A Woman of Honour

Chapter 22

When Helen arrived at the masked ball at Torrington Place, it was nearly midnight, and she was exhausted. After her talk with Alice, the previous afternoon, she had gone back to the hotel to get some rest. However, when she had laid her head on the pillow and shut her eyes, sleep had alluded her. She could not shake off the feeling of guilt she felt, putting the life of her unborn child in danger.

Lavorel helped her out of the carriage and guided her up the steps that led to the grand mansion. She wrapped her cloak around her as she felt the cold winter air as it stung her cheeks. It felt so different from the ball she had been to with Ralph at Belmont Hall on that balmy late summer evening. It was only three months ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

Torrington Place was a large house, built only twenty years before, on the outskirts of London in Greenwich. The sweeping limestone staircase led to a classical portico that was held in place by large imposing Grecian columns. The outside of the house was well-lit, and Helen was in awe of the magnificent classical architecture.

As they approached the doors, they were magically opened by a set of liveried footmen. Once inside the imposing entrance hall, Helen saw that the floor was covered in an elegant geometric design of black and white tiles. The classically designed plasterwork that decorated the walls and ceiling was all painted white, and it looked magnificently imposing. It had been tastefully designed with simplicity in mind. As she stood admiring the sweeping staircase that seemed to float above her with no visible columns holding up the stairs, a footman removed their cloaks. They were then ushered through a door into the ballroom.

The ballroom was a large chamber that ran the full length of the right side of the house. Just like the entrance hall, it had been tastefully designed by the architect. Large, slim rectangular windows that reached from floor to ceiling lined the wall that faced the front of the house. The room was well-lit, and Helen estimated that there must have been hundreds of candles hanging from each of the three large cut-glass chandeliers. The light was cleverly reflected from strategically placed mirrors, providing the exact amount of lighting needed for this evening's entertainments.

Despite the cold, crisp night outside, the ballroom felt warm and stuffy. Lavorel never liked to arrive early for social occasions, and the ballroom was already crowded and full of the sound of chatter and laughter. As Helen looked at the guests, it was apparent that this was going to be no society ball. All the guests wore a mask to hide their identity. A mask would give them anonymity that would allow them to let go of their inhibitions. To be invited to a ball at Torrington Place, one had to have both money and influence. And even though it was a place to meet like-minded individuals, introductions were carefully controlled by the organisers to maintain privacy.

When they entered the ballroom, nearly every eye turned to look at the handsome couple. Lavorel, as always, was exquisitely dressed in black and white evening clothes. Even though he was no longer a young man, he had a distinguished air about him that still made him very attractive. However, Helen knew that the men in the room were not looking at Lavorel, they were staring at her. She was glad she had a mask covering her face, it gave her a barrier to hide the embarrassment she now felt, being the centre of attention.

She was wearing a dress made from a pearly white diaphanous satin that shone with a silvery sheen when it caught the candlelight. The scandalously low neckline framed the expensive and gaudy diamond necklace that Lavorel had insisted she wore tonight. Her hair had been artfully arranged and was held together with silver clips inlaid with tiny pearls. A few long tendrils of her hair had been curled into loose ringlets and framed her face and neck. This accentuated the length of her neck and the delicate translucent ivory skin of her décolletage. All she wore under the dress was a sheer cotton chemise that barely reached her knees. As she walked next to Lavorel, across the centre of the ballroom, she felt conscious of the silky material clinging to every curve of her body. Helen had thought that the red dress she had worn the previous week to the theatre, had been brazenly immodest, but this surpassed it at every level. Even though the gown and diamonds had cost Lavorel a small fortune, the outfit made her feel vulgar and tawdry. She heard a few people whisper her name as she walked past them. The mask had not succeeded in hiding her identity.