Page 37
Honoria’s frown deepened, creating a small crease between her brows. “But you tried to steal it off him already and you failed.”
“Yes.” Lydia stopped pacing and pressed her hands flat against her sides, willing herself to remain calm. “But this time, he will think I am his betrothed and will let me get close to him. I will have as much time as I need.”
“I don’t like this, Lydia. He might recognize you. Or at least recognize that you are not his fiancée. Your hair color alone is quite a giveaway.”
“I’ll wear a wig.” Lydia’s reply was quick, dismissive.
“You are not even the same height.”
“He will not recognize the difference.” Lydia waved the concern away with an elegant flick of her wrist.
Honoria’s gaze hardened, her eyes narrowing. “But your voice—”
“I assure you, we won’t even need to speak.” Lydia turned her attention to an invisible piece of lint on her dress, pretending it required her utmost focus.
“You won’t? So, what’s the plan, then? You’re just going to walk up to him and kiss him?”
The words hung in the air for a long moment. Lydia smoothed her skirts with deliberate care as if that might shield her from Honoria’s pointed gaze.
“And in the meantime,” Honoria continued, in a conversational manner, “you’ll keep pretending to be his betrothed, writing letters back and forth with him for two weeks.”
“Precisely,” Lydia said, her voice quieter now, though her chin lifted, and she was finally able to meet her friend’s gaze. “But that’s to our advantage. I can use the letters to make him feel comfortable about his fiancée to an extent that when she asks him for something during the masquerade, he’ll do it without a second thought.”
Honoria folded her arms tightly. “Such as?”
Lydia gave a carefree shrug, an easy smile on her lips. “Meeting us in a dark room or a nook where no one would disturb us. Perhaps we can even ask him to get a private room and disrobe prior to my arrival.” She chuckled at her ridiculous idea, but Honoria didn’t even smile, her expression growing more troubled with each word.
“Lydia, this is quite risky.”
“I know, I told you.” Lydia tried to appear confident, but her voice didn’t sound as convincing. She cleared her throat.
“And not just because you might get caught. You’re picking at old wounds that have barely healed.”
Lydia tried to laugh, but it came out more as a cough. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“And it’s quite last minute, too.”
“I work best under pressure.” Lydia lifted her chin defiantly, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
“What if you fail?”
“I won’t.” Lydia finally walked toward her friend and plopped on the bed beside her. “Because you shall be there, too.”
“Me?” Honoria’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her throat.
“Yes. It will be like the old times!” Lydia’s eyes sparkled with genuine excitement now. “Look, you shall wear a mask, so nobody will recognize you. And be honest, you want to enter the London scene once more before we leave, don’t you? I know you’ve never been to a masquerade.”
“Well…” Honoria hesitated, a flush creeping up her neck.
“I know you miss the balls and the social whirl. This will be our last escapade before we leave London forever.”
Honoria cleared her throat, unable to meet Lydia’s eager gaze. “Perhaps—”
“But the best part is,” Lydia pressed on, sensing her friend’s wavering resolve, “we can hand over the ring to Miss Monroe right away and just leave. It is high reward, because we don’t have to risk losing the jewel while we transport it to Miss Monroe or risk being hunted. We can just grab it, hand it over, and leave.”
Honoria’s face did not inspire confidence. Her fingers twisted in her skirts as doubt and confusion warred across her features. But she took a deep breath and nodded, nonetheless. “Very well. High risk and high reward it is.”
Chapter 12
