirror. He smiled in complete comprehension. ‘Yes, I would if I were you. I’ll tell her ladyship you’ll join us in a few moments.’

Realising she could not continually pull caps with him, particularly when he was being helpful, she confined herself to a curt nod before whisking herself up the stairs, Witchett trailing behind.

Hazelmere paused for a moment to flick a speck of dust from his sleeve before nodding to Mellow. ‘You may announce me now.’

For this interview Lady Merion had arrayed herself in a gown she knew made her look particularly formidable. Instinct born of experience warned her that there was more to the encounters between the Marquis and her granddaughter than she had been told. She was unsure that Dorothea herself knew the full sum. On the other hand, Hazelmere would certainly be aware of every nuance. She was determined to extract a much more detailed explanation from him before she called Dorothea to attend them. As he strolled elegantly across the room to bow over her hand she fixed him with a basilisk stare which in years past had produced confessions from the most hardened of reprobates.

Hazelmere smiled lazily down at her.

With a jolt she realised that there was a large difference between demanding the reason for a cricket ball landing in her drawing-room from a ten-year-old boy and demanding an accounting of his behaviour from a thirty-one-year-old peer, who, aside from being a leader of the ton, was also one of the most dangerously handsome men in the kingdom. And, she fumed, noting the amused understanding in the hazel eyes, the jackanapes knows it!

Baulked, she motioned him to a seat and reluctantly gave her attention to the next item on her agenda. She waited until he was seated, admiring the way his immaculate morning coat sat across his shoulders. His long muscular thighs were encased in skin-tight buff knee-breeches, and his Hessians shone like the proverbial mirror. She might be old, but she still noticed such things. ‘I understand I must thank you for rescuing my granddaughter, Dorothea, from an unfortunate incident at that inn the other evening.’

One well-manicured hand waved dismissively. ‘Having recognised your granddaughter, even someone with a conscience as faulty as mine could hardly have left her there.’ The gently mocking tone and the laughter in his face robbed this speech of any impropriety.

Accustomed to the subtleties of social conversation, Lady Merion thawed visibly. ‘Very well! But why this meeting?’

‘Unfortunately the crowd from which I extricated Miss Darent contained at least one member of the ton who cannot be trusted to forget the incident.’

‘Dorothea mentioned Tremlow.’

‘Oh, yes. Tremlow was there, and Botherwood and Lords Michaels and Downie. But they are relatively harmless, and, unless I’m much mistaken, would probably not recall the incident unless their memories were jogged, and perhaps not even then. I’m more concerned with Sir Barnaby Ruscombe.’

‘Ugh! That repulsive man! He always dabbles in the most malicious scandalmongering.’ She paused, then eyed the Marquis speculatively. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about him?’

‘Alas, no. Anyone else, quite probably. But not Ruscombe. Scandal is his trade. Still, given that we can invent a plausible tale to account for my having previously met Miss Darent, I can’t see there’s any risk of serious damage to her reputation.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ agreed Lady Merion. ‘But it would be wise to have her here, I think. Ring that bell, if you will.’

‘No need,’ replied Hazelmere, ‘I met her in the park on my way here. She went upstairs to tidy her hair before joining us.’

As if in answer to the comment, Dorothea entered. Languidly rising, Hazelmere acknowledged her curtsy by taking her hand and, after bowing over it, raised it to his lips, his eyes roaming appreciatively over her.

Lady Merion stiffened. Kissing a lady’s hand was not the current practice. What on earth was going on?

Dorothea accepted the salute without a flicker of surprise. Seating herself in a chair on the other side of her grandmother, opposite Hazelmere, she turned an enquiring face to her ladyship.

‘We were just discussing, my dear, what story to adopt to account for Lord Hazelmere recognising you at the inn.’

‘Maybe Miss Darent has a suggestion?’ put in his lordship, hazel eyes gently quizzing Dorothea.

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ she replied smoothly. ‘It would be safest, I imagine, to stick to occurrences no one else could dispute?’ Her delicately arched brows rose as she gazed with unmarred calm into Hazelmere’s eyes.

