Secrets Of A Wallflower
Secrets Of A Wallflower
Amanda McCabe
A secret shared…But can she trust him?In this Debutantes in Paris story, Diana Martin is thrilled be a writer covering the Parisian Exposition. Her new role must be kept quiet—her parents would never allow it! When enigmatic Sir William Blakely discovers her ruse, he knows it could lead her into danger. With the sparks igniting between them, William realises the only way to protect Diana is by staying as close to her as possible!
A secret shared...
But can she trust him?
In this Debutantes in Paris story, Diana Martin is thrilled to be a writer covering the Parisian Exposition. But her new role must be kept quiet—her parents would never allow it! When enigmatic Sir William Blakely discovers her ruse, he knows it could lead her into danger. With the sparks igniting between them, William realizes the only way to protect Diana is by staying as close to her as possible!
Debutantes in Paris miniseries
Book 1—Secrets of a Wallflower
Look out for the next book, coming soon!
“McCabe sets the perfect tone, complete with all the elegant trimmings and sparkling warmth such genre fantasy can capture.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Wallflower’s Mistletoe Wedding
AMANDA MCCABE wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, one dog and one cat.
Also by Amanda McCabe (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
A Stranger at Castonbury
Tarnished Rose of the Court
An Improper Duchess
Betrayed by His Kiss
The Demure Miss Manning
The Queen’s Christmas Summons
Bancrofts of Barton Park miniseries
The Runaway Countess
Running from Scandal
Running into Temptation
The Wallflower’s Mistletoe Wedding
Debutantes in Paris miniseries
Secrets of a Wallflower
And look out for the next book
Coming soon
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Secrets of a Wallflower
Amanda McCabe
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07377-6
SECRETS OF A WALLFLOWER
© 2018 Ammanda McCabe
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my mom, because we’ll always have Paris!
Contents
Cover (#ua31869d7-6637-5d7b-8264-ab5140558953)
Back Cover Text (#u98d5fb32-1d45-5bdd-a6eb-666226062623)
About the Author (#u608578e4-97bb-5275-87b8-fc4230c0cbcf)
Booklist (#u0625dc51-edb1-51ae-8eea-4d97f431a730)
Title Page (#u9f6b7dd6-13f7-5c0c-b1fe-a92ecbfad409)
Copyright (#ua37a9804-0478-5e16-ad69-b3af8f2a405b)
Dedication (#u858b2226-40b5-58f6-9081-4f82ba8ba5d9)
Prologue (#u839360fc-e485-5ed3-bc16-32a2f964c4a0)
Chapter One (#u261b81da-1453-559d-850c-63cddf6a54bd)
Chapter Two (#ubc29beed-092f-5d9a-ad2b-7bfef8fc0cd9)
Chapter Three (#ud61084fe-623e-5233-96eb-8e4f9f7918be)
Chapter Four (#uaca6d46d-ab34-5985-8a60-4eaa4390a225)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
Spring 1888—Miss Grantley’s School for Young Ladies
‘By this time next year I will be a famous authoress,’ announced Miss Diana Martin as she lay in the grass with her two best friends and stared up at the clouds sliding across the pale blue April sky. They were only a few days from leaving their schooling for ever, presumably as polished young ladies of eighteen, ready to grace society, and had thus been allowed a rare afternoon picnic unchaperoned in the school’s lush park.
‘How can you do that, Di?’ murmured Lady Alexandra, a duke’s daughter, the sweetest, shyest and most beautiful girl in all of Miss Grantley’s. ‘There are no great lady authors. It must be so hard. Everyone knowing who you are, staring at you wherever you go. If anyone would buy the book at all. I would be so terrified.’
‘Oh, Alex,’ laughed Emily Fortescue, the most sensible of the trio that everyone in the dormitory corridors like to call The Three Musketeers. ‘You would be terrified if a mouse even looked at you, though you must get used to it. You are a duke’s daughter and you look like an angel. Everyone will stare at you when you make your debut.’
Alexandra’s face, which was indeed heart-shaped, all ivory and roses crowned by spun silver-gold hair, blushed bright red. ‘Please, Em, don’t remind me. I wish we could stay here for ever, just as we are. Right at this moment.’
Diana could definitely see what Alexandra meant. It was a perfect day, the sun soft and warm, the grass like a velvet blanket beneath them, the smell of honeysuckle on the breeze. The solid, Georgian red brick of Miss Grantley’s main building was in the distance, watching over them, keeping them safe as it had done for the last few years of their education.
She had loved it here. The teachers had taught them so many things—geography, mathematics, philosophy, as well as the more usual French, watercolours, music, and how to curtsy to the Queen. They had one of the finest libraries in the county thanks to their founder, the daughter of a famous rare book collector. At Miss Grantley’s, Diana had found the stories that took her out of herself, the poetry and novels and plays. She knew she wasn’t pretty—she was too thin, too gangly, her hair too red—but here she had found a place for herself. Here she could start to see herself, unlike at her parents’ house where she always felt so awkward, out of place, and—wrong. Miss Grantley’s had changed all that, at least for a while.
Best of all, she had found Emily and Alexandra. From the very first day, when they sat next to each other for the school’s formal dinner in its vast, intimidating great hall, they had been bonded fast in friendship. None of them had their own sisters, so they became sisters of the heart. They studied together in the library, whispered in the night as they shared chocolates, wandered the gardens, shared hopes and dreams and stories.
And now it was all coming to an end, rushing towards them faster than a railway train, sweeping them into the unknown future. It was frightening—but also very exciting.
Alexandra would surely marry. She was a great beauty and, as a duke’s daughter, could probably find a prince—if she could bring herself to speak to him. She was so very shy, which was why her ducal parents had sent her to school, hoping she would come out of her shell, make new friends.
Emily, the daughter of a prosperous merchant in Brighton, could marry a wealthy factory owner her father knew, or she could run her very own business empire. She was clever enough, strong enough, brave enough, to do anything.
But Diana—she had no idea what she could do. Her father was a respected diplomat, well-to-do but not hugely wealthy, long retired from a military career that had once taken him to India and South Africa. She knew her parents expected her to find a country gentleman to settle into a fine home with, or maybe a vicar, if he was from a good family, or even an army officer, as her father had once been.
Yet marriage, despite all the wonderfully romantic French novels all the girls at Miss Grantley’s passed around and devoured along with their chocolates, seemed quite terrifying. Once a lady was married, her own ideas seemed finished.
She knew she wasn’t shrewd enough to run a business, as Emily could do. The one thing Diana really loved, the one thing that could take her out of herself and into other, stranger, beautiful worlds, was writing stories.
Miss Merrill, their literature teacher, told her she had a rare gift for creating vivid atmosphere with her words. She couldn’t play the harp very well, could barely add sums above three digits, hopelessly mixed up the borders on globes and who should sit beside who at dinner parties. But she could write well enough.
Couldn’t she?
She propped herself up on her elbow and studied her friends. Their hats were all off, their faces turned to the sun, their shoes discarded, Emily’s chestnut hair spread on the grass beneath her. Miss Merrill would lecture them if she could see! Diana tucked a loose strand of her red-gold hair back into her unruly plait.
‘There are great women writers,’ she said. ‘Jane Austen. Mrs Gaskell.’
‘Charlotte Brontë,’ said Emily. ‘Plus all those anonymous books by A Lady, the ones Ann Parkinson is always bringing back from Paris. Plenty of lady writers, though few are as good as you, Di.’
Diana felt her cheeks turn warm, maybe from the sun, maybe from the compliment. She had always longed for praise, but when it came she didn’t quite know what to do with it. She laid back down in her spot on the grass.
‘Do you want to write one of those French books, Di?’ Alexandra asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Diana thought of what they found in those smuggled books: wonderfully vivid descriptions of gowns and balls, kisses, elopements, scandal. They were fun. But she also loved the more realistic worlds found in George Eliot and Thackeray, so full of deep truths. ‘Maybe I’d like to do something like Mr Dickens. Something to make a bit of difference in the world. Or at least distract people from their troubles for a moment, as Miss Austen does, and give a bit of joy.’
‘You do that just by being—well, you,’ Alexandra said. ‘I’ve never known anyone to make me laugh as you do.’
‘Only because I fall down in deportment class and show my petticoats every week,’ Diana answered.
‘You only do that because it does make us laugh!’ said Emily. ‘Otherwise dreary old Mrs Percell would have us all asleep in boredom every week. We’ve seen you waltz when we practise our dance steps at night.’
Diana had to admit that was somewhat true. When Miss Merrill, their floor chaperon as well as the literature teacher, had gone to sleep, the girls would often have their own little dance parties. It was fun to dance then, using the frilled hem of her dressing gown as a train, pretending she was dancing with a prince in a grand ballroom. They would all spin and spin, and then collapse into giggles before they ate their hidden stash of teacakes.
But she still had the dratted tendency to topple over in curtsies. What she really liked about those classes was learning what to wear to various social events. She pored over the Parisian fashion magazines avidly and liked to sketch her own ideas for gowns and hats when she was supposed to be reading Cicero. Usually those imaginary gowns ended up on heroines in her short stories.
Stories of young ladies like her friends. Ladies who could change the world.
‘And even if you were clumsy,’ Alexandra said, ‘no one is more stylish than you.’ She reached out to touch the elaborate floral embroidery on the pale blue muslin sleeve of Diana’s dress. The local seamstress had made it to Diana’s own design, with puffed shoulders and a narrow skirt in the latest fashion.
Maybe she could use that style to make her mark. But how? Once she went home to her parents and their rules, she wouldn’t have many more chances.
Diana sat up on the grass and stared over the rolling lawns, the bright reds and yellows of the flowerbeds, the tennis court where girls in white were wielding their rackets, their merry laughter echoing on the breeze. The sun glinted on the windows of the main building, dazzling and golden.
It was a wonderful place. But Emily and Alexandra were right. Soon they would have to fly away. Where would they all go?
‘No matter what happens,’ she said, suddenly feeling quite urgent, almost frightened, ‘we must never lose each other.’
Emily sat up beside her, a tiny frown between her amber-brown eyes, and Alexandra reached for their hands.
‘Of course we’ll never lose each other,’ Emily said. ‘We’re sisters, are we not? We have to support each other through our horrid Season next year, all those ghastly teas and receptions. Curtsying to the Queen in her black veils...’
‘Or worse, the Prince of Wales,’ Alexandra said with a giggle. ‘My cousin Chris says the Prince tries to grab ladies’ backsides if they don’t move away fast enough.’
‘Alexandra!’ Emily cried. ‘That is quite the naughtiest thing you’ve ever said. But if Mr Blakely said it, I’m sure it’s true.’
Alexandra’s cousin, Christopher Blakely, was a bona fide member of the Marlborough House Set, a group that centred around the Prince of Wales and loved horse races, music halls, card games and beautiful, married ladies above all else. Chris was a handsome bon vivant, favouring carnation boutonnières and gold-headed walking sticks, and he made all the girls giggle and blush when he came to the school’s family visit days, which he often did, since he was Alex’s favourite relative. Diana also quite liked him. He had style and humour, and was impossible to take seriously. She had been looking forward to his visit today for weeks.
Chris’s older brother, Sir William Blakely, on the other hand, was the very portrait of solemn respectability. A member of the Foreign Office, he seldom visited his cousin at school, and they said he was soon to go to India. While Sir William was certainly handsome, with his glossy dark hair, fathomless dark eyes and tall, lean figure in his perfectly cut suit, he was quiet. He so seldom smiled, yet always seemed to be watching everything around him so closely.
He made Diana feel so—so frivolous. Silly. Young. And so strangely, well, fluttery. Those dark eyes that seemed to see so much...
Diana pushed away thoughts of William Blakely’s handsome eyes. It was very unlikely she would ever see him again, anyway. Bombay was far away and she had more immediate things to worry about. Such as what to do when she left Miss Grantley’s.
‘Where are your cousins, Alex?’ Emily said, turning her face up to the sun. ‘It’s almost time for tea.’
‘I think they went fishing in the lake or something like that,’ Alex murmured dreamily. ‘Surely it’s ages before tea. I don’t think I can bear to move just yet. I feel so wonderfully lazy.’
‘I think I had better move about a bit,’ Diana said, ‘or I will never want to leave this spot! Maybe I’ll go draw. I’m supposed to add some landscapes to my portfolio for art class, so it won’t just be filled with drawings of gowns and hats.’
She took her sketchbook and made her way along the winding pathways that led between the groves of trees beyond the picnic grounds. She soon found herself lost in the work, as she always did when sketching, and barely noticed the time passing, the light changing overhead. Until she heard a loud splash, a shout. Startled, she spun around to stare at the lake in the distance.
There were two men on the mossy bank, one was Alex’s cousin Christopher, laughing as he tried to push the other man into the water, to the loud encouragement of the people already splashing in the waves. Chris was laughing, as he usually was, his golden hair damp and standing on end, his expression full of mischief.
The man he tried to push was his brother William, he of the dark eyes and solemn smile. When Diana had first met him, she had been barely able to speak when he looked at her, she had felt so foolish. She was sure he hadn’t even noticed her then, but she had certainly noticed him.
Now, she instinctively ducked down, even though the men weren’t looking in her direction at all. She knew she should leave right away, but she couldn’t seem to stop watching. Stop staring at William Blakely.
He looked very different to the way he had in the school drawing room, his coat gone, his fine linen shirt damp and showing the lines of his muscled shoulders, his dark hair rumpled, his face alight with laughter. Yet he seemed so still within himself, so perfectly in control even in his dishabille against Chris’s silliness. Diana found herself utterly unable to look away.
William gave Chris one light push back and Chris toppled into the water. William laughed and his face, all sharp, elegant angles, like a classical statue when it was still and watchful, glowed.
Diana reached for her sketchbook and quickly drew in the lines of his face. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from trying to capture it; he was so fascinating with his elegant looks, that smile that transformed him into something younger, glowing like the sun. She had never seen anyone quite like him.
She hadn’t got as far as she would have liked on the sketch when the bell rang for tea. The men glanced up and she flattened herself on the grass, afraid to be seen. There was a burst of more laughter, rippling splashes as they climbed out of the water. She knew she had to get back to the school before she was missed. She quickly closed the book and leaped up.
She had to glance back one more time before she left, to take in the sunlit scene. William Blakely seemed to be looking in her direction, a small frown creasing his handsome face, and she gasped and broke into a run, not stopping until she tumbled back on to the lawn behind the school.
The bell rang from the school’s main building again, a deep, brassy gong that signalled the end of the picnics and that precious, golden day. The end of her small fantasy of William Blakely. The tennis players gathered up their rackets and flocked inside, and Diana and her friends stood up to pack away their glasses and plates. Diana shook the bits of grass from her ruffled blue skirts, relishing the last vestiges of the flower-scented spring air. The last dream of school and of a handsome man who seemed like a fantasy.
‘No matter what happens, all will be well,’ she said to her friends, trying to reassure herself. ‘Because we will always have each other.’
Chapter One (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
Spring 1889—Duchess of Waverton’s ball, London
‘What are your plans now, William, since you have returned from India?’ Harold Blakely, William’s father, asked from the head of the dining room table. ‘They must be glad to have your expertise once more at the London office, but surely they won’t want you to stay behind a desk there for long. I was always eager to be on to the next task myself, when I was at work there.’
William’s mother didn’t even look up from the plate she was listlessly picking at. ‘I’m sure we all well remember those days,’ Beatrice Blakely muttered. ‘William has plenty of time to decide what to do next. At least he has returned from that pestilential India.’
‘Hmmph,’ Harold said with a scowl. He gestured to the footman for more wine. ‘You’ve certainly worked hard enough of late, William. That’s a great deal more than can be said for that useless Christopher. Takes after his mother, does that one. No direction at all.’
Beatrice didn’t even answer, merely sighed and studied the curtained windows across the room as if she was in her own little world. She had been that way for as long as Will could remember and he was appalled to find nothing had changed in the Blakely house while he’d been abroad.
Ever since he and Chris were children, their parents had alternated between quarrels and icy silences. The only respite was in the long periods when their father was gone for his mysterious work and Beatrice would laugh a bit again. But her pale, fragile beauty had faded and her laughter was rare, and some times, as her sons grew older, she would complain to them of her loneliness. Her wasted youth.
She pushed her food from one side of the Wedgwood plate to the other, as Harold drained his wineglass. William longed to take his mother’s hand, to give her a reassuring smile, but he knew from experience it would be like touching a ghost.
‘Where is Christopher?’ Harold demanded of no one in particular.
‘He’s here somewhere,’ Beatrice answered vaguely. ‘Aren’t you meant to go to my sister’s ball with him, William?’
‘Yes,’ Will said. ‘He was meant to meet me for dinner and we would go to the Wavertons’ after.’ He did wonder where Chris had vanished to and meant to scold his brother for leaving him alone with their parents for a whole meal, but he found he couldn’t entirely blame Chris for disappearing again.
‘No use at all,’ Harold grumbled. ‘Can’t even get himself to a duke’s party and he’s related to them. Some people would give their eye teeth for an invitation like that. The boy’s been given everything and he’s throwing it away.’
William ignored him and smiled at Beatrice. ‘Why don’t you come with us, Mother? I’m sure Aunt Waverton would love to see you. Alex was saying you hadn’t called on them since the beginning of the Season.’
Beatrice gave him a startled glance. ‘A ball? Oh, no. It will be so very crowded. I couldn’t. My nerves.’
‘This family,’ Harold snorted. ‘Weak blood. Except for you, I hope, William. What are you going to do now you’re in England again?’
William took a long drink of his own wine, gathering his usual quiet control. He needed it when it came to dealing with his parents. ‘I haven’t decided yet. The office will decide where I’m ultimately needed.’
‘Of course they will. And I’m sure you’ll do us proud. I do miss those days of work.’ Harold sighed. ‘Perhaps you’ll use this time to find a proper wife, set up a house where you can entertain. That’s the best way to make contacts for the long run.’
Beatrice perked up a bit at those words. ‘Oh, yes, William. A marriage would be lovely. There are so many pretty girls out this Season, or so I hear. I’m sure my sister would be happy to introduce any of them to you in a trice.’
William glanced around the gloomy dining room, the burgundy-red silk walls, the gold curtains muffling everything from the outside world, the dark portraits and still lifes staring down at them. The very cushions of the dark, carved furniture seemed seeped with years of loneliness and unhappiness. So filled with bitterness. He certainly had no desire to replicate such a life, to make a lady miserable as his mother had been.
‘I’m not ready for such a step,’ he said. ‘But as soon as I am, Mother, you and Aunt Waverton will be the first to know.’
Before his parents could answer, the dining room door opened and Chris staggered in. His blond hair was rumpled, his cravat half-tied, and he gave them all a crooked grin.
‘Good evening, Blakelys all!’ he said, waving his arm. He grabbed his mother’s still-full wineglass and drained it. ‘Well, Will, are we going to this ball or not?’
* * *
Lady S-T was wearing a gown of yellow...
No. No, marigold.
...marigold silk taffeta and velvet, with rust, olive-green, and beige lily bouquets of satin, with a floral pattern of pearl and gold beads on the hem.
Diana studied the lady’s gown again, jotting down one last detail in her little notebook.
Smaller bustle at the back, falling in beaded pleats, according to the new fashion for narrower skirts.
Lady Smythe-Tomas, a young, wealthy widow, was widely known as one of the most fashionable women in London and tonight, at the most fashionable ball of the Season, she didn’t disappoint. Was it from the House of Worth? It had to be, Diana decided, with that wonderfully intricate beadwork and unusual colour combination in the bouquet trim.
She glanced down at her own gown, a debutante’s pale pink organza, with only the tiniest edge of white-lace frill along the short, puffed sleeves. Her pearl necklace was fine enough, but she knew the wreath of pink rosebuds in her hair was wrong for her red tresses. How dull it all was! Surely if she could visit Monsieur Worth in Paris, look at his sketches, feel the fine lengths of fabrics, cool satins and rich velvets, choose some daring design of her own...
She sighed. It would be heaven. And if she could get these descriptions just right, get them to sound perfect, it could all come true.
In the meantime, she had the next best thing. She could sit here in the corner at one of the most fashionable events of the London Season and observe everything going on around her. All the ladies vying with each other to have the finest, most unique, most up-to-the-minute gowns, and the most glittering jewels.
