‘Talbot?’ Lady Montagu asked now. ‘Any relation of the Paris Talbots?’
Yes, thought Kitty, though that was not an association she would like broadcast, in case anyone made the connection to the scandal of her parents.
‘No,’ she lied calmly. ‘We hail from Dorsetshire.’
‘Oh, then you must already know the Salisburys?’
‘We have not yet been introduced,’ Kitty admitted.
‘Oh,’ Lady Montagu’s eyes flickered over her shoulder, as if immediately losing a little interest. ‘The Digbys then? Glorious estate, isn’t it? My daughters summered there last year.’
‘We have not been,’ Kitty said, shaking her head. ‘Though I do hear it is lovely.’
Lady Montagu looked disappointed, again, and turned instead to Aunt Dorothy.
‘And … Mrs Kendall, wasn’t it?’
Even to Kitty’s ears, ‘Kendall’ sounded a little common. She wished they could have changed it, but it was far too late now. Aunt Dorothy behaved splendidly, telling an amusing anecdote about how she had met her deceased – and fictional – husband, but Lady Montagu was plainly not listening. Having revealed how damningly unconnected they were, Lady Montagu had clearly deemed them as useless to her and was desperate to move on to more fruitful ground.
To Kitty’s dismay, this was to be the blueprint for all their introductions: the whole company shared a need, it seemed, to place the Talbots and Mrs Kendall within their social geography, and they were quite baffled when they could not. The Talbots looked and acted like well-born young ladies of quality, and yet they did not know a single person that they should. As they continued to deny their acquaintance of a single high-society family in the whole of the West Country, the hauteur of the assembled guests began to rise. This was a smaller world than Kitty had realised, and one must be categorised within it to be accepted. The saving grace of their situation was that the other guests were all too distracted by Lord Radcliffe’s presence to interrogate her properly. Radcliffe was clearly a glamorous figure to them – titled, wealthy and unmarried, yes, but also rarely seen in polite society since his time on the Continent. Serving as attaché to Wellington and then fighting at Waterloo, though his role was only intended to be diplomatic in nature – it was the kind of story that rarely involved first sons, and the relentlessly hierarchical ton found it all the more scintillating for it.
Whenever Radcliffe spoke, the whole room quietened a little, as if hoping he might be about to tell a tale of derring-do about the war. He never did, and Kitty was relieved when Lady Radcliffe announced dinner would be served. Lady Radcliffe had not seated Kitty beside Mr de Lacy, for which Kitty was thankful – given her recent promise to leave Mr de Lacy alone, she had been avoiding his eye all evening – and instead she had Mr Sinclair on her left, and Captain Hinsley on her right.
As they arranged themselves, Hinsley sent her a wink, which she returned with a frosty stare, not having forgiven him for his part in obstructing her pursuit of Mr de Lacy. The first course was served, and despite her nerves, Kitty took a moment to marvel at the dishes as they were offered to her by Mr Hinsley and Sinclair. The quantity alone was impressive: four tureens of artichoke soup sat at the corners of the table, and between them were plates of butter-soaked turbot, a loin of veal, and upwards of twenty side dishes beside – all dressed in sauces Kitty could not name. It was a far cry from the vegetable pudding and larded sweetbreads they had eaten on their last night at Netley.
Radcliffe had said that ladies must first speak to the gentleman on their left, and so she turned to Mr Sinclair, sending him a tremulous smile and hoping he would be an easier conversational partner than his wife – who could not for the life of her understand why Kitty did not know the Beaufort family, and would not let the matter drop. But alas, though Mr Sinclair was good-humoured, he was not so good-humoured as to spare Kitty the usual interrogation.
‘Biddington? Ah, I know the area well!’ he said. ‘You must know Ducky, of course.’
‘Ducky’？ Had she heard correctly? It had certainly sounded like Ducky. She stared at him blankly. Was Ducky a place? A literal duck that was for some reason famous in these circles? Her palms grew a little moist as she wondered what the safest response might be, and Mr Sinclair’s face became increasingly confused at her silence.
‘Lord Mallard,’ he clarified at last, when it became clear Kitty was going to say nothing.
‘Oh,’ she said faintly. A nickname, then. ‘No, I am afraid I do not.’