by Anna Bennett
“I miss you,” he growled. “Come to my room tonight.”
“I will try. But for now, I shall leave you with this token of my affection.” She pulled his head down and took his mouth in a molten kiss—primal, demanding, and full of promise.
It was all he could do not to drag her into the nearest room, lift her skirts, and bury himself in her till they both were drunk with pleasure … but since her father was expected any moment, he refrained.
When he could speak, he cupped her cheek and brushed a thumb over her lips. “That was an excellent token. Much better than a starched handkerchief or a silk ribbon.”
“Something to remember me by.” She pulled away slowly. Seductively. “Until tonight.”
“Until tonight,” he repeated, wondering how in God’s name he’d gotten so damned lucky.
* * *
When Fiona walked into the ballroom a half hour later, the sight of it nearly took her breath away, for it seemed as though the outdoors had been brought inside and the once-plain rectangular room had been transformed into a fairy garden.
Greenery adorned all four walls. Leafy boughs, creeping vines, and colorful blossoms wound around windows and doorways, creating a lush, fragrant cocoon. Gold and silver ribbons tied the trimmings together and lent a delightful shimmer everywhere one looked.
It was unique and tasteful and gorgeous—a reflection of the young woman who’d designed it. “Soph!” Fiona cried. “This is amazing. Even for you.” Her friend had always had a talent for harnessing nature’s beauty and making plants do her bidding. Somehow, she’d used common flora from the Fortress’s grounds and garden—perhaps even weeds—to create a dreamlike setting.
Sophie pushed a wisp of blond hair behind her ear, crossed her arms, and turned slowly in the center of the room, surveying her work. “We couldn’t have managed it without the drawings you provided. It did turn out rather well.”
“Rather well?” Lily snorted. “It’s a masterpiece! The countess will swoon when she sees what you’ve done.”
“She’s been so gracious to all of us,” Sophie said. “I hope she likes it.”
Fiona wrapped an arm around her friend’s slender shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “She’ll love it. Have you two left anything for me to do, or am I entirely superfluous?”
“The servants have already set out all the candles and trimmed the wicks. They’re hanging lanterns out on the terrace now in hopes that the clouds will part and the rain will hold off. All that remains to be done is for us to dress and do our hair.”
“That’s Soph’s kind way of saying you’re entirely superfluous,” Lily teased. “Why don’t you go upstairs and rest for a bit? I’ve a feeling tonight’s ball could be especially momentous for you.”
Fiona stooped and picked a few leftover boughs off the floor, careful to avoid Lily’s knowing gaze. “Why would you say that?”
“No reason,” her sister replied, all innocence. “Except that the earl is obviously smitten, as are you, and since the ball is the culmination of his house party, it would be the perfect time to—”
“You know,” Fiona interrupted, “I think you’re right. A short nap would be just the thing. I’ll take these outside and meet you both upstairs in time to dress before dinner.”
Lily chuckled. “I can’t wait to see you in your gown. You’re going to be the princess of the ball.”
Chapter 27
On Falling in Love
I once thought romantic love required poetry, dancing, flowers, and gifts. I naïvely believed Miss Haywinkle when she said that the depth of a gentleman’s feelings could be measured by the number of times he calls on a lady or asks her to waltz or joins her for chaperoned walks in the park.
But sometimes love is measured in altogether different ways—like shared secrets and understanding smiles and reassuring touches. The kind that happen spontaneously on a sultry summer day while you’re floating down the river in a rowboat.
And after such a day, you somehow know deep in your heart that you’ll never be quite the same again.
A few hours later as Fiona stared at her reflection in the small mirror propped on the desk in her bedchamber, she did feel like a princess. Her turquoise gown was the prettiest she owned, and Mary had coaxed her wavy tresses into a fetching bouquet of curls that cascaded down her nape.
“You look beautiful, Fi.” Lily rested her elfish chin on Fiona’s shoulder and met her gaze in the looking glass. “Lord Ravenport will find himself completely under your spell—if he isn’t already.”
