Chapter 6

That evening, Blythe had the opportunity to advance her hopes with the Duke of Savoy when she and her parents attended a musicale given by an acquaintance of her mother’s, the Marchioness of Wargrave.

The Cromptons arrived to find the guests milling in the reception hall. From inside the drawing room came the sounds of a string orchestra tuning their instruments. Slowly wending their way through the crowd, Blythe and her parents chatted with several acquaintances. Whenever an unmarried gentleman approached, however, her mother deftly steered Blythe in another direction. All the while, Mrs. Crompton strained to see over the multitude of people.

“You’re taller than I,” she said to Blythe’s father. “Do you see the duke?”

“There,” Mr. Crompton murmured, nodding toward the doorway of the drawing room. “But he’s surrounded by ambitious mothers with marriageable daughters. I will not permit you to behave so badly as to push your way through that crush.”

Blythe stood on tiptoe to see that her father was correct. The throng milling around the duke appeared to be comprised of ladies vying for his attention. “I quite agree, Papa. I don’t relish the notion of appearing overly eager.”

Mrs. Crompton guided her family to an alcove filled with statuary and ferns. “Wait here,” she said. “I must have a word with Lady Wargrave. Perhaps she can secure a seat for Blythe beside His Grace.”

With that, she vanished into the colorful swarm of ladies and gentlemen, leaving Blythe alone with her father.

He looked at Blythe, and a wry grin deepened the lines on his weathered face. “Your mother is forever scheming,” he said, patting Blythe’s hand, which was tucked in the crook of his arm. “I don’t know what she’ll do once you’re married and there are no more daughters to manage.”

“She’ll start choosing future spouses for her grandchildren among the babies of society.”

They shared a laugh, and Blythe reflected on how safe and happy she felt with her father. Papa was stout and solid and had a faint, ever-present scent of pipe smoke. Although he often was busy with his shipping business, he had always been her hero, the man she admired above all others.

She treasured the rare occasions like this when she had him all to herself, if only for a few moments. The twinkle in his blue eyes brought back memories of the times in India when he had taken her for a Sunday drive in the palka-ghari or taught her the rules of kabaddi, a fast-paced game played by the natives.

The humor faded from her father’s face, and he gave her a keen look. “So you are quite settled on Savoy, are you? I must say, I am well pleased by the notion. It would be an excellent marriage for you.”

Blythe shifted her eyes as if to scan the crowd. She didn’t want him to guess that she longed for love. Papa so seldom asked anything of her and if he wished for her to wed the duke, then she would do so gladly. Besides, who was to say that she and the duke wouldn’t fall in love? She needed only to have the chance to be in his company.

“I like His Grace very much.” She spoke confidently, reminding herself of all the reasons the Duke of Savoy would make a splendid husband. “He’s refined and well-mannered and respectful. As his wife, I shall be quite happy to be a grand hostess of the ton.”

“My only concern is that he’s a bit old for you,” her father said. “You’re a spirited girl, but you know little of the world.”

“Oh pooh,” she said airily, striving to erase the hint of concern on his face. “I’ve watched my sisters. And I’ve lived abroad and traveled halfway around the world. I’m sure to know my own mind more so than any other girl my age.”

Mr. Crompton studied her pensively for another moment; then a smile tilted the corners of his mouth. “You are indeed an original, my dear. My fondest wish is for you to be happy.”

His heartfelt declaration brought the sting of tears to her eyes, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. She did love her father so. If only she could have a husband who was every bit as wonderful as him.

For no reason at all, she thought of James. A man of his station would marry a maidservant or a shopgirl, while she herself would take a husband from the highest ranks of the ton. That was the natural way of the world. She had observed it here in London and also in India, where the caste system was even more rigorous than in England.

But it served no purpose to dwell upon her attraction to a footman.

A chime sounded, signaling the imminent commencement of the concert. The aristocratic guests began moving en masse into the drawing room to find seats among the rows of chairs.

