Danger at Thatcham Hall by Frances Evesham

Author:Frances Evesham [Evesham, Frances]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense, Victorian
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2015-11-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

As the day of the Thatcham Hall ball approached, new guests swelled the house party. The luncheon table, splendidly decked out with old silver and new floral arrangements, had been extended to its full capacity, and a relative or close friend of the Dainty family filled almost every space. Miss Dainty’s whispered aim of distancing herself from the Misses Philpott was successful, and Nelson found himself at the right hand of Lord Thatcham’s lovely sister.

Try though he might to concentrate on Miss Dainty’s engaging stream of nonsense, Nelson’s attention drifted to the side of the table where Miss Martin conversed with the serious Lord Hadden—or sparred verbally with the dashing Captain Weston. Nelson didn’t recognise the dashing captain, who’d only taken up his commission within the past year or so. Judging by the snippets of conversation he overheard, Miss Martin thoroughly enjoyed the newcomer’s company.

She took a sip from her glass and her gaze met Nelson’s. The glance lasted only a second, and the smile was discreet, but Miss Martin—Olivia—looked full into Nelson’s face, eyes sparkling, as though the pair shared a private joke, and his heart missed a beat.

He could hardly wait to speak with her, but no opportunity came. She disappeared into another room with the ladies, while Lord Hadden, genial, sought Nelson out. “Let’s enjoy another glass of Thatcham’s best brandy, shall we, Roberts?” Hadden settled himself comfortably, stretched out neatly clad legs and embarked on a comprehensive list of the officers Nelson might have known in the Dragoons.

Nelson’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted to discuss was the war. Keeping a tight rein on both speech and expression, he had little to say apart from the briefest comments, of, “Yes, knew him in ’38,” or, “Not in my regiment, I believe.”

Westcott, Lovell, Smythe: younger sons, most of them, new in the military. Very few were Nelson’s comrades in arms. Those men were nearly all buried where they’d fallen in Afghanistan. Nelson didn’t want to think of those days. He kept away from old soldiers. The best of the bunch were dead.

“Used to envy you chaps in the dragoons,” said Hadden. “Blue coats and all. That brother of mine, George, he’s still in, of course.” Nelson was only too well aware of George Weston. Throughout luncheon, he’d been wishing the man at the devil.

He took a steadying breath. He hadn’t known soldiers would be coming to the ball. Soon, it seemed, the Hall would be full of military men. Tension gripped his chest.

He was a fool—should have seen this coming. He’d no idea Lord Thatcham had so many army connections. The earl had only once mentioned the fiasco in Afghanistan, and he’d soon dropped the subject. The last thing Nelson wanted was to discuss the past.

Hadden, apparently forgetting Nelson had never been one of their set, wandered off the point and began to gossip with vigour about the old days, when he and Lord Thatcham were boys.

The room was stifling. A glass more wine than was wise, and this talk of army matters had ruined any prospect of pleasure.

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