“You look lovely, too,” Fiona said. The two faces staring back at her were so very different—from the shades of their skin to the colors of their eyes to the shapes of their mouths. And yet the impish, slightly conspiratorial expressions on both faces were striking similar, leaving no doubt that they were sisters in the truest sense of the word. “I think I shall have to sketch us one day—just like this.”
“Please do,” Lily said with a grin. “I don’t think my hair has ever looked quite this good, and I doubt it shall ever again.”
Behind them, the bedchamber door burst open, and the pair spun around to find Mama bustling into the room. Mary trailed behind her, one hairpin clamped between her lips and another in her hand as she valiantly attempted to tame an unruly lock of Mama’s hair into submission.
“That will do,” Mama snapped at the maid before drawing a long breath and facing her stepdaughters. Against her bosom she clutched a small wooden chest with roses carved on the sides.
“You look rather flushed, Mama,” Fiona said. “Are you feeling well?”
“Quite.” But her stepmother’s hands trembled as she rotated the box and presented it to Fiona, who stood and took the chest.
“What’s this?”
“Open it. You’ll see.” When Fiona hesitated, Mama sighed impatiently. “Go on.”
Swallowing, Fiona lifted the hinged lid and peered inside. Nestled on a bed of black velvet, a necklace of diamond-encrusted sapphires sparkled, brilliant as moonlight on a turbulent sea.
Stunning.
Breathtaking.
And painfully familiar.
Lily gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth, while unbidden tears sprang to Fiona’s eyes. “Our mother’s necklace.”
“To be precise, your mother’s necklace,” Mama corrected.
Fiona shook her head firmly and met Lily’s troubled gaze. “She was our mother,” Fiona repeated. To Lily she said, “Never doubt it.”
“It’s the necklace she’s wearing in our portrait,” Lily said with a sniffle. She referred to the painting that Papa had commissioned only months before their mother took ill—the one that hung in their drawing room at home. Fiona and Lily had seen it almost every day of their lives for the last decade or so, and it was the strongest physical connection they had to her.
In the painting, their mother reclined on a chaise while Fiona and Lily, each dressed in a lacey white frock, perched on tufted stools in front of her.
Lily could still recall the hours they’d posed for the artist. He must have asked their mother a dozen times to look at him instead of her daughters before giving up and painting what he must have seen before him: the loving, affectionate, and proud gaze of a mother who was utterly devoted to her daughters—both of them.
“Was she wearing the necklace in that portrait?” Mama asked coolly. “I confess I hadn’t noticed. You’ll find a pair of matching earrings in the box as well.”
Fiona placed the chest on the desk and carefully withdrew the necklace, surprised at its weight. The gold felt warm against her palm, and the gems seemed to glow from within.
The last time she’d seen the necklace in person, it had graced her mother’s neck. After she died, Fiona assumed her father stowed the jewels away, someplace safe. Someplace where he wouldn’t have to see the vivid blue of the sapphires, which seemed to perfectly match the color of his beloved’s eyes.
Lily reached into the chest, withdrew the ea
rrings, and held them by the candle, where light danced off the dangling sapphires. “I’d wondered where these were but never asked Papa for fear of making him sad.”
Mama cleared her throat. “Yes. Well, your father entrusted the jewels to me, asking that I give them to you when the time seemed right. Now that Fiona has captured the attention of an earl, I believe she’s won the right to wear them.”
Fiona tamped down a wave of anger. “Our mother’s jewels aren’t a prize to be won. They’re one of our last connections to her. That’s the reason we shall cherish them.”
Mama blinked. “I had expected you to show a bit more gratitude and grace, Fiona. These sorts of unseemly outbursts are precisely why you are not yet wed. I suggest you wear the necklace and earrings tonight—they may help you outshine any competition for the earl’s affections.”
Fiona simultaneously bit her tongue and prayed for patience. Arguing with Mama was futile, and this evening was too important to spoil with squabbling. Besides, she and Lily now had a treasured piece of their mother that they could hold close to their hearts.
