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Ned saved his own life by merely frowning in puzzlement. “Where, ah, where is its trunk?”
Gareth fished about in his pocket and pulled out a thick splinter of wood. “It came off. During the carving.”
Madame Esmerelda stared at it, and shook her head. “Well. This evening, I think you ought to engage in multiple activities that do not, as you say, play to your strengths.”
“Yes,” Gareth said with a noisy sigh. “I’ll have to give away the elephant to whichever horrific debutante you point out.”
Madame Esmerelda shook her head. “And.”
“There’s an and?”
“Lord Blakely, if there isn’t an ‘and’ there’s a ‘but.’ Give away the elephant. Please, try to do one other thing. Smile.”
“Smile?” He glowered at her. “Is that the next task? To grin like a loon?”
“It’s not a task,” Madame Esmerelda said. “It’s a suggestion.”
“Why would I smile?”
Ned handed back Gareth’s pitiful attempt at carving. “Smiling is that thing most people do with their lips to indicate amusement or enjoyment.” He turned to Madame Esmerelda. “You ask the impossible. You’re a cruel woman.”
The carriage came to a careful halt, and a footman opened the door. Cool night air rushed in, and the conversation halted momentarily while the party exited the carriage.
Gareth carefully placed the ebony in his pocket. “I’m not going to feign amusement. Or enjoyment.”
“Like I said,” Ned replied airily. “Impossible.”
Madame Esmerelda patted her skirts into place. “Have you considered actually enjoying yourself?”
“In this venue? In this company?” Gareth glanced toward the brightly lit entry. “Ned’s quite right. It’s impossible.” He stalked away, leaving Ned and Madame Esmerelda in his wake.
“Whew.” Behind him, Ned whistled between his teeth. “Cold fish.”
If only he knew.
“LORD BLAKELY. Mrs. Margaret Barnard. Mr. Edward Carhart.” The majordomo’s announcement hardly cut through the din of conversation that filled the glittering room that opened up before Jenny.
She frowned at Lord Blakely—it was he, after all, who’d directed the majordomo—just before he leaned in and whispered to her.
“Congratulations, Meg. You have become a widow. Also a very distant cousin of mine. Do try not to tell fortunes here.” He tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow and led her forward.
He acted as if she were nothing but a liar, as if she’d chosen her profession because she could not help but speak mistruths every time she opened her mouth. It had taken her years to perfect Madame Esmerelda’s character, and almost a decade to bring her profession to this height, where word of mouth had replaced the need to advertise. She could not just adopt a persona on a whim.
But before she could think of a way to castigate him, she entered the ballroom, and all other thoughts were driven from her mind. The room seemed on fire, so bright was the illumination.
She had seen gas lamps on the street, dull globes of orange casting dim shadows about them. She’d even tangled with oil lamps herself on occasion—messy to fill, burning with a faint fishy odor. But she’d only walked outside houses illuminated as this one. The night fled from these bright chandeliers, shining with unspeakable wealth.
She’d never seen the like. The entire room was lit by what seemed a thousand golden suns. It was noon-bright, and twice as hot. No corner of the room stood in shadow. The only difference between this light and day was that the heavy yellow tinge of the lighting rendered the brown of her dress as mud.
Mud was what she felt like next to Lord Blakely.
His finery had been calculated to take advantage of the brilliance. The dark red embroidery in his black waistcoat subtly caught the light. Jet buttons, exquisitely cut, sparkled. In this light, she could make out the subtle, rich texture woven in the fabric of his dark jacket. All that black brought out the golden flecks in his eyes.
She had never felt so intensely shabby before. Her gown was plain and untrimmed. Simple lines; easy to put on and take off. The kind of dress that a woman, living alone, could don without assistance. And because only a woman living one step above genteel poverty would purchase a gown built on those lines, she’d chosen a sensible and serviceable brown. Anything else would have seemed out of place. But “out of place” was precisely where she stood now.
When she lifted her eyes to the scene in front of her, that feeling of unworthiness only intensified. She’d thought herself quite clever, putting up her hair in ribbons, with curls carefully crafted in papers the night before. Around her, she saw perfect, fat sausage curls dangling from exquisite coiffures, decorated with flowers real and silk, ribbons dyed with colors far richer and more exotic than the pink and faded beetroot she’d employed.
When the other ladies moved, their every step swayed with grace. They all seemed clean and crisp at the edges. Even from several feet away, she smelled ambergris and rich food.
And then there was the room itself. It fit as many people as the most crowded London street. She’d never seen so large a space indoors. Jenny followed the lines of the high Ionic columns ringing the room up, and up, and up, to a gilt-decorated ceiling towering five times her height in the air. It made her feet sweat. There was no reason for vertigo to afflict her when she was safely on the ground, looking up.
