And she, of all people, knew the results of such heedless dreaming. She knew the trouble imagination could create. She’d taken that pillow, the one with his scent, and thrown it as far as she could from the bed.
Such precipitous behavior hadn’t helped, but she felt better for it nonetheless.
“Miss Fairchild, it’s time to go to the ballroom.” Jill held the door for her. “But you haven’t been out of your chamber since you arrived, and I fear you will get lost. Would you like me to walk you down?”
Jill tactfully hinted that she’d noticed Mary’s anxiety. Jill thought it was shyness; Mary knew it was the lingering fear of being identified.
Ten years ago she’d been a governess, protected by the cloak of anonymity that covered all servants. Unfortunately, silly Guinevere Fairchild had been young, beautiful, impetuous, and by her behavior had called attention to herself. If one person recognized her as the governess who had fled after the earl of Besseborough’s murder…She shook herself. Such imaginings were futile. If someone recognized her, then she would deny it. Or better still, laugh it off. Or dare her accuser to prove it. Or crumple…No.
Housekeepers do not crumple in the face of adversity.
Nor did heiresses. “I’ll go myself. If I lose my way, I will certainly ask one of the servants or the other guests for directions.”
“Aye, Miss Fairchild.” Jill smiled at her, her eyes agleam. “I’ll be waiting up for you when you come back, and you can tell me how you’re the belle of the ball.”
“I’m sure I will be,” Mary said austerely. “After all, how many other heiresses will be attending?”
She sailed into the corridor, but she heard Jill’s protestation anyway.
“ ’Twill not be the money that’ll first turn their heads, Miss Fairchild, but the sight of those bosoms—if you’d be wise enough to let the gentlemen see!”
Mary walked slowly in the direction of the formal chambers, not knowing whether to hope she met someone or hope she didn’t, and when a door opened beside her, she wished she could blend into the woodwork.
Uncle Calvin stepped out into the passageway. He held his wig in his hand, and uneven fluffs of hair stuck out in all directions on his head. His waistcoat was buttoned crookedly, his cosmetics were smeared, and Mary guessed by his girth he’d lost his corset.
He didn’t seem aware of her. From the dazed expression on his face, she wasn’t sure he was aware of anything. He stared into the darkened chamber behind him and in a trembling voice said, “My dear, that was a transfiguring experience. Might I assume we will repeat it soon?”
Mary pressed herself against the wall.
A woman’s voice called from within. “You are assuming we were both transfigured, Calvin.”
“B-but…” Calvin stammered.
“If you’re good and make yourself pleasant to my godson, then perhaps I’ll dance with you tonight.”
Mary recognized the voice, but she could scarcely credit it, and she didn’t know whether to be shocked or amused.
“Do you promise?” Calvin begged.
A plump, bejeweled hand came out of the darkness and pushed him by his shoulder. “I make no promises. I told you that last night. Now, be a good boy and go back where you came from. I must get ready for the ball.”
The door snapped shut, leaving Calvin staring helplessly at the painted panels, and Mary staring in amazement at Calvin. With the air of a man who had wrestled with fate and lost, he trudged down the hallway.
Mary followed at a discreet distance, pondering what devious plan Lady Valéry had hatched. The news that Lady Valéry had virtually controlled the English government for years had come both as a surprise and a confirmation. Seeing Calvin in his turmoil only gave credence to Mary’s suspicion. Lady Valéry would try to recover the diary on her own. Working without Sebastian’s consent, she had begun to test the suspects.
Mary wanted to help; no one desired the return of that diary more urgently than she. Every day she remained here on display was a day she might be identified. But Lady Valéry’s involvement filled her with unease. Obviously Lady Valéry felt no compunction in bedding the enemy, and she’d watched Mary and Sebastian react to each other with something that looked like delight. So would she think twice about manipulating Mary and Sebastian into a similar situation? Mary didn’t think so, and swore to watch not only her enemies, but her patroness.
With grim determination Mary walked toward the ballroom, and the farther she walked, the more people she met, until she felt like a raindrop that had merged with the stream. A rather unimportant raindrop, at that.
