Chapter Twelve

It was Christmas Eve, and in Bellaire Gardens it was cold, with the moon and stars invisible behind a heavy layer of cloud. It was just before six and had been fully dark for several hours, but the street was lit by gas lamps that glowed golden against the dark.

“Might snow later.” Leo glanced at the sky as he and Izzy strolled along. They’d decided to walk around to the Tarrant residence and enter by the front door instead of taking their usual shortcut through the gardens. It was, after all, an event, albeit not a particularly formal one. “We will be en famille ,” Lady Tarrant had told them.

“I hope it does snow. I love snow at Christmas. It’s so pretty and feels somehow magical. And symbolic, although of what I have no idea.” Izzy wore her warmest pelisse, which was dark red wool trimmed with fur, and a fur hat. One of her hands was thrust into a fur muff; the other was tucked into the crook of Leo’s arm.

“As long as we don’t have to travel in it” was Leo’s pragmatic comment.

Usually at this time of year Izzy and Leo and Race and Clarissa would be at their respective country homes, but the severity of Lady Scattergood’s illness and her slow recovery had convinced them to stay in town until after the New Year.

They turned the corner, saw Clarissa and Race walking toward them and waved. Clarissa was swathed in a dark amber velvet cloak, the hood of which was trimmed with swansdown. It almost hid her face. Race was his usual elegant self, in breeches and boots and a many-caped greatcoat. It being a casual occasion, formal wear was not required.

They were followed by Zo?, walking beside an elegant sedan chair carried by four strong men. She was talking to the occupant through its firmly shut curtains.

Leo raised a brow. “They even got the old lady to venture out of the house. I’m impressed.”

“Yes, she’s been dying to know what it’s all about and couldn’t bear to miss it. Besides, ever since Matteo suggested she use a sedan chair with the curtains closed, she’s been leaving the house more often. Apparently, as long as she doesn’t see the outside world, she can cope with passing through it in her chair.”

Lady Tarrant’s butler, Tweed, had obviously been waiting for them, for before Leo could run up the steps to ring the bell, he’d opened the door.

“Welcome, m’lords, m’ladies, Miss Zo?,” Tweed said, taking their coats, cloaks and hats and passing them to a footman. “Lord and Lady Tarrant, Lord and Lady Thornton and the young people await you in the second sitting room.” He turned to assist Lady Scattergood from her sedan chair, which had been brought right into the hall.

Izzy and Clarissa exchanged glances. “The second sitting room?” Izzy queried. “Not the front drawing room?” Which was the usual place to entertain guests.

“No, Lady Salcott, the second sitting room.” Tweed was clearly enjoying himself. “This way, please.” They followed him down the hall, passing the closed double doors of the drawing room.

They entered the room to a burst of excitement. The adults rose to greet the new arrivals while the three small Tarrant girls simply rushed to hug the ladies.

“I’m sorry,” Lady Tarrant said, laughing, “but they’re beside themselves with anticipation and impatience.”

“Yes, because we want to see what it is!” Judy, the oldest, said.

Finally they were all seated again and the children set to play half-heartedly with a puzzle. Sherry was passed around and small crisp almond biscuits. The adults made polite conversation, but truth to tell, they were as impatient as the children, only better behaved.

A few minutes later Gerald and Lord Tarrant exchanged glances, Lucy nodded and the men rose and quietly left the room.

The remaining adults sipped sherry and made small talk, which nobody actually listened to, while the children openly watched the door with avid expressions.

Then Lord Tarrant stepped in again. “I’m turning off the lights,” he warned them. There was an excited murmur, then a hush as one by one he shut off the gas lights, leaving only the fire to light the room. The flames danced, throwing shadows and gilding their faces.

Lucy appeared in the doorway. “Now, I want you to hold hands—children hold hands with an adult—and come out into the hall.” They obeyed. Lina, the middle child, clutched Lady Tarrant’s hand while Debo, the youngest girl, held on to Clarissa’s and Judy clasped Zo?’s. Race held out his arm to escort old Lady Scattergood.

The hall was in relative darkness, too. Lucy gathered them to stand outside the double doors of the drawing room. “Now, everyone, close your eyes, and you must not open them until I say so or it will spoil the surprise.”

There were a few excited giggles from the children, but they scrunched their eyes firmly closed. Finally, the doors opened.

The scent hit Zo? first. A pine forest, fresh and sharp and clean. She breathed it in. Pine and beeswax. Perfect.

