Chapter Twenty-Four
J ackie’s gown was new, finished only that morning. It was a design of her own, made from a light lavender-colored silk figured with cream vertical stripes. Puffed sleeves at the shoulder finished in long sheer sleeves in the same lavender, trimmed with matching satin ribbon which also finished the square neckline. The hem was adorned with five rows of festoon flounces made of net and trimmed with the ribbon.
Maman had covered a pair of dancing slippers to match. The duchess’s own dresser had been sent down to do Jackie’s hair, through which she threaded lavender and cream ribbon. When Jackie saw the finished effect in the large standing mirror, she was amazed.
Is that really me ? The boys in the stables at Squire Pershing’s would never believe it. The point was, though, what would Pol think? Jackie couldn’t wait to find out.
Maman and Gran were also looking very fine, both in gowns of the latest fashion, one in figured satin of a deep wine, the hem trimmed with clusters of roses, and one in deep blue with two flounces of net, each woman with dyed ostrich feathers in her hair.
They came down the stairs together, to where Pol waited to escort them to the carriage that had been assigned to them for the night. He was talking to Lord Thomas, the duke’s youngest son, but Lord Thomas saw them coming and must have said something, for Pol turned and looked up.
His jaw dropped, and then he beamed up at her, stepping closer to the foot of the stairs and holding up his hand to assist her down the last few steps. “Beloved, you look magnificent,” he said, and the heat in his eyes sent other messages, more private messages. Messages that made Jackie ache in places she was only just beginning to discover.
“Gran and Maman also look lovely,” she told him, hoping to avoid the blush she could feel building, and he blinked as if he had forgotten they were not alone.
He rose to the occasion, however. “Gran, you shall outshine all the other dowagers, and Madame, what can I say? You and Jackie could be sisters.”
“Rogue,” Maman said, with a pleased smile and a light tap of her fan to his shoulder.
“His grandfather had a silver tongue,” Gran commented, with a sigh.
“Ah.” The Duchess of Winshire paused on the landing above them. “You are all here.” She descended on her husband’s arm. “You all look splendid,” she said, approvingly. “Jacqueline, my dear, that gown is very becoming.”
The ducal couple led the way out to the carriages, as various others of the Winderfield family joined the crowd in the lobby. The plan was that Pol and his ladies would enter with the duke and duchess, but their children would also be present at the event to lend their support if needed.
It was a short carriage ride, but something of a wait at the venue. But at last, their carriage reached the carpet that had been spread down the steps of the house and across the footpath to the road.
Pol helped Jackie to descend, and then Gran and Maman. Drew and Thomas materialized to each offer an elbow, one to Gran and one to Maman. The duke and duchess were waiting just inside the foyer, and together they joined the queue for the reception line.
Jackie knew that people were talking about the four of them, from the covert glances and outright stares, and the way people kept an eye on them while speaking behind a gloved hand or their fans. “Ignore them,” Maman said, not bothering to whisper. “Their ill-breeding does not excuse yours.”
“People are naturally interested in strangers,” Pol pointed out. “Especially those sponsored by such an illustrious couple.”
The duchess cast him an amused smile. “Just so,” she agreed, “but Eloise’s advice is also pertinent.”
The line moved quickly, and they were soon in front of Lord and Lady Campion and their debutante daughter. The duchess introduced them. “Clara, my dear, do you remember Lady Campion? She was Sally Albright when you were last in Society. And this is her husband, and their daughter Frederika. Clara, Lady Riese, my dears. Also, the Comtesse de Haricot du Charmont , her daughter, and Lord Riese, who is betrothed to Mademoiselle de Haricot du Charmont, and is the grandson of Clara Lady Riese.”
Jackie curtseyed as her mother had taught her, and the hostess’s eyes lit with approval. “Charming,” she pronounced.
Lord Campion, though, reacted to Pol’s name. “Any relation to Viscount Riese and his mother, Lady Riese?” he asked.
