There was no doubt that the enmity between mother and son would only intensify for the next days to come. Nevertheless, they’d managed to avoid putting themselves into passion, and whatever emotions swelled in their bosoms, they were well-hidden under frigid civility and terse utterances. But with the Countess indulging herself in a whirlwind of gaieties she’d missed in town, and the Earl making himself as scarce as possible, the two barely met in a day; and when they did, it was more likely during dinner, which was always a dismal affair. Amidst this unfolding imbroglio in the Stokeford household, the efficient Mr Philips had maintained his aplomb, but had been very keen on detecting errors around the house before it reached his lordship’s attention. My lord might be keeping his temper well under rein, the butler reflected, but he wouldn’t scruple to unleash it to the servants.

It was a little after six o’clock that day when the Earl had returned from a restless afternoon spent in his club. Robert had dropped by for a chat and drink, and his endless discourses had somehow alleviated Lord Stokeford’s mind from his current evils. But the moment he stood in front of the door of his townhouse, his humour drastically underwent a significant decrease in the scale. The lackey admitted him inside, and vouchsafed that the Countess was still in the premises.

Stefan received the knowledge without betraying any of his thoughts, but since he’d never seen even a shadow of her mother the whole day, politeness had induced him to at least check on her and to enquire how she’d fared. Thinking that the Countess was still on her bedchamber finishing her toilette, he decided to repair to the drawing room and await her there. However, instead of finding it empty, he saw a man dawdling about, and eventually stopped in front of the mantelpiece, peering at a dainty timepiece with his quizzing glass. “What the devil—!” he ejaculated from the threshold.

The gentleman looked up, dropped his quizzing glass and grinned at him. He was middle-aged, tall and portly built, with ruddy face and merry brown eyes. “Oh, only me, m’boy! Only me!” he exclaimed cheerfully.

“Worse than the devil, then!” Lord Stokeford retorted, and demanded impetuously, “What the deuce are you doing here?”

Not taking any offense by this rude reception, Sir Wallace Durbram only chuckled and said, “Good evening to you too, Stefan! Damn it, I’m your godfather, and your father’s friend too, so why shouldn’t I be here?”

“Godfather be damned,” his lordship replied, not mincing his words. “You haven’t showed your face here for a year!”

“No, not a year!” objected Sir Wallace. “Was here last August, don’t ye remember? It’s only June, so not a year yet! Besides, you ain’t staying in London for a year!”

“I don’t care,” the Earl belligerently declared, “if it was a damned decade ago. Whatever brings you here all of a sudden is what I am concerned about!” He saw the quizzing glass being hoisted again, and aimed at him this time. Having no patience with this silly habit, Lord Stokeford snapped after the momentary scrutiny: “Well? Have you had your fill, sir?”

“I see now, m’boy: you’re plagued, and that’s that!” the older man shook his head and made a clucking sound. “Should be nursing your megrims somewhere else, y’know!”

Lord Stokeford chose to ignore this impertinent advice. He ran a scornful eye over his godfather’s person, making a crude assessment of his ridiculously tied neckcloth, and tightly-fitted blue jacket in which a button threatened to pop out. He’d never liked his godfather, but had fairly tolerated his constant presence in his life. Sir Wallace was a widower of many years, and since the marriage of his daughter eight years ago he’d rarely stayed in his estate, situated only a few miles south of the Stokeford’s seat. The late Earl and he had been friends since their boyhood, but Stefan was damned if he knew what his father had liked about this muttonhead who knew nothing besides being a curst nuisance.

“I ask you again sir: why are you here? And while you think of a very good reason for visiting, I might as well ask where have you been all this time?”

"Well, damn it, Stefan, couldn’t you at least order for some refreshments before acting like a curst Inquisitor?” Sir Wallace complained, slumping in an armchair.

Begrudgingly, Lord Stokeford rang for the butler and made a curt order of Madiera and two glasses. It came an instant later, and Sir Wallace gratefully received the proffered glass. “You may be a mighty crotchety lad,” he declared after a few relishing sips, “but devil take me if I say you’re cellar ain’t one of the best!”

“An honour, sir, that my cellar has won your respect,” responded Lord Stokeford with a mocking bow.

