Date: Sun, 26 Apr 2009 18:43:23 +0800
From: "graemefj@iinet.net.au" <graemefj@iinet.net.au>
Subject: The King's Beast 6

This work is a product of the author's imagination. Places, events and
people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to
real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you
like it!

If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then
email me at: Caleb<graemefj@iinet.net.au>



THE KING'S BEAST 6
by Caleb

King Street was very crowded.  In the section of the street lit by many
flambeaux, carriages were pulling up as other carriages drove off.  The
Marquess of Chesham's coachman was able to manouver through the throng of
carriages, horses, link boys and arriving guests to a position convenient
to the entrace portico of the Almack's assembly rooms.

As the door to the carriage was opened and the steps unfolded, the coachman
gave the usual warning, "Have a care, my lord.  The horses have been here."
The Marquess merely nodded as he descended, followed by Jem.
	"Can you see the others?" Jem asked him.  "Further up the street, I
think," was the answer.  "No.  They've arrived already" And he waved the
hand clutching his chapeau-bras vaguely in the direction of the entrance
portico.
	Jem was straightening his coat as he looked around, but the first
thing his eyes alighted on was a link boy, his torch extinguished, who was
sitting on the edge of a horse-trough and panting painfully.  Jem could not
tear his eyes from him.  He was so young.  He reckoned his age to be about
twelve, though he could have been older.  He was pitifully thin and dirty
and ragged.  As Jem gazed on him, the boy looked up and their eyes met.
Then the boy's eyes slid away and dropped cringingly.
	Almost without thinking, Jem fumbled into his fob and withdrew a
coin which he proffered to the boy.  "Here," he said calling the boy's
attention, "this is for you."  The boy smiled briefly and took the coin,
unable to believe his good fortune.  Jem turned away, feeling strangely
ashamed of his action.
	The boy called after him.  "Sir! Sir!"  Jem turned to him.  The boy
held out the coin.  "Ye made a mistake, sir."  Jem smiled and shook his
head and turned away.  He caught the eye of the Marquess.
	"How much did you give him?" the Marquess asked quietly.  Jem
answered, a little defensively, "Half a crown."
	Up went the mobile eyebrows. "That was prodigiously generous."

Jem looked his mentor squarely in the eyes. "It could have been me, my
lord."

 The Marquess thinned his lips to a straight line.  He turned to the link
boy who was watching them hungrily.
	"What's your name, boy?" the Marquess asked abruptly.  "Wilf, yer
honor," was the timid answer.
	The Marquess fished a coin out of his pocket.  "Well, Wilf.  We
will have need of your - ah – glim for our journey home.  Can you be
here?"  The boy answered eagerly, "Yes, yer honor."
	The Marquess nodded, "Good." and he flicked the coin to the link
boy.  Jem wartched as the coin travelled in a glittering arc from the
Marquess to the link boy who caught it deftly.  His face lit up in wonder
as he examined the coin in the palm of his hand.
	"Thank'ee.  Thank'ee, yer honor."
 Jem and the Marquess turned away and made their way to the entrance of the
assembly rooms.
	"Who's the generous one now?" Jem asked with a smirk and a sideways
glance at his companion.
	The Marquess showed no emotion but said in a moderate tone, "You
shamed me."

Miss Wyndover was waving at them from the entrance portico, until she was
admonished by her mother.  As Jem and the Marquess ascended the steps from
the street, a strange feeling came over Jem – panic and trepidation.  He
paused gasping slightly.  As ever, the Marquess was aware of his every mood
and said gently, "What is it?"
	Jem gazed fearfully into his face.  "I – I shall be meeting him.
He is waiting for me ... in there."
	Smoothly the Marquess guided him to the side of the steps, allowing
the arriving crowds to pass.  After gazing at him for several moments, he
murmured, "We need not go in, if you'd prefer.  We can cry off, even at
this late stage."
	Something inside Jem stiffened his backbone. "Oh, don't be
ridiculous," he snapped and he pushed past the Marquess who gave a secret
grin at his reaction and followed behind him.

For an establishment that boasted such social prestige, the vestibule of
the club was very unprepossessing.  It was unremarkable in every way,
painted in institutional colours and featureless in the extreme. When Jem
entered with the Marquess behind him, his eyes were drawn to a very wide
staircase, built for the fashions of an earlier age allowing two women to
walk side by side wearing their hooped dresses.  Now this staircase was
very crowded, full of chattering and laughing guests, waiting to pass the
receiving line of the patronesses of Almack's arrayed at the top of the
stairs.  Over the loud hum of the guests, Jem could hear music issuing from
the ball room, and above it all, a sonorous voice announcing each guest as
they entered.

