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“I’m ready to go home,” she said. She did not want to find Lynley lying cold and still in a pool of beer. What she wanted, and it had been strikingly clear to her in a flash, was Lynley lying naked in a great bed. “Perhaps our paper thief will reveal himself at Lady Vange’s ball.” She smiled up at Lynley with what she hoped was a sweetly docile expression.
Chapter Fourteen
There are those who would advise the husband hunter to conceal her intelligence from gentlemen who take an interest in her. In this writer’s view, such advice is utterly misguided. Few qualities are as attractive or as misunderstood as genuine intelligence. In the future we may be able to name the several different forms that intelligence takes. At the present time, we may charitably interpret such wrong-headed advice to mean that the husband hunter should not attempt displays of pedantry. No one needs to know of her superior knowledge of languages or maps, scientific principles or moral abstracts. Rather she should confine herself to that display of attention which reveals her powers of observation and insight.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
Emily thought it possible that not everyone in London had squeezed into Vange House. After all, Lady Vange’s invitation was a coveted one. Guests had decked themselves out in glittering jewels and gold braid and had applied sufficient pomade and perfume to rival the sweeter scents of the potted orange trees and Cape jessamines that circled the great ballroom. If a spy had joined the throng, he could easily lose himself in the packed crowd.
Emily had believed, however, she was in no danger of losing Lynley, as his height made him unmistakable. In such a crush a lady could lose a glove, a fan, or an earring, but not a fiancé.
Of course, she’d been wrong. She had arrived with her father and Lynley, and could find neither. Now that the dancing was about to begin, she’d quite lost her fiancé, and was in danger of being spotted by Miss Throckmorton. Emily glanced round for an opening in the shoulder-to-shoulder throng of young ladies. Fans fluttered, feathered headdresses bobbed, and voices squealed. She gritted her teeth. She really did not like large, giddy gatherings. Through the imposing doors at the side of the ballroom, she could see the hall that led to the ladies’ retiring room. Escape beckoned. Lynley would have to hunt spies on his own.
Before she could take a step, her arm was seized in a painful grip, and she was yanked from the room. In the hall her captor spun her around and pushed her to the wall. She looked up into the smooth, cool face of Lord Barksted.
“You wanted a word with me?” She looked pointedly at the man’s hand on her arm. “You had only to ask.”
Barksted’s bold glance dropped to Emily’s bosom. “Happy for you, Miss Radstock, that you landed a fiancé after so long a time on the shelf. Apparently, Lynley likes shop-worn goods.”
“Happy for you, Lord Barksted, that in being so long on the town yourself, no woman need go to the trouble of liking you at all.”
A look of menace passed over Barksted’s face, exposing yellow, tobacco-stained teeth clenched tight. “You’ll have to do better than that to insult me, miss.”
He expected her to cower, but Emily drew herself up and leaned toward him, enduring the spirits on his breath. “And you’ll have to grow some wit if you wish to remain a welcome guest anywhere.”
From within the ballroom came the first notes of the opening quadrille. Guests hurried past them through the grand doors. Barksted glanced round and seemed to recall their surroundings.
He inhaled and spoke again. “Your fiancé is as meddlesome as he is handsome. If you wish Lynley to retain the perfection of his features, you will exercise your influence to keep him from sticking his oar in my business.”
“Would that be the business of intimidating women?”
His grip tightened painfully on her arm. “I should have known that you and Lynley were a pair of meddlers.”
Emily felt the danger of slapping him or planting him a facer. He was a man who would hurt a woman. She glanced across the hall at the door to the retiring room. “Lord Barksted, consider where you are and to whom you speak. Do not imagine me unprotected in the world, and do not imagine that your own credit can withstand such ill-bred behavior.”
“Neither your sex nor your title protects you from my wrath should you or your imbecilic fiancé cross me again, Lady Emily.”
Some commotion in the hall made Barksted turn his head. A gentleman barreled into him, loosening his hold.
“Ravenhurst,” he cried, reaching for the man’s arm. “Look where you’re going, man.”
Emily stepped sideways and dashed for the retiring room.
The room reserved for Lady Vange’s female guests was lined with benches and fitted up with painted screens for privacy and tall cheval glasses for preening. Six women received the attentions of two chambermaids and a lady’s dresser, assisting with repairs to dress and appearance and offering mild refreshments to those who might feel faint.
The utterly feminine scene was at odds with Emily’s rage. She wanted to tear Lord Barksted limb from limb. He was a despicable man, much worthier of a firing squad than poor Chunee.
She waved off an approaching maid and headed for the privacy of one of the screens. She needed to recover her calm, and then she needed to find Lynley. As she neared the screen, she heard sobs coming from behind it. She glanced a question at the dresser, who shrugged her shoulders.
The bereft sobbing continued with great gusts, which could not be good for anyone wearing stays. Evidently, someone was having a worse time than Emily.
Emily picked up a glass of lemonade and approached.
“Hello,” she said.
There was a pause in the sobs.
“I’m coming in,” said Emily.