Mama came scurrying out of the flock of ladies and gentlemen. From the brittleness of her smile, it was clear that her mission to secure Blythe a place beside the duke had been less than successful.

“No luck, my dear?” Mr. Crompton asked.

“Hmph. These past three years I’ve nurtured a friendship with Lady Wargrave and it’s all for naught. I should have known she would be a stickler for precedence.”

It hurt Blythe’s heart to see her mother looking so disappointed. “It’s quite all right, Mama. I’ll have a chance to see him later when refreshments are served.”

“Indeed you shall. I will make certain of it.”

Mrs. Crompton took her husband’s arm and with Blythe on his other side, they joined the guests already in the drawing room. There, people were settling into the rows of gilt chairs that faced the musicians’ dais. Blythe caught a glimpse of Lady Davina and her father making their way toward a place of honor in the front.

When the duke’s daughter glanced back toward the Cromptons, Blythe lifted her hand in a friendly wave, but the girl gave no acknowledgment of having noticed. Her gaze passed over Blythe as if she was invisible.

As the Duke of Savoy took his seat in between two young ladies, Davina remained standing to speak to someone else in their party. Blythe recognized him at once. The dandified gentleman in the leaf-green coat was Viscount Kitchener, who had partnered her in a dance the previous evening.

All of a sudden, the two of them turned to look straight at Blythe.

She stiffened, resisting the urge to self-consciously straighten her pale yellow gown. So Davina had seen her, after all. Were they gossiping about the wealthy interloper who had invaded their exalted ranks?

Let them talk. A bit of tittle-tattle would not deter Blythe. It only made her all the more determined to be gracious. Perhaps after the concert there would be an opportunity to soften that haughty manner of Davina’s. After all, Blythe had never met anyone who could withstand an assault of relentless charm.

As commoners, the Cromptons were relegated to the back row. Blythe didn’t mind because it would allow her the freedom to observe the guests during the concert. If she had to sit for an hour without fidgeting, she might as well enjoy herself by studying the hairstyles and gowns of the other ladies, and deciding which of the gentlemen was the most dashing and handsome. Having only been out for the past fortnight, she found such events new and exciting. It was certainly a vast improvement over being confined to the schoolroom, taking endless lessons in dancing and drawing and deportment.

“May I join you, Miss Crompton?”

She looked up to see one of her suitors towering over her. He had an attractive thatch of reddish hair with the most unfortunate rash of freckles marring his face. The hopefulness in his brown eyes touched her heart. “Mr. Mainwaring, how good to see you again. I would be happy to—”

“I’m afraid Lord Kitchener already has a claim to Miss Crompton.”

Lady Davina appeared beside the hapless young man, who took one look at her cool patrician face and scuttled away before Blythe could even form a protest. Davina had Viscount Kitchener in tow, and she aimed a frosty smile at Blythe’s parents.

“Mr. and Mrs. Crompton,” she said by way of greeting. “We appear to be one chair short in the front row. I do hope you don’t mind if Lord Kitchener sits back here with you.”

Mrs. Crompton wore a look of dazzled enthusiasm. “Why, of course, my lady, we’re more than happy to accommodate him. Perhaps after the concert, you and your father could join us, too?”

“Perhaps for a moment. Although I’m afraid we are leaving directly afterward to attend another engagement.” Her voice held a hint of icy incivility as she gave Kitchener a nudge. “Now, do be a good fellow and sit down. The music is about to begin.”

As she turned to go, a smirk played about her lips. Davina’s words at the ball echoed in Blythe’s mind. I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.

She could only surmise that the girl must be hoping Kitchener would distract Blythe from pursuing Davina’s father.

What a ridiculously transparent ploy!

