“No, but it’s not as though your prince has a hope of speaking his heart at a scientific lecture.”
Amelia was spared the need to respond by the arrival of a tall gentleman dressed as a highwayman, who pulled an ornate pistol from his jacket.
“Stand and deliver, Sir John Fielding!” he declared. “Your money or your life!”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “My life.”
The gentleman hesitated for a moment, his mouth opening in surprise.
“Well, dash it all, Sir John, I can hardly shoot a magistrate in Lord Melbourne’s garden. Hand over your purse, there’s a good chap!”
Lydia grinned wickedly. “I have no purse, sir, so I’m afraid it must be my life.”
The would-be thief tucked the pistol back into his pocket.
“You’re never any fun with these things, Lydia.”
“Only because you don’t think everything through, Conway,” she retorted. “It’s not as though I make a habit of carrying a bag of coins with me to a ball, now is it? And any that I do have are reserved for the servants, so I would hardly let an earl steal those.”
“You could have offered a kiss,” muttered Lord Conway.
Lydia snorted. “As if Sir John Fielding would grant a poorly prepared thief a kiss! Imagine the scandal!”
Amelia started laughing before the squabble could explode into a full-blown argument.
“Children, will you behave?” she asked, flashing her best smile. “What about me, Sir Highwayman? Would not a queen be a better target than a mere magistrate?”
Conway quite pointedly turned his side toward Lydia before presenting an elegant leg to Amelia.
“As much as it breaks my heart to say this, mighty Cleopatra, honor forbids me to steal anything from you, even the touch of your fingers against my lips.”
Lydia muttered something that could have been an entreaty to God for strength, but both Conway and Amelia chose to ignore her.
“What honor would that be?” Amelia inquired. “A queen is always inclined to look favorably upon honorable men, even those of a criminal nature.”
“Brotherhood,” Conway replied, and she felt her heart beginning to race.
The earl was one of William’s closest friends and had even dropped more than his fair share of unsubtle hints to her over the last few months.
“Then I demand a meeting with this brother of yours to thank him for his protection.”
Conway grinned. He was a devilishly handsome man with a rogue’s reputation to match, but his devotion to William made her feel safe in his presence. Well, that and the fact that the only woman he had eyes for was standing next to her, dressed like a judge.
“As you command, Queen Cleopatra! I must beg for you to make your way to the orangery, for I cannot guarantee your safety from the other rogues and wretches present tonight if you do not. There’s devilment in the air, your highness, but perhaps blessings, too, if you can but trust the word of a poor rum padder like me.”
“Are the theatrics really necessary?” sighed Lydia.
They both continued to ignore her.
Amelia, for one, felt her mood beginning to rise. There was romance in the silliness—romance she suspected her friend would have appreciated if the Duke of Roehampton or the Marquess of Killarney had been the messenger. Her own heart was charmed, for it must have cost William a great deal of courage to participate in this game.
A tiny voice in the back of her head complained that she would have much preferred him to secure tickets to the British Museum and declare himself in front of the collection of Egyptian antiquities, but she thrust the thought away as soon as it occurred. What mattered was that William Haddington really did have feelings for her; everything else could be sorted out afterward.
“Then I shall take your advice, my lord, but beg of you to keep Sir John here company,” she said, ignoring the sharp finger that Lydia dug into her ribs.
“It would be a pleasure, Cleopatra,” Conway replied, executing another bow.
For just a moment, Amelia hoped that there would be at least two declarations that evening, but a glance at the scowling Lydia told her that was unlikely.
Lydia Willow did not, however, complain about being left alone in the company of the man she had so recently rejected, so perhaps there was hope for them.
“Go, you silly goose,” Lydia said, making shooing motions toward Amelia with her hands, “and don’t leave that orangery until he asks you to marry him!”
“Lydia!” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes darting toward Conway as her face burned with mortification.
The earl grinned.
“For once, Miss Willow and I are in agreement. Take the lead, and demand he worships you, oh Queen of the Nile!”
“Will you please stop with the theatrics?” said Lydia with an exasperated sigh, and Amelia took advantage of the brewing squabble to take her leave.
It was difficult to control the urge to stop and beg her friend to come with her like she was a foolish maiden on her way to meet her first beau. It was thrilling, terrifying, and utterly ridiculous all at the same time.
She remembered the days when she had first let down her skirts and had secretly hoped that the shy son of the local viscount thought of her as more than a friend. Her heart had broken the day her father had explained that Lord Haddington, while an excellent fellow, would never countenance a match between his heir and the daughter of a penniless squire. William, he’d said, was not even twenty and likely only in the throes of his first calf love.
Perhaps she’d been wrong to believe her father. However, she could never regret marrying her dear Randolph, or doubt that Lord Haddington would have been foolish indeed to permit his heir to marry anyone while still at University. She’d hardened her heart and ignored the pangs in her chest whenever she and William were together and had even managed to convince herself that there was nothing more than friendship between them.
Now the years were rolling back, and that flare of love she’d so ruthlessly squashed was being fed hope once again. It was all she could do to stop herself from running to the orangery with no care for propriety.
She barely made it back through the balcony doors before a pale-faced Pharaoh with badly drawn kohl ringing his eyes accosted her, demanding that she become his companion for the rest of the night.
“You are the Queen of Egypt, after all,” he said, as though this concluded the matter. “You can spend the evening on my arm.”
If he had been a portlier man, Amelia would have taken his imperious attitude as proof he was one of the royal dukes, if not Prince George himself, but she could not guess at the identity of the arrogant man beneath his elaborate crown and makeup.
She always missed Randolph in these moments, for he had known every living peer no matter their age of fortune. It was not a skill she had ever truly mastered, for she had always found that those of forgettable character were inevitably of forgettable face as well.
There are not enough interesting men in the world, she thought. Not enough men like William Haddington.
“I thank you, but my hand is already engaged for every set this evening,” she lied smoothly. “The goddess, Aphrodite, however, always enjoys sophisticated company, and surely a deity outranks a mere queen.”
The man hesitated, his gaze flickering across the ballroom to where the handsome lady in Grecian attire, quite possibly Lady Bessborough, was commanding the attention of numerous watchmen, harlequins, and—somewhat improbably—a pair of Catholic priests. He did not even take his leave before heading to the court surrounding Aphrodite in a bid to win her hand.