“No,” David said. “If you do that, someone will question why. As it is, no names are named—there’s been no harm to your reputation. It’s infuriating, perhaps, but no scandal will come of it.”
“No harm!” Lady Nettringham gasped. “There is a spy in the midst of the Ton, and she has used us to pad the pages of her novels!”
“But no one knows it’s us,” David said.
With an impotent sound of rage, Lady Nettringham stamped her foot. “But I know,” she said. “I know, and I don’t appreciate being made a fool of.”
Neither did David, though he had not so much to lose as did Lady Nettringham. Most assuredly he objected to some sneak of a novelist invading his privacy in the service of peddling her books. He took utter exception to being used in such a manner. Fury prickled along his spine, and his fingers crushed the paper in his hands.
“Pray don’t concern yourself, my lady,” he said. “I will handle Rebecca Waring. She’s chosen the absolute worst possible target, and you may rest assured that she’ll pay for it.”
∞∞∞
“Girls,” Lady Winifred chided, pursing her lips into a flat line of disapproval as she stared down her long nose at Victoria, who had been whispering to Isobel all throughout dinner. “Need I remind you that such behavior is uncouth? One does not gossip at the dinner table.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Winifred,” Victoria said. “But it’s not gossip at all.”
Lady Winifred cleared her throat, her stony eyes narrowing. “Anything whispered beneath one’s breath and not offered to the rest of your dining companions is indeed gossip,” she said.
Isobel sniffed. “But you said one ought only speak to ones nearest neighbors during dinner, and Victoria is seated beside me.”
“During a formal dinner party, yes,” Lady Winifred allowed. “But dining informally is another matter.”
Poppy barely suppressed a sigh, pushing her carrots around her plate with the tines of her fork. Even informal dinners with Lady Winifred took on a frosty degree of formality, and she found herself aligning more with her sisters than with Lady Winifred, although she knew she ought to be offering support of the older woman’s attempts to rein the girls in.
Victoria tossed her artfully arranged golden curls. “I was only telling Isobel that Poppy seemed rather taken with Lord Westwood.”
Poppy’s knife screeched across her china plate, producing a shrill sound that set her teeth on edge. “Victoria—”
“You were staring at him, Poppy,” Victoria chided, flashing an impish grin.
“I think it’s lovely that you’ve taken an interest in the Season at last,” Isobel said. “You oughtn’t be sitting with the chaperones and dowagers when you could just as easily find a husband of your own.”
“I don’t want a husband of my own,” Poppy ground out, excruciatingly aware of Lady Winifred’s assessing stare.
“Then why were you staring at his lordship?” Victoria inquired, the flagrant innocence of her voice belied by the victorious smile that lingered on her lips.
Isobel, too romantic and given to flights of fancy by half, let out a sigh. “I think it’s terribly romantic—unrequited love! You must have seen him from across the ballroom and instantly fallen hopelessly in love.”
Lady Winifred scowled at Poppy. “This is what comes of allowing young ladies to pollute their minds with those wretched novels,” she chided.
For once, Poppy was inclined to agree. “I was not staring at his lordship,” she lied. “And I am not hopelessly in love with the man.” That, at least, was true. “I don’t even know him.”
“But you could know him,” Victoria insisted. “The Duchess of Rushton’s ball is tomorrow night. He’ll surely be in attendance. And the duchess is very kind; I’m sure she’d arrange an introduction.” When Poppy responded with nothing further than a blank stare, Victoria continued, “The duchess is his lordship’s sister. Honestly, Poppy, haven’t you been paying the least bit of attention all Season?”
Of course she hadn’t—there had been no time, and all of her concentration had been employed in attempting to keep them out of the poor house. Not that she would have shared such concerns with the girls. They oughtn’t have to worry about such things, not at their ages, with their limited resources. What could they have done?
“I don’t require an introduction,” Poppy said. “I have no interest in his lordship.”
Lady Winifred gave an approving nod. “Sensible,” she said. “He’s a gazetted rake. No good can come of any sort of association with him. And that goes for you girls as well,” she added, turning her stern gaze upon Victoria and Isobel. “By all accounts his lordship has no inclination to marry.”
