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“Miss Breanna.” Wells greeted her at the foot of the steps, beaming with a paternal pride that was as intense as if she were his own child. “Y ou look lovely.”
“Thank you, Wells.” Breanna squeezed his arm, grateful that a guard had been assigned to act as butler for the evening—not only because it meant added protection, but because it meant Wells could see the fruits of his labor by stationing himself at the ballroom door.
A cluster of chatting matrons breezed by, so engrossed in their gossip that they never noticed Breanna. They hovered at the ballroom doorway—all shimmering jewels and rustling silk—finishing their whispered conversation, then hastened in to rejoin the party.
A wave of familiar nervousness accosted Breanna in a rush, bringing with it the lingering remnants of a shy child who'd stayed in the background, let her bolder, more outspoken cousin lead the way.
“Wells,” she murmured tentatively, rubbing her skirts between her fingers. “Would you do me the honor of escorting me in? You know how I hate making entrances.”
Wells frowned, fully aware of Breanna's reticence— and its cause. “Your father's gone, Miss Breanna,” he reminded her gently. “And, yes, I know you hate making entrances. You hate anything that makes you the center of attention. Well, tonight you are the center of attention—you and Miss Stacie. This party is in your honor. I refuse to pretend otherwise.”
He cupped Breanna's elbow, guided her toward the ballroom. “In the eyes of the ton, I'm a butler. Which doesn't bother me a bit. I take great pride in my position. Besides, you and Miss Stacie view me as family, and that's all that matters. My point is, I won't escort you. That would cause those women who just passed by here to swoon, which would, in turn, detract from your entrance. What I will do is announce you—just as I announced Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake. How would that be?”
Breanna stu
died the throngs of people, the movement of light and color as laughing couples whirled about the dance floor, helped themselves to plates of food and glasses of punch. There were easily a hundred and fifty people already filling the room.
Her gut clenched.
“Please, Miss Breanna,” Wells urged, resorting to the one tactic he knew would work. “Do it for me.”
How could she not? Especially when he was looking at her like a proud father about to present his treasure to the world.
“All right, Wells,” she managed. “Let's get this over with. Once everyone stops staring at me, I'll be fine.”
“You're already fine,” he countered. “You're far more than fine. In less than one minute, you'll be swamped by admirers, most of whom will be totally unworthy. I, myself, shall keep an eye on things, make sure you're not pestered by any one suitor for too long. Should you need further reinforcements, Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake are directly to your right, chatting with Lord and Lady Dutton and the Earl and Countess of Geldrick. Actually, they're not chatting. Both men are frantically trying to make amends to Miss Stacie for their stupidity in snubbing her business proposition last summer. And Miss Stacie is having fun watching them squirm. She's already done the same to the Duke of Maywood, the Marquess of Radebrook, and the Viscount Crompton.” Breanna couldn't help but laugh. “Thank you, fells. For pointing out where I can find a safe haven and for giving me that status report.”
“Your safe haven. I'm glad you brought that up.” Wells's humor vanished, and his uneasy gaze traveled the room. “Lord Royce is near the French doors. So are two guards. The others are positioned everywhere on the estate. Given that a third nobleman was murdered in London last week, no one will question the added security. In fact, they'll be grateful for it. So relax and have fun. All will be well.” Soberly, Breanna nodded, sickened by the re-minder of what was fast becoming an epidemic of killings. Three men had now died, and their wives had vanished. The whole situation was terrifying. Between that and the fear surrounding her own dilemma...
Her worried thoughts were interrupted by Wells trumpeting, “May I present this evening's other love ly honoree, Lady Breanna Colby. While I realize Lady Breanna is your hostess, I am temporarily relieving her of that role—long enough to ask you to join me in wishing her a very happy birthday.”
Wells's utterly unconventional announcement yielded a round of laughter and a host of good-natured wishes. It also did wonders for easing Breanna's unsettled state—a state that had escalated from mere anxiety over a public appearance to blind fear over armed killers.
“You're incorrigible,” she told Wells affectionately, grateful as always for his innate understanding of her. She knew he'd very intentionally made her entrance more relaxed and less ceremonious. And she loved him for it.
Drawing a slow breath, she walked into the room, greeting her guests as she did, finding that it was infinitely easier than expected to act the part of hostess. Many of her guests approached to thank her for considerately adding so many guards to the estate since, as expected, they were all terribly nervous about the string of murders taking place.
Breanna scarcely had time to answer before she was swept up into a whirl of activity, being claimed for a dance, then moving from one partner to another. She found herself wishing she could stop long enough to take a breath and exchange a word with Stacie.
Not that her cousin was any more idle than she. Dressed in an exquisite gown of bottle-green silk overlaid with French gauze, Stacie was holding her own kind of court. With Damen adhered firmly to her side, she was politely accepting the stammering apologies of a half dozen businessmen—apologies, Breanna suspected, that were motivated by equal doses of regret over their missed profit-making opportunities and worry over the glares they were receiving from Damen Lockewood, whose bank was at the heart of all their ventures. As she circled the dance floor with the arrogant nd handsome Lord Percy Gilbert, Breanna caught Stacie's eye, saw the amusement there, and nearly laughed aloud. Those poor men. They didn't stand a chance.
The strings fell silent, and Breanna was just about to excuse herself and head toward Stacie and Damen when she heard a soft, feminine voice ask, “Breanna, may I speak with you?”
She turned, surprised to see Lady Margaret Warner waiting impatiently beside her.
As the most sought-after young woman in the crowd, Margaret never approached anyone, certainly lot at a ball. She waited for them to approach her. Ever coy, friendly but not eager, Margaret was always surrounded by far too many friends and admirers to weak free and chat. True, she and Breanna had become friends over the past months, but doing needlepoint together and seeking her out at a ball were two different things entirely.
“Margaret.” Breanna hid her surprise well. “Of course.” She smiled at Lord Percy. “You'll excuse us?”
“Of course he will.” There was that flirtatious charm Margaret exuded so well. She gazed intently at Gilbert, batted those long, irresistible lashes, and murmured, “His lordship, understands that we ladies have things to discuss. You don't mind, do you?”
Gilbert bowed, an anticipatory gleam flashing in his eyes. “Of course not.”
“I knew you'd understand.” She touched his arm, ever so slightly. “Thank you.” With that, she led Breanna off, guiding her close to the musicians so whatever they discussed would be drowned out once the dancing recommenced.
The next set began and Margaret came to a halt, pivoting about, the skirts of her blush-colored gown swirling about her ankles like a pastel cloud. “This ball is delightful,” she told Breanna with an unexpectedly warm squeeze of her hands. “The whole party is a stunning success.”
“I'm glad you're enjoying yourself.” Breanna offered her new friend a genuine, if puzzled, smile. She waited, wondering what the real reason was behind Margaret's unprecedented behavior.
