When their rooms were prepared, Elidh was more than ready to seek the sanctuary of hers.
Rosie was waiting for her, unpacking trunks. ‘Did you see him, yet?’ She was vibrating with excited energy as she shook out a dinner gown.
‘No, we won’t see him until supper.’ Elidh untied her hat. ‘That’s better. All these clothes are so hot. Help me get out of this dress.’ She looked about the room as Rosie worked her laces loose. Even on short notice, the room carried the same opulence displayed throughout the house: pale blue walls, yards of flowing sheer white curtains at the long windows, wainscoting at the ceiling finished with intricately carved cornices, plush carpet beneath her feet, and a bed to die for—crisp linen, soft pillows, and a silk coverlet in easy-to-stain white, the ultimate in luxury.
‘There’s even a little chamber off your room for me to sleep in. My own room. That’s so much better than sharing a bed with my nieces in Upper Clapton,’ Rosie confided. ‘I’ve never seen a place so posh.’
‘I haven’t either.’ Doubt swamped Elidh. ‘Do you think we’re in over our heads, Rosie?’ They could still pull out, leave at any time. There were numerous excuses they could give. It wasn’t too late.
Rosie gathered up her gown and winked. ‘Being in over our heads is half the fun. We’ll manage, you’ll see.’
‘You’re as crazy as my father.’ Elidh stretched out on the bed.
‘Maybe so, but he hasn’t ever let us down,’ Rosie answered. Elidh thought that was debatable. She supposed it depended on how one looked at it. Rosie began going through the wardrobe, sorting through the newly unpacked gowns. ‘Do you remember when the troupe was in Prussia and the axel on the wagon broke?’ She did remember, it had been November and there’d been an early snow. ‘We had no money for rooms and repairs, so your father arranged for us to perform at the tavern in exchange for room and board. We never went hungry even when our pockets were to let.’ They’d slept in the hayloft, all of them crammed together. There’d been little comfort and less privacy, as Elidh recalled. She’d picked hay out of her clothes for days afterwards. ‘We always managed.’ Rosie sighed with nostalgia. ‘Now, what shall we wear tonight? I’ll need to get it pressed and these new skirts with their yards and yards of fabric are the very devil.’
Elidh laughed. ‘Spoken like a true lady’s maid. You pick. You’ll know what’s best.’ She would like to share Rosie’s nostalgic view of the past. Once, she had done so, but from the vantage point of the last few years, all she could see was how close to the edge they’d lived, how risky the adventure of their lives had always been. There’d never been a time of plenty, of ease, where there wasn’t a need to think about where the next meal came from. She envied the girl she’d once been, who hadn’t feared that uncertainty, who hadn’t been bothered by the unknown.
Elidh rolled to her side and stared out the window, listening to the ripple of the water ladder in the garden below. When had she changed? When had any risk become too much risk? When had she begun to crave certainty and stability? Goodness knew she wouldn’t find any of those things here. This whole scheme was the antithesis of all that.
‘What do you suppose Mr Keynes will be like?’ Rosie asked from the wardrobe. ‘Do you suppose he’s handsome?’
‘He’s certainly arrogant, to think he’ll find a bride in two weeks.’ Elidh sighed. ‘He’s audacious, too. How could he be otherwise, Rosie? I can’t imagine a serious man engineering such a spectacle, not that I need to worry. He won’t look twice at me, not with a house full of lovely girls.’ The sooner Rosie and her father accepted the fact that she couldn’t compete, the sooner they could set aside their fanciful notions.
But Rosie was undeterred. ‘There will be no talk of defeat, not so soon and with a closet of new dresses waiting to be worn. Don’t count yourself out yet. Now, come sit and let’s start to work on your hair for dinner. You have to give old Rosie a chance to work her magic and you might just be surprised.’
* * *
‘We have unexpected guests.’ Sutton’s mother met him in the hall outside the drawing room where the company was gathering before dinner, her voice low as she imparted the news. ‘Italian royalty have arrived. I’ll have them vetted of course. I’ll make enquiries immediately.’
‘I don’t like surprises.’ He’d had enough of those this week to last a lifetime.
His mother shot him a sharp look. ‘You wouldn’t be surprised if you’d been here to greet them.’ He’d spent the afternoon in the dairy and the stables, pointedly avoiding the company converging on Hartswood until the very last minute, which was fast approaching. At the stroke of seven it would all begin—the countdown to his wedding.
‘Why are they here? Does the Principessa want to try her luck?’ Sutton joked drily with a nod towards the drawing room. How odd to think his future bride was in that room right now and he had no idea who she would be. The thought was enough to unnerve him.
‘Hardly. They assure me they are here to experience an English house party. They saw the announcement in The Times.’
‘How intriguing. Guests who aren’t interested in the fortune.’ Sutton held out his arm to his mother. ‘Shall we? I can’t put it off any longer.’
He halted at the doorway, taking in the scene before him, the drawing room so full of guests it might have been a ball. There was no question of the dining room accommodating everyone. Dinner would be served in the ballroom tonight at round tables of eight. His popularity had outstripped the capacity of traditional dining arrangements. He patted his mother’s hand. ‘You’ve done well. I think every eligible girl in London is here.’
She smiled up at him. ‘And then some. The footmen have already evicted six ineligible candidates whose family trees weren’t quite as strong as they purported them to be.’ She shook her head. ‘Granddaughters of earls simply won’t hold up to scrutiny if your cousin contests the will or your marriage. We need the daughter of a titled father, a very clean, direct, connection. That’s trouble we don’t need.’ She grimaced. ‘Speaking of trouble, has there been any word from Baxter yet?’
‘No.’ But Sutton feared Baxter had eyes and ears at this party and that his cousin was merely waiting for him to single out a bride before he made his move. ‘But we’ll see him before this is done. He won’t let the money go without a fight.’ Sutton surveyed the room, taking in all the girls, all of them looking frightfully young and frightfully alike. ‘Which one is she, do you think?’
‘Your wife?’ His mother laughed.
‘No, the Italian Principessa.’ He paused, his eyes lighting on the woman by the long window; blonde hair done up in artfully braided loops, her posture straight, her gaze fixed on a point beyond the room as she looked out into the gardens, and that dress, red—startlingly so—against the backdrop of the room’s virginal palette. There was something about her that made his heart pound, as if she, too, were somehow apart from this world he was forced to inhabit and he knew. ‘It’s her. That’s the Principessa.’
‘Yes, and she’s not for you, my son. Come, let me introduce you to the others.’
* * *
Sutton spent the next half-hour of drinks in the drawing room, smiling and bowing to all the darling daughters. There were plump ones, thin ones, blondes, brunettes, redheads; girls with curls, with straight, silky tresses; girls
