When she was not using it, it seemed hardly to matter that she could see only the indistinct shapes of the guests for, with Mr Waverley to help her through introductions and to murmur reminders in her ear, she felt the disadvantage less than she might otherwise have done. It also quite escaped her notice that the admiring eyes of so many men turned her way, or that the women’s eyes busied themselves with every perfect detail of her ensemble.
Miss Gaddestone, petite in a flurry of frills, mauve muslin and bugle beads, and Mrs Quayle, like a plump beady-eyed brown bird, were the other two who knew the seriousness of Letitia’s handicap, but who were too interested in their own roles to play chaperon to her as well as the pupils. They knew Mr Waverley would do that.
Sir Francis and Lady Melborough had taken a fancy to Letitia from the start, looking upon her at times as one of the family, though it had always been one of her policies to maintain a respectful distance between herself and the pupils’ parents to avoid any appearance of favouritism. Lady Melborough was a perfect forecast of how Sapphire would look in another twenty years, kindly and flighty and of a more blue-blooded ancestry than Sir Francis. She had prepared well for this event, her house being the most perfect setting, high-ceilinged and spacious, gold-and-white walled, moulded and mirrored.
As a newly knighted city banker, Sir Francis was self-important and ambitious, handsome and middle-aged with an eye for the feminine form, and for his own form, too. He stood facing a very large gilded mirror to speak to Letitia where, with lingering looks, he could see over her shoulder both his own front and her back, the curve of which he thought was enchanting. Letitia found his closeness uncomfortable, his affability fulsome, his attentions too personal for politeness. She edged away, trying to identify Mr Waverley’s brown hair amongst so many others, and when she noticed the unmistakable frame and dark head of Lord Rayne approaching from across the room, the sudden relief she felt was quite impossible to hide.
‘Why, Miss Boyce,’ he said, ‘am I dreaming, or did I see a fleeting welcome in your smile? Do tell me I’m not mistaken.’
‘It would be impolite of me, to say the least, Lord Rayne, to admit any feeling of relief. Sir Francis is our host and I’m sure he’s doing all he can to make the evening a success.’
‘Then I take it you would not appreciate a word of warning?’
This was the first time she had seen Lord Rayne in evening dress, and she found it difficult to reconcile the former soldier in regimentals with the quietly dressed beau in charcoal-grey tail-coat, left open to show a waistcoat of grey silk brocade. Whatever else she disliked about him, she could not fault his style. ‘Warning?’ she said. ‘Are you the right person to be warning me of that?’
‘Of what, Miss Boyce?’
‘Lord Rayne, you take a delight in putting me to the blush. But I shall not rise to your bait. You of all people must know what I refer to.’
‘Will I never be forgiven for that, Miss Boyce? Am I not to be allowed to warn you of similar dangers from old married men who ought to know better?’ Despite the teasing words, his eyes were seriously intent.
‘It is not necessary. I am not a green girl, my lord, and I have Mr Waverley to protect me.’
‘Ah, Mr Waverley. So you do.’
Their eyes roamed together, identifying the elegant figure in dark blue and white only a few paces away. Side by side, he was talking and smiling with Mr Jeffery Melborough, Sapphire’s older brother, shoulders almost touching, their backs reflected in the long mirror above a semi-lune table. Before Letitia could withdraw her glance, a slight movement in the mirror caused her to squint, trying to understand why young Mr Melborough’s hand was slipping between the long tails of Mr Waverley’s coat, its white cuff almost disappearing.
‘What’s he doing?’ she frowned. ‘I think he’s picking Bart’s pocket. I must go and warn him.’
‘No, come away…over here.’ Lord Rayne’s voice was suddenly commanding, his arm across her waist urging her forward. ‘Look, here are Mrs Quayle and your cousin. It must almost be time for the second half. Ladies,’ he bowed. ‘May I procure—’
‘But what if he was trying to reach Mr Waverley’s pocket? Is there not one in the lining of the tails?’
‘—a glass of punch for you?’
Face to face with the two chaperons, Letitia had little option but to abandon Mr Waverley to his predicament, whatever it was, in favour of the excited chatter covering every aspect of the evening, including Lord Rayne himself, as soon as his back was turned.
‘Did you know,’ said Mrs Quayle, ‘that he actually offered for your house when it first came on the market? I had no idea, but that’s what Lady Adorna Elwick has just told me. She’s his sister, you know. Lives at Mortlake. Over there, with the tall gentleman. Her beau,’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t she a vision?’
‘Yes, I met her earlier,’ said Letitia, recalling the stunning beauty in gossamer gold-threaded muslin that seemed to reveal more than it covered. The Merry Widow, they called her, with good reason. ‘Strange that no one mentioned it before. Lord Rayne has said not a word.’
‘Well, perhaps he doesn’t want you to know,’ said Mrs Gaddestone.
‘That he wished to purchase my house? Why not?’
Miss Gaddestone opened her mouth to answer, but was checked by her friend’s elbow connecting firmly with hers. ‘Oh! Am I not meant to say?’
‘Say what? Gaddy, what are you talking about?’said Letitia.
Helplessly, Miss Gaddestone blinked at Mrs Quayle, who rose to the occasion as if this was what she’d intended. ‘Lord Rayne,’ she breathed from half behind her fan, ‘is still recovering from a thwarted love affair, his sister says. Number 18, you see, belongs to the Bostons, and Lady Boston is Lady Elyot’s niece, and when the two of them lived there before They were married, Lady Boston and Lord Rayne formed an attachment to each other.’
‘Before she was Lady Boston, you mean?’
‘Yes, she was plain Caterina Chester then, but she—’
‘Mrs Quayle,’ said Letitia, ‘what are you implying? That Lord Rayne wanted Number 24 so he could live near the lady he once had a tendre for? If that were typical, he’d have to offer for dozens of properties a year, wouldn’t he? Anyway, Number 18 is empty for most of the year. I was told that the Bostons live up in Northumberland. Or is it Cumberland?’
Fluffing up her feather boa and settling it again upon her shoulders, Mrs Quayle tried again. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘The Bostons keep a skeleton staff there. They come down from the north about twice a year. Still, it sounds to me as if he’s not quite got over the lady, doesn’t it? I wonder if she feels the same way.’
‘I think you’re probably jumping to conclusions,’ said Letitia. ‘Perhaps he had his sights on Number 24 because Richmond houses don’t come on the market too often. Well, not the kind he’d want to buy.’
But the information, so carelessly given, found a corner of her mind into which it did not fit as snugly as it ought. The notion of Lord Rayne being capable of a lasting affection for a woman seemed uncharacteristic of such a man. More than that she would not allow herself to dwell on, though it became quite a struggle to prevent certain images from developing in her mind that had no business there in the first place. Especially when she did not even like the man.
As if she could not resist the chance to needle him for something as indefinable as that, she joined him towards the end of the interval as he and Mr Waverley were chatting together. Instead of greeting her with his