“My lord,” Amber said in a throaty voice she hoped sounded seductive and not hoarse. She’d been told her lower tones were already quite exciting to gentlemen, and she hoped taking them a degree lower would only add to the appeal. She moved closer, enough that she knew he could smell her cologne—and hardly ignore the neckline of her dress as he was trying to do since his first notice of it. “I must tell you that—”
“Lord Sunther?”
Amber whipped her head around and narrowed her eyes when she saw Darra standing a short distance away with another debutante. “What is happening here?”
“Miss Darra,” Lord Sunther said, taking two large steps away from Amber, his ears nearing to burst into flames they were so bright. “I . . . Miss Sterlington wanted to see the statuary. I studied art history at Cambridge and was telling her of the different pieces. Would you like to join us on a tour?”
Darra looked between the two of them, keeping her expression neutral. She let her gaze finally settle on Lord Sunther and smiled sweetly. “My mother has requested Amber attend to her. My apologies for the interference in your tour.”
“Not at all,” Lord Sunther said, shaking his head. “We were nearly finished, were we not, Miss Sterlington?”
Amber hardly knew how to react, especially as she looked between Darra and Lord Sunther and saw what her mother had warned her was there—mutual affection. She had already lost Lord Norwin’s interest this night, but now she realized she’d lost Lord Sunther even before that. In the process she had betrayed herself with such a low display of her own character.
Embarrassed by her behavior and frightened at her dwindling prospects, Amber walked past her sister and the girl she did not know without speaking, intent on the stairs that led back to the ballroom and away from this place of humiliation. Darra must have followed them up the stairs. Had she known what Amber was planning? The thought embarrassed her even more.
She reached the stairs and lifted her skirts as she began her descent, her thoughts tangling, her concerns growing, and questions regarding her own character overwhelming any good thought in regards to herself. She heard another footfall on the stairs and turned to see Darra’s companion a few steps behind her. Amber did not recognize her and wondered if she was new to London
during Amber’s absence.
At the top of the stairs was Lord Sunther with Darra on his arm—his ears nearly returned to their normal shade. They looked so comfortable together, so . . . happy. Amber felt tears in her eyes at the full realization. They
had
found a connection between themselves that Amber had not found with any man. Would she ever find it?
What she’d said to her mother about requiring the first choice of men and her desire to outrank her younger sister suddenly sounded so infantile, so beyond the point. Why could Amber not be happy for her sister? Why could she not find someone with such affinity herself?
She was nearly to the base of the stairs when she felt someone brush against her skirt from behind. Startled, she turned to see Darra’s friend only one step above her. At the same moment, there was a tug at the back of her head as the girl took hold of the crowning braid of the wig and pulled. Amber grabbed for the girl’s hand, but then felt the girl’s fingers slide beneath the binding. This girl was not simply pulling Amber’s hair without understanding it was not real, she was attempting to remove the wig entirely!
“No, please.” Amber could not keep a grip as the girl moved backward up the stairs, holding tightly to Amber’s wig as she went. Amber stumbled upward and back, tripping on her skirts. She let go of the girl’s arm and grabbed hold of the wig with both hands, pulling it against her head while attempting to hurry down the stairs, away from this fiend and her dark intentions.
The girl did not let go but moved down the stairs with her, a firm grip on the edge of the wig just behind Amber’s right ear. Two steps from the bottom, Amber tripped on her dress and fell against the railing. The girl fell with her, knocking her down and causing them both to tumble down the remaining stairs. Amber hit her knee, then her hip, and ended in a heap at the bottom of the flamboyant marble stairs, tangled in the layered fabric of her dress and dazed from the fall.
She was vaguely aware of the girl scrambling away amid the sound of gasps and screams from the crowd concentrated in the ballroom. The orchestra staggered to a stop as Amber attempted to right herself, using her hands to push herself into a sitting position. After regaining her equilibrium, she blinked up at the crowd, took in their horrified expressions that felt too severe, and then gingerly reached up to touch her head as her chest went cold. Instead of feeling the comforting bulk of the wig, she felt nothing but the remnants of her own cropped hair and the remaining damage to her scalp.
