18. The Ball

Chapter eighteen

The Ball

G yles had a strong premonition that tonight would be full of disappointment.

Penelope Trafford's long-awaited ball was finally coming to fruition. With Mrs. Audeley's careful planning, Lord Kendall had secured the most skilled musicians, the most festive decorations, and the most elegant guests that money could buy. His mother's efforts to launch their friend credibly into society would doubtless be a success. But Gyles was well-aware that the one person he wished to see would not be attending.

From the moment he had seen her standing apart from the rest in her dove-grey dress, Gyles knew that Miss Lymington was a flower that he must see bloom. She lingered in his memory, the Platonic form of ideal beauty that he had met in a garden, long ago. Except this Platonic form was very much flesh and blood—he had felt her body tremble beneath his hands when he reached out to steady her in the bookshop. He wished he could have held her longer and that Penny had not chosen that moment to interrupt.

There was a combination of qualities in Miss Lymington that he had never seen in another woman. She was statuesque, serious, incisive, intelligent, and sparkling as the rarest ruby in an undiscovered mine. If only he could convince her to hold more than thirty seconds' conference with him! But she was discreet as a damask rose, and regardless of how Gyles tried to draw her out, she kept her own counsel, thorns out and sepals furled.

He had no pretensions to his own position in society. He might be a gentleman, but he was of modest means. It would surprise no one should he marry a vicar's daughter, or a village wallflower, or a governess from Yorkshire. But Miss Lymington, despite her position in Lord Kendall's household, was none of these things. Even if she were not the missing Incomparable, Gyles was positive that Miss Lymington had not been born to be a governess. She was someone who belonged in the courtyard of Carlton House, not someone who had climbed a wall to get there.

And yet, a walled garden was a very apt metaphor for Miss Lymington. Over the past few weeks, the governess' young charges had begged her to accompany them to the theatre or the other sights about town, but other than the one outing to Hatchard's, Miss Lymington was adamant that such was not her place. She would keep to the four walls of Kendall House, and she would not venture out into Grosvenor Square. Just yesterday, Gyles had overheard Ginny and Milly beg her to let them go downstairs tonight to watch a bit of the ball in their sister's honour, but Miss Lymington's edict stood firm—they would remain in the schoolroom and go to bed early .

Gyles arrived at the ball with his mother and received confirmation of his disappointment. Dark-haired Penelope and her uncle Lord Kendall beamed at them in the reception line, but there was no glimpse of the honey-coloured tresses that he most wished to see.

Viscount Landsdowne, the winner of the fencing match at Angelo's, led Penny out for the first dance, and Gyles found some nondescript creature to lead out onto the floor as well. Gyles danced the second set with Penny and then added his name to the last spare space on her dance card. He would do his duty to ensure that the debutante had her place in the sun even if the ballroom were as dull as a garden shovel for him.

The ball dragged on interminably. He danced with a few shy wallflowers and exchanged words with the handful of young bucks whom he had met in town. Mr. Tavinstock observed that Miss Trafford was fortunate that the Incomparable from last season had disappeared from the public eye, making Penelope, by far, the prettiest girl in the room. "Having never clapped eyes on last season's Incomparable," said Gyles, self-consciously, "I have no point of comparison."

"'Pon rep! She was a goddess," said another fellow whom Mr. Tavinstock introduced as Horatio Smythe. The tall, lanky fellow took a sip of his beverage. "Prime as punch. Made her an offer, but her uncle turned me down." He cocked his head and waved a long arm. "And so did she, come to think of it. But that was before I received my appointment from the Crown." He leaned in confidentially. "Diplomatic business. Adds an air of mystery. Ladies can't resist it."

"What's this, Smythe?" asked Tavinstock. "Are you part of our foreign service now? Going to Russia? France? "

"Confidential," said Mr. Smythe. He tapped his nose. "Sure I can trust you gentlemen to keep it quiet."

"Of course," said Gyles with a polite nod. He was not sure that it was in the Crown's best interest to entrust confidential information to Mr. Smythe if a little ballroom punch could loosen his tongue. "Mum's the word."

"The Crown's looking for a few more gentlemen eager to serve," said Mr. Smythe. His eyes came into sharper focus as he looked from Tavinstock to Gyles. "What about it, Gerrold?"

"Oh, not for me," demurred Tavinstock. "Not clever enough by half."

"Ha! Said as much myself," said Mr. Smythe, lapsing into inane laughter once again.

