right, I’ll come. Anything for a friend.’ Anything to take my mind off going to the Mermaid in High Holborn and committing a monumental indiscretion with Bree Mallory.
‘Miss Mallory, I implore you, allow me to cut your hair! How are we to contrive a style even approaching the mode with this much to deal with?’ Mr Lavenham, the excruciatingly expensive coiffeur Bree had decided to employ, lifted the wheaten mass in both hands and looked round with theatrical despair. His assistant rushed to assist with the weight of it, clucking in agreement.
She dithered. It was heavy, it took an age to dry when she washed it, the fashion was for curls and crops. Don’t cut it. The deep voice rang in her head. Bree swung between practicality and the orders of a man she was never going to see again. What is the matter with me? There is no decision to be made—I no longer take orders from anyone.
‘Leave it,’ she said decisively. ‘I am paying you a great deal of money, Mr Lavenham—I expect you to work miracles.’
‘Your Grace, may I introduce my sister, Miss Mallory, and my brother, Mr Mallory, to your notice?’
How very condescending, as though we are actually well below her Grace’s notice, Bree thought, the fixed smile on her lips unwavering. At least he hasn’t slipped in the half sister and brother, just to distance himself as much as possible.
Bree swept her best curtsy, watching out of the corner of her eye as Piers managed a very creditable bow. In front of them the Dowager Duchess of Matchingham narrowed her eyes between puffy lids and assessed them.
How old is she? Bree wondered. Old enough not to care about anyone or anything beyond her own interests and those of the family, and she is one of the generation for whom very plain speaking was the norm. The washed-out blue eyes focused on her.
‘I hear you run some sort of inn.’
‘My brother is half-owner of the Challenge Coaching Company, your Grace. It operates from the Mermaid Inn in High Holborn.’
‘Hmm. What’s this I hear about horse dealing?’ Definitely a throwback to an age where good manners were considered a weakness.
‘My Uncle George breeds the horses for the company, your Grace. He also manages the two farms the family owns. They are very extensive and situated near Aylesbury.’
‘Your family owns land?’
Time to bite back. Bree raised one eyebrow in elegant surprise. ‘But of course, your Grace. Our father was one of the Buckinghamshire Mallorys—Sir Augustus is a cousin.’ The baronet was a fourth cousin once removed and she’d never met him, but he was suitable for these purposes.
‘Indeed.’ Her Grace’s nose was slightly out of joint, Bree could see. The prejudice she had formed could not be sustained, which was always uncomfortable. Time to move on—it would not be politic to rub it in. The Dowager turned her attention to the next person in the receiving line. ‘Lady Bracknell, it must be an age since we met …’
Bree swept another curtsy, thankful, for once, for her mama’s insistence on deportment lessons. Piers was close at her side. ‘Phew, what an old dragon!’
‘And we slew her nicely,’ Bree murmured. ‘Now, time to do the pretty to everyone else.’
Lady Sophia was pale, beautiful in a way that had Piers gazing with dropped jaw until Bree dug him in the ribs and painfully correct. ‘Miss Mallory, Mr Mallory. I am so pleased to meet you.’
‘And we are delighted to meet you,’ Bree rejoined warmly, meaning it. Surely this lovely creature would make James more human? ‘I wish you every happiness.’
Freed from the principals, they were still faced with a formidable line. The Duke, the Duchess, Viscount Lansdowne, all waited to be greeted. Bree liked Sophia’s brother on sight. He was languid, elegantly handsome and had a twinkle in his green eyes that had her dimpling back. It occurred to her, with startling suddenness, that he was exactly the sort of man she had believed was her model of excellence. Until she had met one large domineering gentleman with brown eyes, a stubborn jaw and strong, gentle hands.
‘Run the gauntlet, Miss Mallory?’ the viscount enquired softly.
‘I am afraid the family skeletons were not up to scratch, my lord,’ she rejoined demurely, wondering what possessed her to be so bold. ‘We scarcely rattled at all.’
‘Good. Grandmama deserves the occasional set-down. Will you save me a dance, Miss Mallory?’
‘I would be delighted, my lord.’
‘You are going it!’ Piers observed as they emerged, with some relief, from the end of the receiving line. ‘Dancing with a viscount, indeed.’
‘Why not?’ Bree demanded. ‘I have been having driving demonstrations from an earl, after all.’ She glanced around the big reception room. ‘You should go and find yourself a pretty heiress to flirt with.’
Piers, predictably, went pink to his hairline, but strolled off, heading for a group of young men around the fireplace at one end of the long room.
For an unchaperoned single woman, things were more awkward. She assumed a confident smile and drifted towards a group of gossiping young matrons.
Her silken skirts swished reassuringly as she moved, reminding her that, in this department at least, she had nothing to fear. Sea-foam green silk trimmed with tiny gilt acorns and fine gilt ribbon clung in elegant simplicity. Her hair, braided and curled by a master, was dressed into a style where the intricacies of plait and twist were all the ornament it needed, and, to complete her air of confidence, Mama’s thin gold chains and aquamarine ear bobs provided a refined hint of luxury.
Bree rarely had the opportunity, or wish, to dress up, but when she did, she found a totally feminine delight in it. In fact, after the events of a few days ago, shedding every trace of the booted, overcoat-clad stagecoach driver was a pleasure to be revelled in.
As she came up to the group, a young woman stepped back, squarely on Bree’s foot. ‘I am so sorry! How wretchedly careless of me. Are you all right?’
She was black haired, lovely and vivacious and her wide, apologetic smile had Bree smiling back, despite her sore toes. Then she realised who this lady must be: the likeness was unmistakeable. ‘Excuse me, but are you related to Lady Sophia?’
‘But, yes, she is my baby sister, and Avery is my big brother.’ Her new friend linked a hand confidingly through Bree’s elbow. ‘I am Georgy—Lady Georgiana Lucas, if you want to be stuffy. So now you’ll have met all of us except Augustus and Maria, and they are still in the schoolroom.’
Slightly dazed by the flow of information, Bree allowed herself to be steered to a sofa. ‘I couldn’t bear another minute of Henrietta Ford’s account of her last confinement,’ Lady Lucas continued. ‘It’s bad enough having babies oneself, without someone going through all the details endlessly, don’t you think?’
Georgy stopped, her head on one side, waiting for a response. ‘I’m not married,’ Bree explained. ‘So people don’t talk about that sort of thing in front of me.’
‘Aren’t you? Good heavens! You look married.’ Bree must have appeared puzzled, for Lady Georgiana went off in