She could do it—if only her mother didn’t catch her. Diana peeked carefully around the gardenia-and-white-rose-draped trellis she was hiding behind and studied the ballroom. The Duke and Duchess of Waverton, Alexandra’s parents, had one of the largest ballrooms in London and the Duchess never spared any expense in her party arrangements. Tonight was no exception.
The ballroom, a glittering jewel case of a room in ivory and gilt, crowned with crystal chandeliers and furnished with gilded satin chairs and sofas, sparkled even more when crowded with the satin and gemstone kaleidoscope of dancers on the polished floor. More white roses and wreaths of gardenias were draped everywhere, turning the space into a garden bower.
Oh, that was good. Garden bower, she wrote in her notebook.
The Duchess stood beneath a full-length portrait of herself by Mr Sargent, clad in a gown of midnight-blue velvet and tulle embroidered with a dazzling pattern of stars and crescent moons that matched the famous Eastern Star sapphire from India in her tiara.
The Duchess smiled brightly as she greeted each new guest, even though her husband was probably hiding in the card room, and the Prince and Princess of Wales, who were rumoured to be attending because the Princess was Alexandra’s godmother, had not yet arrived. Alex herself, who the ball was nominally in honour of, was nowhere to be seen. Diana was sure she must be hiding just like her father, maybe still in her chamber or in the ladies’ withdrawing room, as Alex so often was at large balls and soirées.
Luckily, Diana’s mother was also nowhere to be seen. She was safe for the moment.
She glanced at Lady Smythe-Tomas’s gown again. The lady was laughing, her golden-blond head thrown back as she languidly waved her rust-red feather fan. She always seemed to be one of those ladies who walked about constantly backlit by an invisible amber sun. She would make a great heroine in a novel—or maybe a villainess.
The heroines of novels, at least novels of the sort she and the other girls at Miss Grantley’s passed around secretly, never realised how beautiful they were. Lady Smythe-Tomas was fully aware of her looks. After all, her photographs were often displayed in shop windows, along with Mrs Langtry and Lady Warwick. All of them always clad in the latest fashions.
‘What is that you’re writing, Diana Martin? It doesn’t look like a dance card,’ a high-pitched voice said behind her, startling her out of her fashion dream.
She gasped and whirled around, her heart pounding. She was sure it was her mother and she did not want another lecture about how she needed to stop writing and find a suitable husband. That her time was running out. She was nineteen! Almost twenty and ancient! And she was wasting her chances.
But it wasn’t her mother. It was Alexandra’s cousin Christopher Blakely, using the falsetto voice that served him so well in amateur theatricals. He burst out laughing at the appalled look on her face and his green eyes sparkled. Or maybe they sparkled from the champagne glass in his hand, which Diana was sure wasn’t his first of the evening. Chris was well known in town for his love of a fun time. Unlike his brother, who was off pursuing some very important career goal far away in India. Though it was William Blakely whose dark eyes were in her dreams.
‘Christopher Blakely, you scared the ghost out of me,’ she hissed. ‘I thought you were my mother.’
‘Fear not, I just saw her in the card room playing a wicked hand of piquet,’ he said, downing the last of his champagne. He leaned out from their hiding place to gesture to one of the liveried footmen carrying silver trays around the ballroom. He took two fresh drinks and handed one to her.
‘Oh,’ she whispered, staring down into the shimmering gold liquid. Maybe champagne was the inspiration for Lady Smythe-Tomas’s gown, with all that iridescent glow. She had to put that in the essay. ‘I shouldn’t.’
‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ he said, leaning against the flower-covered trellis. ‘My aunt gave me strict instructions I could only have two glasses before the midnight supper.’
Diana smiled as she thought about what happened last time the Duchess had a party, a tea in honour of Princess Alexandra. Chris had stolen the large, elaborate hat off the head of the Princess’s lady-in-waiting and given them a wonderful recital from a music hall selection after sneaking rum into the tea. It had all been very amusing, if not strictly proper for a deb to see. ‘And how many glasses does this make?’
‘Four. But they are very small.’
She laughed and tucked her notebook into her reticule before she sipped at her own drink. Heavenly, so bubbly and sweet on her tongue. ‘The Duke does know how to put together a wine cellar, everyone says so.’
‘And the money he spends on it could support ten families for a year, I’m sure,’ Chris muttered.
Diana studied him over the rim of her glass, a bit worried. There had been rumours that he had lost more than he should on horse races. She had dismissed such things as gossip before, but what if he was in trouble? ‘Chris, if you’re in need of a bit of income...’
‘You would come to my rescue with your dowry?’ he said with a comical leer.
Diana laughed and pretended to study him ostentatiously. He was handsome, of course, with his dark golden cap of hair and green eyes, his ready smile. And very funny and always up for a lark. She could see why so many of the other debs sighed over him. He came from a good family, even if he had no career, and was always house-party-visiting with the Waleses. And he was the nephew of a duchess, the cousin of her good friend. Even Diana’s parents would approve of him.
But she could only see him as a friend, someone who made her laugh, helped her and Alex hide at parties. Brought her champagne when debs were meant to stick with lemon squash. He didn’t make her feel all stammering and blushing, didn’t make her daydream as his brother had.
‘There are plenty with better dowries than me. But surely you don’t have to worry about such things?’ she said.
‘Of course I don’t,’ he said. ‘And what are you writing in that little notebook of yours? Scandalous secrets you overhear from your flowery hidey-holes? Are you a spy?’
Diana laughed and shook her head. ‘Never you mind, Chris. It wouldn’t interest you at all. And shouldn’t you be dancing? I’m sure your aunt expects you to do your duty as a single gentleman?’
He grinned. ‘Why do you think I’m in hiding, too? There’s no one else worth dancing with here yet, except for Emily, and her card is full.’
Diana glanced back to the dance floor and saw Emily waltzing past with a young viscount something or other, her mint-green silk skirts swirling. Usually Emily, the daughter of well-to-do Brighton wine merchant, would never be in the Waverton ballroom. But it was Alex’s party, supposedly, and her best school friends were invited. And Emily had proved to be most popular with the fashionable set, indulging in her love of dancing and music, her open-hearted good humour.
They liked her father’s wine, too. Just look at the Duke’s cellar.
Diana smiled to see her friend having such a good time. She turned back to Christopher and was startled to catch an unguarded look in his eyes as he stared at Emily. A raw, solemn instant of—was it longing?
But it was quickly gone and he laughed, back to his usual careless self. ‘Did you hear? William is back from India for good.’
Diana blinked at the sudden change of subject and remembered the scene of William by the lake, laughing in the golden sun. ‘William—your brother?’
‘Yes, or St William, as my mother would call him if she could, now that he’s been given a knighthood at only twenty-eight. Above and beyond in service to Her Majesty.’ He took another glass of champagne from a passing footman. ‘And he’s returned just in time to be sent off to Paris, the lucky beggar.’
‘Really? Paris?’ All the talk in London for weeks had been of the upcoming Exposition in Paris. Eiffel’s great iron tower, the Turkish villages, the art pavilions, the American Wild West show. Just like everyone else, Diana was wild for stories of the Exposition.
And, if she was very lucky, she might just get to see it, too. She tried not to imagine William Blakely strolling along the river at her side, smiling down at her, his dark eyes glowing. That would surely never happen, not after she had been so stammering and gawky the few times they met before. But it was a lovely image.
‘What sort of work does a diplomat do there?’ she asked. ‘Eat at the café atop Monsieur Eiffel’s tower? Deliver letters from the Queen to other visiting monarchs? Ride a horse in the Wild West show?’
Christopher laughed. ‘I have no idea. Will is infuriatingly tight-lipped about everything. He’s here somewhere, I know, but I doubt dancing or playing cards. Probably working. He’s always working.’
Diana suddenly glimpsed her mother at the other side of the ballroom. Lavinia Martin was hard to miss, tall and stately, prematurely white-haired, clad in beaded bronze satin. ‘Oh, no. Speaking of cards, I think my mother’s hand of piquet is over.’
‘Let’s dance, then. We shall both do our duty and escape a lecture.’
Diana nodded. She had already been able to hide out much longer than she had expected. She put down her empty glass and took Chris’s hand, letting him lead her out on to the dance floor.
It was a polka, lively and quick, and he spun her around and around until she was dizzy with laughter. ‘Maybe we could take ourselves to the Exposition and do dance demonstrations!’ he said. ‘The Whirling English Pair.’
She giggled. ‘I doubt they would pay us for our dance skills. Toss us out and tell us never to darken France’s door again, rather.’
‘It’s all in the attitude, my dear. Pretend you know how to dance and you will do it.’
‘Excellent advice.’ She would have to remember it. Pretend she knew what she was doing and others would believe it. Eventually she might even believe it herself.
As they spun around, Diana saw that Alex had appeared at last, standing beside her mother as the Duchess whispered to her through a gritted-teeth smile. Alex wore a beautiful gown of white tulle and pale blue satin, perfect with her angelic looks and spun-gilt hair. A wreath of red roses and pearls was woven through her upswept curls, matching the triple strand of pearls with a large ruby clasp at her throat.
Yet Diana could tell that her friend was unhappy. Alex bit her lip, her eyes downcast as she nodded to her mother. Her gloved hands twisted at the ivory handle of her fan. Diana wanted to go to her, but Christopher spun her around again and Alex and the Duchess were lost to view. Instead, Diana found herself facing the last person she wanted to see at any party.
Lord Thursby.
She hadn’t seen him in a few days, not since a tea her mother had given. She’d hoped he had left town, but there he was, chatting and laughing with one of the Duchess’s friends, a marchioness famed for her dyed red hair and diamonds. The lady’s cheeks were glowing pink as she waved her fan at him.
Ladies did often seem to like him and Diana could see why. He was handsome, with thick blond hair and bright blue eyes, along with a dashing moustache and perfectly tailored, stylish clothes. He was charming and well connected as a relation to Lord Lansdowne, the Viceroy of India.
That was how he first appeared at her parents’ dinner table when he returned to London for the Season, with a letter from the Viceroy and questions for her father about his time in India. It was rumoured that Lord Thursby sought a career there himself. Her parents liked him and invited him back. Her mother seemed especially fond of him, laughing at his jokes, watching him carefully.
And, for some reason, he seemed to have taken a liking to Diana. He made such a point of sitting beside her at tea and at musical evenings, bringing her refreshments at the interval at the theatre. Smiling at her, even touching her hand as he mentioned how very much she looked like a ‘Titian goddess’ with her hair.
At first, she had been flattered. Who wouldn’t be? A handsome, sought-after man who sought her out and complimented her red hair, which had always been the bane of her life.
Yet then something changed. She didn’t even know what it was, for he was as complimentary as ever. Perhaps it was the way she some times noticed his conversation never included questions to her, only tales of his life, his career hopes. His compliments were all about her hair, her gowns, her way with the piano—which she knew was mediocre at best, despite the best efforts of Miss Grantley’s fine music teachers. He sat closer, his touches lingered. He had even sent her a bouquet before the ball, which she ‘accidentally’ forgot.
She had no time for such things, not with a man who made her feel so strangely—itchy. As if she wanted to jump up and run away.
Just like now. He hadn’t yet seen her. She tried to pull Chris deeper into the crowd of the dancers as she noticed Lord Thursby was scanning the crowd over the Marchioness’s head.
‘Oh, no,’ Diana whispered.
‘What is it?’ Chris asked.
‘Just someone I would rather not talk to at the moment.’
‘An unwanted suitor? That sounds interesting,’ he said, infuriatingly contrary. ‘Which one is it? Should I call him out for pestering you? I will, if he’s not too large and intimidating.’
Diana laughed. ‘It’s that man over there, the one talking to your aunt’s friend, the Marchioness. And no duelling yet. All he’s really done is send flowers and compliment my non-existent musical skills. I just—can’t like him, somehow.’
Chris frowned as he studied the man. ‘Thursby? Really? He has some kind of investment scheme in India he says he can let some of us in on later.’
An Indian investment scheme? Was that why Thursby had started coming to her father’s house so often? That sounded strange to her. Surely such ideas always ended in calamity? ‘Oh, no, Chris. You aren’t thinking of doing that, are you?’
‘It sounds simple enough and Thursby says we’re sure to double our money very quickly.’
‘I don’t think...’
The dance ended and as they swirled to a stop at the edge of the dance floor, they found themselves next to Emily and her partner.
Emily looked quite pretty, with her cheeks pink with enjoyment and laughter, her amber-brown eyes glowing. Diana quite envied her gown, too, for with only a father, Em had far more control over her own wardrobe. Her mint-green gown, trimmed with black-velvet rosettes, with black and green plumes in her hair, made her look far more elegant and sophisticated than other ladies their age.
‘Oh, Di! Isn’t it splendid?’ Emily said. ‘Such a wonderful orchestra.’
‘Only because you’re the best dancer here and could find rhythm in any old tune,’ Christopher said.
Emily laughed. ‘As can you. Shall we, then, Chris? Show them how a schottische is done?’
‘We shall,’ Christopher said and took her arm to swirl her away.
As they disappeared back into the sparkling melee of the dance, Diana looked around. Her mother sat along the row of gilded chaperons’ chairs by the silk-papered wall, gossiping with two of her friends. At the other end of the room, glimpsed between flower arrangements and groups of laughing people, she saw Lord Thursby. She felt suddenly trapped, caught between two forces she didn’t want to face yet.
On impulse, she spun around and dashed out of the ballroom via the nearest side door. She found herself in a small, domed hall, also draped in carpets of flowers but blessedly quiet. There were only a few people there, whispering together, sipping champagne, the music muffled beyond the door.
She hurried down a flight of stairs to the next floor down, where there was the card room, the billiards room, and a large sitting room that had been turned into the ladies’ withdrawing room. She heard a burst of giggles from that chamber and she knew she could easily join them, but she suddenly only wanted to be alone. To hear her own thoughts for a minute.
Unlike most London houses, including her own parents’ narrow dwelling on Cavendish Square, Waverton House was vast, four storeys of chambers like a series of jewel boxes, sparkling with treasures. She went down one more set of stairs and peeked through a half-open doorway to find a library. Perfect.
The silence was heavy, deep and echoing after the hum of the ballroom. She could almost hear herself think again. She wandered along the rows of books, studying the gilt titles on the leather spines, the paintings on the panelled walls between the shelves.
Next to the curtained window nook was a table laid out with the day’s newspapers. She studied the headlines. They were all about the Paris Exposition, of course, swooning praise for the delicious cafés, the wonders of the pavilions for the arts, the exotic mock-souks, the fashionable ladies arriving to parade along the Champ de Mars.
A loud voice suddenly burst the silence, making Diana jump.
‘Oh, please, just listen to me this one last time! Don’t you owe me that at least? For all we were to each other?’
It was a woman’s voice, low and urgent, filled with choking tears, and it was coming from the corridor outside. Moving closer to the library with every word. Diana held her breath, hoping whoever it was would just keep moving past.
‘Laura, what we had was over long ago,’ a man answered, weariness barely hidden in his soft, kind tone. ‘We can’t revive it now. You know that.’
‘Why not?’ the woman demanded. ‘Everything has changed this time. It could be even better! I have missed you so much...’
To Diana’s horror, the quarrel wasn’t moving away. The door swung open and she instinctively dived behind the heavy velvet window curtains before they could see her and they all faced a most embarrassing scene. It seemed to be a night for hiding out.
‘We should return to the party,’ the man said, still so calm and steady, so horribly quiet. Diana couldn’t help but wince for the woman. ‘Neither of us wants a scandal.’
‘Of course that’s not what I want! Some horrid, shabby court case like Bertie Wales and the Aylesfords. That won’t happen now. We’re both free!’ the woman said sweetly. ‘Oh, my darling Will, don’t you remember what those heavenly days at Beresford Hall were like? It could be that way all the time now.’
Quite against her will, Diana found herself rather curious. It sounded like one of those delicious French novels they had once passed around at Miss Grantley’s! She cautiously peeked around the edge of the curtain.
The couple stood near the carved onyx fireplace, the lamplight throwing them into silhouette. The woman was Lady Smythe-Tomas, Diana could tell that from her luminous champagne gown, the golden swirl of jewel-bedecked hair. She reached out with her elegant gloved hands to grasp the man by his lapels, her fingers curling against him sinuously. Diana was quite surprised she would have to beg any man for his attentions; they all seemed to fall right at her feet.
Who was this man? He surely had to be vastly attractive. Her curiosity growing, she pushed the curtain back just a bit more so she could see his face.
She gasped and quickly stifled the sound with her satin-covered fingers. It was Sir William Blakely.
Sir William was handsome, of course, arrestingly so. The perfect counterpoint to Lady Smythe-Tomas’s golden, sunny beauty, with his glossy dark hair and fathomless brown eyes. If Diana was a casting agency for the theatres, she could do no better than those two for looks. But he was so solemn! So dedicated to his career.
Or maybe he wasn’t always so solemn. She remembered him laughing by the lake, his damp shirt clinging to his shoulders, all bright and full of youth in the sunshine. Surely that man could have a passionate affair.
‘Laura, this can’t go on,’ he said, still so calm, so cool. Diana wondered why the lady hadn’t slapped him yet, for staying so unruffled about the whole passionate business.
‘Why not? Do you not still find me beautiful?’
‘Of course you are beautiful. Your photo in every shop window tells you that. And you deserve more than a man buried in his work.’
‘But surely I could help you with that, too! Every diplomat needs a hostess.’ She leaned towards him with an enticing smile, her fingers smoothing the satin lapel she had crushed. ‘And there is always this...’
She went up on her toes and tried to press her lips to his. But the promised kiss didn’t last long at all, the merest brush. He pushed her away, gently but firmly, his hands unwinding her arms from around his neck and holding her away. ‘I need to return to the ballroom.’
Lady Smythe-Tomas’s pretty face creased in a fierce pout. ‘Why?’ she cried. ‘Because some young, sweet deb is waiting to waltz with you? Or, no—it’s Lady Lammington, isn’t it? She’s always wanted you for herself!’
‘Because I will be missed soon and so will you. Please, Laura. Be reasonable.’
‘Very well.’ Her tone turned cajoling again. She ran one fingertip up his arm. ‘But only if you agree to have tea with me one day this week.’
‘I’ve been quite busy since I returned to London, you know that.’
‘Just one tiny little visit. You can even bring your brother Chris if you need a chaperon.’
‘No, Laura,’ he said, very firmly. Then he added something too low for Diana to hear. Whatever he said must have pleased Lady Smythe-Tomas, or at least placated her, for Diana heard the library door slam and there was silence again. They were gone.
Perhaps she had been right in her very first assessment of him on his visit to Miss Grantley’s—he was gloriously handsome but rather chilly, intimidating. Only—only once he must have known passion, if he’d had an affair with a woman like Lady Smythe-Tomas. People were always so strange. It was easier to capture them in fictional stories than in real life.
She waited for a few more breaths and then slipped out of her hiding place. Only to find she was not quite alone.
Sir William stood by the fireplace, starring into the empty grate, a frown pressing his handsome lips together, his eyes narrowed as if he was deep in thought. He glanced up, and those dark eyes widened. He seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him. She dropped her reticule, flustered, and quickly scooped it up again. Her heart pounded to see him again, so loud she could barely hear anything else. She feared he could hear it, too, that her chagrin showed on her face.
‘Miss Martin,’ he said. She dared to glance up at him and saw that he was just as handsome as he had been at Miss Grantley’s, but he had changed, too. His face was bronzed by the Indian sun, set in harder lines, his eyes shadowed. It only made him even more intriguing, blast him. ‘Whatever are you doing in here?’
‘Oh, I—just needed a breath of air. And, um...’ She gestured around the room helplessly. No etiquette class at Miss Grantley’s had ever taught her what to do in such a situation. She was angry at him for brushing off a woman who obviously had deep feelings for him. All the romantic novels she had read told her the heartbreak a woman like Lady Smythe-Tomas must be feeling in the face of such carelessness! She was also burningly embarrassed to have been caught watching the scene. And she wanted to burst into strange, hysterical laughter. All at once.
Maybe it was because she had seen the effect William had on Lady Smythe-Tomas, on the poor woman’s sad feelings. It was all most confusing.
‘I was reading about Paris,’ she said weakly.
