‘I had forgotten how odious that woman is.’
‘Eleanor!’
‘Well, she is, Aunt Hetty. I am willing to wager that Arthur is as much under her thumb now as he was seven years ago. I pity his poor wife.’
It was clear that Lady Walcot agreed with her niece, but was not about to say so. Instead she changed the subject. ‘Would you like me to find you a dancing partner, Eleanor?’
‘Do you think you could? At my great age? Lady Dorothy would think it most unlikely.’
‘Eleanor, you let your tongue run away with you—you always did. It is not becoming in you to make fun of your elders, and especially not Lady Dorothy. In any case,’ she went on, somewhat spoiling her effect, ‘you are as handsome now as you ever were, and I am sure I shall have no difficulty at all in finding someone to dance with you.’ As they walked up the room she went on, ‘But I confess that I wish I could be happier about your future! Since you refuse to stay here in London, I suppose you must look for a husband in Somerset.’ She sounded so doubtful about the idea that Eleanor burst out laughing.
‘You are right to rate my chances low, Aunt Hetty! The young men of Somerset have younger, richer game to pursue—when they are not pursuing real game, or shooting pigeons, or…or…whatever they spend their time doing. Truth to tell, I find them rather boring! But pray do not concern yourself on my account. Mama and I are quite happy together. And you know that I have always loved Stanyards.’
Lady Walcot stopped by a quiet alcove. ‘My dear, it isn’t enough!’ she said earnestly. ‘A woman’s best chance of security lies in a suitable marriage.’
‘Such as one to Arthur Rushton, perhaps?’ asked Eleanor with a slight curl of the lip.
‘Why not? He is rich—or will be one day. And from what I hear young Mrs Rushton has a handsome allowance and any number of servants to look after her. And she has her children. It is a pity that her nerves do not always permit her to enjoy her advantages…’
‘You see? No, Aunt Hetty. I think I am happier in my tame country existence than I could ever be in Clara Rushton’s place.’
‘Happiness is not the sole aim of marriage, Eleanor. Not even the chief aim.’
‘Isn’t it? I think it is the only one.’
‘What nonsense you talk! Pray be serious for one moment! If you would only put yourself into my hands I could almost certainly find you a suitable husband here in London.’
‘Well, then, I promise you, when I feel the need of one I shall come to you first of all! But for now I shall look around me and enjoy the spectacle of London society amusing itself. The memory of it will console my tame country evenings.’
Lady Walcot shook her head at her niece’s refusal to be serious, but decided to say no more, and they resumed their walk down the room. It was a magnificent apartment, lavishly furnished in red velvet with a richly decorated white and gold ceiling. Eleanor found it slightly overpowering—vulgar even, but dared not say so. The chandelier was lovely, though. She looked up at it as they passed, and nearly walked into her aunt as that lady suddenly stopped. The stranger from the other side of the room was standing in front of them.
‘Lady Walcot—’ Eleanor’s aunt looked coldly at the gentleman but said nothing. He continued, ‘We met at my cousin’s house in Berkeley Square. My name is Guthrie. I should like to ask your companion to dance with me.’
‘Thank you, sir, but my niece does not intend to dance this evening—not at the moment, at least,’ said Lady Walcot frostily.
Perhaps the gentlemen saw Eleanor’s astonishment, for he made no move to go, but said gently, ‘Forgive me, but how can you possibly know? You haven’t even asked her.’
‘I would not dream of doing so, sir. I know that to have any closer acquaintance with a man such as yourself would be as abhorrent to her as it would to me, or to any woman of principle. And now you must excuse us, if you please. Come, Eleanor!’ She took Eleanor’s arm and almost dragged her niece away. Eleanor couldn’t help casting a glance over her shoulder at the stranger to see his reaction to this massive set-down. He was gazing after them with the same ironical smile on his face. Then he shrugged and walked calmly towards the door to the rooms where the card tables were to be found.
‘My dear aunt, you must, you really must explain! I shall explode with curiosity if you do not! Who is this monster called Guthrie? You and Lady Dorothy were talking about him before, were you not? What has he done that puts him so far beyond the pale? Tell me!’
Lady Walcot hesitated, then shook her head. She and Eleanor were sitting at one of a number of small tables which had been placed in the conservatory, and Lord Walcot, who had joined them for supper, was fetching some refreshment.
‘That is impossible, Eleanor. The story is not a suitable one, but at the risk of setting your back up I assure you that that man is not a fit acquaintance for you.’
‘Oh, come! I am not a simple schoolroom miss. As Lady Dorothy so kindly said, I am well past my first season! I need a better reason than that for not being allowed to dance with him!’
Lady Walcot looked even more determined. ‘I am afraid that you must do without one, Eleanor. All I will say is that his treatment of the Anstey family has been wicked.’
‘Can you tell me, at least, who these Ansteys are?’
‘Mrs Anstey and her younger daughter, Marianne, are sitting over there in the far corner. The poor woman is trying to make herself inconspicuous.’
Eleanor turned her head a fraction and saw a pale, sweet-faced woman in black, almost hidden by the overhanging branch of a potted palm. Next to her sat a very beautiful girl in a pale blue dress. ‘Marianne Anstey is exquisite! She looks like a fairy princess!’
‘Absolutely lovely, I agree. They have aroused a great deal of attention since their arrival from America. The girl is certain to make a good marriage, although they are as poor as church mice, and totally dependent on their relatives.’
‘What did Mr Guthrie do?’
‘I cannot discuss it now—here is your uncle. All you really need to know is that the man is a scoundrel.’
‘Who is this scoundrel?’ asked Lord Walcot. ‘No, let me guess. Jonas Guthrie, without a doubt. Why can’t you leave him alone, Hetty? From what he says, Guthrie has decided to leave London soon and retire to the country. And I must say I don’t blame him! Lady Dorothy and her cronies—’
‘Cronies!’
‘I beg your pardon, my dear, I forgot you were one of them—I should have said her friends! You’ve all been making life impossible for the poor devil with your scandalous stories about the Ansteys—not that he needs anyone’s sympathy; he’s well able to take care of himself.’
Eleanor, swift to seize her opportunity, asked, ‘You do not agree with the stories, then, Uncle?’
‘We don’t know enough of the matter to judge, my dear. It’s possible that Guthrie is a villain—I suspect he’s no weakling, and he certainly isn’t a fool—but I have found him to be perfectly straightforward in his dealings with me.’
‘Are you suggesting that that sweet woman is not telling the truth when she says that Jonas Guthrie is the cause of all her misfortunes?’ asked Lady Walcot, bristling.
‘Not at all. I’m certain Mrs Anstey believes every word she tells you. How much she understands of business affairs is another matter. But this is the most idle speculation, and not fit for an evening of enjoyment! Come, Eleanor, if your aunt