Madrigals And Mistletoe Read online

  Cordelia turned to Seraphina, anxious to get her moving before she was caught in the crush.

  “Wait!” The loud, familiar and unmelodious voice of Lila Mersham rang out through the throng. Lady Dearforth, understanding that she was being addressed, indicated to her guests to resume their seats.

  “Miss Mersham?”

  The eyes of the crowd were upon her. Not even her mother, the Countess of Glaston, could bid her be silent. Lila’s eyes sparkled with the sudden attention. She curtsied and adopted an admirably coy expression that both Camfrey sisters found quite sickening.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am! I thought I might introduce to your attention our newest debutante, Miss Seraphina Camfrey!” Lila’s eyes narrowed slyly, but she maintained her simpering stance. She smiled effusively across the room, her eyes meeting those of her victim with a strange, menacing gleam. “Seraphina was wont to sing to us at Miss Caxton’s Seminary for Young Ladies. Perhaps she might favour us with a madrigal? Byrd or Gibbons was ever a favourite!”

  Miss Seraphina sat stock-still, her fan quivering appallingly in her hand. It seemed hours before she stirred, or Cordelia made faint protesting noises, but of course, it could have been no more than a matter of seconds. By that time, every jewelled head in the audience was unremittingly turned in her direction. There could be no crying headache—it would be churlish when her hostess was smiling at her with such gracious encouragement and half the room were clapping politely, murmuring, “Hear, Hear,” in spirited tones.

  Cordelia thought she ought to take out the smelling salts, for Seraphina looked deathly pale and unusually anguished given her devil-may-care nature. As she was opening her reticule, Seraphina stood up and made an acknowledging curtsy. She was nothing, if not brave, the youngest Miss Camfrey! Cordelia bit her lip and prayed for the best. Not Byrd! Seraphina only ever practiced Handel, for she adored his counterpoint and had a strange aptitude for that which she admired.

  In the event, it turned out to be a Purcell that was suggested to her. “Lost Is My Quiet Forever” was forwarded as a suggestion from Captain Sanderson, who also offered to play the opening bars. As Seraphina made her way to the front, Cordelia felt her fan snap between her fingers. Whilst she could still overwhelmingly feel the scorching scrutiny of the gentleman behind her, she no longer cared. All her thoughts were concentrated on her sibling. Cordelia prayed that the younger Miss Camfrey’s first season was not to be her last, for an outright humiliation would be something she would surely not bear. She prayed, too, that against all odds Seraphina could live up to her name and sing like an angel.

  TWO

  Seraphina thanked Lady Dearforth and took the score from her hands. It was a complicated piece, hand inscribed, but she was, at least, familiar with the rudiments. She glanced at it frantically again, trying to recall the words, key and register. All eyes were upon her and it made not a whit of difference that, apart from Cordelia, she could easily be regarded as the most becoming young woman in the room. It was probably this very fact that had set off Lila’s malicious lark, so even if she had been aware of her appearance, it would have been cold comfort.

  She was surprised how steady her hands were in the circumstances. She would dearly like to have caught Cordelia’s eye, but Captain Sanderson had taken up his position and was waiting for her nod. Her heart thumped quite dreadfully and she hoped that the lump in her throat would make little difference to her performance. She looked at the notes again and they seemed to be swimming in front of her. She tried to remember the advice of her string of singing masters, but could recall none, save that she should keep her hands at her side and take a deep breath before she began. Impossible! She could take the breath, but she needed her hands to read the score. Time seemed to be racing by and the whole chamber had become significantly silent:

  Feeling as if she was rushing headlong over a precipice, she turned to the elegant Captain Sanderson and inclined her head.

  The music began, and suddenly shaking from head to foot, the younger Miss Camfrey opened her mouth to sing. Too late she realised how unsuitable the melancholy piece was for her own, untried soprano. It required suspensions between melody and bass that even the most gifted singer would have found challenging. After striking the wrong key, far too high for the accompaniment, she faltered, of a mind to begin again. Her face was whiter than the cream satin she’d chosen to effect and several of her auburn tendrils had worked their way loose from her pearl pinned topknot. Only her eyes were defiant as she trembled on the low notes and sang, “Forever,” hopelessly flat.

