Escapade by Joan Smith

library at Clare."
    “Have you indeed?” she asked, with the first indication of real interest she had shown thus far.
    “Yes, I will take you there later. My librarian will direct you to those subjects you are interested in.” He hoped the lady might now mention her areas of interest, and contribute something to this lagging conversation, but she said only, “Thank you,” in a very small voice.
    Throughout the whole time, the Marchioness and her daughter sat like the well-bred statues they were and said nothing. That they were dead was obviously untrue, however, for their eyes occasionally went from one speaker to the other.
    To kill time while awaiting the arrival of the others, Clare took the party to his Mama's rose garden, where the Marchioness distinguished herself by recognizing a Queen Anne rose bush, and her daughter by telling them they had many finer ones at Strayward, and Ella did not distinguish herself at all. She liked roses, but like architecture, she knew little about the subject. She preferred keeping her mouth shut and appearing a fool to opening it and removing the doubt. Just before dusk, the party was considerably enlivened by the simultaneous arrival of the Prentiss and Sheridan carriages, and before long the three young gentlemen who were to complete the party—Tredwell, Mr. Peters, and Lord Harley, also came. It was time to change and reassemble for dinner, and Ella breathed a sigh of relief to escape the blighting eye of the Duke.
    The meal was served on a grand scale in the formal dining room, with the Duchess of Clare acting as hostess, presiding over a table thirty feet long, laden with an array of silver, crystal, fine Wedgwood porcelain, and enough food to please the greatest glutton in the land. The visitors just arrived added sufficient variety to the assembly that conversation flourished, and the meal was a jolly one.
    Mr. Peters and Lord Harley were young blades of the Corinthian set, who looked elegant in their black suits, and more at home in their riding clothes. “Doing the pretty” with the ladies was the price they were willing to pay for the privilege of getting their legs over the backs of Clare's hacks and hunters. The evenings would be dashed dull, but Clare had a well-stocked cellar, at least, to make them tolerable.
    The young ladies, Miss Sheridan and Miss Prentiss, were a study in contrast. Sherry was outstanding for her ravishing appearance—crow-black hair worn in the stylish Méduse, a skin like the inside of a white rose, and eyes as black as her hair. Her conversation was insipid, but her looks so staggeringly beautiful that no one ever listened to what she had to say anyway, except her modiste. Her sole subject of conversation was gowns, and a further restriction was that it was usually her own gowns she discussed, though she occasionally offered a criticism of a rival's.
    Belle Prentiss was of a different sort entirely. Not strikingly beautiful, but with a lively gamin charm. She was slight and elfin, with titian curls cut daringly short, almost a Brutus do in fact. It was the style to compare her to Lady Caroline Lamb. She was as broad in her interests as Miss Sheridan was narrow. She knew everyone, did everything, from cutting through town in her own high-perch phaeton-and-pair to reading to old Queen Charlotte in the afternoons. She sang, danced, played every known musical instrument, painted, wrote verses, drama, and novels, and still had time to take in every rout and assembly that occurred. She even read the papers and knew something about politics. It was one of her ploys to wish aloud that she were a man, so that she might be Prime Minister, and with her energy and cleverness it was not unlikely that she would have made it, had she been a man. But she was a young lady, and so would make do instead with marrying the prize of the marriage mart, the Duke of Clare.
    These two young ladies were accompanied by their mothers, but as beauty and talents were