Scandal At The Midsummer Ball. Marguerite Kaye

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      ‘You have, then, eliminated yourself from the list of runners and riders?’ Fergus quipped.

      ‘Most people of my acquaintance would assume that I would ride a horse of a very different colour.’

      ‘I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d like most people of your acquaintance to think, Sir Timothy, but over the years, I have commanded men from all walks of life, and all persuasions. Your secret is safe with me.’

      ‘Bravo,’ Sir Timothy responded with a silent clap of his hands. ‘A man who has a sharper eye even than I. I congratulate you, Colonel Kennedy. I find that my little charade encourages people to underestimate me, which from a business perspective suits my purposes very well. You are no doubt wondering where Lady Verity is. If you will cast your eyes to the doorway, you will be rewarded. A lovely piece, the duke’s niece. You see, I do know why you are here, but your secret is safe with me. You will excuse me now. I do believe I must delve a little further into Mr Gage’s motives for turning up uninvited.’

      Alone again, Fergus watched the Brockmore party make their stately progress around the room. The Duke of Brockmore, known as the Silver Fox, was a handsome man, with a broad intelligent brow under a thick coiffure of silver hair that was more leonine than fox-like. His wife, her gown of watered silk the exact same shade as her husband’s waistcoat, Fergus noted with amusement, had the kind of elegance and grace that gave the impression of timeless beauty.

      And then there was the duke’s niece. Feeling slightly sick, Fergus turned his attention to Lady Verity Fairholme. Lustrous golden locks, china-blue eyes, a swan-like neck, a retroussé nose and a rosebud mouth, she was, in her blue-and-cream gown, perfection itself. Wellington had not, for once, exaggerated in order to get his way. Fergus, ridiculously, wished he had. He ought to be relieved, and extremely grateful. He ought to remember why he had agreed to be here.

      He did not need much reminding. Wellington’s summons a week ago had been an enormous relief. Finally, his days languishing behind a desk were over. ‘Egypt,’ Wellington had told him with one of his rare smiles. ‘Henry Salt is the Consul-General in Cairo. A good man, though his penchant for collecting antiquities could prove a problem. Locals don’t like it. Italians and French want to beat him to it. Tricky situation, potentially. We need a practical, trusted man on the ground, and that’s where you come in.’

      Relief had given way to excitement. Until Wellington explained the price. The diplomatic posting required a suitable wife to host social events and entertain guests. Apparently his friend, the Duke of Brockmore, required a husband for his niece. An excellent piece of serendipity, Wellington called it. Unfortunately, Fergus could not have one without the other—and on this, his commander-in-chief was implacable. ‘Such prestigious postings as this come up very rarely, Colonel. You may have to wait two, three, perhaps even four or five years before another becomes available. Do you really enjoy counting muskets that much?’

      The Duke of Wellington’s smile this time had been thin. The threat was barely veiled. Sixteen years, Fergus had served obediently in the army. Now he must march to a different drum, or he might never march again. It stuck in his craw to be manoeuvred in this way, but if he was to be stuck behind a desk for the rest of his service, he’d likely die of boredom. A wife, an apparently beautiful, accomplished and well-born wife, was a small price to pay for such an exciting posting. Egypt—that was the thing he had to keep in mind. Egypt and escape from drudgery. Though now he was here...

      Now he was here, he’d better stop wasting his time wishing that he were not. Whatever doubts he might harbour about this arranged marriage, he had no doubts at all about Wellington’s judgement. If he said that his friend’s niece would suit Fergus ‘admirably’ then it was up to Fergus to make sure that she did, because the consequences, if he failed to make a match of it, were unthinkable.

      The Duke and Duchess of Brockmore were now only a few feet away. Fergus braced himself. Looking across the room, he saw Sir Timothy Farthingale deep in conversation with a statuesque flame-haired woman of about thirty, clad in a scarlet dress which clung in all the right places to her voluptuous figure. Sir Timothy, he noticed with an inward smile, was having to work very hard to keep his eyes from that magnificent bosom. Maintaining an act was hard work, it seemed.

      ‘Colonel Kennedy, I presume? A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I have heard a great deal about you from my friend, Wellington. May I present my wife, the Duchess of Brockmore, and my niece, Lady Verity Fairholme?’

      Fergus bowed first to the duke, then to the duchess, and then to the niece. Lady Verity’s hand was limp in his. While they made the usual introductory small talk her eyes glazed over and her gaze drifted to the painting behind his head. Suppressing his irritation, he nodded and smiled, responding automatically to the duchess’s remarks about the weather, the duke’s enquiries as to Wellington’s health. Lady Verity’s eyes continued to drift around the room. She fluttered her fan in the direction of the Kilmun twins. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, to no one in particular, then turned her back, making for a large footstool in the middle of the room, where she ensconced herself, and was immediately joined by the twins.

      ‘It may be that my niece finds the heat trying,’ the duke said stiffly, for the affront was clearly deliberate. ‘I am sure she did not intend to be rude.’

      ‘Indeed not,’ Fergus said tightly. ‘I am sure that if Lady Verity intended to be rude she would make a better fist of it than a mere flounce.’

      ‘Touché, Colonel Kennedy,’ the duchess said with a forced smile. ‘Now, who else would you like to be introduced to?’

      He had already met the one person he’d come here to meet, and it had been a far from auspicious beginning. His nerves had given way to a horrible flat feeling, as if he’d been waiting all day to confront an enemy who did not show up. Not that Lady Verity was the enemy—though dammit, she had appeared more enemy than ally.

      One of the many lessons Wellington had taught him was that on occasion it was prudent to beat a strategic retreat and regroup. ‘Thank you,’ Fergus replied, making his bow, ‘but I’m finding the unseasonable heat a little oppressive myself. If you will excuse me, I think I will retire outside momentarily for some fresh air.’

      * * *

      The sun blazed down from a cloudless, azure sky. Fergus glanced at the handy little map he’d found in his bedchamber—another example of the Duke of Brockmore’s legendary attention to detail—and reckoned he was at the top of the steps leading down to the South Lawn. Sure enough, the waters of the ornamental lake glinted in the distance. It would be much cooler there. He’d be tempted to wander down, were it not for the fact that he’d be spotted from the drawing-room windows.

      He descended from the terrace to a lawn so perfect he reckoned the Duke of Brockmore’s gardeners must have trimmed it with grape scissors. Behind him, the house itself seemed to glitter in the sunshine, looking as if it was constructed from spun sugar. The beauty of the country mansion could not be denied, with its pleasing symmetry, its surprising lack of ostentation. It reminded him of an Italian palazzo he’d been billeted in once. He couldn’t remember where, but he did remember it was summer, like this, and the marble floors had been blissfully cool on his feet, which were aching and blistered from long days of marching. There had been a lake there too, where he’d swum.

      And there had been a woman. Fergus smiled. There had been a good many women back in those days, and a good many wild parties too, when they were not fighting wild battles. Though he did not forget the tedium of endless drills and weeks of tense waiting, though he did not wish to relive the horrors of the aftermath of battle, he missed—oh, how he missed—the excitement, and the danger, СКАЧАТЬ