But it did.
Her fingers tightened on Lord Blakely’s elbow.
“Don’t fear, Mrs. Barnard,” he said coldly. “We’ll get you married off in no time.”
It took Jenny a heartbeat to remember she was supposed to be Mrs. Barnard. “What?”
“Isn’t that why we’ve brought you here? What think you, Ned? Are we bringing our distant cousin here in search of a new husband? We must agree on some fiction before we are set upon and introductions are demanded.”
“Nonsense,” Jenny said. “My husband died only a year ago. I’m uninterested in remarriage, but you’ve kindly decided to cheer me up.”
“Kind?” said Ned. “Blakely? At least pick a tale the ton will believe.”
Jenny smiled at Ned and transferred her hand to his elbow. “It must have been your idea, my dear.”
Lord Blakely scrubbed at the crook of his arm, as if to erase her touch. “Notice, Ned, how easily she lies.”
Jenny took a deep breath. Just because she felt like a cow wallowing among swans didn’t mean she had to let Lord Blakely intimidate her.
“Oh, Lord Blakely,” Jenny said. “You’re not smiling. Whatever can we do to increase your enjoyment of this event?”
He opened his mouth, but Jenny cut off whatever he’d planned to say with a delighted clap of her hands. “I know!” she said. “Just the thing to lift your spirits. Shall we check the time?”
Lord Blakely glanced at the clock on the wall, but she shook her head.
“Your fob watch.”
After a pause, he pulled a heavy gold watch from his pocket. He flicked it open and contemplated its face. “Well, Mrs. Barnard. Do your worst. It’s thirty-eight minutes after ten.”
HEADY ANTICIPATION WASHED THROUGH Ned as his cousin looked up from his watch. Only one minute left? Finally, Ned was going to watch his cousin fall in love. Then Blakely would get married and produce heirs. He’d have other people to treat as his inferiors, to inflict with his cold ways and perfect demeanor. Most importantly, Madame Esmerelda—and Ned himself—would be vindicated.
Had a minute passed yet? Ned checked his impulse to reach for his own timepiece. Madame Esmerelda had said to go by Blakely’s watch—and so Blakely’s it must be.
But the blasted man had started to flick it back in his pocket. In one swift movement, Ned reached out and tugged the gold disc from Blakely’s fingers. It resisted his pull.
Blakely grimaced in annoyance. “Ned, the chain is attached, as you may recall.”
How could the man be so bloody calm?
Ned set his jaw. “Apologies,” he muttered, giving the chain an unapologetic jerk. When Blakely made no move to relinquish control of his watch, Ned added, “Can you unhook that thing? We need it over here.”
“My pleasure,” Blakely said sarcastically. He made a tremendous fuss and bother of undoing the hook from his buttonhole and lifting the gold chain from his pocket. But all that dithering didn’t matter, because the time was—
Still thirty-eight minutes after ten. Ned sighed. Well, little enough time had passed. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that it hadn’t been a minute yet.
But just to be sure, Ned checked again.
Indeed. It was still thirty-eight minutes after. Ned sighed in frustration and looked up, scanning the crowd. He wondered which of the ladies he saw was intended for his cousin. None seemed particularly interesting.
“Ned,” murmured Madame Esmerelda. “Do you recall what I told you about patience?”
“I am being patient,” Ned muttered.
She cleared her throat. “Your foot.”
Ned blinked, looking down. His damned foot was tapping in frustration. He willed it to stop, and then, because at least two seconds had elapsed, he allowed himself to look down again.
“Still thirty-eight after? Blakely, is the damned thing broken?”
Before his cousin could answer, it happened. The minute hand shivered, like a cat preparing to stretch. It trembled. And then … It ticked. A shiver shot through Ned’s spine, and he glanced up at Madame Esmerelda.
“The thirty-ninth minute is upon us,” Madame Esmerelda intoned.
“And woe betide us, every man.” It was a mystery, how Blakely maintained that bored appearance with his future hanging in the balance.
But Madame Esmerelda would handle everything that mattered. Ned turned expectantly to her.
She was scanning the throng. “There,” she finally said, pointing one long finger at an exceptionally thick portion of the crowd. “That’s her. In the blue. By the wall.”
Ned followed the line of her finger. He goggled. Then he gasped, choking on the impossibility of it all.
“Are you perhaps referring to the lady wearing the delightful feathers?” Blakely did not betray so much as a flicker of horror. “She’s lovely. I think I’m falling in love already.”
