Page 44 of The Wedding Challenge

The minutes crawled by, but still Irene and Gideon did not appear. Lady Daphne had begun looking repeatedly at the clock and frowning, then smiling and saying airily that she was sure they had just been delayed and would be there shortly.

Finally, however, after Miss Turner had asked yet again when they were going to leave, Lady Daphne sighed and said, “Well, I suppose it would be best if we went on to Vauxhall. After all, it is not long until Lord Bromwell is to meet us there.”

“But what about Lord and Lady Radbourne?” Callie asked.

“I have no idea why they have not come. But no doubt they are merely a trifle late. I shall leave word with the butler for them to join us at Vauxhall.”

“Perhaps I should wait for them,” Callie began uneasily. She knew that Francesca would not like her going off with Lady Swithington and the others without Irene and Gideon along.

“Heavens, no,” Lady Swithington replied gaily. “What if one of them has fallen ill and they do not come at all? Then you should miss all the fun. Or they may simply decide, being so late, that they will meet us there and will not even come to the house. You would not wish to stay here all evening by yourself.”

That was certainly true. Callie had no desire to sit in a strange house alone for hours, doing nothing. She knew that she should probably tell Lady Swithington that she would just go back to Francesca’s. But she could think of no way to tactfully tell Bromwell’s sister that Francesca—and no doubt her own grandmother and brother—would not consider Lady Daphne an adequate chaperone. Surely Irene and Gideon would arrive eventually, and then she would have missed it all for nothing. Besides, she wanted very much to see Bromwell and walk along the romantic lighted pathways with him.

Anyway, she reminded herself, she could hardly ask all the others to wait even longer while Lady Daphne’s carriage took her back home first. So she summoned up a smile and said, “You are right. We had best go on.”

The four women rode in Lady Swithington’s carriage, while the men hailed a hansom to transport them, and they started out for the gardens. Callie’s doubts ebbed as they rode along. The conversation with just the four women in the carriage was much quieter and more pleasant, and with every passing moment, she grew more eager to see the sparkling gardens and, most of all, to be with Bromwell.

Vauxhall was as magical in appearance as ever, and Callie’s unease disappeared as they stepped out of their carriage and started inside. The men purchased their tickets and reserved one of the supper boxes that lined the main promenade.

They strolled along the wide walkway until they reached their box, located near the pavilion where the orchestra would soon play. They took their seats and began to watch the passing parade. There was something wonderfully freeing, Callie thought, in being in domino and mask. She could look at everyone who walked by, secure in the knowledge that no one would know who she was and there would be no talk that could make its way back to the duchess.

A waiter brought out their supper of wafer-thin slices of ham, along with chicken and various salads, and poured freely from containers of the arrack punch for which the Gardens were famous. It was a potent brew and though Callie merely sipped at it, she soon found herself relaxing under its influence, and she settled down to enjoy herself.

It was great fun to watch the people, who came in all shapes, sizes and classes. There were many young bucks, some of them dandies, others with the athletic builds of Corinthians, and there were a good many unattached women, as well, who boldly flirted with the men. Callie watched them in some fascination, blushing now and then at some of the warm comments that were tossed back and forth.

Somewhat to her surprise, some of the young men were bold enough to ogle her and the other women sitting in their supper box. Miss Swanson and Miss Turner responded to their bold looks with a rash of giggles. Lady Daphne did not giggle, but Callie was a trifle shocked to see that lady lift her fan and look back over it flirtatiously at one or two of the brash young gentlemen.

Callie expected the men of their company to send the others on their way. She could well imagine how Sinclair would have responded to such impudence. Of course, when she had come here with her brother, simply his presence in the box had been enough to keep any young man from directing such inappropriate looks her way.

The orchestra struck up in the pavilion, and people took to the dance floor in front of it. For politeness’s sake, Callie stood up with Mr. Tilford and then with Mr. Pacewell—at least, she thought it was Mr. Pacewell—but he trod clumsily upon her foot, and his breath stank so much of alcohol that she decided after that to sit out any dances, at least until Bromwell arrived…if he arrived. She was beginning to have her doubts.