He let out an unbridled laugh. “Aye, you’re a sharp one, m’boy! Took after your father, eh? Ha-ha! Always thought so! But you’ve your mother’s temper, y’know, for your father was as coolheaded as a man could be, and always the quiet sort, and not likely to bluster like you always do! Yes, you’re a spitting image of him now that you’re a grown man,” Sir Wallace stated as-matter-of-factly, impervious of the vexed expression his godson was now presenting him. “Handsome devil your father was, y’know, but a bit of a high-stickler. Couldn’t blame him though, for your grandfather himself had been a veritable dragon and stiff as a starched cloth, too. And as for your mother, well, she was an adorable, but spirited little puss, and a spitfire if I ever saw one. Why, it runs in the blood!”

He chuckled and peered at his watch. “And speaking of your mother, what the devil is taking her so long? A mighty fine thing it would be if we arrive in Vauxhall with all the fireworks already dispersing in the air! Lord, ain’t it what people wanted most to see?”

“Vauxhall?” the Earl replicated. “So you’re going to escort her there? That’s what why you’re here?”

“Yes. Heard she’d came back from the Continent, y’see, but I'd been up in Lincolnshire visiting my hunting box. Well, we met just a couple of days ago, don’t y’know, in Old Tillmoth’s soiree, and begged me — yes, m’boy, begged, and why is she so set on going to Vauxhall the Lord only knows, for y’know, I’m getting old to gawk at those fireworks! But your mother might take a pet, and I don’t want her to. Besides, always happy to oblige the Countess!”

Lord Stokeford nodded complaisantly. Sir Wallace might be a silly fellow, but he was quite harmless; moreover, he was a trusted family friend, and Stefan consoled himself that his godfather, knowing the Countess’ propensity for indiscretions, would never allow her to be involved in some unwanted circumstances. “I see,” he replied.

“What about you, m’boy? Ain’t you coming?” Sir Wallace asked offhandedly.

The Earl shook his head. “No, I can’t. I’ve got something to attend to,” he explained and got up. “All the same, I wish you’ll have a fine evening, sir.”

“What?” Sir Wallace stared at him under creasing brows. “You know Stefan, if you wish to bury yourself in a sepulcher like your study, you might as well take the cloth and go straight to the monastery! Having a little fun sometimes ain’t a bad thing at all, m’boy.”

“Thank you for the advice, though I assure you, it’s quite unnecessary!” he retorted. “And I don’t want to have fun; I’ve a mind to make my evening well-spent!”

“Quite right,” interjected Lady Stokeford, who’d appeared at the doorway. “My son is rather a diligent landlord, don’t you know that, Sir Wallace?”

“Of course I know that! But, lord, I’ve never known anyone attending his business at this time of the day! Unheard of!”

“Mother,” Stefan bowed slightly at the Countess. “I hope I see you well?”

“Indeed,” she replied coldly. “In fact, I’ve never been better, Stefan, thank you. Perhaps it is a good thing after all that we rarely see each other.”

Lord Stokeford’s countenance became taut. He quietly returned: “I concur, madam. Now if you’ll excuse me,” with a bow at his mother, and a nod to Sir Wallace, he retreated the room.

It was a couple of hours later when the Earl had decided that his evening was anything but well-spent. After poring over the correspondence of his man of business from Gloucestershire, Lord Stokeford had partaken a late dinner consisted of soup, fish and roasted fowl, which, to Mr Philips’ chagrin, he’d declared as tasteless as a fare served in some run-of-the mill inn. Further addition to the injury, he’d demanded why the dinning-room smelt like a Cyprian’s hovel, and was met by a discreet cough of the embarrassed butler, who’d nodded towards the vase at the center of the table, saying, “Flowers, my lord.”

“Well, throw it away, Philips, if you don’t want me sneezing at every minute!” he’d snapped, and the offending flowers were out of his sight in a trice. The long suffering Mr Philips, half-expecting for further stigmatization that might be directed on his silver cutleries, had felt a rush of relief when his lordship said no more, and stalked out of the room in a tempestuous state.

