Chapter Six

The week went on, Augusta fielding questions about Delphi. They rose early to break their fast and took dinners in their room to cater to her sister's megrim, the distressing and detestable lie twisting cruelly in Augusta's stomach. Lying to their parents was wrong, but what else could she do? She'd promised to keep Delphi's secret as long as her health continued to improve. Making good use of this time, they plotted and schemed, narrowing the list down further.

It wasn't easy. They'd never kept anything from Mama before. Rather, their mother was the one they usually turned to for advice.

Augusta thumped volume two of the book she'd been reading—Evelina—unable to concentrate on the humorous study of the 18th century woman who navigated Society. How did one laugh when they found themselves in the same position as the heroine, struck between sensibility and romanticism, and wondering if they'd ever earn the affections of a distinguished man offering true love?

Frustrated by her own disappointments, she sighed and left her chair, disheartened that something as pure and simple as reading a book seemed an impossible task. She glanced around the library, her gaze settling on Papa's dark mahogany desk holding court at the opposite end of the room. Though he was not in residence, his undeniable presence loomed large in everything around her. Unopened post, a ledger, quill and ink, and a stack of books neatly situated on his desk awaited his return. Ancient sculptures he'd helped unearth in Rome adorned pedestals, bookcases, and end tables. Trinkets of adventure and assessment. Reproductions of people immortalized in stone also adorned other areas of the house, figures like Caesar Augustus, Herakles, and fragmented pediments from temples in various excavations.

This was her world, a world built on diverse cultures from Italy, Greece, and Egypt. Papa and her uncle had worked diligently to protect historical works, many discovered half-buried or laying in ruins. Cherished pieces of stone, art, and lost ancient languages fueled their dedication to bringing the past to Britain. Lord Boothe's rumors. The kiss in Vauxhall. Gossip in The Morning Post put all of that in jeopardy, drawing attention away from their worthwhile deeds and subjecting the British Museum to needless scrutiny.

Was it safe to place all her hopes on a list contrived by the famous matchmaker of Whitehall?

Quin grumbled beneathhis breath. A week had passed since his visit with Bess, and his patience was at an end as he arrived at Number 100 Piccadilly for Lady Claremont's ball. Expectancy, unlike any he had ever known, flowed through him. He loathed balls. The crush. The cacophony of voices vying drowning out the stringed quartet. Forced conversation about the weather, war, and every topic ad nauseum.

Time wasted. A nonsensical bore.

The tiger opened the door and dropped the steps. Quin thanked the man and stepped onto the street. There, he absorbed the structured chaos before the large manse.

Carriages clattered back and forth down the cobblestone drive. Horses whinnied, tossing their manes to and fro. Disembarking guests arrived, rife with expectation. Males settled intricately-patterned shawls around their female counterparts, then plopped tall hats on their heads. It was an intimidating scene, especially since his other forays into Society had failed and they stood on ground formally inhabited by the likes of Sir Walter Scott, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Sir William Hamilton, Lord Byron, and the Duke of Queensberry.

He was not their equal, and therein lay the rub.

"Prendergast."

Busy brooding, he'd forgotten about his rendezvous with Grey. He clicked his heels together and bowed his head. "Lord Grey."

"I am happy to see that you accepted your cousin's advice, sir."

"I almost changed my mind." Despite his inner turmoil, he trusted Bess's intuition. "But she has never failed me before."

Grey nodded. "Come. Let me show you the way. Perhaps the people you meet will not be as disappointing as those you have met before."

If the men he met tonight were modeled after Grey, that would be encouraging because Lord Grey was a fine example of decency and determination. Transformed by black formal attire and a perfectly tied cravat, his broad grin buoyed Quin's spirits. Especially since he'd already decided that if introductions to the Misses Steere did not bear fruit, he would return to Sevenoaks empty-handed.

He clenched his jaw, reluctant to ask the question weighing on his mind. "Will they be here?"

"Yes." A mischievous gleam sharpened Grey's eyes. He stretched out his hand, the adoption of the northern habit quite shocking to see. "You have many friends here, Prendergast."

"That remains to be seen." He reciprocated, giving the man's hand a firm shake. "I know where I stand. I am a millstone to the ton, nothing more."

"Don't bet on it."

He regarded Grey soberly. "I never bet on a losing hand."

"In that score, we are similar."

The amiable moment ended abruptly when Grey turned to escort Quin into Lord and Lady Claremont's home. A large footman accepted them without preamble, and they swiftly moved indoors. There, candles illuminated the atrium, casting an illustrious glow over the house and the people within. Sprays of fresh flowers embellished the space, the fragrance and the crush a suffocating mix as they ascended the stairs to the first floor where their host and hostess welcomed guests.

Quin continued to follow Grey like a lamb led to slaughter amid crescendoing music and clucking gossips. Society denied men like him privileges like these, even after he'd risen to the attention of Threadneedle Street. The haute ton was constrictive and close-knit, as alien to him as understanding women, leaving no room for fantasy. The marriage mart, where innocents were sold like chattel, where dynasties were created and destroyed, represented an inescapable irony. Without this phenomenon, no highborn man or woman, devoid of scandal, stood a chance of conquering the sphere known as the upper crust.

Setting his prejudices aside, he contemplated these lofty men with their studied airs. Several clustered together, winded and woeful, scarcely acknowledging that anyone else—other than themselves—existed. Grey broke through their complex cordons, penetrating each refuge, introducing Quin and taking the time to laud his financial prowess. Still, he could not pierce the veil. Conversations glossed over politics and the weather, the entire experience making Quin uncomfortable.

Aristotle understood. ‘Dignity does not consist in possessing honors, but in deserving them.'