Still Lord and Lady Radbourne had not come, and neither had Brom. Callie began to find her pleasure in the evening decreasing. The conversation in their box was growing louder and more boisterous as the evening progressed and more and more arrack punch was consumed. The girls’ giggles increased, and the men’s laughter grew heartier. Their words became slurred, and they tended to set their glasses of punch down too hard, and once Mr. Sackville, or perhaps it was Mr. Pacewell—the drunker they became, the more difficulty Callie had in telling them apart—missed the table altogether with his cup, and it fell to the earth and spilled. Everyone except Callie seemed to find this mishap hilarious. Indeed, Mr. Swanson laughed so hard that he staggered back and knocked into a chair, turning it over, and subsequently wound up sitting on the ground, as well, which set everyone off into even further gales of laughter.

Callie sipped at her glass and tried to ignore everything that was going on about her. But it was growing more and more difficult by the moment. Mr. Pacewell—or whichever it was of them who had not spilled his drink—was leaning over Miss Turner, boldly staring down the front of her dress, as he murmured into her ear, his lips almost touching her.

Callie glanced away quickly and looked over at Lady Swithington. However, if she had hoped that that lady would restore some semblance of decorum, she quickly saw that she was wrong. Daphne was sitting at the front edge of the box, her arms on the ledge before her, leaning forward to talk in low tones to a man who stood outside. The man was leaning in toward Daphne, as well, a smile playing about his mouth, and as Callie watched, he reached out and ran his forefinger along her hand, trailing it up her arm to her elbow.

Callie looked away again, rather uncertain as to where she could direct her gaze. She took a nervous gulp of her drink, then gasped as the potent mixture roared down her throat.

Where was Bromwell? Why had he not come? She wished desperately that he was there. He, she thought, would set everything in order. At least, she thought a little falteringly, she hoped that he would. What if, when he arrived, he acted the same way as the other men? What if he joined in the drunken revelry, boldly eyeing the women in the other boxes and on the walkway?

Another man had stopped to lean into their box and talk, and before long, Callie saw to her horror that Lady Daphne and Miss Swanson had invited the strangers to join them. Callie pushed her chair back as far as she could against the side wall and away from the others, and contemplated what she ought to do.

She had given up all hope that Irene and Gideon were going to appear, and she was growing doubtful about Brom. The evening had developed into a veritable romp, and she was keenly aware that she should not be there. The problem was that she did not know how she was to get away. The thought of making her way alone through the throng outside the box made her shudder. This was not the sort of place where a woman alone was safe from crude remarks and lascivious glances—and, she suspected, far worse.

However, she hardly knew any of the men in her party. She was not at all certain, given the way they had been acting, that any of them could be trusted to protect her from the advances of another man—or, indeed, trusted at all. Even if she could rely on them, she was not sure that any of them were sober enough to help her, anyway.

Callie set down her glass on the table beside her and rubbed her forehead. Her own thoughts were a little muzzy, and she wondered how much she had drunk of the strong punch. One glass—no, two, for she rather thought that whenever she set a half-empty glass down, it was soon replaced by a full one. Lady Daphne had been assiduous in making sure that everyone stayed well-refreshed.

Even as Callie thought this, a waiter was at her side, filling up her glass again. She shook her head at him, but he seemed not to notice, simply topped off her glass and moved away. Callie sighed and tried to clear her thoughts. She was going to have to stop sipping at her drink, no matter how nervous she felt. She was going to need a clearer head to deal with the situation.

“What, all by yourself?” a male voice slurred, and one of the two strangers whom Daphne had let into their box sat down heavily in the chair closest to Callie’s. “Can’t have that, pretty young thing like you.”

He smiled at her in what he doubtless thought was a charming way.

“I am perfectly content by myself,” Callie told him in a frosty tone.

For some reason he seemed to find her remark amusing, for he chuckled. “My, my, bit high in the instep, aren’t you?” He reached for the glass she had set down earlier and offered it to her. “Can’t have fun like that, can you? Here, have a nip. It’ll set you up right.”