	Jem caught sight of the Wyndover party halfway up the stairs in
front of them.  Lady Chesham had decided to accompany her daughter and
granddaughter in Sir Henry's carriage.  Jem grinned up at Miss Wyndover who
flashed an excited smile at him.  For all her previous opinions about the
stodginess of this place, she was clearly delighted to be at this, the
opening ball of the Season, and the excitement added sparkle to her beauty.

Jem and the Marquess were interrupted in their progress by a footman
carrying a long ebony gold-topped staff.  Jem couldn't believe that he
hadn't noticed him until that moment.  The man was dressed with utmost
spendour, in a green coat, and plum-coloured waistcoat and breeches.  On
his head he wore, athwart-ships, an enormous black bicorne hat, gold edged
with a large gold cockade.
	The Marquess was obviously familiar with the ettiquette required,
and wordlessly presented his voucher to the man for his inspection.  Jem
followed suit, fumbling a little as he withdrew it from his inner coat
pocket.  The man glanced at the vouchers, then bowed and murmured to them,
"Welcome my Lord ... Mr Fleet."  Then, with a studied movement of his
staff, he indicated that they were to proceed to the stair case.

As they slowly mounted the staircase, Jem felt suddenly very nervous.  His
beautifully starched and folded neck cloth (the result of Loring's
concentrated efforts) suddenly felt too tight, and he passed a finger round
it to ease it away from his neck.  He smoothed his coat and waistcoat with
the palms of his hands trying to wipe off the sudden sheen of sweat.
	Without looking at him, the Marquess said in an amused voice,
"There is really no need to be nervous, you know.  You will bear all before
you."  He turned his head and flashed a sudden smile, "You look as fine as
fivepence."

Although he was pleased by the comments of the Marquess, they did little to
allay his nervousness.  There were many on the crowded staircase who
claimed acquaintance with his companion – women twinkled gloved fingers
at him from afar and men hailed him either by name ("Good to see you here,
Chesham") or by title, addressing him as "Marquess" rather than "My lord".
In spite of this obvious notability, the Marquess stayed close by Jem so
that he heard passing comments on more than one occasion, "Who is that
good-looking boy with the Marquess of Chesham?"
	When Jem heard this, he smiled secretly to himself, reckoning these
comments were tributes to the excellence of Mr. Weston's tailoring rather
than to his own personal attributes.  He knew he looked at his best,
wearing his new evening clothes of the beautiful brocade and russet
broadcloth that he himself had chosen for his evening clothes, and the
comment of the Marquess that he looked "as fine as fivepence" had pleased
him and seemed to vindicate his choice.

At last they reached the top of the stairs and faced the first of the
patronesses in the reception line.  Jem had not the faintest idea who she
was, but she seemed glad to see the Marquess, and she exclaimed, "My Lord
Chesham.  You are very welcome to our little gathering."  The Marquess,
smiling winningly, bowed gracefully and murmured, "It is our pleasure to be
here, Mrs. Burrell."  He presented Jem to her, "May I present, Mr. Jem
Fleet?"
	The lady, Mrs. Burrell subjected Jem to a high-nosed stare, then
extended a gloved hand and said, "How do you do, Mr. Fleet?"  Jem shook the
hand offered and executed a very correct bow and tried to smile as best he
could.  He was rescued from this formidable lady by Lady Sefton's voice,
exclaiming loudly, "My dear Marquess, you are come at last."  Jem's
attention was drawn to her and she noticed him, "...and young Mr. Fleet,
looking ..."  and she cast an expert eye up and down his person, "... like
something out of a dream, I do declare."
	Jem bowed quickly to Mrs. Burrell and escaped her attention, and
moved to Lady Sefton.  The two men bowed together to her, and she archly
tapped the Marquess on his arm with her fan, saying, "You shall not escape
me tonight, my Lord.  I shall use the privilege of my position and claim
the first dance with you."  Jem flashed a grin at his companion, almost
crowing that he had been so effortlessly snared.  They both bowed again,
and moved down the line.  All the patronesses seemed to flirt with the
Marquess, and when he introduced Jem to each in turn, they all gave him the
same searching up-and-down look.  One of them, Lady Jersey, a tiny
china-doll of a woman with a very restless manner, said as she looked him
over, " 'Pon rep," in an explosion of words, "I did not believe Maria
Sefton when she described you, Mr. Fleet.  I see now she did not
exaggerate."  Without waiting for comment from him, she turned to the
Marquess and said airily, "Your mother and Sir Henry's party are already
within, my Lord."

