It had to be a woman. Someone who was clever, resourceful, and courageous, in a quiet sort of way. Most of all, he needed someone who was good at keeping secrets.
The majority of women he knew were fond of gossip and talking, all except for—
But of
course
. He knew the perfect candidate. She was so shy that he’d almost overlooked her, but he suspected that beneath her reserved demeanor she was more courageous than she let on.
He’d know soon enough.
He withdrew a piece of paper from his desk drawer, dipped the nib of his pen in the ink jar, and hastily scrawled a note to Lady Rose Sherbourne.
In the quietest part of the night, that magical hour or two after the carousers had gone to bed but before even the most industrious souls had awoken, three cloaked figures skulked down Fleet Street. They disappeared into an alley not far from a quaint but highly respected framing shop. If a door was kicked in, no one was there to hear it. And if a light shone from the back room of the little shop, no one was around to see it. The trio stayed as long as they dared and left just as quietly as they had come.
When Mr. Leemore arrived at his shop that morning, he scratched his head over the unlocked door, but a quick glance around the shop revealed nothing was amiss. His cash drawer was secure; his inventory was undisturbed. He would speak to his son about being more careful when closing up. As he donned his work apron, Mr. Leemore sniffed the air. Odd. The smell of oil paints was more pungent than usual today. Must be the humid London weather.
T
he evening had arrived.
The Foley ball was by far the most anticipated event of the season and—much to Daphne’s chagrin—promised to be huge crush. As she went through the motions of readying herself for the ball, she found it surprisingly easy to forget that she was counting down the minutes until her ruin.
She’d tried to anticipate what she’d feel like the moment the painting was unveiled but couldn’t seem to summon the necessary depth of shame and regret. She just couldn’t. It was like trying to imagine being shot in the chest. One
knew
it would not be good, but there was no way of knowing what kind of pain it would be or how well one would endure it.
When finally she made her way downstairs to leave, she actually felt a sense of relief, on at least two counts. First, she was able to walk. She’d feared that when the time came, her body would refuse to obey her mind and
she’d be frozen. She’d imagined Olivia and Rose carrying her under her stiff elbows and propping her up next to the punch table in the Foley ballroom. Apparently, it wouldn’t come to that.
Second, the waiting was over. Whatever was about to happen, at least it would be done with. The aftermath was bound to be messy and ugly… and probably lonely. But at least the cleanup could begin.
Since everyone in her household planned to attend, Owen agreed two coaches were needed to transport them the short distance to the Foley residence. Owen, Anabelle, and Mama rode in one; Daphne, Olivia, and Rose rode in the other.
Daphne stared out the window, mentally calculating the minutes that remained before she would be the object of disdain and censure.
One hundred thirty-nine minutes, at least. She reminded herself to breathe and then congratulated herself on accomplishing that small feat.
“Thank goodness Owen let us take a second coach. Had we squeezed ourselves into one, my dress would have had more wrinkles than all our great-aunts combined. Besides,” Olivia said, “this way I don’t have to endure my brother’s scowls.”
“He’s not scowling at
you
,” Rose corrected. “He’s scowling at your neckline.”
Olivia grinned and thrust her décolletage forward. “It
is
rather daring. James will surely notice these.”
“He will notice
you
,” Rose said sincerely, “and that would be true with or without the daring gown. You look beautiful, as does Daphne.”
Daphne attempted a smile, but her face felt numb. At
least it was fairly dark inside the cab. A couple of lanterns hanging outside the coach allowed them to see outlines and shadows but not much more. Daphne contemplated the chances of her being permitted to stay in the dark coach for the remainder of the evening.
Despite Rose’s kind words, Daphne didn’t
feel
beautiful. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Likewise, she crossed her arms to still their trembling. She’d eaten next to nothing that day, and her tea sloshed about in her stomach. Her palms were clammy and a droplet of perspiration trickled between her breasts.
No,
beautiful
was not the word to describe how she felt.
“Would you mind if I opened a window?” she asked, already fumbling with the latch.
Rose leaned across to help. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Just a bit nervous,” Daphne confessed. “It’s been some time since I’ve been to a ball.”
