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“We'll do no such thing.” Wells readjusted his spectacles. “Not after all the work we've done.”
Breanna's brows drew together in puzzlement. “Pardon me?”
“Mrs. Charles and I. We waited until half of November was gone. When you didn't begin planning the party, we did. The guest list was completed by the first of December, and invitations went out last week. Mrs. Rhodes is hard at work on the menu, and I believe she and Mrs. Charles have hired the musicians as well. The day after Miss Stacie arrives home, you and she can pick out the fabrics for your gowns. They'll be ready within a week. Of course, anything I've forgotten, including any last-minute touches, will be left to the two of you.”
Disbelief flashed across Breanna's face, and laughter bubbled up in her throat. “Would you care to tell me when this party will take place?”
“T
he twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth of December. That will give Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake plenty of time to arrive and settle in, and all of us a chance to enjoy a quiet holiday as a family before our guests descend upon us. It will also give you a chance to breathe before your stream of callers arrive on New Year's Day.” Wells's lips twitched. “The same stream of callers that filled those rare hours when you weren't overseeing the building of Miss Stacie's new home. Why, it's no wonder you were too busy to remember your wish to hold this party—and to plan it.”
Breanna stopped laughing only long enough to toss Wells a sheepish look. “You're right. And I'm sorry.” She stood on tiptoe, kissed Wells's lined cheek. “You, my friend, have rescued me more times than I care to count. You're a constant source of amazement.”
A coiner of his mouth lifted as he took her mantle, hung it away. “You and Miss Stacie keep me young. Exhausted, but young.” He turned back to her, growing sober. “However, there is one difference. Miss Stacie has found the future your grandfather prayed she'd find. She's happy, whole. But you—I worry about you, Miss Breanna. You're still searching. You rarely consider your own happiness. So it's up to me to do it for you.”
“By happiness I assume you mean properly wed,” Breanna noted dryly. She gave Wells's arm a squeeze. “Well, stop worrying. I barely give marriage a second thought”
“I know. That's why I worry.”
She chewed her lip to keep from chuckling at his forlorn tone. “I hate to shatter your dreams, Wells, but if you've planned this party in the hopes that I'll meet my future husband there, you're bound for disappointment I'm doubtless acquainted with all the guests you've chosen to invite. And, as I conjure up a memory of each one of them...” She wrinkled her nose. “Let's just say it's unlikely I'll be making any wedding plans this coming year.” A sudden notion struck, and she arched a suspicious brow in Wells's direction. “I do know all our guests, don't I, Wells? You haven't arranged any chance encounters with potential suitors?”
He sighed. “Unfortunately, no. Although not for want of trying. It's just that all the eligible gentlemen I had in mind are unavailable; either because they're away or because they have the poor judgment to be involved with other women—women who are unquestionably less remarkable than you. However, I'm hoping that Lord Sheldrake will be able to suggest—”
“No,” Breanna “interrupted. “I don't want Damen playing Cupid.”
“But—”
“Absolutely not.” She gave a vehement shake of her head. The gesture loosened one of her smoothly coiffed auburn tresses enough to send it toppling to her neck—a condition she promptly rectified by tucking the tress back beneath its pin. “I'll leave my future to fate. And so will you,” she added meaningfully.
Before Wells could further his argument, a knock sounded at the front door.
Breanna pivoted about, eyeing the door quizzically. “Are we expecting anyone?”
“Perhaps fate,” Wells suggested wryly.
A grin. “Then by all means, let her in.”
Wells complied, turning the handle and swinging the door wide.
A uniformed messenger stood on the step, turning up his collar against the winter chill. “I have a package for Lady Breanna Colby,” he announced to Wells, gripping a box in both hands.
“I am she.” Breanna stepped forward, accepting the package and examining it curiously. “I wonder who it's from,” she murmured, waiting until the messenger had received his shillings and gone before investigating further.
“One of your suitors, perhaps?”
“I don't have any suitors, Wells,” she corrected, wriggling the top off the box. “I merely have...” Her voice trailed off as she peeled back the paper, looked inside. “What in the name of...” She placed the box on a low table in the hallway, and lifted out two small dolls, both with red hair and green eyes. The dolls wore identical pale-blue day dresses. Each frock was torn in the same spot—on the left side of the chest— and was marred by a bright spot of what appeared to be red paint.
Red paint that looked for all the world like blood.
“Who sent these?” Wells demanded, scowling at the dolls.
A cold knot of dread was beginning to form in Breanna's stomach—a knot she couldn't explain but that tightened more with each passing second.
Her heart thudding faster, she reached back into the box, snatching up the small square note that had been propped against the dolls' heads so as not to go unnoticed.
She unfolded it, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue as she steeled herself.
The words leapt out at her, and she read them twice, icy fear slashing through her in ruthless talons. “Oh my God.” She dropped the note, all the color draining from her face as she backed away.
