That was an answer Joanna did not have.
Because Kincaid had refused to give it.
Once again, he had just closed himself off and pushed her away.
As if she meant nothing.
As if they meant nothing.
And maybe that was what hurt worst of all. Not that he’d all but shoved her out the door, but that he hadn’t even been willing to try.
“You seem upset,” Rosemary observed, her smile wavering as she looked at Joanna. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.” She started to stand. “I will go, and—”
“It’s not you,” Joanna said hurriedly. “Honest. It’s…it’s something else. Someone else. Please stay. There is so much I’d like to ask you.”
Sinking back down into her seat, Rosemary clucked her tongue in sympathy. “It’s the Marquess of Dorchester, isn’t it? Silly me. If I found out my father wasn’t who I thought he was, I’d be upset as well.”
Joanna exchanged a quick, startled glance with Evie. “How do you know about the marquess?” she asked, puzzled. “I was under the impression it was…well, that it was a bit of a secret.”
Rosemary giggled. Then her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, you’re serious. Nothing in the ton is a secret. Not really. Plus, I may have…erm…eavesdropped on my grandmother and Mr. Kincaid. I didn’t mean to.” Her round cheeks flushed, reminding Joanna of the doll that Claire used to carry around with her everywhere she went. “It’s just that we do not get many visitors, and I thought the detective may have been a suitor come to call, and so…I pressed my ear to the door and listened to the entire conversation.”
“Have you met him?” Joanna slid to the edge of the mattress. “My…that is to say, the Marquess of Dorchester.”
“We have been introduced,” Rosemary nodded. “I even danced with the Earl of Hawkridge once.” Her blush intensified. “I trounced on his instep so hard that he walked with a limp for the rest of the night. He never asked to sign his name to my card again.”
“What are they like?” Joanna asked earnestly. Try as she might, she’d been unable to form a picture of her birth father and her half-brother in her head. Perhaps because every time that she’d tried, her thoughts just kept veering back to Kincaid, like a moth that couldn’t leave an open flame alone even though it knew that if it got too close it would singe its wings.
“The marquess and the earl?” Rosemary asked.
Joanna nodded.
“We don’t really…that is to say, our social circles don’t intersect with any sort of regularity. Probably due to the fact that mine is shaped more like a square.” She smiled apologetically. “Rest assured that you are going to be far more popular than I. People don’t tend to notice plain.”
“You’re not plain,” Joanna protested. “Is she, Evie?”
“I’ve seen worse,” said Evie. For her, it was a very high compliment indeed.
“It’s all right,” Rosemary said with a shrug. “I don’t mind. Truth be told, there are many good things about being a wallflower. No one ever notices when I go back for thirds at the sweets table. And I’d much rather read a book than remember the steps to a waltz.”
“Reading is much more important than dancing,” Joanna agreed. She hesitated, and then asked, “What does he look like, my half-brother? I have been trying to conjure an image of him in my mind, and….” Her hands lifted in the air. “I cannot.”
“He’s very handsome,” Rosemary said at once. Then she gasped, and covered her mouth as another pink blush stole across her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re his sister. I mean, his half-sister. I mean, his—”
“It is all right,” Joanna said gently. “Please do not feel flustered on my account.”
Evie perked up. “Handsome, did you say?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Joanna muffled a snort as she noted the calculating gleam in Evie’s eyes. “He’s my brother. Surely you can set your sights on someone else. Anyone else, really.”
“He is your half-brother. With absolutely no relation to me. And he is an earl.”
“I was under the impression you wanted a duke.”
“If I could find one, I’d happily marry him. Until then…tell us more about the Earl of Hawkridge,” Evie ordered Rosemary, who bit her lip.
“Well…” their cousin began. “He is quite tall. And he has black hair, unlike his sister—”
“He has a sister?” Joanna interrupted. “I have a sister?”
Kincaid had failed to mention that part.
Then again, he’d failed at a lot of things.
