The Conqueror's Dilemma (7 page)

She was besides exhausted. It had
been a week of traipsing from one event to another in a series of pointless
expeditions whose sole object had been to discover the Conqueror. Had it not
been for the aftermath of her ill-judged escape to the Post Office, Tiffany
thought she would have dug in her heels. Nothing could be further from her
wishes than to go hunting for Mr Westerham.

But Eva had not spared her,
enumerating all the more lurid ills that might have befallen her in a locality
as apparently dangerous as the City. Matters had not been improved by the
intervention of Mrs Gosbeck. Tiffany could have laughed—had she not been on
tenterhooks for the outcome—to hear that lady agree with her friend at the same
time as she begged her not to scold. A tactic that had added to Lady Drumbeg’s
rage, which intensified when they reached the privacy of the house in Soho
Square.

‘What’s the use me taking pains
to find a way to introduce you to the Conqueror, if all you can do is behave in
a way that must disgust him?’

Having every reason to believe Mr
Westerham to be more amused than disgusted, Tiffany could think of no suitable
response. No good purpose could be served by revealing her meeting with him.
Eva would not hesitate to take advantage of it. Which must surely embarrass the
Conqueror, who had specifically told her he would not recognise her should they
meet again.

Nevertheless, she felt it politic
to acquiesce for a time—certainly not with any sneaking hope she might in fact
secure an introduction. Tiffany was perfectly satisfied with Mr Westerham’s
absence from Somerset House, where she had to listen to an insufferably tedious
lecture by a member of the Society of Arts. She was equally pleased not to
discover him at Westminster Abbey, where she suffered through the dullest
sermon she had ever heard. And she was felt reasonably certain that a venue as
packed as the British Museum was today would prove to be free of the
Conqueror’s presence.

The press of persons at length
made her feel as if she were wilting, and she could only be grateful when
chance, in the shape of two ladies pushing between her and Lady Drumbeg in
front, propelled her into a less peopled recess where a couple of stone seats
proved an irresistible invitation. Tiffany sank down with a thankful sigh.

She was just beginning to feel a
little less like an unwatered flower when another female glided into the wide
alcove and sat down beside her.

‘Shocking crush, isn’t it? I am
ready to sink with exhaustion.’

The bright tone in which the lady
spoke belied the words. Turning to look at her, Tiffany beheld a creature with
a merry face and sparkling grey eyes. She was clad in a gown of pale green
muslin, a bronze spencer with a roll collar atop and a feathered bonnet set at
a rakish angle upon locks the hue of rich chestnut. A look of sympathy came
into her face.

‘Poor thing. You look half dead
of fatigue. Are you?’

Tiffany found herself smiling. ‘I
was finding it stuffy, I admit. But I feel a trifle better now.’

The grey eyes appraised her with
unaffected interest. ‘I don’t believe we have met before, Miss—?’

An enquiring pause invited
Tiffany to fill in the gap. ‘Felton. Tiffany Felton, and I am quite sure we
have not met.’

A gloved hand was held out. ‘My
name is Membury. Delighted, Miss Felton. How do you do?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ uttered
Tiffany dazedly, shaking the hand. A sudden thought assailed her, and she gazed
at the woman, her hold unconsciously tightening. ‘Oh, pray tell me before I
make a horrid error—what are you?’

‘What am I?’ The lady went into a
peal of laughter, throwing back her head. ‘How quaint of you, Miss Felton.’

Flushing, Tiffany rushed to
retrieve the faux pas. ‘I beg your pardon, that was silly of me. I mean,
who
are you? Is it Lady Membury perhaps? You see, I can’t remember all the names,
and for all I know you may be a duchess or a Dutchwoman.’

‘May I request you to unhand me,
Miss Felton?’ Eyes brimful of amusement, the lady withdrew her fingers as
Tiffany gasped and let go. ‘As it happens, I am neither. Nor, though my brother
is Lord Kilbride, am I married to a peer. I am, alas, only Mrs Membury, and
since poor Hector is merely a baron, I have no entitlement to be Lady anything
at all.’

Inordinately relieved, Tiffany
smiled. ‘Thank you for explaining. In general, you see, I am left to muddle my
way through, and of course I get it wrong. I only hope I may remember your name
should we ever meet again.’

She received a kindly pat from
Mrs Membury. ‘You need have no apprehension. You may forget it in a moment, and
I promise to take no offence.’ A bright smile was bent upon Tiffany. ‘I know.
We may obviate any awkwardness if I tell you my first name, for you couldn’t
forget that. It is Ariadne.’

