‘What do we do next about the deaths?’ Garrick asked as he scraped plates and dumped them in pails for Peggy, the maid of all work, to deal with in the morning, poor girl.
‘I’ve the ledgers to finish. I’ve done two and it gets faster as I go,’ I said. ‘Then there’s the coded ones, but we’re getting nowhere with those.’
‘I’m interested in the Home Office’s Frenchman,’ James said. ‘Don’t pull that face, Luc – I think we need to have a longer conversation with him.’
‘And Sir Thomas’s young gentlemen,’ Luc said, opening another bottle. Both James and I perked up and he glared at us. ‘Stop it. I told you, Elliott Reece is an objectionable creature. I cannot help feeling that we’ve only got half the picture, although how we are going to manage to infiltrate the Home Office twice, I have no idea.’
‘No need.’ Garrick got up, went into the drawing room and came back with a rectangle of white card with black printing. ‘This came today. Lady Liverpool’s garden party.’ He pushed it into the middle of the table and I picked it up.
‘Monday next week. But why should this – Oh, yes, of course. Lord Liverpool is the new Secretary of State for Home Affairs so he’ll invite all their young gentlemen. May I come?’
‘Of course. James too – the invitation says and party.’
‘How long will it last?’ I was mentally reviewing gowns, shoes and what the weather seemed likely to do.
‘From about eleven in the morning through until after fireworks. There will be a ball, of course.’
‘Of course. A ball. I wish I could dance,’ I said, trying not to sound wistful and, even to my ears, failing miserably.
‘We’ve got tomorrow, I’ll teach you,’ James offered. ‘A friend of mine runs a dancing school off Pall Mall, I’m certain he will let us join in with lessons. I’ll come for you at ten.’
‘And if you explain your method and tell me where you got to in the volumes I can take your notes from the ledgers and carry on with that,’ Garrick offered. ‘We need to have finished before Doctor Talbot’s relatives arrive to close down the house.’
‘Thank you, Garrick,’ Luc said. ‘I was not happy about Cassandra being in that place alone again.’
Neither was I, to be frank. I’d be as jumpy as a cat, I was sure. ‘What will you do, Luc?’
‘I’ve put an enquiry agent on to Dettmer. I don’t believe that he’s some kind of spy, but we ought to eliminate him. I’ll call and see how they are getting on and then I’ll go to my solicitors. I have them investigating your sinister French count, Cassie. Whatever James says, he just seems too much the obvious ‘foreigner’, but I’ll see what they have turned up. Then I’ll take a turn through the clubs, keep my ears open. I might drop in on your dancing lessons.’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Absolutely not.’ I didn’t mind making a fool of myself in front of James and a bunch of strangers, but if Luc was going to see me dance, then I intended to be perfect. (Well, perfect-ish.)
James turned up on the stroke of ten and we walked the short distance down through St James’s Square to Mr Archibald Watson’s Academy of Dance.
‘What do you want to learn?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t recommend the cotillion, too complex in a short time. Country dances would be safest.’
‘I want to waltz.’ In virtually every Regency romance that I’d read the heroine (that’s me) experienced ecstasy when waltzing in the arms of the hero (that would be Luc). I had a sneaking suspicion that was unlikely under the best of circumstances and that the waltz was not going to look like anything I’d seen on Strictly Come Dancing.
‘Certainly not,’ James said, with a snort of laughter. ‘You’ll not find that in any respectable ballroom. Shocking behaviour, Miss Lawrence!’
‘Oh, that’s disappointing.’
Mr Watson, James’s friend Archie, listened to the explanation that I knew no dances at all, that I needed to be able to perform a few without making a complete fool of myself – and I had a day to learn. He rolled his eyes, but he let us watch his first class, the absolute beginners. ‘Every dance is different, Miss Lawrence, but the steps are much the same – chassé with an occasional jeté.’
I tried to look intelligent and watched everyone’s feet as he set the pupils – all about sixteen or seventeen in my estimation – off on the first dance.
‘Upright, ladies and gentlemen! No bowing at the waist! Elbows, Mr Beaumont, elbows!’ A pimply youth went scarlet and tripped over his own feet.
After a bit I got the idea and James and I joined hands at the end of the line. Once I was following the beat and had my feet sorted it was just a question of watching everyone else and taking my cue from them.
‘Miss Lawrence, kindly do not look at your feet! Chin up, Miss Berry!’
We danced The Shipwreck (which turned into one), The Lovers’ Garland (quite successful, although James made us both laugh by making sheep’s eyes at me in mock adoration) and Captain Joliffe’s Fancy (very good until the end when young Mr Beaumont fell over again).
‘How many of these things are there?’ I demanded when James and I had collapsed on two of the chairs lining the walls.
‘Dozens, but it is all the same principle and if it is one of the uncommon ones then the moves will be called. But if you watch what’s going on, it is pretty straightforward.’ He looked over to where Watson was dismissing the class. ‘It is a more advanced group now, in fact all the ladies will be in their first or second Seasons, polishing up their technique and learning new dances. We’ll sit and watch and then join in when you feel ready – it will be much closer to the real thing.’
As the class began to assemble I realised that I recognised several faces, but only one name. I nudged James. ‘That’s Annabelle Reece, there at the edge of the group of young women. The tall one with the dark curls, she looks rather out of things.’