“An interesting story,” the duke replied. “My young friend here is the true Viscount Riese. He inherited the title on the death of his father, older brother to the young man claiming to be Viscount Riese. I had an enlightening discussion today with Sir Isaac Heard, the Garter Principal King of Arms. Apparently, his office was notified some twenty years ago that young Lord Riese had died in Italy. I assured him that news of the boy’s death had been much exaggerated.”
Jackie hadn’t heard that, and from his hastily concealed look of surprise, neither had Pol. Other ball-goers close enough to hear the conversation—and the duke had pitched his voice to carry—were leaning forward in their eagerness not to miss a word.
“But we must not hold up the reception line,” the duchess commented. “No doubt the full facts of the matter will be established in the coming week. Come along, my dears.”
And she took her husband’s arm again and led them into the ballroom, where a servant announced their names and titles.
Apollo Lord Riese . When it was said in the servant’s ringing voice, Pol flinched—a small involuntary movement that Jackie only detected because she had her hand on his arm. The words set off a muttering around the ballroom, which the duke and duchess ignored, leading the party across the room to a group of chairs. Each of the Winderfield gentlemen conducted the lady on their arm to a chair.
“They reported me dead?” Pol asked the duke, who nodded.
“Apparently so. You were the heir apparent from the moment your father died, and the viscount as soon as your grandfather died, when you were six. Your uncle took your title, Pol, and passed it on to his son, because you were understood to be dead. Since you are alive, the title is still yours, though under the circumstances, that will have to be confirmed by the Committee for Privileges. The Garter is preparing a report for the Committee, and I have made a request for an appointment with the chair. Given the evidence from your uncles and your grandmother, however, I see no difficulties in proving your case.”
Pol had placed his hand over Jackie’s, and during the duke’s explanation, his fingers had stiffened around hers, but all he said was, “Thank you, Your Grace.” His words and tone were courteous, but Jackie knew him well enough to know he was shaken.
The orchestra was tuning up in preparation for the first dance. “Apollo and Jacqueline,” the duchess said, “since you are betrothed, you may dance together three times in the course of the evening. I suggest the first set, the supper set, and the final set of the evening. For other dances, I shall introduce suitable partners—to you both.”
“May I have the pleasure of this dance, my love?” Pol asked Jackie, obedient to the duchess’s command. He still looked slightly stunned, as if the duke’s words had been a bludgeon to the head.
Jackie nodded and allowed him to lead her onto the floor.
They had only a few minutes to speak during the set, since the orchestra had started the evening with a vigorous quadrille. Jackie said, “It is good news, is it not? What the duke said?”
“Everything is changing so fast,” he answered, the poleaxed expression fading a little as he spoke. “Less than a month ago, I was hoping my position as secretary would work out, so I could support my three ladies. And today, I am being announced at a Society ball.” He chuckled, but there was little humor in it. “I feel as if a fairy godmother has granted me a wish to change my life, and I cannot quite work out whether the new life is the one I wanted.”
“Whatever happens,” Jackie said, “we shall face it together.”
They were needed back in the patterns of the dance again, and Pol had only time for a brief reply. “That, beloved, is what is keeping me sane.”
Jackie understood his sense of unreality. Maman had talked for many years of Society balls and of the pair of them being restored to what Maman called “Our proper place.” But Jackie had never expected it to happen.
She danced with Drew next, then with Thomas, and after that, other men presented to her by the duchess. It was while she was dancing with Lord Sutton, the oldest of the Winderfield brothers, that she saw Oscar, stalking along the edge of the dance floor with his mother on his arm. Both were scanning the dancers, and both looked furious.
For a moment, Jackie lost the pattern of the dance, but Lord Sutton compensated and helped her to finish the figure, which took them to the edge of the dance floor, near to where the Duke and Duchess of Winshire stood watching the dancers.
“Is something wrong?” Lord Sutton asked her. His eyes widened as he saw Oscar stomping toward the ducal couple, ignoring the dancers, his face flushed with rage.
“Duke!” he bellowed. “I don’t know who that female claims to be, but she is an imposter.” The way he slurred the word ‘imposter’ hinted that some of his high color came from drink.
“Get yourself together, man,” the duke said, sharply. “You are embarrassing yourself.”
