tied just beneath her bosom to match the deep brown of her eyes.
But it was not vanity alone that had made her keep this dress. Its colouring gave her an excuse to wear the amber beads that had belonged to her mother. She had been quite unable to part with them when disposing of other items of jewellery. They might have fetched quite a tidy sum, but they were worth far more to her as a memento of her mother than any amount of coin.
Both her parents had died when she was only ten years old, of a fever she had barely survived herself. She had recovered to find their chambers full of creditors, stripping the rooms of anything that would settle their outstanding accounts. She had grabbed the beads from her mother’s dressing table and hidden them in her sewing case when she had seen what the adults all about her were doing. She ran her forefinger over them now, as she had been doing with increasing frequency over the past few months. They were a tangible reminder that she had been in dire straits before and come through them. Nothing could be worse than to find yourself an orphan, dependent on the whims of adults who saw you only as a problem they were reluctant to deal with. At least now she was able to provide for herself. And was not, like her aunt, reduced to turning to a wealthy relative for aid.
She whirled away from the mirror, reminding herself that the very least important aspect of tonight’s dinner was the way she looked! She must forget about her appearance and concentrate on keeping her tongue between her teeth. Though she still seethed with resentment at the way her aunt had been treated so far, she must do nothing that might jeopardise her aunt’s chances of getting into His Lordship’s good graces.
They were halfway down the first set of stairs when the dinner gong sounded.
A footman with all the silver lace—the one who had opened the carriage door for them the night before—was waiting at the foot of the second set of stairs to direct them to the blue saloon where, he told them, everyone gathered before processing in to dine.
Her aunt tensed as they crossed the threshold. And Helen could hardly blame her. The amount of jewellery on display was dazzling to the eye, flashing from the throats and wrists of the silken-clad females lounging upon sumptuous velvet sofas. She could not imagine what people who looked so affluent could possibly want from the Earl! Although both she and her aunt had taken care with their appearance, too. They had their pride. To look at them, nobody would know that they had not two brass farthings to rub together. Perhaps she ought not to judge on outward show.
But the boom of male voices definitely struck a jarring note. Aunt Bella rarely had men in her house. And to be confronted by so many of them at once set Helen’s senses reeling. She reached for her aunt’s arm and linked her own through it.
A slender young man with an earnest expression hastened to their side.
‘You must be Miss Forrest and…er…Miss Forrest,’ he said, bowing. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. I am His Lordship’s personal secretary, Mr Cadwallader.’
‘How do you do?’ said Helen.
Her aunt drew in a deep breath.
‘Young man,’ she said, ‘I would very much appreciate it if you could arrange for me to have a private word with His Lordship.’
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Though that may not be for a day or so,’ he added, with a smile Helen thought somewhat supercilious. ‘His Lordship has many demands upon his time at present.’
Lord Bridgemere did not participate in many of the festivities laid on for his guests, Aunt Bella had told her, since he was either hearing petitions or deciding what to do about them.
It could not be much fun, Helen thought. But then it served him right for reducing his entire family to such desperation! Besides, he sounded like the kind of person who did not know how to enjoy himself. Even if he were not busy he would still probably not join in with the country pursuits she had seen the others enjoying throughout the course of the day from her window.
Aunt Bella nodded, her air outwardly gracious, but beneath her hand Helen could feel her trembling.
‘I have seated you beside General Forrest this evening,’ said Mr Cadwallader to her aunt, ‘since I believe he is your brother.’ He consulted the sheet of paper he held in his hand at that moment, thus missing the look of utter horror that flitted across Aunt Bella’s face.
Helen gave her aunt’s arm a comforting squeeze. As if this whole situation was not painful enough, now it appeared that the most odious of her brothers was here to witness her humiliation. And from what she remembered of him, coupled with her aunt’s pithy observations over the years, he would be only too delighted to have the opportunity to crow over her downfall.
‘And he will be escorting you in to dine.’
‘He will?’ Aunt Bella gasped. ‘Does he know about this?’
For she had not spoken to either of her brothers for years. Twelve years, to be precise. And it was entirely because of this breach with her brothers that Aunt Bella had no recourse but to turn to the head of the extended family now she had lost all her money.
The secretary shot her a baffled look, before turning to Helen and saying hastily, ‘And I have placed you opposite your aunt, between Sir Mortimer Hawkshaw and Lord Cleobury. Sir Mortimer will escort you into the dining room…’ He trailed off, looking over their shoulders at the next person to arrive, and they felt obliged to move further into the room.
They had not advanced more than a couple of yards before Helen spotted the arrogant footman. One of the groups of gentlemen was breaking up, and he was moving from them towards the dining room doors, which the butler had just flung open. She supposed his duties would include circulating with drinks, and serving at the table.
Suddenly she became aware that the boat-shaped neckline of her gown was particularly flattering to her figure. And felt her cheeks heating at the realisation that he would have an exceptionally good view of her feminine attributes should he reach over her to pour wine.
What on earth had come over her? It had never occurred to her that a footman might look at her during the course of performing his duties. She did not think she was a complete snob, but never before had she thought of any servant as…well…as a man! What was more, she had never been the sort of girl who craved male attention. Her aunt was not of the opinion that it was every young lady’s duty to marry as soon as possible, so had not encouraged her to mix with the so-called eligible young men of their district. And what she had observed of masculine behaviour, from a decorous distance, had given her no reason to kick against her aunt’s prejudice against the entire sex.
Yet every time she saw this footman her thoughts began to wander into most improper territory!
Full of chagrin, she plucked up her shawl and settled it over her shoulders, making sure that it covered her bosom.
‘Cold, love?’ her aunt asked.
‘Um…a little,’ she said. Then, because she hated being untruthful, ‘Though I think it is mainly nerves that are making me shiver.’
‘I know what you mean,’ her aunt murmured.
She glanced once more at the footman, warily. He was standing in the doorway, tugging his wristbands into place as, wooden-faced, he watched the assembled ladies rise to their feet and begin to gravitate towards the dining room.
‘So, Bella, you have decided to show your face in society again, have you?’
The booming voice of the ruddy-faced man who stood glaring down at her aunt jerked Helen’s attention away from the fascinating footman. General Forrest was, naturally, older than Helen remembered him, though not a whit less intimidating.
He had not stopped shouting, so far as she could recall, from the moment she had arrived on his doorstep until the moment she’d left. ‘The girl’s mother has plenty of other sisters!’ was the first thing she could remember him bellowing at his wife, who had shivered like an aspen leaf under the force of his fury. ‘Pack her off to one of them!’
He had then slammed