After luncheon the guests began to arrive in droves, carriages rolling in one after another. Dust rose in the stable yard. The sound of iron-rimmed wheels on gravel became a constant, inescapable din, like music from another room. By late afternoon the garden was filled with ladies in colourful gowns, their hair piled high under bonnets, mingling with gentlemen in equally magnificent coats, some in wigs, some with their own hair pulled back into queues. Laughter and conversation filled the garden as the guests swirled about like so many bees and butterflies.
Imogen sat in her favourite perch in the dowager house, idly working her tambour frame, watching them. The countess might think it no matter for her to be present, but she could feel a knot of uncertainty coiling in her belly. She recognized many of the people strolling past her window—she was one of them by birth—but she couldn’t get up the courage to go out and join them. It would take an amount of brazen confidence that she was far from feeling.
As the light failed and the garden emptied Imogen reluctantly called her maid to help her dress. She chose one of her simplest gowns, a pale blue silk robe with a matching quilted petticoat. Striving for demure, she filled in the neckline with a fichu, the sheer fabric swathing her bosom, hiding her entire chest from view.
She sat down in front of her mirror and watched as Nancy carefully pinned up her curls. Her hair had always been a trial. It was a thick mass of tiny, spiralling curls, so darkly brown it almost appeared black. No amount of curling papers or hot tongs had ever been able to tame it.
When Nancy had achieved something they both thought passably attractive, she secured the whole with a dozen more pins. Imogen studied herself in the mirror, praying the pins would hold, and then took a deep breath. It was time to go up. She’d only a half-hour or so before dinner would be announced. She pulled on a pair of slightly darker blue gloves, grabbed her shawl, and made her way up to the house.
In the drawing room she quickly found herself lost among all the happily chatting guests. There was a knot of immaculately dressed men gathered around the fireplace, and two ladies gossiping in one corner. There were also, inevitably, several people Imogen had known previously when she’d been Mrs Perrin, such as the elderly Earl of Cardross and the even older Duke of Alençon.
Chest tight with panic she looked about for George. If she could just find the countess, she’d make it through the evening, and if she made it through the evening, then she’d likely make it through the next two weeks.
The countess had her back to the door, and over the din didn’t appear to have noticed her arrival, but Alençon noticed her right away. He rose and quickly crossed the room, as immaculate and frightening as ever.
‘We reprobates have to stick together, Miss Mowbray,’ he said with what would have been a flirtatious twinkle in a man half his age. He had to be over eighty, but was still trim and spry, with boyish dimples in his cheeks. He was a flirt and a roué. Someone her husband had loathed. That alone made her want to like him.
With a grateful smile she allowed him to lead her over to where Cardross was seated, Lady Beverley—herself well past middle-age—beside him. Cardross had changed little since she’d seen him last. Not so well-preserved as the duke, he was beginning to shrink. Wisps of his own hair peeked out from under his wig.
The duke placed her in the seat beside his and then fell easily back into conversation with his friends, one hand playing idly with the gold-headed cane he didn’t appear to need.
This wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d feared it would be. So long as she remembered to breathe everything would be fine. It was even beginning to feel familiar. She’d done this thousands of times before. Perhaps if she acted as though tonight were no different from any of those occasions, it wouldn’t be.
Across the room she could now see the countess, surrounded by a tight knot of men, including Mr Angelstone. His dark hair gleamed in the candlelight, black as night and smooth as silk. As she studied them, he caught her eye and winked. Imogen fought to keep from blushing. She heard Cardross chuckle and yanked her attention away from the group by the fireplace.
‘The rogue making up to the countess is Angelstone,’ the earl said. ‘He’s about the only one who can get within ten feet of our George without setting off poor Somercote. The earl has, on occasion, even taken exception to poor Alençon here. The lanky copper-top beside them is her brother. He’s been up in Scotland for the summer, so I don’t suppose you’ve met him yet; delightful boy. The handsome devil kicking at the fender just now is St Audley, and the sandy-haired gentleman on the other side of him with the dashing scar is Colonel Staunton.’
Imogen smiled at her elderly comrades and sat back to listen to them gossip. When dinner was finally announced, the duke led her in, breaking every rule of etiquette Imogen had ever learnt. As the highest ranking man present he should have taken the countess in, leaving her to one of the misters. George had warned her that they rarely paid any attention to such rules, but she’d been wondering if she’d be left to partner Mr Angelstone into dinner all the same.
She spent the first several courses mentally
