The Conqueror's Dilemma (9 page)

But as she started forward, making
for the door, Ariadne spoke.

‘Miss Felton, may I present Mr
Westerham?’

Tiffany stopped dead, aware of an
uncomfortable thumping starting up in her chest. What should she say?
Mercifully, she recalled she was not obliged to say anything. A mere curtsy
would suffice. Turning in his direction, she made a brief bob. Her eyes flicked
upwards, and the pit of her stomach vanished.

In the handsome features above
her was an expression of distant hauteur. The Conqueror deigned to notice her
existence with a slight inclination of his head, and then he was turning away.

But the agony was not over.

‘Lady Drumbeg, Mr Westerham.’

Predictably, Eva gushed as she
moved in, extending her hand. ‘Mr Westerham, such an unexpected pleasure. I
could not be more delighted.’

William’s poise had been sorely tested by the unexpected
encounter with the wretched little waif whose image had remained stubbornly in
his mind. But this piece of studied falsity brought him sharply back to
himself. He pointedly ignored the hand.

‘Your servant, ma’am.’

With deliberate and icy
politeness, he bowed and stepped away so that the woman had no choice but to
cross him and head for the door. For the life of him, he could not resist a
last glance at the girl. The blue eyes had noticeably dimmed at his reception
of her—an immediate reaction not entirely dictated by necessity and protocol.
It had taken all his resolution not to soften as the look of bewilderment crept
into her face. She was in the doorway, with her back to him, but the stiffness
about her shoulders gave her away.

He was conscious of an intense
feeling of remorse, but he thrust it out of sight. It would be fatal if the
dragon imagined him remotely interested in the girl. He waited until their
footsteps had receded and then turned to confront Ariadne, uncomfortably aware
of an unaccustomed harshness in his tone.

‘How in the world did they come
to be here? And why did you present me?’

She surveyed him with a familiar
look of measuring him, as if she tried to read his thoughts, but there was a
trifle of puzzlement there too. Or was it suspicion? William forced himself to
a semblance of his usual insouciant manner, fetching a feigned sigh.

‘Pray don’t give me your big
sister look. I am not Hector, and you don’t intimidate me, my dear Ariadne.’

Ariadne laughed, and her features
relaxed a trifle. ‘No, I never did. As for my visitors—’

‘Yes, pray tell me about your
visitors,’ he interrupted, deliberately amiable, as he took the chair vacated
by Lady Drumbeg, crossing one yellow-pantalooned leg over the other. ‘I trust
you don’t expect me to believe their calling upon you was an accident.’ A
suspicion burgeoned and he frowned. ‘Hector has been talking, has he? Rabbit
the man, I told him to keep mum!’

‘As if Hector would regard that
when it came to telling me. Besides, you have said I don’t know how many times
you regard me in the light of your sister.’

William threw up his eyes. ‘And
an interfering one at that. What precisely did he tell you?’

A merry look was cast at him.
‘You know me better than that, Will. Enough, be assured, to send me ferreting
after the girl to find out what it is about her to make you run mad.’

He could not forbear a
self-conscious laugh, and a hollow feeling entered his chest. ‘Have I run mad?’

She cocked her head at him. ‘That
depends. She is refreshing, I grant you, but the penalty of her duenna is nigh
on disastrous.’

‘I know it,’ said William with a
grimace. ‘It’s why I urged Hector to forget what I said. I didn’t intend she
should batten upon you, my dear.’

Ariadne shrugged. ‘I am more up
to snuff now than I was the last time she attempted it. Though when I think of
the care I took to get the chit on her own, only to be worsted at the last
moment, I could scream.’

His interest aroused despite the
dismaying sensations he was experiencing, William looked a question. Ariadne
had spotted the pair at the British Museum, but it was only when Tiffany had
slipped into a recess alone that she had thought it safe to approach her.

‘I liked her, Will. The poor girl
is an orphan, you know.’

‘Yes, she told me,’ he agreed,
recalling the pinch of envy he had felt at her disclosures about her childhood.
‘She does not regard it, however. I imagine she must have been young when she
lost her parents.’

