The Conqueror's Dilemma (17 page)

Tiffany was hit with a leaping
flare of jealousy. At least she supposed it must be that, for her immediate
desire was for a thunderbolt to strike the wretched woman down. No, that was
silly. Yet more proof of Mr Westerham’s ruinous influence. After all, she had
no knowledge of the circumstances of the relationship between them. It was all
conjecture on her part. Which did not prevent a well of misery from settling in
her bosom as she noted the intimacy between the pair, the Conqueror leaning
close as the lady whispered in his ear behind her fan. They were both laughing.
Oh, it was evident Mr Westerham was well entertained.

‘Miss Felton, dearie, who is it
you’re staring at so avidly? It ain’t a beau of yours, is it?’

Jumping violently, Tiffany tore
her eyes away from the other box and turned quickly towards Mrs Gosbeck. ‘Of
course it is not. I haven’t got a beau.’

The startled look in the plump
features brought her sharply back to herself. It did not need the low-voiced
admonition from Lady Drumbeg to bring her to a remembrance of her manners.

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Gosbeck.
I’m afraid your question startled me.’

‘Yes, but who is it to make you
come over all moonstruck?’

By this time, to Tiffany’s
consternation, Eva had assimilated the cause of her abstraction and was eyeing
the new arrivals in great excitement.

‘It’s the Conqueror, I declare!
And with the Memburys in tow.’ She was clearly less enthusiastic to discover
the fourth member of the box across the way. ‘Gracious heaven, did he have to
be with that female?’

‘Which female, Eva?’ came eagerly
from Mrs Gosbeck, as she peered short-sightedly towards the other side of the
theatre.

‘Lady Yelverton. You must have
heard me speak of her, Eliza.’

‘You mean the one as they call
the Queen of Society?’

‘I wish she had not been
present,’ pursued Lady Drumbeg, ignoring the question, ‘for I might otherwise
have found an opportunity to put you in the way of the Conqueror again,
Tiffany.’

‘Again? But has she met him
then?’

Eva nodded, her eyes remaining on
the far box. ‘She has and he seemed to like her, though he’s made no effort to
bring her along, more’s the pity. I hoped he’d be here, but if he’s determined
to be close as oysters with Lady Yelverton, I can’t see as how I can waylay
him. I’ll not risk running foul of her again.’

For which Tiffany was ever
grateful. After what had passed between her and Mr Westerham, all Lady
Drumbeg’s efforts must be rendered null and void. Although it had been in the
hope of finding the Conqueror present that her chaperon had chosen to visit
this Saturday’s performance at Drury Lane, rather than any desire to witness
the talented performance of Miss Harriet Mellon. A decision reinforced by
Tiffany’s escapade at the Pantheon.

‘We may thank Providence he was
not here to witness your behaviour,’ she had said, ‘for nothing could be more
certain to alienate him. Especially as he has shown himself willing to include
you. It’s of the first importance for you to court his approval, for none is
better placed to bring you forward.’

With difficulty, Tiffany had
refrained from a heated rejoinder, but her duenna’s remarks had served to bring
home the truth of the Conqueror’s assertions. It was all too evident Lady Drumbeg
cared nothing for the furtherance of Tiffany’s happiness. All her interest was
centred on thrusting her up the social ladder. To what end, if not Lady
Drumbeg’s own ambition? For the only other option she had entertained was a
mercenary marriage to an offensive old man for whom Tiffany could feel nothing
but disgust.

Mrs Gosbeck, in the meanwhile,
who had no knowledge of her friend’s august acquaintances, was gazing at Lady
Drumbeg in the liveliest astonishment.

‘You never said nothing about the
Conqueror to me, Eva. Lady Yelverton too. You never told me you knew her. Do
you?’

Tiffany saw a trace of
embarrassment shade Lady Drumbeg’s cheek. Or was it annoyance? Having concealed
the occasion of meeting that lady from her friend, she must lose herself in a
morass of half-truths if she said anything at all. But Eva proved to be made of
sterner stuff. She leaned close enough to whisper.

‘It ain’t a pretty story, Eliza,
but I’ll tell it you another time. This ain’t the place for it.’

