“Of course.” Clara stepped through the door, curling Pockets inside her elbow as she gripped the rail. “Thank you, Lady Newbury.” Rose nodded but watched as she and Radcliff safely maneuvered down the steps and onto the pavement. Clara glanced back once but saw that the door was already closed.
Then she spotted Michael in one of the windows. He remained in that spot until they had rounded the edge of the square and turned toward home.
Wednesday night. She would see him again Wednesday night. Perhaps by then, she would have deciphered what was going on.
But, somehow, she doubted it.
Chapter Three
Wednesday, 3 August 1825
Aldermaston Ball, Percy House
Nine in the evening
Michael felt asif he were drowning in lemonade. He had promised his mother he would pick up a cup of the lukewarm swill every time he had the urge to reach for something more potent, and so far, he had. But he had been at the Aldermaston Ball exactly two hours, and he had already downed six cups.
And he had yet to locate Lady Clara Durham. He had scoured the terrace, the hallways near the retiring suites, and the edges of the ballroom. Michael had even circulated by Spinster’s Row, although he could not imagine Lady Clara being there. True, she had several seasons behind her—according to Rose—but at two and twenty she was nowhere near spinsterhood.
He had quizzed his sister-in-law repeatedly over the past two days, to the point that Lady Rose had seen him enter the dining room at today’s luncheon and had escaped through the servants’ door. Tonight, as his valet helped him ready for the ball, he had turned those questions on the startled young man. Booth had only been his valet for three months, but they had seldom seen each other. Even then, their conversations had been limited to topcoat repairs and cravats. Michael had rarely been out in public, and he did not need a valet to dress him for the stables. But that was beginning to change. Much to his chagrin, returning to Society had been about far more than remembering dance steps.
“What do the servants say about the Durhams?” Michael had asked Booth, pointing at the house across the square. “Any impressions of the Earl of Beckcott and his family?”
Booth stared at him, then cleared his throat and stiffened his spine. “Sir. I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
Michael checked his cravat in his dressing mirror. He and Booth had agreed on relatively simple attire for this first evening out—a black-and-white kit with a gray waistcoat. “Fine deal on the cravat, Booth. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir. My job.”
“So noon ditabout the earl?”
“I—I do not spend much time with the lower servants, my lord. Perhaps you should ask one of the maids.”
Michael turned his back as Booth helped him into his skirted topcoat and checked the flared fabric and single row of gold buttons for flaws. “I appreciate the suggestion, Booth, but I doubt Mrs. Hodges would take kindly to me waylaying one of her maids in order to gossip.” Mrs. Hodges, their housekeeper, had been with the family for thirty-five years and kept a watch on the women under her care with a diligence that would make a goshawk envious.
“I’m sure that’s true, my lord.”
Michael turned to face him. “Then perhaps you could—”
Booth’s face reddened to the hue of a polished ruby, and his mouth gaped, although no word came out.
“Ah, perhaps not.”
A poke at his side broke through his reverie, and he almost spilled his latest cup of lemonade.
“Woolgathering already, brother? It is not even ten.”
Michael smiled down at his sister, whose beauty and dowry had been the talk of the season—until their brother Robert had brought scandal down on their whole house. To attend this ball, Beth and her modiste had spared neither expense nor frill with the gown, which made her seem to glimmer in the candlelight of the massive chandeliers overhead.
The primary color of the satin silk gown, royal blue, reflected her eyes and emphasized her pale, clear complexion and light golden hair. The neckline, wide and trimmed with silver ribbons, brought many a man’s eyes her way. The puffed sleeves were cinched around the upper arm, with three companion ribbons tied into intricate bows at the wrists and forearm. The shoulder puff was royal blue with white ruffles, while the lower white sleeve was detailed with blue ribbons and a white ruffle at the wrist. Her bodice was a solid royal blue and gathered at the waist by a silver sash. The floor length skirt of the dress was royal blue and had a wide band around the hem of cross-hatched light blue material.
She wore sapphire blue earrings, along with a sapphire and diamond bracelet that he recognized as an heirloom set from their mother’s family. Her head was crowned with a pale blue turban with silver stripes and trim, adorned with white feathers near her neckline. When Michael had suggested she use the feathers to “tickle the Marquess’s fancy,” she presented him with a scowl that could melt metal.
Beth floated in a cloud of blue and silver, and heads turned when she passed. But the words muttered behind their hands had not always been kind. Trailing in her wake, he had heard more than a few murmurings about their brother and pending downfall of the House of Kennet.
“I’m looking for someone. Why are you here instead of dancing with your marquess?”
Her brows furrowed. “I—we have had one dance. It would be improper to dance with him again so soon.” She glanced around, as if waiting for something. Or avoiding someone.
