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“White,” he said uncomfortably, “what I really want to know is—do you know how to apologize to a woman?”
THE CLOCK SHOWED ten minutes before eight. Ned’s gut clenched and beads of sweat dampened his forehead. The Arbuthnots’ annual gathering should have been no cause for consternation. But Ned had a plan and it stewed, like an indigestible lump of gristle, deep in his stomach. His every instinct told him he should stop the madness he’d set in motion before it sprouted heads like a mythical hydra. His infernal sense of honor had been twinging all day. Everything he had ever been taught counseled him that what he schemed was wrong. Really, really wrong, in a life-changing, reputation-destroying way.
This would not have been much of a test if the work had been easy. He knew what needed to be done. Madame Esmerelda had told him the matter was entirely in his hands. Her words tumbled through his mind, over and over.
Don’t trust me, she’d said.
But how could Ned not trust her? Long ago, she’d predicted he would win free of the deep malaise that gripped him. He had. She’d predicted Ned would make something worthwhile of himself, something worth living for. He hoped that he would. But now, he sensed that awful darkness lurking, a vile monster hiding just beyond the periphery of his vision.
Not trust Madame Esmerelda?
If he couldn’t trust her, he couldn’t trust that she had been right that day so long ago, when she’d told him to live. He couldn’t believe she’d seen a future for him, free of that stultifying despair. If she hadn’t seen the future then all Ned’s hopes for his future were lies.
She couldn’t be wrong. He wouldn’t let her be.
This, Ned concluded, was a test.
He couldn’t rely on anyone else. He couldn’t rely on Madame Esmerelda’s tasks. He couldn’t even assume Lady Kathleen’s icy elegance would bring Blakely to his knees. No. Ned would make sure Blakely married her, even if he had to trap them into it.
But Blakely had not yet arrived.
In the half hour since Ned had arrived at the Arbuthnots’ soiree, he’d been watching Lady Kathleen from the corner of his eye. He would have been aware of her even without his plan. His chest constricted every time she drew breath. It was a perfectly natural response, he told himself, after what he’d planned.
Even now, across the wide expanse of the great room, he sensed her. She was dressed in a white gown that would have been simple, were it not for the hundreds of brilliants sewn into it, in patterns that dazzled his eye every time she moved. They made her blond hair look almost white, as if it were made of platinum.
She, on the other hand, had spent her evening looking everywhere else—at the other men who danced attendance on her, strutting ravens all, at the orchestra performing in the corner, even up at the ceiling, patterned in red paint and gold leaf. She’d looked at him once—a long, searching glance—and then colored and looked away.
Directly opposite his quarry stood his second group of players. To wit: There was Laura, Blakely’s sister. She stood by Ned’s mother, a stick-thin matron, graying hair twisted and curled and adorned with flowers that reminded him of spring. And close by these two ladies was Lady Bettony, an inveterate gossip, whose talent for spreading rumors was surpassed only by the keenness of her observation.
Ned met Laura’s gaze across the ballroom. She gave him a terse nod. She was ready; she understood the task Ned had appointed for her. Laura had been curious, and therefore easily bribed. He’d given her Madame Esmerelda’s address, in exchange for her services tonight.
It was five minutes before eight now, and Blakely still had not appeared.
Lady Kathleen had betrayed tiny signs of nervousness all evening, which Ned detected even from this distance. Her manners were more formal; her light laugh perhaps a touch heavier than usual.
Hardly surprising, given the circumstances.
After all, Ned had sent her a note.
Correspondence with an unmarried lady was a breach of etiquette. Correspondence suggesting that she meet him to explore the unmarked servants’ quarters at the Arbuthnots’ was downright barbaric. But he hadn’t suggested anything truly indelicate. Instead, he’d thought of that look on her face. For all her haughty airs, she’d almost seemed to enjoy talking to Ned. Strange; inexplicable, even. But then, of course fate would serve Madame Esmerelda’s purposes.
He’d turned Madame Esmerelda’s advice over and over in his head. Briefly, he’d considered the horrifying possibility that Madame Esmerelda was admitting she was wrong. That her predictions would not come true. But he couldn’t accept it—wouldn’t accept it, no matter how the possibility ate away at his heart. He had to believe she’d been right that night long ago when she’d told him to live. He had to believe she’d seen his future, free of darkness.
You must stand on your own two feet, without anyone to help you. No; there was only one conclusion. Given Blakely’s stubbornness, Madame Esmerelda’s tasks could only do so much to bring the fated couple together. The rest was up to Ned and the next four minutes.
Assuming Blakely made an appearance. Ned suppressed the touch of fear that accompanied that thought. Blakely would appear punctually. He was always cutting when Ned missed an appointed meeting by even a paltry minute.
But speaking of time, the first player swished into action. Lady Kathleen didn’t look at Ned. She didn’t even glance in his direction. But she waved her hands prettily, as if making her apologies, and slipped from the room.
