Unmasking the Thief, page 17
“Who is the lady with Francis?” she asked her partner carelessly.
“Afraid I don’t know either of them.”
Seething, though no longer with any clear idea why, Emma got through supper, although, unable to bear it the bitter end, she excused herself to her swain and made her way to the ladies’ cloakroom. It was blessedly quiet there, with only Lady Rampton present, along with her maid, who was stitching some torn flounce.
The two ladies exchanged distant smiles. Emma’s late mama had been Lady Rampton’s godmother, but though they had known each other forever, they had never got on. Lady Rampton, married to the Marquess of Sedgemoor’s heir, was a high stickler and had never approved of Emma’s frivolity. While Emma found the other woman Friday-faced and dull. However, she kept relations cordial, and had, in fact, introduced Anthony Thorne to both Lord Rampton and his politically influential father, the marquess.
Emma went to a looking glass, wondering whether to summon her maid, just for something to do. She tugged at a couple of ringlets and adjusted a hairpin before smoothing her skirts. The damp petticoats had dried in the heat of the ballroom.
The cloakroom door opened, and a lady in blue drifted behind Emma toward a privacy screen. A few spiteful ideas offered themselves to Emma, including knocking down the screen and exposing the wretched female. But there seemed little point with so few people here to appreciate it.
Instead, since Lady Rampton was leaving, Emma went with her, murmuring, “A moment’s peace to set one up for the second act,” she said humorously. “Shocking squeeze, is it not?”
“Shocking,” Lady Rampton agreed.
“I don’t suppose you know that lady in blue who came in after us? She is quite beautiful, though I am sure I have never laid eyes on her before.”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Lady Rampton said dryly. “If I ever knew her name, I’ve forgotten it, because of course, we have not been introduced. She is merely the governess to the Dove children, so what Grace Wenning is about inviting her here, I have no idea.”
Emma blinked. “Governess?”
“Yes, astonishing, isn’t it? I only know because my brother-in-law Dominic married into the family, and I don’t mind telling you, Emma, they are not quite the thing. Eccentric, you know. We encountered them in the park one day.” She shuddered delicately. “It was not the match I would have chosen for dear Dominic, but there, he had been through a great deal, and his father felt obliged to allow it.”
Emma, conscious of a rare urge to hug the other woman, smiled brilliantly instead.
Did Francis know she was a mere governess? Was he just being kind to her? She was halfway to the ballroom before she made the obvious connection.
Sir Anthony Thorne.
Thorne’s betrothed had an inconvenient sister who was a governess to the Doves. The wretched lady in blue was the sister of Marion Mather, soon to be Lady Thorne.
And considering how Thorne had treated Emma since the arrival of his wife-to-be in London, she had no compunction about encompassing his discomfort in her cunning little revenge plot.
Chapter Seventeen
Matty had never imagined a ball could be like this. Or at least, not since she was seventeen years old and had actually attended one for the first time. In the country, she had always enjoyed the dancing, the meeting up with old friends, but the awkward flirtations and jealousies and the spiteful comments that resulted had put her off. As had the excessive formality and the rules of behavior governing a young lady in public. Even before Sir Anthony had picked her up and dropped her for another, balls had become a disappointment to her.
She had expected no better of this one. Worse, in fact, for as a mere governess, even one who had helped her hostess’s sister out of a scrape, she knew she had no right to be here among the ton. She had come, pathetically, because Francisco had asked it of her, and she had been prepared to help him. But since he had asked her to dance, her world seemed to have changed. As if he no longer flirted with her, but…courted her.
The whole evening had turned breathless and wonderful. She had even enjoyed herself with the Dunnes, joining in their lively conversation and banter and beginning to know Francisco just a little better. And she liked him all the more. She liked his quick ripostes and his sardonic humor, his knowledge of the world that infused any more serious conversation.
Afterward, her trip to the cloakroom had been largely to calm herself, to ground herself back in reality. But her heart still beat for Francisco.
Returning to the ballroom, she heard the orchestra playing once more. It was time to find Marion and her mother, whom she had scarcely even glimpsed all evening, though inevitably her eyes sought and found Francisco first. He was walking with his host, the Earl of Wenning, though she could not tell if their conversation was lighthearted or serious. Wenning was a diplomat with government connections and a seat in the Lords.
She came across her mother almost by accident and sat down beside her. “Well, Mama? Are you glad we came?” She followed her parent’s gaze to Marion in a lively country dance. “Marion is.”
“I imagine you are, too,” Mama said smugly. “An earl and a duke among your dance partners, I’m told. And the earl at least is not married. Who was the gentleman who took you into supper?”
“Mr. Francis,” she said casually. “Where is Sir Anthony?”
“Dancing with Lady Wenning.”
“Why, so he is.”
“He is an important man,” Mama said with another trace of self-congratulation.
“Do you know,” Matty said casually, “that he is already living off his expectations of Marion’s fortune?”
Two spots of color appeared on Mama’s cheeks. “Don’t be vulgar, Matilda.”
“The vulgarity isn’t mine.”
“It is when you bring it up at such a time! You’ve never forgiven him, have you? You are jealous of your sister’s good fortune.”
