Belgravia Read Free Page A

small office where customers had once discussed upholstery and other optional extras but that the memoirs of the Richmonds’ third daughter, Lady Georgiana Lennox, transmogrified into an “anteroom.” The space where the coaches had been placed on display was wallpapered with roses on trellis, and the room was deemed sufficient for a ball.
    The Duchess of Richmond had taken her whole family with her to the Continent, and the girls especially were aching for some excitement, and so a party was planned. Then, at the beginning of June, Napoléon, who had escaped from his exile on Elba earlier that year, left Paris and came looking for the allied forces. The Duchess had asked Wellington whether it was quite in order for her to continue with her pleasure scheme, and she was assured that it was. Indeed, it was the Duke’s express wish that the ball should go ahead, as a demonstration of English sangfroid, to show plainly that even the ladies were not much disturbed by the thought of the French emperor on the march and declined to put off their entertainment. But of course, that was all very well…
    “I hope this isn’t a mistake,” said the Duchess for the twentieth time in an hour as she cast a searching glance in the looking glass. She was quite pleased with what she saw: a handsome woman in early middle age dressed in pale cream silk and still capable of turning heads. Her diamonds were superb, even if there was some discussion among her friends as to whether the originals had been replaced by paste replicas as part of the economy drive.
    “It’s too late for that sort of talk.” The Duke of Richmond was half amused to find himself in this situation. They had seen Brusselsas something of an escape from the world, but to their surprise the world had come with them. And now his wife was giving a party with a guest roll that could scarcely be rivaled in London, just as the town was bracing itself for the sound of French cannons. “That was a very good dinner. I shan’t be able to eat the supper when it comes.”
    “You will.”
    “I can hear a carriage. We should go downstairs.” He was an agreeable man, the Duke, a warm and affectionate parent adored by his children and strong enough in himself to take on one of the daughters of the notorious Duchess of Gordon, whose antics had kept Scotland in gossip for years. He was aware there were plenty at the time who thought he could have made an easier choice and probably lived an easier life, but, all in all, he was not sorry. His wife was extravagant—there was no arguing with that—but she was good-natured, good-looking, and clever. He was glad he had chosen her.
    There were a few early arrivals in the small drawing room, Georgiana’s anteroom, through which the guests were obliged to pass on their way to the ballroom. The florists had done well, with huge arrangements of pale pink roses and white lilies, all with their stamens neatly clipped to spare the women from the stain of pollen, backed with high foliage in shades of green, lending the coachbuilder’s apartments a grandeur that they lacked in daylight, and the shimmering glow of the many candelabra cast the proceedings in a subtly flattering light.
    The Duchess’s nephew, Edmund, Viscount Bellasis, was talking to Georgiana. They walked over together to her parents. “Who are these people that Edmund has forced you to invite? Why don’t we know them?”
    Lord Bellasis cut in. “You will know them after tonight.”
    “You’re not very forthcoming,” said Georgiana.
    The Duchess had her own suspicions, and she was rather regretting her generosity. “I hope your mother is not going to be cross with me.” She had given him the tickets without a thought, but a moment’s reflection had convinced her that her sister was going to be very cross indeed.
    As if on cue, the chamberlain’s voice rang out: “Mr. and Mrs. James Trenchard. Miss Sophia Trenchard.”
    The Duke looked toward the door. “You’ve not