“Two, Bristow. Two, two, two. Pretend you cannot read. I insist upon two. It has to be two! Or do you want me to wreak havoc on the supper tables?”

Bristow smiled. “I’m sure we can manage two, my lord.” Bristow was butler to the Duke of Richmond whose wife was giving the ball in this large rented house. Competition to attend was keen. Much of London society had moved to Brussels for the summer, there were army officers who would be mortified if they were not invited, and there was the local aristocracy who had to be entertained. The Duchess’s answer to the eagerness of so many to attend her ball had been to have tickets of admission printed, yet, even so, Bristow expected there to be at least as many interlopers as ticket holders. It was not two days since the Duchess had issued instructions that no more tickets were to be given away, but it was hardly likely that such a prohibition would apply to Lord John Rossendale whose mother was an intimate friend of the Duchess of Richmond.

“Her Grace is already having breakfast. Would you care to join her?” Bristow asked Lord John.

Lord John followed the butler into the private rooms where, in a small sunlit salon, the Duchess nibbled toast. “I never do sleep before a ball,” she greeted Lord John, then blinked with astonishment at him. “What are you doing here?”

Lord John kissed the Duchess’s hand. She was in a Chinese silk robe and had her hair gathered under a mob-cap. She was a quick-tempered woman of remarkable good looks.

“I came to collect tickets for your ball, of course,” Lord John said airily. “I assume you’re giving it to celebrate my arrival in Brussels?”

“What are you doing in Brussels?” The Duchess ignored Lord John’s raillery.