Page 47 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Lydia had spent enough time in Lady Phoebe’s company to perform a passable enough imitation of her.

As she re-entered the ballroom she pushed her shoulders back, pinned her widest smile to her face and tried to look about the room with the satisfaction of knowing one owned most of the things within it.

‘Lady Phoebe!’ Lady Hesse called, hastening towards her. Lydia turned and hurried in the opposite direction, but within two more steps she found herself hailed again.

‘Phoebe, darling,’ Lady Morton said, appearing at her right-hand side, closely followed by a flushed Hesse, ‘if I could just bend your ear for a moment? As much as I hate to admit it, Lady Hesse does have a point regarding discretion …’

Dear lord, could she have no peace?

‘Not now,’ Lydia trilled in her best Lady Phoebe voice, and changed direction again.

‘Phoebe!’

She looked up to see Sir Waldo ahead, beckoning her towards him. She affected not to notice, turning in yet another direction to wind through the ballroom in a complete circuit of the room.

This part was going to be difficult. Ideally, she needed to be within his sights for as much as the evening as possible, whilst avoiding actually speaking to him for as long as possible.

Her imitation might be good, but she did not care to test it face to face with Lady Phoebe’s husband until he had several more drinks under his belt.

But that decision was not up to her, and as she nodded and smiled her way around the room, she became aware that she was being pursued by a flushed and sweating Sir Waldo.

Dear lord. She sped up, watching as new couples began to flock to the floor for the waltz and tried to scan the crowd for someone she might force to be her partner.

Ashford appeared at her side just in the nick of time.

‘He is coming,’ he said. ‘Dance with me.’

She accepted his hand, and they joined just as the musicians began to play the first notes.

‘Where is he now?’ Lydia asked, taking his hand in hers as Ashford placed his arm about her waist.

‘Watching,’ he said.

‘Villainously?’

‘Yes. I hope I am there, when he finds out she is gone – I should like to see the look upon his face.’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself,’ Lydia said. ‘We have the whole night to get through, still.’

She could not help but sigh at the thought. ‘What a day.’

‘It does feel many moons since we were trying to hide in that study,’ Ashford said.

They looked at each other and then away.

‘We kissed, earlier,’ she said, for if they were both thinking of it, they might as well speak of it, surely.

‘Can we strictly call that a kiss?’ Ashford wondered.

‘Our mouths touched,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what else you would call it.’

‘Romantic.’

‘I ought to apologize,’ she said. ‘I should have asked permission.’

‘It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do.’

‘I am not a gentleman.’

‘That much,’ he said, ‘I had already noticed.’

They turned, and turned, and turned again.

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ she said belligerently.

‘You need not be.’ He looked down at her and then quickly away. ‘I do not regret it.’

Lydia inhaled sharply.

‘Ashford—’ she began, but the next turn had her facing towards the doorway, and there was Pip, no mask on his face, his gaze significant and intense.

‘Oh lord,’ she breathed. ‘There is Pip – I forgot all about him.’

‘Poor chap,’ Ashford said. ‘He’s been on a wild-goose chase this afternoon.’

Another turn, and she craned her neck to see him again.

‘No.’ She frowned. ‘He looks … excited.’

His eyes were bright with it. The last notes of the song played and they drew apart.

‘He is beckoning us,’ Lydia said. ‘Let us go at once.’

Ashford nodded, and made an immediate beeline for him, Lydia close behind until her arm was seized.

‘Phoebe!’

She was turned forcibly around with a hammy arm, to look into Sir Waldo’s face. His eyes, through his mask, were glassy with alcohol, something stronger than champagne on his breath.

‘Dance with me!’ he instructed.

‘Waldo!’ Lydia said, in her best, breeziest impression of Lady Phoebe. ‘Yes, of course – I should like nothing better, but I just need to—’

He shook her arm and she glanced desperately over her shoulder for Ashford, but he had disappeared into the crush of people.

‘You have been trying to shake me off all evening,’ he said. ‘But I should like to dance with my wife.’

‘Of course,’ she said, trying to extricate herself again.

‘Look at me when I am speaking to you!’ he said, with another shake, harder than the first, that had her mask slipping. She put a hasty hand up to halt its progress.

‘Stop.’ She tugged at his arm again. ‘You are making a scene.’

‘Let your mask off,’ he said. ‘I wish to look at you.’

‘You will ruin the magic of the evening! she hissed. ‘No!’

His eyes were narrowed with anger.

‘Do not tell me what to do,’ he began, reaching up with one motion to pull the mask from her face, then blinked. ‘Miss … Miss Hanworth?’

