The Dowager's Daughter by Mona Prevel Page A

To what do you owe your good fortune, do you suppose?”
    “Baron Lampson invited me to a ball they hosted directly after you left Town in such a hurry. Prinny happened to overhear a comment I made with regard to Beau Brummel’s neck linen.”
    Althea raised a brow. “Oh? Please elucidate.”
    “I would rather not. But you must have noticed that of late, the points of Brummell’s collars and the elaborate fall of his cravats have reached such impractical extremes he can scarcely move his head.”
    George took on a haunted look. “Just let us say that it was not the sort of remark a chap wishes to be known for, and it was but the merest whisper in Francis Lampton’s ear. Imagine my horror when I heard this great guffaw directly behind me and turned to face no less a personage than the Prince of Wales, taking high glee in my remark.”
    “I have heard that Mr. Brummell’s odd behavior toward the prince of late is driving a wedge between them.”
    “But do you not see? The prince has accorded me his regard on the strength of this one remark. Good heavens, Althea, I am not a great wit. I am not likely to trot out another syllable worthy of note if I were to outlive Methuselah.”
    Althea laughed in spite of herself. “You underestimate yourself, George. Just be you. His Royal Highness is a kind man and will do nothing to hurt you, but in future please be more circumspect It does not do to make powerful enemies.”
    George bowed, and with his brow knitted as if weighing her words, took his leave of the ladies to join the other gendtlemen. Althea shot her mother a rueful glance. “Poor George. The kind regard of our illustrious prince is on the verge of killing him.”
    “Do not concern yourself, darling. George will survive. The worst that can happen is that invitations from the prince will taper off. Who knows? Perhaps your childhood friend is destined to become the darling of the ton.”
    “Mama, do you really think so?”
    “Hardly.”
    “Oh, dear.”
    The next guest to arrive was Lord Ridley. At the time, Althea was engaged in a polite exchange of chitchat with a young matron she had known since childhood. It had not taken Althea long to discover that they no longer met on common ground and had very little to say to one another.
    Elizabeth married her husband, a Mr. Henry Beaton, one of the Prince of Wales’s cronies, during her and Althea’s very first Season. As Beau Brummell put it, “Before her dancing slippers had begun to show signs of wear.”
    Her first child, a little girl, was born a scant nine months later, causing many a raised brow among the more raffish members of the ton. Their second child, a son, was just three months old. When news of the second baby’s birth was mentioned at White’s, Mr. Brummell expressed surprise. “Did not think Beaton was home often enough to accomplish the deed.”
    As Elizabeth Beaton enthused ad nauseum about her children, Althea watched the viscount’s progress down the corridor out of the corner of her eye. She was surprised when he accorded her mother only the very briefest of bows. She wondered if their friendship was cooling. Marcus Ridley was not known for steadfast devotion.
    Just about the time that the young matron’s droning had driven Althea into a state of glassy-eyed desperation, the arrival of His Royal Highness was announced. Elizabeth ceased her chatter in midsentence and hastened to her husband’s side. Thankful for the reprieve, Althea joined her mother.
    At the same time, those who were seated rose to their feet, and all heads turned to watch the prince’s laborious descent down the staircase. As she made her curtsey along with the rest of the ladies, Althea noted that the heir to the throne’s girth had increased even more since the last London Season.
    Charming to a fault, the prince made his way along the corridor, according each guest his full attention as he exchanged pleasantries with him or her.
    When it was the turn of the Camberly