“She—I—that—” Ned turned to Madame Esmerelda, his hands aquiver. The incoherent stream of syllables from his mouth refused to resolve into anything so cogent as a complaint. He’d felt doubt before, looking into her wise and knowing face. But all those times, he’d doubted himself.
He’d doubted he would escape the darkness that periodically captured him.
For one timeless second, though, the cold fingers of uncertainty touched the back of his neck, and Ned doubted her. If she’d pointed to a pig, he’d have believed it under an enchanted spell. One that could be broken with a kiss. But she’d picked the one woman who simply could not marry Blakely.
“Of course not her,” Madame answered dismissively.
Ned’s breath came back in a relieved gasp.
“I meant the pale blue. Moving. Right there.”
Ned looked over to his left. He could see little more other than a beribboned hairpiece perched atop blond hair, and a blue-and-white gown. From behind, she looked young. She looked slender. When she turned, her gown glinted, and he realized that what he had taken for white fabric rosettes were actually pearls. Whoever she was, she was wealthy.
“Drat,” said Blakely. “I had my heart set on Feathers.”
Ned squinted across the room. Was Blakely’s bride-to-be opening that door? She was. Ned’s heart constricted. She was leaving.
“Well, Ned,” Blakely said, without a care for the fact that his future wife was deserting him, “you queered the deal. Next time, let Madame Esmerelda pronounce without prompting.”
Ned gave this inscrutable comment the moment’s consideration it deserved, before deciding to ignore it. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
Neither of his companions moved. Ned put one hand on his hip and gestured in the direction of the lady with Blakely’s watch. “She’s escaping. Don’t you want to meet her?”
“Oh,” said Blakely in a depressing tone. “Dear. What ever shall I do?”
Ned stamped his foot. “Nonsense. After her!”
Blakely smoothly plucked his watch from Ned’s fingers and dropped it, chain and all, into his pocket. “Do calm yourself, Ned. We will attract more attention than this event warrants if the three of us pelt across the ballroom like dogs on a scent.”
Ned scowled. “Madame Esmerelda,” he protested, “tell Blakely he has to hurry. The way he’s acting is just not respectful.“
Madame Esmerelda looked at him. “Ned, take a breath and calm down.”
“I’m not—” Ned started, before he realized that he was, in fact, on edge with anticipation. He shut his mouth with a click.
“And, perhaps, Lord Blakely, you could consider putting one foot in front of the other. It would be the rational thing to do. If you must wait for her to come back, you’ll have to present your elephant in front of the entire assemblage.”
Blakely’s lip curled in obvious distaste. “You make an excellent point.”
Ned’s cousin turned and strolled toward the exit where the blond lady had disappeared. Ned dashed in front of him, ducking between a surprised couple, and around one large man wearing a hideous waistcoat. It didn’t take long to wrest open the unobtrusive door in the wall.
He stepped into a deserted servants’ corridor, dim and hazy after the well-lit ballroom. The walls were a nondescript whitewash, and the narrow passage stretched before them. Why had she come here?
It didn’t matter. Whatever she was doing, she hadn’t gone far. She was a scant fifteen feet down the hall. She walked almost noiselessly. Despite the bare wood floors underfoot and the unadorned walls, the quiet tap of her steps faded, folding into the muted roar of the gathering behind them.
Behind him, Blakely’s shoes clacked noisily. She heard the sound and paused.
Blakely took advantage of her hesitation. “Pardon me,” he called.
The lady turned around slowly. Very slowly. Ned caught his breath. She was younger than he was. Her features seemed almost too sharp, too pronounced. But her eyes were wide and intelligent, and even though she’d been caught alone by three people she did not know, she held her head high and her shoulders straight. She did not speak; instead, she cocked her head, as if silently granting the rabble permission to approach. That aloof calm rendered those sharp features almost beautiful.
With that haughty demeanor, she would make Blakely an excellent marchioness. Ned darted a glance at his cousin. The man seemed unaffected by her elegance.
“I believe you dropped this back in the ballroom.” Not an ounce of emotion touched Blakely’s voice as he strode toward her, holding the gouged lump of ebony in his hand.
Ned wasn’t sure which constituted the greater sacrilege: Blakely’s cursory adherence to Madame Esmerelda’s tasks, or his ability to remain unruffled when confronting his future wife. Annoyed, Ned scrambled after his cousin.
The lady frowned as Blakely came closer. “I dropped something? How clumsy of me.”
Her voice sounded like bells, Ned decided, except not the harsh clanging kind. She put him in mind of clear, high chimes, ringing out in winter weather.
Her gaze fell on the indecipherable object in Blakely’s outstretched hand. That perfect brow furrowed in consternation. “I dropped that? I think not.” A discordant note sounded in those bells.
