Lola laughed, smoothing her own dark blue necktie against the base of her throat, taking a moment to wickedly imagine possibilities. “I’m just glad we were able to end work today when we did. As it was, I had to run all five blocks back to the Savoy in order to have time for a bathe and a change of clothes.”
“Well, it was worth it, for you do look a treat,” Kitty said, sliding an appreciative glance over her flounced white skirt, blue-and-white-striped bolero jacket and blue-dotted white waistcoat. “Are these puffy sleeves the newest fashion?” she asked, fingering one of Lola’s dark blue gauntlet cuffs.
“Yes. Leg-o’-mutton sleeves, they’re called.”
“They make your waist look so tiny, don’t they? I do hope the fashion lasts.”
“It won’t,” Lola assured, and they both laughed.
It felt good to laugh after a sleepless night and a trying morning. And to be outdoors on such a fine day. She breathed in deeply, noting with heartfelt appreciation that the air up here in Regent’s Park was fresher and sweeter than the dank air down by the river. Being here, her heart already felt lighter, and all the tumultuous feelings of the night before slid into their proper perspective. Her worries about the future and what disasters might happen down the line seemed to just float away, carried on the warm May breeze.
By the time they arrived at St.John’s Lodge, the flower show was already fully in progress. The wrought-iron gates of Lord Bute’s private residence had been thrown back, inviting anyone who had purchased a ticket to enter the grounds.
Once their tickets had been properly punched by one of Lord Bute’s footmen, Lola and Kitty were able to join the throng strolling amid the white tents that had been erected on the marquess’s lawn.
Though the show was open to anyone who had been able to afford a ticket, there was nothing crude about the arrangements. A string quartet played the music of Mozart and Vivaldi, liveried footmen carried trays of champagne, lemonade, and canapés. Lola felt as if she’d stepped into a duchess’s garden party. It was lovely.
In honor of the fine day, the walls of the tents had been rolled up, and beneath their shade, long tables covered with pristine white cloths displayed the finest flower specimens from London’s finest gardens in glittering crystal vases. A card written in an elegant hand identified each bloom, the garden in which it had been grown, and the name of the person responsible.
“The Countess of Redwyn,” Kitty read, as they paused before a stunning pink peony. “Heavens, you’d think she grew the bloom herself. Why doesn’t her poor gardener receive any credit, that’s what I’d like to know.”
“He should,” Lola acknowledged. “It’s a lovely thing.” Glancing over her shoulder, she spied a tent displaying vases of her own favorite flower. “C’mon,” she said, pulling Kitty’s arm. “Let’s go look at the roses.”
They walked across to the rose display, admiring the blooms for some time before the heat impelled them to a search for a footman with refreshments.
They spied one handing out flutes of champagne to an elegantly dressed group of ladies and gentlemen near the first tent, and they started in that direction, but they were still a couple of dozen feet away when Lola spied one man in particular amid their circle, a man whose back was to her but whose tall, wide-shouldered frame made him easy to recognize.
She froze, suddenly paralyzed. Her heart leapt in her chest, a sensation borne of dread, excitement, and something else—something a lot like longing. She knew she should turn around before he saw her, but her feet could not seem to obey her mind’s command.
He turned his head toward a slim brunette in pale blue silk who stood beside him, and when the girl leaned closer, putting her hand on his arm as she murmured something close to his ear, the gesture of familiarity told Lola the woman must be Lady Georgiana Prescott.
Seeing them hurt like fire, for they looked so splendid together, so right. They were surrounded by others whose elegance and wealth completed the picture. On Denys’s other side stood a black-haired man whose profile was distinctly familiar to her.
Jack, she realized, but the ghastly situation enabled her to take no pleasure in seeing someone who she’d once, long ago, considered a friend. On his arm was a slim, elegant blonde—his wife, no doubt.
Talking to the couple was a vivacious, dark-haired girl who bore such a striking resemblance to Denys, Lola knew she must be his sister, Lady Susan. The lady who stood beside her, a stout woman whose dark hair was streaked with gray, had to be his mother, Lady Conyers. And behind the group, facing her, stood a silver-haired, handsome man whose smiling, friendly countenance made him seem so different from the haughty earl who’d contemptuously shoved a bank draft in her face so long ago.
The sight of Earl Conyers was the last straw. It snapped her out of her momentary paralysis, and she hastily whirled around before any of them could see her. “Oh, God, Kitty, we have to leave.”
“But we’ve only just arrived.” Kitty reached out, plucking a flute of champagne from the footman as he walked by. “Why should we leave?”
“Because,” she hissed, “Denys is here.”
“Somerton? Where?”
“That way.” Lola jerked a thumb over one shoulder. “Don’t look,” she added in desperation as Kitty leaned sideways, trying to look past her. “He’s scarcely twenty feet away from us.”
“Is he?” Kitty didn’t seem the least bit surprised. In fact, there was a little smile playing around her lips, and an awful idea flashed through Lola’s brain.
“You knew he’d be here,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she watched her friend shift her weight in decidedly guilty fashion. “It’s an unbelievable coincidence that he would be at the same event we are when there are hundreds of things going on in London now, and yet, you are not the least bit surprised. You knew he’d be here, didn’t you?”
Her friend wilted a bit beneath her gaze, confirming her guess. “I thought it was a possibility,” she mumbled.
“What would ever lead you to believe he’d be at a flower show?”
Kitty tugged self-consciously at her ear. “Lucky guess?” she ventured, but when Lola’s gaze narrowed still further, she gave a cough and proceeded to explain. “I heard tell that Somerton’s mother is the... ahem... patroness of this... umm... show.”
“What? Oh, my God.” All the implications of the situation struck her, and she felt suddenly sick, and furious, and humiliated. If Denys saw her, he’d think... oh, God, it didn’t bear imagining what he would think.