Olivia clapped her hands. “You both know, of course, who
I’m
excited to see this evening. It’s only fair that you two should reveal which gentlemen you are most eager to see.”
An alarmed look crossed Rose’s face and she shot a sympathetic look at Daphne. “No one in particular. This window is awfully stubborn, is it not?”
Daphne and Rose continued to make a great show of pushing and pulling at the small pane until their coach finally joined the queue that had formed in front of Foley House. As they waited their turn to disembark, Olivia abandoned her line of questioning and began a running commentary on the gowns worn by the women filing up the walk to the front door.
Though Daphne tried very hard to listen to Olivia’s opinion on epaulets, she was distracted. What were the chances of Lord Foley’s house catching fire and of the ball being canceled? If the portrait went up in flames, her most immediate problem would be solved. Of course, she wouldn’t want anyone to be harmed in the blaze. Although, she would not shed a tear if Miss Starling’s tresses were singed a little. Just enough to prevent her from tossing her curls over her shoulder in the way that made Daphne dig her fingernails into the heels of her hands.
A jab in Daphne’s side snapped her attention back to the grim reality that no inferno was forthcoming.
“You have the best seat for viewing,” Olivia said, “and you don’t even appreciate it.”
“Would you like to switch?”
Olivia frowned. She was probably debating whether shuffling seats was likely to result in a tear. “No. Just tell me about Lady Bonneville’s gown—it’s sparkling, if I’m not mistaken.
Daphne pressed her forehead to the window. The viscountess was, in fact, surprisingly incandescent. “She must have crystals sewn onto her dress. They’re twinkling in the moonlight and catching the light streaming from Lord Foley’s windows.” Such illumination must take at least a hundred candles. Perhaps not all hope was lost—a small fire was hardly out of the question.
“Ah, here we are at last,” said Olivia. “Rose, you go first.”
Now that they were alighting from the coach, Daphne’s nerves were drawn as tightly as her corset. The smart new-heeled slippers she’d worn felt as heavy as stone. If
Olivia hadn’t been behind her, practically pushing her out of the coach, she might have ridden it straight back home.
She, Olivia, and Rose lingered on the walk as the coach carrying Mama, Anabelle, and Owen pulled up and the passengers disembarked. Daphne concentrated on keeping her knees locked and her legs steady. Both coaches rolled away.
There was no going back now.
Anabelle’s gaze swept over her, from the delicate sleeves of her amber gown all the way to the flounced hem. “It looks even better than I’d hoped,” she whispered in Daphne’s ear. “I am a genius.”
Daphne forced a smile. “You look beautiful.”
“An hour ago I was letting out this gown. I think that must be a sign that the babe’s doing well—don’t you?”
“Absolutely.” She squeezed her arm. Even older sisters needed to be reassured sometimes.
“Are you ready?” From behind her spectacles, Anabelle’s gray eyes searched Daphne’s face.
Was she?
Was she ready to be ostracized? Ready to speak her mind, and—even more frightening—her heart?
“Ready.”
Arm in arm with Belle, she walked into Lord Foley’s elegant foyer and followed the meandering stream of guests into the ballroom.
The room, already crowded, buzzed with excitement. The orchestra tuned their instruments, and each discordant note sent a chill down her spine. Anabelle began talking with a lady who was also increasing, and Daphne looked around. At the end of the room opposite the doors
through which they’d entered loomed a large, ornate easel. It stood on a rectangular platform. The painting itself was covered, draped in decadent crimson silk brocade.
Daphne swallowed. Drawn to the easel like a sailor lured by sirens to rocky crags, she drifted closer.
“Where are you going?” Olivia scurried to her side. “You walked right past Lady Worsham.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just want to see it.” She gestured toward the painting.
“Everyone does. It’s not to be unveiled until midnight.”
“I know.” She weaved her way through the crowd, intent on getting as close as she could.
“Wait, I’ll go with you,” Olivia cried.
The nearer Daphne got to the easel, the thicker the crowd. Footmen stood guard on either side of the painting, their green livery clashing awfully with the fringed red silk covering the painting. Finally, she was as close as she could get without stepping onto the platform. The painting appeared larger than she remembered. Of course, she had never seen it framed. She’d only really looked at it once, after Thomas had declared it finished.