“I shall wear the necklace tonight,” Fiona said. “Lily, you must wear the earrings.”
“No,” Lily demurred. “You should wear them, too. They’re meant to be a set.”
“You and I are meant to be a set,” Fiona said, matter-of-fact. “Put on the earrings, and then you may help me with this necklace clasp.”
Mama threw up her hands. “Suit yourselves. Your father recently arrived and is dressing for dinner now. We shall see you in the drawing room in a quarter of an hour—don’t be late.”
A short time later, as Fiona and the other house party guests seated themselves around the dinner table, she fingered the stones at her throat, hoping that they’d give her the courage to face whatever challenges the night might hold.
Papa, who was seated on Fiona’s left, patted her hand and told her how much he’d missed her and Lily during the past week. Though he’d arrived at the Fortress later than expected, he’d come, just as he’d said he would. And unlike Mama, he didn’t bat an eye at the shabby condition of the house. Accustomed to productive mills and functional offices, he valued efficiency above all else. Creaky floorboards and threadbare curtains were hardly cause for dismay, thank goodness—because the Fortress had flaws aplenty.
Gray sat at the head of the table, breathtakingly handsome in a midnight blue jacket and azure waistcoat. He played the part of amiable host to perfection, making cordial conversation with his grandmother and all the guests, but throughout the meal his gaze never strayed far from Fiona.
Everything about the evening would have been perfect—if one of the men sitting at the table wasn’t trying to blackmail her. She would not rest easy until the threat to Lily was eliminated. And now she was a bit closer to determining who the villain might be.
She’d managed to return to the drawing room with the blackmail note that afternoon and confirmed that the handwriting matched that on the guest list. Which meant that the scoundrel could only be Lord Pentham, Lord Carter, or Mr. Kirby.
Across the table, Lord Pentham listened raptly as Lily recounted the details of the archery contest for Papa’s benefit, laughing at her embellishments. Mr. Kirby complimented Mama’s violet ball gown, thus earning her eternal devotion. Lord Carter and Mr. Kirby’s father, Lord Dunlope, were embroiled in a passionate discussion about the most superior breeds of racehorses.
None of the three younger men looked the part of the villain—there wasn’t a greasy mustache, paunch belly, or sinister glare among them. These were gentlemen she’d played charades with; gentlemen she’d shared stories with. And yet one of them had ruthlessly uncovered the salacious truth about Lily’s birth mother—and had sunk to wielding that information like a weapon.
Fortunately, the blackmailer couldn’t know what Fiona had discovered, so she planned to use the few remaining hours of the house party to her advantage.
Shortly after the dessert course, Gray quietly addressed Papa. “Mr. Hartley, I wondered if we might have a word in my study before the ball begins?”
Papa turned to Fiona with a hopeful, questioning glance, and she shot him a reassuring smile. He sat up a little taller as he replied, “Certainly, Ravenport.”
Her chest squeezed at the sight of the two men—both at the center of her world—walking out of the dining room, shoulder to shoulder. The rest of the guests, including the gentlemen, went through to the drawing room, giving Fiona the opportunity she was hoping for.
She withdrew a small stack of note cards from her reticule and approached Sophie and Lord Carter, who were admiring a large landscape painting beside the pianoforte. “It’s a lovely garden,” Soph was saying. “Perfect proportions, beautiful colors, and interesting focal points.”
“Perhaps,” Fiona said smoothly, “but rather ordinary compared to the gardens you’ve designed.”
Lord Carter arched a dark brow. “I’m impressed.”
“Wait till you see the ballroom,” Fiona said. “Forgive me for interrupting, but I’ve a favor to ask, and I hope you’ll indulge me.” She looked over her shoulder, making sure the countess wasn’t within earshot.
“Of course,” Sophie replied. “Anything you need.”
Fiona explained, hoping her voice didn’t betray her nervousness. “I have a sketch of the estate I plan to give Lady Ravenport—as a small token of thanks for hosting us this week. She’s made no secret of the fact that she adores the company of young people and the earl’s friends in particular, so I thought it might be nice if each of the guests wrote her a brief note. I’ll collect them all to include with the framed sketch when I give it to her.”
