The Viscount's Revenge (The Royal Ambition Series Book 4) (3 page)

“What has a fencing academy got to do with—?”

“A fence is a receiver of stolen goods. Usually a low type of pawnbroker.”

“Oh,” said Amanda, breaking off a shrivelled rose head. The day was a sad sort of uniform gray. The morning’s hoarfrost was only melting in the center of the lawn but still glittered whitely in the uncut shaggy grass at the verges. A starling perched on the edge of a branch and sent down one long, dismal, piping note.

Woodsmoke drifted lazily across the fields from someone’s bonfire, carried by the lightest of breeze.

“Oh,” said Amanda again in a dismal note like that of the starling. Then her face brightened. “But we could travel to London, Richard, and find one of these low places. We could tell, you know, by simply
looking
at the pawnbroker. The marks of his evil life would be writ on his features. Or rather, that’s what they say in the sort of books I read.”

“We’ll see.” Richard shrugged, fighting down a rosy dream of venturing down noisome London alleys with only his father’s rusty sword as protection. “At least we are taking some sort of action. We may as well go to this ball. Perhaps some grand person might like to employ me as a secretary.”

Amanda giggled. “Not unless he doesn’t want to read his own letters. Your writing is atrocious.”

“Then I shall run away to sea,” said Richard cheerfully. “You can dress in boy’s clothes and come along as a cabin boy and we’ll sail to South America and find gold.”

“And I shall come back a fine lady,” sang Amanda, dancing across the lawn.

Richard laughed, running after her. “There’s work to be done, I have logs to chop and you have all those berries to turn into jam.”

He put an arm around her waist, and, laughing together, they went into the house.

They had had a long childhood, unmarred by any of the doubts and fears of adolescence. Amanda’s dreams of love and marriage were still those of a schoolgirl.

The twins were about to be forced to grow up.

Friday seemed quite far away one moment and then it was upon them. Aunt Matilda was the calmest of the three, the smell of hot hair from the curling tongs, the smells of scent and new silk and pomade reminding her of the days of her youth.

Her busy needle had transformed the sea-green silk into a demure ball gown with puffled sleeves and deep flounces at the hem. She had bravely sacrificed one of her old silk gowns to trim the hem with a thin border of gold silk and to make Amanda a handsome gold silk stole. Amanda had a pair of white kid gloves, although the palms were somewhat soiled. At last it was decided they would have to do and Amanda must remember never to show the palms of her gloves.

Amanda’s hair had been curled and brushed out and curled again, and each time it fought its way back into a soft aureole of auburn frizz.

It was decided to leave it as it was and decorate it with a pretty crown of ivy leaves, fashioned by Richard. He threaded the leaves with a gold watch chain and ornamented the base of each leaf with a small pearl taken from a box of loose ones found in the attic.

Richard himself looked magnificent, thought Amanda proudly. His face was lightly tanned and his thick dark brown hair had been curled and pomaded in what they all hoped was the latest of styles. His coat was a little tight across the shoulders but the knee breeches fitted his legs to perfection, and although one of his white silk stockings had an irremovable stain, it was on the inside of one leg and Amanda said if he danced only the very
fast
dances, no one would notice.

Aunt Matilda stunned them both by transforming herself into a stately dowager in a gown of crimson velvet made from the sitting-room curtains, with a huge crimson velvet turban decorated with gold fringe from the sofa in the morning room.

Amanda herself was looking remarkably pretty. The wreath in her auburn hair, the flush of animation in her thin face, and the green of her gown, which brought out the green in her hazel eyes, made her look like a wood nymph.

But Richard only saw his sister looking much as she always did and complimented her with such false heartiness that Amanda began to feel insecure about her appearance. She was just wondering whether her coronet of ivy leaves would be damned as
farouche
and was debating whether to remove it, when the vicarage carriage arrived, and in the bustle of departure, she forget about everything else but the heady excitement of going to her first ball.

They did not speak on the journey into Hember Cross. Richard was trying to memorize dance steps and kept cautiously shuffling his feet and humming under his breath. Amanda was wondering if perhaps
he
would be there, that tall, handsome man who would miraculously supply her with money, security, children, a home, and love—in that order.

The carriage began to rattle over the cobbles of the streets of Hember Cross.

In the houses on either side, winking candles could be seen descending from the upper rooms as the young ladies of the market town made their way downstairs to wait for their carriages. Some people were heading for the Feathers on foot, a link boy bobbing in front of them through the cold blackness of the autumn night.

By the time they approached the street leading to the Feathers, they had to crawl forward in line behind other carriages and gigs, flies and chaises and traps.

Amanda was all for walking, but Aunt Matilda had put on the airs of a dowager with her new gown and said languidly that it would not be at all the thing.

And then, just as the entrance to the inn was in sight, all the vehicles had to pull over to the side of the road while three splendid carriages bowled past. The Earl of Hardforshire’s party must be given preference.

“I think it is very uncivil of him,” said Amanda crossly, and Aunt Matilda gave a patronising titter and sighed. “The ways of the world, my dear. The ways of the world.”

By the time they were able to alight in the inn courtyard, an hour had passed, and Amanda felt cold and cross. They were badly jostled by the press of people in the narrow entrance to the inn. One dumpy girl trod on Amanda’s foot, glared at her, and said, “What on earth are
you
doing here?”

Priscilla Brotherington in pastel pink, and looking as nasty as her father, thought Amanda viciously. She smiled sweetly at Priscilla and kicked her in the ankle.

Richard edged Amanda forward through the press. Aunt Matilda and Amanda went off to leave their cloaks and Richard stood in the anteroom waiting for them, his eyes going over the dress of the other guests.