‘Paris?’ he asked. And she finally saw some emotion in those dark eyes that always seemed to see everything without giving anything away. She saw a flicker of—bafflement.
‘Yes. The tower, the art displays, the Turkish souk.’ She remembered that Christopher had said Sir William was soon to be sent to Paris himself. ‘But you must know all about that.’
‘Indeed I do. And I can see why that might be more attractive than a crowded ballroom. But why hide here?’
‘I just—came across it. I thought it was empty. So it was, for a while.’
‘You just came across it?’ he asked doubtfully.
Diana suddenly wondered if he thought she was there for an assignation, as well. She felt her cheeks burn brighter, one of the banes of her life to blush so fiercely that it clashed with her hair. ‘Yes. Your aunt’s house is a rather confusing place, though you seem to know your way quite well.’
‘As you said—some times quiet is what a person needs.’ He stepped closer and Diana noticed his eyes were not entirely brown. They glowed with flecks of green and gold, like a primeval forest. Poor Lady S-T. ‘I suppose your mother must be looking for you, Miss Martin.’
The room suddenly felt much too warm, too close. Diana looked away, clutching her hands tightly in the folds of her skirt. ‘So she will. I hope—well, perhaps you needn’t mention you saw me here?’
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but he seemed unable to quite let it free. Diana wondered what would happen when he did smile. Probably his good looks then reached dangerous levels, so he had to keep it reined in. ‘I suppose I needn’t. But secrets can go both ways.’
Diana suddenly remembered why he was there—Lady Smythe-Tomas, past love affairs. She blushed even more. ‘I don’t know Lady Smythe-Tomas and have no desire to gossip about her.’
‘Thank you. It was an—unfortunate matter that was over a long time ago.’ His words were strong and steady, but he tugged at his tie a bit, as if he was embarrassed by any loss of control.
She could tell he was not a man accustomed to having to explain himself. He had a reputation for steadiness and discretion in his work and in his family. ‘I’m sure.’ She felt a sudden burst of courage and added, ‘You should be kind to her. She seemed very upset.’
He gave her a small, startled quirk of a smile. ‘I dare say she will soon get over it.’
Diana doubted it.
To her surprise, he held out his hand as if to shake hers, quite as if she was his peer and they were sealing a bargain. She rather liked that small gesture, as she was so tired of being dismissed as just a silly deb. She wanted to do a job and be taken seriously at it, just as he was.
She laid her gloved palm against his and for an instant, their fingers tightened around each other. His grasp was strong and gentle, warm, and she found she wanted to hold on to him just a bit longer. Just a bit closer. It was just like their first, fleeting meeting at Miss Grantley’s, she felt so flustered, so silly. She didn’t want to look away.
‘Thank you,’ he said, letting her go.
Diana nodded and turned towards the door. As she reached for the handle, she glanced back at Sir William to find he watched her. His face was mostly in shadow, his hands clasped behind him, and she couldn’t read his expression.
‘Perhaps you really are being a little unfair to her,’ she said impulsively. ‘She does seem to care for you.’
A frown flickered over his brow again. ‘Care for me? Miss Martin, I fear you mistake the situation.’
‘Do I? I am young and haven’t seen the world as you have, but I’m not entirely ignorant.’
His brow arched as if he was surprised. As if she had startled a reaction out of him. ‘I never supposed you were. You went to Miss Grantley’s school with my cousin, didn’t you? Alexandra says you are very clever.’
‘She’s a good friend. I was only clever in French and lawn tennis. But I do read a great deal and Lady Smythe-Tomas does seem—well, very fond of you.’
He laughed and it sounded rusty and sharp-edged, as if he hadn’t used that laugh in a long time. But it sounded so warm and soft, she wanted to hear it again. Make him laugh again.
So that was what Lady Smythe-Tomas saw. Diana could tell he was trouble.
‘Oh, Miss Martin. I suppose that is one way of putting it.’
‘Well,’ Diana said again. Her vocabulary seemed to have shrunk considerably in his presence. ‘Thank you. For not telling on me.’
She hurried through the door and let it close behind her. Only once she was safely away from the library did she let herself stop and take a deep breath of air, or at least as deep as her new corset would let her.
She closed her eyes, and saw him there, his rueful smile, his intriguing eyes. What an unusual man he was indeed. She could really see why even a sophisticate like Lady Smythe-Tomas would be so infatuated with him.
Chapter Two (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
What a very strange girl, William thought as he stared at the closed door of the library where Diana Martin had stood only a moment before. Her hurried patter of heeled shoes had faded, but he thought he could still smell the trace of her sweet lilac perfume, feel the satin of her glove on his palm.
He stared down at his hand, remembering the warmth of her touch, her slender fingers curled around his for the merest instant. He felt something he hadn’t felt in ages. An urge to laugh. For just a moment he had forgotten Laura, forgotten his work, forgotten everything but Miss Martin’s smile. He remembered her from his visit to Alex at Miss Grantley’s. She had been so sweet, a blush on her face, her words stammered a bit, a slightly gawky, charming schoolgirl. Now she seemed to have blossomed into an autumn goddess with her red hair, her bright eyes, her enthusiasm that seemed to make everything turn new again. At least in looks. When she talked, she became that awkward schoolgirl again and he feared for her in the ballroom jungles of London. The poor, sweet girl.
He only wished she hadn’t seen him at his very worst. His country-house party tryst with Laura seemed so long ago now, after India and all that had happened, a memory shrouded in wine and youthful passion. He had almost forgotten about it, until he saw her in the ballroom. To his surprise, she had begged to talk to him in private.
Much to his shock, she wanted to renew their old liaison. She was still beautiful, of course, maybe even more than she had been at that house party. Yet there was something strange about her, about the over-bright glow in her catlike eyes, her desperate grasp on his arm. He wanted to help her, but he knew very well he couldn’t go back to her. He was a much different man now.
The man he had been back then, younger and wilder, just starting his career, probably would have looked at someone like Diana Martin and seen a pretty but shallow deb. Indeed, he had thought that when he and Chris visited Alex at school.
He found he didn’t want to return to the crowd just yet. Didn’t want to lose the fleeting, bright, silly glow Miss Martin had left behind, as sweet and summery as her lilac perfume. He wandered over to the table where the newspapers were displayed and scanned the headlines about the Exposition.
William did see how an eager, enthusiastic young lady like Diana Martin would be fascinated by it all. The whole world gathered in beautiful Paris, the art and fashion, the food and theatre. He hoped she would get to see it.
Then he glimpsed a grainy photograph in one corner of the Mail. A tall, bearded man in a pale tunic and loose trousers, standing on the deck of a ship with three ladies in elaborate embroidered saris.
The Maharajah Singh Lep with his wives, boarding HMS Princess Augusta to make his way to the Paris Exposition, where he will visit the Indian Pavilion and see the wondrous sapphire, the Eastern Star. On display thanks to the generosity of the Duke of Waverton.
The Star was once worn by the Maharajah’s grandmother...
Singh Lep—who was no doubt trailing trouble in his wake, as he had in Bombay with his investment offers, his proffered and then withdrawn friendship. His grandmother had once ruled for him in his kingdom and had sold the Star to William’s uncle and then sold the kingdom. The man was understandably angry at what had happened. But did he blame his grandmother—or someone else?
And now he was going to be in Paris. The article said it was merely a pleasure trip and listed other dignitaries on their way to climb Eiffel’s tower and eat ices at his cafés—including the Prince and Princess of Wales. But William was sure there was more to it than that.
He stared out the window where Diana had been hidden and for a moment he didn’t see the rain-soaked London street. He saw the baking sun of India, smelled the spices and heady perfumes of a world he had left far behind. A world no one could even begin to fully understand.
The door suddenly opened, and William glanced over his shoulder, ready to send Laura away again if had she returned. Or maybe he was half-hoping it would be Miss Martin?
In any case, it was neither lady, but his brother who stood there. Will laughed at himself and folded the paper away.
‘Hello, Chris,’ he said. ‘Come to hide out here, too?’
Christopher grinned and closed the door behind him. ‘Our parents have arrived,’ he said and that was all that was needed to explain the fact that even Christopher, who rarely cracked a book if he could help it, would hide in a library. William had taken lodgings since returning to London, only taking a few dinners at his parents’ town house as he had done earlier that evening, but Chris still lived there, in that suffocating place that hadn’t changed a bit since they were boys.
‘Sorry about that. Mother must have changed her mind after all,’ William said.
‘She sent me to find you,’ Christopher said, carelessly scanning the paintings hung on the walls, a series of indifferent landscapes and a few really fine French pieces. ‘One of the footmen said you came this way.’
Will wondered if the footman had told Chris who he was in the library with. Perhaps his hope for no scandal was misplaced.
‘You visited Alex at school more than I did,’ he said. ‘Did you come to know Miss Diana Martin very well?’
Christopher looked at him with a surprised expression. ‘Di? She’s a corker. Lots of fun, but sensible. Our aunt thinks she’s been a good friend to Alex.’
Chris knew her well? William frowned as he wondered if his brother was fond of her, had designs on her. ‘You’re friends, then?’
Christopher shrugged and William felt unaccountably relieved to see no spark of passion in his brother’s eyes at the thought of her. Chris was always quite open about his interests and always had a beautiful woman to write poems to. ‘I suppose we are. I see her at these boring old bashes with Alex and their friend Emily Fortescue, and they make it all a little less dull.’ His bored expression suddenly changed, his eyes widening. ‘Why? The footman did say you came this way with a lady. I hope it wasn’t Miss Martin.’
‘No, I didn’t come here with Miss Martin. I saw her in the ballroom. She seems quite charming.’
‘Charming? I guess she is. Pretty, too.’ Chris stepped closer, as if he thought he could read Will’s mind. But Will had too much experience hiding his thoughts; his job depended on it. ‘Are you interested? You could certainly do worse and Mother’s matchmaking fever could go to you for a while.’
His brother’s avid expression was so comical William had to laugh. ‘Does she want you to marry so much, then?’ He had hoped that maybe his parents’ own wreck of a marriage would have cooled their mother’s ardour for matchmaking, but it seemed not. Maybe she wanted company in misery.
‘She begins to say that if I won’t go into law or join the army, an heiress is the only way to set me up in life.’
‘Maybe an American dollar princess?’
‘I don’t have a title or a crumbling ancient castle to offer a lady like that. And the ladies I do like...’ He suddenly turned away. ‘Well, Mother will just have to go on thinking I’m just a terrible wastrel who can’t even marry properly.’
‘She doesn’t know about your work?’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t be much use if anyone did know, would I? But you and Diana...’
‘I hate to disappoint, but I’m not in a position to marry now, either. We both saw the effect our father’s work had on his marriage. No one needs a repeat of that. I shall have to admire Miss Martin from a distance.’
Christopher spun a globe, watching its oceans and continents blur in front of them. ‘Better for her, I’m sure. I think Thursby is after her, but she doesn’t seem to like him much.’
William frowned. ‘Thursby?’ He certainly hoped not, not with what he had recently learned about the man.
Chris shrugged. ‘Then if it wasn’t Di in here earlier, who was it?’
‘Just a bit of unfinished business.’
‘Really?’ Chris’s golden brow arched. ‘You, Will? Whoever could have guessed there were such skeletons in your wardrobe. I suppose it’s finished now?’
‘Quite,’ William said shortly.
Chris seemed to realise he wouldn’t learn anything more and turned back to the door. ‘We should get back to the party, then, before our aunt sends a search party for both of us.’
William nodded, and started to follow. He noticed a small, pale square on the floor near the window. Curious, he picked it up. It was a leather-bound notebook, stamped with the gilt initials D.F.M. Diana Martin, maybe?
He flipped through the pages, glimpsing pencil sketches, mostly of hats and gowns, and snatches of words.
Champagne...pearls...peacock colours.
From the back, a small newspaper clipping fluttered out.
Writer wanted. Paris assignment. Must be fashionable and have a way with words. Portfolio preferred. Please apply to the Ladies’ Weekly offices.
Well, well. William remembered Diana saying how much she wanted to see Paris. Maybe she was doing something about it. How very modern of her.
He smiled and tucked the notebook inside his evening jacket. He would have to make sure it was returned to its owner. Very soon.
* * *
‘There you are, Di! Where did you go off to?’ Emily called as Diana slipped back into the ballroom.
She hoped she hadn’t been missed by anyone but her friends. She scanned the crowd and was quite relieved to see her mother still in her chair and Lord Thursby nowhere to be seen. Neither was Lady Smythe-Tomas.
She turned to smile at Emily, whose cheeks were pink from all her dancing. ‘Just needed a bit of air.’
‘Well, you didn’t miss much, except the fact that this ballroom has become even more of a crush and someone tore the ribbon on my hem with their clumsy dancing shoes. But no drunken fisticuffs or dramatic broken engagements yet.’
Diana laughed weakly and took an offered glass of liquid. She sipped a bit and winced in disappointment. Lemon squash, not champagne. ‘That sounds rather dull.’
‘Yes, but the dancing is lovely. I’ll say this for the Duchess—she always hires the best orchestras.’ Emily reached out and plucked something from Diana’s hair. She held it up; it was a shred of newsprint. ‘Where did you find this bit of air?’
Diana thought quickly. It was always best to be honest, even if it wasn’t all the way. ‘Oh—in the library. It was nice and quiet, and I was able to read a bit about Paris in the Duke’s newspapers.’
Emily leaned closer, her eyes wide. ‘Any word yet?’ she whispered. ‘From the magazine?’
Diana shook her head, feeling the sick excitement, fear and hope deep in the pit of her stomach that had sat there ever since she mailed off the letter of application. ‘I have an interview tomorrow with the editor. Isn’t it amazing?’
‘An interview?’ Emily clapped her hands in delight. She knew more about running a business than anyone Diana knew, male or female, after years of helping at her father’s offices. She took it all very seriously and had given Diana a great deal of advice ever since Di decided she was the best confidante. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home resting, then? You have to be sharp tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I know. But Mama would never have let me miss the Waverton ball and I’m much too nervous to sleep. I was hoping to get a bit of fashion news to add to my portfolio. I did write a bit, you see...’ She opened her reticule to take out the notebook to show Emily. To her shock, she found only a handkerchief and her discarded dance card. ‘Blast,’ she gasped, remembering dropping the bag.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve lost the notebook.’
‘What’s amiss?’ Alex asked as she appeared from the crowd and hurried to their side. She always did seem to sense the feelings of the people around her, especially if they were distressed, even from across the room.
‘Di lost her notebook,’ Emily said.
‘No!’ Alex cried. She and Emily knew all the bits and pieces in that book, so carefully gathered and recorded. They had even helped with much of it. ‘Here in the ballroom? But anyone could find it.’
Diana shook her head. ‘I had it in the library. I must have dropped it in there.’ In the library—with William. What if he found it? What would he think?
‘Diana! There you are at last,’ she heard her mother call. This time there was no evading her.
Diana forced a smile on to her lips and turned to see her mother making her way towards them. With her was Lord Thursby.
Diana had to admit he was handsome, with his fair hair pomaded to a shine, his stylish moustache and well-cut clothes. He smiled charmingly and was solicitous as he led her mother through the crowd. But she wished he would just—just go away!
Yet she knew very well there was no chance of that.
‘I will go look for it,’ Alexandra whispered. She and Emily vanished beyond the dance floor.
‘Diana,’ her mother demanded again, ‘where on earth have you been?’
‘I was just—dancing. We’re at a ball, you know, Mama,’ she said, trying to laugh carelessly. She fanned herself vigorously, wishing Lord Thursby was not watching her so closely.
‘Lord Thursby was looking for you. He says you promised him the supper dance,’ her mother said, reaching out to fuss with Diana’s tulle-edged sleeve. She drew away, wondering if she had newsprint caught there, too.
‘The supper dance?’ she said. That meant spending the midnight meal by his side. ‘Oh, Mama. I’m afraid my head rather aches and I was hoping we could go home soon.’
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Diana...’ she snapped.
But Lord Thursby intervened smoothly, smiling politely. ‘That is a vast disappointment for me, Miss Martin, but I would never wish to cause you a moment’s discomfort. Please, let me send for your carriage. I can also ask our hostess if she has a headache powder.’
‘That is kind of you, Lord Thursby,’ Diana said cautiously.
‘Indeed,’ her mother said. ‘Thank you.’
Lord Thursby bowed and hurried away. As he spoke quietly to the Duchess, Diana saw William and Chris come back into the room. For just an instant, before the crowd closed around them, she saw how much Sir William stood out from everyone around him, an island of watchfulness and dignity, so dark and handsome. Was this really the same man Lady Smythe-Tomas was so ardently chasing? Such intriguing contradictions.
He caught her eyes and gave her a small nod, making her feel suddenly flushed and fluttery. She spun around, waving her fan in front of her face.
Her mother grasped Diana’s arm, her fingers hard through her satin glove. ‘Mama,’ Diana gasped and yanked her arm back.
‘You should make a tiny bit of an effort, Diana,’ her mother said through a gritted-teeth smile. ‘He is quite nice, you know, with a fine future ahead of him.’
Diana rubbed at her arm. She glanced back to see if she could see Sir William again, but he was gone. ‘Mama, perhaps there are things I want to see before I’m married.’
‘What sort of things? You can see whatever you like, go wherever you like, after you’re married! Just as I did. What choice is there?’
Diana thought of men like her father, like William Blakely, travelling, doing their bit for their country, seeing the world. Making a difference. ‘I could be like Miss Bird, or Miss Butler. Travel, write. Do good works.’
Her mother snorted. ‘Such hoydens. That wouldn’t work for you, Diana. You have been well brought up. Did we not send you to the best school? Make sure you had the best friends? Now we only want to see you happily settled before we are old. Is that too much to ask?’
‘I want to be happy, too,’ Diana said, but her mother wasn’t listening. Lord Thursby had returned to tell them their carriage was on its way.
‘Oh, how kind you are,’ her mother said with a laugh. ‘So reassuring to have someone to rely on thus.’
‘It is the least I can do, Mrs Martin, for how kind with his advice your husband has been.’ Lord Thursby offered Diana his arm and she saw no choice but to take it. She held it lightly, trying to smile, as he led them to the staircase hall where a footman waited with their cloaks.
‘I hope you will be recovered enough for me to call on you tomorrow,’ Lord Thursby said.
Diana suddenly remembered her interview the next day. Nothing could be allowed to stop that! ‘Perhaps in the afternoon?’
‘The afternoon?’ he said. ‘Not the usual morning hour?’
‘Yes. I—I shall probably need to rest and recover my strength in the morning.’
He nodded solicitously. ‘Of course. I know how delicate you ladies can be after such a busy evening as this.’
‘How understanding you are, Lord Thursby,’ her mother chirped, practically pushing Diana out the door towards their waiting carriage. ‘We shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’
Just as they were leaving, a procession of carriages arrived behind them. From the grandest stepped a man unmistakable in his healthy girth and greying blond beard, a beautiful lady in an ivory satin and ostrich feather cloak on his arm. The Prince and Princess of Wales. Diana just hoped her mother did not see them and make them go back.
* * *
On the journey home, Diana knew her mother was chattering about Lord Thursby and his ‘gentlemanly behaviour’, and the splendours of the ball. But Diana only paid enough attention to nod and smile at the right moments. Her real thoughts were far away—with tomorrow’s interview, with plans to persuade her parents to let her go to Paris if she got the job. It would be a very delicate task.
And, she had to admit, her thoughts wouldn’t seem to leave William Blakely. How wonderful it had been in those few moments alone with him in the dimly lit library, so far away from everyone and everything else. How she wished she could have stayed there longer, listening to him talk! Those dark eyes watching her...
* * *
Once they were home, she managed to plead her headache and escape to her room. There she took out the portfolio she had managed to compile: sample essays about fashion, etiquette and bits of society gossip. Losing her notebook at such a moment was a consternation, but hopefully not a disaster. She could remember enough to reconstruct the evening’s observations and hopefully Alexandra would find the notebook itself.
She found another folder, stuffed full of old drawings and notes, and beneath a stack of flower studies was her old sketch of William Blakely at the lake behind Miss Grantley’s. His smile still glowed from the faded paper, the lines of his face still elegant, classical. He hadn’t changed so much after all, yet so many other things seemed to.
She took out another copy of the job listing and carefully read over the words.
Writer wanted. Paris assignment. Must be fashionable and have a way with words. Portfolio preferred. Please apply to the Ladies’ Weekly offices.
She closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Please let it happen,’ as she envisaged in her mind what it could all be like. Walking by the Seine, sipping wine at a café on the famous new tower, visiting Monsieur Worth’s studio itself.
But now, much to her shock, when she imagined dancing at the Moulin Galette, her partner wasn’t some faceless, dashing Frenchman. It was William Blakely, smiling down at her in the red and gold lights of the lanterns, spinning her through the night.
Which was most strange, for Sir William didn’t seem at all like a spinning sort of gentleman...
Chapter Three (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
Diana hurried down the pavement, clutching at the leather valise containing her sketches and the portfolio of ‘articles’ she had cobbled together to try to impress the magazine editor. She could barely hear the commotion of the London streets around her, the clatter of carriage and omnibus wheels, the shouts and cries and laughter, the shriek of the bobby’s whistle. All she could focus on was getting to her interview on time and what she would say when she got there.
She waited on a corner to cross the street, caught a glimpse of herself in a shopfront window and straightened her hat. She had dressed in the most stylish yet simple thing she owned, a tailored russet-red suit with leg-o’-mutton sleeves and narrow lapels, with a patent-leather yellow belt that matched the colour of her shirtwaist. Her felt hat was a matching red with a yellow-checked ribbon. She felt terribly crisp and efficient, which she hoped covered up her giddiness from not being able to sleep a wink after the ball.
If only she hadn’t lost her new notes about the fashions at the Waverton ball! She had stayed up until dawn writing new descriptions, but she worried they weren’t quite as vivid as they should be.
She also worried that William Blakely seemed to slip too much into her memories of the ball, always getting in the way of everything else! The dratted man. How had he come to be so—so distracting?
The crowd surged forward and Diana went with them as they flowed towards Trafalgar Square. The Ladies’ Weekly offices were there, and she felt her excitement flutter even higher as she glimpsed the stone tower of its office building. Everyone around her seemed intent on their own errands, all black suits and tailored dresses, leather cases and intent expressions.
The difference between that workaday crowd and the people at the Waverton ball was amazing. Diana felt at the same moment out of place and exactly where she belonged. It was most strange.
She rushed around the corner and nearly bumped into a man hurrying in the opposite direction. His bowler hat tumbled to the pavement.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ she cried and bent to retrieve the hat before it could roll into the street. He reached for it at the same time and they almost knocked each other to the ground. Diana’s own hat tilted over her eyes.
Flustered and embarrassed, she pushed it back and glanced up at the man, who was laughing. To her shock, she saw it was William Blakely, looking not at all dignified and solemn now. His hair, rumpled by the loss of his hat, waved over his brow in an unruly dark comma and she glimpsed a dimple—a dimple!—in his cheek as he laughed even harder.
‘Sir William,’ she gasped. ‘What a surprise. I do beg your pardon. Again.’
‘Good day, Miss Martin,’ he said, his laughter fading to a wry smile. ‘You are looking quite well this morning.’ He took her arm and helped her up, gently brushing the dust from her sleeve. She felt her cheeks turn warm under his gaze, his touch.
‘It was quite a lovely party last night,’ she said, feeling rather silly. A lovely party? After she had run into this man in the most ridiculous circumstances now—twice? ‘In the end.’
‘You’re up quite early. I see dancing ’til dawn couldn’t tire you.’ He gave her a teasing smile and there was that dimple again.
Diana laughed. She just couldn’t help it. ‘Well, I admit I do have an early appointment. I really should be on my way.’
‘Let me escort you, then.’
Escort her? Then she really never would think clearly at her interview! ‘That is kind, but I’m sure you must be getting to your own work.’ Then a terrible thought suddenly struck her, making some of the smiling glow fade. Maybe he was not on his way to work. Maybe he had a meeting, an assignation, with someone like Lady Smythe-Tomas.
His smile turned quizzical, as if he sensed her thoughts. ‘Indeed I should, but I’m glad to be delayed in such a delightful way. It gives me a chance to return this.’ He reached into his coat pocket and took out a small book.
‘My notebook!’ Diana cried. So that was where it had been. Had he found it when she dropped her reticule in the library? Had he read it? Even the silly gossipy bits? How ridiculous he must think her, then.
‘You seemed to have misplaced it last night. I meant to give it to Alexandra, but I’m afraid she was rather distracted by the Prince and Princess’s arrival. I’m glad I could return it to its rightful owner so quickly.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ she said again. Diana quickly replaced it in her valise. ‘I did wonder where it went.’
‘I shouldn’t keep you any longer. If you won’t let me escort you, perhaps I could give you a cup of tea after your errand? There’s a rather nice little teashop around the corner from here. To make up in small part for knocking you to the ground.’
Diana peeked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat, curious and excited and unsure all at the same time. She knew she shouldn’t, that her confused feelings towards him made him rather dangerous at such a moment in her life. But she found herself smiling and saying, ‘That sounds most pleasant. Thank you.’
After all, it was a day to be daring, to leap before she looked. What was a cup of tea after a job interview? A cup of tea with Sir William Blakely. After a job interview. Two things she would never have thought she could ever do.
He smiled, though there was no dimple that time. Diana felt a pang of disappointment. ‘Excellent, Miss Martin. Here is my card. My office is just on the next street, you can see it from here,’ he said, indicating a quiet, discreet Georgian mansion, all elegant red brick and white stone, plain except for the bright flag above the doorway. ‘Just call on the receptionist in the hall when you’ve finished your errand.’
‘I will.’
His gaze flickered behind her, a small frown creasing his brow. ‘Is your maid with you?’
‘I...’ Diana made herself laugh. A maid would have been in the way at the magazine—and would run right back to her parents with the tale before she could decide how to frame it all. She hadn’t been thinking of what would happen if she met an acquaintance, especially not Sir William. ‘No, not today. It is nearly the twentieth century, Sir William! We must step into the modern era some time.’
He smiled wryly and placed his hat back on his head. Diana rather missed his glossy dark hair, that wonderful air of informality. ‘Indeed. Good luck on your errand, Miss Martin. I do hope to see you later.’
She nodded and he tipped his hat as he took his leave. She watched him walk towards his office, his stride strong and confident though not at all showy.
What a strange man, she thought. So hard to read. Strange, and—and quite wonderful, too. A puzzle. And she did like puzzles.
But she couldn’t worry about Sir William at the moment. She had a task to complete, one she had been waiting to do for ever, it seemed. She squared her shoulders and marched ahead, clutching her valise in both hands, trying not to knock anyone else down in her path.
She did wonder, though, if he had read the notebook. If so, what had he thought? She wavered between wanting his advice on her work and being rather blush-faced to think he had seen her scribbles. Did he think her frivolous for such detailed descriptions of gowns and party arrangements? Maybe he wouldn’t, if he knew what she was really doing with them.
The offices of Ladies’ Weekly was on the third floor of a rather nondescript but solid building, in a corner tower. She made her way past rows of young women at typewriters and stacks of papers and photos waiting to be made into articles. The click of the typewriters blended with shouts and cries, and the warm air smelled of newsprint and coffee. It was unlike anything Diana had ever seen before, entirely different from the flower-scented hush of her parents’ house, and it was utterly thrilling.
She was led to a small corner office, where a bewhiskered, harried-looking man sat behind a cluttered desk, dictating to an equally harried-looking lady in spectacles and a pink-striped shirtwaist.
‘Ah, so this is the Paris girl!’ the man shouted. ‘Not before time, I’ll say. Come in, come in.’
‘I...’ Confused, Diana glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I thought my appointment was at ten?’
The woman chuckled. ‘You are quite punctual, Miss Martin. He means on time for Paris. Our last correspondent there decided to get married instead of going to the Exposition and has rather left us in the lurch. We need a replacement right away.’
‘You’re not engaged, are you?’ he barked.
‘I—no,’ Diana murmured, thinking of Lord Thursby. And of Sir William.
‘It would mean you would be in charge of the coverage rather than assisting,’ the woman said. ‘We do have such a small staff. I hope that would not be a problem?’
Diana swallowed hard. She had never written professionally before, but she had wanted this so much for so long. Surely she could do it. ‘Of course not.’
‘The Lady and the Mail are already there, curse them,’ the man said, shoving a stack of papers on to the floor. ‘We need to scoop them and soon! You look like a young lady who knows the fashions of Paris.’
‘I do have lots of ideas for articles,’ Diana said quickly, digging out her portfolio from her valise. ‘The new sporting clothes, for tennis and bicycling. Worth and Doucet...’
‘But do you have connections?’ he demanded. ‘That’s the question. Can you get into all those fancy parties in Paris? Give our readers the inside look?’
‘I...’ she began. Of course she could. Couldn’t she? After all, as her mother said, she had gone to the best school, made the best friends. Surely she knew how to get what she wanted, no matter what her parents said.
‘What he means is—can you tell our readers things no one else can know? Describe gowns no one else has yet seen, things like that?’ the woman said.
‘I do have an invitation to the opening of the new Gordston’s Department Store on the Champs-Élysées,’ Diana said. It was actually Alexandra’s invitation, but her friend had passed it on, too shy to face it. Malcolm Gordston was a dashing celebrity, handsome beyond words they said, a man who had risen from poverty in Scotland to the height of elegant riches because he knew how to give the stylish world what it craved. ‘And I know how to get to the very top level of Monsieur Eiffel’s tower for a moment all alone. Only a very select few are allowed there, you know.’
The man and woman exchanged a long glance. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You’re hired, Miss Martin. Can you start next week?’
Diana quickly accepted and floated out of the building on such a glittering cloud she hardly knew how her feet carried her down the street. The crowd on the pavement swirled past, buffeting her on all sides, yet she barely noticed them.
She was going to Paris. She was going to write. Never mind that she now had to persuade her parents. She had a job.
She walked a few more steps and glanced around. The crowd was the same as it had been earlier, a hurrying, sombre group in dark suits, not paying her any more attention than the stone lions on the square. She wanted to dance, to twirl, to shout out her excitement. But everyone else had their own work to get to and it was still too early to call on Emily or Alexandra, even though she would have dearly loved their advice. She needed someone to tell, someone to give her sensible words about her situation.
She suddenly remembered William Blakely. He had asked her to tea! When they first met, his seriousness, his quiet watchfulness, had made her feel uncertain, too girlish, too giggly. But then she had seen that other side to him, that flash of humour, those hidden depths. Maybe someone like that was just what she needed right now?
And she would get to see him again.
She turned the corner towards that elegant Georgian mansion, and hurried up the stone steps before she could change her mind and run away. It did seem like a day for bold moves. She had a job now! Surely a cup of tea with William Blakely would be only one more daring step?
She pushed open the door and found herself in another new world. This one was completely different from the crowded, ever-moving river of the street, or the bustle and dust of the magazine. The hall was all cool marble and hush, portraits of stern old men staring down at her from the azure-painted walls, potted palms looming tall in the corners.
What was it exactly William did in that place? she wondered. She knew he had something to do with diplomacy and that he had just returned from India. Maybe the building was an outpost of the India Office her father had once worked for?
She glanced back over her shoulder, uncertain. But he had invited her. And she found she really did want to see him again, tell him her news and hear what he thought about it all. How very odd; he was really a stranger to her, yet she was quite eager to see that smile of his again.
She nodded resolutely and marched up to the only living being in that silent hall, a young man with pomaded hair and spectacles in an old-fashioned black suit, who sat behind a dark oak desk. He glanced up from the papers he was sorting, a frown on his face.
‘May I help you, Miss...?’
‘Miss Martin,’ she answered with a smile and far more confidence than she felt. After all, she would have to learn to march in and take what she needed now, or she would never get the articles she wanted for the magazine.
‘I am here to see Sir William Blakely,’ she said calmly, adjusting her gloves as if she did this sort of thing every day. ‘He is expecting me for tea.’
The young man stared at her for a long moment, his face growing redder, but she just kept smiling. Finally, he gulped and nodded. ‘If you will just wait here, Miss—Miss Martin,’ he said and hurried away up a curving staircase.
Well, Diana thought, that seemed to do the trick. She studied the hall a little closer and saw that between the portraits were decorations that looked like framed medals. Above her head were banners and swords. She wondered what it all meant.
After her flush of new confidence, she suddenly felt nervous again. What if he had just been being polite to invite her to tea? What if she was interrupting him in something terribly important?
But she had no time to leave. As she made to move away, she heard William call, ‘Miss Martin. I’m so glad you decided to call on us.’
She turned to see him coming down the stairs. He had tidied up after their meeting on the street, his dark hair smooth and shining again, his tie straight, all cool and businesslike. Yet there was that tiny flash of a dimple.
‘Sir William,’ she answered with a bright smile. ‘So am I!’
Chapter Four (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
‘I’m afraid we are in something of a quandary, Sir William,’ said Lord Ellersmere, the head of William’s division of the Foreign Office, an hour before he expected Diana Martin to reappear. Lord Ellersmere placed his fingertips against his flowing white moustache and nodded solemnly. ‘Indeed we are.’
William turned his attention away from the window and the brightening day outside, abashed to realise he was thinking of Diana, of how flustered she looked on the pavement, and not on the task at hand. ‘I thought the Paris arrangements were all in place.’
‘So did we,’ Lord Ellersmere said with a gruff laugh. ‘But you know the Prince. Always changing his mind, dashing off to some spa town or another. He gives this office a headache like no other. But we must do as we must.’
‘Because he will one day be our King?’
Lord Ellersmere sighed. ‘May that day be a long one away.’
‘And he has changed the Paris arrangements again?’
‘So it seems. We thought the Queen had persuaded him not to go until the autumn, but he has heard too much about all the excitement and has decided that he must see it for himself directly after the opening.’
‘But that’s only in a week’s time! We would need to arrange for some reconnaissance first.’
‘No time for that. H.R.H. says he and the Princess are only going unofficially, for two or three days at the most. They want to go up on the tower and he says the Princess has a yearning to see the Indian jewels. Yet, of course, unofficial only means we must find a way to be invisible and still make sure all the royal niceties are attended to. You are the very best at that sort of thing. Our Bertie likes you. And you know exactly what to watch out for.’
William nodded solemnly. That had indeed been his job in India. Who would have known he would find himself in the same spot at home so soon? If only it all ended in a better state. That was his most important task now. ‘I saw in the papers that Maharajah Singh Lep is also on his way to Paris. Does that have something to do with the need to see the Indian jewels?’
Lord Ellersmere’s gaze sharpened. ‘Yes, I have heard that, as well. We could hope his ship is delayed and he misses the Wales party—and the Wavertons. I understand they will be there, too.’
‘Does the Duke still want to display the Star at the Indian Pavilion?’
‘The Duke says he is merely the steward of the jewel and it must be shown to the world. But I hear whispers the Wavertons aren’t as flush as they would seem.’
William frowned. He had not heard that about his aunt and her husband, who had always been one of the wealthiest ducal couples, always entertaining lavishly. Was that no longer true? Where had Chris heard about that ridiculous Indian investment scheme of Thursby’s? Could it be something their uncle was trying, as well? Waverton had always been fascinated by India. If he could couple that with a way to make money quickly...
‘And is Singh still unhappy at the sale of the jewel?’ William said.
Lord Ellersmere shrugged. ‘Who can say? The man is certainly still wealthy enough. But who wouldn’t be unhappy about it all?’
‘I heard something to the effect that there was an Indian investment scheme floating about in the clubs.’
‘A scheme?’
‘I don’t know the details yet. Probably mining or something of the sort. Silks and gold always seem to be in vogue.’
‘Do you think the Prince has heard of it all? Could that be behind the mania to get to Paris soon?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. Bertie seems to enjoy these little schemes as well as the next man.’
‘Indeed. It wouldn’t be the first time. Her Majesty wouldn’t be happy to hear it.’ Lord Ellersmere sat back in his chair, looking suddenly weary. William understood the feeling. The job of ‘keeping an eye’ on the Prince was a constant one. ‘Then an even closer eye must be kept on the Prince for now. He is always susceptible to such romantic ideas.’
There was a knock at the office door and a secretary peeked inside past gleaming spectacles. ‘I do beg your pardon, Lord Ellersmere, but Sir William has a caller.’
‘A caller?’ William asked. He was not aware of any appointments. But—could it possibly be Diana? His weariness suddenly faded.
The secretary gave a pinched frown. ‘Yes. It’s—it’s a lady. A rather well-dressed one. She says you invited her to tea.’
Yes, it must be Diana. ‘Tell her I will join her in a moment.’
As he left, Lord Ellersmere looked on with bright interest. Anything new or different in their office was a cause of great curiosity, which Will suddenly realised he should have remembered. So much for diplomacy. All his caution seemed to fly out the door when faced with red hair and lively, chocolate-coloured eyes.
‘A lady?’ Lord Ellersmere said.
‘Miss Martin. An old school friend of my cousin Lady Alexandra. I saw her this morning and asked her to tea.’ The funniest thing that had ever hit him on the street at such an early hour, surely.
‘Martin? A good family. Her father was on the India station once. A good wife, you know, Sir William, can be priceless in our work.’
‘I have no thought of marrying soon, Lord Ellersmere,’ he said quickly, trying to cut off any gossip in the bud. Not that Ellersmere, or his priceless wife, were gossips. No one would last long in their office if they were. But he had found that men as well as ladies could be great matchmakers. He couldn’t tell them he intended never to repeat his own parents’ mistakes. Never to burden a woman with his work. ‘Our task is an urgent one, after all, and surely secret.’
Lord Ellersmere laughed. ‘Too true, my good fellow. But you will need a proper house soon if you want to move ahead and a wife to run it for you.’
William nodded. He knew that was true. But surely Diana Martin had plans of her own. She didn’t seem the sort to run a house and sit around waiting for a husband to get back from his ‘club’. She was too bumbling, too plunge-ahead-no-matter-the-cost. She needed looking after.
Though, that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy her intriguing company for a cup of tea.
He made his way downstairs and found Diana studying the paintings on the hall wall. She really had grown up since they had met at Miss Grantley’s school, he thought, turned into an elegant lady, all glowing happiness. A few of the young secretaries had gathered to gawk at her over the banisters, but she didn’t appear to take any notice. Her thoughts were unreadable as she looked at the paintings.
‘Miss Martin,’ he called. ‘I’m so glad you decided to call on us.’
‘Oh, Sir William,’ she said as she turned to greet him. ‘I do hope this isn’t an inconvenient time. I just—well, I don’t quite want to go home and your office was so near.’
She smiled again and it was as if a ray of sunshine had suddenly pierced the solemn hush of the office. Her cheeks were glowing pink, tendrils of her red-gold hair escaping from beneath her hat, and he felt the energy flow through him from just looking at her. It was—unusual. Amazing, really.
‘Not at all, I’m glad you decided to come,’ he said, taking her arm. She smelled of those summertime lilacs, soft and sweet. Lord Ellersmere’s words, that a man needed a wife, flashed through his mind and made him laugh. He had the feeling that Diana’s sort of wife wasn’t quite what the man had in mind. ‘I was just thinking a cup of tea sounds just the thing.’
He took his hat from the hovering, curious secretary and led Diana out into the pale light of the day. The crowd on the street closed around them, noisy and bustling, always in a hurry, but he was sure she was the only one really there.
She glanced over her shoulder as the heavy door closed behind them. ‘It seems like a terribly important place. That sort of quiet doesn’t come cheaply and my father always says the calmest places are the ones where the most is happening.’
William laughed. That was another thing he found he liked about Diana Martin—her frankness. No one else talked like her. ‘I suppose it doesn’t. Come cheap, that is.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘Oh, a bit of letter writing, a bit of filing. Not much since I got back from India.’ He thought of the Prince of Wales and his always-shifting plans, of his aunt and uncle, and the Maharajah. ‘Nothing exciting.’
‘I don’t think I believe you. You’ve been all the way to India for your work, haven’t you? All sorts of interesting and important places.’
‘Even interesting places can be dull if you stay there long enough.’
‘Can they? I’m not sure I believe you about that, either, though I think I would like to try. Surely if you’re bored in Calcutta or Cairo, you can find an elephant to ride at the very least.’
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Amanda McCabe
A secret shared…But can she trust him?In this Debutantes in Paris story, Diana Martin is thrilled be a writer covering the Parisian Exposition. Her new role must be kept quiet—her parents would never allow it! When enigmatic Sir William Blakely discovers her ruse, he knows it could lead her into danger. With the sparks igniting between them, William realises the only way to protect Diana is by staying as close to her as possible!