 Their hostess obediently
fell silent, but her bursting curiosity was written large on her plump
countenance as she looked again at the occupants of the box, and thence back to
Lady Drumbeg.

It struck Tiffany all at once
that her chaperon could never have intended to include Mrs Gosbeck in her
ambition to rise in society. Was faithlessness to be added to the catalogue of
Eva’s faults? Could she be so unkind as to discard the long-time friend who had
given so much merely for the sake of entering a higher social sphere?

An acrid taste welled up in
Tiffany’s mouth. Well, why not? If the Conqueror so valued his position he
feared to consort publicly with a being as mean as herself, why should not Lady
Drumbeg be ashamed of her dearest companion?

Disgust rose inside her, and she
turned with new eyes to look again upon the man on whom she had already wasted
far too much thought. But a jolt shot through her as Tiffany discovered the
Conqueror to be looking directly towards her, an expression on his face of
distinct regret.

It was only for an instant. A
second later, he was wearing his most haughty look. Treating her to a distant
bow, he turned his head and resumed a laughing conversation with his
companions. Tiffany instantly decided she had imagined the earlier expression.
Hurt and humiliated, she was beset by a tide of welling anger. How dared he
behave to her thus? After the manner of their last meeting, it was intolerable
to be treated like an importunate stranger. Had the odious situation in which
she was placed been of her own making, she might not mind it. But in every
sense, it was the Conqueror who had engineered it.

He had
approached her that first evening. He had taken her at fault in the Post
Office. It had not, she conceded, been his doing she was invited to Mrs
Membury’s house, but his conduct towards her on both occasions had resulted in
his seeking her out at the Pantheon to apologise. Had she made the slightest
attempt to invade his life or his circle? No, she had not. But how had he
served her? With insults, and a kiss so shattering she could still feel the
imprint of it on her mouth.

This proved an unfortunate
recollection, for a sliver of liquid heat superseded her wrath and she
discovered a hidden yearning inside herself for a repetition of the Conqueror’s
iniquitous assault upon her senses. Turning her eyes to the stage, she
pretended an interest she did not feel as the drama unfolded, conscious all the
time of the shadowing presence threatening to overwhelm her every waking
thought.

‘I take it you’ve not yet thought of
a solution?’

William was hard put to it not to
curse aloud. He had thought he had himself well in hand, but it proved
otherwise. He prevaricated.

‘A solution to what?’

Lady Yelverton’s laugh was gently
mocking. ‘Come, come, Will. Do you take me for a simpleton? You can’t take your
eyes off that female.’

He stiffened, but managed to
maintain a semblance of his usual cool demeanour. ‘You do talk fustian, Ju. I
should have thought it more obvious I’ve been taking pains not to glance in her
direction.’

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’
said her ladyship, with an expression perilously close to a smirk.

William’s fingers itched to slap
her, but he quelled the urge. ‘It makes no matter, because I have abandoned the
whole enterprise.’

Juliana gave forth a sound that
in anyone less well bred would have been a snigger. ‘Others might be induced to
believe that, but I know you better, Will. Not that I’ve seen you in the throes
of this sort of passion before. It’s remarkably entertaining.’

‘I am not in any sort of
passion,’ declared William, almost through his teeth. ‘Other than the one which
is urging me to strangle you. You or Ariadne. Either would serve my purpose.’

A short silence brought his eyes
round from the stage to look at his companion. Juliana was regarding him with a
mixture of interest and speculation. She glanced past him to where Ariadne was
sitting, to his relief intent rather on Hector where he stood in Lady Altass’
box than on himself.

‘I should have guessed you would
enlist Ariadne’s help. What is she proposing?’

‘Nothing at all,’ William
responded shortly. ‘I told you, I’ve changed my mind.’

Lady Yelverton’s gaze came back
to him, as if she sought the truth in his features. ‘But you did ask Ariadne
what she might do?’

Reluctantly, he admitted it. ‘Not
that she was able to think of anything. But I’ve since told her to forget about
it.’

‘Why?’

The bluntness of her question
took him aback. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Not to me.’ Juliana shrugged.
‘It would be difficult, I grant you, but not impossible—especially to one of
your stamp, Will. Why have you given it up?’