Sophie clasped her hands. “What a thoughtful idea! I’d be happy to pen a note to the countess.”
“As would I.” If Lord Carter found the request suspicious, he gave no indication of it.
“Thank you. I knew I could count on you.” Fiona handed each of them a small card. “I apologize for the short notice, but if you could return the card to me before we leave tomorrow, I’d be much obliged. You needn’t write more than a line or two.” She wished she could add and it would be ever so helpful if you could include a lowercase f somewhere in there, but she was already pressing her luck. She simply had to trust that some distinguishing trait in the handwriting samples would provide evidence of a match.
“I shall compose something tonight,” Sophie promised.
Lord Carter tucked the card in his breast pocket and patted it. “I shall return this to you at breakfast tomorrow.” In a conspiratorial whisper he added, “Provided I’m not too hungover to remember.”
Sophie smiled serenely. “Then perhaps you should see to the task tonight.”
“If I do, will you dance with me?”
Sophie tilted her head, thoughtful. “Yes.”
Fiona laughed and squeezed her friend’s shoulders. “Thanks, Soph.” For her sake, Fiona sincerely hoped Lord Carter wasn’t the scoundrel behind the blackmail letters.
She scanned the drawing room and spotted Lord Pentham on the settee, conversing with Lily as she poured tea. Fiona glided over, handed each of them a card, and quietly repeated her request for notes addressed to the countess.
“Happy to oblige,” said the marquess. “And if I don’t have the chance to write it before departing tomorrow, I’ll simply have my secretary send it over to you once we’re back in town.”
“No,” Fiona blurted. She couldn’t wait that long. Besides, she needed to be certain the handwriting was Lord Pentham’s—and not his secretary’s. “I’d prefer to collect the cards here, if possible.”
Lily shrugged. “What’s the difference?”
“Well,” Fiona improvised, “the notes will likely be more heartfelt and meaningful if they’re written now—before the memories of this week have had the chance to fade.”
“That’s very sentimental of you,” Lily said, vaguely suspicious.
“It makes perfect sense to me.” Pentham made a poli
te bow. “Consider it done, Miss Hartley.”
“Thank you.” Fiona exhaled in relief and furtively waved the remaining cards. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to press a few others into service.”
But the only person she truly needed to speak with was Mr. Kirby. He stood alone at the sideboard pouring himself a brandy, and though it was an excellent time to approach him, Fiona’s feet felt like they were made of stone.
Summoning all her courage, she pasted on a smile and walked over. “Good evening, Mr. Kirby. I wondered if I might—”
“Ah, Miss Hartley,” he said cordially, setting down the decanter. “I’m glad for a moment to speak with you privately.”
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “Indeed?”
“I wanted to reiterate my offer to assist you in any way I can with the difficult issue you’re facing.” He took a step toward her and lowered his voice. “The one that I recently learned of through the note.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I—”
“Please know that while I am not privy to all the facts, I understand that this is an intensely personal and delicate situation. If you were to accept my help, I would employ the utmost discretion.”
“Thank you, but I believe I have the matter well in hand.”
“Do you?” Mr. Kirby scratched the side of his head, thoughtful. “I don’t mean to pry, and I certainly don’t wish to frighten you, but blackmail is a nasty business, rife with danger. I don’t like it.”
Fiona’s hands turned clammy. Mr. Kirby seemed so sincere and concerned. In return, she was treating him like a suspect. “I don’t like it either,” she confessed. But at least she now had Gray on her side. She opened her mouth to tell Mr. Kirby he needn’t worry on her account, but he spoke first.
“What sort of cad would have the gall to demand that a proper young lady skulk through the park in the middle of the night and leave money in a tree? It boils my blood.”
“I plan to take precautions.” But even as Fiona spoke the words, an alarm sounded in her head. Because the blackmail letter that Mr. Kirby had found made no mention of a late-night rendezvous. Or a park. Or a hollowed-out tree.