Mary sniffed. “It is mortifying.”
Elizabeth leaned in. “Which part? The playing? Or the vigorous applause at your retreat?”
Mary scowled. “They werelaughing.”
“Not all of them,” Elizabeth said. “Miss Goulding was only laughing because her cousin knocked over a chair and blamed it on the music. Which, as you know, is always the sign of a critic.”
Mary folded her arms, but some of the starch had already faded from her spine. “Kitty said I played too many verses.”
“You did,” Elizabeth said brightly. “I counted nine. A lesser woman would have stopped at four.”
That earned a grudging twitch of the lips. Encouraged, Elizabeth offered her arm and coaxed Mary into the open. They stood just at the edge of the ballroom, where the lightshad softened and the footmen were beginning to peek around corners with practiced discretion.
“I would wager,” Elizabeth continued, “that Sir William will never again request ‘Roslin Castle’ unless he is prepared for every last stanza.”
Mary flinched. “He was only being polite.”
“Which makes his pained expression all the more heroic.” She smiled. “Come now. I believe we have survived the evening.”
Mary cast one last glance toward the parlor before nodding. “I shall find Papa.”
Elizabeth kissed her cheek. “I shall find my wrap. If either of us are not back in five minutes, assume we were abducted by musical critics.”
Mary gave a small, reluctant laugh and wandered off in the direction of the card tables.
Elizabeth turned toward the retiring room, her expression relaxing into a faint smile as she walked. The floor was quiet now, strewn with the debris of crumpled programs, half-sipped punch, and the occasional fallen glove. The retiring room, dimly lit and cluttered with the wreckage of a dozen tea trays, was nearly empty.
Her wrap was where she had left it—folded neatly over the back of a floral-upholstered chair near the fire.
But as her fingers reached beneath it, expecting the familiar shape of her reticule…
Nothing.
She checked again, lifting the wrap fully. The seat was bare.
Her breath caught.
Elizabeth crouched quickly, peering beneath the chair. Then under the one beside it. Then behind the table, where discarded shawls and forgotten fans often collected.
Nothing.
She straightened, eyes darting to the other women in the room. None paid her any mind. One was smoothing her gloves. Another was yawning into a handkerchief. A third glanced at herself in the mirror with resigned exhaustion.
Elizabeth turned back to her chair. She retraced every movement in her mind. She had come in before supper. She had powdered her nose. She had spoken to Charlotte. She had placed the reticule carefully—so carefully—beside the cushion before accepting a cup of tea.
She had tucked it in.
She wassure.
Her stomach turned to ice.
Elizabeth stepped into the corridor, scanning the walls for familiar silks. Her sisters were nowhere in sight. Neither was Charlotte. She hurried back into the ballroom, now half-dimmed, and searched the spot where she had been seated beside the ficus.
Nothing.
The reticule was gone.
And with it… her journal.