The viscount plopped down in the adjoining chair without taking his usual fastidious care to avoid wrinkling the tails of his coat. On the handful of occasions when they had met, Blythe had observed his self-absorbed nature. Kitchener cultivated the image of a romantic poet with a tumbled mass of golden-brown curls and an affectation for staring into the distance as if he were contemplating some deep philosophical conundrum. He was also a slave to the latest style, as evidenced by the leaf-green coat, yellow breeches, and the intricate white cravat that must have taken the better part of an hour for his valet to tie.

His dandified appearance came at a price, however. Kitchener was rumored to be in dire need of a fortune in order to pay off his tailor bills.

Her fortune.

“Hullo,” he said to Blythe in a rather loud voice. “You are truly an angel to behold! Your beauty shines as bright and clear as the moon against a black velvet sky.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

His syrupy compliment held no sway over her. She was too busy puzzling over his glassy-eyed stare and overly ebullient manner.

Was he foxed?

He had to be. Now it became clearer why Lady Davina had directed him to sit back here. She knew he’d been drinking. And she must be hoping he would humiliate Blythe by embroiling her in some sort of scene.

Blythe controlled a surge of temper. Davina had played a nasty trick, but that didn’t mean Blythe had to fall blindly into the trap.

As the musicians began to play, the viscount continued to chatter. “What a divine harmony of sound,” he said without making any effort to lower his voice. “I do believe such a melody must have been given to mankind by the gods on Mount Olympus. Do you not agree, Miss Crompton?”

Several guests turned around to scowl at him. A gray-haired matron tut-tutted while shaking her head.

Catching the viscount’s eye, Blythe put a finger to her lips. “Shh,” she whispered. “You must be quiet now.”

Kitchener nodded solemnly and mimicked her action by placing his forefinger over his own mouth. Then he smiled abashedly at the people in front of them, who then returned their attention to the stage.

Relieved that he seemed to have fathomed the error of his ways, Blythe settled back to enjoy the music. The light, vibrant tune helped to soothe her sense of annoyance. She would not permit anyone to ruin the evening.

Her gaze wandered over the aristocrats in the drawing room. She spied white-haired Lady Grantham leaning forward, cupping her half-deaf ear to better hear the music. A few rows ahead sat blond, vacuous Miss Frances Beardsley with her betrothed, Lord Wrayford. Candlelight glinted on the bald spot at the back of his head.

Blythe studied Wrayford with interest. He was the scoundrel who had tried to abduct Lindsey the previous year, although the scandal had been averted when Mansfield had ridden to her rescue. Portia had had a similar adventure two years ago when Ratcliffe had kidnapped her in order to stop her from wedding the wrong man.

What dashing heroes her sisters had married, Blythe thought wistfully. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine the Duke of Savoy bestirring himself to perform such daring exploits on her behalf.

But James would. Blythe knew that with instinctive certainty.

She pressed her fingers into the arms of her chair. Why did thoughts of a footman continue to plague her? She knew nothing of him beyond the boldness of manner that set him apart from the other servants. They might reside in the same household, but they were worlds apart in all that mattered.

She didn’t crave romantic escapades, anyway. Such childish dreams had been left behind when she had entered the world of high society on a mission to find a husband.

Blythe glanced over at her mother and father, who were absorbed in the music. They looked so elegant, Mama in steel-blue silk that offset her stylish russet hair, and Papa in his tailored gray coat. It wasn’t fair that their common blood should make them any less important than the aristocrats gathered here.

It would make them so happy if she became the Duchess of Savoy. And she would be happy to elevate their position in society. Once she bore the duke a son, Mama and Papa would be honored as the grandparents of the heir to a dukedom.

The hopeful vision faded abruptly when Viscount Kitchener shifted in his chair beside hers and began to mutter.

“The notes dance upon the sky so airy / for ye are lovely as a fairy / and in your arms methinks to tarry / for ’tis safe from the … from the unwary.” He leaned closer to Blythe and said in a stage whisper, “What else rhymes with airy?”