“You can look now,” Lucy said.

“Ohhhhhh.” It was a universal gasp of awe and surprise and pleasure, and for a moment nobody spoke.

“Oh my, that’s beautiful,” Clarissa breathed. “Look, Race, isn’t it lovely?”

“It’s magic,” Lina exclaimed.

“It’s a Christmas tree,” Lucy said, delighted with their reactions. “You know how when Gerald and I were first married, he was posted to Vienna? We spent several years there, and the Viennese—all the Austrians and Germans, actually—have this beautiful Christmas tradition, and we loved it so much, didn’t we, Gerald, that we decided to adopt it ourselves.”

They all gathered around to examine it.

A small fir tree had been placed in a solid red pot. The only light in the room came from dozens of slender candles clasped in tin holders that were wired to the branches. The tree glittered with shapes cut out in gold and silver paper that twirled gently on invisible threads, along with tiny parcels in bright colors, small painted wooden toys, gold-painted nuts, delicate crystal figurines, round glass baubles and small brown biscuits in various shapes tied on with narrow red ribbons.

“Those paper shapes are exquisite,” Clarissa commented, examining them closely. “Look, there’s a deer and that’s a wolf and a swan—”

“And a sailing ship and a drum and a basket—”

“And cats,” Debo said happily. “Lots of cats.”

“Zo? made them. She’s very clever, isn’t she?” Lucy said.

The children and several adults turned accusing gazes on her. “You knew about this, Zo?? And you didn’t say a word!”

She laughed. “And spoil the surprise? Of course not.”

“We bought the crystal ornaments, the glass baubles and the little wooden toys in Vienna. We put them on the tree every year,” Lucy explained. “But the biscuits are freshly baked—they’re ginger. And those brightly wrapped lumps with twisty ends are sweets. And the gold-painted nuts are real. You children can each take a nut, a sweet, and a biscuit every day for the twelve days of Christmas, starting tonight. Just tell Gerald or me which ones you choose and we’ll get it for you.”

“It looks a bit dangerous,” Leo said. “Won’t it catch alight?”

“That’s my Leo!” Izzy said, laughing. “Always so practical.”

“It’s quite safe,” Gerald said. “We trimmed the needles so the candle flame won’t come into contact with them. And I have a bucket of water here, behind it, just in case.”

“And we won’t leave it unattended,” Lord Tarrant added.

“It’s gorgeous,” Lady Tarrant said, “and it smells so beautiful and fresh.”

“Yes, that fresh-cut pine smell is part of the magic, I think,” Lucy said. “James and Gerald went out yesterday to one of James’s properties and found us the perfect tree. They smuggled it into the house at dead of night so no little eyes would see them.”

A hush fell then as they simply sat and gazed at the beautiful little tree. And then, out of the silence, a quavering old voice began singing “Joy to the World,” and immediately they all joined in. By the end, most of the women in the room had tears in their eyes, Zo? too.

It was her first real experience of a family Christmas, surrounded by people she loved, who loved her, and with the added magic of children and their open delight. And then dear Lady Scattergood, who reminded them what Christmas was all about.

After a while, Lord and Lady Tarrant organized their children to select their nut, sweet and gingerbread biscuit and get ready for bed.

“One more thing,” Lucy said. “Gerald?”

Gerald produced three small parcels. “A little Christmas gift for each of you.” The girls immediately sat down on the floor and opened their little parcels. Each one contained some more sweets and a crystal Christmas bauble—a horse for Judy, a rose for Lina and a cat for Debo. “Take good care of them. Next year you can hang your bauble on the tree,” Lucy said, “and by the time you’re grown up enough to have your own tree, you will have a collection of your own.”

Then the children said their good nights, with kisses and hugs and curtsies, and went off upstairs to bed, after which the men snuffed all the candles.

Later, they were still talking about the tree over dinner, and Lady Tarrant said, “You know, now that I think about it, our dear late Queen, Queen Charlotte, did something similar at Windsor one year. It was a party for children, I think. I didn’t see it myself, but I heard talk of it. Did none of you hear of it? No, I suppose it was before your time. I was a new bride myself.”

“I know several other people who do this sort of thing, but I’ve never seen it myself,” said Lady Scattergood. Which was not surprising, seeing as she rarely left her house, but nobody pointed that out.

