19
Radcliffe had spent far longer in London than he had ever meant to, and yet, though he could not exactly explain why, he had still not set a date for his return to Devonshire. And this despite the fact that life in the city was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Since the Sinclair ball, Radcliffe had somehow managed to become entangled in the grips of a queue of persistent young women and their even more persistent mothers.
He had been beset by invitations to balls, routs, card parties, picnics and outings, and by calling card after calling card – he was even plagued by unwelcome visitors to his home, when a young lady and her mother sought his house for a respite from the heat of a mild spring morning, having reportedly come over faint. From this fate, at least, he managed to escape by hurriedly exiting out of the back door. Radcliffe knew that he must always expect a certain dedication of pursuit from the matrimonial market – possessing a title, significant wealth and, unlike many of his fellow lords, all of his teeth – and yet he felt the current siege was reaching near unprecedented levels of fervour. He could not think what had given them all such gumption, and if the trend continued, he would have no choice but to make a cowardly retreat.
It was not until he dined at Grosvenor Square with his mother and sister, that he was offered elucidation upon the situation. No sooner had he entered the dining room than Lady Radcliffe had flung herself into her son’s arms, in transports of mingled delight and remonstration. Radcliffe caught the eye of his sister over her shoulder, but Amelia merely smirked at him.
‘Is everything all right, Mother? Are you feeling quite well?’ he asked cautiously. She released him.
‘Don’t think I am not most pleased,’ she said, quite incomprehensibly. ‘But how could you not tell me first?’
It took until the first course was served for Radcliffe to grasp the full meaning of this nonsensical speech – to understand that his mother believed his reason for remaining in London was to find a wife. He felt himself come out in a thick sweat.
‘That is simply not the case,’ he told her firmly.
‘I told you!’ Amelia sang.
‘Where did you hear such fudge?’ he demanded.
‘Lady Montagu,’ his mother said sulkily. ‘And you might know what a blow it was to receive such news from her!’
‘There is no such news,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Where did she hear it?’
‘Oh, you know,’ his mother waved her hand in a vague motion that he supposed was meant to refer to the rumour-mill, ‘Lady Kingsbury heard it from someone.’
‘Lady Kingsbury always has been an egregious snake,’ he said bitterly. ‘But where on earth could she have got such fustian nonsense—’ He broke off, a sudden memory swimming to the forefront of his mind, of Miss Talbot speaking confidentially to a heavily bejewelled Lady Kingsbury, both women looking his way.
‘That little devil,’ he said softly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ his mother was quite affronted, and he apologised profusely.
‘May I ask then, James, what is your purpose in remaining with us in London?’ Lady Radcliffe said, convinced at last that he was telling the truth. She looked at him, hope and concern warring in her eyes. ‘I had thought you could not bear to be among us, after Waterloo.’ She reached out to grasp his hand. ‘Have you returned to us?’
He squeezed her palm, knowing she did not just mean London.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
She was right that he had stayed away from the crowds, the pomp, the spectacle of the London ton ever since he set foot back on British soil, thinner and a little haunted from all he had seen. Barring his father’s funeral, he had found every reason he could to avoid … the whole world, really. It had felt simpler that way, to keep away from all the heavy expectation of London society, as he tried to understand who he was. Yet now he was finding every reason he could to tarry longer in the city. He could not adequately explain it even to himself.
‘I don’t know,’ he said again. ‘But I think I shall stay for a little longer.’
His mother’s smile was joyful. ‘I am glad,’ she said simply. ‘Will you escort me to the Salisbury ball tonight? Archie is quite simply not to be depended upon – I do not know where that boy is getting to these days.’
Radcliffe felt confident Miss Talbot was to blame for his current romantic predicament. After his stint in His Majesty’s army, he had a certain instinct for skulduggery, which was leading him straight to that irredeemable pest. Thus, when Miss Talbot arrived at the Salisbury ball that evening, she was approached almost immediately by a stormy-faced Radcliffe, who bowed perfunctorily before informing her, quite politely, that she was a harpy.