He did not wait for the servants to open the doors, but just pushed through into the entrance hall, and then into the great ballroom where a score of painters and upholsterers were finishing a long night’s work during which they had transformed the ballroom into a silk-hung fantasy. Shiny swathes of gold, scarlet and black fabric had been draped from the ceiling, while between the gaudy bolts a brand-new wallpaper of rose-covered trellis disguised the damp patches of the ballroom’s plaster. The room’s huge chandeliers had been lowered to floor level where servants laboriously slotted hundreds of white candles into the newly cleaned silver and crystal holders. More workers were twining vines of ivy around pillars newly painted orange, while an elderly woman was strewing the floor with French chalk so that the dancing shoes would not slip on the polished parquet.
The cavalry officer, clearly delighted with the elaborate preparations, strode through the room. “Bristow! Bristow!” His tall boots left prints in the newly scattered chalk. “Bristow! You rogue! Where are you?”
A black coated, white-haired man, who bore the harassed look of the functionary in charge of the ball’s preparations, stepped from the supper room at the peremptory summons. His look of annoyance abruptly changed to a delighted smile when he recognized the young cavalry officer. He bowed deeply. “My lord!”
“Good day to you, Bristow! It’s a positive delight to see you.”
“As it is a delight to see your lordship again. I had not heard your lordship was in Brussels?”
“I arrived yesterday. Last night.” The cavalryman, who was called Lord John Rossendale, was staring at the sumptuous decorations in the supper room where the long tables were draped in white linen and thickly set with silver and fine china. “Couldn’t sleep,” he explained his early appearance. “How many are you seating tonight?”
“We have distributed four hundred and forty tickets, my lord.”
“Four hundred and forty-two.” Lord John Rossendale grinned at Bristow, then, as if he were a magician, produced a letter that he flourished in the elderly servant’s face. “Two tickets, if you would be so kind.”
Bristow took the letter, unfolded and read it. The letter was from Her Grace’s private secretary and gladly agreed that Lord John Rossendale should be given a ticket for the ball. One ticket, the letter said, and Bristow gently pointed to the instruction. “It says just one ticket, my lord.”
“Two, Bristow. Two, two, two. Pretend you cannot read. I insist upon two. It has to be two! Or do you want me to wreak havoc on the supper tables?”
Bristow smiled. “I’m sure we can manage two, my lord.” Bristow was butler to the Duke of Richmond whose wife was giving the ball in this large rented house. Competition to attend was keen. Much of London society had moved to Brussels for the summer, there were army officers who would be mortified if they were not invited, and there was the local aristocracy who had to be entertained. The Duchess’s answer to the eagerness of so many to attend her ball had been to have tickets of admission printed, yet, even so, Bristow expected there to be at least as many interlopers as ticket holders. It was not two days since the Duchess had issued instructions that no more tickets were to be given away, but it was hardly likely that such a prohibition would apply to Lord John Rossendale whose mother was an intimate friend of the Duchess of Richmond.
“Her Grace is already having breakfast. Would you care to join her?” Bristow asked Lord John.
Lord John followed the butler into the private rooms where, in a small sunlit salon, the Duchess nibbled toast. “I never do sleep before a ball,” she greeted Lord John, then blinked with astonishment at him. “What are you doing here?”
Lord John kissed the Duchess’s hand. She was in a Chinese silk robe and had her hair gathered under a mob-cap. She was a quick-tempered woman of remarkable good looks.
“I came to collect tickets for your ball, of course,” Lord John said airily. “I assume you’re giving it to celebrate my arrival in Brussels?”
“What are you doing in Brussels?” The Duchess ignored Lord John’s raillery.