“It’s a charming tradition, and I, for one, am going to adopt it,” Alice said. “Thank you, Lucy and Gerald. And Zo?.” They all raised their glasses in a toast.

“And James, for the tree,” Gerald added, “even though he hadn’t a clue what we planned for it.” They all laughed and toasted Lord Tarrant.

After dinner, they escorted Lady Scattergood and her sedan chair home, and then the rest of them went off in a group to attend the midnight service.

As they stepped out of the church, with bells across the city joyfully ringing out the birth of the Christ child, fat flakes of white began to drift down from the darkness overhead.

“Oh, snow! That makes this the most perfect of all Christmas days,” Clarissa exclaimed. And the others all agreed.

Foxton Place, East Anglia

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve dawned chilly and overcast, but Julian was up early and feeling energetic. He had a lot to do if he was to get through his Christmas duties. He planned to leave for London as soon as he possibly could.

It was several years since he’d spent Christmas at Foxton Place. He’d generally been abroad, which the locals had taken as a reasonable excuse, but now that he was here and Christmas almost upon them, the locals had been loud in their enthusiastic celebration of the fact that the earl was at home, where he belonged.

He’d completed his examination of the estate books and found everything in good condition. He and Cartwright had discussed some agricultural innovations he’d read about, and Cartwright had agreed to try them. So he could leave with a clear conscience once Christmas was over.

He’d already ordered the preparation of a Christmas feast and invited the vicar and most of the foremost citizens of the estate. With Cartwright’s assistance, he’d arranged the Christmas boxes that would be given out on Boxing Day and also made a list of the poorer families in the neighborhood, who would be given an additional basket of food this morning so they could celebrate Christmas. He’d even glanced through the lesson that he would read in church.

Best of all, he’d written polite refusals to the many invitations to dinners, balls and other gatherings that had arrived from some of the foremost families of the county, many of whom, he suspected, had unmarried daughters. He explained that commitments in Town—unnamed and imaginary, though he didn’t mention that—required him to be in London by the New Year.

Acting as Lord of the Manor had never come easy to him. His father and brother had relished their positions and given orders without hesitation or reflection, but Julian wasn’t at all comfortable with that. He disliked having other people’s fates in his hands, but he’d learned in the army that there was no avoiding responsibility. During the war he’d taken good care of the men under his command, and now he was conscientious in carrying out his duty as the earl. It didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

But he refused to let the title and its attendant responsibilities dominate his life, so he’d made the compromise that made his life bearable.

It was late on the morning of Christmas Eve when a large traveling coach laden with luggage bowled down the drive and came to a halt in front of the house. Julian glanced out the window and groaned. What the devil was she doing here? When he’d seen her in London recently, she’d made no mention of coming to Foxton Place for Christmas.

Accepting the inevitable, he pasted a pleasant expression on his face and went out to greet his grandmother. Hamish followed and was instantly shooed away.

“I knew you would need my guidance in performing your duties as the earl during this season, seeing as you’ve generally managed to avoid it,” she said in response to his greeting.

“I am very well aware of what’s expected, Grandmama,” he said, managing not to grit his teeth.

She snorted. “I will freshen up in my room. We will speak at noon in the front drawing room, Foxton. I presume a fire has been lit in there.” It hadn’t, as Julian never used that room, which he thought overly ornate and pretentious, but he glanced at the butler who subtly inclined his head. By the time her ladyship came downstairs the fire would be burning merrily.

Julian was tempted to take himself off and go for a long ride around the estate, but he knew he would only be putting off the inevitable. Grandmama had come with the intention of reading him a lecture about Duty and the Earl, and the sooner he let her deliver it, the sooner he could get on with his life.

She arrived downstairs with a list in her hand, seated herself in the chair nearest the fire and said, “Now, I suppose you haven’t even thought about sending baskets of food—”

“To the poorest in the neighborhood. Yes, and it has been done.” He’d done it first thing in the morning, and delivered most of them himself. He wasn’t very comfortable playing Lord Bountiful, but he’d also had quite a lot of experience mingling with poor people, and didn’t look down on them as his father and brother had. He knew better. There but for the grace of God go I. Besides, he liked some of them. And taking Hamish with him always helped to break the ice.

“Oh.” She ticked something off on her list. “And the Christmas boxes?”

“Done and ready to be given out on Boxing Day. I consulted Cartwright as to the various needs.”

She sniffed. “Well then, on Christmas morning, you will need to read the lesson in church. I suggest—”

“The vicar and I have already chosen the lesson.”