“I have forgiven him, for we would never have suited.”
Her mother sniffed derisively. They said no more on the subject since other people came and sat near them, and in due course, Marion returned with shining eyes, making Matty smile at her sheer enjoyment. And only minutes later, Lady Wenning appeared with a handsome widower, whom she introduced to them as, clearly, another prospective dance partner.
“Oh, and here is Mr. Francis, too,” she added as Francisco appeared at her shoulder. “I suspect he needs no introduction. Don’t forget, gentlemen, the next dance is a waltz!” She smiled and bustled off.
Feeling heat tinge her skin, Matty introduced Francis to her mother and sister. The widower, fortunately, shook Francis’s hand and gave his own surname—Danvers—which Matty had already forgotten.
And then, without clearly recalling how, Matty found herself back in Francisco’s arms, waltzing.
He held her just a shade too close. “When this is finished, Matty Mather, will you talk to me?”
“I’m talking to you now.”
“Yes, but holding you in my arms, it seems I am quite incapable of thinking what is best for you, for us. When I’m free…”
“The whole world is not sitting on your shoulders, Francisco,” she said gently. “You must decide what is best for you. And I will look after myself.” She smiled. “And thus, your troubles are halved.”
“No, they’re not,” he said on the ghost of a laugh and swept her around and backward, and somehow, they were on the terrace, dancing in the chill of the evening, the breeze stirring her hair and cooling her skin.
Inside, however, she was warm and, somehow, both contented and excited. His eyes were intent on hers as they danced more slowly to the end of the fortunately empty terrace—thank God for a chilly spring night!—and finally stood still.
“May I?” he asked huskily.
It was the only time he had asked permission. But God knew she had no desire to refuse him.
“Yes,” she whispered and lifted her face to his.
This kiss was different, too, achingly tender, soft, and sweet, almost like a vow. And it might have stayed that way had she not panicked when she felt him draw back and wrapped her arms fiercely around him, opening her lips to command, to plead. And then, with a sound between a groan and a sigh, his tongue drove into her mouth, and he plundered, demanding her ever-deeper response.
She gasped, returning his kiss with all the emotion and arousal that had been building between them all evening. His hand cradled her nape, deliciously caressing, while his arm pressed her so close into his body, she could feel every inch of him. His free hand swept down her side, moving in to cup her breast, and she thought she would faint with pleasure.
She clung harder, trying to drag him closer, and then a voice sounded behind them. His mouth left hers, and he whisked her around the corner out of sight.
She stared up at him, still dazed. Almost idly, his fingers massaged her nape while he listened for any shocked laughter or ribald comment that would signal they had been seen.
None came. It seemed to be two military gentlemen enjoying a cigarillo together on the main terrace.
Francisco’s gaze came back to hers, at once humorous and rueful. “Close,” he whispered in her ear. He reached behind her, and she saw that he was trying the handle of another, single door to the ballroom. It gave beneath his fingers.
“You first,” he whispered. “And we shall finish our dance with a little more propriety…” He kissed her mouth one last time, brief and hard, before releasing her.
Her hands trembled slightly as she straightened her gown and checked her hair, which was still miraculously in place. No doubt he had great experience at all but ravishing ladies at balls without any outward signs. He gave her a crooked smile, as though suspecting the direction of her thoughts, and opened the door for her. She slipped inside, looking quickly around to be sure no one was paying her any attention.
An instant later, Francisco’s fingers twined in hers, drawing her behind a group of chattering dowagers, and then between two empty chairs, back onto the dance floor. A shiver of laughter shook her, reflected in his eyes as he laughed silently back.
Why had she ever thought his eyes cold or hard? They really were not at all, not when they looked at her. I love you, she thought in wonder. I really, truly love you…
*
It had been decided the day before that Matty should return with the Doves and their young cousin, who had been pressed into service as escort for the occasion. However, leaving her mother and sister in the capable care of Sir Anthony Thorne, it was not easy to find Mrs. Dove in the chaos of everyone’s departure.
Eventually realizing that they were no longer in the ballroom, Matty made her way to the cloakroom to find her borrowed evening cloak and outdoor shoes, then on to the front hallway in a fresh crush of people. She had just reached the foot of the staircase when she was accosted by a lady who held her back.
“Why you are Miss Mather, are you not?”
Matty brought her distracted gaze to focus on Lady Carntree. “Yes, I am.”
“I’m Emma Carntree.”
“I recognize you,” Matty admitted. “I have seen you at Mrs. Dove’s house.”
Emma’s smile dawned, not malicious precisely, but very, very amused. “Where you are the governess.”
“I am,” Matty said, neither proud nor defiant.
“And you are a friend of Mr. Francis?”
Wary now, Matty allowed herself to be drawn aside from any listening ears, while the throng pressed forward to the front door, calling to each other, to their maids and footmen, and to their host and hostess.
“I am acquainted with Mr. Francis, yes. I’m afraid your ladyship must excuse me. Mrs. Dove is expecting me.”
“One moment of your time will be of considerable benefit, Miss Mather. I would guess we are probably of an age, but my experience of the fashionable world is infinitely greater. You might call me a veteran of the London Season, and I could not live with myself if I did not warn you of the danger.”