William was obliged to clamp his
lips upon the words bursting to be uttered. Because Tiffany Felton was too
great a danger to him. Because he had shown himself at the Pantheon just how closely
he resembled his Reverend father. Because what he would do was bound to be more
of a disservice to the girl than a service. And because he could not endure to
be the means of causing Tiffany any further heartache.

The image of her features as she
delivered the shattering utterance leaped into his mind. Her words rang in his
memory.
I should like to belong where you need not be ashamed to acknowledge
me
. Inwardly he squirmed. It had been less what she had said than the
manner of her saying it. There had been in her features—in the very eyes
prickling through the slits of her mask—an unmistakable glow. Instinct had
thrown him onto the defensive, causing him to poker up in a fashion he knew had
dismayed her, and which he could not sufficiently regret.

He had not at the time been open
to reviewing his reaction in this light. It had rather filtered through to him
in a gradual recognition as the interchange returned to him again and again. It
had sprung at him full force the moment he had spied her in the box across the
way. He had almost forgot himself in an open display of the shock of it. Small
wonder Juliana had been convinced of his cherishing extraordinary feelings
towards the wench. She was, he realised, yet awaiting an answer to her
question.

William opted for the truth. ‘I
cannot serve her so. It would be—unkind.’ He had almost said cruel, but
withheld it in time. So strong a sentiment would draw Juliana to probe deeper.
As it was, she remained little convinced.

‘Well, we shall see if this
decision holds with you.’

With which she turned her
attention upon the stage, apparently dismissing the subject. William did
likewise, but he took in less than one word in ten of what was going forward in
the play. The little figure on the other side of the playhouse caught in the
periphery of his vision and his neck grew stiff with the effort not to look. It
must be his imagination that made her seem forlorn and alone. His awareness of
her was acute, adding coals to the fires of his conscience. His own word ricocheted
in his brain, an echoing spur…
cruel, cruel
.

By the time the curtain rang down
on the end of the performance, William had made up his mind. Matters could not
be left thus unresolved. He must act, and that right speedily.

Tiffany accompanied the party to Vauxhall Gardens with
little expectation of enjoyment, despite the slight improvement in the spring
weather with the arrival of April. The addition of Sir Lambert Chicheley cast a
damper over her spirits, which were already subdued. Not for the first time,
she turned over the notion of writing to her uncle to beg him to allow her to
return before the end of the Season. If only it would not involve her in
impossible explanations, she would do it. There was no use expecting Uncle Matt
to acquiesce without probing her reasons to their very depths—the thought of
which almost caused her to suffer a spasm.

As she took her seat in the
shallow box reserved by Mrs Gosbeck in the Rotunda, to her chagrin assisted by
the loathsome Sir Lambert wearing a proprietorial smirk, Tiffany was struck by
sudden inspiration. What if she were to plead herself disgusted by the
unwelcome attentions of a man three times her age? Uncle Matt could hardly
object. He was more likely to come hotfoot to the rescue. Oh, that would never
do. He would uncover her secret in an instant. Or, if he failed to penetrate
the dismals in which she was enwrapped, Aunt Peggy would not be similarly
obtuse.

She sighed, turning her gaze upon
the crowded floor where persons of all ranks and ages meandered to and fro,
stopping now and then to exchange a word or two with acquaintances.

‘You are distrait, sweet Miss
Felton.’

Sir Lambert’s mouth was so close,
Tiffany could feel his breath on her ear. She shivered, pulling away. Darting a
glance at her chaperon, she perceived that lady’s searching gaze intent upon
the throng. She could not have any hope of spying Mr Westerham in this place
surely? She would do better to look to her charge, and save her from the
importunities of this hateful creature. Tiffany summoned a note of coldness
worthy of the Conqueror himself.

‘I am perfectly in my mind, Sir
Lambert, I thank you.’

‘But imperfectly in mine,’ he was
swift to retort, his voice a murmur to be heard by her alone. ‘I want you,
Tiffany. Why will you not yield to me?’

‘I will never yield. You would do
better to turn your thoughts and attentions elsewhere.’