‘They were lost at sea.’ But
Ariadne’s expression was faintly disturbing. ‘When did she tell you all this?
When you turned over her stone? From your face upon being presented to her, one
would suppose you had discovered a nest of slugs and worms underneath.’

‘Because I don’t wish to find myself
forced to bring the child into fashion,’ he responded, with impatience born of
a renewed rise of guilt. ‘If that dragon of a female has anything to do with
it, the slightest indication I am willing to do so would be enough to set her
hounding me.’

Ariadne nodded. ‘Undoubtedly. But
that does not answer my question. Where did you meet the girl?’

A sudden desire to unburden
himself made William capitulate. ‘At Juliana’s.’ He gave a reluctant grin. ‘She
was peeping round a pillar at me and I thought it a ploy to attract my
attention—until I discovered she had no notion who I am.’

A suspicious look was directed at
him. ‘Hector mentioned the General Post Office, not Juliana’s.’

‘That was the second time. She
was peeping again—at the clerks in the sorting office this time. I only
accosted her because she was out alone.’

‘Is it your normal practice to
accost unaccompanied young ladies? I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Will.’

‘Highly amusing, my dear
Ariadne,’ he retorted as coolly as he could manage. ‘It happened our first
conversation touched upon matters of protocol, which is why, I suppose, it
struck me. And that brings me to another cogent reason for not bringing Tiffany
into fashion.’ He answered the unspoken question. ‘She is having a deal of
trouble remembering the social rules. She would not thank me for pushing her
into a situation where her every move would be under scrutiny. I would not wish
to lay her open to criticism and ridicule.’

‘No, indeed.’

A silence fell. Marked, William
felt, on Ariadne’s side. He could read without difficulty what it was she was
wondering whether to say. Women invariably leaped to that conclusion. Juliana
had thought the same. He curled his lip, remembrance acrid in his stomach.

‘No, Ariadne, I am not falling in
love with her.’

The merry look popped up. ‘I
never supposed it for a moment, Will. But it did strike me you might be in
danger of developing a slight
tendre
.’

She knew him well, he reflected.
He was all too aware of cherishing just such a feeling. It would go no further.
Trust him for that. Rigid self-discipline had saved him again and again. He had
learned to be the least romantically inclined of all men he knew, despite his
amorous successes. But Ariadne could scarce be expected to appreciate the
reason. It struck deeps even Hector had not touched, let alone his sister. And
without it, she would not believe him. Nonetheless, he attempted deflection,
conscious of the edge to his voice.

‘If you must indulge in
fantasies, Ariadne, pray do so with my good will.’

A frown creased between her
brows. ‘Is it so fantastical? No man is immune, I believe.’

Memory was sour in his throat,
but he controlled it as best he could. ‘Because you have not met one does not
mean he does not exist. Love, in all its forms, is at best a distraction. At
worst, it is an invitation to hell.’

She looked dumbstruck, and then
disbelieving. To his combined astonishment and chagrin, Ariadne’s
characteristic pealing laugh rang out. She must have noticed his reaction, for
she waved propitiative hands.

‘Don’t look at me so, Will. I
have never heard you sound so melodramatic. I cannot believe you mean it. You
are hoaxing me, I know you are. Wretch. You startled me, speaking in so
deplorable a fashion.’

It was better perhaps she did not
take him seriously. He forced a grin, and hoped it did not lack in warmth
despite the cold deadness inside him.

‘You females are all the same.
Juliana instantly supposed me to be indulging in romantic leanings. Believe me,
I have more regard for my future than to be throwing it away on a penniless
country girl with nothing to recommend her to society.’

‘Then what in the world is your
interest in her?’ demanded Ariadne in exasperated accents.

William gave a wistful sigh.
‘Fellow feeling, if you must have it. I know what it is to be at sea in an
alien culture. But I had you and Hector to support me. This girl has only a
thrusting cit, who, if I don’t miss my guess, would use her mercilessly to gain
the entrée herself. But I am not so blind to my own position as to be the means
of Lady Drumbeg achieving her ambition.’

Ariadne threw up her hands. ‘I
wish I had known it then, for I need not have begun upon this precarious path.’

‘I could point out you have none
but yourself to blame, but I shall refrain.’

‘As we see.’

