Mistress - Amanda Quick [4]
Her fingers, which were lightly resting on Herbert’s sleeve, trembled. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Hoyt. Masters is not about to create a scene for the entertainment of the ton.”
“Wouldn’t count on it.” Herbert studied the rippling wake in the crowd that marked Masters’s progress across the room. “One never knows what he’ll do. Man’s an enigma.”
Iphiginia flushed. In spite of her own desperate situation, she felt the urge to defend the earl. “He’s not an enigma. He happens to prefer to maintain his privacy, that’s all. Perfectly reasonable.”
“Well, you’ve gone and made a spectacle of him and robbed him of his precious privacy, haven’t you, m’dear? He won’t appreciate it, that’s for certain.”
Herbert, unfortunately, was right, as usual.
Iphiginia slanted her new friend an uncertain glance. Herbert was far more familiar with the treacherous ways of London Society than she. He had been swimming in these unpredictable waters for the past two years.
Since making his acquaintance a fortnight ago, she had learned to value his judgments. Herbert seemed to know everyone who was anyone. He comprehended all the nuances of behavior in this elite world, from the simple snub to the cut direct.
In terms of social rank, Herbert was a small fish in the London pond. But he was one of a number of charming, gallant males of indeterminate age who made themselves indispensable to hostesses and anxious mamas alike.
Men such as Herbert were willing to dance with wallflowers or sip tea with elderly matrons. They fetched champagne for wives whose husbands were occupied in the card rooms. They chatted easily with nervous young ladies who were being launched into Society. In short, they were eminently useful and therefore they always managed to obtain invitations to the best balls and soirees in town.
Herbert was in his middle thirties. He was a pleasant-faced, slightly plump man with ruddy cheeks, pale blue eyes, and a good-natured, inoffensive manner. His thinning, light brown hair was cut and curled in the latest style. His yellow waistcoat, which fitted a trifle too snugly at the waist, as well as his elaborately tied cravat were in the very forefront of fashion.
Iphiginia liked Herbert. He was one of the few men who seemed to have no interest in trying to take what everyone imagined to be Masters’s place in her life. She could be at ease in his presence. He enjoyed discussing matters of art and architectural fashion. And she respected his advice in social matters.
But even Herbert, rarely at a loss for the proper response to any given social situation, appeared to be floundering tonight. Obviously he did not know how to handle the impending catastrophe.
Iphiginia unfurled her white lace fan as she collected her wildly scattered thoughts. The only thing that would see her through this disaster was her own intelligence. She reminded herself that she had her fair share of that commodity.
“Masters is, above all, a gentleman. There is no reason for him to embarrass either me or himself.”
“Whatever you say, my dear.” Herbert arched one bushy brow in a knowing fashion. “I assure you, there’s no need to go into the details of your connection to Masters with me. Everyone in Town is well aware of just what sort of friends you and Masters were.”
“Indeed.” Iphiginia’s tone held the repressive note that she employed whenever someone grew too bold on the subject of the earl. She rarely needed to use that tone with Herbert. He was usually more discreet.
She could hardly complain about the assumptions Herbert and the members of the ton had made concerning the nature of her relationship with Masters. Society had arrived at precisely the conclusions that she had wanted it to reach.
Such assumptions and conclusions were part of the grand plan to gain entrée into Masters’s exclusive circle of acquaintances. The scheme had worked until tonight.
“Regardless of your past association with Masters,” Herbert said, “the question everyone