‘Do you dislike Lady Barbara?’
‘No. I like her, but the thing is that I like Charles much more, and I can’t see him tied to her for the rest of his life.’
‘It may yet come to nothing.’
‘That’s what I say, but Fitzroy will have it that if Bab throws him over it will be the end of him.’
‘No, I didn’t say that,’ interposed Lord Fitzroy. ‘But you can’t live with a man for as long as I’ve lived with Charles, and come through tight places with him, and work with him, day in, day out, without getting to know him pretty well, and I do say that I believe him to be in earnest over this. I expect he knows his own business best—only I do wish he would stop burning the candle at both ends!’
‘He can’t,’ said Gordon. ‘You have to run fast if you mean to keep pace with Bab.’
They had reached the Rue du Belle Vue by this time, and no more was said. Lord Fitzroy took his leave, Sir Alexander escorted Lady Worth to her own door, and she went in, feeling despondent and quite out of spirits.
The Duchess of Richmond held an informal party that evening, at her house off the Rue de la Blanchisserie, which was situated in the northern quarter of the town, not far from the Allée Verte. The Duke of Wellington had, from its locality, irreverently named it the Wash-house, but it was, in fact, a charming abode, placed in a large garden extending to the ramparts, and with a smaller house, or cottage, in the grounds which was occupied, whenever he was in Brussels, by Lord March.
The Duchess’s parties were always popular. She had a great gift for entertaining, knew everyone, and had such a numerous family of sons and daughters that her house was quite a rendezvous for the younger set. Besides the nursery party, which consisted of several lusty children who did not appear in the drawing-room unless they had prevailed upon some indulgent friend, like the Duke of Wellington, to beg for them to come downstairs, there was a cluster of pretty daughters, and three fine sons: Lord March, Lord George Lennox, and Lord William.
Lord March was not present at the party, being at Braine-le-Comte with the Prince of Orange; and Lord William, who had had such a shocking fall from his horse, was still confined to his room; but Lord George, one of Wellington’s aides-de-camp, was there; and of course the four daughters of the house: Lady Mary, Lady Sarah, Lady Jane, and Lady Georgiana.
The Duke of Wellington did not gratify the company by putting in an appearance. The redoubtable Duchesse d’Angoulême had lately arrived in Ghent, and he had gone there to pay his respects to her, taking Colonel Audley with him. But although the party was composed mostly of young people, several major-generals were present with their wives, quite a number of distinguished civilians, and of course Sir Sydney Smith, working his startling brows up and down, flashing his eyes about the room, and drawing a great deal of attention to himself with his theatrical eccentricities.
Lady Worth, who arrived rather late with her husband, was glad to see that Harriet had torn herself from her couch and had come with Peregrine. It was evident that she had entered the lists against Barbara, for she was wearing one of her best gowns, had had her hair dressed in a new style, and had even improved her complexion with a dash of rouge. She seemed to be in spirits, and Judith was just reflecting on the beneficial results of a spasm of jealousy when in walked Barbara, ravishing in a white satin slip under a robe of celestial blue crape, caught together down the front with clasps of flowers. Judith’s complacency was ended. Peregrine, like nearly everyone else, was gazing at the vision. Who, Judith wondered despairingly, would look twice at Harriet in her figured muslin and her amethysts, when Barbara stood laughing under the great chandelier, flirting a fan of frosted crape which twinkled in the candlelight, the brilliants round her neck no more sparkling than her eyes?
She glanced round the room, blew a kiss to Georgiana, nodded at Judith. Her gaze swept past Peregrine, and Judith found herself heaving a sigh of relief: she was going to be good, then! The next instant her spirit quailed again, for she caught sight of Harriet’s face, set in rigid lines of disdain, and heard her say in a clear, hard little voice to the lady standing beside her: ‘My dear ma’am, of course it is dyed! I should not have thought it could have deceived a child. Perry, let me remove into the salon: I find this place a little too hot for me.’
That her words had reached Barbara’s ears was evident to Judith. The green eyes rested enigmatically on Harriet’s face for a moment, and then travelled on to Peregrine. A little tantalising smile hovered on the lovely mouth;
the eyes unmistakably beckoned.
‘In a minute!’ said Peregrine. ‘I must say how do you do to Lady Bab first.’
He left Harriet’s side as he spoke, and walked right across the room to where Barbara stood, waiting for him to come to her. She held out her hand to him; he kissed it; she murmured something, and he laughed, very gallantly offered his arm, and went off with her towards the glass doors thrown open into the garden.
‘But what finesse!’ said Worth’s languid voice, immediately behind Judith. ‘I make her my compliments. In its way, perfect!’
‘I should like to box her ears, and Harriet’s, and Peregrine’s, and yours too!’ replied Judith in a wrathful whisper.
‘In that case, my love, I will remove one temptation at least out of your way.’
She detained him. ‘Worth, you must speak to Perry!’
‘I shall do no such thing.’
‘It is your duty: after all, he is your ward!’
‘Oh no, he is not! He was my ward. That is a very different matter. Moreover, my heart wouldn’t be in it: Harriet offered battle, and has been defeated in one brilliant engagement. I cannot consider it to be any concern of mine—though I shall be interested to see the outcome.’
‘If you have taken it into your head to save your brother at the expense of mine, Julian, I tell you now that I won’t have it!’ said Judith.
He smiled, but returned no answer, merely moving away to join a group of men by the stairs.
The rest of the evening passed wretchedly enough for Judith. It was some time before Peregrine reappeared, and when he did at last come back from the garden he was in high fettle. Harriet, employing new tactics, had joined the younger guests in the ballroom, and was behaving in a manner quite unlike herself, chattering and laughing, and promising more dances than the night could possibly hold. Never remarkable for his perception, Peregrine beamed with pleasure, and told her that he had known all along that she would enjoy herself.
‘I am afraid you have come too late, Peregrine!’ she said, very bright eyed. ‘Every dance is booked!’
‘Oh, that’s capital!’ he replied. ‘Don’t bother your head over me: I shall do famously!’
After this well-meaning piece of tactlessness, he withdrew from the ballroom, and was next seen in the salon, turning over the leaves of her music for Barbara, who had been persuaded to sing Mr Guest’s latest ballad, The Farewell.