No wig. No binding.
She could not breathe as reality descended upon her in the form of pointing fingers, open mouths, and shocked expressions of the
ton
Amber knew in an instant she no longer belonged to.
Chapter 14
The ripple of horrified gasps moved through the crowd like a wave, drawing Thomas’s attention away from the gentlemen with whom he was conversing and toward the other side of the room. People were moving that direction, their reactions rising in volume. Thomas was merely curious until he saw Darra Sterlington standing beside Lord Sunther in the middle of the stairway, above the rest of the crowd. Darra’s face was pale as she stared at something below her. Lord Sunther was equally shocked, his mouth open and his eyes the size of saucers.
“What’s that all about?” Fenton asked, waving idly toward the tightening crowd.
“Perhaps Mrs. Miston’s stays finally gave out,” Sir Crosby said with a grin. “If so, you owe me forty pounds, Fenton.”
Thomas grunted in a semblance of laughter until he heard a cry that struck recognition within him. The sound of sobbing reached his ears a moment later. He pivoted in an instant but was jostled to the side as Lady Marchent made her way quickly toward the source of the distress. Thomas looked at Darra Sterlington for only a moment before falling in step behind Lady Marchent.
The Sterlington family had arrived together shortly after he and Fenton had been introduced, and he had noted Miss Sterlington as he did every time she entered a room. She had not presented as the shining diamond she’d been earlier in the season, her recent illness had dimmed her somewhat, but his reaction to her was as strong and unwelcome as ever. He’d set about avoiding her for this evening, as he always did when they attended the same events. Where was she now? From the urgency of Lady Marchent’s movements and the look upon Darra Sterlington’s face he feared he was about to find out.
Lady Marchent attempted to push her way through the crowd and Thomas stepped in front of her to help part the guests until they reached the edge of the circle of people assessing the scene. Huddled at the base of the stairs was the very subject of his pondering, curled around herself with her arms over her head as she sobbed and rocked back and forth. Her emerald-colored skirts were askew, and a silver slipper lay discarded some feet away. Had she fallen down the steps? Was she injured?
He moved aside so Lady Marchent could reach her daughter and therefore was close enough to hear Lady Marchent grumble under her breath, “Stupid girl,” before she came to a stop several feet away from her daughter.
Miss Sterlington looked up at her mother and in the process revealed herself. A fresh reaction rose through the crowd, and Thomas fell back a step in shock. That hair—so beautiful and admired—existed now only in short tufts interspersed between red welts and scabs. If not for the large green eyes—desperate and frightened—he would doubt it was Miss Sterlington at all. But it
was
her. What had happened?
“Diseased,” he heard a woman say behind him.
“Repulsive,” a man repeated.
The sound that bubbled up from Miss Sterlington’s throat sounded like that of a child. “Mama,” she cried.
Her mother did not go to her, however, and though Thomas could not see her face, he imagined Lady Marchent’s reaction was not much different than everyone else in the crowd. Was no one to help her? The look on Miss Sterlington’s face was of such pain and distress that he quickly shrugged off his coat and stepped forward, in front of Lady Marchent who had not approached any closer than anyone else in the room.
Miss Sterlington looked at him, first with fear and then gratitude as she seemed to realize his intent. She lifted a hand toward his coat, and he helped throw it over her head. She pulled the lapels tight beneath her chin, hiding her horrifying head, and turned her splotchy face to her mother. “Mama,” she said in that same pathetic voice. “Help me.”
The words seemed to hang in the air, as if her mother were still considering whether assisting her daughter was the best course, but then a servant to Carlton House stepped forward.
The footman helped Miss Sterlington to her feet—she seemed to have injured her ankle—and then turned to Lady Marchent. “Which is your carriage, Madam?”
Thomas looked at the embarrassed expression of Lady Marchent as the woman finally moved to her daughter. She ushered the footman and Miss Sterlington toward a doorway. Thomas stood with the crowd as they made their exit, Thomas’s coat disappearing with them. Darra Sterlington followed a few steps behind her mother and sister, her head hung low, avoiding eye contact with anyone. The whispers and twittering continued until the orchestra started up again.
