Page 19 of Venus in Disguise

Much love to you, brother dear.

Cissy x

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lady Narcissa Ponsonby to her brother, The Lord Rufus Alexander Ponsonby (children of The Duke of Beresford).

5th February 1850, Kemble House, Mayfair, London.

“For heaven’s sake, Maud, are you ready? We have been waiting for you this age,” Mrs Chandler snapped impatiently.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I am, only… I have been looking for my shawl,” Maud fretted, turning in a circle as if she expected the thing to appear at her feet in a puff of smoke. “You know, the pretty blue one I bought in Bath last year. Such a lovely colour, like a summer sky. It reminds me of lovely days at the seaside when I was a child. Such happy memories. We used to go to Brighton, you know. Of course, in those days, the old king—”

“Maud!” Mrs Chandler snapped, her eyes flashing. “The shawl.”

“Oh, y-yes,” Maud stammered.

“Here it is.” Narcissa handed the shawl to Maud with a smile, having hurried off during Maud’s soliloquy and found it on the back of the chair in the library where Maud had left it.

“Thank heaven for you, Narcissa. I swear I shall lose my wits over that vexing creature one of these days,” Mrs Chandler muttered, stalking towards the front door and the waiting carriage.

Maud shot Narcissa a venomous look of dislike and hurried after Mrs Chandler. “I’m so sorry, my dear. Such a shatter-brain I am, I know. But I swear I looked in the library and it was not there. How very odd it is, I declare. Perhaps someone naughty is playing tricks on a poor old lady.”

Narcissa opened her mouth to protest that she could not possibly have looked in the library and failed to discover the dratted shawl but closed it again. Maud was truly a pitiable creature and not worth causing a scene over. Yet every attempt she made to make the woman’s life a little easier was met with increasing hostility. Narcissa decided she’d leave the woman to her own fate from now on, for her help was certainly unwanted.

“Now, Narcissa,” Mrs Chandler said once they were comfortably installed and on their way. “His grace tells me that the earl will attend tonight’s ball. He has informed his lordship that you have saved the first waltz of the evening for him, so be sure to write his name on your card. I trust you will remember to behave as you ought and not go disappearing like you did at Mrs Bishop’s rout party, which was very bad of you.”

“No, ma’am,” Narcissa replied meekly, aware of the smug smile on Maud’s lips. “Though that was purely accidental,” she added, lying through her teeth.

“Whether it was or not, is neither here nor there. A woman in your position must be on her guard. The world throngs with fortune hunters, just waiting for the opportunity to get an innocent girl alone, but you know the duke better than I do. You must know he’d see you ruined before anyone blackmailed him into an alliance he felt beneath the family’s dignity.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Narcissa replied, a sensation akin to iced water sliding down her spine.

Was that true? She had never really considered it before but there was a horrid ring of truth to Mrs Chandler’s words. Her father was about as high in the instep as a duke could be, and the idea of their bloodline being sullied by a connection he felt inferior—No. He would not stand for it. But would he truly set her adrift, rather than lift a finger to save her? Though it pained her to admit it, she knew he would do so to Fidelia, for her father had never given her older sister the credit she was due and did not hide the fact he did not care a button for her. Was that what had happened, she wondered? If so, it must have been hushed up, for she had heard not even a breath of scandal attached to Fidelia, which would account for her still being allowed to live at Hardacre. Would he really do that to her, too? And if there was a scandal, would he have abandoned Fidelia? Would he abandon her, if it came to it? For she was his favourite and always had been, but…

Yes, she thought, the bleak realisation settling in her stomach like a lump of ice, cold and heavy with the knowledge that she had been a fool to think otherwise. Her father was utterly ruthless, and he would cut off any branch of the family tree that he believed was unworthy of the connection without hesitation.

“Narcissa!”