“Oh. I see. And I don’t suppose you remembered to invite—”

“The vicar for Christmas dinner? Of course I didn’t forget. He gladly accepted, as did all the others I invited.” He named the people he’d invited.

She stiffened. “Do you expect me to sit down to dinner with your agent and members of the hoi polloi?”

“I don’t expect anything. You don’t have to dine with us if you don’t want to. I can have your dinner sent up on a tray if you prefer.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“No, Grandmama,” he said hiding a smile. She loved to play hostess, particularly to those she considered her inferiors. “And, of course, I’ve finalized the menu with Cook.”

His grandmother’s lips thinned. “I could have done that.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know you were coming, did I?” he said sweetly.

With a sour look she consulted her list again. “I don’t suppose I’ll need to remind you to take part in the Boxing Day hunt?”

“No, there is no need to remind me. I won’t be joining the hunt.”

Her voice rose. “Won’t be hunting on Boxing Day? But the Earls of Foxton always take part in the hunt.”

“Not this one.”

“Your father and brother joined in the hunt every year. Led it as often as not.”

“I know.”

“And your grandfather before him.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“And his father before him, and—”

“And no doubt every Earl of Foxton since the year dot hunted, but I don’t hunt.”

“What do you mean, you don’t hunt?”

“Would you eat a fox if it was cooked?”

Her face screwed up. “Of course not, you ridiculous boy. Who eats foxes? Nobody. Whatever gave you such an insane idea?”

“I only hunt for food, and then only when I need it.” When he was in the army, there’d been times when food was short, and then he’d happily hunted in order to fill the pot—rabbits and hares mostly and the occasional bird. And when he was traveling in France, it was the same thing.

She stared at him a moment. “But you can’t possibly be short of food.”

“I’m not, and so I don’t hunt.” He could see she was prepared to argue the point, so he continued, “I particularly don’t hunt for sport. I fail to see the sport in dozens of men and dogs chasing one small fox, making a great hullabaloo and careering all over the countryside, trampling crops and lord knows what else, all in the name of sport. So I won’t do it. Now, is that everything on your list?”

She glanced at her list and gave a grudging nod.

“Good, because I have a question for you.”

“A question for me ?” She drew herself up, preparing to do battle again.

“Yes, that portrait you sent down here, the one you asked to be hung in the portrait gallery.”

“I know you don’t like it, but—”

“It’s a very good portrait.”

“Oh. Well, I thought it should be in the portrait gallery because—”

“I don’t give a hang where you choose to display it. It can stay there for all I care. You’ve contributed as much and a good deal more to the Foxton family than some of the wastrel ancestors whose portraits hang there in pride of place.”

Her jaw dropped open.

“What I want to know is the fellow’s name.”

“What fellow?”

“The chap who painted it.”

“It wasn’t a man, it was a chit of a girl.”

Julian stiffened. “A girl ? What girl?”

“An insolent baggage. You would not believe the cheek she gave me, always answering back and rarely with a civil response. I had to take a very firm line with her.”

“ What girl? ” he repeated. A girl? It had to be Vita, it had to be. “Was she French?”

“Of course she wasn’t French! Would I have my portrait painted by a Frenchwoman? I hope I’m more patriotic than that! What business is it of yours, anyway?”

“So she spoke to you in English?”

“Naturally.”

“Without any kind of accent?” he persisted.

She said impatiently, “She was English , Foxton. Do you think I can’t tell an English girl from a foreigner? And she spoke like a lady—though her manners were not those of a properly bred gel.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

He ignored that. “What was her name?”

“Her name?” She made a pettish gesture. “How would I know her name? I don’t bother with the names of such as she.”

There were times when he could happily strangle his grandmother. “But the signature, Z-B, you must know what it stands for.”

“Well, I don’t. All I know is that she was a brazen-faced hussy with no respect for her elders. But despite her attitude and her youth, she was a competent enough painter, I admit, although she charged me an arm and a leg for a perfectly ordinary painting. And she got my nose wrong, and so I told her at the time, but would she listen?” She snorted.

The nose was perfect, and the portrait as a whole was superb, Julian thought, but he harnessed his impatience and forced himself to say in a calmer voice, “How did you find her, Grandmama?”

She gave him a long narrow look, then made a vague gesture. “Oh, she’s some kind of protégée of Olive Barrington.”