Evidence of another arrival
downstairs brought William to his feet. ‘I’d best be off. I’m in no humour to
be doing the pretty to whoever that may be.’

He left in something of a hurry,
obliged merely to bow to the lady who was coming up the stairs. The shock of
finding Tiffany and her chaperon at Ariadne’s had affected him more severely
than he knew, and he was conscious of a depression of spirit hard to shake off.

It persisted as he walked back to
his lodging, instead of pursuing his intended round of calls. He was tempted to
go in search of Hector, but what was the point? It had no doubt been his
ill-considered words that had prompted Hector to confide his fears to his
sister. His friend clearly also thought him in danger. What would he say had he
a hint of how difficult William was finding it to adhere to a long-held vow?

The realisation caused a
resurgence of the feeling that had hit him when he saw Tiffany’s face upon
receipt of his reception of her. He cursed aloud. No matter his resolve, he
could not endure to think of her distress. Small point in a determination to
eschew any further association with the girl if he must do so at her expense.
It would not do. At the least, he must account for his conduct. It might be apt
for “the Conqueror”. In William Westerham, it was unforgivable. Besides, after
the comfortable manner of their previous meeting, it was not only hurtful, but
also downright insulting. Tiffany did not deserve that.

It must be remedied. Only how it
was to be achieved without falling foul of the unspeakable Lady Drumbeg was a
problem to which he saw no immediate solution. He might, after all, have to sue
to Ariadne for help.

Sliding doors between the two larger saloons in the house in
Great Russell Street had been thrown open to create a single space, a trifle
too large for Mrs Gosbeck’s assembled guests. But it did allow Tiffany to keep
a weather eye open for Sir Lambert Chicheley. Escaping from the unwelcome
attentions of an elderly beau was the only distraction from the nagging cloud
affecting her mood.

In the
easygoing atmosphere of Mrs Gosbeck’s soirée, where there was no pressure to
behave with the exactitude of social nicety that otherwise plagued her, Tiffany
could have enjoyed the evening. There was little demand upon her except to
converse with anyone who came in her way, which presented her with no undue
difficulty for the company was not of a level to require much sorting of
precedence. Most of the guests had been present at Tiffany’s come-out and were
of a class which might as readily have made up the Felton’s acquaintance in
Yorkshire, although there was a scattering of personages with pretensions to
gentility.

Notable
of these was Mrs Amelia Murrell, the wealthy widow who had served Lady Drumbeg
for a spurious passport into Lady Yelverton’s house. But her presence lent no
cachet in Tiffany’s view, since Mrs Murrell seemed bent upon spending the
entirety of this Wednesday evening playing at piquet with anyone who would
indulge her. The only other personage of rank was Sir Lambert, whom Tiffany did
everything to avoid.

It had
not taken Tiffany long to realise that this milieu, in which she felt
relatively at home, was a far cry from the one into which her chaperon sought
to take her. She’d had success in penetrating a few households which were
recognizably further up the social ladder than this—and in which Tiffany felt
uncomfortable, all the time living in dread of making a slip. But the single
evening at Lady Yelverton’s ball had been enough to demonstrate the wide gap
existing between that marginally superior circle and the one the Conqueror
inhabited.

The
thought of him caused a rush of discomfort, and Tiffany tried vainly to cast
him from her mind and pay attention to the discussion in progress around her,
which centred upon the unpromising subject of the lack of change in the
weather. It continued cold and wet, providing apparently endless speculation
for the elderly creatures among whom Tiffany was seated.

‘If it
rains again tomorrow, I declare I shall keep my room and refuse to budge from
my bed,’ said one frail-looking lady.

‘Oh,
my dear, I
know
. It does so droop the spirits to be obliged to come out
upon such a dreary day.’

‘Do
you suppose it may come on to rain again tonight? I wonder if I should call for
my carriage now. I am sure Eliza will not mind it if I go early.’

‘But
there is to be poetry read, I believe—if one can hear it against the wind. I
was so buffeted this morning, I had almost been blown away.’

Sympathetic
cries and calls upon the speaker to elaborate the incident proved less
absorbing than Tiffany could have wished. Her mind drifted, returning
inevitably to the matter uppermost in her thoughts.