Amy Lake by Lady Reggieand the Viscount Page A

wished to attend that week.  Or at the Larkinton’s ball in a sennight— 
    Such is the manner in which these things begin, with a few words exchanged beneath a painting, or a second waltz perhaps to come, and of course Lord Davies had not yet expressed any of the feelings of dislike and mistrust which were so soon to come my way.
     

Chapter 8:  Waltz at the Lark
     
    A full week went by without my seeing Lord Davies again.  I could not blame him for avoiding a second call to Roselay; it would have been tantamount to a declaration of interest, and not even in schoolgirl fantasies—which of course I never entertain—could he have been ready for such a step.
    So I moped a bit, as did Freddie, for some reason which he did not confide, although I presumed that his pursuit of Lady Celia was not proceeding as he hoped.  That was no surprise, as ’twas a lost cause at any rate.  The week was enlivened, however, by the drama—there is no better  word—of Peter Wilmott’s engagement to Miss Montvale. 
    “You will never believe,” said Cassandra one morning, after we had enjoyed a long ride in Green Park, “what I have just heard.”
    “Enlighten me.”
    “Alice Montvale has cried off the engagement.”
    “Never!”  I was truly shocked.  A broken engagement was a scandal, and the thought of quiver-lipped Alice doing such a thing was . . . well, unthinkable.  “Why, in heaven’s name?”  Lord Peter was handsome enough, pleasant enough, and the Wilmott’s had enough blunt for all their boys.
    “Apparently, her fiancé became . . . inebriated.”
    “Horrors.”
    “Indeed.  He then approached the house and attempted to sing.”
    I burst into laughter.  The serenade was a custom more honored in the breach; I had not heard of any young lady being recently subject to such awkwardness, there being very few appropriately situated balconies in London.
    “I am told that a certain indelicate phrase was uttered in the course of the song, and Alice had to be revived.”
    I couldn’t imagine what the phrase was, and unfortunately Miss Barre did not know.
    “Peter is now moving heaven and earth to regain her hand.  Lady Helen says he has written more letters in the past two days than in his entire life.”
    I sighed.  “It sounds very romantic.”
    “Posh.  I think he’s better off without her.  If Alice has such a weak heart for a few words, can you just imagine how she will react to the marriage bed?”
    “Cassie!”
    “Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t wondered about it, too.”
    * * * *
     
    Miss Barre and I took the opportunity of fair weather to ride each morning, talking the whole while.  Before long we had discussed every detail of my encounters with the viscount, parsing every word, until we could nearly recite them by heart.   I was growing tired of the exercise. 
    “You must see him again as soon as possible,” said Cassandra, “We need more data.” 
    We agreed that the best chance to see Lord Davies during the upcoming sennight was at the Marquess of Larkinton’s ball.  The ‘Lark’, is it is usually called—the haut ton is a clever lot—was an annual event, somewhat smaller than the Lincolnshire’s but invitations were that much more sought after as a result.  Cassie guessed that Isolde would move heaven and earth to be there.
    And her brother would, naturally, accompany her and Carys.  ’Twould be a crush, and the twins would cause a sensation.
    Lady Celia Brompton would no doubt attend as well.  Several more days had passed and I still had no idea of what was happening to Freddie’s doomed love affair; he continued to say nothing and look anxious.
    And then, on the morning of the ball, my brother showed up at breakfast, in his usual high spirits.
    “Good day to you, Reggie!” he boomed, and I nearly dropped my cup of coffee.
    “Good lord, Freddie, there’s no need to shout.”
    He kissed me on the top of the head.  “Ever so sorry,” he said.  “You’re