The Marquess smiled and bowed and indicated that Jem should lead the way
into the ballroom.  Jem was mightily glad to have run the gauntlet of those
alarmingly aristocratic critics, and he felt now that he could relax for a
small while, until... until...

Another tremendous uniformed footman announced them as they entered the
ballroom.  "The Most Honourable, The Marquess of Chesham – Mr. Fleet"
His voice clanged like a bell and Jem had the sudden irreverent thought:
Suppose he had announced "The Most Honourable Stable Boy, Mr Fleet."? He
grinned to himself as he imagined the shocked sensation it would have
caused

The ballroom of Almack's was in the greatest contrast imaginable to the
austerity of the vestibule.  Eight great chandeliers provided dazzling
light , hanging from a ceiling covered in swathed silk of pink and white.
Large displays of hot-house flowers were placed at regular intervals around
the perimeter of the ballroom which seemed to Jem very beautiful.  As the
dancing had not yet commenced, crowds of splendidly dressed chattering
people were dispersed all over the dancing floor while others, obviously in
groups or parties, were arrayed around the walls, between the floral
arrangements, on chairs and chaises.  They had little trouble finding the
Wyndover party.  They were comfortably ensconced on a stragically placed
group of satin covered chairs, not too close to the dance floor yet in the
line of sight of most of the company.  Jem could only marvel at the
cleverness of their choice - Miss Wyndover, seated between her mother and
her grandmother and modestly holding her tiny bouquet was most
advantageously displayed.  She looked very beautiful, dressed with classic
simplicity in ivory satin and long white gloves.  Around them was a small
crowd of fashionably dressed people talking most vociferously to the
Marchioness and Lady Wyndover.  Jem noticed that this group too included
several young debutantes, as shy as Miss Wyndover but not, Jem was pleased
to note, as pretty as she.
	The Marquess and Jem attached themselves to the group and
introductions were made.  Jem immediately forgot the names of the people
although they were smiling and very polite.  He was aware that the older
women, obviously the mothers of the young girls present, gave him the same
searching up-and-down look that had been given him by the patronesses in
the reception line and he wryly realized that each was mentally calculating
his worth.  He knew that his position in the Chesham household would be
most assiduously canvassed later in the evening.  In spite of the gloss of
happy excitement, these ladies had only one item of business: to find
suitable husbands for their daughters, and no candidate would be overlooked
– not even a secretary to a Marquess.

	All the while, the guests kept arriving.  The stentorian voice of
the door man was unceasing - "Lord and Lady This.... Mr. And Mrs. That..."
and the room was filling rapidly until it resembled what was known in
fashionable circles as "a shocking squeeze".  Although the small orchestra
was playing occasional music over the hub-bub of talk, dancing had not yet
commenced.  Jem was aware that the ball did not officially begin until nine
o'clock and it seemed that everyone was waiting for this moment.

	Suddenly there were three loud thumps from the staff carrried by
the doorman.  "My lords, ladies and gentlemen – pray room for His Royal
Highness, the Prince Regent!"  and the crowds parted like the Red Sea and
everyone stood as the orchestra struck up "God Save the King".  The new
Regent, surrounded by his party, stood in full sight of the whole ballroom.
After the anthem, a storm of applause broke out, directed pointedly to the
Regent.  Jem was a little disappointed at his first sight of England's new
ruler.  The man looked pampered and dissolute and, in spite of obvious
severe lacing, fat.  However, he had a charming smile, and as Lady
Castlereagh, one of the patronesses and the wife of the prime minister,
accompanied him around the circuit of the ballroom, introducing him to this
one and that, all seemed genuinely pleased to meet him.

The company remained standing as the Regent moved around the ballrom and he
stopped in front of the Chesham -Wyndover party and exclaimed to Lady
Castlereagh, "There is no need for introductions here, Lady Castlereagh.
How do you do, Lady Chesham?  It seems a very long time since we had the
pleasure of your company."

