With that dismissal, Saffron took the boy’s arm. He stammered apologies as they cut their way around the carnage. Fans snapped open as they passed, but not quick enough to obscure grinning faces. The whispers and tittering laughter made her fingers curl.
Society loved drama. Especially when it was at her expense. It felt as if the whispers and giggles were only ever directed at her, even when Angelica and Rosemary were present.
When they were out of sight of the dowager, she patted her chaperone’s arm and murmured her thanks, then gathered herbulky skirts and dashed through a gap in the crowd and into a hallway. Her slippers caught on a bunch in the thin carpeting and sent her sprawling to her knees. After struggling to her feet, she discovered that the delicate French lace on her collar had torn.
A small bit of damage that she could fix in an hour sitting by the fire with her sewing kit, but it was enough to send her spiraling.
She pressed her fists over her eyes. She could not have a fit. Not yet. When she was safe in her bed, then despair could overtake her. But not yet.
She adjusted her collar to hide the damage and continued down the hallway, pausing at each closed door to listen before peeking inside. The first two she checked were silent and empty, but when she stopped at the third, she heard a faint crackle of fire.
Preparing for the worst, she pushed open the door to see Angelica curled up on a horsehair sofa near the fireplace, a book resting open on her chest, her eyes closed in slumber. Her golden curls shone in the firelight and her yellow-and-cream gown spilled over the chair and onto the floor. She had inherited their mother’s beauty. Saffron’s dark hair and stubborn chin were gifts from their father.
Saffron gripped the doorframe and took a deep, calming breath, letting the familiar smells of the library envelop her. Varnished wood, old books, and the sweet, ashy undertone of cigar smoke. Then she charged forward and swiped the book from her sister’s arms. When she turned it over, she huffed.
Wuthering Heights.
Angelica’s eyes fluttered open, and her lips curved in a sleepy smile. “Is it time to go home?”
“It’s time to return to the ballroom.” She waggled the book. “You won’t find your Heathcliff hiding in here, sister.”
Angelica straightened her dress and stood. “I apologize. My toes could not take another pounding.”
The reprimand on Saffron’s tongue flitted away when she saw the tears glittering in her sister’s eyes.
“Was it something the duke said?” she asked softly. If the man had insulted Angelica or done anything else even slightly inappropriate, she would confront him and demand he leave Angelica alone. All she needed was an excuse.
“No.” Angelica grabbed the book and crushed it to her chest.
Saffron sighed. So much for her opportunity. “Then what is the matter?”
Angelica’s lower lip trembled. “I’ve read every book in our library three times. Lady Jarvis won’t notice one book missing, would she? The dust on the shelves is an inch thick.”
Greif clotted in Saffron’s throat. Her sister had resorted to theft.
“I-I’ll buy you a new one,” she lied. She would have said anything to wipe the desperation off her sister’s face.
Angelica opened her mouth, then frowned and tilted her head. “Do you hear that?”
It was the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by bubbly laughter. Saffron grabbed her sister’s arm and dragged her behind a bookshelf. The copy ofWuthering Heightsthumped to the ground in front of the fireplace.
“Who is it?” Angelica whispered.
She shushed her sister and peered through the cracks in the books. The door creaked open, and Lady Jarvis stumbled inside, her arms wrapped around the neck of a man who was not her husband. The sounds coming from the pair made her want to slap her hands over Angelica’s ears. They had to get away before their gossiping host caught them spying on the amorous encounter.
She searched the room for alternative exits and caught the outline of a door halfway hidden behind a drape. She tugged her sister’s fingers to get her attention, then whispered, “Follow me.”
They carefully maneuvered between the bookshelves, serenaded by Lady Jarvis’s increasingly loud moans, then slipped through the door. “Hello,” a male voice said, making Saffron jump.
A man sat in a chair in the corner of the antechamber, holding a cigar in one hand. He wore dark, form-fitting trousers and a frock coat of the same color, unbuttoned, and parted on either side to reveal a black, satin shirt beneath. His wavy, blond hair was unfashionably long and untied, so it rested on his shoulders like the mane of a great lion.
Heat flushed through her body when she realized the man wasn’t alone. A woman in a blood-red evening gown crouched before him, the inky-black fall of her hair obscuring her face. As Saffron stared, frozen in shock and horror, the woman rose to her feet and pulled her hair back to reveal bright-green eyes and full, pouty lips. She had the kind of painful beauty one imagined when reading Homer’s description of Helen of Troy.
“Thank you for the entertaining interlude, darling,” the woman said. She pressed a kiss to the man’s cheek, eliciting a squeak from Angelica, then stepped back into the darkness and vanished. There was a creak of a door opening and then thudding shut.
“Who was that?” Angelica whispered.
The words broke the spell that had frozen Saffron in place, and she jerked her head in the direction the woman had gone. “I don’t know, but we should follow her.”