When had it stopped?
Thomas wondered.
The guests slowly began to move away from the scene of Miss Sterlington’s humiliation, but Thomas remained rooted in place, reviewing what he’d seen and what it meant. Her head was revolting, just as someone had said, and yet the look on her face, the fear and humility was . . . striking. He could not make sense of it and fought the urge to go after her. If he could think of a purpose in his pursuit perhaps he would do it.
“Good grief,” Fenton said as he came up beside Thomas and looked in the direction Miss Sterlington had disappeared. “If that is not the most fearsome spectacle I have ever seen in my life, I don’t know what is. And at Prinny’s ball, no less.” He tsked before taking a long drink of his champagne. “And you’re left in your shirtsleeves, almost as shocking.”
Thomas looked at his grinning friend, dazed by the events of the last few minutes. “What has happened to her?”
“I’ve only ever seen a condition like that on the most disease-riddled rakes,” Fenton said, still smiling. “Every man in this room is thanking the heavens for fair warning, or perhaps some men are even now shaking in their boots for what may yet come upon them.”
“That is beyond the pale,” Thomas said sharply, causing Fenton to raise his eyebrows in surprise as his smile fell. Most times, Thomas appreciated his friend’s lightness but not in this. “Miss Sterlington has given no reason for anyone to suspect her virtue. She is not some cur who’s made his rounds with lightskirts for a decade or more.”
“Begging your pardon, Richards,” Fenton said, looking surprised at Thomas’s reprimand. “I simply know of no other explanation for such a condition. We have both remarked at her excessive flirting, have we not?”
“If flirting is a reflection of virtue, than you are in serious peril of your own reputation, Fenton.”
Fenton did not make a joke of Thomas’s rebuttal as Thomas had known he would not. Fenton’s morality was higher than that of most men, though he did not draw attention to what most of society saw as a flaw rather than a virtue. Thomas would have expected Fenton’s morality to give him more decorum in such a matter. “Touché,” Fenton said with adequate humility before finishing his glass. “I think I shall get another drink.”
Once alone, Thomas looked about himself to see a few quickly averted glances. Surely the other guests were commenting on the impropriety of him being without his coat at such a high-
ton
event. He shook his head, disgusted with the whole of London and society in general. A young woman had faced public humiliation of the worst kind and yet they still had enough judgment left for his lack of a coat.
Thomas had no doubt that everyone in the room was drawing the same conclusion Fenton had: that whatever had caused the hideous state of Miss Sterlington’s hair and head was a result of some immoral action on her part. Miss Sterlington, and perhaps her entire family, could face ruin simply from the rumor of the possibility. Doors would be shut, gossip would infect morning visits, and the attention Miss Sterlington had received until now would turn on her completely.
Another servant approached him and leaned forward to speak softly. “Sir, may I assist you in locating a coat so that you will be properly attired?”
“Thank you, no,” Thomas said, keeping his back straight and his chin up. “I have had all the entertainment I can stand for one night. Good evening.”
Chapter 15
Three days after the ball at Carlton House, Amber was summoned to Lord Marchent’s study. She wore a mobcap and her dressing gown as she entered the room, head down and hands clasped behind her back.
“Do sit down, Amber,” Lord Marchent said, waving her to a leather chair. Amber sat on the edge of the cushion, her body rigid with expectation. Lady Marchent was seated in another chair, her hands folded demurely in her lap.
“I have made arrangements,” Lord Marchent said, looking over his spectacles at his eldest daughter. He was a handsome man, with a full head of hair just beginning to gray at the temples and piercing green eyes that Amber had inherited. Unlike many men his age, he had not grown portly and soft, but was as broad as any young buck, but with the presence and severity of a man of title.
More than ever before, Amber marked him as much a stranger to her as any other young woman’s father. He was Lord Marchent, and not much else; she wondered if he felt the same detachment to her as she felt to him.
“Your mother has spoken to you about returning to Hampton Grove for the duration of the season,” he continued. “She says you do not wish to return there.”