“Yes. Lady Brynne. They’re twins.”
Weston and Brynne.
Evie and Claire.
As Joanna shook her head in disbelief, she struggled to wrap her mind around the idea that her number of siblings had just doubled.
“How long are you planning to be in London?” asked Rosemary. “There’s so much I’d like to show you. Are you staying through Christmas?”
Evie glanced at Joanna, whose gaze fell to her lap as a sharp pang resounded within her chest.
“We’re leaving soon,” she said, drawing a circle around her knee. “Most likely within the next day or two.”
“But you cannot,” said Rosemary, positively aghast. “You’ll miss the Countess of Beresford’s birthday celebration. She’s throwing an enormous ball. Everyone will be in attendance.”
Joanna’s pulse leapt. She knew that name; Kincaid had spoken it in the park before he’d stomped on her heart. Her half-brother was going to be at the ball. As well as Kincaid, and maybe even the ring. “Did you say the Countess of Beresford?”
Evie gripped her chair. “Did you say ball?”
“It’s going to be an absolute crush,” said Rosemary. Then she frowned. “I am not looking forward to it, if I were being honest. As I said, I am not exceedingly popular.” Her nose wrinkled. “People find me odd. I think it is the squirrel.”
“I don’t think you’re odd at all,” Joanna declared, and she meant it. Rosemary may have been a tad shy and awkward, but that’s what made her so endearing. They’d only just met, and already Joanna had the feeling they were going to be good friends.
Unfortunately, it seemed Evie had a different opinion in regards to Rosemary’s unique charm.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said politely. “You have a squirrel?”
“Sir Reginald.” Rosemary patted her shoulder. “He usually sits here, but I left him at home this morning. I did not want to make a poor first impression.”
Evie edged her chair back a few inches. “I see.”
“Sir Reginald sounds delightful,” said Joanna with a reproachful glare at her sister, whose eyebrows rose as if to say, “What would you have me do? She has a pet squirrel”. “When is the ball, again?”
“Tomorrow night. Which is why you cannot leave yet!” Rosemary gazed anxiously between them. “I always sit in the corner by myself. And Grandmother said this time I have to leave my book at home. But if you were there with me, it would be entirely different! I’ve always wanted a sister. But surely cousins are the next best thing! Oh, please say you’ll come. Please?”
Joanna looked at Evie.
Evie looked at Joanna.
“Yes,” they said in unison. “We’d love to.”
*
Unfortunately, it seemed attending a ball wasn’t as easy as saying “yes”.
According to Evie, none of the dresses they’d brought with them were suitable. Which meant Joanna spent the rest of her day traipsing about London in search of a gown that was not only within their meager budget, but ready to wear.
Finding the Holy Grail would have been a far easier task, but at least it provided a welcome distraction from her constant thoughts of Kincaid. Never mind that they were soon to be at the same ball. She wasn’t going there to see him. Definitely not. She was going there to spend time with her cousin, and to possibly catch a glimpse—or mayhap even meet—her brother, the Earl of Hawkridge.
T
ruth be told, Joanna didn’t know how she felt about her newfound family.
It was, in a word, overwhelming.
And difficult to fully comprehend.
Joanna did not care that her father was titled or “one of the most wealthiest and powerful men in England”. She would have been pleased if he were a baker or a blacksmith or a candle maker. Such an occupation certainly would have lent itself to fewer complications.
Showing up on the doorstep of a baker and announcing herself as his long-lost daughter was one thing.
But arriving at the private estate of a marquess…well, that was something else entirely.
Add to that an earl, and a duke!
It was almost too much.
It was too much.
What did she know about British aristocracy? Their rules and rigid propriety. Their customs and traditions. When—if—they were introduced, she wasn’t going to fit in.
She, an American who hated bonnets and didn’t have the foggiest idea of which fork to use for dessert, would stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. Having already been rejected once, she didn’t know if she had it in her to face rejection again.
