‘How does one reconcile that with military costumes and decorations, Colonel?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Ostrich plumed helmets and such?’
The colonel snorted. ‘Completely different!’
Lady Langham gestured vehemently behind the colonel’s back for her husband to remove his old pal to a far corner of the ballroom.
‘Good evening, by the way, Colonel.’ Eleanor smiled sweetly. ‘I do believe we forgot to greet each other properly.’
‘Harrumph! Evening.’
Lord Langham swung the colonel around and shoved him forward with a loud, ‘Oh spiffing, look there’s Barty and his new wife. Smile, Pudders, it’s a party, old boy.’
Eleanor took her chance. ‘I say, Sandford, do you by any chance know where Lance… young Lord Fenwick-Langham is?’ Lancelot was the only son of Lord and Lady Langham. Even though he wouldn’t inherit the title until after his father’s death, as was customary he had the cursory title of ‘Lord’.
Sandford looked down at his gloves. ‘Young Master Lancelot retired to the garden, along with Lady Coco and Lady Millicent Childs, Mr Seaton, Mr Singh and Mr Appleby. It may, however, be a little difficult to recognise him, my lady. Like a few of the other guests, he has come in full costume.’
‘Typical Lancelot, but that should make him all the easier to spot.’
‘Indeed, although several other guests have taken the same approach and attired themselves in the same full regalia, as it were.’
‘Golly! Good job they’re not women, that would be a disgraceful faux pas. What sort of costume is it?’
‘I believe it is some sort of pirate. The most prominent feature being a cutlass. And strangely, feathers.’
Ah, feathers, Ellie!
‘Now, shall we?’ Lady Langham gestured at the ballroom. ‘There are your old acquaintances, the Dowager Countess of Goldsworthy and her niece, the delightful Cora Wynne. Let’s go say hello and then I have some other guests to introduce you to.’
Eleanor followed her hostess, looking out for one particular young gentleman. One adorned with feathers and brandishing a cutlass.
Three
Outside, the threatened rain had arrived. Big, fat drops fell lazily onto the ballroom’s rows of floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the music swirled, the dancers whirled and Eleanor’s eyes blurred with the myriad faces Lady Langham passed in front of her. But then, in working round the room, her hostess stopped at a group of young people, several of whom were in full costume. ‘And these are Lancelot’s… friends from Oxford. Good evening, everyone, enjoying yourselves?’ Lady Langham forced a smile.
‘Rather!’ a Harlequin said.
‘Absolutely spiffing,’ an elegant Cleopatra replied.
‘It’s simply sublime, so kind of you to invite us,’ an exotic bird of paradise cooed as she stroked her headdress.
‘Yes, thank you, Lady Fenwick-Langham. I’m quite inspired by the colours of this spectacle to write a poem.’ This came from a homespun costume to the bird of paradise’s left.
Lady Langham smiled weakly. ‘Everyone, this is Lady Eleanor Swift.’
A wave of hands met the introduction.
‘Oh, we’ve heard about you, of course.’ Cleopatra stepped forward. She laughed in a manner that Eleanor wasn’t sure was good-natured.
‘Sis, don’t be mean!’ the bird of paradise hissed.
Lady Langham patted Eleanor’s arm. ‘I’ll return for you in a moment, dear. Duty calls.’
As Lady Langham vanished into the crowd, Eleanor was left feeling conspicuous. Lancelot had obviously told his friends about her, but what had he said?
‘Speaking of making an entrance,’ she said, which nobody had been, ‘have you seen Lancelot? I rather expected him to come roaring through in his plane or balancing on the rear wheel of his motorbike.’
The Harlequin nodded. ‘Oh, that would be so typical of Lance. Always up for a caper. By the way, I’m Johnny, Cleopatra here is Millie and the exquisite bird of paradise is Coco, her sister.’
Eleanor smiled at them.
‘Oh dash, sorry, Albie old chum.’ Johnny nodded at the unintroduced member of the group. ‘And this is Albie, or Albert if you catch him in a particularly poetic mood. We’ve got a wager on what exactly he’s come as.’
Millie leant against the wall and folded her arms. ‘I had him pegged as a vagabond.’
‘Millie!’ her sister hissed. ‘Why do you have to pack your claws every time? Albie, I told you I think you look great. I guess you’ve come as a cleric of some sort?’
Johnny shook his head. ‘Honestly, Albie, it beats me. I’ve plumped for Lord Mayor of London… whilst at the barbers, munching on a snack.’ He pointed to the apple hanging from Albert’s wrist.
Eleanor had to stifle her giggles.
‘Philistine!’ Albert said. ‘Actually, I’m Raphael’s Young Man with an Apple.’
‘I think it’s brilliant! Very original,’ Eleanor said.
Millie slapped him on the back. ‘Brilliantly stupid, Albie, but don’t worry about it. No one else has noticed.’
Eleanor turned back to Coco. ‘Did you all come over from Oxford tonight?’
Coco nodded. ‘Yes, although you just missed Lucas, the last of our number. He had to leave a few moments ago.’
Millie leaned forward. ‘It’s Prince Lucas, actually.’
‘Leave it alone, Millie,’ Johnny said. ‘What’s the point of him being in good old Blighty if he’s still shackled by all the expectations of his title? He prefers plain “Lucas Singh”.’ He smiled at Eleanor. ‘And how do you prefer to be addressed?’
She laughed. ‘Just plain Eleanor is fine.’
‘Plain indeed,’ Millie muttered.
Coco slapped her sister’s arm. ‘Stop it!’
Millie yawned affectedly. ‘Yes, I never got a dance with him because old Lady Fenwick-Langham wouldn’t let anyone start until you had finally arrived.’
Coco moved her mask and glared at her sister.
Eleanor decided to ignore Millie. ‘Oh, so I won’t meet Lucas then?’
Millie waved at a servant and took another flute of champagne. ‘No. What a shame. He particularly wanted to meet you.’
‘Meet me?’
Millie downed her champagne without replying.
Bored of Millie’s sniping, Eleanor glanced round and caught sight of a pirate, replete with cutlass, winding his way through the revellers.
‘Excuse me a moment, won’t you?’ She gathered up her skirt and hurried after her quarry, but by the time she’d reached the other side of the ballroom, he’d vanished. She spent the next few minutes hunting everywhere. As she was about to give up, she spun round, forgetting about the train on her gown, and fell flat on her face.
‘Oh, bother!’ she said to the polished marble flooring.
Lord Langham, who was waltzing past, stopped and bent to help her up. ‘Nice work, old girl. You’ve obviously got stuck in on the champagne. That’s the spirit!’
Viscount Littleton hurried up. ‘Are you alright, Lady Swift?’ He kept a firm grip on her elbow as she stood up. His wife appeared, her face betraying her horror at such a public embarrassment.