‘It must have been quite the sight,’ she said rapturously. ‘All the regiments lining up together, the horses, the red coats, the—’
‘Death?’ Radcliffe supplied, smiling grimly. ‘For I confess it is the death I remember most from that day, not the red coats.’
Lady Radcliffe stood abruptly from her chair. ‘Shall we retire for tea, ladies?’ she sang cheerily, and Kitty abandoned her blancmange with some sadness.
The warm regard with which the Misses Talbot and Mrs Kendall were treated over tea was at utter odds with the earlier chilly reserve of these same ladies. Only Mrs Burrell seemed unmoved by the explanation of their very protective father, while Lady Montagu and Mrs Sinclair – never to be behind on a trend – had decided the Talbot sisters were ‘the prettiest behaved creatures’ they had ever met. Kitty, for her part, leant more deeply into her character, begging for the ladies’ advice on navigating London’s social waters. Accustomed as these ladies were to young women desiring to appear accomplished and worldly in their presence, they were refreshed and flattered by so frank an acknowledgement of their lofty societal position. By the time the gentlemen joined them, Kitty had been promised invitations to three balls, all in the next month.
‘I think we can count that as a success, can’t we?’ Kitty whispered to Aunt Dorothy on the carriage ride home.
‘Yes.’ Aunt Dorothy was looking thoughtful. ‘Yes, against all the odds, I think we can.’
She turned to look at her niece, and Kitty wondered if she was going to deliver yet another lecture about the unsuitability, the riskiness, of Kitty’s strategy. But her aunt surprised her once again.
‘I still think you are quite mad,’ she warned her. ‘And I still find your relentless perseverance fatiguing. But I must admit, tonight was rather … thrilling.’ She paused. ‘All this to say: I’m in, my dear. I shall help you, however I can.’
‘Who do you want to marry now?’ Cecily interrupted, quite confused. ‘It isn’t Lord Montagu, is it? The interesting young man I was seated next to at dinner.’
Kitty raised her eyes to the heavens.
‘Cecily, I am not so ridiculous to aim at a titled gentleman, especially not one from such a powerful family – do give me some credit.’
‘Oh, good,’ Cecily said vaguely, her attention fading once more. Content to let the rest of the journey pass in silence, Kitty closed her eyes and let her head fall back upon the seat.
Across town, Radcliffe was walking home – St James’s Place being only a short stroll from Grosvenor Square – feeling similarly relieved. Miss Talbot had admittedly played her part very well – he was almost embarrassed on behalf of his set for how easily they had fallen for her wiles in the end.
Almost embarrassed, but not quite. After the grilling Lady Salisbury had given him on Waterloo, he was now very willing to leave them to their fate. And soon, he would be able to wash his hands of the entire affair. He would need to stay in town long enough to give Miss Talbot the dance he owed her, but aside from that there was no need for his further involvement, nor his presence in London. After tonight, he was quite sure that his days spent worrying about Miss Talbot would be over.
15
Miss Talbot’s visit to Radcliffe’s house the following morning was not exactly spontaneous. That night, Kitty once again found sleep elusive, spending the hours instead in doubt and deliberation. There were a thousand things she did not know about high society – did she really think one night of success meant she could feel at ease? She fell into a troubled doze just before dawn, and by the time the sun had fully risen, it was clear to Kitty that further reconnaissance was absolutely necessary in order to avoid disaster.
Beaverton observed Miss Talbot and Sally upon the front step with dismay, but his reaction was far eclipsed by his master’s, who was appalled to learn that this horror was to be visited upon him a second time.
‘What now?’ he demanded, having slunk reluctantly downstairs to confront the fiend.
‘Just a few more questions,’ Kitty said, extracting her notebook from her reticule. ‘May I begin?’
‘Good lord …’ she heard him murmur faintly.
‘At Lady Montagu’s ball, which dances are there likely to be?’ she asked, head stooped over the book and pen at the ready.
‘The cotillion and the quadrille, I imagine, as well as all the usual country dances,’ he said, succumbing to the inevitable. ‘And the waltz, though I would avoid that until you are established. The sticklers still consider it a little fast.’