“Are you certain you don’t need to rest for another day?” Rose asked, as the three young ladies fussed with wraps and shoes in the foyer.
“Don’t worry.” Henrietta flashed a version of her familiar smile, but this one had daggers underneath. “I have a plan.”
Celia worried.
Since this was the first ball they were welcome to attend in almost three weeks, Aunt Thompson had all three young ladies wearing white to remind everyone that they were as pure as the driven snow. She had found gowns from Rose’s debut year, and the housemaids had spent the last several days remaking them to suit Rose’s and Celia’s current figures.
Celia did not care at all. She just wanted to get through the evening, dance with whoever was put in front of her, not make a fuss. In the morning, Peter was coming to see her, he was coming, he was coming.
Maybe, if she put out her hand, he would hold it.
Maybe, if she could say the right thing, his face would transform into the smile she loved so much.
Maybe, if she could find the words for the tangled, excited jumble of feelings inside her, then all the conflicting things hehad said and done meant that he was tangled but he wanted to be close to her, too.
Certainly, he would figure out something practical for them to do. Even Rose thought so.
“My bee-yoo-tiful girls!” Aunt Thompson kissed every cheek, her gentle touch yanking Celia’s runaway thoughts back to this night, this silly ball. “Rings on your finger—and yours, and yours—before July, I’m sure of it!”
“We have twelve days until we leave with Charlotte,” Rose reminded her.
Celia shook her head to clear it. Twelve days to hear from Owen Featherstone, twelve days to convince Mr. Penrose to propose and her brother to accept him, twelve days of keeping Henrietta away from her lusty predators. But tomorrow, she was going to speak with Peter. There was hope.
“We can do it,” Henrietta said, squeezing Celia’s hand.
Or maybe Clarence would respond to their letters, release the interest on their dowries, apologize from the depths of his heart, and arrange immediate passage to Dublin. Clarence could solve everything.
Celia trailed her cousins to their carriage, imagining what she would say to Peter tomorrow.
*
Peter Hughes hadan invitation for Lady Latham’s ball, so Peter Hughes went.
He’d turned in his report that afternoon. Inconclusive, but allowing for reasonable doubt. The bosses above Jackdaw would make a decision, probably send a team to nib them. Peter had given them all the details, and whether or not they found treasonhe knew they would find enough to send Pipperly on a one-way trip to Newgate.
He was painfully sorry for Mrs. Pipperly. Hughes would dance with the daughter tonight, help her shine one last time.
But Peter Alcott went to the ball because Celia would be there.
He still didn’t know what he was going to say tomorrow, if he would explain everything and say goodbye forever. After all these weeks of anxiety, he was oddly at peace about the prospect.
Celia would tell him to protect his sister. She would agree that girls are most vulnerable on the verge of womanhood, in a society that cared nothing for its women and less for its girls. They would be partners in one last thing as they marched to their separate battles, shoulder to shoulder, defending Elinor and Marianne.
Tonight, she was dressed in white, too many ruffles, smiling in a particularly abstracted way. Peter prowled around the edges of the ball, wondering if he could ask her to dance.
Maybe. Probably not.
If he touched her hand, if he looked into her eyes, if he felt the warmth of her genuine smile, then he might lose his control. He might promise her everything that wasn’t his to give.
*
Lord Francis waggledhis fingers as he meandered by, and Peter nodded in return. If the man was willing to ignore their recent argument (and the one before that, and the one before that) then Peter was more than willing to do the same.
Francis drew closer. “Lord Latham invited me upstairs for a private gathering. I can hardly refuse. You…” He spiraled hisfinger, indicating the ballroom and the melee beyond. “Keep an eye on Celia.”
“I do. I will.” Peter would pay his tribute by one last night of silent guardianship. He didn’t know what was wrong, but Celia was upset if she wrote him a note, and Francis was upset if he asked Peter for a favor. Peter flipped through all the key players in his mind—who could hurt Celia, who was loyal to her. He wished Leavenworth were here, but this was one of those parties where eligible gentlemen weren’t invited when their skin wasn’t the right color. It was a crush, with plenty of families with lower rank and wealth than the Leavenworths.
Celia danced with Penrose, and Peter stood half-hidden by a fake Egyptian vase and watched every movement, every gesture. Celia didn’t laugh and play, but she didn’t seem uncomfortable, either. Penrose didn’t have much to say, but he did a good job admiring her.