In the last few days, she’d tried to convince herself that perhaps it wasn’t so scandalous after all. That it had only
seemed
risqué because she’d been such an innocent at the time. But now that she stood in front of the painting, she could see that it was almost life-sized. Elevated as it was, every detail of her form would be scrutinized.
Dear God.
Maybe she should have prepared Mama and Belle for what was about to take place, warned them of the impending shame. But no, she couldn’t have. They would have insisted on shielding her and never would have permitted
her to come. And if she hadn’t come, she wouldn’t have had the chance to do what she needed to.
What she
would
do.
Olivia clucked her tongue. “I feel sorry for the woman. Do you think she’s here tonight?”
Daphne’s mouth went dry. “She’d have to be very bold to come. Or very stupid.”
“I, for one, hope she’s here.”
“Why?”
Olivia shrugged. “It would make tonight utterly unforgettable.”
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
As they crossed the ballroom to rejoin the rest of their party, Daphne searched for Ben’s brown, closely shorn curls. He’d said he’d be here, but his leg could be paining him, or he could have changed his mind. She couldn’t really blame him for wanting to avoid the entire scene.
She refused champagne offered by a passing waiter—she needed to keep her wits about her. Olivia took a glass, however, which gave her older brother something besides her neckline to frown about.
Heavens. If Owen was dismayed by Olivia’s behavior, what on earth would he think of Daphne after the painting was unveiled? He might forbid her to see his and Anabelle’s baby for fear that she’d be a bad influence. A lump lodged in her throat. She couldn’t imagine a steeper price.
Just as Daphne and Olivia reached Mama and the others, a shrill voice called out, “Out of the way! These young people have no manners, no respect for their elders.”
“Good evening, Lady Bonneville,” said Rose.
The white-haired viscountess’s lorgnette snapped up with the precision of a soldier raising his bayonet. Her
sharp eyes took in Rose, Olivia, Owen, Anabelle, Mama, and Daphne in turn. To Mama, she said, “Marion, you would do well to join me over by the potted palms. It appears Lord Foley has invited all of England to witness the spectacle of the portrait. Personally, I do not understand the fascination. You’d think the
ton
had never seen Aphrodite’s breasts or Apollo’s dangling bits.”
“Henrietta!” Mama cried.
“What? I speak the truth. If you remain here, you run the risk of being trampled by young bucks who have partaken of too many spirits. Come with me. We shall have a better view of the evening’s festivities from the gallery anyway.” She grabbed Mama’s wrist and pulled her along before halting and spinning to face them with impressive agility.
“Where is Lord Foxburn?” she demanded.
Daphne could have kissed the viscountess for asking the question she hadn’t dared.
Owen shrugged. “I saw him earlier today. He mentioned that he’d be here. However, he looked rather preoccupied. A bit tired, too.”
Daphne nibbled her bottom lip. His leg must be hurting. She wished she could go to him, as she had before. Only to massage his leg or apply a poultice. The mere memory of her visit to his bedchamber made her cheeks flame—a fact that did not go unnoticed by Lady Bonneville.
“Good Lord, gel,” she said with obvious distaste. “You needn’t pine over him so. If Foxburn said he’d be here, he will. Something tells me that nothing could keep him away from this particular ball.” Her gaze traveled the length of Daphne’s gown, all the way down to her slippers.
To Anabelle, she said, “This is one of yours?” She inclined her head toward the golden dress.
Anabelle smiled mysteriously.
“It’s good. Very good.” The viscountess pursed her lips as if she were considering the possibility of hiring the duchess to make a gown for her. If anyone would have the gall to ask, it would be Lady Bonneville. “Come, Marion. Let’s leave the young folk to their own devices. They’ll have more fun without us, and we shall have infinitely more fun without them.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” Mama waffled. But she really had no choice. Lady Bonneville was quite adamant.
The orchestra began to play.
Guests continued to file in. Mr. Averill arrived, which was a great relief to Olivia and also to Daphne and Rose, who no longer had to endure Olivia’s constant angst over his whereabouts.