Suppressing his natural response to such gushing sentiment, Jason kept his most unintimidating smile firmly in place. Taking Mrs. Applegate’s chubby fingers in his, he bowed politely. “My dear Mrs. Applegate.” Straightening, he considered her with affected surprise. “I confess to being amazed to see you, ma’am. I’d heard your tea this afternoon was positively exhausting.”
Flushing with pleasure, Mrs. Applegate fanned her cheeks. “Very kind in you to say so, Your Grace. I’m only sorry Lady Eversleigh was otherwise engaged. Lady Thorpe and Mrs. Carlisle were particularly anxious to make her acquaintance. Perhaps you might drop a word in her ear, my lord? I hold an ‘at home’ every second week and would be most pleased to have her attend.”
“Yes, of course.” A sudden chill enveloped Jason’s heart. He glanced about. “If you’ll pardon me, ma’am, I’ve just sighted someone I must catch.”
With an elegant bow, he detached himself from Mrs. Applegate’s clinging toils and headed into the crowd. Not the Park, not Mrs. Applegate’s. So where had Lenore spent her afternoon?
Seeing the dark head of Lady Morecambe pass before him, he swung into her wake. When she paused by a group of ladies to allow another to pass before her, Jason stopped by her side. “Good evening, Lady Morecambe.”
Theresa Morecambe jumped and swung about. “Oh, Your Grace! You gave me quite a start.”
Looking down into her blue eyes and seeing the relief therein, Jason drew his own conclusions. But he was only interested in discovering his wife’s afternoon pastimes. Bowing briefly over Lady Morecambe’s hand, he fixed her with a cool and somewhat stern gaze. “I believe you spend a great deal of time with my wife, Lady Morecambe?”
There was nothing in the tenor of his words to cause offence, but he was not the least surprised to see Theresa Morecambe’s eyes widen. With a visible effort, she pulled herself together, then airily shrugged. “Now and then. But we’re not forever in each other’s pockets, Your Grace. You must not be thinking so.” Under his relentless gaze, Lady Morecambe’s defences wavered. She rushed on, “In fact, this afternoon I attended Mrs. Marshall’s drum. Lady Eversleigh was otherwise engaged—I assume she attended Mrs. Dwyer’s musical afternoon—a most rewarding and, er…enlightening experience, I’m sure.”
Struggling to keep his lips straight, Jason nodded. “I dare say.” With the curtest of bows, he let Lady Morecambe flee. He gave a minute to consideration of which of his peers was the guilty party in her case, before hauling his mind back to his own unknown. Where had Lenore gone?
The next half-hour went in a vain search for Mrs. Dwyer. Forced to the conclusion that that particular young matron had not featured on Lady Cheswell’s list, Jason stood stock-still by the side of the ballroom, a black cloud of suspicion drawing ever nearer.
“Good God, Eversleigh! Stop standing there like a rock. There’s a chair behind you, if you haven’t noticed. I need it—and you’re in the way.”
Blinking, moving aside automatically, Jason found himself facing his father’s youngest sister. “You have my heartfelt apologies, Agatha.” Smoothly, he helped her to the chair.
Settling herself in a cloud of deep purple draperies, Agatha humphed. “No sense trying any of your flummery on me, m’lad.”
Jason’s lips twitched but he held his tongue.
Looking up at him, Agatha’s black eyes narrowed. “But what are you doing here, propping the wall? Watching your wife hard at work?” With a nod, she indicated the set Lenore had joined on the dance floor. “Exhausting, ain’t it?”
“Exceptionally.” Try as he might, Jason could not keep his disapproval from colouring his tone. “I find it hard to believe she is not, now, enjoying what she once professed to abhor.”
Agatha chuckled. “Well, if she’s convinced you, she needn’t fear any other finding her out.”
Knowing his aunt harboured a definite soft spot for Lenore, Jason let that remark pass unchallenged.
“Still, at least she escaped Lady Fairford’s effort today. I don’t know how some of these people find their way into the ton, believe me I don’t. The most shabby entertainment—nipcheese from beginning to end. I went on to Henrietta Dwyer’s—timed it well; the singing was over but I didn’t see Lenore there. No doubt she went to Lady Argyle’s ‘at home’. If I’d had any sense, I would have gone there to start with.”
Feeling very much like a drowning man making one last desperate attempt to grab hold of a buoy, Jason made his excuses to his aunt and set out on Lady Argyle’s trail.
In the centre of the crowd thronging Lady Cheswell’s dance-floor, Lenore smiled and chatted, no longer afraid that her mask would slip but rather less sure about her temper. The sheer banality of the exercise was taking its toll; she was bored and rapidly losing patience. “Naturally, my lord,” she replied to Lord Selkirk, “I would not favour pink ribbons on such an outfit. I suspect Mr. Millthorpe would only find they tangled in his fobs. He seems to have quite an array, don’t you think?” A gale of laughter greeted this purely accurate observation. Lenore converted her grimace to a look of puzzled consideration as she studied the extravagant dandy holding court but paces away. As Mr. Millthorpe seemed to count such attention no more than his due, she did not feel she was committing any social solecism in so doing. Was this all they thought of—silk ribbons and bows?
Behind the solid façade of the Duchess of Eversleigh, Lenore inwardly sighed, hoping that she possessed the fortit
ude to carry her through the next weeks. Agatha, Lady Eckington and company were all agreed that she should not host any major entertainment until next Season. Which meant that all she had to do was continue to appear at the balls and parties, smiling and dancing, a devotee of all things frivolous. The dreary prospect was enough to make her feel ill. Thankfully, her resistance to indisposition had improved dramatically, at least in the evenings; as long as she adhered to her plan, she was confident her health would see the Season out. It was her temperament that was strained; she had never before had to suffer fools gladly.
“My dear Duchess! Allow me to compliment you on your gown, my dear.”
Mentally girding her loins, Lenore turned to exchange polite nods with Lady Hartwell. “How do you do, Lady Hartwell. Madame Lafarge will be delighted to know you approve of her style. Are you enjoying your evening?”
A little taken aback by this forthright response, Lady Hartwell rallied. “Why, yes, my dear. Such a sad crush, is it not? But I wanted to make sure you had received my note about my little gathering tomorrow. Dare I hope you’ll be able to attend?”
With the ease born of frequent repetition, Lenore smiled at Lady Hartwell, just the right combination of regret and reluctance in her eyes. “Indeed I got your note, but I regret I’m promised elsewhere for the afternoon. Perhaps next time?”
Fleetingly laying her hand on her ladyship’s gloved arm, as if appealing for her understanding, Lenore was not surprised to see resigned acceptance overlay her ladyship’s annoyance. She had her routine perfected to an art.
After promising to attend her soirée later in the month, Lenore parted from her ladyship, returning once more to the safety of her own circle. Lady Hartwell’s invitation was the sixth she had refused for the following afternoon. The number of ladies desirous of her company over tea would have made Harriet cackle.
Nodding to Lady Argyle as she passed her in the crowd, Lenore banished her boredom, casting herself once more into the fray—the chattering, glimmering, clamouring world of the ton.