Chapter 9
Chapter nine
‘You have no right to look as good as you do.’
Lorelei ran her gaze over Tillman. He had been studying the building before them, but now tipped towards her, smirking.
‘I could hardly wear my farm clothes, could I?’
‘I suppose not.’
She hadn’t asked where his suit had come from—it fit too snugly to be an old relic of William’s wardrobe.
He had been broader and taller. Most likely, Cecil had conjured up some magic.
Lorelei was wearing a fresh black dress, as dowdy as a new widow, while Tillman looked as fine as any gentleman.
The pair of them stood on the pavement as the cab behind them rolled away, staring up at the tall, austere building before them.
‘I must confess,’ Tillman said, as he fidgeted with his cravat. ‘For somewhere everyone talks about, I expected something a bit more, well… more.’
‘The secret is part of the privilege. It’s far more magnificent inside.’
Tillman shrugged. ‘If you say so. Are you ready?’
‘No.’ She threaded her hand through his elbow. ‘Let’s go.’
Almacks. The most exclusive dancing and refreshment rooms in London, in the country, possibly in the entire world.
Where business deals, political deals, and marriage deals were made, and it was not always easy to tell which was which.
Entry was strictly controlled, evenings reported in the press and gossiped about for days afterwards.
There wasn’t a nobleman or woman who didn’t vie for a precious voucher or invitation, and the committee who ran the place ruled its empire like they were Caesar.
As they approached the doors, Lorelei bent towards Tillman.
‘Someone will want to see our admission vouchers, which we don’t have.
I will do the talking. I can’t guarantee they will let us in.
If they don’t, I’ll ask them to send Father a message to come and speak with me.
’ She scanned the line of groomsmen and coach drivers who were leaning against the wall, chatting amongst themselves, or in the middle of unhitching horses to take to the stables.
‘That man is wearing a waistcoat with my father’s crest. He’s here, and if he doesn’t come down, we can wait and confront him when he leaves. ’
They walked up a few stairs. The doors opened. The doorman bowed, and they moved inside.
Lorelei slowed her steps. ‘Someone usually checks invitations right here. I don’t understand…’
‘Maybe he’s new? Or they changed the rules,’ Tillman offered. ‘Either way, we should keep moving.’
Lorelei raised her black skirts clear of her feet as they ascended.
It looked so much the same as on the first night she’d come here, except then she’d been completely dressed in white like the innocent she had been.
Not almost the same—the place looked exactly the same.
The same flocked wallpaper, the same red-carpet runner, now faded pink instead of scarlet.
Her stomach turned in and on itself, just like it had all those years earlier, skittish with the fear of making some unforgivable mistake.
She’d been warned to be charming. To be polite. To be perfect.
Watch your train.
Check your feathers.
Mind your hair.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Her hand performed the familiar routine of sash, collar, buttons, cuffs.
Every part of her was neat and ordered, but the higher they climbed, the more she noticed the scuffs and marks of age on the building which, for a Season, had been the centre of her world.
Wallpaper joins cracked and curled. Threads of carpet hung loose and neglected.
The balustrade absorbed the light, no longer reflecting it with a polished gleam, and as they paused before the doors into the assembly rooms, the chips of paint and wear showed the woodgrain beneath.
‘What’s the plan?’ Tillman asked, as they waited to be announced.
‘If he doesn’t tell us where he’s sent Arley, I’m going to make a scene,’ she replied.
‘That’s it?’
‘Do not underestimate the power of a good scene. It’s what he hates more than anything.’
Beyond the doors, a violin scratched out a strangled note before the ensemble struck to life.
Years ago, candles had glowed in wall sconces and in the chandeliers, reflecting off the crystal to create small pockets of light powered by magic.
The scent of fresh cooked meats and rich wine in the air had made her salivate, and she’d had to muster all control not to think on it, for she could not eat until she was home.
After all, she might drop a crumb or leave a smear of something on her lips or fingers.
This was the room where she’d met her husband.
He’d shone resplendent, elegant and perfect.
