A Matter of Diplomacy: A Novelette Read online

  Chapter Two

  Lady Anastasia stifled a yawn. Last night’s ball had extended into the wee hours of the morning. Even after she’d fallen into bed exhausted, instead of going to sleep she had lain there, staring at the darkened ceiling, while she relived the sensation of whirling around the arms of the infuriating Mr. Ambercrombie.

  She could not understand the man. He was alternately forward and then detached. While they had been dancing together, he had spoken barely a word, yet he had danced as if they were long-time lovers. She could not recall the last time a man had attempted to dance so closely with her. She should not have let him hold her so scandalously close. She doubted it would have required any more of her than a slight clearing of the throat and a subtle pressure against the arm he’d wrapped so intimately around her waist; yet, she had not made the slightest protest. She had succumbed—in a moment of weakness, loneliness, and vanity—to the attentions of a man her clear inferior both in age and accomplishment. It would not happen again.

  The day following the ball was the weekly reception at Lord Westfaling's. On all such occasions, Lady Anastasia played the part of hostess for her father.

  She was at home to visitors from four until seven, and it was as just as the clock struck four that her first visitor was announced—Mr. Jonathon Ambercrombie.

  Anastasia was still undecided as to the precise nature and extent of Mr. Ambercrombie’s offence, or the precise measure of punishment that he deserved, but she was determined to discourage the young man from making any more presumptuous gestures. It was highly irregular for a young man unknown to the family to call so early. It was a privilege he ought to have hesitated to take.

  She greeted him with the faintest perceptible effort of memory, as though she hardly recalled who this Mr. Jonathon Ambercrombie was. But he was so completely unbothered by her apparent forgetfulness that the reproof was wasted, and, compounding the affront of the early arrival, he took the chair nearest to her and sat down with the toe of his boot nearly brushing the hem of her skirt.

  She made polite small talk, steering the conversation away from anything more personal than the weather. All she got for her troubles was the feeling that she was a skilled fencer foiling the aimless thrusts of a tyro who did not know he was fencing.

  The tea cart arrived, and she handed him some tea. As he accepted the cup, he calmly detained her fingers with his left hand.

  "Pardon me," Mr. Ambercrombie said, "is that a genuine scarabæus in your ring? If so, it is a very perfect specimen."

  "My father gave it to me, and he believes it to be a real one, but I cannot answer for its genuineness."

  Anastasia attempted to withdraw her fingers. She was shocked at this young man’s boldness.

  Mr. Ambercrombie held onto her fingers with firm gentleness, and placed his cup of tea on a table. He bent over her hand and touched the ring with his right forefinger.

  "This is most interesting! I am familiar with the genus scarabæus, but I do not remember seeing an intaglio quite like this before. May I—" He started to slip the ring off her finger.

  "I would rather you did not!" Anastasia protested. "My father placed the ring there himself on my last birthday."

  She tried again to release her hand. She was getting angry, but refused to show it. She felt she would lose the battle, somehow, if she betrayed her vexation.

  Mr. Ambercrombie seemed incapable of appreciating his own transcendent presumption. He was in the act of slipping the ring back into place on her finger and taking his time in doing it, when the door opened wide and another visitor abruptly entered the room.

  Jonathon scrutinized the expression on Lady Anastasia’s face. She was angry, but determined not to show it. He hardly blamed her. They could not have appeared on a more intimate footing had he been kissing her. Jonathon hastily released Lady Anastasia’s hand, but with the uncomfortable sensation of having been caught and compromised.

  "Lady Lomond!" announced the footman.

  Lady Anastasia blushed scarlet and rose to greet her visitor.

  Lady Lomond was a woman with an eagle eye and a sharp tongue. Any hopes that the situation might have escaped Lady Lomond's notice were shattered by her first words.

  "Palmistry?" Lady Lomond enquired archly, looking pointedly from Lady Anastasia to Jonathon and back again.

  "Oh, no!" said Anastasia. Her blush had faded somewhat, and she was managing to project an unruffled exterior for the benefit of Lady Lomond, but Jonathon bet that it was costing her considerable effort. The thought that he was the cause of Lady Anastasia’s discomfort pleased him more than it should have.

  “Lady Lomond,” Anastasia was saying, “Allow me to introduce Mr. Ambercrombie.”

  Lady Lomond gave Jonathon a once over and evidently found him more than acceptable. Jonathon took her proffered hand.

  “Mr. Ambercrombie,” Lady Anastasia continued, “is learned in Egyptian lore. He was just calling the quality of my scarabæus into question."

  There was regret on her face almost before she had ceased to speak. Jonathon smiled broadly at Lady Lomond. Lady Anastasia had unwittingly appeared to acknowledge his right to have held her hand. But, if Lady Anastasia believed him to have behaved with unpardonable presumption—and she could hardly believe otherwise—why was she explaining away his action to Lady Lomond? It was tantamount to condoning his offence, and, in the same breath, siding with him against any insinuations that Lady Lomond might make. Perhaps, Lady Anastasia were not as contemptuous towards him as she appeared. Perhaps, she was far less indifferent then she seemed. It was an intriguing thought. Most intriguing.

  Jonathon handed some tea to Lady Lomond, made some inconsequential conversation—the substance of which not one of them would recall on the morrow—and took his leave.

  He bowed over Lady Anastasia's hand, which he held much longer than the farewell warranted—

  "I am still not convinced about that scarabæus,” he said, “perhaps you will let me examine it again at leisure another day.”

  Under the scrutiny of Lady Lomond—the most ruthless scandal-promotor in all of Brussels—Lady Anastasia was obliged to assent.