Scandal At The Christmas Ball. Marguerite Kaye
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overall impression intended to be, he supposed, that of an underwater cavern. Which by rights should be inhabited by mermaids and denizens of the deep, instead of this collection of well-heeled, well-dressed members of the haute-ton.
It was three years past June since he had attended his last great social occasion, before the tragic events which had precipitated his catastrophic fall from grace. The Duchess of Richmond’s now famous, indeed infamous, ball had been held on the eve of the battle of Waterloo. The crime Drummond had subsequently committed had been heinous, and though he still firmly believed that the crime he had refused to commit was even more so, his mutiny had been ultimately pointless. One life had been destroyed, his own changed for ever by the summary justice meted out. It had been justified, there was no arguing that fact. Just as there was no doubt, as far as Drummond was concerned, that he had been right to act as he did, even though his superiors deemed it utterly wrong.
Right or wrong, it was done now, and ancient history, according to the Duke of Wellington, his ex-Commander-in-Chief. It was apparently time for Drummond to re-join society. Drummond himself believed it long past time. After a year moping in the country trying to come to terms with events, he’d taken a deep breath, cast aside his deep regret along with his lingering resentment and his shame, and forced himself back out into the world. But the people who inhabited his milieu had summarily rejected him. Never mind that his military record until that fateful date had been impeccable. Never mind his commendations, his years of dedicated service to his men and to his superiors and his country. Only that last treasonous act mattered. Doors had been slammed. Familiar faces had been averted. He could not deny that he deserved this treatment, for ultimately, he was guilty. Yet he could not quell a lingering sense of injustice.
Clearly, none of the guests politely sipping from the dainty Royal Doulton teacups emblazoned with the Brockmore coat of arms either knew or cared about his ignominious past, for all had greeted him politely, not one had snubbed him. Actually, it struck him for the first time as odd that despite his own many connections, he wasn’t acquainted with a single person here. Not even his hosts, who had been cajoled by Wellington to extend this most exclusive invitation.
‘A Brockmore house party,’ Wellington had informed Drummond, ‘can be the making of a man. Everyone knows that Marcus and Alicia invite only those and such as those. Men of influence, women of breeding. They can smooth your path to rehabilitation, for where the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore lead, all of society follow. Even myself,’ he’d added with one of his ironic smiles. ‘You would be a fool to refuse this opportunity, and despite evidence to the contrary, I know that you are not a fool. I have plans for you, MacIntosh, and I am a man who gets what he wants,’ the Duke of Wellington had informed him, in that magnanimous tone he had, of conferring great favour which would be accepted unquestioningly with great gratitude. ‘You’ve a practical mind, a cool head, if we are to discount that one aberration, and you’ve a natural authority that make men inclined to follow you. Between ourselves, though it will not be announced for another two days yet, I am very soon to be in a position where I need a man like you, for Lord Liverpool has appointed me Master-General of the Ordnance. With the Brockmore name firmly behind you, doors will open again, allowing you to make a success of the posting.’
Wellington had proceeded to outline the terms of his rehabilitation, much in the manner he used when issuing his battle plans. ‘You have paid the price for your rash actions, MacIntosh. I m willing to make an exception and give you a second chance, but you do not need me to tell you it will be your last?’
Drummond did not need telling and so here he was, with twelve days to impress his hosts sufficiently to earn their patronage and repair the major wound he had inflicted on his reputation. In one sense, he was fortunate indeed, for the other tragic victim of that day’s events could have no such second chance. Thinking about that even after all this time made him feel sick to his stomach. So he’d better stop thinking about it and get on with the job in hand.
A guest list had most helpfully been left on the dressing table in his bedchamber along with the agenda for the festivities. The Duke of Brockmore, known as the Silver Fox, had proved to be a handsome man, with a broad intelligent brow under a thick coiffure of white-grey hair that was more leonine than fox-like. Alicia, his wife, her gown of dark blue watered silk the exact same shade as both her husband’s waistcoat and the curtains, was the kind of elegant, classically beautiful woman whose looks were timeless.
‘They make a striking couple, do they not?’ Drummond’s solitude was interrupted by a slim, ungainly-looking young man with rather thin brown hair which curled lankly over the high starched collar of his shirt. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he continued, extending his hand, ‘I am Edward Throckton. You, I think, must be Captain Milborne.’
In contrast to the gentleman’s rather limp appearance, his handshake was surprisingly firm. ‘Drummond MacIntosh, actually. Plain mister.’
Edward Throckton’s eyebrows rose. ‘How odd, I was sure you must be our military guest. There is something—I think it is the way you survey the room, as if you are expecting us all to fall in to serried ranks. Forgive me, that is a deuced personal remark to have made.’
A vibrant flush of colour stained his cheeks. He was young, perhaps only twenty-two or -three, and judging by the way he was tugging at his cravat, rather bashful. ‘I’m glad to make your acquaintance,’ Drummond said, ‘I don’t know a single soul here.’
‘Really? I thought I was the only one—that is, I assumed—but I must say, Mr MacIntosh, I’m relieved to hear you say so. There is nothing worse than being—well, not so much an outsider as a—’ Edward Throckton broke off, tugging once more at his cravat. ‘Not that I can imagine for a moment that you would experience...’
‘I assure you, Mr Throckton, I’m feeling every bit the outsider,’ Drummond said. ‘I’ve noticed you circulating amongst our fellow guests while I’ve been lurking here. I’d be very grateful if you’d share what you have gleaned.’
‘Are you really interested in my modest intelligence-gathering?’
How many similar eager-to-please lads had he taken under his wing over the years? Drummond wondered. And a good few, once they’d gained a bit of confidence, had been moulded into excellent officers. ‘I am very interested,’ he said, smiling encouragingly. ‘Please, fire away.’
‘Well then, let us start with the group at the fireplace. The good-looking young man with the golden hair who is admiring himself in the mirror is Aubrey Kenelm, heir to the Marquess of Durham, and the flame-haired woman beside him is Miss Philippa Canningvale. Miss Canningvale’s charms, in that emerald-green gown, are indisputable, but one can’t help but feeling there is a touch of bravado in that display—though that is, of course, merely speculation on my part.’
Drummond, who had been expecting nothing more than a bland recitation of names and titles, gave a snort of surprised laughter.
‘Beg pardon,’ his surprising acquaintance said, blushing predictably, ‘I have been presumptuous. I did not mean...’
‘Oh, but you did mean, Mr Throckton,’ Drummond said, grinning. ‘You have a very sharp eye. It’s a gift that could get you into a lot of hot water, but not with me. Please, pray continue.’
‘It is true, I do rather pride myself on being an excellent judge of character, which is why I was so certain you were a military man. It seems I am not infallible,’ Edward Throckton said, with a rueful smile. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes, the woman in cherry-red is Lady Beatrice Landry. A true beauty, if you are inclined towards marble statues, which I confess I am, rather. Not that Lady Beatrice would deign to notice someone as lowly and as wet behind the ears as I am.’
‘A widow, do you think?’ Drummond enquired, both amused and slightly bemused.
‘I don’t know. I do know there is no Lord Landry on the guest list.’
‘Which signifies precisely nothing. Who is the equally intimidating young woman by her side?’
‘Lady Anne Lowell, daughter of the Earl of Blackton, and one of the most eligible debutantes of last Season. Her