At eight o’clock sharp the next evening, Allegra and her family strode toward the residence of Mrs. Oswald, a well-heeled widow with a daughter Portia’s age, and hostess of tonight’s highly anticipated soirée.
“Best behavior, all of you,” said Uncle Townsend, though his hard eyes were only on Allegra.
“This is the widow Father has been wooing,” Dorcas whispered behind her ivory fan. “In addition to a terrace in London, she has a large country estate not far from our home in the Cotswolds.”
Uncle Townsend turned his gaze to his daughters. “The beau monde may be in attendance tonight. Try to find suitors.”
“They have suitors,” Allegra reminded him. Both young ladies were as enamored of their gentlemen as their charming beaux were of them.
Uncle Townsend rolled his eyes. “Appropriate suitors. Titled suitors. Not sailors.”
“But Mr. Mayhew and I—” Portia began.
“Over my dead body,” Uncle Townsend said flatly, then held up a stiff finger toward Allegra. “This is your fault and you know it. Putting ideas into their heads. I don’t need them to think, and I definitely don’t need them to feel. I need them to do as they’re told.” He shifted his accusatory finger toward each of his daughters in turn. “Marry well.”
Dorcas opened her mouth to respond, but before she could do so, the quartet arrived at Mrs. Oswald’s front walk, which was already full of other party-goers.
“Did you hear?” tittered a young lady just in front of them in the queue. “She has hired the Castle Inn’s master of ceremonies for the night. This soirée will be almost as elegant as the grand ball at the Old Ship Inn next week.”
Everyone within earshot eyed the open doorway with interest. Only the butler was visible for now, but all eyes would be peeled for signs of Mr. Neilson, the master of ceremonies, as much an institution of Brighton as the Old Ship Inn and the Castle Inn themselves.
In short order, guests were divested of their outerwear and welcomed into a grand chamber lit by four glittering chandeliers. The carpet had been rolled away, turning the rectangular hall into an enormous dance floor. Small, round tables featuring food or drink dotted the length of the far wall. At one end of the room sat a cluster of armchairs, for anyone who would not be mingling or dancing. On the opposite end stood an elegant pianoforte.
Allegra eyed it with hunger. Perhaps this was the style she would purchase for herself once she came into her inheritance. The finer the pianoforte, the less would be left over for anything else, but what besides a room to live in could she possibly need? She’d never had luxurious gowns or expensive leisure activities before, and could continue on without it just fine.
The only luxury she needed was the utter relief of achieving independence at long last. Once she experienced the joy of true freedom, everything else would be minor details in comparison. Though she could not help but remember the kisses she and John had shared. The memory of his embrace seemed unlikely ever to fade.
She followed her uncle and cousins to greet the hostess, who was indeed standing next to the master of ceremonies. Mrs. Oswald placed her hand in Uncle Townsend’s at once, and seemed to sparkle at his fawning attentions.
“Why, yes, this is Mr. Neilson,” she cooed. “I tried to acquire Mr. Young, the Old Ship Inn’s famed chef for tonight as well, but he suffered a bad fall this morning and is confined to his bed with a broken leg.”
“It is a disaster,” said Mr. Neilson. “The lower cooks can manage day-to-day fare, but Mr. Young was to personally cater next week’s grand ball. He spent a decade serving the French royal court, you know. Utterly irreplaceable. Without him, the ball will be positively common.”
Allegra’s spine straightened. “I know someone who—”
“Oh, and here’s my daughter,” said Mrs. Oswald. “Don’t play with your ringlets, darling, they’ll lose their bounce.”
“But if you need a chef—” Allegra tried again.
“Enid, these dear souls are Mr. Townsend, Miss Portia Townsend, Miss Dorcas, and their…aunt, was it? Serving as companion?”
“Cousin,” Allegra bit out. There was no sense explaining that she held no post as paid companion because she wasn’t paid at all.
While Portia and Dorcas greeted Enid, Allegra turned to Mr. Neilson.
“I know a chef who is fabulous at French cuisine,” she said in a rush before anyone could interrupt her. “He happens to be staying at Siren’s Retreat on holiday.”
“Oh?” Mr. Neilson arched his brows. “And who, pray tell, is this paragon?”
Blast. Allegra did not actually know John’s surname, nor could she blurt it out in front of her cousins even if she did.
“It’s Captain L’Amour,” Portia piped up. “He’s a pir—”
“—perfectly good option,” Dorcas corrected smoothly. “Allegra’s betrothed is a wonderful man. Makes excellent sauces.”
“Honestly,” Allegra said, “if your guests notice any difference, it will only be to compliment the chef for a superlative performance.”
Mr. Neilson gave a dismissive sniff. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“There, there,” said Mrs. Oswald. “It’s very sweet that you girls want to help, but please, leave important matters to experts like Mr. Neilson. The rest of us are here to dance. Enid, why don’t you play a country-dance to get us started? I’m sure the other young ladies will be eager to take turns performing once they see how accomplished you are.”
“Might I be so bold as to claim this first dance?” Uncle Townsend asked Mrs. Oswald.
The widow giggled girlishly and placed her hand in his. “I was hoping you would.”
The moment the first strains of music filled the air, guests flooded the dance floor. Allegra selected a segment of wainscoting between the piano and a table of canapés to watch.
Contrary to Uncle Townsend’s wishes, Dorcas and Portia accepted their suitors’ invitations to dance. Mr. Mayhew might be “just” a sailor, but he was clearly besotted with Portia. Mr. Voss, her sister’s fellow untitled suitor, was equally as enamored of Dorcas. Allegra had never seen her cousins so giddy and glowing. These were love matches in the making.
Uncle had warned his daughters to “marry well”. What could be better than being happily in love with one’s spouse?
Allegra reached for another canapé. The hostess’s daughter Miss Enid was respectably competent at the pianoforte. As predicted, the mothers of a dozen other debutantes had already dropped by to hint that their very accomplished daughter ought to be next in line to impress the crowd.
Allegra was unconvinced that the bachelors in attendance would choose their wives based on their ability to play a reel, but there were few other feminine accomplishments permitted to a young lady. It was not as though the girls could explode into a sword-fighting competition or debate the Crown’s foreign policies or even confess they could identify other countries on a map.
Perhaps there was a gentleman in the audience who yearned for a bride with a head for sums and a penchant for ale. How was he to find her if she could not admit to the things that made her who she was?