Rising from a deep curtsey, the Marchioness smiled beautifully and
answered, "Indeed it is, your Royal Highness.  Sir, may I present to you my
daughter and her husband, Sir Henry and Lady Wyndover..."  Sir Henry and
Lady Wyndover bowed and curtseyed, as the Marchioness continued, "...and my
granddaughter, Miss Henrietta Wyndover, who is coming out this year."
	Miss Wyndover, pale but composed, sank into a deep curtsey.  The
Regent leaned towards her.  "Then we can expect to see you at St. James
very soon, Miss Wyndover.  We shall look forward to that with
anticipation."
	Miss Wyndover looked at little startled at this comment but had the
wit to smile at him.
	"Thank you, sir," she murmured, and sank into a second curtsey.
The Prince held out his hand and gently lifted her chin so that she was
gazing into his eyes.
	"Charming," he murmured, "quite charming. " He turned to her
mother.  "You are to be congratulated, Lady Wyndover."  He glanced at Lady
Castlereagh, and she took the hint and indictated that they move on.  As he
moved away, he nodded to the Marquess, and murmured, "Chesham."  The
Marquess bowed but did not reply.

Jem was completely ignored in this exchange.  He did not feel slighted,
however, as he realized that a secretary (and a prostitute) could reach
only so high.

Lady Wyndover's breast swelled with pride and satisfaction.  After this
display of Royal condescension, her daughter's success was assured, and her
sense of triumph was further enhanced by the fury and jealously in the
glances of the other matchmaking mammas.  Jem leaned over the back of Miss
Wyndover's chair and whispered to her, "He's very fat.  I did not expect
that."  Miss Wyndover bit her lip to stop herself giggling and then
unfurled her fan and whispered back to Jem behind it, "And he reeks of otto
of roses."  Lady Wyndover overheard this exchange and said sternly under
her breath, "Henrietta."  Miss Wyndover collapsed her fan and said in a
contrite voice, "Sorry, mamma."  Jem noticed, however, that Lady Wyndover's
lips were twitching in a effort to stop smiling at her daughter's artless
observation.  Lady Chesham turned slightly and raised an eyebrow at Jem,
who felt suitably chastened.  The Marquess, standing beside him was
grinning broadly and his mother glared at him before turning to the company
once more and smiling a social smile.
	The circuit of the ballrom made by the Regent and Lady Castlereagh
took some time to accomplish.  Towards the end, they moved more quickly and
the Regent ended up waving airily to the remaining crowd, many of whom
curtseyed and bowed to him.  As they ended their journey, Lady Castlereagh
raised a gloved hand discreetly to the leader of the orchestra in the
gallery, who was watching her closely, and he bowed slightly in
acknowledgement, and turning to the orchestra, raised his violin and they
began to play.

And at nine o'clock precisely, the Prince Regent led the most senior of the
patronesses of Almack's on to the dance floor, and, to the strains of a
stately minuet, the first ball of the season was officially opened.

As they danced, alone, the rest of the guests took their seats and watched
the couple.  Every now and then, there were smatterings of applause from
various groups of people.  After the prince and his partner had completed
the first figure of the complicated dance, others joined in. Slowly the
dance floor began to fill.  At first, the couples were from his own party
but others from around the room soon began to join the dance.
	On the periphery of the dance, people moved back and forth,
quitting and joining groups, and all the while there was a hum of
conversation.  Jem looked up to see Sir Charles and Lady Clifford moving to
join them.  Sir Henry gallantly gave his seat to Lady Clifford while the
Marchioness complimented her on her gown – soft orange crepe that was
trimmed with some very good heirloom lace.  She was wearing a modest string
of pearls. Jem could only marvel at the sharp contrast between the Lady
Clifford's jewellery and that worn by the Marchioness.  Dressed in striking
midnight blue silk, she almost flaunted a breathtakingly magnificent parure
of sapphires and diamonds that Jem could not take his eyes off.  She
noticed his admiring gaze.
	"The Chesham sapphires," she murmured by way of explanation.  "Old
rose and table cut things.  My mamma-in-law had the stomacher converted
into several brooches and bracelets for which I am heartily thankful."
	"The what?" Jem asked mystified.  The Marchioness smiled at his
ignorance. "The stomacher.  A very old fashioned way to wear jewels."  She
looked around the ballroom. "See," she said, pointing with her fan, "the
lady in the apple green toilette."
	Jem gazed where she indicated, and saw a old lady with many ostrich
plumes in her hair, and in a very old-fashioned stiff-bodied gown which was
covered in diamonds from her neckline to her waist.
	The Marchioness said drily, "The Queen still wears her jewels like
that."  Jem felt unequal to the task of commenting on the niceties of
wearing jewelry, so he just smiled and nodded.