A secret shared...
But can she trust him?
In this Debutantes in Paris story, Diana Martin is thrilled to be a writer covering the Parisian Exposition. But her new role must be kept quiet—her parents would never allow it! When enigmatic Sir William Blakely discovers her ruse, he knows it could lead her into danger. With the sparks igniting between them, William realizes the only way to protect Diana is by staying as close to her as possible!
Debutantes in Paris miniseries
Book 1—Secrets of a Wallflower
Look out for the next book, coming soon!
“McCabe sets the perfect tone, complete with all the elegant trimmings and sparkling warmth such genre fantasy can capture.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Wallflower’s Mistletoe Wedding
AMANDA MCCABE wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, one dog and one cat.
Also by Amanda McCabe (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
A Stranger at Castonbury
Tarnished Rose of the Court
An Improper Duchess
Betrayed by His Kiss
The Demure Miss Manning
The Queen’s Christmas Summons
Bancrofts of Barton Park miniseries
The Runaway Countess
Running from Scandal
Running into Temptation
The Wallflower’s Mistletoe Wedding
Debutantes in Paris miniseries
Secrets of a Wallflower
And look out for the next book
Coming soon
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Secrets of a Wallflower
Amanda McCabe
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07377-6
SECRETS OF A WALLFLOWER
© 2018 Ammanda McCabe
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my mom, because we’ll always have Paris!
Contents
Cover (#ua31869d7-6637-5d7b-8264-ab5140558953)
Back Cover Text (#u98d5fb32-1d45-5bdd-a6eb-666226062623)
About the Author (#u608578e4-97bb-5275-87b8-fc4230c0cbcf)
Booklist (#u0625dc51-edb1-51ae-8eea-4d97f431a730)
Title Page (#u9f6b7dd6-13f7-5c0c-b1fe-a92ecbfad409)
Copyright (#ua37a9804-0478-5e16-ad69-b3af8f2a405b)
Dedication (#u858b2226-40b5-58f6-9081-4f82ba8ba5d9)
Prologue (#u839360fc-e485-5ed3-bc16-32a2f964c4a0)
Chapter One (#u261b81da-1453-559d-850c-63cddf6a54bd)
Chapter Two (#ubc29beed-092f-5d9a-ad2b-7bfef8fc0cd9)
Chapter Three (#ud61084fe-623e-5233-96eb-8e4f9f7918be)
Chapter Four (#uaca6d46d-ab34-5985-8a60-4eaa4390a225)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
Spring 1888—Miss Grantley’s School for Young Ladies
‘By this time next year I will be a famous authoress,’ announced Miss Diana Martin as she lay in the grass with her two best friends and stared up at the clouds sliding across the pale blue April sky. They were only a few days from leaving their schooling for ever, presumably as polished young ladies of eighteen, ready to grace society, and had thus been allowed a rare afternoon picnic unchaperoned in the school’s lush park.
‘How can you do that, Di?’ murmured Lady Alexandra, a duke’s daughter, the sweetest, shyest and most beautiful girl in all of Miss Grantley’s. ‘There are no great lady authors. It must be so hard. Everyone knowing who you are, staring at you wherever you go. If anyone would buy the book at all. I would be so terrified.’
‘Oh, Alex,’ laughed Emily Fortescue, the most sensible of the trio that everyone in the dormitory corridors like to call The Three Musketeers. ‘You would be terrified if a mouse even looked at you, though you must get used to it. You are a duke’s daughter and you look like an angel. Everyone will stare at you when you make your debut.’
Alexandra’s face, which was indeed heart-shaped, all ivory and roses crowned by spun silver-gold hair, blushed bright red. ‘Please, Em, don’t remind me. I wish we could stay here for ever, just as we are. Right at this moment.’
Diana could definitely see what Alexandra meant. It was a perfect day, the sun soft and warm, the grass like a velvet blanket beneath them, the smell of honeysuckle on the breeze. The solid, Georgian red brick of Miss Grantley’s main building was in the distance, watching over them, keeping them safe as it had done for the last few years of their education.
She had loved it here. The teachers had taught them so many things—geography, mathematics, philosophy, as well as the more usual French, watercolours, music, and how to curtsy to the Queen. They had one of the finest libraries in the county thanks to their founder, the daughter of a famous rare book collector. At Miss Grantley’s, Diana had found the stories that took her out of herself, the poetry and novels and plays. She knew she wasn’t pretty—she was too thin, too gangly, her hair too red—but here she had found a place for herself. Here she could start to see herself, unlike at her parents’ house where she always felt so awkward, out of place, and—wrong. Miss Grantley’s had changed all that, at least for a while.
Best of all, she had found Emily and Alexandra. From the very first day, when they sat next to each other for the school’s formal dinner in its vast, intimidating great hall, they had been bonded fast in friendship. None of them had their own sisters, so they became sisters of the heart. They studied together in the library, whispered in the night as they shared chocolates, wandered the gardens, shared hopes and dreams and stories.
And now it was all coming to an end, rushing towards them faster than a railway train, sweeping them into the unknown future. It was frightening—but also very exciting.
Alexandra would surely marry. She was a great beauty and, as a duke’s daughter, could probably find a prince—if she could bring herself to speak to him. She was so very shy, which was why her ducal parents had sent her to school, hoping she would come out of her shell, make new friends.
Emily, the daughter of a prosperous merchant in Brighton, could marry a wealthy factory owner her father knew, or she could run her very own business empire. She was clever enough, strong enough, brave enough, to do anything.
But Diana—she had no idea what she could do. Her father was a respected diplomat, well-to-do but not hugely wealthy, long retired from a military career that had once taken him to India and South Africa. She knew her parents expected her to find a country gentleman to settle into a fine home with, or maybe a vicar, if he was from a good family, or even an army officer, as her father had once been.
Yet marriage, despite all the wonderfully romantic French novels all the girls at Miss Grantley’s passed around and devoured along with their chocolates, seemed quite terrifying. Once a lady was married, her own ideas seemed finished.
She knew she wasn’t shrewd enough to run a business, as Emily could do. The one thing Diana really loved, the one thing that could take her out of herself and into other, stranger, beautiful worlds, was writing stories.
Miss Merrill, their literature teacher, told her she had a rare gift for creating vivid atmosphere with her words. She couldn’t play the harp very well, could barely add sums above three digits, hopelessly mixed up the borders on globes and who should sit beside who at dinner parties. But she could write well enough.
Couldn’t she?
She propped herself up on her elbow and studied her friends. Their hats were all off, their faces turned to the sun, their shoes discarded, Emily’s chestnut hair spread on the grass beneath her. Miss Merrill would lecture them if she could see! Diana tucked a loose strand of her red-gold hair back into her unruly plait.
‘There are great women writers,’ she said. ‘Jane Austen. Mrs Gaskell.’
‘Charlotte Brontë,’ said Emily. ‘Plus all those anonymous books by A Lady, the ones Ann Parkinson is always bringing back from Paris. Plenty of lady writers, though few are as good as you, Di.’
Diana felt her cheeks turn warm, maybe from the sun, maybe from the compliment. She had always longed for praise, but when it came she didn’t quite know what to do with it. She laid back down in her spot on the grass.
‘Do you want to write one of those French books, Di?’ Alexandra asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Diana thought of what they found in those smuggled books: wonderfully vivid descriptions of gowns and balls, kisses, elopements, scandal. They were fun. But she also loved the more realistic worlds found in George Eliot and Thackeray, so full of deep truths. ‘Maybe I’d like to do something like Mr Dickens. Something to make a bit of difference in the world. Or at least distract people from their troubles for a moment, as Miss Austen does, and give a bit of joy.’
‘You do that just by being—well, you,’ Alexandra said. ‘I’ve never known anyone to make me laugh as you do.’
‘Only because I fall down in deportment class and show my petticoats every week,’ Diana answered.
‘You only do that because it does make us laugh!’ said Emily. ‘Otherwise dreary old Mrs Percell would have us all asleep in boredom every week. We’ve seen you waltz when we practise our dance steps at night.’
Diana had to admit that was somewhat true. When Miss Merrill, their floor chaperon as well as the literature teacher, had gone to sleep, the girls would often have their own little dance parties. It was fun to dance then, using the frilled hem of her dressing gown as a train, pretending she was dancing with a prince in a grand ballroom. They would all spin and spin, and then collapse into giggles before they ate their hidden stash of teacakes.
But she still had the dratted tendency to topple over in curtsies. What she really liked about those classes was learning what to wear to various social events. She pored over the Parisian fashion magazines avidly and liked to sketch her own ideas for gowns and hats when she was supposed to be reading Cicero. Usually those imaginary gowns ended up on heroines in her short stories.
Stories of young ladies like her friends. Ladies who could change the world.
‘And even if you were clumsy,’ Alexandra said, ‘no one is more stylish than you.’ She reached out to touch the elaborate floral embroidery on the pale blue muslin sleeve of Diana’s dress. The local seamstress had made it to Diana’s own design, with puffed shoulders and a narrow skirt in the latest fashion.
Maybe she could use that style to make her mark. But how? Once she went home to her parents and their rules, she wouldn’t have many more chances.
Diana sat up on the grass and stared over the rolling lawns, the bright reds and yellows of the flowerbeds, the tennis court where girls in white were wielding their rackets, their merry laughter echoing on the breeze. The sun glinted on the windows of the main building, dazzling and golden.
It was a wonderful place. But Emily and Alexandra were right. Soon they would have to fly away. Where would they all go?
‘No matter what happens,’ she said, suddenly feeling quite urgent, almost frightened, ‘we must never lose each other.’
Emily sat up beside her, a tiny frown between her amber-brown eyes, and Alexandra reached for their hands.
‘Of course we’ll never lose each other,’ Emily said. ‘We’re sisters, are we not? We have to support each other through our horrid Season next year, all those ghastly teas and receptions. Curtsying to the Queen in her black veils...’
‘Or worse, the Prince of Wales,’ Alexandra said with a giggle. ‘My cousin Chris says the Prince tries to grab ladies’ backsides if they don’t move away fast enough.’
‘Alexandra!’ Emily cried. ‘That is quite the naughtiest thing you’ve ever said. But if Mr Blakely said it, I’m sure it’s true.’
Alexandra’s cousin, Christopher Blakely, was a bona fide member of the Marlborough House Set, a group that centred around the Prince of Wales and loved horse races, music halls, card games and beautiful, married ladies above all else. Chris was a handsome bon vivant, favouring carnation boutonnières and gold-headed walking sticks, and he made all the girls giggle and blush when he came to the school’s family visit days, which he often did, since he was Alex’s favourite relative. Diana also quite liked him. He had style and humour, and was impossible to take seriously. She had been looking forward to his visit today for weeks.
Chris’s older brother, Sir William Blakely, on the other hand, was the very portrait of solemn respectability. A member of the Foreign Office, he seldom visited his cousin at school, and they said he was soon to go to India. While Sir William was certainly handsome, with his glossy dark hair, fathomless dark eyes and tall, lean figure in his perfectly cut suit, he was quiet. He so seldom smiled, yet always seemed to be watching everything around him so closely.
He made Diana feel so—so frivolous. Silly. Young. And so strangely, well, fluttery. Those dark eyes that seemed to see so much...
Diana pushed away thoughts of William Blakely’s handsome eyes. It was very unlikely she would ever see him again, anyway. Bombay was far away and she had more immediate things to worry about. Such as what to do when she left Miss Grantley’s.
‘Where are your cousins, Alex?’ Emily said, turning her face up to the sun. ‘It’s almost time for tea.’
‘I think they went fishing in the lake or something like that,’ Alex murmured dreamily. ‘Surely it’s ages before tea. I don’t think I can bear to move just yet. I feel so wonderfully lazy.’
‘I think I had better move about a bit,’ Diana said, ‘or I will never want to leave this spot! Maybe I’ll go draw. I’m supposed to add some landscapes to my portfolio for art class, so it won’t just be filled with drawings of gowns and hats.’
She took her sketchbook and made her way along the winding pathways that led between the groves of trees beyond the picnic grounds. She soon found herself lost in the work, as she always did when sketching, and barely noticed the time passing, the light changing overhead. Until she heard a loud splash, a shout. Startled, she spun around to stare at the lake in the distance.
There were two men on the mossy bank, one was Alex’s cousin Christopher, laughing as he tried to push the other man into the water, to the loud encouragement of the people already splashing in the waves. Chris was laughing, as he usually was, his golden hair damp and standing on end, his expression full of mischief.
The man he tried to push was his brother William, he of the dark eyes and solemn smile. When Diana had first met him, she had been barely able to speak when he looked at her, she had felt so foolish. She was sure he hadn’t even noticed her then, but she had certainly noticed him.
Now, she instinctively ducked down, even though the men weren’t looking in her direction at all. She knew she should leave right away, but she couldn’t seem to stop watching. Stop staring at William Blakely.
He looked very different to the way he had in the school drawing room, his coat gone, his fine linen shirt damp and showing the lines of his muscled shoulders, his dark hair rumpled, his face alight with laughter. Yet he seemed so still within himself, so perfectly in control even in his dishabille against Chris’s silliness. Diana found herself utterly unable to look away.
William gave Chris one light push back and Chris toppled into the water. William laughed and his face, all sharp, elegant angles, like a classical statue when it was still and watchful, glowed.
Diana reached for her sketchbook and quickly drew in the lines of his face. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from trying to capture it; he was so fascinating with his elegant looks, that smile that transformed him into something younger, glowing like the sun. She had never seen anyone quite like him.
She hadn’t got as far as she would have liked on the sketch when the bell rang for tea. The men glanced up and she flattened herself on the grass, afraid to be seen. There was a burst of more laughter, rippling splashes as they climbed out of the water. She knew she had to get back to the school before she was missed. She quickly closed the book and leaped up.
She had to glance back one more time before she left, to take in the sunlit scene. William Blakely seemed to be looking in her direction, a small frown creasing his handsome face, and she gasped and broke into a run, not stopping until she tumbled back on to the lawn behind the school.
The bell rang from the school’s main building again, a deep, brassy gong that signalled the end of the picnics and that precious, golden day. The end of her small fantasy of William Blakely. The tennis players gathered up their rackets and flocked inside, and Diana and her friends stood up to pack away their glasses and plates. Diana shook the bits of grass from her ruffled blue skirts, relishing the last vestiges of the flower-scented spring air. The last dream of school and of a handsome man who seemed like a fantasy.
‘No matter what happens, all will be well,’ she said to her friends, trying to reassure herself. ‘Because we will always have each other.’
Chapter One (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
Spring 1889—Duchess of Waverton’s ball, London
‘What are your plans now, William, since you have returned from India?’ Harold Blakely, William’s father, asked from the head of the dining room table. ‘They must be glad to have your expertise once more at the London office, but surely they won’t want you to stay behind a desk there for long. I was always eager to be on to the next task myself, when I was at work there.’
William’s mother didn’t even look up from the plate she was listlessly picking at. ‘I’m sure we all well remember those days,’ Beatrice Blakely muttered. ‘William has plenty of time to decide what to do next. At least he has returned from that pestilential India.’
‘Hmmph,’ Harold said with a scowl. He gestured to the footman for more wine. ‘You’ve certainly worked hard enough of late, William. That’s a great deal more than can be said for that useless Christopher. Takes after his mother, does that one. No direction at all.’
Beatrice didn’t even answer, merely sighed and studied the curtained windows across the room as if she was in her own little world. She had been that way for as long as Will could remember and he was appalled to find nothing had changed in the Blakely house while he’d been abroad.
Ever since he and Chris were children, their parents had alternated between quarrels and icy silences. The only respite was in the long periods when their father was gone for his mysterious work and Beatrice would laugh a bit again. But her pale, fragile beauty had faded and her laughter was rare, and some times, as her sons grew older, she would complain to them of her loneliness. Her wasted youth.
She pushed her food from one side of the Wedgwood plate to the other, as Harold drained his wineglass. William longed to take his mother’s hand, to give her a reassuring smile, but he knew from experience it would be like touching a ghost.
‘Where is Christopher?’ Harold demanded of no one in particular.
‘He’s here somewhere,’ Beatrice answered vaguely. ‘Aren’t you meant to go to my sister’s ball with him, William?’
‘Yes,’ Will said. ‘He was meant to meet me for dinner and we would go to the Wavertons’ after.’ He did wonder where Chris had vanished to and meant to scold his brother for leaving him alone with their parents for a whole meal, but he found he couldn’t entirely blame Chris for disappearing again.
‘No use at all,’ Harold grumbled. ‘Can’t even get himself to a duke’s party and he’s related to them. Some people would give their eye teeth for an invitation like that. The boy’s been given everything and he’s throwing it away.’
William ignored him and smiled at Beatrice. ‘Why don’t you come with us, Mother? I’m sure Aunt Waverton would love to see you. Alex was saying you hadn’t called on them since the beginning of the Season.’
Beatrice gave him a startled glance. ‘A ball? Oh, no. It will be so very crowded. I couldn’t. My nerves.’
‘This family,’ Harold snorted. ‘Weak blood. Except for you, I hope, William. What are you going to do now you’re in England again?’
William took a long drink of his own wine, gathering his usual quiet control. He needed it when it came to dealing with his parents. ‘I haven’t decided yet. The office will decide where I’m ultimately needed.’
‘Of course they will. And I’m sure you’ll do us proud. I do miss those days of work.’ Harold sighed. ‘Perhaps you’ll use this time to find a proper wife, set up a house where you can entertain. That’s the best way to make contacts for the long run.’
Beatrice perked up a bit at those words. ‘Oh, yes, William. A marriage would be lovely. There are so many pretty girls out this Season, or so I hear. I’m sure my sister would be happy to introduce any of them to you in a trice.’
William glanced around the gloomy dining room, the burgundy-red silk walls, the gold curtains muffling everything from the outside world, the dark portraits and still lifes staring down at them. The very cushions of the dark, carved furniture seemed seeped with years of loneliness and unhappiness. So filled with bitterness. He certainly had no desire to replicate such a life, to make a lady miserable as his mother had been.
‘I’m not ready for such a step,’ he said. ‘But as soon as I am, Mother, you and Aunt Waverton will be the first to know.’
Before his parents could answer, the dining room door opened and Chris staggered in. His blond hair was rumpled, his cravat half-tied, and he gave them all a crooked grin.
‘Good evening, Blakelys all!’ he said, waving his arm. He grabbed his mother’s still-full wineglass and drained it. ‘Well, Will, are we going to this ball or not?’
* * *
Lady S-T was wearing a gown of yellow...
No. No, marigold.
...marigold silk taffeta and velvet, with rust, olive-green, and beige lily bouquets of satin, with a floral pattern of pearl and gold beads on the hem.
Diana studied the lady’s gown again, jotting down one last detail in her little notebook.
Smaller bustle at the back, falling in beaded pleats, according to the new fashion for narrower skirts.
Lady Smythe-Tomas, a young, wealthy widow, was widely known as one of the most fashionable women in London and tonight, at the most fashionable ball of the Season, she didn’t disappoint. Was it from the House of Worth? It had to be, Diana decided, with that wonderfully intricate beadwork and unusual colour combination in the bouquet trim.
She glanced down at her own gown, a debutante’s pale pink organza, with only the tiniest edge of white-lace frill along the short, puffed sleeves. Her pearl necklace was fine enough, but she knew the wreath of pink rosebuds in her hair was wrong for her red tresses. How dull it all was! Surely if she could visit Monsieur Worth in Paris, look at his sketches, feel the fine lengths of fabrics, cool satins and rich velvets, choose some daring design of her own...
She sighed. It would be heaven. And if she could get these descriptions just right, get them to sound perfect, it could all come true.
In the meantime, she had the next best thing. She could sit here in the corner at one of the most fashionable events of the London Season and observe everything going on around her. All the ladies vying with each other to have the finest, most unique, most up-to-the-minute gowns, and the most glittering jewels.
She could do it—if only her mother didn’t catch her. Diana peeked carefully around the gardenia-and-white-rose-draped trellis she was hiding behind and studied the ballroom. The Duke and Duchess of Waverton, Alexandra’s parents, had one of the largest ballrooms in London and the Duchess never spared any expense in her party arrangements. Tonight was no exception.