“Who is Olive Barrington? One of your friends?”

She snorted. “Hardly.”

“Then how do you know her?”

“I knew her when I was a gel. Before my marriage.”

“I see, so she lives in Manchester?”

She snorted again. “No, she’s far too hoity-toity for that. She lives in London, of course.”

“But you don’t know where.”

She gave him a surprised look. “Of course I know where.”

Julian’s patience was by now wafer thin. “Then could you please furnish me with her address?”

“There’s no point. I doubt she’ll speak to you. She hates men and is ridiculously reclusive. She won’t even let me through the front door, so there’s no point in going there. Now, I’ve had enough of this. I’ve had a long trip and I want to rest before dinner.” She rose, tossed her list into the fire, said, “It’s wasteful having a fire in such a big room when you use it so rarely,” and sailed out.

Julian clenched his fists and muttered a few frustrated words to the ceiling. He was sure the painting had been done by Vita, which meant she was in England, in London. But according to his grandmother, her portraitist spoke English like a native. And like a lady. And Vita was—supposedly—French and a maidservant.

But he’d revealed his interest in her too soon, and his grandmother was being deliberately vague and annoying. She approached every one of their interactions as a battle and was determined to win. She was the stubbornest woman he’d ever known, so if she didn’t want to tell him where this Olive Barrington lived, wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of her. He was sure she knew exactly where he could find Vita, assuming it was Vita who’d painted her portrait. But he knew now he’d never get it out of her.

It was all quite a puzzle, and his grandmother was infuriating, but he was determined to solve the mystery. The minute his duties were done on Boxing Day, he was off to London.

He was going hunting after all: for Vita.

The first thing Julian did when he reached London was to take Hamish for a nice long run on Hampstead Heath. He then left him at his lodgings with a bone to gnaw on. After that he called on the only other relative he had in London, a second cousin who was about the same age as his mother would have been had she lived.

He’d decided to ask about the woman his mother said was Vita’s sponsor, because asking about a young woman simply called Vita would get him nowhere, he was sure. He cursed himself for never asking her surname—though he hadn’t exactly shared his own name or surname with her.

“Miss or Mrs. Olive Barrington?” the cousin repeated, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Julian, I’ve never heard of her.”

“Do you know anyone I could ask? The woman I’m seeking would be about the same age as my maternal grandmother, Lady Bagshott. They knew each other in their youth, I believe.”

The cousin gave him a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, Julian, but I don’t know anyone who would willingly associate with Lady Bagshott.”

He sighed. “I understand. She’s a difficult woman.”

He called on several other ladies with whom he had even the slightest acquaintance. Doing their best to hide their amazement at receiving a visit from a man most of them barely remembered, they nevertheless showed great interest in his search for the mysterious Olive Barrington—until they discovered she was the same age as his grandmother.

“See, this is the result of your avoiding society events for all these years,” one matron told him with ill-concealed satisfaction. She’d attempted to get him interested in her daughter, he recalled vaguely. He opened his mouth to inquire after the daughter, then closed it when he realized he had no idea of the girl’s name. And if she hadn’t married in the meantime, she would take it as interest in the girl—woman, lady, whatever.

Finally, with reluctance he rode out to Richmond and called on Celia, his widowed sister-in-law. She showed no surprise at his calling on her; she was simply furious that it had taken him this long. As expected, he had to sit through a long list of complaints and demands before he had a chance to slip his question in.

“No, Celia, I won’t pay for new dresses for my nieces. You have a very generous allowance, and part of that, as you know very well, is for the maintenance of your daughters and yourself.” His sister-in-law was a notorious pinchpenny, and every conversation he’d had with her ended up being a battle to get him to pay for things she could easily afford.

“No, I won’t buy them horses. Apart from costing a fortune, neither of the girls enjoys riding—at least I’ve never seen them on horseback, not even when they’ve spent weeks at Foxton Place, where there are several suitable horses.

“And no, of course I won’t pay for new riding habits. What would they want with—”

“Oh, I see, they want to go riding with their friends .” The sudden interest in riding was to impress some man, he was sure. “Very well, I’ll pay for the riding habits if—and I mean if—they take riding lessons for, let me see, six weeks. Then, if they still want to go riding, we’ll speak of the matter again.”

And so it went. Sukey needed new shoes. Ella needed a fur mantle. Both girls needed some proper jewelry, not the trumpery things they’d received when their poor papa died.