But there was always the chance, however slight, that she would be welcomed with open arms. Which was why she was attending the ball. To catch a glimpse of her half-brother from afar and see if he was someone whom she might get on with, as she had with Rosemary. Well, that, and if she didn’t go, Evie would murder her in her sleep.
Joanna hadn’t seen her sister this happy since they’d left Somerville. All she’d wanted this entire time was to go to a ball. And Joanna wasn’t going to be the one to deny her that small pleasure. Especially given how well Evie was handling everything.
To Joanna’s surprise—and relief—her sister hadn’t been jealous, or put out by the revelation that her sister had noble blood running through her veins. Quite the opposite. She was absolutely thrilled by the news, and saw this ball as the first of many.
But first, they needed gowns.
After walking for what felt like hours, they found a small, inconspicuous shop tucked away off the main thoroughfare. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but the windows were clean and someone had taken care to plant flowers along the edge of the short walkway. Joanna hoped it was a promising sign of what awaited them inside, for her legs were beginning to tire and her head felt heavy on her shoulders.
She wanted a bath, and a nap, and a glass of wine. Not necessarily in that order. But Evie was determined to find the perfect gown, and when she got that certain glint in her eyes, no one could dissuade her.
Especially not Joanna.
A cheerful bell announced their entrance. Almost at once, they were greeted by a short, plump woman with black hair streaked with gray and a kind smile.
“Bonjour,” she said, her voice warm and welcoming and undeniably French. “How can I be of assistance?”
“We have been invited to the Countess of Beresford’s ball,” Evie said with thinly veiled excitement. “And we are in need of the appropriate attire.”
The dressmaker blinked in confusion. “But is zee ball not tomorrow?”
“Exactly,” Evie said solemnly.
“We’ve hardly any money and little to trade.” As this was their seventh stop, Joanna saw no reason to beat around the bush. “But we would be appreciative of anything you might have that we could use. A dress that was returned, or didn’t fit, perhaps. We’re not picky.”
The dressmaker placed her hands on her rounded hips and sniffed. “Clients do not return dresses to Mademoiselle Claudette.”
Evie elbowed Joanna sharply in the ribs. “You’ve insulted her!” she hissed. “Clients do not return dresses to Mademoiselle Claudette.”
Joanna resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I heard her. I am standing right next to you.”
“Well, go stand over there,” she said, pointing across the tiny shop. “Let me handle this.”
With no desire to argue, Joanna did as she was told. Absently running her fingers along the edge of a wooden mannequin, she waited while Evie and Mademoiselle Claudette spoke in low, quick tones. There was an audible gasp, a torrent of French, and Joanna turned just in time to see the dressmaker clap both hands to her cheeks.
“I have zee perfect gowns for you and your sister!” she announced. “Zey were commissioned by the Earl of Tremont for his wife, but zey were meant for greater things.”
“I’m sorry,” Joanna began with a reproachful look at Evie, “but we don’t have that sort of money. I wish we did—”
“Tra la la,” Mademoiselle Claudette scoffed. “I should be zee one paying you! Do not move a muscle. I’ll be right back to take your measurements. If I work through zee night, the gowns shall be ready in time. You will be zee talk of zee ton!”
“What did you do?” Joanna demanded as soon as the dressmaker had disappeared behind a heavy velvet curtain. “We couldn’t buy a potato sack if we wanted, let alone dresses that are intended for a countess!”
Evie shrugged. “I simply told her who you are and promised to tell anyone who asks that our gowns were designed by Mademoiselle Claudette.”
“What do you mean, you told her who I am?” Joanna asked suspiciously. “Why would she care about a penniless American?”
“But you’re not a penniless American, are you?” Evie wandered over to a shelf stuffed with bolts of fabric and removed a small swatch of violet silk. “You’re the daughter of the Marquess of Dorchester.”
Joanna paled. “You didn’t tell that to the dressmaker, did you?”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s the truth.” Evie held the silk to her face. “Does this pair with my complexion, or wash me out?”
