Chapter Ten
London, 1814
Leaning against a gilded column, the Earl of Shalford coolly observed the revellers at Lady Jersey’s party. The elegant ballroom was thronged with gentlemen and ladies of every age, shape and demeanour, all determined to enjoy the evening. A country dance was in full flow, and the sight of tittering ladies and merry gentlemen leaping and capering around the room seemed, at this moment, the height of absurdity.
‘Adam—so this is where I find you. Ogling the ladies, eh?’
The Earl regarded his younger brother with disfavour. ‘No, I shall leave that to you, Harry. I am leaving.’ He wrenched his long frame upright.
‘So soon? But the night is barely begun—and you are promised to dance the cotillion with Miss Ross.’
The Earl shrugged. ‘I shall apologise—a sudden indisposition, I think.’
‘You are not indisposed—well, not unless one counts this unseemly languor. Come now, Adam, there are lovelies to be danced with, flirtations to be had. You are too staid for your own good!’
‘Not staid—bored. Not one of these ladies has the power to hold my attention. I dance with them, then immediately forget them. I cannot choose between them.’
‘Then do not choose. Simply enjoy the moment. We have been out of mourning for Papa for months, yet still you act as though...’
‘As though I were still mourning him? You need not worry, Harry. Papa is gone. I have accepted it. The Earldom—and all its responsibilities—rests on my shoulders.’
‘It must not be a burden, Adam. You can still enjoy life.’
‘I do, Harry, I do. I just do not enjoy—this.’ He indicated the crowded room. ‘Give me an evening with friends instead—with people I know and wish to talk to.’
‘But your friends are here.’ Harry indicated a corner near the supper room, where a group of young men were indulging in drinking games with Lady Jersey’s potent punch.
‘Perhaps I am not friendly enough tonight. Have a good evening, Harry. Flirt with as many young ladies as you can manage. Keep up the Fanton name.’
Harry shook his head. ‘Adam, this is not good.’
His brother, unheeding, left with a slight wave of his hand. He spoke first to Miss Ross, who looked disappointed, then made his farewell to their hostess, Lady Jersey.
As Adam slipped out of the room, Harry spoke softly, though he knew his brother could not hear. ‘I wish I could lift your spirits, Adam, but if pretty girls and dances can’t do it then how can I?’
Buxted House in Half-Moon Street was a neat, elegant townhouse, ideally situated between Curzon Street and Green Park. As his coach stopped outside, Colonel Sir Edward Wyncroft glanced around. Late morning meant the street was busy with delivery men, street sweepers and errand boys. The smell of spring was in the air, mixed with the usual London odours—chimney smoke and horse manure.
A lean, sprightly gentleman, with intelligent blue eyes and dark curls showing only a hint of grey, Sir Edward had an easy gait, and his youthful looks belied the fact that he was now in his fifth decade.
Surrendering his hat and cane to the footman, Sir Edward addressed the butler, whose name, he remembered, was Biddle.
‘I believe your master is expecting me, Biddle?’
‘Indeed, Sir Edward. I am glad to see you again, sir. Please come this way.’
Sir Edward followed him to the breakfast room, where Mr Frederick Buxted, an affable, portly fellow in his middle years, was demolishing a selection of cold meats and rolls with coffee. Rising as the butler announced his guest, he shook Sir Edward’s hand and bade him join in the spread.
‘No, no, Freddy, I have eaten already. Can’t get used to these late hours, you know.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Buxted knowledgeably. ‘No doubt you rise early in Venice?’
‘Vienna, my dear boy, Vienna,’ said Sir Edward. ‘Yes, I can’t abide sleeping late. Got to be up and about, you know. Army habits. Too much to do.’
Buxted eyed him suspiciously. ‘You know, I never did understand why you stayed in the Army after Maria died. The ladies