	Suddenly there was a gasp from Lady Clifford, and she cried, in
outraged accents, "How utterly foul!"  Everyone was surprised at this
exclamation, to say the least, and all turned to her and her husband said,
"My dear?"  Lady Clifford began fanning herself in a very agitated manner,
and with snapping eyes, said in a strident whisper, "He flaunts his papist
whore in this – of all places."

Jem felt the pit of his stomach suddenly knot and he flushed.  He cast a
frightened glance at the Marquess, who, strangely, was not looking at him
but was smiling his lop-sided smile at Lady Clifford.
	He said to her quietly and pleasantly, "Mrs. Fitzherbert is
everywhere received, Eugenia.  It would be advisable, I think, to restrain
your moral outrage."  Lady Wyndover nodded in agreement, and said in a
detached manner, "You know, there are those who believe that they are truly
man and wife."
	Her husband, Sir Henry, snorted and said, "Not possible, Lady
Wyndover.  They had not the approval of the king nor of parliament."  Lady
Wyndover merely said, "Ah," and nodded wisely.

Lady Clifford sat with her back rigid, and with downcast eyes, her posture
suggesting she had witnessed something indecent.

Jem, of course, had heard the scandalous story of the clandestine marriage
between the Prince of Wales and his Catholic mistress and was afire with
curiosity.  He scanned the now crowded dance floor and whispered to the
Marchioness, "Which one is she?"
	The Marchioness smiled at his boyish eagerness, and, nodding her
head slightly in Mrs. Fitzherbert's direction, said quietly, " In the red
and gold."
 	Jem sought her out among the dancing couples.  He was surprised to
find her a plump, middle-aged woman with a plain but pleasant face.  So
much for the glamour of notoriety!  He watched her covertly for several
minutes until he suddenly became aware of the man she was dancing with.
	He almost gasped from the shock.  Here was his target – in plain
sight.  He trembled slightly and broke into a cold sweat.  He turned to the
Marquess.  "M-my lord..."
	The Marquess was twirling his quizzing-glass on its black ribbon,
and said, very pleasantly, "I see him, Mr. Fleet."  He smiled charmingly at
Jem, but his eyes – his eyes were like agates.
	" 'Twould be best, I think," he continued, looking at Jem and not
at the dance floor, "to show no sign you have seen him."  Jem had been
holding his breath and now he relaxed, breathing out tremulously. He
swallowed and said, "Yes ... yes..." although the urge to look back at the
man was almost overwhelming.  He looked up to see Sir Charles discreetly
making his way towards them.

In a thread of a voice, Sir Charles said, "DeMontfort.... do you see..?"
The Marquess answered in an off-hand manner, "Yes, we see him Charles.  Has
he seen us, think you?"
	Jem still had his back to the dance floor and watched Sir Charles
as he cast a covert glance at the dancers.
	"I think not," he answered, but he was unsure of his answer.
Instinct told Jem he was wrong. Without looking, he declared flatly, "I beg
to differ, Sir Charles.  He has seen us.  I know it.  I would swear to it."
	Both the Marquess and Sir Charles looked at him curiously.  A
strange calm came over Jem.  He said with a wisp of a smile.  "So.  Our
quarry has been sighted.  What's the correct term?  Yoiks?  Tally-ho?"
	The Marquess was amused.  "A huntsman, Mr. Fleet?"  "Not until now,
my lord," was the dry answer.
	The Marquess grinned.  "And our next step...?"  Both he and Sir
Charles were watching Jem closely.  Jem gnawed his lip.  " 'Tis obvious we
cannot approach him..."
	"Agreed," murmured the Marquess.  A plan began to form in Jem's
head.  He said, "Then he must come to us."
	The other two were silent, still looking at Jem.  A smile flickered
over Jem's features.  "We must reel him in."  The Marquess gave a slight
chuckle.  "An angler, now?"
	Jem looked at him and said smoothly, "... and we have the perfect
bait."  Sir Charles said cynically, "What bait?  You?"
	"I do not flatter myself, Sir Charles.  No.  Our bait will be
... the Marquess of Chesham."  He looked squarely at the Marquess.  "Or
rather, the hatred he holds for the Marquess of Chesham..."
	The three were silent.  Sir Charles shot an uneasy glance at the
Marquess who was staring intently at Jem.  At length, Sir Charles said,
"How do you intend to accomplish this?"