He’d stormed the library next, and there, on a lone armchair next to the fireplace he’d settled and nursed his megrims, as Sir Wallace had advised earlier. The recollection of his godfather made Lord Stokeford grimaced, consequently consigned him to the devil. Eventually, he stood up and randomly picked a book from the shelf and went back to his seat again. It was an old copy of Wordsworth and Coleridge’s book of poems called the Lyrical Ballads. The Earl, a downright cynic, scowled at this masterpiece, and, barely turning another page, shut the book with a grunt. Lord, the last thing he wanted was a pair of romantics drumming balderdash in his head. He became suddenly listless, and after a minute of kicking his heels around, Lord Stokeford was taken over by his caprice.

Leaving the silence of the library, he’d headed for his own bedchamber, with impetuous summons for his valet. The worthy, a Mr. Brandon by name, stood gaping when he was met by a blistering decree that my lord was going out tonight, but knew better than to question this sudden change of mind. “Yes, my lord, and may I ask where is your lordship bound for tonight?” he asked politely, and started to divest my lord of his boots and jacket.

The corners of Lord Stokeford’d lips twitched slightly, and he replied: “Why, only Vauxhall, my dear Brandon!”

* * * * * * *

On that same night, Miss Caroline Davis had been brimming with excitement about her first visit to Vauxhall. It was unfortunate that Sophie wouldn’t be there to share the experience, for she and Aunt Emilia were engaged for an evening party at Berkley Square. Mrs Winscott, unable to share her niece’s raptures over this little excursion, had been indeed anxious at the outset, but her daughter, a more sanguine soul, waved it aside, saying: “Mrs Sutherton is a nice woman, Mama, and she’ll do very well in looking after our dear Caro, so stop worrying your head over a trifle!”

“I’m sure she is, but I can’t help it; you know Caroline!” Mrs Winscott pursued. “One moment she’s there at the corner of your eye, and when you just happened to glance elsewhere, why, she’s gone in a trice! And how she could be slippery as that, no one knows! I’ve always thought that poor darling needs a mother very badly, for you know, my dear, no matter how I adore your Uncle James, I own I find several faults in the way he’d brought up his daughter. And now, I am faced with the problem of how to see her comfortably established by the end of the Season, for she’s nothing if not a babe, and who will ever want to marry a female who is still wet behind her ears, pray?”

“Oh, I daresay I could think of someone!” Sophie replied with a twinkle in her eyes. “And you don’t need to put yourself in fidgets, Mama! I’ve already warned her beforehand what dangers that might occur in Vauxhall, and I’ve had her promise to not to stray away from company.” That had somehow allayed Mrs Winscott’s trepidation, and prompted an assurance that her daughter’s influence over her guileless niece was something she could attest to.

Mrs Sutherton, a plain young woman with a pair of shrewd grey eyes on her amiable countenance who was sister-in-law of Miss Julie Sutherton, had proved to be a satisfactory chaperone. They’d strolled along the avenue of magnificent elms festooned with glowing lanterns, and watched the beautiful fireworks lit up the inky summer sky in exuberance. Miss Davis was in awe; she’d never seen anything quite spectacular like those streaks of lights sprinkled above and eventually dispersed in flecks. Vauxhall was filled with music and murmurs of wonder, the atmosphere pervaded with enthusiasm, freed from the restraint of convention, and for a girl reared up in a country, it embodied her idea of paradise.

“Oh, that was wonderful!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in childlike delight after the display. “I’ve never seen anything like that before!”

“Well, you live in the country, so that stands to reason!” Miss Sutherton bantered and let out a giggle.

“Yes, I daresay! In Hampshire we only have fairs, but then it is no match here in London’s.”

“What about these fairs?” asked her friend. “I’ve heard there are—well, some peculiar things you could see in those.”

“Why, yes! Only fancy, there are elephants and imps! And fire-eating men, too, and their stunts are amazing! Also, there are those girls who walk on the beam, don’t you know, and clad with almost nothing save—”

Mrs Sutherton, sensing the want of delicacy in these utterances, cleared her throat, deliberately interrupting her charge. “To be sure, those fairs are as much exciting as the ones you can find here in London, Miss Davis,” she smiled, and steered the two young ladies away from a throng of revelers. “But if we tarry here for long, we might not get to see the rest of what Vauxhall has to offer. Or shall we repair to one of the alcoves and have our supper first?”