“Not me,” Oscar insisted. “Her. She is a seamstress, a thief, and my whore.”
Jackie could not tell whether the hiss from those around condemned her or Oscar, but before she could tell Oscar to go and put his head in a bucket three times and pull it out twice, the duke thundered. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
Oscar blinked in confusion. “No, Your Grace. Tha’s wrong. I’m Viscount Riese. Very old famb… fambly… fa-mi-ly.”
“On the contrary, you dolt,” the duke declared, his voice so cold that Jackie could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped. Certainly, several of those nearest shivered at the tone. The dancers had stopped dancing, the orchestra was no longer playing, and those around had given up all pretense of ignoring the commotion in their midst and were watching, avidly, with perhaps more decorum but certainly no less fascination than villagers at a wrestling match.
“Assure you—” Oscar began, sticking his nose in the air and grasping each of his lapels in a fist.
The duke spoke over the top of him. “Your imposture has been discovered, Mr. Riese. Also, some of your other crimes. It is you who are the thief. Not this lady, who is a guest in my house and the daughter of my wife’s dear friend, the Comtesse de Haricot du Charmont . And not the real Viscount Riese, this lady’s husband-to-be, son of your father’s older brother. Ah! Lord Riese. There you are.”
Sure enough, Pol was coming through the cluster of dancers, Her Grace the Duchess of Haverford on his arm. And right behind them came the Duke of Haverford, escorting his mother, the Duchess of Winshire.
Oscar looked from one to another as it slowly dawned on him that his attempted ambush of Jackie had turned into a complete rout.
He blinked at Pol, shook his head to clear it, and said to the duke. “I am the viscount, not Polly. Polly is my secretary. I didn’t want him, but Mama said we had to be kind to the family bastard.”
His face cleared as he noticed his mother making her own way through the onlookers. “Mama, tell the duke. I am the viscount, right?”
She scowled.
“It’s over, Aunt Louella,” Pol told her. “I met today with Lord Fuller and Patrizone Allegro. They were both at my parents’ wedding and met me shortly after my birth more than a year later. I am the only son of Richmond Riese and his lawfully wedded wife. And Richmond Riese was the son and heir of Frederick, Viscount Riese.”
The woman opened her mouth, her lip curled. Jackie was ready to hear a denial and probably threats and scurrilous lies. But at that moment, Maman and Gran joined the group, and Gran said, “Louella Riese, you have been a very naughty girl.”
The villainess went white, and her mouth dropped open. Then she drew herself up and spoke to her son. “Oscar. Fetch your sister. We are leaving.”
Without another word, she strode off through the crowd, apparently creating a path merely by the force of her glare.
Oscar looked from one to another of those gathered and then scurried after her.
*
With Oscar’s departure, the spectacle was over, but conversations within Pol’s earshot—and presumably beyond it—reached fever pitch as those with a good view rehashed the entire scene for those who had missed it, and even for those who had seen just as well as them.
In the little group on the edge of the floor, the Duke of Winshire sent his wife a questioning look. “Are you satisfied, Eleanor?”
“Quite,” said the duchess. “By the time those who weren’t here break their fast tomorrow, the entire Polite World will know that Mrs. Riese and her son are fakes, and our Lord Riese is the real one.”
Well. That was one way to look at it. Had the duchess intended this all along?
The orchestra’s conductor banged his baton on his music stand, and a hush drifted out from the stage on which he stood, the hostess, Lady Campion, beside him. Her eyes were glowing with delight that such a delicious scandal had erupted right on her dance floor.
“My dear friends, no doubt we all look forward to hearing more about the new Lord Riese, and where he has been all these years. Right now, we have a ball to enjoy. Gentlemen, please find your partners for the supper waltz.”
Pol had learnt the waltz along with other dances thanks to Amanda, whose inability to hear music made dancing problematic. Lady—no, Louella Riese had decreed that he was to learn with her, so she had a partner to practice with every day.
The waltz as it was now danced in high Society was a relatively new import from the Continent. It was highly fashionable, but still frowned on in some circles, since it required the dancers to remain with a single partner, to focus intently on that partner, and—most alarming of all—to touch.