The ballroom, a glittering jewel case of a room in ivory and gilt, crowned with crystal chandeliers and furnished with gilded satin chairs and sofas, sparkled even more when crowded with the satin and gemstone kaleidoscope of dancers on the polished floor. More white roses and wreaths of gardenias were draped everywhere, turning the space into a garden bower.
Oh, that was good. Garden bower, she wrote in her notebook.
The Duchess stood beneath a full-length portrait of herself by Mr Sargent, clad in a gown of midnight-blue velvet and tulle embroidered with a dazzling pattern of stars and crescent moons that matched the famous Eastern Star sapphire from India in her tiara.
The Duchess smiled brightly as she greeted each new guest, even though her husband was probably hiding in the card room, and the Prince and Princess of Wales, who were rumoured to be attending because the Princess was Alexandra’s godmother, had not yet arrived. Alex herself, who the ball was nominally in honour of, was nowhere to be seen. Diana was sure she must be hiding just like her father, maybe still in her chamber or in the ladies’ withdrawing room, as Alex so often was at large balls and soirées.
Luckily, Diana’s mother was also nowhere to be seen. She was safe for the moment.
She glanced at Lady Smythe-Tomas’s gown again. The lady was laughing, her golden-blond head thrown back as she languidly waved her rust-red feather fan. She always seemed to be one of those ladies who walked about constantly backlit by an invisible amber sun. She would make a great heroine in a novel—or maybe a villainess.
The heroines of novels, at least novels of the sort she and the other girls at Miss Grantley’s passed around secretly, never realised how beautiful they were. Lady Smythe-Tomas was fully aware of her looks. After all, her photographs were often displayed in shop windows, along with Mrs Langtry and Lady Warwick. All of them always clad in the latest fashions.
‘What is that you’re writing, Diana Martin? It doesn’t look like a dance card,’ a high-pitched voice said behind her, startling her out of her fashion dream.
She gasped and whirled around, her heart pounding. She was sure it was her mother and she did not want another lecture about how she needed to stop writing and find a suitable husband. That her time was running out. She was nineteen! Almost twenty and ancient! And she was wasting her chances.
But it wasn’t her mother. It was Alexandra’s cousin Christopher Blakely, using the falsetto voice that served him so well in amateur theatricals. He burst out laughing at the appalled look on her face and his green eyes sparkled. Or maybe they sparkled from the champagne glass in his hand, which Diana was sure wasn’t his first of the evening. Chris was well known in town for his love of a fun time. Unlike his brother, who was off pursuing some very important career goal far away in India. Though it was William Blakely whose dark eyes were in her dreams.
‘Christopher Blakely, you scared the ghost out of me,’ she hissed. ‘I thought you were my mother.’
‘Fear not, I just saw her in the card room playing a wicked hand of piquet,’ he said, downing the last of his champagne. He leaned out from their hiding place to gesture to one of the liveried footmen carrying silver trays around the ballroom. He took two fresh drinks and handed one to her.
‘Oh,’ she whispered, staring down into the shimmering gold liquid. Maybe champagne was the inspiration for Lady Smythe-Tomas’s gown, with all that iridescent glow. She had to put that in the essay. ‘I shouldn’t.’
‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ he said, leaning against the flower-covered trellis. ‘My aunt gave me strict instructions I could only have two glasses before the midnight supper.’
Diana smiled as she thought about what happened last time the Duchess had a party, a tea in honour of Princess Alexandra. Chris had stolen the large, elaborate hat off the head of the Princess’s lady-in-waiting and given them a wonderful recital from a music hall selection after sneaking rum into the tea. It had all been very amusing, if not strictly proper for a deb to see. ‘And how many glasses does this make?’
‘Four. But they are very small.’
She laughed and tucked her notebook into her reticule before she sipped at her own drink. Heavenly, so bubbly and sweet on her tongue. ‘The Duke does know how to put together a wine cellar, everyone says so.’
‘And the money he spends on it could support ten families for a year, I’m sure,’ Chris muttered.
Diana studied him over the rim of her glass, a bit worried. There had been rumours that he had lost more than he should on horse races. She had dismissed such things as gossip before, but what if he was in trouble? ‘Chris, if you’re in need of a bit of income...’
‘You would come to my rescue with your dowry?’ he said with a comical leer.
Diana laughed and pretended to study him ostentatiously. He was handsome, of course, with his dark golden cap of hair and green eyes, his ready smile. And very funny and always up for a lark. She could see why so many of the other debs sighed over him. He came from a good family, even if he had no career, and was always house-party-visiting with the Waleses. And he was the nephew of a duchess, the cousin of her good friend. Even Diana’s parents would approve of him.
But she could only see him as a friend, someone who made her laugh, helped her and Alex hide at parties. Brought her champagne when debs were meant to stick with lemon squash. He didn’t make her feel all stammering and blushing, didn’t make her daydream as his brother had.
‘There are plenty with better dowries than me. But surely you don’t have to worry about such things?’ she said.
‘Of course I don’t,’ he said. ‘And what are you writing in that little notebook of yours? Scandalous secrets you overhear from your flowery hidey-holes? Are you a spy?’
Diana laughed and shook her head. ‘Never you mind, Chris. It wouldn’t interest you at all. And shouldn’t you be dancing? I’m sure your aunt expects you to do your duty as a single gentleman?’
He grinned. ‘Why do you think I’m in hiding, too? There’s no one else worth dancing with here yet, except for Emily, and her card is full.’
Diana glanced back to the dance floor and saw Emily waltzing past with a young viscount something or other, her mint-green silk skirts swirling. Usually Emily, the daughter of well-to-do Brighton wine merchant, would never be in the Waverton ballroom. But it was Alex’s party, supposedly, and her best school friends were invited. And Emily had proved to be most popular with the fashionable set, indulging in her love of dancing and music, her open-hearted good humour.
They liked her father’s wine, too. Just look at the Duke’s cellar.
Diana smiled to see her friend having such a good time. She turned back to Christopher and was startled to catch an unguarded look in his eyes as he stared at Emily. A raw, solemn instant of—was it longing?
But it was quickly gone and he laughed, back to his usual careless self. ‘Did you hear? William is back from India for good.’
Diana blinked at the sudden change of subject and remembered the scene of William by the lake, laughing in the golden sun. ‘William—your brother?’
‘Yes, or St William, as my mother would call him if she could, now that he’s been given a knighthood at only twenty-eight. Above and beyond in service to Her Majesty.’ He took another glass of champagne from a passing footman. ‘And he’s returned just in time to be sent off to Paris, the lucky beggar.’
‘Really? Paris?’ All the talk in London for weeks had been of the upcoming Exposition in Paris. Eiffel’s great iron tower, the Turkish villages, the art pavilions, the American Wild West show. Just like everyone else, Diana was wild for stories of the Exposition.
And, if she was very lucky, she might just get to see it, too. She tried not to imagine William Blakely strolling along the river at her side, smiling down at her, his dark eyes glowing. That would surely never happen, not after she had been so stammering and gawky the few times they met before. But it was a lovely image.
‘What sort of work does a diplomat do there?’ she asked. ‘Eat at the café atop Monsieur Eiffel’s tower? Deliver letters from the Queen to other visiting monarchs? Ride a horse in the Wild West show?’
Christopher laughed. ‘I have no idea. Will is infuriatingly tight-lipped about everything. He’s here somewhere, I know, but I doubt dancing or playing cards. Probably working. He’s always working.’
Diana suddenly glimpsed her mother at the other side of the ballroom. Lavinia Martin was hard to miss, tall and stately, prematurely white-haired, clad in beaded bronze satin. ‘Oh, no. Speaking of cards, I think my mother’s hand of piquet is over.’
‘Let’s dance, then. We shall both do our duty and escape a lecture.’
Diana nodded. She had already been able to hide out much longer than she had expected. She put down her empty glass and took Chris’s hand, letting him lead her out on to the dance floor.
It was a polka, lively and quick, and he spun her around and around until she was dizzy with laughter. ‘Maybe we could take ourselves to the Exposition and do dance demonstrations!’ he said. ‘The Whirling English Pair.’
She giggled. ‘I doubt they would pay us for our dance skills. Toss us out and tell us never to darken France’s door again, rather.’
‘It’s all in the attitude, my dear. Pretend you know how to dance and you will do it.’
‘Excellent advice.’ She would have to remember it. Pretend she knew what she was doing and others would believe it. Eventually she might even believe it herself.
As they spun around, Diana saw that Alex had appeared at last, standing beside her mother as the Duchess whispered to her through a gritted-teeth smile. Alex wore a beautiful gown of white tulle and pale blue satin, perfect with her angelic looks and spun-gilt hair. A wreath of red roses and pearls was woven through her upswept curls, matching the triple strand of pearls with a large ruby clasp at her throat.
Yet Diana could tell that her friend was unhappy. Alex bit her lip, her eyes downcast as she nodded to her mother. Her gloved hands twisted at the ivory handle of her fan. Diana wanted to go to her, but Christopher spun her around again and Alex and the Duchess were lost to view. Instead, Diana found herself facing the last person she wanted to see at any party.
Lord Thursby.
She hadn’t seen him in a few days, not since a tea her mother had given. She’d hoped he had left town, but there he was, chatting and laughing with one of the Duchess’s friends, a marchioness famed for her dyed red hair and diamonds. The lady’s cheeks were glowing pink as she waved her fan at him.
Ladies did often seem to like him and Diana could see why. He was handsome, with thick blond hair and bright blue eyes, along with a dashing moustache and perfectly tailored, stylish clothes. He was charming and well connected as a relation to Lord Lansdowne, the Viceroy of India.
That was how he first appeared at her parents’ dinner table when he returned to London for the Season, with a letter from the Viceroy and questions for her father about his time in India. It was rumoured that Lord Thursby sought a career there himself. Her parents liked him and invited him back. Her mother seemed especially fond of him, laughing at his jokes, watching him carefully.
And, for some reason, he seemed to have taken a liking to Diana. He made such a point of sitting beside her at tea and at musical evenings, bringing her refreshments at the interval at the theatre. Smiling at her, even touching her hand as he mentioned how very much she looked like a ‘Titian goddess’ with her hair.
At first, she had been flattered. Who wouldn’t be? A handsome, sought-after man who sought her out and complimented her red hair, which had always been the bane of her life.
Yet then something changed. She didn’t even know what it was, for he was as complimentary as ever. Perhaps it was the way she some times noticed his conversation never included questions to her, only tales of his life, his career hopes. His compliments were all about her hair, her gowns, her way with the piano—which she knew was mediocre at best, despite the best efforts of Miss Grantley’s fine music teachers. He sat closer, his touches lingered. He had even sent her a bouquet before the ball, which she ‘accidentally’ forgot.
She had no time for such things, not with a man who made her feel so strangely—itchy. As if she wanted to jump up and run away.
Just like now. He hadn’t yet seen her. She tried to pull Chris deeper into the crowd of the dancers as she noticed Lord Thursby was scanning the crowd over the Marchioness’s head.
‘Oh, no,’ Diana whispered.
‘What is it?’ Chris asked.
‘Just someone I would rather not talk to at the moment.’
‘An unwanted suitor? That sounds interesting,’ he said, infuriatingly contrary. ‘Which one is it? Should I call him out for pestering you? I will, if he’s not too large and intimidating.’
Diana laughed. ‘It’s that man over there, the one talking to your aunt’s friend, the Marchioness. And no duelling yet. All he’s really done is send flowers and compliment my non-existent musical skills. I just—can’t like him, somehow.’
Chris frowned as he studied the man. ‘Thursby? Really? He has some kind of investment scheme in India he says he can let some of us in on later.’
An Indian investment scheme? Was that why Thursby had started coming to her father’s house so often? That sounded strange to her. Surely such ideas always ended in calamity? ‘Oh, no, Chris. You aren’t thinking of doing that, are you?’
‘It sounds simple enough and Thursby says we’re sure to double our money very quickly.’
‘I don’t think...’
The dance ended and as they swirled to a stop at the edge of the dance floor, they found themselves next to Emily and her partner.
Emily looked quite pretty, with her cheeks pink with enjoyment and laughter, her amber-brown eyes glowing. Diana quite envied her gown, too, for with only a father, Em had far more control over her own wardrobe. Her mint-green gown, trimmed with black-velvet rosettes, with black and green plumes in her hair, made her look far more elegant and sophisticated than other ladies their age.
‘Oh, Di! Isn’t it splendid?’ Emily said. ‘Such a wonderful orchestra.’
‘Only because you’re the best dancer here and could find rhythm in any old tune,’ Christopher said.
Emily laughed. ‘As can you. Shall we, then, Chris? Show them how a schottische is done?’
‘We shall,’ Christopher said and took her arm to swirl her away.
As they disappeared back into the sparkling melee of the dance, Diana looked around. Her mother sat along the row of gilded chaperons’ chairs by the silk-papered wall, gossiping with two of her friends. At the other end of the room, glimpsed between flower arrangements and groups of laughing people, she saw Lord Thursby. She felt suddenly trapped, caught between two forces she didn’t want to face yet.
On impulse, she spun around and dashed out of the ballroom via the nearest side door. She found herself in a small, domed hall, also draped in carpets of flowers but blessedly quiet. There were only a few people there, whispering together, sipping champagne, the music muffled beyond the door.
She hurried down a flight of stairs to the next floor down, where there was the card room, the billiards room, and a large sitting room that had been turned into the ladies’ withdrawing room. She heard a burst of giggles from that chamber and she knew she could easily join them, but she suddenly only wanted to be alone. To hear her own thoughts for a minute.
Unlike most London houses, including her own parents’ narrow dwelling on Cavendish Square, Waverton House was vast, four storeys of chambers like a series of jewel boxes, sparkling with treasures. She went down one more set of stairs and peeked through a half-open doorway to find a library. Perfect.
The silence was heavy, deep and echoing after the hum of the ballroom. She could almost hear herself think again. She wandered along the rows of books, studying the gilt titles on the leather spines, the paintings on the panelled walls between the shelves.
Next to the curtained window nook was a table laid out with the day’s newspapers. She studied the headlines. They were all about the Paris Exposition, of course, swooning praise for the delicious cafés, the wonders of the pavilions for the arts, the exotic mock-souks, the fashionable ladies arriving to parade along the Champ de Mars.
A loud voice suddenly burst the silence, making Diana jump.
‘Oh, please, just listen to me this one last time! Don’t you owe me that at least? For all we were to each other?’
It was a woman’s voice, low and urgent, filled with choking tears, and it was coming from the corridor outside. Moving closer to the library with every word. Diana held her breath, hoping whoever it was would just keep moving past.
‘Laura, what we had was over long ago,’ a man answered, weariness barely hidden in his soft, kind tone. ‘We can’t revive it now. You know that.’
‘Why not?’ the woman demanded. ‘Everything has changed this time. It could be even better! I have missed you so much...’
To Diana’s horror, the quarrel wasn’t moving away. The door swung open and she instinctively dived behind the heavy velvet window curtains before they could see her and they all faced a most embarrassing scene. It seemed to be a night for hiding out.
‘We should return to the party,’ the man said, still so calm and steady, so horribly quiet. Diana couldn’t help but wince for the woman. ‘Neither of us wants a scandal.’
‘Of course that’s not what I want! Some horrid, shabby court case like Bertie Wales and the Aylesfords. That won’t happen now. We’re both free!’ the woman said sweetly. ‘Oh, my darling Will, don’t you remember what those heavenly days at Beresford Hall were like? It could be that way all the time now.’
Quite against her will, Diana found herself rather curious. It sounded like one of those delicious French novels they had once passed around at Miss Grantley’s! She cautiously peeked around the edge of the curtain.
The couple stood near the carved onyx fireplace, the lamplight throwing them into silhouette. The woman was Lady Smythe-Tomas, Diana could tell that from her luminous champagne gown, the golden swirl of jewel-bedecked hair. She reached out with her elegant gloved hands to grasp the man by his lapels, her fingers curling against him sinuously. Diana was quite surprised she would have to beg any man for his attentions; they all seemed to fall right at her feet.
Who was this man? He surely had to be vastly attractive. Her curiosity growing, she pushed the curtain back just a bit more so she could see his face.
She gasped and quickly stifled the sound with her satin-covered fingers. It was Sir William Blakely.
Sir William was handsome, of course, arrestingly so. The perfect counterpoint to Lady Smythe-Tomas’s golden, sunny beauty, with his glossy dark hair and fathomless brown eyes. If Diana was a casting agency for the theatres, she could do no better than those two for looks. But he was so solemn! So dedicated to his career.
Or maybe he wasn’t always so solemn. She remembered him laughing by the lake, his damp shirt clinging to his shoulders, all bright and full of youth in the sunshine. Surely that man could have a passionate affair.
‘Laura, this can’t go on,’ he said, still so calm, so cool. Diana wondered why the lady hadn’t slapped him yet, for staying so unruffled about the whole passionate business.
‘Why not? Do you not still find me beautiful?’
‘Of course you are beautiful. Your photo in every shop window tells you that. And you deserve more than a man buried in his work.’
‘But surely I could help you with that, too! Every diplomat needs a hostess.’ She leaned towards him with an enticing smile, her fingers smoothing the satin lapel she had crushed. ‘And there is always this...’
She went up on her toes and tried to press her lips to his. But the promised kiss didn’t last long at all, the merest brush. He pushed her away, gently but firmly, his hands unwinding her arms from around his neck and holding her away. ‘I need to return to the ballroom.’
Lady Smythe-Tomas’s pretty face creased in a fierce pout. ‘Why?’ she cried. ‘Because some young, sweet deb is waiting to waltz with you? Or, no—it’s Lady Lammington, isn’t it? She’s always wanted you for herself!’
‘Because I will be missed soon and so will you. Please, Laura. Be reasonable.’
‘Very well.’ Her tone turned cajoling again. She ran one fingertip up his arm. ‘But only if you agree to have tea with me one day this week.’
‘I’ve been quite busy since I returned to London, you know that.’
‘Just one tiny little visit. You can even bring your brother Chris if you need a chaperon.’
‘No, Laura,’ he said, very firmly. Then he added something too low for Diana to hear. Whatever he said must have pleased Lady Smythe-Tomas, or at least placated her, for Diana heard the library door slam and there was silence again. They were gone.
Perhaps she had been right in her very first assessment of him on his visit to Miss Grantley’s—he was gloriously handsome but rather chilly, intimidating. Only—only once he must have known passion, if he’d had an affair with a woman like Lady Smythe-Tomas. People were always so strange. It was easier to capture them in fictional stories than in real life.
She waited for a few more breaths and then slipped out of her hiding place. Only to find she was not quite alone.
Sir William stood by the fireplace, starring into the empty grate, a frown pressing his handsome lips together, his eyes narrowed as if he was deep in thought. He glanced up, and those dark eyes widened. He seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him. She dropped her reticule, flustered, and quickly scooped it up again. Her heart pounded to see him again, so loud she could barely hear anything else. She feared he could hear it, too, that her chagrin showed on her face.
‘Miss Martin,’ he said. She dared to glance up at him and saw that he was just as handsome as he had been at Miss Grantley’s, but he had changed, too. His face was bronzed by the Indian sun, set in harder lines, his eyes shadowed. It only made him even more intriguing, blast him. ‘Whatever are you doing in here?’
‘Oh, I—just needed a breath of air. And, um...’ She gestured around the room helplessly. No etiquette class at Miss Grantley’s had ever taught her what to do in such a situation. She was angry at him for brushing off a woman who obviously had deep feelings for him. All the romantic novels she had read told her the heartbreak a woman like Lady Smythe-Tomas must be feeling in the face of such carelessness! She was also burningly embarrassed to have been caught watching the scene. And she wanted to burst into strange, hysterical laughter. All at once.
Maybe it was because she had seen the effect William had on Lady Smythe-Tomas, on the poor woman’s sad feelings. It was all most confusing.
‘I was reading about Paris,’ she said weakly.
‘Paris?’ he asked. And she finally saw some emotion in those dark eyes that always seemed to see everything without giving anything away. She saw a flicker of—bafflement.
‘Yes. The tower, the art displays, the Turkish souk.’ She remembered that Christopher had said Sir William was soon to be sent to Paris himself. ‘But you must know all about that.’