This seemed to be a good idea, for their feet ached from perambulating the expanse of Vauxhall. They’d partook of a cold supper of ham and punch, and complained, after finishing their fares, that it had hardly reached the bottom of their stomachs. “Yes, quite insubstantial, I daresay,” Mrs Sutherton agreed laughingly. “Why, the ham they’re serving here is famed to be as thin as muslin!”

The threesome then headed towards the grove situated on the fringes of the Gardens, where an orchestra was playing. Mrs Sutherton explained that they were typically a group of young amateurs, though their performance was nearly as good as those who played in the Orchestra Pavilion. “Do you like music, Miss Davis?” she smiled down at her.

“Fairly, though I am not quite accomplished at that department,” Miss Davis laughed deprecatingly. “What a lovely music they’re playing!”

“Handel, I daresay. It is often played here.”

As they wended their way through the gathering crowd, Miss Sutherton spied a very familiar face amongst the throng, and inaudibly gasped. “Caroline, I think I’ve just seen Mr Beaumont!”

“Mr Beaumont?” Caroline surveyed the crowd, and indeed saw the gentleman, with an unknown lady clinging on his arm. She waved briefly at him, and was somehow bewildered when Mr Beaumont stared back at her in vague recognition, and only gave a curt nod before returning his attention to his companion.

Miss Sutherton, seeing this strange behaviour, remarked bemusedly: “How odd. I wonder if he didn’t recognize you?”

“I don’t know, though I’m sure he nodded at me. Do you know that lady he’s with?”

It was Mrs Sutherton who supplied the answer. “Why, only that woman Mrs Trisham!” she said disdainfully. “A very infamous woman if I’ve ever known one.”

“Infamous?” There was a creasing on Miss Davis’ brows. “But Mr Beaumont wouldn’t surely… Oh! Does that mean she’s his—ah, lady bird?” she asked innocently.

Miss Sutherton’s eyes bulged at her. “Caroline!” she gasped, half horrified and half amused. “How could you say such a thing, you foolish girl? And don’t tell me you’ve heard snatches of conversations again!”

“Well, yes,” she smiled, a little guiltily. “I’m sorry; my tongue just slipped. I won’t say it again.”

“And you very well should not, Miss Davis,” Mrs Sutherton acquiesced a little sharply. “Well, do let us go now, before the crowd could completely block our way.”

Several people had swarmed around the orchestra, played by gentlemen of no more than five and twenty years, or so. Mrs Sutherton had been right in saying that they played fairly well; it was evident that the audience fell completely enchanted by their music. There was another thing that had riveted Miss Sutherton’s attention, though: she’d caught the sight of one of them, who had smiled at her. She'd smiled back, although a little shyly, with a mere stretch of her lips, but this did not escape the keen observation of Miss Davis. “Yes, I rather thought he’s handsome too, Julie,” she whispered at her friend teasingly.

Miss Sutherton flushed, and replied with a slight stammer: “Well, y-yes, I-I daresay! And I think he plays v-very passionately! But—oh, I wish you stop teasing, Caroline!”

A bubble of mirth sprang from Miss Davis’ lips. “Caught your fancy, eh?” She was answered by a glare from Miss Sutherton.

She laughed again, but desisted, and kept her peace once more. The concert went on for several minutes, but Miss Davis was already taken over by her desire to pursue her jaunt around Vauxhall. Unable to keep still any longer, she tossed her head side to side, and looked over her shoulder. Her gaze suddenly fell on a tall young man whom, despite the curly brim of his beaver shadowing his face, Miss Davis had recognized as Mr Milborne. He was walking alone, and Miss Davis, not wanting to receive a rebuke by shouting out his name, quietly slipped from the throng and followed him.

“Cedric!” she called out behind a few yards away, but the boisterous music from the orchestra smothered her voice, never reaching Mr Milborne’s ears. Further covering a fair distance nearer, Miss Davis was just about to call him again, but was suddenly transfixed when a lady wearing a fashionable bonnet with plums approached her quarry in a rather intimate way.