"Prendergast," Grey confided, "has invested in George Stephenson's locomotive, an upgraded version of Trevithick's patented high-pressured engine, lighter, more efficient and compact than James Watt's."

"The smoking devil in Camborne?" Lord Claremont asked to Quin's absolute surprise. "I had a thought or two about joining the steam circus."

Common ground, at last."The mining industry will innovate how we travel from one place to the next," he said, happily distributing information he'd got from the industry. "I've also invested in Trevithick's Cornish boiler and threshing machines and predict they'll do nicely."

"Is that so?" a politician he could not name asked, sarcasm lacing his tone.

"Yes," he added without missing a beat. "Steam engines are pumping water out of silver mines in Peru. We expect the machines to be available for rail use in the next five-six years."

Another sharp-dressed man spoke up. "A railway?"

"Industrialization will soon be upon us, gentlemen," Grey said. "I bid you to take Prendergast's advice and buy in." Giving Quin a nod, Grey tilted his head, intoning they should move on. "Now, if you will excuse us. I see someone I would like to introduce Prendergast to."

Following Grey's lead, he bowed his head but, ever in the mood to help men achieve greatness, he hesitated a moment longer to offer another bit of advice. "Trevithick can and will provide more information on the subject if you are interested, gentlemen. You can find his direction at Threadneedle Street."

He turned to face the crush, expecting to follow Grey, but realized too late that he'd lost sight of the man. Bollocks! Standing a tad bit taller and proud of himself for not cowering before his betters, he circled the edge of the dance floor in search of the great man.

Couples danced the waltz, their agile feet stepping in time over artfully chalked motifs painstakingly drawn on the floorboards, a project that must have taken hours, if not days, to design. The height of attention had been given every detail in the ballroom. Chandeliers gleamed. Wall sconces glistened. Beeswax candles and hot-house flowers competed with the scents of sugary centerpieces adorning the refreshment tables.

Quite the extravagance.

Not to be outdone, glorious creatures swept by, hairpieces, earbobs, and fine jewels dangling into heaven-sent bosoms. Footmen carried champagne, darting in and out of guests whose cheerful countenances barely reached the eyes.

Aristotle understood this menagerie. ‘Happiness does not consist in amusement.'

Even miserable Jaques in Act II of Shakespeare's As You Like It appreciated the irony, saying in his Seven Ages of Man speech, ‘All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.'

Life in Town was a series of performances. The world spun. People sowed, reaped, or destroyed crops. Families starved. Wars started and ended. Veterans returned—Cousin Bess offering weary militia a good deal of employment. Countries diverted finances. Railways were the future, connecting villages and cities, and opening opportunities previously withheld from the average man. The future of Britain—industrialization—required self-discipline and gravity, the type of effort few at Lady Claremont's ball found diverting.

Searching the ballroom for Grey, he noticed a group of ladies fanning their heated faces. Bollocks! Was every man in existence to be subjected to disapproving females every time he stepped out of doors?

Sounds of laughter and revelry ambushed his musings as a new set began. He borrowed the wall for support, contemplating the differences between the city and the country, longing for Kent, the High Weald, and the North Downs, as he searched for Grey. Where had the man got off to?

The waltz ended, and two by two, dancers broke free, parting the ballroom floor.

And where were the Misses Steere? His patience was nearing an end.

Twins were an unusual phenomenon, completely foreign to him. He wasn't sure what he would say or how he would react when he spotted the Misses Steere, especially since an old wives' tale suggested birthing two babies tied to witchcraft. As a modern man, he set archaic ideas of witches, sorcery, and magic out of his mind.

Men create their own fates.

Trust Bess.

He always had. He always would.

Cursing his impatience, he wondered whether he'd lost his mind by agreeing to attend Lady Claremont's ball. So far it had been a complete failure. And this after Bess and Grey had assured him everything would go smoothly.

As dancers switched partners on the ballroom floor, Bess's acerbic wit rang prophetically in his ears.

"Your situation is not unusual, Quin. And you are not the first man since the dawn of time in need of a woman's help. As you know, since I took over the Lyon's Den, I have had the pleasure of matchmaking many marriages for theton, most of which reach happy ends. I assure you that my attention to detail will prove satisfactory to your extraordinary circumstances."

Soaking up every word she'd said, he doubted adding his name to a list of prospective suitors was the answer. "Won't my lack of pedigree disqualify me?"

She'd assured him that wouldn't be the case. "Leave that to me."

"A viscount's daughter does not marry down,"he'd reminded her. In fact, none of the maidens dancing at Lady Claremont's ball would entertain such an idea. A man did not have to be humiliated before all and sundry or bashed on the head to understand that blatant truth. "The idea is to marry up."

Bess had smiled then, her cheery countenance contagious. "I assure you, Quin, marrying the eldest of the twins, Miss Augusta Steere, will be ‘marrying up.'"

Augusta.A royal name suggesting power and divinity, imperial goddesses and empresses of fertility, qualities reflected in the eyes of his lady of the Serpentine. "Put her out of your mind, fool."

"Are you ready, Quin?"Bess had asked as she scrawled his name at the end of a very long list of prospective suitors. "If you're not... If you are having second thoughts—"

"No,"he'd said, firmly determined. "I am decided. When can I meet her?"

"At Lady Claremont's ball."

But what if Bess had overestimated her influence? What if the Misses Steere did not attend?

There was no way to know.

"She will be there. I assure you."

It was a gamble he was going to have to take. Hoyle's Game had taught him there was great danger in forcing a hand. Reason suggested matchmaking was a gamble that depended on a critical case to win an odd trick between a voluntary and forced lead.

A risk-taker weak in trumps had to be cautious.

So, the question remained.

Was he going to have the opportunity to play his ace?