“Evelyn.”
“Oh, don’t be upset with me. We needed the gowns, and we weren’t about to be given them by asking nicely. We’ve lost so much, Jo. Our parents. Our home. Mother’s ring.” Lowering the fabric, Evie gave it a fond pat before she returned it to the shelf. “Maybe this is the world’s way of repaying us. Of giving us something back after all that we’ve gone through. That you’ve gone through.”
Her sister did have a point.
They had been through a lot. More than Joanna would ever wish upon anyone else. Surely two dresses and a ball weren’t too much to ask for in return. Still, she felt a flicker of discomfort at using her father—a father she’d never met—as currency.
“Just…do not do it again, all right?” she said.
“Fine,” Evie sighed.
Mademoiselle Claudette returned, armed with a cloth measuring tape draped around her neck and a dozen pins held between her lips. One at a time, she ordered the sisters onto a wooden dais where she measured, poked, and prodded until Joanna was on the verge of leaping into the first rowboat she could find and paddling back to America. At long last, the dressmaker nodded in satisfaction and tucked her measuring tape between her breasts.
“Zee gowns will be ready tomorrow. Come in zee morning for a final fitting.”
“Another one?” Joanna groaned.
“We cannot wait,” Evie beamed as she put on her hat and knotted the strings beneath her chin. “Thank you, Mademoiselle. What an honor to be dressed by the finest modiste in all of London.”
“Thank you,” Claudette replied as she led them to the door and waved farewell.
Chapter Twenty-One
“You look like shite,” Sterling commented as Kincaid climbed into the duke’s carriage. With a crack of the whip and a slap of the reins, the glossy black town coach lurched forward, headed for Beresford Manor in the middle of Grosvenor Square.
“This is your tailcoat,” Kincaid reminded his so-called friend as he tugged at his sleeve.
“Aye, and you look like shite in it.”
“Sod off.” While he was not lacking for clothing, Kincaid did not have the formal attire required of such a prestigious event as the Countess of Beresford’s ball. Sterling had sent his tailor over in the later afternoon to dress him accordingly. The si
zes of the two men were similar enough that only a few lines had needed to be adjusted. When the tailor was finished, Kincaid had glanced at himself in the mirror and was startled to see a nabob staring back.
He hated that his first thought had been of Joanna. Of what she would think of his appearance, and if she would prefer his regular attire to being trussed up like a damned penguin. He hated it not because he didn’t want to think about her.
But because he did not deserve to.
After the way he’d ended things between them…after the hurt he’d seen in those beautiful, blue eyes…he didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as she did.
Joanna had given him her heart to care for.
And he’d returned it to her in pieces.
Just as Lavinia had done to him.
In the carriage’s inky interior, Sterling’s teeth flashed white. “Had a row with your American, did you? Either that, or one of those flea-infested felines you insist on keeping in your house died.”
The duke’s abhorrence for any animal smaller than a horse was well known. Normally, Kincaid found his friend’s aversion amusing if only because he knew the real reason Sterling despised cute, fluffy creatures. When he was a child, Sterling had been bitten by his mother’s terrier in a very…sensitive area. Since then, he had developed an innate distrust for any tiny creature with teeth.
But this time, Kincaid didn’t chuckle.
He didn’t even crack a smile.
“My cats are well, and Miss Thorncroft and I did not have a row.” He stared out the window. “I chose to end our…partnership.”
“Why the devil would you do that?” Sterling asked.
“If tonight goes according to plan, Miss Thorncroft’s ring will be in my possession by the end of the evening and both she and her sister can depart on the next ship bound for Boston.”
Little more than a week ago, those very words had brought him a sense of relief.
Find the ring, give it to Joanna, and send her back to where she’d come from.
But tonight, he felt nothing but despair…and doubt.
“That’s the bloodiest stupid idea I’ve ever heard,” Sterling said with a snort. “Should I tell you why?”
Bewitched by the Bluestocking Page 26