Deserting the bachelors' corner of the ballroom, Gyles looked around the room for the hundredth time, only to be met with another stab of disappointment. He walked past Solomon Digby, that lecherous old fellow he had seen at the park and at Angelo's. There was something rotten about that fellow, and it was not only his breath. He found it strange that Lord Kendall would invite the man, but then, Lord Kendall must be unaware that Miss Lymington could be the very lady Mr. Digby sought.

Eventually, overwhelmed by the swirling music, the incessant conversation, and the glow from the hundreds of candles in the ballroom, he stepped outside into the back courtyard to get a breath of air. Even in such a premier location as Grosvenor Square, the faint stench from the Thames assailed the nostrils. He missed the loamy smell of Derbyshire. He missed his garden of three hundred fifty-four rose bushes in forty-six different varieties.

Wandering over to the corner of the courtyard, he found the one rosebush that he brought to London with him, the Sweet-Scented China Rose that had likely lost its chance to bloom this year for the first time. Reaching out, he stroked the soft sepals of a stunted bud. Could any flower thrive in soil so different from that in which it had been reared? Could a Derbyshire transplant truly bloom in the high society of London?

"Gyles," said a deep voice. Gyles turned back to see Lord Kendall framed by the lit door leading back into the house. "Your mother was feeling ill and went home with the Haverstalls. She asked me to tell you."

"Thank you," said Gyles, curious but not unduly alarmed. His mother had never been a robust woman, and she was sometimes laid low with headaches. He would have returned home too had he not one further duty still to be performed for Miss Trafford. "The ball is a great success, my lord," he said politely.

"I'm glad you think so," said Lord Kendall hoarsely. Gyles cocked his head and stared at him—there was a strained look about the earl's face that he did not remember ever seeing before, but it was not his place to ask questions.

They both returned to the ballroom, and Gyles counted down the minutes until the last dance began and he could fulfil his obligations to Miss Trafford.

"Wasn't this the most glorious evening?" asked Penelope, her little feet still floating like gossamer on the breeze even though the midnight hour had come and gone. Clearly, the exhaustion that had overtaken her elders was far from dulling her spirits.

"It was very fine." Gyles realised how insipid his words were the moment they came out, but Penelope was too in alt to notice. He pasted on a pleasant smile and tried to match her enthusiasm for the dance, but his thoughts kept wandering out of the ballroom and up the stairs. Was Miss Lymington listening wistfully to the strains of music below? Or had she fallen asleep in her attic room?

Following the last song, Lord Kendall seemed very keen to see the back of his guests. He shook hands and said farewells until only Gyles, Penelope, and an army of footmen were left. Gyles' mother had arranged for a bevy of temporary help to supplement the footmen who normally frequented the Kendall foyer, and they set to work clearing glasses, tidying tables, and putting away chairs.

Gyles walked out to the entryway and retrieved his hat. The evening was over, and he had never caught the barest glimpse of Miss Lymington. He knew he was behaving like a lovesick puppy, but he did not care. There were some women in the world worth making a cake of oneself—Helen of Troy, Cleopatra of Egypt, and Miss Lymington of London came readily to mind. Ah, well. He could visit the house tomorrow on the pretext of examining his rosebush, and perhaps he would be able to exchange a commonplace or two with the elusive governess.

"Uncle Bertie, Uncle Bertie!" cried two girlish voices, wafting down from the staircase. Gyles looked up at the ornate plasterwork ceiling and saw two pale faces surrounded by black curls peeking over the bannister.

"Girls," groaned Lord Kendall who had just come into the entrance hall. "It's late. Why have you not gone to bed?"

"We have something unpleasant to tell you," said the middle Trafford sister. "A fat man in a mauve waistcoat came upstairs into the family quarters where Miss Lymington was reading to us in the schoolroom."

By this time Penelope had danced her way down the corridor to stand beside Gyles in the entryway. "A man?" she gasped, clutching a hand to her heart .

"He was foxed," said the youngest sister, Milly.

Lord Kendall rushed up the stairs. "Are you all right? Did he harm you?"

"No," said Ginny, "he hardly noticed us. It was Miss Lymington who caught his attention."

"He called her a great many names," said Milly, "and chased her round and round the schoolroom table."

"Miss Lymington?" echoed Gyles in horror. He began to ascend the stairs with the speed of a Bond Street messenger boy, nearly bowling Lord Kendall over in his anxiety to reach the schoolroom.