The criticism had seemed over the top. Even dancing at the occasional village assembly did not change Pol’s mind, though some of the village girls were fun to dance with. It was very different moving to music with Jackie in his arms, her hands touching him, her body brushing his as they executed a turn.
Apparently waltzing with one’s love was on a completely separate plane to attempting to circle a room with one’s sixteen-year-old cousin while couching her in a whisper, left foot back, slide right foot back and to the side, bring left foot to right foot. Right foot back… And so on, for an entire dance.
And why was he thinking of Amanda when he could give himself over to the music and his beloved? Every step a promise made, every touch the closest to an embrace they could come in a ballroom full of people. Not that he thought about the people, except to keep his partner safe from collisions as the two of them moved like one being, with four legs but a single will driven by the music and their love.
They didn’t speak, but they didn’t need to. Her heart was in her eyes and his answered it, in a conversation that needed no words, in a dialogue comprising music, movement, and love.
When the music ended and those around them began to move through to supper, Pol and Jackie moved with them, slowly emerging from the dream, until one of the other guests woke them thoroughly by asking when the wedding would be.
So it went through the supper—people walking up to their table, asking Lady Sutton to introduce them, and then asking about Pol and Jackie’s romance, the crimes of Pol’s aunt and cousin, Pol’s origins, Jackie’s origins, their plans for the viscountcy, and more.
Some questions were so intrusive that Lady Sutton rebuked the questioner, but for the most part, she left Pol and Jackie to answer. “Your story will be all over London with the breakfast trays,” she told them during a lull in the traffic. “This is your opportunity to make sure that the truth you want to have heard circulates along with the inevitable nonsense.”
When they rejoined the rest of the family after supper, they discovered that Gran and Madame de Haricot du Charmont had also been besieged at the table where they sat with the Winshires, until her grace put a stop to the questions by declaring that Clara Lady Riese was tiring and would take no more questions.
Given that Gran had been close to death less than a month ago, it was surprising she had managed the ball at all, let alone staying up so late. It was well after midnight. Pol opened his mouth to suggest that he and Jackie could escort Gran home, but the duchess forestalled him. “Indeed, I think we might go home after supper, my dears. What is your opinion, Duke?”
“As always, dear Duchess, you have marshalled your troops and overrun the enemy position. By all means, let us go home.”
Jackie looked relieved. She was probably imagining, as Pol was, several more dances, this time with inquisitive strangers seeking to gain an advantage in the gossip stakes. And so, they gave their hostess their thanks and farewell and left the ball. “We shall take one carriage,” the duchess decreed, and leave the others for the rest of our party.” For Lord and Lady Sutton, the duke’s younger sons and others of the household were remaining to enjoy the rest of the evening.
While they were outside waiting for the others to enter the carriage, Jackie asked, “What will your aunt and cousin do now, do you think?”
She kept her voice low and private, and Pol answered the same way. “Run, if they have any sense. Louella must realize she has lost and will face the hangman if she remains in England. I wonder if they will take Amanda with them?” Poor Amanda. She was not a particularly nice person, but Pol pitied her, nonetheless. She had not been responsible for anything that had happened to Pol or Gran or Jackie, but she would suffer for it, nonetheless.
“I had forgotten about Miss Amanda. They won’t leave her, surely?”
“I don’t know, my love. I would not put it past Louella, and I doubt Oscar would think twice about leaving her if he thinks she will slow him down.”
Jackie proved once again how wonderful she was. “She will need us, if that happens. Poor Amanda. We will be her only remaining family, you, me, and Gran.”
Back at Winshire House, they parted for their own rooms, but Pol felt too restless to sleep, even though it was close to two in the morning. Every time he managed to wrench his mind away from the scene with Oscar, he found himself going over the events and revelations of the past few days, and all the time his mind replayed the sensations of dancing with Jackie, of kissing Jackie, of touching her—not just in the way he had but in the way he longed to do.
Scruffy whined, and Pol grinned. Even when his emotions were in turmoil and his life had just changed forever, some things remained the same. “Yes, girl,” he said. “I will take you out.”