Her father had told her he expected a betrothal by the end of autumn, mid-winter at the latest, and to her great relief, right after they’d been introduced, William had written his name on her dance card for the waltz.
She’d not missed a single step. Afterwards, as the anxiety, the hunger, and the elation had left her, she’d almost fainted in the carriage.
Her mother had told her it was the duke that had made her swoon.
Later, she’d learn that the deal had already been done. Had the whole pretence been for her benefit? To make her more confused, and thereby compliant? Or did William intend it to harken back to an age of chivalry? Or perhaps, the courtship was a little sport, to amuse himself?
Lorelei peered into the room, searching for the ballroom manager.
They really shouldn’t have been left waiting for so long.
Across the room, seated with a group of other men of a similar age, sat her father.
He rested his elbow on the back of a chair, raised a glass, and watched the assembly with a slight wistfulness.
No dancing tonight. Maybe his gout was acting up.
A man raced to the door and stopped beside them. He sneezed, then blew his nose on a handkerchief. He tucked it into his breast pocket, swore under his breath, retrieved it, and buried it inside his coat instead.
‘Name?’ he asked out the side of his mouth.
‘You don’t know?’ she replied.
‘I can’t keep up. I’ve only been here a week. Please?’
Lorelei bristled. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been to London for years.
She was still who she was, and he should have known.
The men on the door in the Almacks on the night of her debut and throughout her courtship, they would have known.
Her gaze dragged over the scuffs on the walls, to the tiny bugs circling the chandelier.
The quartet struck a discordant note, and she inhaled another breath, this time through her nose.
While not unpleasant, the air was not rich with indulgence, decadence, and attention.
And with a swell of realisation, she understood. That Almacks was fading away.
She could not deny the burst of delight in her chest at the thought that this place that her father loved so much might be losing its lustre.
She turned to the poor man by the door. ‘Her Grace, the Duchess of Osborne, accompanied by Mr Tillman Masters.’
Tillman shot her a glance of wide-eyed panic.
She patted his arm and looked straight ahead.
The doorman called their names, and they bounced into the room between the notes.
The fear that flitted over Tillman’s face was nothing compared to that which lit her father’s expression.
Panic was not a familiar emotion to him, and he stumbled over it as he rose from his seat and crossed the room.
‘What are you doing here?’ he spluttered. ‘Wearing that? How did you even get in?’ He grabbed her arm and tugged, but she stood firm and wrenched herself free.
‘Where is Arley?’ she demanded.
He threw a look over his shoulder. ‘I will come to the townhouse tomorrow. We will discuss this in private.’
‘No.’ She let her voice rise a little louder. ‘You will tell me now.’
The doorman squawked, peered behind them, started to mutter some request—then, after a harsh look from Lorelei and her father, snapped his mouth closed.
Father turned back to her. ‘He’s going to a school that will teach him how to be a proper Englishman. I can’t let him go back to the academy after the scene he caused today. People will be talking about it for months. He needs to learn how to behave.’
‘Where is the school?’ she demanded.
‘You are not helping him!’ His voice rose as he flung his hands in the air, walked away a few paces, then returned with a huff.
‘He could be a minister. A member of note. He could even become prime minister or Chancellor of the Exchequer, just like his father wanted to be. The queen has daughters, and he would be well-placed to impress them. If only he could be more determined and more—’
‘Stop it!’ Her voice echoed into the room. The violin screeched the ensemble to a stop as all faces turned towards them. ‘Stop using us to further your own ambitions!’
‘You are embarrassing yourself,’ he said, his voice low and cutting.
‘I am not embarrassed in the slightest,’ she shot back, louder again. ‘I no longer care what anyone in this room thinks of me. Where. Is. My. Son?’
The realisation started in the arch of his brows. It trickled into the widening of his eyes, and finally, into the subtle parting of his lips and the horrified gasp that followed. He’d demanded everything. Now she had nothing left to lose, which meant that he had nothing more to take.
‘Tell me now, or I will shout. I will throw a tantrum and tell everyone what you have done. And if that doesn’t weaken you, I will give the same speech on the steps of the Lords tomorrow.’