Slipping into the ballroom, she almost trod on the train of a lady wearing hoops. Had she created a social disaster for herself by listening to Jill’s fashion advice?
Then she looked around her, and fashion no longer mattered.
The chamber had been transformed into a fairyland. The entire room was draped in midnight blue silk. The delicate material fluttered in the breeze from the open doorways, moving sinuously and catching the light. Golden ornaments hung from the ceiling like stars in the night sky, and the brilliance of a thousand candles created magic. Behind the polished expanse of dance floor, an orchestra played a romantic piece by Thomas Linley.
Smiling, lost in luxury, Mary stared. She hadn’t allowed herself dreams of this, her unofficial debut, but if she had, she couldn’t have imagined anything so grand.
The brilliantly clad nobles didn’t speak to her. Instead, they looked at her. They observed her unpowdered hair and her informal petticoats and they leaned close to sniff her perfume. The men smiled insolently, and the powder-wigged women commented on her innovative dressing in tones that revealed their conviction that if they didn’t know her, she must be a nobody.
And she wasn’t, of course. She was only a governess-turned-housekeeper, with a brief stint as murderess in between.
But as she went forward, she took the time to examine the faces that examined her. She recognized none of them, and none appeared to recognize her.
“Here’s our new heiress.” Bubb’s voice boomed over the buzz of many voices. “Mary! Come and stand with us as we greet our guests. You are our honored Fairchild, you know.”
The Fairchilds stood in a row. As the marquess of Smithwick, Bubb was at the head, his blond handsomeness drawing the eye. Beside him, Nora appeared slight and insignificant, although she was clothed in a shimmery pink silk. The uncles were next in line—except the drained Calvin—and the daughters. Each man and woman was dressed in the finest of materials. None of the Fairchilds, nor their servants nor their home, showed the least sign of poverty. Mary wondered if they were truly on the brink of ruin, and even more whether any of them even understood the concept encapsulated in the word economy.
“Gracious, didn’t anyone tell you, you must wear formal court wear for evening occasions?” Daisy snapped. “You look silly with your natural hair hanging loose.”
“I think she looks magnificent.” Drusilla shut her eyes and screwed up her mouth like a child about to throw a tantrum. “It’s not fair.”
“You must have spied out our design, you naughty girl.” Lilith smiled with sickly enthusiasm.
And Mary understood at last why Jill had insisted she wear white and gold.
Lilith wore azure. Wilda wore glimmering silver. The twins, who were too young to be there at all, wore matching gowns of saffron, and Daisy was splendid in cloth of gold. Each gown glittered like one of the ornamental stars, but no one shone more brightly against the cobalt setting than Mary.
“You really should discard that scarf.” Radella pulled her skirt aside as Mary passed her. “Modesty is for peasants.”
If Radella thought that, Mary knew she was right to conceal herself, and she pulled the tie tighter.
“I think you look pretty,” Wilda said timidly.
Mary gave her a grateful glance.
“Stand next to me.” Nora held out her hand. “We’ll introduce you to the ton in a manner appropr
iate to the Fairchild heiress.”
Mary moved to the place between Nora and Uncle Leslie, wondering all the time if Lilith and Daisy and Drusilla and Radella hid daggers somewhere on their tight-laced, ruffled persons. She saw the venomous gaze Leslie cast toward her, and she knew herself surrounded. With the possible exception of Bubb and Nora, none of the Fairchilds wanted her here.
If only they realized how little she wished to be here.
Bubb introduced her to the guests already in line, and Nora expressed her joy at having recovered their dear niece and heiress. As each guest moved on and another took his place, Mary smiled until her jaw ached. The noise in the ballroom rose as the tale was repeated time and again.
Nora lifted her fan and spoke to Mary from behind it. “Look, at the back of the line, it’s the earl of Shaw and his son. The son is unmarried and in hopes of making a good match.”
Mary looked at the pimple-faced boy. “I must be ten years older than he is.”
“No more than eight.” Nora sounded matter-of-fact. “But you’re an heiress, and a beauty at that. That’s a rarity which can’t be ignored.”