“What danger?” Matty was growing impatient and kept her attention on the front door. She could not see the Doves or their cousin.
“Francis and other men of his ilk. They flirt, they fawn upon the ladies of the ton and interfere, you might say, with each other’s domestic arrangements. Since they are gentlemen, of course, unmarried ladies should be safe from ravishment and seduction.”
Matty jerked her gaze back to Emma’s, a blistering retort rising to her lips, and was stayed by the other woman’s smile.
“Only, you’re not, are you?” Emma said gently. “A lady, I mean. You are only the governess, and I could see immediately that to Francis you are fair game. Good night, Miss Mather.”
For a moment, Matty stared after her, angry at the woman’s insolence as much as her traducing of Francisco’s character. But she refused to let a jealous woman’s spite spoil the magic of her evening and moved on with the crowd.
Finally making it to the front steps, she looked around for Mrs. Dove or her carriage.
“Whose carriage are you looking for, ma’am?” asked a footman in Wenning livery with great civility.
“Mrs. Dove’s.”
“Oh, here, Miss!” said another footman, beckoning to her from the street. He wasn’t one of the Doves’ servants, but Matty assumed he was Sir Anthony Thorne’s and had recognized her.
She thanked the Wennings’ man and hurried to the other, who led her to the right along the road to an open carriage door. He even handed her inside, then kicked up the steps and slammed the door before she had even sat down. The horses lurched into motion, hurling her onto the bench, and she saw that the carriage was empty.
“Wait, this is a mistake!” she called aloud. But the horses were going so fast she doubted the driver would have heard. Wishing she had a parasol, she knocked furiously on the carriage roof. “Stop this instant! Halt!”
Surely the driver would have to have been deaf not to hear the combination of yelling and banging, but the horses did not slow, merely swerved around a corner at breakneck speed, throwing her around on the bench.
Hauling herself up, she tried to pull down the window and found it stuck. Close to panic now, she realized they were on Piccadilly, heading eastward, away from where she needed to be. She commenced thundering on the roof again, for at the pace the carriage was going, she could not throw herself out the door without hurting herself badly, either in the fall or by coming under other carriages, other hooves. She could do nothing until the carriage either stopped or slowed down.
It seemed inclined to do neither, for all her thumping and shouting. And then, abruptly, it slowed amidst a lot of blowing and snorting from the horses. Matty gripped the handle, and since the carriage really was stopping, she waited until it did to throw open the door and leap down without bothering about the steps. She slammed the door behind her.
“What do you think you’re doing, imbecile?” she shouted at the coachman, who glanced back at her from his box, muffled almost to the eyes.
He didn’t answer. In fact, before she’d even finished speaking, he’d flicked the reins at the horses and had the temerity to drive off.
“Don’t you dare!” Furiously, she hurried after him, but the carriage swung around the corner, and she stopped dead. She had no desire to get back into that carriage. Instead, she looked around her for another. Surely, they had not come so far that she could not walk home, but in full ball dress, she would really rather not…
She had no idea where she was. The street was wide enough, although the buildings on either side were somewhat run down. She could see no name on it. A few closed shop fronts gave little away. Two colorful, if bizarrely dressed women across the street were staring at her.
A group of drunken men on her own side of the road began to move toward her, calling out to her. A shadow moved in the doorway nearest her. With a surge of much sharper fear, she clutched her evening cloak closer about herself and hurried toward the end of the street, pulling the cloak hood over her head as she went.
Just as she reached the corner, a man stepped around it and smiled toothlessly. “Hello, my pretty. Want to come with me?”
“No, thank you,” she muttered, brushing past him, praying she would not end in a blind alley.
She found she was in an alley, dark and narrow, but at least it was short, and at the end of it, several lanterns showed her a place she recognized—the Theatre Royal at Covent Garden. She had been right. She wasn’t so far from home. The trouble was, this was not a place to be alone at night. Even much earlier in the evening, after the opera. Now it was three o’clock in the morning, and all these people were still haunting the streets, and she could not fool herself it was for innocent fun.
She hurried across the square, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. If she could make it as far as Oxford Street, would there still be hackneys available? At least it was quieter on this side of the square. No one seemed to be milling around the streets beyond, so she was less likely to be accosted.
With a moment to breathe, she allowed herself to wonder how she had got here, and more precisely, who was responsible. It could not have been an accident, even allowing for an insane driver. A liveried footman had called her by name and put her into the carriage, which had left her here. She could see no point, except to frighten her. And the Doves when she didn’t appear. And her mother and Marion when the Doves inquired.
Word would get out that she was missing. It wouldn’t matter that she was entirely innocent. Even the Doves could not believe this ridiculous tale! Which meant that she was ruined unless she got home very, very quickly. And Francisco—what would he think of her now?
But who would do such—
Hard fingers grasped her arm, and she swung around in alarm to see a large stranger with pockmarked skin and long side whiskers. His breath stank. But before she could even begin to shake him off, a lantern was thrust into her face, almost blinding her. She flung up a hand to protect her eyes and saw a slow, avaricious grin form on his thick lips.