‘Ariadne?’ repeated Tiffany,
awed.

Mrs Membury shook her head,
mischief in her face. ‘I know. Shocking, isn’t it? My mother has an
affliction—an insatiable love affair with the ancient Greeks. Not only did she
saddle me with Ariadne and my brother with Hector, but she also keeps a
houseful of cats at the family estate and each of them is named in some such
classical fashion. I should think you could hear them yowling in protest all
the way to York Minster.’

Tiffany jumped. ‘York? Is that
where your family comes from?’

‘Near by, yes. Why, do you know
it?’

A bubble of excitement grew in
Tiffany. ‘I went to school there. Oh, not one of your genteel academies, but I
know it well.’

To find she had something in
common with a member of the set to whom she felt wholly an outsider was a
source both of wonder and delight.

‘It is a pretty
town,’ conceded Mrs Membury in a judicious tone, ‘although I rarely see it now,
for my husband’s place is in Kent. We take the children up in the summer, for
Mama dotes upon them and they adore Hector. They will come up to town for the
Easter holidays, though.’

Tiffany’s head was in a whirl.
This female was a far cry from the fashionable matrons she had envisaged.
Talking of her children and holidays? Why, if it were not for the clothes, she
was as normal as Aunt Peggy.

‘You are also from Yorkshire
then, I take it?’

Tiffany admitted it. ‘But far
from York. I live by the sea, near a place called Bridlington Key.’

‘How invigorating that must be. I
should love to live by the sea.’

‘Oh, it is the most exciting
thing imaginable,’ agreed Tiffany, all her enthusiasm coming to the fore.

‘Exciting? Now that does surprise
me.’

‘Well, with the ships coming and
going, I mean,’ Tiffany elaborated. ‘I was used to run wild in the harbour, and
no one minded. My uncle’s crews never objected to let me come aboard.’

Mrs Membury appeared to be
inordinately interested. ‘Have you then been to sea? Now that must be
exciting.’

‘It is.’ Tiffany lost herself in
the glow of remembrance. ‘They say I am like my mother. She was rarely off the
ships, as far as I can make out. I have never been allowed to sail away as I
wished. I travelled down to London in one of Uncle Matt’s ships, though. But
then the captain made a special journey just for me.’

Ariadne’s expressive features
were alive with mischief. ‘Now that is an excellent notion. The tedium of being
shut up in a coach for two days together is inexpressible. I think I must
suggest to Membury that he hires a ship for the purpose the next time we are to
go home. I am convinced the boys would love it.’

An irate voice broke in upon
them. ‘Tiffany! What in the world are you—?’

Lady Drumbeg broke off, her eyes
flying to Ariadne’s face. She stared rudely for a moment, and then her mouth
broke into the nauseously obsequious smile she kept for those above her in
station. Tiffany’s heart sank.

‘Mrs Membury, I declare!’ Coming
forward, she gushed sickeningly, her tone ultra genteel. ‘What a pleasure to
see you again. It has been—oh, so long I cannot recall. But I know you will not
have forgotten, as generous as you are, dear Mrs Membury. It is Lady Drumbeg,
but I am sure I need not remind you. Do forgive me. I should have called upon
you long since, only with Miss Felton on my hands, life has been hectic. You
have met Miss Felton? Tiffany, make your curtsy, if you please.’

Crushed with embarrassment,
Tiffany could barely find the strength to rise. She knew she was blushing, and
she could not look at Ariadne Membury. Dropping a stiff curtsy, she prayed Eva
would say no more. Dreading to hear the inevitable repudiation, she felt it an
age before her new acquaintance spoke.

‘Lady Drumbeg, of course I
remember.’

Her tone was cordial, but Tiffany
thought she detected a hint of disdain. Or was she imagining it? She dared to
look up and found Mrs Membury smiling—but without the earlier merry warmth.
Tiffany felt ready to sink into the ground. Worse was to come.

‘You were conversing so
comfortably,’ resumed Lady Drumbeg in her most unctuous voice, ‘I am sorry I
interrupted.’

A pause ensued, into which
neither Tiffany nor, to her further discomfiture, Mrs Membury, dropped a single
word. Eva was not similarly reticent.

‘But wait!’

What now? Oh, dear heaven, what
now?

‘There is no reason why you
should not enjoy each other’s company further. It will be no trouble to bring
Tiffany to call upon you, Mrs Membury. What do you say?’

