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 anticipa
tion. 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.
Blakely shrugged. “As you wish.” He swiveled from her.
The effrontery of the man! He wasn’t even trying to give Madame Esmerelda’s prediction a fair chance.
Ned clamped his hand about his cousin’s wrist and turned him back around. “Oh, I think so. Where else could it have come from?”
Aside from Blakely’s pocket. Or any of the fifteen other sources that sprang to mind.
“I assure you,” she said with some asperity, “if that object had belonged to me, I shouldn’t have waited until I attended a ball to dispose of it. Even if I had dropped it, I would never admit prior ownership when questioned.”
“Well.” Ned drew out the syllable and squared his shoulders. “If you didn’t drop it, you must accept it.”
Her lips thinned. “Why?”
Why? Damnation.
“I can’t think of any reason,” Blakely interjected. His gaze seemed subtly mocking. Ned’s stomach sank. His cousin would continue to perform all his tasks in this halfhearted fashion. He had no intention of taking Madame Esmerelda’s strictures seriously. He intended to do the bare minimum, and no more.
But Madame Esmerelda was right. She saw the future. She had to do so. Because if she were wrong about Blakely, then her prediction about Ned was suspect, too. And that he could not bear.
Ned plucked the ebony from his cousin’s hand and held it out. There was only one thing for it. He was going to have to do all the work.
“Unfortunately—” Ned sighed “—there’s no good reason. You’re just going to have to take it anyway.”
She peered at the unfortunate lump of wood. “What is that thing, anyway?”
“What do you think it is?”
The lady reached out one slim finger and tapped the dark surface. She pulled back the digit immediately, as if she’d tapped a hot stove. “It appears to be some sort of round, pockmarked, misbegotten, battle-blackened…citrus?”
“You see?” Triumph boiled up in Ned and he poked Blakely in the lapels. “She knew! She knew it was an elephant! You can’t possibly deny Madame Esmerelda’s power now!”
That, at least, finally got a response from Blakely. The man shut his eyes and covered his face with a hand.
The lady frowned. “An orange is an elephant?”
She was intimidating and elegant. Ned imagined the figure he must cut in her eyes. Boyishly skinny. Overshadowed by his taller cousin. Awkward, ungainly, and just a little too loud at all the wrong times. Most especially at this moment. He flushed from head to toe.
“Yes,” Ned said. His voice still rang too loudly.
At precisely the same moment, Blakely said, “No.”
She stared at the two men. “You,” she said stabbing a finger at Ned, “are mad. You—” pointing at Blakely this time “—are tainted by association. And you—” here, she pointed at Madame Esmerelda standing behind them “—are very quiet. As for me, I am leaving.”
If she left now, fate and all the angels in heaven couldn’t bring her together with Blakely.
“Wait,” Ned called. “We haven’t been introduced! And you didn’t take your elephant.”
She turned around again. “No, we haven’t been introduced. And I certainly couldn’t accept a gift from a stranger.”
Ned bit his cheeks and wondered if he could possibly—please?—disappear on the spot. “Oh, that stupid rule doesn’t matter here. It’s only applicable to nice things. Clothing or jewelry or the like. This is a piece of rubbish.”
She stared at Ned and shook her head. “You really are mad.”
“Yes,” he agreed through gritted teeth. “Now humor the madman, and take the dam—I mean, take the dratted elephant.”
She contemplated him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, dimples formed on her cheeks. She did not smile, but her eyes sparkled. And she placed her gloved hand, palm out, in front of her.
He dropped the wood into her hand. “There,” Ned said. “Now it’s your misbegotten lump of citrus.”
She looked up. Her eyes were gray, and Ned had the sudden impression that she saw right into his heart. That organ thumped heavily under her observation. Ned swallowed, and the world slowed.
Then she dropped a curtsy. “Thank you,” she said prettily. She turned. Ned watched her leave. She strode as confidently as a queen. Ned felt humiliated and exposed. It was only when she turned the corner that he realized that they’d still not been introduced. Of course not. He’d just painted himself as the biggest fool in London. Who would want to make an acquaintance of him?
Not that it mattered. It was Blakely who was fated to have her. He could have her; he’d match her, his intimidating glares bouncing off her cold elegance. No doubt Blakely would fall in love with her.
He turned to his cousin. “Someday,” Ned said bitterly, “you are going to thank me for what I just did for you.”
Blakely gestured sardonically. “I wouldn’t wager on that, were I you. For now, I’ll thank you to head back to the ball.”
CHAPTER FIVE
BEFORE JENNY SET FOOT back in the ballroom, bringing up the rear of their party, they were accosted. Lord Blakely swung the door open into the bright hall, and a voice called out.
“Blakely,” said the woman, “why are you hiding in the servants’ quarters? And why didn’
t you tell me you were attending tonight?”
Lord Blakely stopped so abruptly that Jenny nearly ran into him from behind. As she stumbled forward into the open hall, the lights dazzled her eyes. It took a moment to adjust from the dim illumination of the corridor, and when she was finally able to see who had confronted them—or, rather, who had confronted the marquess, she coughed.
It was Feathers. The woman in blue, the one she’d pointed to before Ned’s choking reaction and Lord Blakely’s own smooth acceptance convinced her to change her mind.
Feathers was not pretty. Despite her fresh-faced youth, her features were too angular to qualify for that label. But she gleamed with a sleek, polished air that would have made even the plainest lady pleasant to look at. She looked almost as imposing as Lord Blakely, dressed as she was in a fine light blue gown embroidered at the edges with flowers, and littered with silk rosettes. Luminescent pearls shone about her neck. Sandy brown hair was bound up in a tight mess of curls, from which her namesake—three waving peacock feathers—bobbed.
She was definitely not pretty, but she was striking in a way that struck Jenny as oddly familiar.
And yet Feathers showed not one iota of the confidence her dress and ramrod-straight posture should have imparted. Even younger than Ned, she ducked her shoulders and smiled, a universal signal that she was eager to please.
Here was a puzzle. For all her fine demeanor, Lord Blakely’s earlier behavior suggested the lady was somehow unsuitable for marriage. But the lady had called him by the familiar “Blakely.” And he hadn’t corrected the importunity with typical frosty disdain.
Light dawned. No wonder she seemed so familiar. And no wonder the marquess had wanted Jenny to pick this woman.
“Lord Blakely,” Jenny said. “You never told me you had a sister.”
“See?” Ned flung his hands in the air. “How can you disbelieve her? I never said a word of it!”
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