  Cordelia ached for her sister and turned, hoping to make her way quietly to the front. When the performance was over, she would take Seraphina briskly in hand and urge Lord Winthrop to have the carriage sent round. Her eyes flickered upward to meet the unwavering ones of the nonpareil she’d encountered earlier. She caught a hint of amused sympathy in his expression, before he quietly gestured her to resume her seat. Cordelia never did know why she obeyed, but unhesitatingly she did.

  With a few short strides, the stranger somehow forced his way through the riveted throng. A startled Seraphina found her hand gently clasped in a grip of comforting strength. Then, before she had a moment to take a single disastrous note more, the gentleman smiled eloquently and set the key, his tenor a fine mask to the lady’s halting attempts. The duet prospered, Seraphina taking enormous comfort from the dark stranger at her side. When she missed a bar or could not catch the text fast enough, he covered for her with smooth, unfaltering aplomb.

  Finally—it seemed forever—the ordeal was at an end. Miss Camfrey held her head high and bit her lip, for she was in full expectation of being society’s little joke for the rest of the season. In this, she was mistaken, for the burst of applause that met her ears seemed quite unaccountable. Cordelia was by her side in an instant, bewildered and unutterably grateful for the gentleman’s intervention.

  He would brook no thanks, however, claiming it as his privilege to have served such a beautiful maiden. At this, Seraphina positively preened, but Cordelia looked at the gentleman suspiciously, the hint of a blush on her personable cheeks. The gentleman’s eyes had never left her own and she had the giddying sensation that she was the maiden of whom he spoke. She shook herself sternly, for there was no good to be gained by such speculation.

  “I must add my gratitude to my sister’s, sir!”

  “Must you?” His eyes looked whimsical and intensely black. Cordelia felt he must see her heart hammering through the dove grey satin and intricate lace overdress. He didn’t, for he was concentrating on the pink flesh that spilled becomingly out of the gown rather than on the fabric itself.

  He drew her slightly aside and lowered his voice. “I trust you intend leaving?”

  Cordelia nodded.

  “May I ask that you stay, rather?” He drew her aside confidentially and Cordelia felt the warmth of his hand through his fine leather gloves. When he released her, the warmth remained, a burning patch on her satin clad arm.

  “After this debacle I feel we should leave. Perhaps it is a matter of the least said, the sooner mended. If we stay, we are bound to invite malicious gabble mongering.” Cordelia could not for the life of her discover why she was making these confidences to a stranger. Perhaps it was his warm regard or the quiet, authoritative confidence he exuded.

  She was surprised to see the gentleman smile a little wryly. “At the risk of sounding odiously puffed up in my own consequence, I am prepared to wager a sennight’s wage that your sister’s musical debut will be considered a vast success.”

  “Surely that is doing it a bit brown, sir? Why, you heard—”

  “Sometimes what one hears and what one sees are two entirely different things.” Cordelia looked mystified at this cryptic remark, but the gentleman did not see fit to enlighten her. Instead, he suggested again that the sisters stay to brave out the evening, for that was surely the best strategy to quell catty tongues.

  “So you noticed, sir?”


  “Lila Mersham? She has nothing but my contempt. A spiteful, ill-bred lass, but a troublemaker unless I miss my mark. Stay and the dust will settle.”

  The gentleman refrained to say that his own hand would probably raise more dust than Lila’s ever had. He sighed. No doubt the ladies would discover that of their own accord. He only hoped he had not done anything precipate enough to raise expectations. On this thought, he politely returned Cordelia to her sister and made a charming bow. Bidding them both a fair evening, he vanished into the throngs, leaving the more sober Miss Camfrey to face her bright-eyed sister and dampen some of her overhigh spirits.

  Seraphina, it seemed, was an instant success. She was being hailed far and wide as society’s newest diamond. The fact that she could not sing did not seem to weigh too high with the gentlemen, each of whom assured her fulsomely that either her voice was heavenly—a tarradiddle even Seraphina could not, with equanimity, accept—or that entertainments at soirees were deadly dull and not, on any account, to be taken seriously.