Still looking at the Marquess, Jem said quietly and urgently, "Let us give
History a chance to repeat itself ... let him think there is an opportunity
once again to filch from the Marquess something ... something he holds
dear..." and he finished the explanation with a small gasp.  Sir Charles
muttered in an undertone of outrage, "Sweet Jesus.  You were told in
confidence."  The Marquess gave no sign he had heard his friend's
interjection.  Staring at Jem, he said colourlessly, but with palpable
menace, "And what, pray, will be the something I hold dear?"  Jem held his
eyes and after an agonizing pause said, "Me, my lord."
	The Marquess was silent for a long time, so that Sir Charles
finally said, "Nat, he asked about...."  The Marques raised a finger and
Sir Charles was silent.
	 "No Charles," he said, in an intense quiet voice, "I think it's
brilliant.  He will not be able to resist."  He never took his eyes from
Jem's face.  He said very quietly, "How?"
	Jem licked his lips nervously.  He felt he was trespassing on
dangerous ground.  He spoke rapidly and urgently, terrified lest the
Marquess should explode in anger.  "We must do it now.  We will never have
a better opportunity.  He must see that you ... that you delight in my
company."
	The expression on the face of the Marquess did not waver.  If
anything, it grew more intense.  Jem plunged on.
	"Sir Charles, you must watch him – carefully and secretly.  Be
ready to tell us when he is as close as possible, as close as the dance
will bring him.  We shall not be facing him.  You understand?"
	Sir Charles breathed "Yes, but ..."  "Please, Sir Charles..."
	Reluctantly, "Very well."  And Jem felt rather than saw the man
change his position slightly so that he could observe their quarry, and
still be close to them.
	Jem took a deep breath.  "Now, my lord.  You must lean in towards
me."  He encountered a blazing look from the Marquess, and he hurried on.
"I am telling you a story – a story you find compelling and fascinating.
You hang on my every word."
	There was a pause as the Marquess gave him a calculating look, then
to Jem's great relief, a fatuous smile appeared on his face and he indeed
leant in towards Jem with an intent amused expression.
	"What now?" he asked, though the look on his face belied the
intensity of his words.  Jem forced himself to grin broadly and said, "When
Sir Charles gives the word, my lord, you will laugh."
	He kept the smile on his face, but Jem could see the Marquess was
surprised.  Jem continued, "You will laugh, my lord, with extreme delight.
The laugh will be loud ... and long ... and as genuine as you can make it.
You may clap me on the shoulder if it will assist you, but your laugh must
stop the Comte DeMontfort in his tracks."
	Here the Marquess widened his eyes in sudden appreciation of what
Jem was trying to achieve.
	"Remind me never to play piquet with you, Mr. Fleet," he said
through smiling lips that barely moved.
	Jem continued to smile until his face ached, and, as he leant
towards the Marquess and placed his finger-tips on the man's forearm – a
simple gesture he calculated would convey intimacy to any onlooker, he
murmured to Sir Charles, "How far away is he , Sir Charles?"
	A thread of a whisper.  "He is moving this way ... yes ... coming
closer... about twenty seconds, I think..."
	Jem found himself getting nervous and excited.  All the while the
stately music of the minuet continued.  He knew he must continue talking.
	"This is becoming very difficult, my lord," he said keeping a
knowing smile on his face.  "I cannot think of anything to say, but I must
keep talking."
	The Marquess nodded and smiled and listened closely, but his eyes
were cold.  "These are the longest twenty seconds in my life," said Jem
trying to appear as though he were coming to the climax of the story.
		"About five seconds, I think ... yes ... yes.... I think
now."  Jem took a breath and said, "Now, my lord.  Laugh."

	And the Marquess laughed.

The laugh started as an amused ripple and grew in depth and intensity.  Jem
was amazed at how convincing the laugh was.  The whole demenour of the
Marquess changed.  The laugh seemed to touch his inner being – his face
lit up and his eyes sparkled.  The laugh went on and on, ringing out over
the dance floor.  There was no sense of it being forced or artificial.
Everyone within earshot stopped talking and turned towards the Marquess.

	My God, thought Jem, he's magnificent.

And another thought immediately followed this: He should laugh like that
more often ... he is so... so attractive.