“I heard he would have married Lady Elaine Wetherby if she would have had him,” Isobel said. “But she threw him over for a marquess, and he’s been heartbroken ever sense.” Though her words were tinged with tragedy, Poppy thought she had rather enjoyed the telling of it, as if there were nothing more romantic in the world than true love scorned.
“Gossip,” Lady Winifred warned once again. “Idle gossip. You’ll not win the admiration of any appropriate gentlemen that way. I beg you, consider your audience and keep all such observances—be they factual or otherwise—to yourselves.”
Victoria and Isobel dutifully settled down and refrained from making any further marks, much to Poppy’s relief. But she could not like the knowing glances they continued to slant one another, as if they shared a delicious secret between them. Poppy knew them well enough to understand that such behavior likely meant mischief, and she was struck by a queer sense of foreboding.
She only hoped that whatever mischief they had planned, they would have to good sense to keep it confined to the house.
Chapter Nine
David scoured the crowd, his suspicious gaze assessing each attendee. He hadn’t truly wanted to attend Jilly’s ball; she would have forgiven his absence and understood that any amount of time spent watching Leighton dance attendance upon Elaine would have been nigh unbearable. But he had promised Lady Nettringham that he would uncover the writer that had so wronged the both of them.
Mrs. Rebecca Waring. Signs pointed to female, but given the subject matter and the likelihood of the author using a pseudonym, the writer could very well be male. The name had sparked no recognition for either him or Lady Nettringham, and she was one of those women who seemed to know everyone. But the culprit must have had an invitation to at least that one ball, which meant he or she was not an unknown in society.
Chances were high that the offending individual was present tonight. Jilly—a duchess of no small amount of popularity, and renowned as a gracious host—had sent out scores of invitations, and he doubted that any event short of death would prevent anyone from attending.
He considered first those he knew to perennially short of funds—those who might turn their hand toward fiction in the hopes of scraping together whatever coinage they could to fill their coffers. Though work of any kind was generally thought beneath those of his class, one could hide behind a pseudonym and pretend any lucre derived thereof had come by way of shrewd investments instead. It was a sound plan, but half the people he might have suspected had never shown the slightest inclination toward prose of any sort, and he doubted very much that any of them could have drummed up the dedication writing an entire novel would no doubt require.
Mrs. Patterson might have a spendthrift for a husband, but she was as dimwitted a woman as he had ever encountered. David suspected she had never put pen to paper for anything more than replying to invitations.
Lord Rafe Fontaine, skirting the edges of penury, still spent altogether too much time availing himself of the food and drink provided by the hosts he so frequently prevailed upon to have the time that writing a novel would require.
Lady Liebeck was a likely sort—she had just the sort of calculating, hard-edged demeanor he would have expected of such a spy, but she also had four daughters out in society to
marry off, and ferrying them between balls and musicales and house parties would hardly leave her the opportunity to scratch out scandalous stories.
Somehow David had expected it would be easy to ferret out the sneak in their midst, as if the proclivity toward spying might be scrawled across the villain’s forehead. Still he wandered the outskirts of the ballroom, surveying the faces of his peers and wondering—was it this person or that?
Perhaps a better scheme would be to let the wrongdoer reveal his or herself. After all, he knew of their penchant for spying, but the guilty party had no way of knowing that. And someone who had done it once would certainly do it again.
A trap, then—set up an opportunity to lure the scoundrel out of hiding, and see who snapped up the bait.
∞∞∞
“Miss Fairchild, isn’t it?”
Poppy turned from the refreshment table, surprised by the question. No one—no one—spoke to her at these events. She knew she was included in the invitations only as a formality and had never expected anything but the most perfunctory greeting before she retired to her place with the rest of the chaperones. But the woman who stood before her, the duchess, smiled at her as though she were indeed an honored guest and not an unwanted guest thrust upon her.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Poppy said, dipping an uncomfortable curtsey. She let her gaze drift back to the chaperones, and Lady Winifred was directing a hard stare at her, plainly under the impression that Poppy could not be relied upon to comport herself appropriately before the duchess. Her stony gaze seemed to say, don’t say anything foolish.
