Page 6 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Hawkscroft was a vast building, built more to impress than invite, with towering gothic gates, a tall sweep of front steps flanked either side by stone gargoyles.

It was not Sir Waldo’s ancestral home. The second son of a Baron, Sir Waldo had instead gained his title and his fortune through employment in the East India Company, and then he had purchased Hawkscroft from Lord Cavendish, whose debilitating financial troubles had forced him to part from his ancestral seat.

Even the oldest families could find themselves crumbling.

Despite the warm summer air, Ashford felt himself shiver.

‘Come along!’ Lady Phoebe said with a chivvying noise. Her definition of taking a turn constituted less of a relaxed stroll and more of a brisk patrol of Hawkscroft’s acres of intricately designed gardens, as she cast a critical eye over each tree, shrub and window, searching for any tiny flaw.

‘If I am to be on show in front of the busiest gossips in Society,’ she explained, ‘then every single thing and every single moment will be absolutely perfect.’

‘Keeping expectations manageable, I see,’ Ashford said. ‘Can I do anything to assist matters?’

‘No! You might run yourself ragged year-round,’ Lady Phoebe said in reprimanding tones, as she plucked a tiny wilting bloom from a nearby hydrangea bush ‘but this week, I am determined that you will rest .’

‘Ho there!’

The bellowed greeting had them turning, rather startled, to see Sir Waldo approaching, a wide smile upon his face.

He was older than Lady Phoebe, a gentleman of five and thirty years, and quite as generously proportioned as his home: very tall, very broad and possessing the thickest side whiskers Ashford had ever seen.

‘Has anyone arrived yet?’ Sir Waldo boomed, no less quietly for being with touching distance. Volume modulation did not come naturally to him.

‘Not yet,’ Lady Phoebe trilled, beaming at her husband, all worry gone from her face. Sir Waldo always did seem to bring out the sunshine and rainbows in Lady Phoebe, her impatience and sharpness vanishing in his company.

‘Usually Dacre is so prompt,’ Sir Waldo said, reaching out to clasp his wife’s hand, quite as if they had been parted for a year rather than an hour. ‘Though why you insisted upon inviting him, I cannot understand!’

‘He is your brother,’ Lady Phoebe pointed out, as they resumed their walk at a more sedate pace.

‘He’s a bore,’ Sir Waldo said. ‘He’ll bore our guests to death, mark my words.’

‘Not with Brandon and Lady Morton attending,’ Lady Phoebe said. ‘They can be counted on to keep things lively.’

‘A famous collection of persons,’ Sir Waldo said with renewed enthusiasm.

‘And,’ she said, with the air of a circus magician revealing their final trick, ‘the Hesses are to join us – all three of them!’

Ashford frowned at his cousin.

‘You did not tell me that,’ he said.

Lady Hesse had spent the better part of the Season trying to matchmake him with her daughter, Miss Cynthia Hesse. She would certainly use this week as an opportunity to promote her suit once more.

‘Did I not?’ Lady Phoebe said. ‘It is a coup, indeed. You know, Lady Hesse has just been appointed the new Lady Patroness of Almack’s and I mean to make a friend of her if it is the last thing I do.’

‘Such an ambitious little thing,’ Sir Waldo said indulgently. ‘Well, I for one am most looking forward to meeting your ladylove, my lord!’

He threw a jocular elbow into Ashford’s side. Ashford forced a smile but, once Waldo had turned, directed a fierce frown at his cousin, who gave a blithe, unrepentant shrug. He had asked Lady Phoebe not to tell Sir Waldo of his engagement – what was the point of it being a secret if it wasn’t one?

‘I would thank you not to refer to her as such,’ he said. ‘Remember, no one can know we are engaged until …’

‘Yes, yes we remember, very very secret,’ Lady Phoebe said.

‘We shall be the souls of discretion, dear boy,’ Sir Waldo promised.

Sir Waldo had taken to affectionately calling him ‘dear boy’ since his marriage to Phoebe, as if there were twenty years between them rather than ten.

The sound of a throat clearing had them all turning.

‘Excuse me, Sir Waldo, my lady, my lord,’ Reeves informed them. ‘The first guest has arrived.’

Lady Phoebe smoothed a hand down the front of her dress.

‘How do I look?’

‘Very well,’ Ashford said.

‘A vision,’ Sir Waldo enthused. ‘Though why do you not wear your diamond necklace?’

Ashford raised his eyes to the heavens. Any fool could see that Sir Waldo’s engagement gift to Lady Phoebe – the most ostentatious string of diamonds anyone had ever clapped eyes upon – would be utterly unsuitable for to wear with a morning dress of jaconet muslin.

‘What is the point of it,’ Sir Waldo said in a stage whisper louder than most people’s shouts, ‘if one does not show it off?’

‘Tonight, I promise,’ Lady Phoebe said, chivvying him back towards the house.

They made their way back to the front steps where the doors were being thrown open and a fleet of shiny-buckled footmen were filing out to flank the stone balustrade and greet the first carriage as it drew up.

The sound of more hooves had them all turning again, to see another gleaming carriage turn in at the gate, closely followed by another, then another, each one grander the last, as guests began arriving thick and fast. Soon the front steps were overrun as ladies arrayed in elegant carriage dresses of dark blue, delicate fawn and pristine cream, and gentleman, their buckskins pressed, their boots shining, not to mention two dozen maids and manservants, countless trunks and hat boxes, and even one small yapping Pekinese descended from the carriages.

