well, go and talk to your friends, my dear, and I shall meet you in the ballroom.’
Molly happily sent him on his way and went off to the cloakroom to change into her dancing shoes. She tried not to dawdle, acknowledging her reluctance to meet Sir Gerald Kilburn and his guests. The presence of a party of fashionable gentlemen and ladies in Compton Parva was bound to cause a flutter and, while the young ladies present this evening had the advantage of their parents’ protection, her girls, as Molly called the inhabitants of Prospect House, were very vulnerable.
Molly had set up Prospect House as a refuge for young women who had lost their reputation and had nowhere to call home. Some were of humble birth, but many were young ladies who had been cast on to the streets and left with no means of supporting themselves. Molly provided them with food and shelter, and in return, her ‘girls’ helped out in the house and on the farm attached to it. Molly tried to find them suitable work and move them on, but she knew there would always be more destitute young women to take their place.
Molly had worked hard to overcome the doubts and prejudice of the townspeople, but she knew that such a house would attract the attention of rakes and libertines, who would see its inhabitants as fair game. Molly was afraid that some of her younger charges were still innocent and naive enough to succumb to the blandishments of a personable man and that could have catastrophic consequences, not only for the young woman, but also for the refuge itself. In the five years since she had set it up, Prospect House had become self-supporting, but its success relied upon the continuing goodwill of the local townspeople.
She was thus not inclined to look favourably upon the newcomers, and when she went into the ballroom and saw her brother chatting away in the friendliest style to a group of fashionably dressed strangers, she did not approach him. Surmising this must be the party from Newlands, Molly moved to a spot at the side of the room and took the opportunity to observe them.
Sir Gerald was soon identified, a stocky young man with a cheerful, open countenance and a shock of red hair. Molly guessed it was his sister standing beside him. The likeness between the two was very marked, although Agnes’s hair was more golden than red, and in repose, her countenance was more serious. Her glance quickly surveyed the rest of the party. She had no doubt the local ladies would be taking note of every detail of the gowns, from the uncommonly short sleeves of one lady’s blossom-coloured crape to the deep frill of Vandyke lace around the bottom of Miss Kilburn’s gossamer silk. By contrast, the gentlemen’s fashions appeared to be very much the same—dark coats with lighter small clothes and pale waistcoats—but Molly was obliged to admit that she was no expert on the finer points of male fashion.
There was one figure, however, who stood out from the rest of the gentlemen. It was not merely his height, but a certain flamboyance in his appearance. His improbably black hair was pomaded to a high gloss and brushed forward to frame his face with several artistic curls. His countenance was handsome, in a florid sort of way, with thick dark brows and lashes that Molly thought suspiciously dark. His lips, too, appeared unnaturally red, even from this distance. The points of his collar hid most of his cheeks and the folds of his cravat frothed around his neck. His black tailcoat was so broad across the back and nipped in at the waist that she suspected the shoulders were padded. He was gesticulating elaborately as he talked and the ladies around him appeared to be hanging on to his every word. Molly’s lip curled in scorn.
‘So that is Beau Russington.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The startled voice at her shoulder made her look around. A tall gentleman in a plain blue coat was regarding her. She did not know him, but recalled seeing him talking to Mr Fetherpen, the bookseller, when she came in.
‘Oh, dear, I did not mean to speak aloud.’ She smiled an apology. ‘The gentleman over there, holding forth to the group standing before the mirror. He has been described to me as an—’ She stopped herself from saying an infamous rake. That would be most impolite, and for all she knew the man at her side might well be one of the Newlands party. ‘As a leader of fashion,’ she ended lamely. She saw the amused look on the stranger’s face and added quickly, ‘That is what the epithet beau denotes, does it not?’
‘It does indeed, ma’am.’ The stranger looked across the room. ‘You refer to the exquisite in the garish waistcoat, I presume?’
‘Yes.’
‘That fribble,’ he said, a note of contempt in his voice. ‘That painted fop.’
‘Yes,’ said Molly, glad to discover he shared her opinion.
‘That is not Beau Russington, madam. It is Sir Joseph Aikers.’
‘Not?’ She looked at the stranger in surprise.
He gave a slight bow. ‘I am Russington.’
‘You!’ Molly’s first impulse was to apologise profusely, but she held back. It was not her intention to pander to any man. Instead she gave a little gurgle of laughter. ‘I thought you were a book salesman.’ His brows shot up and she explained kindly, ‘I saw you talking with Mr Fetherpen, you see. And our assemblies are open to everyone, as long as they have a decent set of clothes.’
Had she gone too far? She saw the very slight twitch of his lips and was emboldened to look up at him. There was a dangerous glint in his dark brown eyes, but that thought was nothing to the danger she perceived as she studied him properly for the first time. He was tall, certainly, but well proportioned with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His black hair was too long to be neat and curled thickly about his head and over his collar. In repose, she thought his lean face might look saturnine, but with that smile tugging at the corners of a mobile mouth and his dark eyes laughing at her beneath their black brows, a bolt of attraction shot through Molly and knocked the air from her body.
Quickly she turned away. Lady Currick had in no way exaggerated this notorious rake’s charms and Molly felt a stab of alarm. If she felt this way, what effect might he have on her girls?
‘A book salesman?’ he murmured, dashing hopes that he might have walked off. ‘I suppose I should be thankful I was not talking to the butcher.’
Another laugh bubbled up inside Molly, but she resolutely stifled it and with an incoherent murmur she hurried away.
* * *
Oh, heavens, was there ever anything so unfortunate? Molly moved quickly around the room, smiling but not stopping when Lady Currick beckoned to her. That lady would have seen Molly talking to Mr Russington, but Molly was not ready to discuss it. She would dearly like to go home, but that would only cause more speculation. Instead she made her way to Edwin’s side, bracing herself for the introductions she knew he would be eager to make.
Her nerves were still raw, but she achieved a creditable appearance of calm as her brother presented Sir Gerald and his friends to her. They were all genial enough, clearly willing to be pleased by the provincial company in which they found themselves. Even Sir Joseph, the painted fop, bowed over her hand and paid her a few fulsome compliments.
Molly made her responses like an automaton, her thoughts still distracted by her recent encounter with Mr Russington. However, she forced her chaotic mind to concentrate when Sir Gerald presented his sister. Agnes Kilburn was handsome rather than pretty, and during their short conversation, Molly gained the impression that she was an intelligent, thoughtful young woman. In any other circumstances, Molly would have been delighted to make her acquaintance, but she had no wish to give Sir Gerald and his friends any reason to spend more time than necessary in Compton Parva.
Suddenly
