Page 7 of A Tale of Two Dukes

Viola drew in a deep, steadying breath as the liveried servant took her evening cloak in the hall of the townhouse.

Twelve years ago, when she’d made her come-out, it would have been impossible for her to enter alone for such an evening party.

She’d have been far too nervous and self-conscious, and worried that everyone would be looking at her, whispering about her, but that didn’t matter, because it just wasn’t done in any case.

Young ladies did not go anywhere in London unaccompanied, no matter how they might behave elsewhere.

They were strictly chaperoned at all times; not just supervised, but seen to be supervised, in a sort of public performance.

Their virtue was too fragile and too important a thing to be left to chance.

She was no longer a young lady, and in theory should be freer, but it wasn’t quite usual for widows to go about in society alone, either – someone of her standing should, according to custom and convention, have a companion living with her, going everywhere with her, and Emily had fulfilled that function until recently.

Now she had no one. If she were to marry, of course, she would no longer have need of a female companion to give her respectability; a husband, any sort of husband, was supposed to do that.

Tonight, she could have called on one of her sisters, married or unmarried, or – God forbid – her mother to accompany her to this party.

But she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be questioned by anybody about what on earth she was doing.

Even Sabrina, who knew what she was about, would have quizzed her unbearably, and then watched every second of her meeting with Ventris with a critical eye, and commented satirically on it afterwards.

That wouldn’t help her; it would only make her so self-conscious that she couldn’t order her thoughts or behave naturally.

She wanted to see him properly before she committed herself irrevocably to marrying him.

And she wanted, for her own protection, to see him in public.

At first, this had seemed an insurmountable problem – she could hardly stroll into one of the low inns or other disreputable haunts she assumed he frequented and order herself a quart of gin – but she had applied her intelligence to the matter and found a solution.

She’d written to Lord Ventris and told him she would be at Lady Granville’s soirée that evening, if he cared to meet her there.

Despite his shocking reputation, she knew he still moved in society occasionally.

If there was a pattern or a purpose to his appearances, she had no idea what that might be, and didn’t want to know.

She’d now and then seen notice of his attendance at some ball or other in the scandal sheets – perhaps his dangerous presence added a touch of spice to a lady’s entertainments.

Perhaps some of them were his lovers or his blackmail victims; it seemed more than likely.

Not her hostess, she hoped – that would be undeniably awkward, and out of character for what she knew of the woman.

But she did not doubt his ability to obtain an invitation almost anywhere, if he wanted to.

She’d met Lady Granville, who’d then been Lady Harriet Cavendish, unmarried daughter of the late Duke of Devonshire, a few years ago, on one of her brief trips to London without Edward.

They weren’t exactly friends – Viola had few close friends besides Emily and her own sisters – but they’d become friendly, and corresponded in a desultory sort of way, though they rarely saw each other now.

It had been easy enough to find out who was in Town at this odd season and who planned to hold parties, and easier still to write boldly to Harriet and ask if she could attend tonight’s event, since she was unexpectedly in London.

Of course she could, the swift and gracious reply came.

This was no surprise; she wasn’t Miss Viola Constantine any more, a nobody; she was a duchess.

Lady Granville, though she was the daughter of a duke and his famously unhappy and unfaithful wife Georgiana, was married to the mere younger son of a marquess. Such things counted.

Harriet’s husband, Granville, had been her Aunt Bessborough’s lover for close on twenty years; that aunt had arranged their union.

Even in the haut ton, this excessively intimate arrangement was a little unusual.

But everyone knew of it and nobody seemed to care.

Harriet herself was a woman of spotless reputation who plainly loved her husband, and wasn’t the subject of any gossip, which must have made her unique in her scandalous family.

But presumably she wouldn’t blink at a whiff of shadiness, such as Ventris must carry with him.

She was raising her husband’s illegitimate children – her aunt’s children, who were therefore also her cousins; it made one’s head ache – as her own.

Viola wore her finest new gown. It seemed important that Ventris would see her at her best, if he came.

It was red velvet, quite plain, low cut across the breasts and shoulders – this was the current fashion, and she knew it suited her – and with it, she wore the famous Winterflood jewel: a Tudor necklace that had been passed down through the Armstrong family.

It was not hers in any meaningful sense, as she certainly couldn’t have sold it even if she’d wanted to, but it looked well with crimson, since it consisted of a central ruby in an ornate setting embellished with pearls, sapphires and delicate coloured enamel, hanging down into her deep cleavage on an ornate gold chain.

It gave her courage, and she could be confident that Ventris would recognise it. If he came. Surely, he’d come.

She entered alone, braving a few blatant stares, and was announced, her hostess coming forward to greet her, her urbane husband – who was sometimes described as the handsomest man in London – at her side.

Viola had no eyes for him, though she had enough self-control not to scan the room for the man she was truly anxious to see.

The couple seemed pleased to welcome her, and were commenting on what a rare pleasure it was to see her in Town.

Asking after her boys. She reciprocated – she knew that Lady Granville had had a baby last year: a daughter.

They did seem happy and united, as far as one could tell, so perhaps it was truly possible for a man to change; perhaps Ventris might change, if he chose to.

Lord Granville too had been a notorious philanderer in his day, which hadn’t been so long ago.

A famous lady had, it was rumoured, attempted to put a period to her existence when he had ended their irregular liaison, so desolated had she been at her loss.

But then again, he was a politician of some repute, and an experienced and trusted ambassador, despite his scandalous private life – not anything more dishonourable or alarming than that.

He’d just had to stop chasing women (Viola hoped for Harriet’s sake that he’d stopped), not alter his whole manner of existence.

Her hosts moved on to greet other guests, and Viola fixed a smile on her face and entered into light conversation with various acquaintances who happened to be standing nearby.

Lord This, Lady That, Mr Somebody-Or-Other.

If she’d ever been practised at this sort of thing, she wasn’t now, and she found it excruciating, though she trusted that wasn’t obvious to anybody.

To think she’d yearned for this sort of existence once, when she’d been marooned in the country alone with Edward for months at a time – now she merely endured it, with a goal in mind.

She knew that she must be an object of some interest here; she could feel eyes on her, assessing, judging, and hear a more than casual interest behind the polite questions she was being asked.

It was understandable, she supposed, though she didn’t have to like it.

She was a high-ranking noblewoman, but she rarely appeared in society, and almost never participated in the London Season as others did, though she had at least been presented at Court, finally, eight or nine years ago.

This had been done on her own insistence, because it looked so odd and somehow demeaning that she had not been previously.

Her husband had been a notorious recluse, which perhaps explained the secluded life she’d lived with him – but he was dead now, and had been for some years.

Did her surprising attendance at this party hold some deeper significance?

they’d be wondering. Might she intend to come out of her shell for good, and remarry, even?

Could she be considered a catch? Surely not, when there were so many dewy young heiresses and ladies of noble birth to choose from in the haut ton.

She did seem to be attracting a fair amount of masculine attention in particular.

Ladies whispered; gentlemen looked her up and down quite openly.

Maybe the low-cut gown had been a mistake.

But almost all of the other women were wearing gowns as low, or lower.

Lady Caroline Lamb’s nipples were a presence in themselves.

Why couldn’t everyone go and drool over them instead?

But perhaps they held no novelty, having been on show too often before.

Lady Caroline and her nipples weren’t received everywhere these days, after the scandalous affair with Lord Byron that had reached its public climax in the summer, but Lady Granville was her cousin, of course, and had grown up with her.