With a mounting sense of relief, Mary said, “I’m betrothed.”
Bubb had apparently been listening, for he ignored the viscount whose hand he shook and leaned behind Nora. “Your fiancé hasn’t arrived yet, Mary. Perhaps he’s feeling a little embarrassed about exhibiting that black eye you gave him.”
Mary groaned softly. “I gave him a black eye?”
“It’s not the eye so much as his cheek.” Nora’s smile was more than a little implacable. “Are you less fond of him than you’d led us to believe?”
This interrogation was exactly the sort of conversation Mary had feared. She hadn’t told falsehoods for the last ten years. She didn’t think quickly when challenged. She’d been dreading the confrontation with Sebastian tonight; now she wanted him. “Not at all. I simply believe it is necessary to teach a man respect early.” She smiled at the snubbed viscount with extra charm to make up for her relatives’ rudeness.
The viscount smiled back, delighted, and asked, “May I be so bold as to beg a dance later, Miss Fairchild?”
Nora interceded before Mary could answer. “She’s not accepting invitations yet, Lord Thistlethwaite. Give the other gentlemen a chance.”
Leslie forcibly moved him with a hand on his arm. As the Fairchild daughters closed around the precipitous suitor, Leslie snapped at Mary, “Lord Thistlethwaite is unsuitable and a fortune hunter. Try to remember you are a Fairchild, and save your smiles for more appropriate mates.”
Vicious bully. She turned on Leslie fully, looked up into his gorgeous Fairchild eyes, and said, “I behave decorously for my station at all times.”
“Your station? Your station?” Leslie sputtered. “How would you know the correct way for an heiress to behave?”
“Lady Valéry taught me well. Perhaps you could go to her for guidance.”
“Go to…go to…a woman for guidance?” Like a capon waiting to be butchered and dressed, Leslie gobbled and shook his head until the flaps of skin beneath his ample chin jiggled. “I’ll have you know I have never asked guidance of a woman.”
“Ah, that’s why you are wearing such old-fashioned breeches.” Mary delivered the insult coolly, depending on her sharp tongue and her poise to give it the proper bite.
While Leslie squinted self-consciously down at his clothing, she greeted the earl of Shaw with his son. When the son begged a dance, she said, “This is my debut, and Lady Fairchild won’t let me accept invitations yet. She says we must let the other gentlemen have a chance.”
And what could Nora say? She smiled and murmured agreement, and Mary experienced the beginnings of triumph. Maybe she could be more than just prey in this den of Fairchild wolves.
If only Sebastian were here to share the moment with her.
She allowed her gaze to search the ballroom, but she saw no Sebastian among the crowd. How could he abandon her at this crucial moment? Unless…while everyone was dancing, he planned to search for the diary.
Mary wondered at her own inconsistency. She wanted to leave this place, yet wanted the dark, brooding, bruised man who would make leaving possible to remain at her side. Perhaps the upsets of her trip and her arrival had unsettled her mind. She preferred that explanation to the other—that she craved Sebastian and his kisses.
“Look, dear.” Nora sounded poised and pleased. “Here’s someone you must reward with a dance. Here’s Ian.”
Mary brought her attention back to the business at hand. Ian was dark and brooding, and undoubtedly bruised within, but he wasn’t the man she sought.
“Little cousin, every time I see you, you are yet more beautiful.”
The giddy excitement of her debut returned full force under Ian’s appreciative gaze. Mary knew he was safe; she knew he wouldn’t laugh at her enthusiasm. She twirled around. “It is a lovely dress, isn’t it?”
“I would say it was the woman within the dress.”
“The woman within the dress was always there,” Mary said tartly. Giddy excitement could not destroy the sensible housekeeper within her. “Nobody noticed before.”
“That’s because I wasn’t with you,” Ian returned.
She focused on him fully. “You are so nice!” she said, and she meant it genuinely. He understood her discomfort in this unfamiliar situation, and he sought to put her at ease.
He stared at her as if her compliment took him aback, then his customary cynical mask fell into place. “Men do not wish to be known as nice. Dashing, handsome, witty, attractive—but never nice.”