‘Indeed I do. And I can see why that might be more attractive than a crowded ballroom. But why hide here?’
‘I just—came across it. I thought it was empty. So it was, for a while.’
‘You just came across it?’ he asked doubtfully.
Diana suddenly wondered if he thought she was there for an assignation, as well. She felt her cheeks burn brighter, one of the banes of her life to blush so fiercely that it clashed with her hair. ‘Yes. Your aunt’s house is a rather confusing place, though you seem to know your way quite well.’
‘As you said—some times quiet is what a person needs.’ He stepped closer and Diana noticed his eyes were not entirely brown. They glowed with flecks of green and gold, like a primeval forest. Poor Lady S-T. ‘I suppose your mother must be looking for you, Miss Martin.’
The room suddenly felt much too warm, too close. Diana looked away, clutching her hands tightly in the folds of her skirt. ‘So she will. I hope—well, perhaps you needn’t mention you saw me here?’
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but he seemed unable to quite let it free. Diana wondered what would happen when he did smile. Probably his good looks then reached dangerous levels, so he had to keep it reined in. ‘I suppose I needn’t. But secrets can go both ways.’
Diana suddenly remembered why he was there—Lady Smythe-Tomas, past love affairs. She blushed even more. ‘I don’t know Lady Smythe-Tomas and have no desire to gossip about her.’
‘Thank you. It was an—unfortunate matter that was over a long time ago.’ His words were strong and steady, but he tugged at his tie a bit, as if he was embarrassed by any loss of control.
She could tell he was not a man accustomed to having to explain himself. He had a reputation for steadiness and discretion in his work and in his family. ‘I’m sure.’ She felt a sudden burst of courage and added, ‘You should be kind to her. She seemed very upset.’
He gave her a small, startled quirk of a smile. ‘I dare say she will soon get over it.’
Diana doubted it.
To her surprise, he held out his hand as if to shake hers, quite as if she was his peer and they were sealing a bargain. She rather liked that small gesture, as she was so tired of being dismissed as just a silly deb. She wanted to do a job and be taken seriously at it, just as he was.
She laid her gloved palm against his and for an instant, their fingers tightened around each other. His grasp was strong and gentle, warm, and she found she wanted to hold on to him just a bit longer. Just a bit closer. It was just like their first, fleeting meeting at Miss Grantley’s, she felt so flustered, so silly. She didn’t want to look away.
‘Thank you,’ he said, letting her go.
Diana nodded and turned towards the door. As she reached for the handle, she glanced back at Sir William to find he watched her. His face was mostly in shadow, his hands clasped behind him, and she couldn’t read his expression.
‘Perhaps you really are being a little unfair to her,’ she said impulsively. ‘She does seem to care for you.’
A frown flickered over his brow again. ‘Care for me? Miss Martin, I fear you mistake the situation.’
‘Do I? I am young and haven’t seen the world as you have, but I’m not entirely ignorant.’
His brow arched as if he was surprised. As if she had startled a reaction out of him. ‘I never supposed you were. You went to Miss Grantley’s school with my cousin, didn’t you? Alexandra says you are very clever.’
‘She’s a good friend. I was only clever in French and lawn tennis. But I do read a great deal and Lady Smythe-Tomas does seem—well, very fond of you.’
He laughed and it sounded rusty and sharp-edged, as if he hadn’t used that laugh in a long time. But it sounded so warm and soft, she wanted to hear it again. Make him laugh again.
So that was what Lady Smythe-Tomas saw. Diana could tell he was trouble.
‘Oh, Miss Martin. I suppose that is one way of putting it.’
‘Well,’ Diana said again. Her vocabulary seemed to have shrunk considerably in his presence. ‘Thank you. For not telling on me.’
She hurried through the door and let it close behind her. Only once she was safely away from the library did she let herself stop and take a deep breath of air, or at least as deep as her new corset would let her.
She closed her eyes, and saw him there, his rueful smile, his intriguing eyes. What an unusual man he was indeed. She could really see why even a sophisticate like Lady Smythe-Tomas would be so infatuated with him.
Chapter Two (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
What a very strange girl, William thought as he stared at the closed door of the library where Diana Martin had stood only a moment before. Her hurried patter of heeled shoes had faded, but he thought he could still smell the trace of her sweet lilac perfume, feel the satin of her glove on his palm.
He stared down at his hand, remembering the warmth of her touch, her slender fingers curled around his for the merest instant. He felt something he hadn’t felt in ages. An urge to laugh. For just a moment he had forgotten Laura, forgotten his work, forgotten everything but Miss Martin’s smile. He remembered her from his visit to Alex at Miss Grantley’s. She had been so sweet, a blush on her face, her words stammered a bit, a slightly gawky, charming schoolgirl. Now she seemed to have blossomed into an autumn goddess with her red hair, her bright eyes, her enthusiasm that seemed to make everything turn new again. At least in looks. When she talked, she became that awkward schoolgirl again and he feared for her in the ballroom jungles of London. The poor, sweet girl.
He only wished she hadn’t seen him at his very worst. His country-house party tryst with Laura seemed so long ago now, after India and all that had happened, a memory shrouded in wine and youthful passion. He had almost forgotten about it, until he saw her in the ballroom. To his surprise, she had begged to talk to him in private.
Much to his shock, she wanted to renew their old liaison. She was still beautiful, of course, maybe even more than she had been at that house party. Yet there was something strange about her, about the over-bright glow in her catlike eyes, her desperate grasp on his arm. He wanted to help her, but he knew very well he couldn’t go back to her. He was a much different man now.
The man he had been back then, younger and wilder, just starting his career, probably would have looked at someone like Diana Martin and seen a pretty but shallow deb. Indeed, he had thought that when he and Chris visited Alex at school.
He found he didn’t want to return to the crowd just yet. Didn’t want to lose the fleeting, bright, silly glow Miss Martin had left behind, as sweet and summery as her lilac perfume. He wandered over to the table where the newspapers were displayed and scanned the headlines about the Exposition.
William did see how an eager, enthusiastic young lady like Diana Martin would be fascinated by it all. The whole world gathered in beautiful Paris, the art and fashion, the food and theatre. He hoped she would get to see it.
Then he glimpsed a grainy photograph in one corner of the Mail. A tall, bearded man in a pale tunic and loose trousers, standing on the deck of a ship with three ladies in elaborate embroidered saris.
The Maharajah Singh Lep with his wives, boarding HMS Princess Augusta to make his way to the Paris Exposition, where he will visit the Indian Pavilion and see the wondrous sapphire, the Eastern Star. On display thanks to the generosity of the Duke of Waverton.
The Star was once worn by the Maharajah’s grandmother...
Singh Lep—who was no doubt trailing trouble in his wake, as he had in Bombay with his investment offers, his proffered and then withdrawn friendship. His grandmother had once ruled for him in his kingdom and had sold the Star to William’s uncle and then sold the kingdom. The man was understandably angry at what had happened. But did he blame his grandmother—or someone else?
And now he was going to be in Paris. The article said it was merely a pleasure trip and listed other dignitaries on their way to climb Eiffel’s tower and eat ices at his cafés—including the Prince and Princess of Wales. But William was sure there was more to it than that.
He stared out the window where Diana had been hidden and for a moment he didn’t see the rain-soaked London street. He saw the baking sun of India, smelled the spices and heady perfumes of a world he had left far behind. A world no one could even begin to fully understand.
The door suddenly opened, and William glanced over his shoulder, ready to send Laura away again if had she returned. Or maybe he was half-hoping it would be Miss Martin?
In any case, it was neither lady, but his brother who stood there. Will laughed at himself and folded the paper away.
‘Hello, Chris,’ he said. ‘Come to hide out here, too?’
Christopher grinned and closed the door behind him. ‘Our parents have arrived,’ he said and that was all that was needed to explain the fact that even Christopher, who rarely cracked a book if he could help it, would hide in a library. William had taken lodgings since returning to London, only taking a few dinners at his parents’ town house as he had done earlier that evening, but Chris still lived there, in that suffocating place that hadn’t changed a bit since they were boys.
‘Sorry about that. Mother must have changed her mind after all,’ William said.
‘She sent me to find you,’ Christopher said, carelessly scanning the paintings hung on the walls, a series of indifferent landscapes and a few really fine French pieces. ‘One of the footmen said you came this way.’
Will wondered if the footman had told Chris who he was in the library with. Perhaps his hope for no scandal was misplaced.
‘You visited Alex at school more than I did,’ he said. ‘Did you come to know Miss Diana Martin very well?’
Christopher looked at him with a surprised expression. ‘Di? She’s a corker. Lots of fun, but sensible. Our aunt thinks she’s been a good friend to Alex.’
Chris knew her well? William frowned as he wondered if his brother was fond of her, had designs on her. ‘You’re friends, then?’
Christopher shrugged and William felt unaccountably relieved to see no spark of passion in his brother’s eyes at the thought of her. Chris was always quite open about his interests and always had a beautiful woman to write poems to. ‘I suppose we are. I see her at these boring old bashes with Alex and their friend Emily Fortescue, and they make it all a little less dull.’ His bored expression suddenly changed, his eyes widening. ‘Why? The footman did say you came this way with a lady. I hope it wasn’t Miss Martin.’
‘No, I didn’t come here with Miss Martin. I saw her in the ballroom. She seems quite charming.’
‘Charming? I guess she is. Pretty, too.’ Chris stepped closer, as if he thought he could read Will’s mind. But Will had too much experience hiding his thoughts; his job depended on it. ‘Are you interested? You could certainly do worse and Mother’s matchmaking fever could go to you for a while.’
His brother’s avid expression was so comical William had to laugh. ‘Does she want you to marry so much, then?’ He had hoped that maybe his parents’ own wreck of a marriage would have cooled their mother’s ardour for matchmaking, but it seemed not. Maybe she wanted company in misery.
‘She begins to say that if I won’t go into law or join the army, an heiress is the only way to set me up in life.’
‘Maybe an American dollar princess?’
‘I don’t have a title or a crumbling ancient castle to offer a lady like that. And the ladies I do like...’ He suddenly turned away. ‘Well, Mother will just have to go on thinking I’m just a terrible wastrel who can’t even marry properly.’
‘She doesn’t know about your work?’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t be much use if anyone did know, would I? But you and Diana...’
‘I hate to disappoint, but I’m not in a position to marry now, either. We both saw the effect our father’s work had on his marriage. No one needs a repeat of that. I shall have to admire Miss Martin from a distance.’
Christopher spun a globe, watching its oceans and continents blur in front of them. ‘Better for her, I’m sure. I think Thursby is after her, but she doesn’t seem to like him much.’
William frowned. ‘Thursby?’ He certainly hoped not, not with what he had recently learned about the man.
Chris shrugged. ‘Then if it wasn’t Di in here earlier, who was it?’
‘Just a bit of unfinished business.’
‘Really?’ Chris’s golden brow arched. ‘You, Will? Whoever could have guessed there were such skeletons in your wardrobe. I suppose it’s finished now?’
‘Quite,’ William said shortly.
Chris seemed to realise he wouldn’t learn anything more and turned back to the door. ‘We should get back to the party, then, before our aunt sends a search party for both of us.’
William nodded, and started to follow. He noticed a small, pale square on the floor near the window. Curious, he picked it up. It was a leather-bound notebook, stamped with the gilt initials D.F.M. Diana Martin, maybe?
He flipped through the pages, glimpsing pencil sketches, mostly of hats and gowns, and snatches of words.
Champagne...pearls...peacock colours.
From the back, a small newspaper clipping fluttered out.
Writer wanted. Paris assignment. Must be fashionable and have a way with words. Portfolio preferred. Please apply to the Ladies’ Weekly offices.
Well, well. William remembered Diana saying how much she wanted to see Paris. Maybe she was doing something about it. How very modern of her.
He smiled and tucked the notebook inside his evening jacket. He would have to make sure it was returned to its owner. Very soon.
* * *
‘There you are, Di! Where did you go off to?’ Emily called as Diana slipped back into the ballroom.
She hoped she hadn’t been missed by anyone but her friends. She scanned the crowd and was quite relieved to see her mother still in her chair and Lord Thursby nowhere to be seen. Neither was Lady Smythe-Tomas.
She turned to smile at Emily, whose cheeks were pink from all her dancing. ‘Just needed a bit of air.’
‘Well, you didn’t miss much, except the fact that this ballroom has become even more of a crush and someone tore the ribbon on my hem with their clumsy dancing shoes. But no drunken fisticuffs or dramatic broken engagements yet.’
Diana laughed weakly and took an offered glass of liquid. She sipped a bit and winced in disappointment. Lemon squash, not champagne. ‘That sounds rather dull.’
‘Yes, but the dancing is lovely. I’ll say this for the Duchess—she always hires the best orchestras.’ Emily reached out and plucked something from Diana’s hair. She held it up; it was a shred of newsprint. ‘Where did you find this bit of air?’
Diana thought quickly. It was always best to be honest, even if it wasn’t all the way. ‘Oh—in the library. It was nice and quiet, and I was able to read a bit about Paris in the Duke’s newspapers.’
Emily leaned closer, her eyes wide. ‘Any word yet?’ she whispered. ‘From the magazine?’
Diana shook her head, feeling the sick excitement, fear and hope deep in the pit of her stomach that had sat there ever since she mailed off the letter of application. ‘I have an interview tomorrow with the editor. Isn’t it amazing?’
‘An interview?’ Emily clapped her hands in delight. She knew more about running a business than anyone Diana knew, male or female, after years of helping at her father’s offices. She took it all very seriously and had given Diana a great deal of advice ever since Di decided she was the best confidante. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home resting, then? You have to be sharp tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I know. But Mama would never have let me miss the Waverton ball and I’m much too nervous to sleep. I was hoping to get a bit of fashion news to add to my portfolio. I did write a bit, you see...’ She opened her reticule to take out the notebook to show Emily. To her shock, she found only a handkerchief and her discarded dance card. ‘Blast,’ she gasped, remembering dropping the bag.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve lost the notebook.’
‘What’s amiss?’ Alex asked as she appeared from the crowd and hurried to their side. She always did seem to sense the feelings of the people around her, especially if they were distressed, even from across the room.
‘Di lost her notebook,’ Emily said.
‘No!’ Alex cried. She and Emily knew all the bits and pieces in that book, so carefully gathered and recorded. They had even helped with much of it. ‘Here in the ballroom? But anyone could find it.’
Diana shook her head. ‘I had it in the library. I must have dropped it in there.’ In the library—with William. What if he found it? What would he think?
‘Diana! There you are at last,’ she heard her mother call. This time there was no evading her.
Diana forced a smile on to her lips and turned to see her mother making her way towards them. With her was Lord Thursby.
Diana had to admit he was handsome, with his fair hair pomaded to a shine, his stylish moustache and well-cut clothes. He smiled charmingly and was solicitous as he led her mother through the crowd. But she wished he would just—just go away!
Yet she knew very well there was no chance of that.
‘I will go look for it,’ Alexandra whispered. She and Emily vanished beyond the dance floor.
‘Diana,’ her mother demanded again, ‘where on earth have you been?’
‘I was just—dancing. We’re at a ball, you know, Mama,’ she said, trying to laugh carelessly. She fanned herself vigorously, wishing Lord Thursby was not watching her so closely.
‘Lord Thursby was looking for you. He says you promised him the supper dance,’ her mother said, reaching out to fuss with Diana’s tulle-edged sleeve. She drew away, wondering if she had newsprint caught there, too.
‘The supper dance?’ she said. That meant spending the midnight meal by his side. ‘Oh, Mama. I’m afraid my head rather aches and I was hoping we could go home soon.’
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Diana...’ she snapped.
But Lord Thursby intervened smoothly, smiling politely. ‘That is a vast disappointment for me, Miss Martin, but I would never wish to cause you a moment’s discomfort. Please, let me send for your carriage. I can also ask our hostess if she has a headache powder.’
‘That is kind of you, Lord Thursby,’ Diana said cautiously.
‘Indeed,’ her mother said. ‘Thank you.’
Lord Thursby bowed and hurried away. As he spoke quietly to the Duchess, Diana saw William and Chris come back into the room. For just an instant, before the crowd closed around them, she saw how much Sir William stood out from everyone around him, an island of watchfulness and dignity, so dark and handsome. Was this really the same man Lady Smythe-Tomas was so ardently chasing? Such intriguing contradictions.
He caught her eyes and gave her a small nod, making her feel suddenly flushed and fluttery. She spun around, waving her fan in front of her face.
Her mother grasped Diana’s arm, her fingers hard through her satin glove. ‘Mama,’ Diana gasped and yanked her arm back.
‘You should make a tiny bit of an effort, Diana,’ her mother said through a gritted-teeth smile. ‘He is quite nice, you know, with a fine future ahead of him.’
Diana rubbed at her arm. She glanced back to see if she could see Sir William again, but he was gone. ‘Mama, perhaps there are things I want to see before I’m married.’
‘What sort of things? You can see whatever you like, go wherever you like, after you’re married! Just as I did. What choice is there?’
Diana thought of men like her father, like William Blakely, travelling, doing their bit for their country, seeing the world. Making a difference. ‘I could be like Miss Bird, or Miss Butler. Travel, write. Do good works.’
Her mother snorted. ‘Such hoydens. That wouldn’t work for you, Diana. You have been well brought up. Did we not send you to the best school? Make sure you had the best friends? Now we only want to see you happily settled before we are old. Is that too much to ask?’
‘I want to be happy, too,’ Diana said, but her mother wasn’t listening. Lord Thursby had returned to tell them their carriage was on its way.
‘Oh, how kind you are,’ her mother said with a laugh. ‘So reassuring to have someone to rely on thus.’
‘It is the least I can do, Mrs Martin, for how kind with his advice your husband has been.’ Lord Thursby offered Diana his arm and she saw no choice but to take it. She held it lightly, trying to smile, as he led them to the staircase hall where a footman waited with their cloaks.
‘I hope you will be recovered enough for me to call on you tomorrow,’ Lord Thursby said.
Diana suddenly remembered her interview the next day. Nothing could be allowed to stop that! ‘Perhaps in the afternoon?’
‘The afternoon?’ he said. ‘Not the usual morning hour?’
‘Yes. I—I shall probably need to rest and recover my strength in the morning.’
He nodded solicitously. ‘Of course. I know how delicate you ladies can be after such a busy evening as this.’
‘How understanding you are, Lord Thursby,’ her mother chirped, practically pushing Diana out the door towards their waiting carriage. ‘We shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’
Just as they were leaving, a procession of carriages arrived behind them. From the grandest stepped a man unmistakable in his healthy girth and greying blond beard, a beautiful lady in an ivory satin and ostrich feather cloak on his arm. The Prince and Princess of Wales. Diana just hoped her mother did not see them and make them go back.
* * *
On the journey home, Diana knew her mother was chattering about Lord Thursby and his ‘gentlemanly behaviour’, and the splendours of the ball. But Diana only paid enough attention to nod and smile at the right moments. Her real thoughts were far away—with tomorrow’s interview, with plans to persuade her parents to let her go to Paris if she got the job. It would be a very delicate task.
And, she had to admit, her thoughts wouldn’t seem to leave William Blakely. How wonderful it had been in those few moments alone with him in the dimly lit library, so far away from everyone and everything else. How she wished she could have stayed there longer, listening to him talk! Those dark eyes watching her...
* * *
Once they were home, she managed to plead her headache and escape to her room. There she took out the portfolio she had managed to compile: sample essays about fashion, etiquette and bits of society gossip. Losing her notebook at such a moment was a consternation, but hopefully not a disaster. She could remember enough to reconstruct the evening’s observations and hopefully Alexandra would find the notebook itself.
She found another folder, stuffed full of old drawings and notes, and beneath a stack of flower studies was her old sketch of William Blakely at the lake behind Miss Grantley’s. His smile still glowed from the faded paper, the lines of his face still elegant, classical. He hadn’t changed so much after all, yet so many other things seemed to.
She took out another copy of the job listing and carefully read over the words.
Writer wanted. Paris assignment. Must be fashionable and have a way with words. Portfolio preferred. Please apply to the Ladies’ Weekly offices.
She closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Please let it happen,’ as she envisaged in her mind what it could all be like. Walking by the Seine, sipping wine at a café on the famous new tower, visiting Monsieur Worth’s studio itself.
