The Enchantress of Mayfair

Chapter the Third

The ton did not disappoint in their reactions to the newest engagement of the Season. Christine's left foot had barely crossed the threshold of Lord Windemere's ballroom when a tangle of debutantes of varying ages accosted her.

Lady Harriet Morgan rapped Christine with her lace fan. Her lips pulled into a pout, eyes fluttering. "Miss Downey, we have all heard the most charming little rumour." She was of Christine's age though her unmarried state seemed more tragic with her great dowry and high-class relations.

One of her companions looked barely out of the schoolroom and bounced on her heels. "Is it true that Lord Ramsey offered for you?"

"Miss Linwood, you were not supposed to ask! That is bad ton!" A Miss Smith trilled. At least, that is what Christine thought her name was.

She fanned herself at a sedate pace. "Yes, he did."

"And you accepted?" Miss Linwood's sea-blue eyes glistened with tears. "Say it is not so, Miss Downey!"

"Regretfully, I did accept his suit."

Miss Smith wrapped a consoling arm around her companion's shoulders. "There, there, you will bring someone up to scratch in no time! You forget Miss Ramsey is nearly a decade older than you."

"You forget that I am the same age as Miss Ramsey," snapped Lady Harriet. "Despite what society may tell you, youth is not a virtue to all."

"With age comes wisdom and a greater distaste for the young," Christine agreed.

Lady Harriet's lips lifted into a smirk. "You must be wise if you snagged Lord Ramsey. He is only a third son, but his family is rich as Croesus."

"Wealth is always a favourable trait." Her eyes darted around the ballroom. "If you will allow me to enter the ballroom, I wish to find Lord Ramsey."

The girls separated, Miss Linwood's shoulder shaking with sobs. Miss Smith let out a exasperated sigh. "I shall take her to the retiring room. Do excuse us."

"Let us speak later, Lady Harriet."

"We must."

Christine bobbed into a curtsy and entered the fray. She spotted many brown-haired men and none with the correct shade. Many were too old and some were frightfully young, eager in their stares. She reached the other side of the ballroom, a slick sheen of sweat coating her skin.

Some feet away, a pair of French doors opened onto the night. Two footmen stood vigil in their gold and green livery. She sidled towards the doors, hoping for even a slight breeze.

A scream from the gardens silenced the ballroom. The footmen leapt into action and abandoned their posts. Christine and a handful of nearby guests joined the pursuit. She lifted her silken skirts, dashing down the marble stairs and into the manicured gardens. The night air cooled her body, the delicate winds tickling her stray hairs, piercing through the thin silk of her gown.

She arrived, panting, to the origin of the scream. A debutante in her ivory dress trembled in the moonlight. She pulled at her face, screams unending. Those nearer to the front of the scene turned away gagging and stumbled further into the gardens. Christine inched closer.

There, sprawled across a bench, lay the heir to the Dukedom of Brackenheath. Christine only guessed at his identity, noticing the head of antique gold hair and the embroidered handkerchief clutched in his right hand. His mouth lay agape, frozen in horror; his cheeks sunken in; his eyes gone. The rest of him looked...empty, like he was an empty husk.

She recoiled from the sight. Anyone with even the silliest brain would see this was an unnatural death. Heirs to Dukedoms did not die in the gardens of Mayfair. Christine stepped back and then back again, distancing herself from the scene. Her foot caught on the hem of her gown and she stumbled backwards. She landed onto the dirt path with a grunt.