“I will remember,” she said, then leaned forward and whispered, “But I’ll still think you’re nice.”
“Mary has met almost everyone,” Bubb interposed. “Ian, escort her onto the dance floor.”
She hadn’t met almost everyone, of course, but she understood what Bubb meant. She’d met everyone who mattered, and if someone of consequence came in late, Bubb or Nora would make sure she was introduced.
As Ian slipped his arm around her waist and led her into the throng, she confided, “It feels good to be away from our relatives, does it not? I very seldom think of myself as extraordinarily kind or virtuous, but here, you and I are veritable saints!”
Ian was silent for so long, embarrassment crept up on her.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said. “You probably find it difficult to live with them without experiencing some affection for them. I won’t speak ill of them again.”
“Affection?” Ian said. “I assure you, it is quite possible to live with them without experiencing affection. I’m just surprised you don’t group me in with…them.”
“You?” She laughed up at him. “You gave me money, remember? You told me to get away from Fairchild Manor, that I was lucky to be rejected. I’ve lived to appreciate your advice.”
He seemed to be struggling within himself, but before he could reply, a man’s hearty voice interrupted. “Ian, old man, you’ve brought us the beauteous Miss Fairchild. Thank you, and begone!”
She stared at the laughing intruder and placed him at once. She’d met him while in the receiving line; he was the Viscount Dyne, a single man of probably forty years who had done his best to ingratiate himself with her.
“Begone, begone, Miss Fairchild wishes to dance with me,” he said emphatically.
“I think not.” Ian kept his arm around her. “She is my cousin. I have first right.”
“First right?” Another male voice spoke from behind. “A cousin has no right at all. Nor do you, Dyne—now, get you gone. Miss Fairchild already adores me.”
She turned and saw the earl of Aggass, younger than Dyne. His frock coat sported the longest tails, his waistcoat the most extravagant embroidery, but his face was heavily pocked and he attempted to disguise it with an excess of white powder and a variety of patches. More irritating was his air of supreme confidence that Mary called conceit.
“Miss Fai
rchild wishes to spend time with none of you.” Mr. Mouatt appeared and straightened the ruffles on his shirt. “It is me she loves.”
“Actually, gentlemen, I love none of you.” Mary spoke with the authority of a housekeeper quelling an incipient quarrel among her underlings. The men’s faces reflected astonishment, so she followed her initial advantage with a word of warning. “I love not the quarrels of babes or popinjays, either, so should you wish to please me, you must behave in a courteous manner.”
The men fell back and glanced among themselves while Ian smothered a grin.
Then another voice, smooth, amused, and pleasant, said, “Have you been making fools of yourselves, lads? Let Mr. Brindley show you how it’s done.”
A tall, well-made gentleman of perhaps fifty moved forward and bowed to Mary. “Miss Fairchild, I have adored you from afar this past hour. Would you do me the honor of granting me the first dance?”
She didn’t recognize this man or his name; he was probably one of the many gentlemen her aunt and uncle considered unsuitable. That made him all the more attractive to her.
“I would love to dance with you, sir,” she replied. “But I have not danced for years, and I fear I would step on your feet.”
Taking her hand, he stroked it between his own large palms. “To have such a lovely young woman facing me across a dance floor, it would be worth any amount of crushed toes.”
She couldn’t help it; she smiled up at him. His aging skin crinkled with each passing expression. He seemed strong as a coal shoveler, and his broad shoulders had not yet begun to stoop. He dressed in clothes that had been in style twenty years ago, and his powdered wig was horsehair at best, but his charm easily overcame all disadvantages. As she walked onto the dance floor, her erstwhile suitors watched glumly.
“I’m Mr. Everett Brindley, my dear, and I was reckoned quite a dancer in my youth. There is none better to guide you through this first minuet.” He placed her in the line with the other ladies, then as the music began, moved to take his place among the men. “I’m also a merchant, and not a proper suitor for one so noble and enchanting, so I will promise not to woo you if you promise not to fall in love with me.”
A Well Pleasured Lady Page 11