The laugh was so infectious that both Jem and Sir Charles ended up laughing
along with him.  As the laugh died, there was a gasp from the Marchioness,
and she exclaimed, "My Lord Chesham.  Pray share with us that joke."
	The Marquess gave the impression of being unable to speak because
of his laughter.  He took out a white handkerchief and wiped his eyes.  The
Marchioness turned to Jem.  "Something you said, Mr. Fleet?  It must have
been wonderful to make my son forget himself to that extent.  Pray tell
us."
	Jem, still laughing, said with considerable aplomb, "Madam.  It was
something that could not be repeated to a lady."
	Her eyes opened with surprise, and she rapped him on the forearm
with her closed fan.  "Cruel," she said, "I declare you have ruined the
rest of my evening.  I shall be forever wondering what it was that could
have brought such laughter to my son."  But she smiled and turned back to
her party.

	Jem turned back to the men and said to Sir Charles, "Well?"

Sir Charles looked at him in triumph and amazement.  "My God, it worked.
He stumbled as you laughed, Nat.  He spent the next couple of minutes
apologizing to Fitzherbert.  Even now, he cannot keep his eyes off us."
	The Marquess said, "Well done, Mr. Fleet.  You have judged your
adversary to a nicety, " and he bowed to Jem in appreciation.
	Jem's eyes sparkled in triumph and he said, "It was your laugh, my
lord.  He was snared as soon as he heard it."
	Sir Charles, keeping a surrepitious eye on the Comte, said, "What
now?"

Jem considered the matter.  "He will find a way to meet me ... tonight, I
think.  Already, it is plaguing him.  Let him worry about it.  I shall
not."

Lady Sefton materialised beside them.  "My lord Chesham," she said in mock
chagrin, "you have undone me.  The first dance is well advanced and here
you stand, and I am forsaken."  The Marquess was still smiling, and he
bowed elegantly to her.  "A thousand apologies, madam," he said winningly,
"but I must own to finding the minuet a trifle ... tedious."
	She simpered at him.  "Wretch.  But I still hold you to your
promise of a dance."  He smiled again.  "And I shall be desolated to keep
you waiting long.  Perhaps... the allemande?"
	She smirked in triumph as he held out his hand for the tiny ivory
dance card which was suspended on a fine cord from her wrist, and in it he
wrote his name with her gold pencil.  As she returned the card to her
wrist, she turned to Jem and said in a friendly manner, "You do not dance,
Mr. Fleet?"
	She did not give him a chance to reply but said, "Come, sir.  We
must remedy this."  She moved away and Jem followed her, after giving the
Marquess a speaking glance.  He moved to her right hand as she crossed
round the dance floor in search of a suitable partner for him.  Jem made a
special point of not looking at the dancing couples.

	Lady Sefton paused in front of a family group tucked away in a
corner.  There were two young women, surrounded by several much older
ladies, all of whom wore lace caps indicating they would not be dancing.
Jem naturally assumed he would be offered to the younger of the two young
ladies, but Lady Sefton surprised him by addressing the older of the two.
	"Miss Thorpe," she said, startling the young lady who immmediately
rose when being addressed, "you are not dancing.  May I present Mr. Jem
Fleet as a suitable partner."
	Jem knew his cue when he heard it.  "It will be my great pleasure,
Lady Sefton."  He bowed very formally to Miss Thorpe.  "How do you do, Miss
Thorpe?  May I beg the honour of your company for ... the allemande?"  He
was aware that he was echoing the Marquess.
	Miss Thorpe curtseyed slightly to him and fumbled for her dance
card and carefully wrote his name in it.  Jem thought her slightly older
than himself, and shrewdly guessed that she was the plain daughter for whom
the family were anxious to find a suitable match.  She was very composed,
and said in a quiet voice, "Thank you sir.  May I make known to you my
mother, Lady Thorpe ..."  Jem bowed to a hard faced middle-aged woman, and
Miss Thorpe continued, " ... and my aunts, Mrs. Hatcher and Miss Fermoyle."
He executed graceful bows to the two aunts, both of whom smiled at him, "
... and to my sister, Miss Jane Thorpe?"
	Jem smiled and bowed to the younger girl, who was, he had to admit,
a great deal prettier than her elder sister.  Lady Sefton witnessed these
introductions with an air of satisfaction, and said, "Now, if you will
excuse me ..."  Jem bowed to her and Miss Thorpe, who was standing, dropped
a curtsey as she departed.