As he knew very well that the “trumpery things” they’d inherited included several fine pearl necklaces with matching bracelets and earrings, a ruby and an emerald pendant, dozens of bracelets and brooches and several other pretty necklaces—not counting the very valuable jewelry Celia herself had inherited as the earl’s widow—he remained unmoved.

He briefly toyed with the idea of reminding her that many of the jewels she considered her own were, in fact, tied to the title, and when he married, they would have to be passed to his wife. But that was a battle for another day.

Finally he was able to ask his pouting sister-in-law whether she knew a Miss or Mrs. Olive Barrington. Her answer was short and snappy. “No, I do not. And no, I will not demean myself by asking my friends about some female I neither know nor wish to know.”

On that note, he took his leave.

Dispirited, he was heading back to his lodgings when he saw two men walking along in conversation—familiar faces. He pulled over, and as they came abreast of his curricle, greeted them. “Colonel Tarrant. Paton.”

There was a brief exchange of greetings and rapid updating of their current situations. All three of them were now out of the army, which was how he’d known them. Colonel Tarrant was now Lord Tarrant, and Gerald Paton was now Viscount Thornton. And they were both married.

“And I’m now the Earl of Foxton since my father and older brother died,” he told them.

“I’m delighted to see you,” Lord Tarrant said. “Gerald and I are heading to the Apocalypse Club, where we’re meeting a couple of friends for dinner. Our wives are planning a party to be held on New Year’s Eve, so we’re taking refuge in an all-male bastion,” he added. “You’d be most welcome to join us.”

After the day he’d had, the idea of convivial male company was appealing, so Julian accepted. He sent the curricle away with his groom, and as they walked the few blocks to the Apocalypse Club they caught up on recent news.

“As for what I’m doing in town today,” Julian finished, “I suspect I’m on a wild-goose chase.” He told them about his fruitless search for Olive Barrington and wasn’t surprised when neither of them had heard of her.

They entered the club, and he met the friends they were there to dine with, Lord Salcott and Lord Randall. “We’re all neighbors,” Tarrant explained, “and it’s the wives of these gentlemen that are leading the party planning.”

“Want to come?” Lord Salcott said instantly. “My wife is always on the lookout for eligible single men to invite to parties.”

Julian laughed.

“He means it,” Lord Randall said. “You’d be very welcome.”

Julian hesitated, but before he could refuse, a waiter arrived to usher them to their table.

“You could ask people at the party about the mysterious lady you’re searching for,” Tarrant suggested as they were seated.

“Mysterious lady?” Lord Randall said.

“Yes, a very mysterious lady,” Gerald said in a dramatically hushed voice. “No doubt very beautiful and very—”

“Grandmotherly,” Julian said.

They all laughed, and he explained to Lords Salcott and Randall that he was looking for a lady who was an old acquaintance of his grandmother’s. “I’ve been asking everyone I know, but nobody has ever heard of Olive Barrington.”

“I have.” Lord Salcott shook out his linen napkin. “She’s my aunt.”

Julian’s jaw dropped. “Your aunt ?”

“Yes, only she hasn’t been Olive Barrington for fifty years or so. Barrington was her maiden name. She’s Lady Scattergood now.”

Of course, Julian thought as the waiter took their orders. His grandmother often referred to her youthful acquaintances by their maiden names. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“What did you want with her?” Lord Salcott asked, then when Julian hesitated, he added, “No, no need to explain now. Come to our party on New Year’s Eve. My aunt will probably attend. The party is to introduce my wife’s”—he indicated Lord Randall—“our wives’ young cousin to our friends in the ton. My aunt is very fond of her. It’s not a big formal occasion—we’ll hold a proper ball at the start of the season. This is just a reception to introduce her to our friends, so when she does make her come-out she won’t feel as if she’s wholly among strangers.”

“But there will probably be some dancing,” Lord Randall added. “At least that seems to be the most recent decision. My wife is also involved in the planning.”

“Yes,” Lord Salcott said with amusement. “It did start off as a small reception, but it’s been steadily growing. By New Year’s Eve who knows what it will have become? So, Foxton, would you like to come to our party? I promise you our wives will be delighted to have another eligible young man added to the list.”

Why not? Julian thought. The idea of being an eligible young man—in other words, marriage bait—didn’t delight him, but at least he’d meet the old lady who knew Vita. “Thank you, I’d be delighted,” he told Lord Salcott.