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“After I finish the third task, how soon do you predict I will fall in love and propose marriage?”
“Within a month.” Her voice quavered uncertainly at the end of the sentence.
“And that’s all I have to do—perform the three tasks, wait a month, and if I don’t marry the girl, Ned will know you’re a fraud?” He held his breath. If she agreed, this would give him precisely what he wanted. Verifiable performances. Measurable outcomes. And most importantly, a finite, achievable end that would justify whatever humiliation he felt because of her tasks.
“Another possibility is that you might follow the spirits’ guidance and marry her.”
Gareth snorted.
Ned kicked Gareth’s leather half boot in the darkness. “Hurry up, then, and get carving.”
There was a third anomaly to consider. Ned did everything Madame Esmerelda told him. If she had told him to hand over ten thousand pounds and leap off London Bridge wearing lead footgear, Ned would be fish food at the bottom of the Thames. For a first-class fraud, she was doing a miserable job extracting money.
“Never you mind about that, Ned,” Gareth said. “There’s no need for me to start carving.”
“But the task—!” Ned almost choked on his indignation.
“There’s no need to start, as I’ve already finished. I thought it best to get this over with as soon as possible.” Gareth reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an ebony lump. Light from a passing lamp glinted off the surface.
Madame Esmerelda motioned, and he handed it over. She took it in her hands, and then brought it close to her face, squinting, turning the misshapen chunk of wood over. The piece of ebony was as round as it was wide, scored and gouged with his pocketknife. Her mouth puckered as if she’d bitten a lemon.
Some explanation seemed necessary. Gareth pointed to the lump. “Elephant.”
“Goodness.” She rotated the figurine about its axis. “Could you perhaps have made it more…more elephantine?”
Gareth rather disliked being found wanting in any area. The fact that he couldn’t carve should not have unnerved him. After all, he shouldn’t care what she thought of his abilities on that score. It wasn’t as if her opinion mattered. And it wasn’t as if the skill was of any importance to a marquess. He folded his arms and mustered his coolest expression. “The assigned task did not precisely play to my strengths.”
She sniffed. “What did you expect? To seduce a lady with a geometrical proof?”
“Seduction?” Gareth’s gaze flitted down her bosom. “I had thought we were talking of marriage.”
Madame Esmerelda colored and thrust the ebony back into his hands.
“Wait,” protested Ned. “Let me see it.”
Gareth handed over the lump. He made eye contact with his cousin, and silently promised dire retribution should Ned start laughing.
Ned saved his own life by merely frowning in puzzlement. “Where, ah, where is its trunk?”
Gareth fished about in his pocket and pulled out a thick splinter of wood. “It came off. During the carving.”
Madame Esmerelda stared at it, and shook her head. “Well. This evening, I think you ought to engage in multiple activities that do not, as you say, play to your strengths.”
“Yes,” Gareth said with a noisy sigh. “I’ll have to give away the elephant to whichever horrific debutante you point out.”
Madame Esmerelda shook her head. “And.”
“There’s an and?”
“Lord Blakely, if there isn’t an ‘and’ there’s a ‘but.’ Give away the elephant. Please, try to do one other thing. Smile.”
“Smile?” He glowered at her. “Is that the next task? To grin like a loon?”
“It’s not a task,” Madame Esmerelda said. “It’s a suggestion.”
“Why would I smile?”
Ned handed back Gareth’s pitiful attempt at carving. “Smiling is that thing most people do with their lips to indicate amusement or enjoyment.” He turned to Madame Esmerelda. “You ask the impossible. You’re a cruel woman.”
The carriage came to a careful halt, and a footman opened the door. Cool night air rushed in, and the conversation halted momentarily while the party exited the carriage.
Gareth carefully placed the ebony in his pocket. “I’m not going to feign amusement. Or enjoyment.”
“Like I said,” Ned replied airily. “Impossible.”
Madame Esmerelda patted her skirts into place. “Have you considered actually enjoying yourself?”
“In this venue? In this company?” Gareth glanced toward the brightly lit entry. “Ned’s quite right. It’s impossible.” He stalked away, leaving Ned and Madame Esmerelda in his wake.
“Whew.” Behind him, Ned whistled between his teeth. “Cold fish.”
If only he knew.
“LORD BLAKELY. Mrs. Margaret Barnard. Mr. Edward Carhart.” The majordomo’s announcement hardly cut through the din of conversation that filled the glittering room that opened up before Jenny.
She frowned at Lord Blakely—it was he, after all, who’d directed the majordomo—just before he leaned in and whispered to her.
“Congratulations, Meg. You have become a widow. Also a very distant cousin of mine. Do try not to tell fortunes here.” He tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow and led her forward.
He acted as if she were nothing but a liar, as if she’d chose
n her profession because she could not help but speak mistruths every time she opened her mouth. It had taken her years to perfect Madame Esmerelda’s character, and almost a decade to bring her profession to this height, where word of mouth had replaced the need to advertise. She could not just adopt a persona on a whim.
But before she could think of a way to castigate him, she entered the ballroom, and all other thoughts were driven from her mind. The room seemed on fire, so bright was the illumination.
She had seen gas lamps on the street, dull globes of orange casting dim shadows about them. She’d even tangled with oil lamps herself on occasion—messy to fill, burning with a faint fishy odor. But she’d only walked outside houses illuminated as this one. The night fled from these bright chandeliers, shining with unspeakable wealth.
She’d never seen the like. The entire room was lit by what seemed a thousand golden suns. It was noon-bright, and twice as hot. No corner of the room stood in shadow. The only difference between this light and day was that the heavy yellow tinge of the lighting rendered the brown of her dress as mud.
Mud was what she felt like next to Lord Blakely.
His finery had been calculated to take advantage of the brilliance. The dark red embroidery in his black waistcoat subtly caught the light. Jet buttons, exquisitely cut, sparkled. In this light, she could make out the subtle, rich texture woven in the fabric of his dark jacket. All that black brought out the golden flecks in his eyes.
She had never felt so intensely shabby before. Her gown was plain and untrimmed. Simple lines; easy to put on and take off. The kind of dress that a woman, living alone, could don without assistance. And because only a woman living one step above genteel poverty would purchase a gown built on those lines, she’d chosen a sensible and serviceable brown. Anything else would have seemed out of place. But “out of place” was precisely where she stood now.
When she lifted her eyes to the scene in front of her, that feeling of unworthiness only intensified. She’d thought herself quite clever, putting up her hair in ribbons, with curls carefully crafted in papers the night before. Around her, she saw perfect, fat sausage curls dangling from exquisite coiffures, decorated with flowers real and silk, ribbons dyed with colors far richer and more exotic than the pink and faded beetroot she’d employed.