Lady Thorpe gave Jem the familiar up-and-down look, and said, "You are here
alone, Mr. Fleet?"  Jem exerted himself to be charming.  "No, Lady
Thorpe. I would not have the courage to come alone.  I am here with my
patron – the Marquess of Chesham."

He instantly regretted the name dropping, but he saw that he could not have
said anything to better effect.  Lady Thorpe's eyes widened in surprise,
obviously impressed, and she said in awed accents, "The Marquess of
Chesham!"
	She exchanged significant looks with her companions and suddenly
all three smiled at him.  "Your first time here, Mr. Fleet?"
	"Indeed it is, Mrs. Hatcher," Jem replied affably.  "I have been
very fortunate to obtain a voucher, though I must own, it was probably the
result of the good offices of Lord Chesham than through my own worth."
	He smiled at her and she simpered.  He turned to Miss Thorpe.  "And
you, Miss Thorpe... is it also your first time at Almack's?"
	Her mother answered for her.  "It is Jane's first time, Mr. Fleet.
We have great hopes for her.  Gwendolyn has been coming for several years."
This last statement was tinged with contempt.  Jem smiled at Miss
Thorpe. "Then I shall depend on you Miss Thorpe, to correct any mistakes I
may make."
	She looked a little startled and gave him a shy smile. "I'm sure
you do not need any instruction from me, Mr. Fleet."

Jem had been dreading stepping out on to the dance floor, but Miss
Gwendolyn Thorpe proved to be a light and graceful partner.  Although she
was a little taller than Jem, she was an excellent dancer, and he found he
enjoyed the sprightly allemande and was genuinely sorry when it was over.
He led his partner back to the bosom of her family and bowed to them all,
expressed his pleasure in her company, and returned to the Wyndover party.

As he made his way back through the milling crowds, he saw at once that
Miss Wyndover had just finished dancing with ... Armand Duvall.  Lady
Sefton certainly had been busy.  He wondered if her choice of Armand as
Miss Wyndover's partner had been at his instigation.  If so, a happier
result could not have been forseen.  Miss Wyndover was glowing with
pleasure and her beauty was enhanced by the happiness she felt.

Armand was talking animatedly to the group, and looked up to see Jem
approaching.  A look of genuine delight passed over his face and he
exclaimed, "Well met, Jem.  So you are come.  My uncle assured me he
thought you had, but I tried to explain to him that you had told me before
that you thought it unlikely you would attend."
	Lady Chesham's interest was caught.  " Your uncle, M. Duvall?"
Armand smiled at her.  "The Comte DeMontfort, Lady Chesham.  He is come
with the Regent's party.  I have told him much of my meeting Mr. Fleet and
tonight, barely a half hour since, he expressed a desire to meet him."

	Jem could not believe that the Marchioness was ignorant of the
circumstances concerning her son's young bride and the Comte DeMontfort,
yet neither by expression nor gesture did she indicate that anything was
untoward.  She spread her fan and smiled winningly and said in enthusiastic
tones, "Mr. Fleet is much honoured by your uncle, M. Duvall."  She smiled
beatifically at Jem, and said to him, "We have had the pleasure of meeting
M. Duvall, Mr. Fleet.  We cannot deprive the Comte of a similar pleasure."
This was said without a trace of irony.
	She looked up to see the Marquess approaching, and it seemed to
Jem, she addressed him with a touch of relief in her voice.  "Ah.  My lord,
have you heard?  M. Duvall has invited Mr. Fleet to meet his uncle, the
Comte DeMontfort."
	The Marquess was stopped dead and, after an infinitesmal pause,
broke out in a wide smile.
	He bowed to Armand.  "A very great honour, M. Duvall," he murmured,
and gave Jem a significant look, who smiled triumphantly back at him.
Armand smiled and turned back to the others, bowing and taking his leave.
He took Miss Wyndover's hand and gallantly kissed it.  She flushed with a
little embarrassment, but with much pleasure, and her eyes were shining.
	"Perhaps, Miss Wyndover," he murmured, "I might have the honour of
another dance, later in the evening?"
	Miss Wyndover shot an uncertain look at her mother, who smiled at
Armand and said in an amused voice, "Perhaps, M. Duvall.  Later in the
evening." He bowed to her and then indicated to Jem to follow him.  Jem
bowed to the others, and followed his friend, and with no little
trepidation, he murmured to the Marquess as he passed him, "Tally ho."