Narcissa jumped, bringing her attention back to Mrs Chandler. “Pay attention when I’m speaking, child. I am not of a mind to waste my breath, so heed my words. It has come to my attention that you were seen walking down Bond Street in the company of Lady Cordelia and a gentleman with whom you must know better than to associate. I know Maud warned you of the dangers of that connection,” she went on, and Narcissa was unsurprised to see a malevolent glint of triumph in that lady’s eyes. “But her warning seems to have fallen on deaf ears. So let me spell it out for you. I forbid you to speak to Mr Anson. You are not to dance with him, or to engage in any but the most formal of conversation with him. If he addresses you, you may reply cordially, but coolly. You will give him no reason to pursue you, or to believe that his advances are welcome. I do not think I need to explain to you what would happen if this information reached the duke’s ear, do I?”

“No, ma’am,” Narcissa said faintly, her stomach churning.

“I thought not. Then we shall say no more about it. Ah, here we are. Lord, what a bustle. We shall be sadly crushed, I fear.”

The carriage stopped outside their destination, the grand façade of Linford House lit up for the night’s festivities. Mrs Chandler took the footman’s proffered hand and stepped down from the carriage, swiftly followed by Maud. Narcissa sat for a moment, the weight of truths she had been too blind to face until now, pressing down upon her until she thought she might buckle under the weight. Her corset seemed suddenly far tighter than it had, squeezing her lungs. It was hard to breathe, a suffocating sense of an inescapable future looming ever closer, crushing the breath from her. She wanted to flee, to run far, far away to a place where no one knew her, where her father and the Earl of Wishen could never find her, but that was a child’s dream.

Narcissa was no child but a woman, the daughter of a duke, and one who knew what was expected of her. So, she put up her chin and stepped out of the carriage, showing the world the serene face of this year’s most eligible heiress, and she smothered the scream building inside her, pushing it down as she smiled and made inane comments, and did all that anyone could expect of her.

“Now darling, you know you are very unkind to treat me so,” Mrs Travers purred in Ash’s ear as he swept her around the dance floor. “You promised to call on me this week, did you not?”

“I did, but the week is not yet at an end, I think,” Ash replied mildly, wishing fervently he had thought of another way of keeping the woman at bay. Mrs Travers was a lush widow, well-endowed physically and financially. Recently back in society after being bereaved of a husband she had not liked above half, she was enjoying her newfound freedom to the utmost. Ash didn’t blame her for that either. At thirty, she was still a young woman and, having borne her husband two strapping sons, she had done her duty by him. Now it was her turn to have some fun, but rather to his surprise, Ash was not interested in helping her do that.

He watched the swirl of dancers around them as they moved through the throng, scanning the crowd. Though he told himself he was just looking to see who was here, who might prove more amusing company than the woman in his arms, he knew it was a lie. He was looking for her, damn the girl. Though it pained him to admit it, he knew she was here, because he had made it his business to find out. She had arrived in the company of her cousin, as usual.

Mrs Chandler was a piece of work, he reflected bitterly. The kind of woman who wanted him in her bed whilst disparaging him as mongrel to her friends. The way she had spoken of his mother made his blood boil. Aashini was a lady to her bones, a woman who had endured situations that Mrs Chandler would swoon to even contemplate, and yet she was a loving mother, a devoted wife, and a woman he admired above all others. Mrs Chandler had cuckolded her late husband, and everyone knew her eldest son was likely Lord Bradford’s bastard. Despite that, she had the temerity to look down on his bloodline whilst trying her best to seduce him. Not that he had been fool enough to bed her, thank the Lord. He’d had her measure from the outset, not that it had stopped the woman pursuing him. She had been less than happy when he had made it clear he was not interested. A woman scorned was a dangerous creature, and one he would do well to stay far away from.

A cry of pain came from Mrs Travers, and she stumbled against him, clutching at his lapels.

“Sorry! Beg pardon, entirely my fault,” boomed a jovial voice as Ash found the Earl of Wishen, red-faced and perspiring, had crashed into his partner.