Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom. Deb Marlowe

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СКАЧАТЬ hoping to be asked along, but Trey and Chione were occupied with each other, and caught up in the wonder of what awaited them.

      Jack had been left behind and he’d found himself strangely unsettled. He pressed his good hand hard against his brow. His preoccupation with Batiste had grown, becoming something closer to obsession. The villain had slipped away on the tide, leaving Hassan and his other confederates to be caught up in Treyford’s net. The man’s escape nagged at Jack incessantly.

      He stood. He was due to meet Pettigrew, to test those devilishly bad-mannered bays the baron was trying to sell. Jack cast a rueful glance down at his arm. This was not the most reasonable course of action, but, damn it, the man had baited him. At any other point in his life, Jack would have ignored the baron’s desperate manoeuvre. Not this time. Instead he had risen like a trout to a well-crafted lure. A stupid response. Immature. And yet another maddening symptom of his recent erratic temperament.

      Jack struggled into his greatcoat and decided to stop by White’s and pick up his brother along the way. Charles was in town to further his reform causes before the Parliamentary session closed, and to conveniently avoid the domestic chaos brought on by a colicky baby. And since he had been the one to introduce him to Pettigrew, then riding along with a crippled driver and an unruly team was the least he could do.

      As he set out, a chill wind began to gust. The cold blast of air made his arm throb like an aching tooth. Jack huddled a little deeper into his coat and rifled in his pocket for Pettigrew’s hastily scribbled address. He stopped short. The baron’s dire financial straits had led him to take rooms in Goodman’s Fields. An unsavoury neighbourhood it might be, but it was conveniently located near enough to the London docks—where the offices of Batiste’s defunct shipping company were located.

      Jack quickened his step. This might not be a wasted day after all.

      Lily Beecham glanced at her mother from the corner of her eye. Mrs Margaret Beecham had turned slightly away from her daughter, avoiding the brightest light as she concentrated on her needlework. Slowly, surreptitiously, Lily tilted her head back and directly into the path of the afternoon sunshine.

      Though it wasn’t the least bit ladylike, Lily loved the warmth of the sun on her face. The burst of patterned radiance behind her closed eyelids, the brush of the breeze on her heated cheeks; it took her back, every single time. For a few seconds she was a girl again, in her father’s arms, giggling like mad while he spun her round and his rich, booming laugh washed over her. Sometimes she could hear its echo still, the liquid sound of pure love.

      Not now, though. Now she heard only the unnecessarily loud clearing of her mother’s throat. ‘Lilith, this is a public thoroughfare, not the back pasture at home.’

      ‘Yes, of course, Mother.’ Lily straightened in her seat. She glanced down at her copy of Practical Piety, but she’d read Hannah More’s work many times over already and now was not the time to risk her mother discovering the thin volume she’d tucked inside. She got to her feet and began to pace behind the table they’d been asked to tend for Lady Ashford’s Fancy Fair and Charity Bazaar.

      The majority of the booths and tables in the countess’s event had been strung along Rotten Row in Hyde Park, where they were sure to catch the attention of those with both the inclination and the wherewithal to purchase ribbons, bonnets and embroidered penwipes in the name of charity. The Book Table, however, along with the Second-Hand Clothing and the Basketry tables, had been pronounced more likely to appeal to the masses, and had thus been placed outside the Grosvenor Gate, right alongside Park Lane.

      ‘It is somewhat frustrating, isn’t it, Mother—that we’ve sat here all day, just outside the most famous park in London, and we’ve yet to set foot inside?’

      ‘Not in the least. Why should such a thing vex you? This park is full of grass and trees just like any other.’ Mrs Beecham’s needle did not pause as she glanced up at her daughter. ‘We should count ourselves fortunate to have been asked to help today. It is an honour to be of service to such a noble cause.’

      ‘Yes, of course you are right.’ Lily suppressed a sigh. She didn’t know why she should be surprised at the disappointments of the day. The entire trip to town had been an exercise in frustration.

      Long ago her father had talked to her of London. He had perched her on his knee, run his fingers through the tangle of her hair and spoken of great museums, elaborate theatrical productions and the noisy, chaotic workings of Parliament, where the fates of men and nations were decided. He had spun fanciful stories of her own future visits to the greatest city in the world, and she had eagerly absorbed every tale.

      But her father had died before his stories could come true and Lily’s busy, happy life had been abandoned for sober duty and sombre good works. And so, it seemed, had her dream of London.

      Her hopes had been so high when her mother had announced that they were to travel to town and spend the month of May. But over the last weeks, joy and anticipation had dwindled. She had trailed her mother from one Reformist committee to another Evangelical meeting and on to an Abolitionist group, and the dreadful truth had dawned on her. Her surroundings had changed, but her situation had not.

      ‘Mr Cooperage will make a fine missionary, don’t you agree?’ her mother asked, this time without looking away from her work. Lily wondered if it was giving her trouble, so intent did she appear.

      ‘He will if the fancy work inside the park proves more profitable than the Book Table. Even with the Cheap Repository Tracts to sell, we haven’t raised enough to get him a hackney across town, let alone passage to India.’

      Her mother frowned.

      Lily sighed. ‘I don’t mean to be flippant.’ She stood on her toes to peer past the gate and into the park. ‘There does seem to be a bigger crowd gathered inside.’

      Her mother’s scowl faded as a young woman strolling past on a gentleman’s arm broke away to approach their table. Lily returned her friendly smile and admired the white lute-string trim on her violet walking dress.

      ‘Good afternoon,’ the young woman said brightly. ‘But it seems as if you are out of A. Vaganti?’ She nodded towards Lily’s chair and the volume now peeking from the staid pages of Mrs More’s work. ‘I’ve already read The Emerald Temple. I was wondering if you might have the newest Nicolas adventure, The Pharaoh’s Forbidden City?’

      Mrs Beecham darted a sharp glance in Lily’s direction. ‘No, but we have several more improving works. Bowdler’s Shakespeare, for instance, if fiction is what interests you.’

      The young lady gave a soft, tinkling laugh. ‘Oh my, no! Surely it is a shame to allow that man to chop apart the works of our great bard? What harm is there in Shakespeare? It seems I’ve read or seen his works from the cradle!’

      She tilted her head engagingly. ‘Forgive me for being bold, ma’am,’ she said with a smile. ‘How wonderful you are to give your day to helping Lady Ashford’s good cause.’ She dropped a curtsy. ‘I am Miss Dawson.’ She cast an encouraging glance at Lily.

      Hurriedly, Lily returned the curtsy. ‘My mother, Mrs Margaret Beecham.’ She gestured and smiled back. ‘I am Miss Beecham.’ Something about the girl’s friendly countenance had her blurting out, ‘But please, you must call me Lily.’

      ‘Beecham?’ the girl asked with a frown of concentration. She eyed Lily curiously. ‘You test my recollection of our ponderous family tree, but I believe we have relatives of that name. Might you come from Dorset?’

      ‘Indeed, СКАЧАТЬ