Page 12 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘Yes, yes we remember, very very secret,’ Lady Phoebe said.

‘We shall be the souls of discretion, dear boy,’ Sir Waldo promised.

Sir Waldo had taken to affectionately calling him ‘dear boy’ since his marriage to Phoebe, as if there were twenty years between them rather than ten.

The sound of a throat clearing had them all turning.

‘Excuse me, Sir Waldo, my lady, my lord,’ Reeves informed them. ‘The first guest has arrived.’

Lady Phoebe smoothed a hand down the front of her dress.

‘How do I look?’

‘Very well,’ Ashford said.

‘A vision,’ Sir Waldo enthused. ‘Though why do you not wear your diamond necklace?’

Ashford raised his eyes to the heavens. Any fool could see that Sir Waldo’s engagement gift to Lady Phoebe – the most ostentatious string of diamonds anyone had ever clapped eyes upon – would be utterly unsuitable for to wear with a morning dress of jaconet muslin.

‘What is the point of it,’ Sir Waldo said in a stage whisper louder than most people’s shouts, ‘if one does not show it off?’

‘Tonight, I promise,’ Lady Phoebe said, chivvying him back towards the house.

They made their way back to the front steps where the doors were being thrown open and a fleet of shiny-buckled footmen were filing out to flank the stone balustrade and greet the first carriage as it drew up. The sound of more hooves had them all turning again, to see another gleaming carriage turn in at the gate, closely followed by another, then another, each one grander the last, as guests began arriving thick and fast. Soon the front steps were overrun as ladies arrayed in elegant carriage dresses of dark blue, delicate fawn and pristine cream, and gentleman, their buckskins pressed, their boots shining, not to mention two dozen maids and manservants, countless trunks and hat boxes, and even one small yapping Pekinese descended from the carriages.

‘You must all be parched,’ Lady Phoebe declared, once she had greeted everyone personally. ‘We will serve refreshments on—’

She was interrupted by a very loud, very unpleasant screech. A last carriage was turning into the gates at some speed, evidently having to press hard upon the brakes to make the turn in time. It careened up the drive, causing them all to flinch backwards, though whether that was purely because of the unwise speed was unclear. For the carriage was also painted in the most bizarre fashion Ashford had ever seen: a violent, garish pattern of yellow and pink stripes.

‘Someone is clearly lost.’ But Lady Phoebe’s tinkling laugh was abruptly caught short as, with an unpleasant creak, the chaise door opened and Mr Philip Hanworth poked his head out. At first sight, he was dressed very properly, in buckskins and a frock coat, but at second glance Ashford noticed that a quizzing glass was clutched in his hand.

‘Who on earth …?’ Lady Hesse began in a stage whisper.

‘The Hanworths!’ Lady Phoebe declared, changing tack at lightning speed. ‘Of course – new friends of ours, you know. Very eccentric, but we think them divine!’

Mr Hanworth did not wait for the carriage steps to be released, leaping down to the ground himself, before turning to hand out the most violently purple woman Ashford had ever seen in his life.

‘Dear lord,’ Lady Morton murmured, clutching her dog to her bosom in alarm.

Despite the damning contextual evidence, it was a moment before Ashford was ready to admit to himself that the purple woman was none other than his bride-to-be. The Miss Hanworth he had last encountered in London had been arranged becomingly in a gown of simple pale muslin, entirely befitting that of a young, unmarried woman; now, in a garish travelling robe of vivid puce, she resembled nothing less than a giant, walking beetroot.

‘I have never seen a habit of such a colour, all my life,’ Miss Hesse whispered, naïve wonder in her voice.

‘Waldo, I wonder if you might take our guests to the drawing room,’ Lady Phoebe interjected, ‘so that they might partake of refreshment.’

The rest of the party were shepherded inside, throwing intrigued glances over their shoulders and whispering amongst themselves.

‘You said,’ Lady Phoebe whispered, ‘that she was impeccably deported.’

‘She was!’ Ashford said.

‘If she gives me any cause to blush in front of Lady Hesse …’ Lady Phoebe began from between clenched teeth, before breaking off and taking in a deep, calming breath. ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to …’

A sunny smile swept all negativity from her expression. ‘I am so looking forward to meeting her!’ She began gliding towards the couple, arms outstretched in welcome. ‘Welcome, Mr and Miss Hanworth!’

‘Good afternoon,’ Miss Hanworth said, once she had risen from her curtsey. ‘Thank you so very much for inviting us, Lady Henley.’

Lady Phoebe’s smile became rather fixed. The daughter of an earl, she had retained her previous title rather than take Sir Waldo’s. Ashford would have thought everyone in the Polite World would know such a thing but …