  Cordelia could accept this, for there was no doubt her scamp of a sister was in excellent looks. What she was more puzzled about, however, was the interest of the various high sticklers, who made a point of introducing themselves and issuing select invitations. Lady Jersey herself did them the honour of a conversation, admonishing them to present themselves to Almack’s the following session. It did not signify, for the ladies had already come by vouchers through Ancilla’s friendship with Lady Cowper, but nevertheless Cordelia was fully sensible to the honour done them.

  The evening flew by without further incident. Lord Winthrop handsomely offered another dance to his betrothed, who had not the heart to refuse. As Cordelia tucked her graceful hand in his, she was overcome by a slight depression. She should not be making comparisons—they were unkind—but next to that of the enigmatic dark gentleman, Lord Henry’s padded frame seemed rather square. He still affected a wig and powder, choosing to adorn his frogged coat with all manner of seals and furbelows that, rather than increasing his consequence, diminished it. Cordelia could not help but feel that the austere simplicity of her captain—for she thought of him as that—spoke volumes for his taste. As she executed an exceedingly pretty entrechat, she could not help wishing things were different.

  Vivaldi’s poignant notes hung in the air as the dance finished and Lord Henry drew her from the circle. For the first time, he seemed to notice her shimmering gown with its low-cut front and high waistband, drawn together skilfully by a ribbon of dove grey satin sprigged with silver.

  “You look ravishing tonight, Cordelia!” Miss Camfrey smiled and murmured thanks. Lord Henry appeared to be regarding her as though seeing her for the first time. “Shall we take a stroll in the gardens?”

  Cordelia glanced outside. The night was starry and refreshingly cool. The offer was tempting but slightly improper, given the fact that Ancilla was nowhere at hand. Still, Lord Henry was her betrothed, and if she could possibly stir up a spark in him, she would be glad.

  “Seraphina . . .”

  “Oh, leave her!” Lord Winthrop sounded rather abrupt.

  Cordelia raised her eyebrows somewhat at this incivility. Seeing this, Lord Henry emitted a short laugh and apologised, explaining that he was a deuced new hand at doing the pretty and should not Mrs. Camfrey be minding her youngest?

  It was useless to explain that she should, but was hardly likely to. Cordelia had long since assumed the mantle of responsibility for her family, finding Ancilla in just as much need of a watchful eye as her sister. Ancilla at forty had just as much vitality as she had at seventeen. High spirits, bounteous good looks and a comfortably good nature made her sought after wherever she went. She was proud of her two magnificent daughters, but just a little puzzled that they should be so grown-up or that she, Ancilla, should have charge of them. Whenever she furrowed her brow and contemplated the matter, it always came down to a laughing shrug of the shoulders and a concentrated attempt to dismiss the matter from her mind entirely.

  Cordelia was loath to share this state of affairs with this stranger who was to be her husband. Instead, she replied amiably that Seraphina would probably be anxious for company, this being her first come-out soiree.

  At this, Lord Henry chortled rather rudely but with a good deal of amusement. Taken aback, Cordelia could only ask him what the jest was, for certainly she could see nothing in her words to have elicited such a response. She noted that Lord Henry looked a good deal pleasanter when his eyes smiled and was glad.

  “That demmed sister of yours has no need of company, Cordelia! I may be rather behind hand with society, but I do have eyes and ears you know!”

  “How so?” The older Miss Camfrey was still puzzled. She smiled politely and moved aside as a couple made their way back indoors.

  “She is feted with admirers! Greville Winters positively scowled at me when he thought I was engaged for the waltz! I told him I’d already done my duty by her and I have, what is more.”

  Cordelia ignored the smug tones of one who has sanctimoniously performed a distasteful task. She was used to Lord Henry, by now. If he had been talking of a horse, no doubt his eyes would have shone with ardour. Too much to expect him to muster up enthusiasm for a mere female. Still, his words were curiously interesting.