Familiar faces seemed to spring out of the crowd, and he began to relax. His evening suit was every bit as good as, if not better than, the dress of the young men who surrounded him. The girls, he observed, were very pretty and all wore white or pastel colors. It was not fashionable for young unmarried girls to wear much more in the way of jewellery than a string of pearls, a locket, or a necklace of coral, so he surmised that Amanda’s lack of jewellery would go unnoticed.

But he did wish he had refused the sea-green silk. None of the other girls was wearing anything like it.

He felt uneasy as Amanda appeared on Aunt Matilda’s arm. His sister did not look at all like the other girls, thought Richard. It must be that gown and that curst wreath in her hair, he reflected miserably, forcing a smile on his face as he stepped forward to escort the two ladies into the ballroom.

Couples were prancing their way noisily through a country dance when the Colby party entered, blinking in the sudden blaze from hundreds of candles. The master of ceremonies, Mr. Jessamyn, who was also the hunt secretary, was loudly calling the figures of the dance from a dais at the end of the room.

Richard seated Aunt Matilda and Amanda on two of the little gilt chairs which lined one wall of the assembly room and went off to fetch them lemonade.

The tinny band struck the last chord and the ladies sank into low curtsies before their bowing partners.

“That must be the earl and his party,” said Aunt Matilda, waving towards the fireplace on the other side of the room where a richly dressed group of people was standing.

Amanda looked, and stared. She knew the earl and the countess by sight, but it was the splendour of their guests’ attire that first riveted her attention. Never before had she seen so many jewels. They blazed on men and women alike: diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and the inevitable fashionable garnets, winking in the light from the flames of the fire behind them. Two of the younger women wore muslin gowns so thin and transparent that little was left to the imagination. The blonde one had damped her gown so that it clung to every curve. Her dark-haired companion had not, but the material of her gown and petticoat was almost transparent and Amanda was amazed to see that she wore jewels on her garters. Obviously neither of the young ladies had been told by their parents that unmarried girls should wear only simple jewellery.

The women caught her wide-eyed stare and glared haughtily back and then turned and said something to a very tall man who was standing with his back to the room.

He pivoted around and lifted his quizzing glass and gazed full and insolently at Amanda, who quickly raised her fan to cover her face.

When she finally found the courage to peep over her fan, he had turned his attention to the blonde lady in the clinging gown.

Amanda drew a long breath. He was like a hero from one of the gothic novels she avidly read on wet afternoons.

He had a very handsome, bad-tempered face, and every reader of romantic novels knew the hero must be smouldering and angry.

He had very thick hair worn longer than the current fashion. His gaze was steady and watchful under heavy lids. His face was strong and handsome—or rather it would have been handsome had not his mouth been compressed into such a grim line.

He had a high-bridged nose. His eyes were a pale colour, or rather they appeared to have no colour at all. He was tailored to perfection in a blue evening coat and the long skin-fitting trousers made popular by Mr. Brummell, that leader of London fashion. His sculptured cravat rose above a silk waistcoat embroidered with silver thread.

He turned his head slightly and looked full at Amanda again, who immediately blushed, feeling she had been caught out gawking like a yokel.

Richard came back carrying two glasses of lemonade. “I say, Amanda,” he said nervously. “The next dance is a Scotch reel and I think I remember it quite well. Perhaps you had better partner me. I wouldn’t want to fall over some unfortunate female’s feet.”

“Well, don’t fall over mine,” said Amanda tartly.

Considering Amanda had only ever danced with the vicar’s wife and Richard had only recently learned to dance with Amanda, they performed very well, both being endowed with a natural grace.

And since they were both still very much children, they left the floor very pleased with themselves and quite prepared to dance with anyone in the room.

After that, Amanda danced with most of the young men of the county and Richard with all the prettiest girls.

But Richard also found time to make several trips to the refreshment room, and before he realised just how much he had drunk, he had accepted a bet from his friend Tommy Potter to go and ask one of the ladies in the earl’s party to dance.

Now, it had been marked that none of the earl’s party had taken the floor. They seemed content to stare at the dancers in a haughty, amused kind of way and then turn and talk among themselves.

Flushed with wine and the thought that Tommy would have to fork out ten guineas if he were successful, Richard marched towards the earl’s group, bowed low before the dark-haired lady in the diaphanous muslin gown, and asked for the honour of the next dance.

The lady was the Honourable Cecily Devine, who had been trying to charm her companion, Viscount Charles Hawksborough, to no avail. She raked Richard up and down with a haughty assessing glance which took in his open friendly expression, the breadth of his shoulders, and the strength of his legs.

Amanda, watching breathlessly from the other end of the room, thought it was almost as if the lady were about to take out a stick and poke Richard like a prize pig.

Then Miss Devine shrugged a bare shoulder. “I do not dance,” she said wearily.

Lord Hawksborough, the tall, black-haired man who had stared at Amanda, now turned his cold gaze on Miss Devine. “You have been pleading with me for quite an hour to dance,” he said in a light, mocking voice. “I do not like contrary women.”

“Oh, but you must understand—” began Miss Devine.

“My name is Hawksborough,” said the viscount, according Richard a half-bow. “Your partner is Miss Devine.” And with that he turned his back on them.

“Oh, well,” said Miss Devine, “if I must, I must.” She gave rather a shrill laugh and allowed Richard to lead her into a set which was being made up for yet another country dance.

Miss Devine was feeling petulant and angry. She had been invited to the earl’s dreadful house party to be a partner to the viscount and he had eluded her at every turn. He had spent most of his time out riding or shooting or fishing. And her hostess, Lady Hardforshire, had gone so far as to imply her clothes were
fast.
But up until a few moments ago, the evening had been fun.