‘Sir Waldo,’ she said. ‘You appear to have mistaken me.’

‘I – I thought you were my wife,’ he said, rather stupidly.

‘Evidently,’ she said. ‘May I request you unhand me?’

He did not.

‘You were speaking like my wife,’ he said. ‘And … that is not the domino you were wearing earlier.’

‘You are drunk, sir,’ she said. ‘You know not of what you speak.’

Hurriedly, she placed her mask back on her face, in the vague hope that might confuse him further, but the fog was clearing from his eyes, now.

‘You wished me to believe it was her,’ he said. ‘Why? Miss Hanworth, where is my wife?’

‘How am I meant to know?’ she said, and she meant it to be airy, but he was still holding her arm, squeezing tightly, and his face was red with anger, and so she could not help the edge of fear that entered her voice.

He pushed her arm away firmly enough to cause her to stumble back, then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. Lydia craned her head to search for Ashford, but she could not see him or Pip. It was down to her, and her alone, to decide what to do now.

She ran after him.

Sir Waldo stalked purposefully through the rooms, cutting through the crowds as a knife through butter, whereas Lydia – smaller and so much less intimidating – had to weave and apologize her way through, losing precious seconds of her chase with every delay.

She hoped that he might run upstairs, to look for his wife in her quarters, but no.

With the instincts of a predator he was making directly for the stables, with such strides as Lydia almost lost sight of him.

‘Lady Phoebe!’ Lady Hesse tried to grasp her arm as she passed. ‘I must speak with you.’

Behind her, Lady Morton was hurrying through the crowd, too.

‘Go away!’ Lydia snapped, too harried for politeness.

‘I beg your pardon?’

She sped up, almost tripping over Reeves, and startling him into knocking over his tray of glasses.

‘I’m sorry!’ she said, skittering backwards.

‘My lady?’ Reeves said. ‘Are you well?’

‘I …’ Lydia began.

‘Miss Hanworth?’ He frowned in sudden recognition. ‘What is …?’

‘I cannot stop,’ she said, picking up her skirts to avoid the glass. ‘It is Lady Phoebe – she needs my help!’

She pictured Waldo’s bulk bearing down upon Lady Phoebe with all the violence he had shown against that poor horse only a day before, as intractable and unstoppable as the tide. What help would she even be?

‘Reeves, you must fetch Dacre,’ she told him urgently. ‘Please, fetch Dacre to the stable yard – he might be the only one who can stop him!’

And then she was running through the entrance hall and dashing down the front steps.

Behind her, she could hear the echo of people calling her name – Phoebe’s name – but she ignored them.

In the distance, she could see the Henley carriage almost at the gates, but it had checked, the groom pausing the horses – for Sir Waldo was running after it, waving his arms and bellowing his wife’s name.

‘Stop!’ Sir Waldo was shouting, and as he reached the carriage, he pulled open the door and thrust an arm inside.

‘Waldo,’ Lady Phoebe said, her voice high and nervous carrying back to Lydia, still yards away. ‘I was just – I was—’

But he was not listening, jerking her forcibly from the carriage.

‘Unhand her!’ Lydia tried to call, but she was panting too hard to get the words out.

‘What the blazes are you doing, Phoebe?’ Sir Waldo was pulling his wife down the carriage steps. ‘You foolish, foolish girl. How dare you.’

He began shaking her furiously, his face red with rage, Lady Phoebe’s neck flying this way and that in his hold. Finally, Lydia reached them and seized one of Waldo’s arms, but he shook her off easily.

‘Stop! Stop!’

Behind her, more voices were clamouring, but she could not pay attention.

With fumbling hands, she extracted her grandmother’s pin from the cuff of her puffed sleeve and darted forward again, jabbing every part of Waldo she could reach.

Against his bulk, however, she was as a fly bothering a great horse.

She could not even tell if he noticed her.

But then, from within the carriage, Elspeth tumbled out to assist. She seized the groom’s whip from where he stood helplessly, unsure whether to protect his master or his mistress, and in one swift move laid a great thwacking blow across Waldo’s back.

That he did appear to notice, giving a howl of pain and letting go of Lady Phoebe for a brief moment.

Lady Phoebe, dazed but still standing, took her reticule from where it hung on her arm and threw it with all her might towards his head.

Her aim was true – lawn billiards had its uses – and from the way it clunked as it hit Waldo upon the head, there were heavy coins within.

Sir Waldo barely flinched. It was only a moment before he was advancing again, pushing Lydia aside, seizing Elspeth’s whip to toss it away and bear down upon Lady Phoebe, murder in his eyes.

Lydia and Elspeth grasped at his arms once more – but this time they were not alone.