What could she say? Tiffany would
have run, but for the sheer impossibility of removing in any fashion other than
undignified. She shrank from the detestable spectacle she would make, pushing a
way through the throng beyond the opening to the recess. She steadfastly
regarded the marbled floor, wishing she might disappear through it. At length
Ariadne’s polite tones fell coldly upon her ears.

‘That would be delightful, Lady
Drumbeg. Pray do bring her one morning. I shall look forward to it. Good day to
you both.’

There was a swish of petticoats
and a flash of colour, and then Tiffany was once more alone with her chaperon.

‘There now, what lucky chances do
overtake you, Tiffany.’

Lucky? Scarcely able to believe
her ears, Tiffany at last raised her eyes from contemplation of the floor. So
smug as Eva looked. Did she imagine she had scored a triumph?

‘I hadn’t much hope she’d agree,’
said Lady Drumbeg candidly, ‘but blow me down, she did. Nothing could be
better.’

Tiffany did not trust herself to
speak. Rising from the ashes of her humiliation, a thread of anger nearly
choked her. Could not Eva tell how disgusted Mrs Membury had been? Agree? Yes,
she had been forced to do so. Iniquitous her chaperon had taken advantage of
the lady’s impeccable manners. Well, she would not be a party to any such call,
let Eva say what she might.

‘I don’t believe you’ve the faintest
notion what this means, Tiffany. That was Ariadne Membury, brother to Lord
Kilbride.’

Bewilderment was added to
Tiffany’s anger. ‘Yes, she told me as much. Why do you make it sound
portentous?’

The answer left her dazed.

‘Give me strength,’ pleaded Lady
Drumbeg irritably. ‘Don’t know nothing, do you, stupid girl? Kilbride is the
Conqueror’s best friend.’

With a fast beating heart Tiffany stepped up into the
hackney called up to take her to Mrs Membury’s house in Brook Street. After
all, she argued with her baser self, it was not certain the Conqueror would
choose just this morning to call upon his friend’s sister. At least she had
contrived to hold the dreaded visit off for several days. Had Eva had her way,
the promised call would have been made the very next day.

‘Will that not seem pushing?’
Tiffany had suggested, doing her best to conceal her disquiet.

Lady Drumbeg had looked
thoughtful. ‘I’ll concede you a point there. Perhaps we’d best leave it a day
or two. But not long enough to appear discourteous. Yes, we’ll go the day after
tomorrow.’

But tomorrow came, and with it an
unfortunate occurrence concerning the Conqueror. Correctly accompanied by
Burridge, Tiffany was visiting Hatchard's circulating library. The footman waited
for her outside, and having chosen her books, she came out, looking about to
find him.

To her immediate consternation,
she spied the Conqueror across the street. He was strolling down Piccadilly in
company with a gentleman of stockier build, engaged in laughing conversation.

Tiffany’s heartbeat became
flurried, and she stood stock-still, her gaze riveted in so pointed a manner a
dolt could not have failed to notice it. Besides which, the Conqueror was on
the far side of the two men, and thus obliged to turn his head in her direction
as he talked. He must have seen her.

Oh, he was a true gentleman, no
doubt of it! As he had promised, so he performed. He did not so much as flick a
glance in Tiffany’s direction.

She was glad of it, was she not?
How charming it was to be treated with such insufferable correctness. It must
be her ignorance causing her to feel slighted beyond endurance, for Mr
Westerham had been explicit. Had she not been brought up in a very different
milieu from the one inhabited by the Conqueror, she would no doubt be wholly
thankful.

She was thankful enough to
contrive an indisposition upon the following morning, which effectively blocked
Lady Drumbeg’s mission to carry her to Brook Street. And then it was Sunday.

But Eva became more peevish with
each delay, and Tiffany conceded defeat—with the utmost reluctance and seething
inside—when she was warned the visit must be made on Monday without fail or the
Season would be over before advantage could be taken of the encounter at the
British Museum.

Her chaperon could not be put off
indefinitely, as Tiffany privately reasoned. Or, she accused herself, was it
that the intervening days since her last encounter with Mr Westerham had
undermined her resolve? She could not deny she liked him, a little too well for
comfort. She had no right to feel in the least bit hurt when she glimpsed him
across the street the other day. It was all the fault of these horrid rules.
The Conqueror must not acknowledge her. He had specifically told her so. Yet
after the stolen moments she had shared with him, his ignoring her seemed a
great deal ruder than the nonsense about tipping his hat. Obviously she was
totally unsuited to be a member of that set, for she would never understand the
need for so unkind a deceit.