  “I have not seen her this age, being caught up in first the quadrille, then the Scottish reel and . . . oh! any number of dances! She has admirers, you say?”

  “Being treated like a demmed diamond of the first water! No accounting for tastes if I may make so bold.”

  Cordelia bit off a sharp reply. No sense in coming to odds with her beau or expecting him to have the gloss of social finesse high society usually demanded. Lord Winthrop had clearly not meant to insult her sister. It was just his offhand manner of expression that offended her sensibilities. She determined not to refine too much on what was, after all, a small matter.

  “I am glad to hear it, though I am at a loss—”

  Lord Winthrop snorted. “Talk of the card room, it is! I may be a little green about the gills but I am not a clodpole entirely!”

  Cordelia politely inclined her head and assured him the thought had not entered her head. He looked at her sharply, but seeing no hint of irony in her wide grey eyes, he nodded in satisfaction.

  “Seems that Doncaster fellow has taken a fancy to the chit. Of course, that is enough to set the whole ton on their heels! The man is such an arbiter of fashion that every dandy must needs follow his lead! ” Lord Winthrop shook his head at the unfathomable nature of society.

  Light—a tiny, dim lantern glow of light dawned in Cordelia’s brain. “Are you saying that her popularity is due, not to her own vastly entertaining nature but that of . . . Doncaster, you say?”

  Her companion tapped his foot impatiently. “Exactly so! You have the right of it, my love.”

  Cordelia could not quite like the term of endearment. Still, as his betrothed, she must needs grow accustomed. His lordship, fond of the sound of his own voice, grew expansive. He helped her through the narrow, gilded door and followed her into the shadowy night. Clouds were cloaking the stars, so it was darker than Cordelia had expected. She shivered a little, but Lord Winthrop failed to notice. He was warming to his theme.

  “Doncaster seems to have the most extraordinary effect on all he encounters! He has not been back from Paris above two months and the whole demmed world is falling about trying to tie their neckerchiefs in the Doncaster Dash! I have no time for it, I say, not but that he does have the most promising stables! Bought Redmond’s greys for an unholy sum but he had the right of it. An excellent matched pair if ever I saw one. Hasn’t stinted on the bloodstock either. Took over the entire Charleston stable saving a few feeble beasts that found their way in there God knows how. I saw him at Newmarket and again at Tattersall’s. Cool as a cucumber he was, as if he were not bidding for six matched stallions, jet black and high steppers if ever I saw them!”

  His tone took on an excited
pitch of indignation. Cordelia, whilst not sharing his preoccupation, nevertheless found herself listening avidly to every word that fell from Lord Winthrop’s lips. This was a novel experience, for she had not, up till now, found much to arrest her interest in his conversation. She stifled the lowering suspicion that her polite attention stemmed not from maidenly interest in her betrothed but from a most unmaidenly interest in the man of whom he spoke.

  Lord Winthrop continued. “Mind you, I don’t approve of the Four Horse Club and that I tell you straight! They turned down my membership, which only proves to you what a feckless, nohow sort of a bunch they are. Notable horsemen indeed! If they can’t recognise a bruising rider when they see one, they are not worthy of their standing. I shall talk to Doncaster about it directly.”

  Cordelia, with admirable restraint, refrained from the rather obvious retort that hung from her lips. She smiled and touched Lord Henry’s arm placatingly.

  He looked down in surprise, far too caught up in his indignation at the infamous Four Horse Club to recall the reason he had brought her out here in the first place. The sight of her creamy flesh reminded him anew. Cordelia noticed the direction of her glance and smiled. Like all young women—even those past their last prayers at the grand old age of one and twenty—she was not averse to appreciation in a gentleman’s eye. Lord Winthrop raised his quizzing glass to her, then commented she was like to catch her death of cold in that “newfangled fribble.”

  His words were like a dash of cold water to the older Miss Camfrey, who could not help replying that whilst the gown was in the latest mode, it was by no means newfangled, her mother having worn it to Lady Dennington’s masquerade an age ago at least. Lord Henry snorted and considered the point won. “If Ancilla has had a hand in the gown I daresay it is dashed too fast!”