Ned shut his eyes and envisioned her walking quietly down the gold-papered hall toward the ladies’ retiring room. The blue dining room was only steps beyond the parlor set aside for that purpose, and from the reports of the servants, it was the perfect venue for this little tableau.
There was only one exit, and nowhere to hide. A couple alone in the room would be seen the instant the door opened.
A hint of desperate nausea turned Ned’s stomach. He was openly sweating now, and his nerves fluttered. One word to Laura, and he could still avert the coming storm. A few phrases of his own to Lady Kathleen—if he hurried, he could catch her still—and the scene would not play out as he’d envisioned. He’d asked her to meet him there, and despite the impropriety of it all, she was going. It had to be fate.
Everything Ned hated about his own life—his powerlessness, the respect he never seemed to command—he was doing to her. He had wanted to control his own life; now he was wresting control from her, trapping her into matrimony. Even in the heated press of bodies in the open room, covered as he was by layers of linen, wool, and waistcoat, Ned shivered.
A last, desperate chivalrous corner of his mind shouted it was not too late. But Ned thought of Madame Esmerelda’s face, so obviously distraught. He thought of the depths to which he could yet fall. And he steeled himself to let events go forward as planned.
As they would, if only Blakely were present. Lady Kathleen undoubtedly thought—as the note Ned sent her implied—she would be meeting Ned to discuss the reasons why she slipped from the crowds and wandered in servants’ quarters. He didn’t want to think what it meant, that she’d left to meet him under such improper circumstances.
Because Ned wouldn’t meet her. Instead, Blakely would arrive prepared to gloat over Ned’s claimed surrender. A conversation between the two of them would ensue. Fate and the spirits might bring bodies together where recalcitrant minds had previously resisted. And then shortly after Blakely and Lady Kathleen closeted themselves alone, Laura would lead that tight knot of women to their discovery. Scandal, the blow to Lady Kathleen’s reputation and Blakely’s own sense of responsibility would take care of the remainder.
And Ned had no doubt—no real doubt, that is, as he didn’t count that roiling pit of denial in his stomach—that what started as responsibility would grow into real affection. With Madame Esmerelda’s imprimatur, it could do little else. The only reason Ned saw not to order the wedding punch directly was that Blakely had not yet appeared that evening.
Unless his cousin
hadn’t been announced, and had instead proceeded directly to the dining room.
Horrifying thought. Lady Kathleen could be meeting his cousin now. Asking, perhaps what he was doing there. Blakely was no fool; if he figured out what Ned had done, he would leave before their fates were sealed. If Blakely was there, Laura needed to make her appearance now.
Ned glanced across the room. Laura hadn’t moved.
Suppose on the other hand Blakely had been delayed. Then Lady Kathleen would be cooling her heels in the blue dining room. Lady Bettony could hardly burst in on a solitary girl—or at least, if she did, there would be no gossip in it.
A lady’s reputation was supposed to be a fragile thing. Why, then, did it take so much effort for Ned to crack this one? Cold sweat trickled from his armpits.
Madame Esmerelda had never said Ned’s task would be easy. She’d told him to rely on himself. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he needed to do right now. Taking a deep breath, Ned set off toward the dining room.
He’d intended to listen at the door and ascertain if both parties were inside. But Lady Kathleen stood just outside the room, angrily tapping her foot. One hand rested on her hip. The other beat an impatient tattoo against her skirts. The rhythm made that net of brilliants send coruscating flashes of light all about her, as if she were Zeus, sending out little sparks of lightning. When she saw him, she pressed her lips together.
“And you’ve just chosen to appear, then?” A hint of anger slipped in her voice and transformed the tinkling melody into something harsher. “I shouldn’t have come. I should have ignored your letter. I should have insisted on obtaining the proper introduction, because this is most improper. I didn’t imagine you would make me wait. If you’re trying to talk to me alone, you’re doing an awful job of it.”
She cast a look at him, as if waiting for an apology.
“You haven’t seen anyone else?”
Instead of answering, she glanced down the hall and turned on her heel, disappearing into the room behind her.
Ned perforce followed.
The blue dining room was cold, unheated either by fire or the press of closely packed bodies. Two things were missing. First, and most oddly, the walls were cream and gold without a speck of the expected blue in evidence. Second, Blakely was nowhere to be found. A clock on the wall showed two minutes past eight. His cousin was late.
Once inside, Lady Kathleen whirled around and pulled the note he’d sent her from the sash of her gown. Her hands shook and the crisp white ribbon tore away. With it came the seam of her dress. It gaped, white cloth at her waist falling to reveal inches of tantalizing ivory petticoats. She looked down and her fists bit into the paper.
“This,” she said, waving his note in his face, “is the most horrific breach of etiquette I have encountered. You should know better than to ask to speak with me alone. I should know better than to do so.” She turned her head away, slightly. “So why am I here?”