His expressive lips twitched. ‘That might be wise,’ he murmured.

Dorothea regally inclined her head. ‘For instance, what if, on one of your visits to Lady Moreton, she’d been well enough to be taken for a ride in your curricle-not far, just around the surrounding lanes? I’m sure she would have liked to have done that if she’d been able.’

‘You’re quite right. My great-aunt did bemoan not being well enough for just such an outing as you propose.’

‘Good! Only the outing did occur, and of course you didn’t take your groom with you, did you?’

Hazelmere, entering into the spirit of the conversation, promptly replied, ‘I feel sure I’d given Jim permission to relax in the kitchens that day.’

Dorothea nodded approvingly. ‘Driving down the lane, you met my mother, Cynthia Darent, and myself, returning from paying a visit to…oh, Waverley Park, of course.’

‘Your coachman?’

‘I was driving the gig. And what could be more natural than that Lady Moreton and my mother should stop to chat? They were old friends, after all. And Lady Moreton presented you to Mama and me. After talking for a few minutes, we went our separate ways.’

‘When, exactly, did this meeting occur?’ he asked.

‘Well, it would have had to be the summer before last, when both Lady Moreton and Mama were alive.’

‘My congratulations, Miss Darent. We now have a most acceptable tale which accounts for our meeting and the only two witnesses who could say us nay are dead. Very neat.’

‘Yes, but wait one moment!’ interpolated Lady Merion. ‘Why didn’t your mother tell her other friends about this meeting? Surely such a novel encounter would have made an impression in the neighbourhood?’

‘But, Grandmama, you know how scatterbrained Mama was. It would be quite possible for her to have forgotten all about it by the time we’d reached home, particularly if something else occurred to distract her on the way.’

Reminded of her daughter-in-law’s vagueness, Lady Merion grudgingly agreed this was so. ‘Well, then, why did you yourself not tell any of your friends about it?’

Dorothea opened her large green eyes to their fullest extent and, addressing her grandmother, asked, ‘But why would I have done so? I’ve never been in the habit of discussing inconsequential occurrences with anyone.’

Lady Merion held her breath. She could not resist glancing at Hazelmere to see how he was taking being classed as ‘inconsequential’. He appeared to be his usual urbane self, but she thought she caught a glint from those hazel eyes, presently fixed on Dorothea’s face. Be careful, my girl! she mentally adjured her granddaughter.

‘What a wonderfully useful trait, Miss Darent,’ responded Hazelmere, deciding for the moment to ignore provocation. ‘So now we have a believable and totally unexceptionable story to account for our previous meeting. Provided we stick to that, I foresee no difficulty in ignoring the inevitable tales of what happened at the Three Feathers.’ He rose and with effortless grace bent over Lady Merion’s hand. ‘I gather you’ll be attending all the ton crushes this Season?’

‘Oh, yes,’ responded her ladyship, reverting to her normal social manner. ‘We’ll be out around town just as soon as Celestine can clothe these children respectably.’

He crossed to Dorothea’s side and she stood for him to take his leave. Again he raised her hand to his lips. Smiling down at her in a way she found oddly disconcerting, his hazel eyes trapping her own, he said, ‘Then I will hope to further my acquaintance with you, Miss Darent. I do hope you’ll not find me too inconsequential to remember?’ The gently mocking tone was back.

Dorothea returned the provocative hazel glance without apparent concern, and, wide-eyed, remarked, ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think I’d forget you now, my lord.’

He only just succeeded in controlling his face but his eyes clearly registered the hit. He paused, looking down into her brilliant green eyes, his own brimful of laughter. Forever a sportsman, he could hardly complain, as he had set himself up for that one. Still, he had not expected her to have the courage to fling that back in his face, and with such ease. With one last enigmatic glance, he turned and, bowing again to the sorely afflicted Lady Merion, bid both ladies a good day and left.

As the door shut behind him Lady Merion turned a gaze equally made up of disbelief and conjecture on her granddaughter. However, ‘Ring for tea, child,’ was all she said.