“Just Jilly, if you please,” the duchess said. “I wonder if you might walk with me. It’s rather warm in here; I would dearly love to escape the heat for just a few minutes.” To Poppy’s surprise, the duchess fanned herself with her hand, and Poppy barely restrained the impulse to cast a triumphant glance at Lady Winifred. If a duchess could do such a thing, then Lady Winifred had had no call to criticize Poppy for it.
“Your Grace, I’m merely here as a chaperone,” Poppy said. “My sisters—”
“Are perfectly safe, and Lady Winifred will keep a sharp eye on them, I’m certain.” The duchess grasped Poppy’s arm and threaded her own through it. “You won’t mind if Lady Ravenhurst accompanies us, will you? She is my dearest friend.” The duchess waved to a dark-haired woman in a gown of shimmering green silk, who had begun to wend her way through the crowd toward them.
Poppy was beginning to wonder if anyone had ever thought to tell the duchess no in the whole of her life. “Your Grace—”
“Jilly,” the duchess corrected absently, adjusting the reticule hanging from her wrist. And when she took a step forward, Poppy was obliged to move with her. What the duchess might want with her, she could not possibly guess—
But she would very much enjoy the chance to escape the heat and spend a few minutes on the terrace. For that, she would even make an attempt at conversation.
Lady Ravenhurst fell into step beside them as they approached the terrace doors.
“Have you got it?” Jilly asked, directing her question to Lady Ravenhurst.
“In my reticule,” Lady Ravenhurst replied, patting the small bag affixed to her wrist. “It’s a bit crumpled by now, but—”
“So long as it’s legible, I truly don’t care,” Jilly replied. They sailed out into the night, and Poppy drew her first breath of the evening that wasn’t comprised of a sickening blend of perfume and sweat.
“Nora, this is Miss Poppy Fairchild,” Jilly said, when they paused at last beside hedgerows of holly, some distance from the ballroom. “Miss Fairchild, my dearest friend, Eleanora Chickering, Lady Ravenhurst.”
Again Poppy dipped a curtsey, flushing as she heard her knees pop. “My lady,” she said.
Lady Ravenhurst inclined her head, and her dark hair gleamed in the ambient light of the lamps within the ballroom. “What a crush!” she said, laughing lightly. “I vow I’ve never seen the like. And to think, Jilly, only a few years ago you thought you’d never find a place in society.”
“Yes, well, marrying a duke does tend to put one in rather high demand,” Jilly said dryly, smoothing at the rose-hued silk of her skirts. At Poppy’s blank stare, she clarified, “Until I wed my husband, I was the subject of much gossip. My former fiancé left me nearly at the altar, and I can tell you it did my reputation no favors. You didn’t know?”
“No, I—I had no idea,” Poppy said. “I’m afraid I’m not particularly knowledgeable of London society. My sisters and I came up from Bath only a few weeks ago.”
“They are lovely girls,” Jilly said. “A bit high-spirited, but they are young. I found them both quite charming.” She tipped her head speculatively. “But you brought them up yourself?”
Poppy felt a flush climbing over her cheeks. “Our parents have both passed,” she said. “Mama caught a fever after the twins were born, and Papa took ill only two years ago. But Papa was a viscount, and I thought that the girls should at least have a Season.”
“But not yourself,” Lady Ravenhurst said.
“My lady, I am twenty-six. I’m well past the age when I could have been expected to marry. It would be a waste of funds to indulge in ball gowns and such, and we haven’t so very much that we can afford to spend it on such a hopeless endeavor.” Poppy had the words as a flat statement of fact, but somehow they had acquired a tinge of disappointment, as if all of her thwarted hopes had attempted to make themselves known through them.
“Nonsense,” Lady Ravenhurst said. “You’re a lovely woman. There’s no reason at all to believe you couldn’t make a good match if you wished to do so.”