But now, much to her shock, when she imagined dancing at the Moulin Galette, her partner wasn’t some faceless, dashing Frenchman. It was William Blakely, smiling down at her in the red and gold lights of the lanterns, spinning her through the night.
Which was most strange, for Sir William didn’t seem at all like a spinning sort of gentleman...
Chapter Three (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
Diana hurried down the pavement, clutching at the leather valise containing her sketches and the portfolio of ‘articles’ she had cobbled together to try to impress the magazine editor. She could barely hear the commotion of the London streets around her, the clatter of carriage and omnibus wheels, the shouts and cries and laughter, the shriek of the bobby’s whistle. All she could focus on was getting to her interview on time and what she would say when she got there.
She waited on a corner to cross the street, caught a glimpse of herself in a shopfront window and straightened her hat. She had dressed in the most stylish yet simple thing she owned, a tailored russet-red suit with leg-o’-mutton sleeves and narrow lapels, with a patent-leather yellow belt that matched the colour of her shirtwaist. Her felt hat was a matching red with a yellow-checked ribbon. She felt terribly crisp and efficient, which she hoped covered up her giddiness from not being able to sleep a wink after the ball.
If only she hadn’t lost her new notes about the fashions at the Waverton ball! She had stayed up until dawn writing new descriptions, but she worried they weren’t quite as vivid as they should be.
She also worried that William Blakely seemed to slip too much into her memories of the ball, always getting in the way of everything else! The dratted man. How had he come to be so—so distracting?
The crowd surged forward and Diana went with them as they flowed towards Trafalgar Square. The Ladies’ Weekly offices were there, and she felt her excitement flutter even higher as she glimpsed the stone tower of its office building. Everyone around her seemed intent on their own errands, all black suits and tailored dresses, leather cases and intent expressions.
The difference between that workaday crowd and the people at the Waverton ball was amazing. Diana felt at the same moment out of place and exactly where she belonged. It was most strange.
She rushed around the corner and nearly bumped into a man hurrying in the opposite direction. His bowler hat tumbled to the pavement.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ she cried and bent to retrieve the hat before it could roll into the street. He reached for it at the same time and they almost knocked each other to the ground. Diana’s own hat tilted over her eyes.
Flustered and embarrassed, she pushed it back and glanced up at the man, who was laughing. To her shock, she saw it was William Blakely, looking not at all dignified and solemn now. His hair, rumpled by the loss of his hat, waved over his brow in an unruly dark comma and she glimpsed a dimple—a dimple!—in his cheek as he laughed even harder.
‘Sir William,’ she gasped. ‘What a surprise. I do beg your pardon. Again.’
‘Good day, Miss Martin,’ he said, his laughter fading to a wry smile. ‘You are looking quite well this morning.’ He took her arm and helped her up, gently brushing the dust from her sleeve. She felt her cheeks turn warm under his gaze, his touch.
‘It was quite a lovely party last night,’ she said, feeling rather silly. A lovely party? After she had run into this man in the most ridiculous circumstances now—twice? ‘In the end.’
‘You’re up quite early. I see dancing ’til dawn couldn’t tire you.’ He gave her a teasing smile and there was that dimple again.
Diana laughed. She just couldn’t help it. ‘Well, I admit I do have an early appointment. I really should be on my way.’
‘Let me escort you, then.’
Escort her? Then she really never would think clearly at her interview! ‘That is kind, but I’m sure you must be getting to your own work.’ Then a terrible thought suddenly struck her, making some of the smiling glow fade. Maybe he was not on his way to work. Maybe he had a meeting, an assignation, with someone like Lady Smythe-Tomas.
His smile turned quizzical, as if he sensed her thoughts. ‘Indeed I should, but I’m glad to be delayed in such a delightful way. It gives me a chance to return this.’ He reached into his coat pocket and took out a small book.
‘My notebook!’ Diana cried. So that was where it had been. Had he found it when she dropped her reticule in the library? Had he read it? Even the silly gossipy bits? How ridiculous he must think her, then.
‘You seemed to have misplaced it last night. I meant to give it to Alexandra, but I’m afraid she was rather distracted by the Prince and Princess’s arrival. I’m glad I could return it to its rightful owner so quickly.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ she said again. Diana quickly replaced it in her valise. ‘I did wonder where it went.’
‘I shouldn’t keep you any longer. If you won’t let me escort you, perhaps I could give you a cup of tea after your errand? There’s a rather nice little teashop around the corner from here. To make up in small part for knocking you to the ground.’
Diana peeked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat, curious and excited and unsure all at the same time. She knew she shouldn’t, that her confused feelings towards him made him rather dangerous at such a moment in her life. But she found herself smiling and saying, ‘That sounds most pleasant. Thank you.’
After all, it was a day to be daring, to leap before she looked. What was a cup of tea after a job interview? A cup of tea with Sir William Blakely. After a job interview. Two things she would never have thought she could ever do.
He smiled, though there was no dimple that time. Diana felt a pang of disappointment. ‘Excellent, Miss Martin. Here is my card. My office is just on the next street, you can see it from here,’ he said, indicating a quiet, discreet Georgian mansion, all elegant red brick and white stone, plain except for the bright flag above the doorway. ‘Just call on the receptionist in the hall when you’ve finished your errand.’
‘I will.’
His gaze flickered behind her, a small frown creasing his brow. ‘Is your maid with you?’
‘I...’ Diana made herself laugh. A maid would have been in the way at the magazine—and would run right back to her parents with the tale before she could decide how to frame it all. She hadn’t been thinking of what would happen if she met an acquaintance, especially not Sir William. ‘No, not today. It is nearly the twentieth century, Sir William! We must step into the modern era some time.’
He smiled wryly and placed his hat back on his head. Diana rather missed his glossy dark hair, that wonderful air of informality. ‘Indeed. Good luck on your errand, Miss Martin. I do hope to see you later.’
She nodded and he tipped his hat as he took his leave. She watched him walk towards his office, his stride strong and confident though not at all showy.
What a strange man, she thought. So hard to read. Strange, and—and quite wonderful, too. A puzzle. And she did like puzzles.
But she couldn’t worry about Sir William at the moment. She had a task to complete, one she had been waiting to do for ever, it seemed. She squared her shoulders and marched ahead, clutching her valise in both hands, trying not to knock anyone else down in her path.
She did wonder, though, if he had read the notebook. If so, what had he thought? She wavered between wanting his advice on her work and being rather blush-faced to think he had seen her scribbles. Did he think her frivolous for such detailed descriptions of gowns and party arrangements? Maybe he wouldn’t, if he knew what she was really doing with them.
The offices of Ladies’ Weekly was on the third floor of a rather nondescript but solid building, in a corner tower. She made her way past rows of young women at typewriters and stacks of papers and photos waiting to be made into articles. The click of the typewriters blended with shouts and cries, and the warm air smelled of newsprint and coffee. It was unlike anything Diana had ever seen before, entirely different from the flower-scented hush of her parents’ house, and it was utterly thrilling.
She was led to a small corner office, where a bewhiskered, harried-looking man sat behind a cluttered desk, dictating to an equally harried-looking lady in spectacles and a pink-striped shirtwaist.
‘Ah, so this is the Paris girl!’ the man shouted. ‘Not before time, I’ll say. Come in, come in.’
‘I...’ Confused, Diana glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I thought my appointment was at ten?’
The woman chuckled. ‘You are quite punctual, Miss Martin. He means on time for Paris. Our last correspondent there decided to get married instead of going to the Exposition and has rather left us in the lurch. We need a replacement right away.’
‘You’re not engaged, are you?’ he barked.
‘I—no,’ Diana murmured, thinking of Lord Thursby. And of Sir William.
‘It would mean you would be in charge of the coverage rather than assisting,’ the woman said. ‘We do have such a small staff. I hope that would not be a problem?’
Diana swallowed hard. She had never written professionally before, but she had wanted this so much for so long. Surely she could do it. ‘Of course not.’
‘The Lady and the Mail are already there, curse them,’ the man said, shoving a stack of papers on to the floor. ‘We need to scoop them and soon! You look like a young lady who knows the fashions of Paris.’
‘I do have lots of ideas for articles,’ Diana said quickly, digging out her portfolio from her valise. ‘The new sporting clothes, for tennis and bicycling. Worth and Doucet...’
‘But do you have connections?’ he demanded. ‘That’s the question. Can you get into all those fancy parties in Paris? Give our readers the inside look?’
‘I...’ she began. Of course she could. Couldn’t she? After all, as her mother said, she had gone to the best school, made the best friends. Surely she knew how to get what she wanted, no matter what her parents said.
‘What he means is—can you tell our readers things no one else can know? Describe gowns no one else has yet seen, things like that?’ the woman said.
‘I do have an invitation to the opening of the new Gordston’s Department Store on the Champs-Élysées,’ Diana said. It was actually Alexandra’s invitation, but her friend had passed it on, too shy to face it. Malcolm Gordston was a dashing celebrity, handsome beyond words they said, a man who had risen from poverty in Scotland to the height of elegant riches because he knew how to give the stylish world what it craved. ‘And I know how to get to the very top level of Monsieur Eiffel’s tower for a moment all alone. Only a very select few are allowed there, you know.’
The man and woman exchanged a long glance. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You’re hired, Miss Martin. Can you start next week?’
Diana quickly accepted and floated out of the building on such a glittering cloud she hardly knew how her feet carried her down the street. The crowd on the pavement swirled past, buffeting her on all sides, yet she barely noticed them.
She was going to Paris. She was going to write. Never mind that she now had to persuade her parents. She had a job.
She walked a few more steps and glanced around. The crowd was the same as it had been earlier, a hurrying, sombre group in dark suits, not paying her any more attention than the stone lions on the square. She wanted to dance, to twirl, to shout out her excitement. But everyone else had their own work to get to and it was still too early to call on Emily or Alexandra, even though she would have dearly loved their advice. She needed someone to tell, someone to give her sensible words about her situation.
She suddenly remembered William Blakely. He had asked her to tea! When they first met, his seriousness, his quiet watchfulness, had made her feel uncertain, too girlish, too giggly. But then she had seen that other side to him, that flash of humour, those hidden depths. Maybe someone like that was just what she needed right now?
And she would get to see him again.
She turned the corner towards that elegant Georgian mansion, and hurried up the stone steps before she could change her mind and run away. It did seem like a day for bold moves. She had a job now! Surely a cup of tea with William Blakely would be only one more daring step?
She pushed open the door and found herself in another new world. This one was completely different from the crowded, ever-moving river of the street, or the bustle and dust of the magazine. The hall was all cool marble and hush, portraits of stern old men staring down at her from the azure-painted walls, potted palms looming tall in the corners.
What was it exactly William did in that place? she wondered. She knew he had something to do with diplomacy and that he had just returned from India. Maybe the building was an outpost of the India Office her father had once worked for?
She glanced back over her shoulder, uncertain. But he had invited her. And she found she really did want to see him again, tell him her news and hear what he thought about it all. How very odd; he was really a stranger to her, yet she was quite eager to see that smile of his again.
She nodded resolutely and marched up to the only living being in that silent hall, a young man with pomaded hair and spectacles in an old-fashioned black suit, who sat behind a dark oak desk. He glanced up from the papers he was sorting, a frown on his face.
‘May I help you, Miss...?’
‘Miss Martin,’ she answered with a smile and far more confidence than she felt. After all, she would have to learn to march in and take what she needed now, or she would never get the articles she wanted for the magazine.
‘I am here to see Sir William Blakely,’ she said calmly, adjusting her gloves as if she did this sort of thing every day. ‘He is expecting me for tea.’
The young man stared at her for a long moment, his face growing redder, but she just kept smiling. Finally, he gulped and nodded. ‘If you will just wait here, Miss—Miss Martin,’ he said and hurried away up a curving staircase.
Well, Diana thought, that seemed to do the trick. She studied the hall a little closer and saw that between the portraits were decorations that looked like framed medals. Above her head were banners and swords. She wondered what it all meant.
After her flush of new confidence, she suddenly felt nervous again. What if he had just been being polite to invite her to tea? What if she was interrupting him in something terribly important?
But she had no time to leave. As she made to move away, she heard William call, ‘Miss Martin. I’m so glad you decided to call on us.’
She turned to see him coming down the stairs. He had tidied up after their meeting on the street, his dark hair smooth and shining again, his tie straight, all cool and businesslike. Yet there was that tiny flash of a dimple.
‘Sir William,’ she answered with a bright smile. ‘So am I!’
Chapter Four (#ua095c512-db95-53a6-ab0c-6f3210779fd0)
‘I’m afraid we are in something of a quandary, Sir William,’ said Lord Ellersmere, the head of William’s division of the Foreign Office, an hour before he expected Diana Martin to reappear. Lord Ellersmere placed his fingertips against his flowing white moustache and nodded solemnly. ‘Indeed we are.’
William turned his attention away from the window and the brightening day outside, abashed to realise he was thinking of Diana, of how flustered she looked on the pavement, and not on the task at hand. ‘I thought the Paris arrangements were all in place.’
‘So did we,’ Lord Ellersmere said with a gruff laugh. ‘But you know the Prince. Always changing his mind, dashing off to some spa town or another. He gives this office a headache like no other. But we must do as we must.’
‘Because he will one day be our King?’
Lord Ellersmere sighed. ‘May that day be a long one away.’
‘And he has changed the Paris arrangements again?’
‘So it seems. We thought the Queen had persuaded him not to go until the autumn, but he has heard too much about all the excitement and has decided that he must see it for himself directly after the opening.’
‘But that’s only in a week’s time! We would need to arrange for some reconnaissance first.’
‘No time for that. H.R.H. says he and the Princess are only going unofficially, for two or three days at the most. They want to go up on the tower and he says the Princess has a yearning to see the Indian jewels. Yet, of course, unofficial only means we must find a way to be invisible and still make sure all the royal niceties are attended to. You are the very best at that sort of thing. Our Bertie likes you. And you know exactly what to watch out for.’
William nodded solemnly. That had indeed been his job in India. Who would have known he would find himself in the same spot at home so soon? If only it all ended in a better state. That was his most important task now. ‘I saw in the papers that Maharajah Singh Lep is also on his way to Paris. Does that have something to do with the need to see the Indian jewels?’
Lord Ellersmere’s gaze sharpened. ‘Yes, I have heard that, as well. We could hope his ship is delayed and he misses the Wales party—and the Wavertons. I understand they will be there, too.’
‘Does the Duke still want to display the Star at the Indian Pavilion?’
‘The Duke says he is merely the steward of the jewel and it must be shown to the world. But I hear whispers the Wavertons aren’t as flush as they would seem.’
William frowned. He had not heard that about his aunt and her husband, who had always been one of the wealthiest ducal couples, always entertaining lavishly. Was that no longer true? Where had Chris heard about that ridiculous Indian investment scheme of Thursby’s? Could it be something their uncle was trying, as well? Waverton had always been fascinated by India. If he could couple that with a way to make money quickly...
‘And is Singh still unhappy at the sale of the jewel?’ William said.
Lord Ellersmere shrugged. ‘Who can say? The man is certainly still wealthy enough. But who wouldn’t be unhappy about it all?’
‘I heard something to the effect that there was an Indian investment scheme floating about in the clubs.’
‘A scheme?’
‘I don’t know the details yet. Probably mining or something of the sort. Silks and gold always seem to be in vogue.’
‘Do you think the Prince has heard of it all? Could that be behind the mania to get to Paris soon?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. Bertie seems to enjoy these little schemes as well as the next man.’
‘Indeed. It wouldn’t be the first time. Her Majesty wouldn’t be happy to hear it.’ Lord Ellersmere sat back in his chair, looking suddenly weary. William understood the feeling. The job of ‘keeping an eye’ on the Prince was a constant one. ‘Then an even closer eye must be kept on the Prince for now. He is always susceptible to such romantic ideas.’
There was a knock at the office door and a secretary peeked inside past gleaming spectacles. ‘I do beg your pardon, Lord Ellersmere, but Sir William has a caller.’
‘A caller?’ William asked. He was not aware of any appointments. But—could it possibly be Diana? His weariness suddenly faded.
The secretary gave a pinched frown. ‘Yes. It’s—it’s a lady. A rather well-dressed one. She says you invited her to tea.’
Yes, it must be Diana. ‘Tell her I will join her in a moment.’
As he left, Lord Ellersmere looked on with bright interest. Anything new or different in their office was a cause of great curiosity, which Will suddenly realised he should have remembered. So much for diplomacy. All his caution seemed to fly out the door when faced with red hair and lively, chocolate-coloured eyes.
‘A lady?’ Lord Ellersmere said.
‘Miss Martin. An old school friend of my cousin Lady Alexandra. I saw her this morning and asked her to tea.’ The funniest thing that had ever hit him on the street at such an early hour, surely.
‘Martin? A good family. Her father was on the India station once. A good wife, you know, Sir William, can be priceless in our work.’
‘I have no thought of marrying soon, Lord Ellersmere,’ he said quickly, trying to cut off any gossip in the bud. Not that Ellersmere, or his priceless wife, were gossips. No one would last long in their office if they were. But he had found that men as well as ladies could be great matchmakers. He couldn’t tell them he intended never to repeat his own parents’ mistakes. Never to burden a woman with his work. ‘Our task is an urgent one, after all, and surely secret.’
Lord Ellersmere laughed. ‘Too true, my good fellow. But you will need a proper house soon if you want to move ahead and a wife to run it for you.’
William nodded. He knew that was true. But surely Diana Martin had plans of her own. She didn’t seem the sort to run a house and sit around waiting for a husband to get back from his ‘club’. She was too bumbling, too plunge-ahead-no-matter-the-cost. She needed looking after.
Though, that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy her intriguing company for a cup of tea.
He made his way downstairs and found Diana studying the paintings on the hall wall. She really had grown up since they had met at Miss Grantley’s school, he thought, turned into an elegant lady, all glowing happiness. A few of the young secretaries had gathered to gawk at her over the banisters, but she didn’t appear to take any notice. Her thoughts were unreadable as she looked at the paintings.
‘Miss Martin,’ he called. ‘I’m so glad you decided to call on us.’
‘Oh, Sir William,’ she said as she turned to greet him. ‘I do hope this isn’t an inconvenient time. I just—well, I don’t quite want to go home and your office was so near.’
She smiled again and it was as if a ray of sunshine had suddenly pierced the solemn hush of the office. Her cheeks were glowing pink, tendrils of her red-gold hair escaping from beneath her hat, and he felt the energy flow through him from just looking at her. It was—unusual. Amazing, really.
‘Not at all, I’m glad you decided to come,’ he said, taking her arm. She smelled of those summertime lilacs, soft and sweet. Lord Ellersmere’s words, that a man needed a wife, flashed through his mind and made him laugh. He had the feeling that Diana’s sort of wife wasn’t quite what the man had in mind. ‘I was just thinking a cup of tea sounds just the thing.’
He took his hat from the hovering, curious secretary and led Diana out into the pale light of the day. The crowd on the street closed around them, noisy and bustling, always in a hurry, but he was sure she was the only one really there.
She glanced over her shoulder as the heavy door closed behind them. ‘It seems like a terribly important place. That sort of quiet doesn’t come cheaply and my father always says the calmest places are the ones where the most is happening.’
William laughed. That was another thing he found he liked about Diana Martin—her frankness. No one else talked like her. ‘I suppose it doesn’t. Come cheap, that is.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘Oh, a bit of letter writing, a bit of filing. Not much since I got back from India.’ He thought of the Prince of Wales and his always-shifting plans, of his aunt and uncle, and the Maharajah. ‘Nothing exciting.’
‘I don’t think I believe you. You’ve been all the way to India for your work, haven’t you? All sorts of interesting and important places.’
‘Even interesting places can be dull if you stay there long enough.’
‘Can they? I’m not sure I believe you about that, either, though I think I would like to try. Surely if you’re bored in Calcutta or Cairo, you can find an elephant to ride at the very least.’
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Amanda McCabe
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A secret shared…But can she trust him?In this Debutantes in Paris story, Diana Martin is thrilled be a writer covering the Parisian Exposition. Her new role must be kept quiet—her parents would never allow it! When enigmatic Sir William Blakely discovers her ruse, he knows it could lead her into danger. With the sparks igniting between them, William realises the only way to protect Diana is by staying as close to her as possible!