Mercy appeared with an empty tray and wide eyes. She looked from Anna to Nathaniel, then to the closed parlor door down the hall.
Anna’s cheeks heated. “Mercy,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
“I was sent for more punch glasses.”
Nathaniel inclined his head, all politeness again. “Then I shall not impede the punch glasses.”
Mercy watched him walk back toward the parlor, then turned to Anna. “Were you being warned of something or courted? He looked about to kiss you.”
Anna nearly dropped the tray. “He was doing no such thing.”
Mercy shrugged. “I only asked because it looked a bit like both.”
“Well, it was neither,” Anna snapped.
Mercy considered that, then gave her a solemn nod. “Ah. So it was both.”
Anna swept past her toward the dining room. “Punch glasses, Mercy.”
“Yes, yes, very important,” she groused. “The fate of the empire may rest upon them.”
Anna should have scolded her. Instead, she pressed her lips together and kept walking.
Behind her, the music swelled. The ball had barely begun, and already the house seemed to tremble beneath its secrets.
Anna touched the side seam of her petticoat where the locket was hidden. She’d thought the message inside was dangerous. Now she feared the next one would be worse.
Nathaniel had attended enough military gatherings to know that men spoke more freely when wine flowed and music played. The sound of a violin quartet could cover carelessness, laughter excused indiscretion, and wine loosened tongues that discipline usually kept tied.
Officers who normally never discussed roads, wagons, ships, or powder thought nothing of dropping half a war plan between a minuet and a glass of Madeira.
Captain Whitby’s ball was proving to be no exception.
Nathaniel stood near the dining room doorway with a glass he had no intention of drinking. He watched the room as if all he cared about was whether Mrs. Pembroke’s supper would be as fine as her candlesticks. Of course, everyone knew it would be. It was half the reason so many came.
The house glowed with candlelight, and every polished surface in the dining room and parlor seemed warmer, brighter, and far more innocent than they were. Nothing about this evening was innocent. Major Ellis arrived after the first dance began. When he did, Whitby became more jovial, Rothborne more severe, and Sloane, whom Nathaniel was keeping a close eye on, more careful. That alone made Nathaniel’s shoulders tighten.
And then there was Anna Turner.
She moved through the rooms, a tray in her hands, her eyes lowered as usual. The very image of a servant occupied by serving wine and punch.
Nathaniel saw the small pauses when Ellis’s name was spoken. He caught the slight turn of her head as Sloane mentioned something about the shoreline. He also caught the way her hand drifted once toward the side seam of her skirt before she stopped herself and raised it again.
She had something on her. He wasn’t sure what, but concluded he didn’t need to know every secret in the house.
Still, he didn’t like it. Whatever she carried made her afraid. She hid it well, better than most would, but he still recognized the subtle hints of fear in her.
“That girl again,” Rothborne lamented beside him.
Nathaniel feigned indifference. “Which girl?”
Rothborne’s eyes narrowed. “Do not play the fool, Reed. The reddish-haired maid.”
Nathaniel took a slow sip of wine, though it tasted like vinegar in his mouth. “Mrs. Pembroke has several servants. I don’t know them all by name.”
Rothborne ignored the remark. “I think she listens.”
“Most women do,” Nathaniel said. “It’s how they know what men are about to ruin.”
