Simon halted. Portia did, too.
A flash of lavender skirts had them glancing down the lawn. Mrs. Archer came hurrying up.
They watched as, with some argument and many weak smiles, she succeeded in extricating her daughter. Arm in arm, she marched Kitty back to the main lawn, where the majority of guests had remained.
The officers and gentlemen re-formed into groups and continued to talk. Simon led Portia on.
They met and conversed with a number of other couples strolling in the opposite direction. Finally regaining the main lawn, they stepped into the still-considerable throng, and immediately heard Kitty.
“Oh, thank you! That’s exactly what I need.” She hiccupped. “I’m so very thirsty!”
To their right, the young gardener, roped in to help as a waiter, stood by the hedge bearing a salver with glasses of champagne. In his borrowed black clothes, tall and rather gangly, with his shock of black hair and dark eyes, he possessed a certain dramatic handsomeness.
Kitty certainly thought so; standing before him, she ogled him blatantly over the rim of the glass she was draining.
Portia had seen, and heard, enough; her hand on Simon’s arm, she pushed-he moved as she wished and they strolled away into the crowd.
They spent the next twenty minutes in blissfully pleasant conversation, meeting with Charlie, then later the Hammond girls, both flown with success and happiness over the youthful swains they’d met. Chattering, teasing, they’d all relaxed, imbued with good feelings, when a stir by the terrace steps had them turning, looking.
Along with all about them.
What they saw transfixed them.
At the bottom of the steps, Ambrose Calvin stood with Kitty draped upon him. She’d wound her arms about his neck; her face, uptilted to his, was filled with laughing, openly sensual delight.
No one could make out what she was saying-she was attempting to whisper, yet the words were loud, slurred, her tongue tripping.
She dragged heavily on Ambrose while he, rigid and pale, fought to put her from him.
All talking stopped. Everyone simply stared.
Absolute silence descended. All movement ceased.
Then a guffaw, quickly smothered, shattered the frozen tableau. Drusilla Calvin left the crowd; coming up behind Kitty, a much smaller woman, she reached around and grabbed her arms, aiding her brother to free himself.
The instant he did, Lady Hammond and Mrs. Buckstead swooped on the trio; all sight of Kitty was lost in the ensuing melee. There were calls for cold water and orders flung at the staff; it quickly became clear they were saying Kitty was ill and had been taken faint.
Portia met Simon’s eyes, then turned her back on the fracas and engaged the Hammond sisters, picking up their comments where they’d broken off. The girls, although momentarily distracted, were too well-bred not to follow her lead. Simon and Charlie did the same.
Everyone tried not to look at the group by the terrace, now swollen by Lord and Lady Glossup, Henry, and Lady Osbaldestone and Lord Netherfield. Lady Calvin had sailed up, too. Heads turned again as Kitty, a drooping little figure, was helped inside, supported by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead with Mrs. Archer, fluttering ineffectually, bringing up the rear.
At the base of the steps, those who hadn’t gone in exchanged glances, then turned and, easy smiles on their faces, returned to their conversations in the crowd.
There was no denying the awkwardness, no dispelling the questions raised, ones of impropriety if not outright scandal. Nevertheless…
Lady O stumped up, her lined face relaxed, no hint in her eyes or her bearing that anything untoward had occurred.
Cecily Hammond, greatly daring, asked, “Is Kitty all right?”
“Silly female’s taken ill-no doubt extended herself too far organizing today. Excitement, too, I don’t doubt. Had a dizzy spell-the heat wouldn’t have helped. No doubt she’ll recover, just needs to lie down for a spell. Young married lady, after all. She ought to have more sense.”
Lady O smiled brightly into Portia’s eyes, then her gaze passed on to both Simon and Charlie.
They all understood-that was the tale they were to spread.
The Hammond sisters didn’t need to have it explained. When Portia suggested they should part and mingle, Cecily and Annabelle were perfectly ready to flutter off like butterfiles and spread the word. Charlie went one way, Portia and Simon another. They exchanged a glance, then dutifully set themselves to do what they could to help smooth things over.
The other houseguests were doing the same; Lady Glossup took charge of the arrangements and sent the footmen into the crowd bearing ices, sorbets, and cakes.
All in all, they were moderately successful. The rest of the afternoon-the following hour or so-passed in reasonably comfortable style. That, however, was all on the surface, in the faces people showed to the world. Underneath… significant glances were exchanged between friends, although no one was so outré as to put their thoughts into words.
As soon as it was possible to do so without giving offense, people started leaving. By late afternoon, the last guests were wending their way down the drive.
Lady O clomped up to where Simon and Portia stood. She poked Simon’s leg with her cane. “You may give me your arm upstairs.” She turned her black gaze on Portia. “You can come, too.”
Simon obeyed; they turned to the house. Portia walked on Lady O’s other side, taking her other arm when they reached the main stairs. Lady O was not young; for all her ferocity, they were both deeply fond of her.
She was breathing stertorously when they reached her room; she pointed to the bed and they helped her to it. They’d barely got her settled, sitting propped high on her pillows as she’d commanded, when there came a knock on the door.
“Come!” Lady O called.
The door opened; Lord Netherfield looked in, then entered. “Good-a confabulation. Just what we need.”
Portia quelled a grin. Simon met her gaze briefly, then turned to set an armchair for his lordship close by the bed. Lord Netherfield accepted Simon’s help into the chair; like Lady O, he, too, walked with a cane.
They were cousins, Portia had been informed, although several times removed, much of an age, and very old friends.
“Right, then!” Lady O said, the instant he was settled. “What are we to do about this nonsense? Horrible mess, but there’s no sense in the whole company suffering.”
“How did Ambrose take it?” his lordship asked. “Will he prove difficult, do you think?”
Lady O snorted. “I should think he’ll be glad if nothing more is ever said. Shocked to his toes-he went white as a sheet. Couldn’t get a word out. Never seen a would-be politician so lost for words.”
“I should think,” Simon said, propping a shoulder against the bedpost, “that this would be a case of least said, soonest mended.”
Portia perched on the edge of the bed as Lord Netherfield nodded.
“Aye, you’re most likely right. Poor Calvin-no wonder he was in such a state. Last thing in the world he’d want at present, to take up an intrigue with a female like Kitty. Here he is, trying to get her father’s support for his cause, and there she is, flinging herself at his head!”
Lady O looked from one face to the other, then nodded. “We’re in agreement, then. Nothing of any great moment occurred, nothing need be said-all is perfectly normal. No doubt if we stick to that line, the others will, too. No reason Catherine should have to weather having a disaster of a house party just because her daughter-in-law’s lost her wits. Hopefully, that mother of hers will straighten her out.”
Decision made and judgment delivered, Lady O sank back on her pillows. She waved at his lordship and Simon. “You two may take yourselves off. You”-she pointed at Portia-“wait here. I want to talk to you.”