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Vale idly rocked back on his heels. “I’ve got the address Thornton gave us, and I found out where Honey Lane is—Craddock’s house is there.”
Sam eyed him a moment. “Good. Then we shouldn’t have problems finding it tomorrow.”
“None at all,” Vale said cheerfully. “I remember Craddock as a sensible sort. If anyone can help, I’m sure he can.”
Sam nodded and faced ahead again, although he didn’t notice who stepped up to shoot next. He hoped to hell that Vale was right and Craddock could help them.
They were running out of survivors to question.
EMELINE SMOOTHED THE coral silk draped over her panniers that night as she stepped into the Hasselthorpe ballroom. The cavernous room had been recently redecorated, according to Lady Hasselthorpe, and it appeared as if no expense had been spared. The walls were shell pink with baroque gilt vines outlining ceiling, pilasters, windows, doors, and anything else the decorators could think of. Medallions along the walls, also rimmed in baroque gilt leaves, were painted with pastoral scenes of nymphs and satyrs. The whole was like a sugared flower—overpoweringly sweet.
Right now, though, Emeline was less concerned with the Hasselthorpes’ grand ballroom than with Samuel. She hadn’t seen him since the shooting party this afternoon. Would he attempt the dance, even after his problem at the Westerton ball? Or would he forgo the experience altogether? It was silly, she knew, to worry so much over a matter that was none of her business, but she couldn’t help hoping that Samuel had decided to stay in his rooms tonight. It would be awful if he were overcome again here.
“Lady Emeline!”
The high voice trilled nearby, and Emeline turned, unsurprised, to see her hostess bearing down on her. Lady Hasselthorpe wore a pink, gold, and apple-green confection, belled out so extravagantly that she had to sidle sideways to make her way through her guests. The pink of her skirts exactly matched the pink of her ballroom walls.
“Lady Emeline! I’m so glad to see you,” Lady Hasselthorpe cried as if she hadn’t just seen Emeline not two hours before. “What do you think of peacocks?”
Emeline blinked. “They seem a very pretty bird.”
“Yes, but carved in sugar?” Lady Hasselthorpe had reached her side and now leaned close, her lovely blue eyes genuinely concerned. “I mean, sugar is all white, is it not? Whereas peacocks are just the opposite, aren’t they? Not white. I think that’s what makes them so lovely, all the colors in their feathers. So if one does have a sugar peacock, it isn’t the same as a real one, is it?”
“No.” Emeline patted her hostess’s arm. “But I’m sure the sugar peacocks will be marvelous nonetheless.”
“Mmm.” Lady Hasselthorpe didn’t appear convinced, but her eyes had already wandered to a group of ladies beyond Emeline.
“Have you seen Mr. Hartley?” Emeline asked before her hostess could flit away.
“Yes. His sister is quite pretty and a good dancer. I always think that helps, don’t you?” And Lady Hasselthorpe was off, singing about turtle soup to a startled-looking matron.
Emeline blew out a frustrated breath. She could see Rebecca now, pacing gently with the other dancers, but where was Samuel? Emeline began to skirt the dancers, working her way to the far end of the ballroom. She passed Jasper, who was whispering something in a girl’s ear that made the child blush, and then Emeline was blocked by a phalanx of elderly men, their backs toward her as they gossiped.
“I saw the book of fairy tales you left in my room,” Melisande said from behind her.
Emeline turned. Her friend was wearing a shade of gray-brown that made her look like a dusty crow. Emeline raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment. They’d had this discussion before, and it hadn’t changed her friend’s attire a wit. “Can you translate it?”
“I think so.” Melisande opened her fan and waved it slowly. “I only looked at a page or two, but I could decipher some of the words.”
“Oh, good.”
But her voice must’ve been distracted. Melisande looked at her sharply. “Have you seen him?”
Sadly, there was no need to explain who him was. “No.”
“I thought I saw him go out onto the terrace.”
Emeline glanced to where glass doors had been opened to let in the night breeze. She touched her friend’s arm. “Thank you.”
“Humph.” Melisande snapped her fan shut. “Be careful.”
“I shall.” Emeline was already turning away, moving through the crush.
A few steps farther and she was at the doors leading to the garden. She slipped through. Only to meet disappointment. There were several couples outside, strolling the stone terrace, but she didn’t see Samuel’s distinctive silhouette. She glanced around as she advanced, and then she felt him.
“You look lovely this evening.” His breath brushed her bare shoulder, raising goose bumps on her skin.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She tried to look in his face, but he’d caught her hand and tucked it in his elbow.