‘You must all be parched,’ Lady Phoebe declared, once she had greeted everyone personally. ‘We will serve refreshments on—’

She was interrupted by a very loud, very unpleasant screech.

A last carriage was turning into the gates at some speed, evidently having to press hard upon the brakes to make the turn in time.

It careened up the drive, causing them all to flinch backwards, though whether that was purely because of the unwise speed was unclear.

For the carriage was also painted in the most bizarre fashion Ashford had ever seen: a violent, garish pattern of yellow and pink stripes.

‘Someone is clearly lost.’ But Lady Phoebe’s tinkling laugh was abruptly caught short as, with an unpleasant creak, the chaise door opened and Mr Philip Hanworth poked his head out.

At first sight, he was dressed very properly, in buckskins and a frock coat, but at second glance Ashford noticed that a quizzing glass was clutched in his hand.

‘Who on earth …?’ Lady Hesse began in a stage whisper.

‘The Hanworths!’ Lady Phoebe declared, changing tack at lightning speed. ‘Of course – new friends of ours, you know. Very eccentric, but we think them divine!’

Mr Hanworth did not wait for the carriage steps to be released, leaping down to the ground himself, before turning to hand out the most violently purple woman Ashford had ever seen in his life.

‘Dear lord,’ Lady Morton murmured, clutching her dog to her bosom in alarm.

Despite the damning contextual evidence, it was a moment before Ashford was ready to admit to himself that the purple woman was none other than his bride-to-be.

The Miss Hanworth he had last encountered in London had been arranged becomingly in a gown of simple pale muslin, entirely befitting that of a young, unmarried woman; now, in a garish travelling robe of vivid puce, she resembled nothing less than a giant, walking beetroot.

‘I have never seen a habit of such a colour, all my life,’ Miss Hesse whispered, na?ve wonder in her voice.

‘Waldo, I wonder if you might take our guests to the drawing room,’ Lady Phoebe interjected, ‘so that they might partake of refreshment.’

The rest of the party were shepherded inside, throwing intrigued glances over their shoulders and whispering amongst themselves.

‘You said,’ Lady Phoebe whispered, ‘that she was impeccably deported.’

‘She was!’ Ashford said.

‘If she gives me any cause to blush in front of Lady Hesse …’ Lady Phoebe began from between clenched teeth, before breaking off and taking in a deep, calming breath. ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to …’

A sunny smile swept all negativity from her expression. ‘I am so looking forward to meeting her!’ She began gliding towards the couple, arms outstretched in welcome. ‘Welcome, Mr and Miss Hanworth!’

‘Good afternoon,’ Miss Hanworth said, once she had risen from her curtsey. ‘Thank you so very much for inviting us, Lady Henley.’

Lady Phoebe’s smile became rather fixed. The daughter of an earl, she had retained her previous title rather than take Sir Waldo’s. Ashford would have thought everyone in the Polite World would know such a thing but …

Taking a leaf from his cousin’s book, Ashford took in his own slow breath. One could forgive a momentary lapse of etiquette, and after all, she would not be the first lady to wear an unusual dress. Once they were married, he could advise her against such vegetal outfits.

‘I’m so glad you could come,’ Lady Phoebe said. ‘Now, you must be tired from your journey.’

‘La, not in the slightest,’ Miss Hanworth said. ‘Have all the other lords and ladies arrived? I am all of a-tremble to meet them. My knees are quite knocking together.’

Lady Phoebe cut quick, significant eyes to Ashford.

‘There is not the least reason to be nervous,’ Ashford said, swallowing a flicker of vexation. Young ladies did not habitually refer to knees in mixed company. Nor did they use such cant expressions as ‘la’, for that matter.

‘You have a great many footmen, Lady Phoebe,’ Mr Hanworth piped up, gazing around.

‘Yes, I suppose we do,’ Lady Phoebe said.

‘Almost – almost a … suspicious amount,’ Mr Hanworth added, brow furrowing.

Lady Phoebe stared at him for a moment, nonplussed.

‘Come, I shall show you all to your rooms,’ she said, after a beat, ‘so that you might rest before dinner.’

They were not to be invited to partake in refreshment with the others, thank goodness – Ashford should rather Miss Hanworth change her dress before introductions, too.

Lady Phoebe led the way, tucking Miss Hanworth’s arm into her own, with Mr Hanworth following behind and Ashford bringing the rear, smiling as benignly as he could.

A strange beginning, to be sure. Had he committed a misjudgement, by inviting her here?

It had not escaped his notice that while her family had been in transports of delight over his proposal, she had appeared more timorous – but this had only convinced him further that this would be the kindest way of way of introducing Miss Hanworth to the milieu she would soon be occupying every day. Perhaps he had been wrong.

No matter. A small misjudgement he could easily address.

As soon as they had settled in, they would undoubtedly resume normal behaviour, too.

There was no cause to worry; everything would proceed entirely to plan.

Smile liberally, he reminded himself, be solicitous, spend time with her. It was a foolproof strategy.

‘I am so glad you have joined us,’ Lady Phoebe was saying to Miss Hanworth. ‘I believe this is to be the most memorable week.’

‘I could not agree more,’ Miss Hanworth said, and she sent Ashford a smile over her shoulder.

It was not a smile she had ever given him before. And perhaps it was the great width of it, almost a baring of the teeth, or perhaps it was merely the puce dress adding a strange quality to the exchange … but Ashford felt it was not a nice smile.

And somewhere, deep inside, he had the smallest inkling that he might very well have made the first and greatest mistake of his life.