“Westwood—my brother—asked after you,” Jilly said. “And I can’t recall the last time he did something like that.” She considered Poppy carefully, but addressed Lady Ravenhurst. “I’ll admit the gown does her no favors, and the hair could be better—but she has good bones. And poise. It’s so hard to teach that, you know.”
“Exotic cheekbones. And her eyes are lovely,” Lady Ravenhurst agreed. “Such an unusual color.”
“They’re brown,” Poppy said automatically, feeling uncomfortably like a horse being sized up for a purchase. “Just plain brown.”
“Of course not,” Lady Ravenhurst said. “My eyes are just plain brown. Yours are warmer, like amber. With little flecks of gold.” She nudged the duchess. “You see?”
The duchess nodded, setting her chin resolutely. “I am going to take you to see my modiste,” she announced. “I’ll admit I know nothing about fashion, but Madame Moreau certainly does. You won’t even recognize yourself when she’s through with you.”
That sounded rather like a nightmare. Poppy felt awkward enough in her own skin as it was; she didn’t need the added complication of being unable to recognize herself to it.
“It’s very kind of you to offer,” Poppy said. “I do appreciate it, but I assure you, I haven’t come to London in the hopes of finding a husband. I mean only to see Victoria and Isobel settled, and then I shall return to Bath.”
The two other women exchanged doubtful looks, but elected not to respond to that pronouncement. “Well, where is the harm in a new gown or two?” Jilly said. “Even if you have no plans to marry, you might still enjoy the Season while you are here.”
“Oh, I’m not truly invited to these sorts of things,” Poppy said. “It’s just that Victoria and Isobel require chaperoning. I’m perfectly content to sit out and watch over them with Lady Winifred.”
“Of course you were invited,” Jilly said. “Wasn’t your name on the invitation? It should have been. I intended for it to be.” Her green eyes studied Poppy as though she were some sort of curiosity, a never-before encountered creature that merited examination.
“It was,” Poppy confirmed, “but I just assumed that it was merely a courtesy.”
“I would never be so unkind,” Jilly said, and Poppy was struck by the realization that the duchess actually meant it, that she truly had intended for her to b
e a guest in truth. There was no deception on her face, no hint of sly humor in her eyes…only a sort of mild confusion, as if she could not understand how Poppy had drawn such an erroneous conclusion.
And Poppy felt just the tiniest bit ashamed of herself. She excelled at keeping people at a distance, at writing herself off before she could be written off, making it into her choice rather than judgment rendered from anyone else.
Jilly cleared her throat. “It can be…difficult,” she allowed, “to make a place for oneself in London society. I often find myself suspicious of the intentions of others. There are many who would now seek my friendship when they would not have dared to offer it before.”
“I’m sorry,” Poppy said, and meant it. “I can’t imagine—”
“Can’t you?” Lady Ravenhurst asked, her head tilting inquisitively. “I don’t suppose it would be much easier to guide your sisters into the Season and take no part in it yourself. London society is often quite cruel to women.”
It was. But Poppy could not lay the blame for her situation at anyone else’s feet but Papa’s, and even that seemed an exercise in futility. There was no sense casting about blame at this point; it solved nothing.
“Years ago I was lucky enough to have at least one true friend in Nora,” Jilly said. “Everything is so much easier when you have a friend to confide in, but I can’t say that I’ve ever seen you speak to anyone aside from your sisters or Lady Winifred. To that end, I would like to offer you my friendship, if you will have it.”
“To me?” The glamorous duchess, with her vivid amber hair and fashionable gown, who was doubtless among the most popular people in London, wished to befriend her? “But I’m…I’m no one.” Her hands flitted to the skirt of her nondescript navy dress, several years out of style and better suited to a governess than to a woman at a ball.
“You must stop thinking of yourself like that,” Jilly chided. “We are what we make of ourselves. If you think of yourself as no one, you will be—and I can’t imagine anything more tragic.” She pushed back a curl that had sprung free from her elegant coif. “I will call upon you tomorrow,” she said. “I hope you will receive me.”
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