For the first time, she noticed that he exuded a sweetish smoky scent that smelled vaguely familiar. It brought to mind the men in India who would crouch around the hookah, passing the pipe to one another until they all sank into a stupor.

The truth jolted her. The viscount’s inebriated state wasn’t due to an excess of wine or brandy. Rather, he must have smoked opium shortly before his arrival here. She had heard rumors that such behavior was practiced among the scoundrels and riff-raff on the fringes of society. Opium-eaters, they were called.

“I need more rhymes,” he complained, raising his voice so that people turned to glower at them again. Not that Kitchener noticed. “Airy, fairy, tarry. Do help me out, Miss Crompton.”

Mrs. Crompton placed a warning hand on Blythe’s arm and frowned at her as if the situation was all her doing.

Aggravated, Blythe whispered to him under her breath, “Hairy, scary, dairy.” She certainly wasn’t going to give him any ideas by saying marry. In his present state he might fall to his knees and beg for her hand in front of the entire assemblage. “Now, pray be silent.”

“But you adore poetry,” Viscount Kitchener whined. “Davy said you did.”

Her lips tightened. Blast Lady Davina, what other lies had she told him? “She is sadly mistaken. I’ll not hear another word from you.”

Blythe gave him a stern look that must have penetrated his cloudy senses. His voice fell to a barely audible muttering about maids of dairy and lads so hairy. Thankfully, the orchestra had launched into a lively melody and no one else paid them any heed.

Then a blessed reprieve happened. The viscount’s chin sagged to his cravat and he dozed off. Other than an occasional light snore, he remained silent for the remainder of the concert. Blythe sat unmoving for fear of awakening him and causing another disturbance.

At last the music drew to an end and the guests applauded politely. People arose from their chairs, the hum of conversation growing as everyone discussed the performance on their way to the supper room where refreshments would be served.

“Hurry,” Mrs. Crompton whispered to Blythe. “We must make haste to seek out the duke.”

“Yes, Mama.”

But when Blythe attempted to get up, she realized to her dismay that Lord Kitchener’s shoe was firmly planted on her hem. As she tried to tug herself free, it became clear that the fine gauze of her gown would rip if she pulled any harder.

She discreetly poked the viscount in the arm. “Wake up, my lord.”

He made no response, his eyes never opening, his chest rising and falling in slumber, his head still tilted askew in a ridiculous pose. What was worse, a few people had noticed the pair of them, the ladies laughing behind their fans—as if her companionship had put him to sleep.

“Savoy is coming down the aisle,” her mother prodded. “Do stand up at once or we’ll miss our chance!”

Blythe glimpsed the duke advancing through the throng with Lady Davina on his arm. A bevy of debutantes trailed him. Blast! There was no time to waste.

With renewed effort, Blythe bent down to shove Kitchener’s foot aside. The awkward task was like moving a leaden weight. While her mother hovered and fretted, at last Blythe was able to slide the hem free, albeit with a black scuff mark marring the pale yellow fabric.

Unfortunately, the duke already had moved past the last row. While proceeding through the open doorway, Lady Davina glanced back over her shoulder and sent Blythe a triumphant look.

“You should not have dallied,” Mrs. Crompton scolded. “Come now, we can still catch up to them.”

“No, it’s too late,” Blythe stated. “They’re departing for another engagement, remember?”

She had no wish to humiliate herself by pushing and shoving. At least she could be thankful that Kitchener had not embroiled her in an even more horrid scene by falling off his chair or attempting to kiss her in front of everyone, as Lady Davina must have intended.

That hateful voice resounded in her memory. I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.

Lady Davina had declared war. She had done so in words and by her actions tonight. She may have won the first skirmish by catching Blythe unawares, but Blythe would not make the mistake of underestimating the girl again.

Rather than slink away in defeat, Blythe felt more determined than ever. She would win in the end. After all, the best possible outcome would be for her to win the love of the Duke of Savoy.