“I am hosting a ball in two days’ time and I would like you and your brother to be in attendance,” Emilia said.
Clarissa’s gaze shot back up. “That is a terrible idea. Thetonwill be relentless in their gossip.”
“I do not pretend to know how thetonwill react, but I want you there,” Emilia responded.
“Why?” Clarissa asked.
Emilia smiled. “Because we are family, whether you want to be or not.”
Clarissa’s face softened. “I would be remiss if I did not tell you that this ball is a horrible idea since you should be mourning our father.”
“I hardly think I should mourn a man I didn’t know.”
“Fair enough,” Clarissa responded with a wry smile. “I shall attend, and I will drag my brother along.”
Emilia felt a tentative warmth between them, a spark of sisterly affection that she so desperately craved. “Should we hug? I feel as if we should hug.”
Clarissa laughed softly, just as she had hoped. “I do not think we should get ahead of ourselves.”
“No, of course not,” Emilia responded.
With a glance at the tea service on the table, Clarissa said, “You have not asked if I wish for any tea yet. Were you raised in a barn?” Her words were light.
“No, a cottage,” Emilia retorted. “It wasn’t much bigger than this room.”
Clarissa laughed again, the tension of the past seeming to fade away. “I should be going,” she said. “But thank you.”
“For what?”
The humor faded from Clarissa’s face as she replied, “For not looking at me with pity in your eyes.”
Emilia watched as Clarissa departed from the room, and she was glad that she had invited them to the ball. Her kindness was not conditional, and she very much wanted Clarissa in her life.
The moonlight streamed through the windows, casting a silvery glow across the room. Fredrick sat in an armchair, his patience wearing thin as he anxiously awaited Miss Delacourt’s arrival. The late hour was making him increasingly frustrated, and he couldn’t help but wonder where she was. He had more pressing matters to attend to, and this waiting was becoming unbearable.
But they waited, nonetheless.
Fredrick watched his brother take a sip of his drink, looking entirely too calm for his liking. Roswell’s composure was almost maddening, given their current situation. “How much longer are we expected to wait?” he grumbled, his impatience getting the best of him.
Roswell merely shrugged. “I suppose we wait for as long as it takes.”
“What if Miss Delacourt doesn’t show?”
“Then we continue working the case on our own,” Roswell reasoned.
Fredrick huffed. “That isn’t going so well for us,” he responded. “Besides, you heard Miss Delacourt, she’s already tracked the French spies to a boarding house. We just need to know which one and we can end this.”
Roswell gave him a knowing look. “What makes you so bothered by Miss Delacourt?”
“She is infuriating,” Fredrick replied, not entirely certain himself why he found her so vexing. The mystery surrounding her grated on him, and not knowing was something he couldn’t easily accept.
“Is she?” Roswell asked.
Fredrick didn’t want to talk about this. Perhaps they should just sit in silence as they waited for Miss Delacourt.
Roswell leaned forward and placed his nearly full glass onto the table. “We could always discuss what transpired between you and Emilia today while you were dancing the waltz.”
“Nothing transpired between us.”
