by Shana Galen
He went to his room and left strict instructions that he was not at home—to anyone.
Once in his room, he jotted down as many of the names of his mother’s guest list as he considered noteworthy. Only a dozen or so of the men in attendance had amassed the kind of wealth necessary to obtain three large rubies. He went to the window, leaned on the casement, and scanned the names. One of these men had to be the traitor. He knew all of them, though he only knew one or two well. Still, none of them gave him even a moment’s pause. But one of them wanted him dead, and Warrick wished his instincts had not chosen this day to fail him.
Twenty-one
By ten the next morning, Fallon had to admit the painful truth to herself—Warrick was avoiding her. He’d left the morning before without so much as a good-bye. He had not sent any sort of word all day, and when she sent a note to his town house, her messenger had returned with her missive, saying Mr. Fitzhugh was not at home and no correspondence was being accepted.
Fallon’s belly had felt sick and tight, but she tried not to think the worst. Lily had stopped by the night before to invite Fallon to attend the theater, but Fallon said she didn’t feel well and stayed home. That had probably been a mistake. Fallon was not the sort to sit at home waiting for a man to call on her, but that was exactly what she had done.
Her only consolation was if she had gone to the theater with Lily, she would have done nothing but talk about Warrick the entire time. Obviously Lily knew him better than she had pretended, and Fallon was eager to know the connection between her friend and her lover. But something told her she’d get little information from Lily and then she’d end up pushing the matter and embarrassing herself.
So she’d stayed home, hating herself for her weakness and hating Warrick for making her think he’d loved her. Though, there again, she had no one to blame but herself.
Finally, after pacing her chambers most of the day and avoiding her lady’s maid, who wanted answers as to Fallon’s plans for the night, she retreated to Lady Sinclair’s town house. There she found Lily and the countess sipping tea in the spacious drawing room. With its cream-colored furnishings, high ceilings, and white moldings, the room was serene and peaceful. The countess embraced her warmly, and Fallon felt a little of the blackness hovering about her like a fog lift.
Until she saw Lily’s face.
“What is it?” Fallon asked, pulling out of the countess’s embrace. “What is wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” Lily tucked a newspaper beside her on the chair.
“There’s something in that paper,” Fallon said. “Is it about me?”
“Why do you always assume everything in the papers is about you?” Lady Sinclair asked, taking her seat and gesturing to the empty chaise longue across from Lily.
Fallon shook her head. “You are correct, of course. I hope it isn’t about you or Juliette.” She took the cup of tea the countess offered her and sipped. She might have wished it were brandy, but oolong would do for the moment.
“How are you, my dear?” the countess asked.
Fallon was about to respond, when Lily said, “How are things with Mr. Fitzhugh?”
Fallon jumped to her feet, spilling tea on her gown in the process. She set the cup on the floor and lunged for the paper. Lily let out a small scream but surrendered the paper readily enough. It only took a moment for Fallon to find the Society column and the item about Fitzhugh and Lady Edith. Apparently they had both been spotted at the Earl of Winthorpe’s residence yesterday afternoon, and sources close to the earl said his youngest son had been quite taken with the young lady.
Fallon felt the room grow dark, and she dropped the paper on the floor. Lily was beside her in a moment. “The papers exaggerate everything, Fallon. You know that.” She took Fallon’s arm and led her back to the longue. Fallon sat on it, feeling like some sort of lead marionette.
“You are as white as a sheet,” the countess said from far away. A few moments later much-needed brandy was pressed to Fallon’s lips. Fallon drank it and closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the world had stopped spinning.
“I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew something was wrong.”
“I am certain nothing is wrong,” Lily said. “The papers—”
“He hasn’t seen me or written to me since he went to his father’s house. He told me he wanted me to go to the Winthorpe ball with him tonight, but he hasn’t sent any word at all and the ball is only hours away!”
Lily knelt beside her, her green eyes filled with concern. “If Fitzhugh said he was taking you to the ball, he will take you. He is a man of his word.”
Fallon’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know so much about him? What, exactly, is your connection?”
Lily glanced at the countess.
“Now isn’t the time to discuss that,” Lady Sinclair said smoothly.
Fallon shook her head. What exactly was Lily hiding? Apparently the countess knew—and was keeping Lily’s secret. Fallon took a breath. “If Fitzhugh hasn’t thrown me over, then why haven’t I heard from him?”
“Oh my!” The countess pressed her hands together. “You’re in love with him!”
Fallon frowned. “And why does that make you look so pleased? You told me a few days ago not to fall in love with him.”
“Only because I knew that would make you fall in love with him.”
Fallon glanced at Lily, but Lily only shook her head, looking as confused as Fallon felt.
“Oh, you were already in love with him,” the countess explained, sipping her tea. “But I knew telling you not to fall in love with him would only make you more so.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Fallon protested. “I’m not that contrary.”
The countess raised her brows and sipped her tea. Fallon looked at Lily, but Lily was suddenly intensely interested in her white gauze sleeves.
“Fine.” Fallon sighed. “I am contrary. Perhaps that’s why he prefers Lady Edith.”
“Fallon!” Lily grasped Fallon’s arm gently.
“He doesn’t prefer Lady Edith,” Lady Sinclair said, “but I meant what I said when I came to see you. His mother is a woman who achieves her purposes. She wants Fitzhugh married to Lady Edith. If he goes against her wishes, and I imagine, those of his father, he will lose much.”
Fallon pressed her hands to her eyes. “Exactly. He’s thrown me over.”
Lady Sinclair rose and joined Fallon on the longue. “Do you have so little faith in his love for you? I daresay if he has thrown you over, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
Fallon’s belly tightened, and she fought the urge to be sick. This was why she never fell in love—this wretched nauseating feeling she knew would only grow worse. It would be eclipsed, though, of that she was certain. The stabbing pain in her heart would render the roiling in her belly insignificant. And there was nothing she could do to conquer these feelings, nothing she could do to stop the pain. She would have to push through it. She would have to continue on, no matter how much she felt like dying.
“He has not thrown her over,” Lily said. Fallon was barely listening. She wanted to go home, crawl in bed, and pull the covers over her head.
“But he is thinking the matter over,” the countess said. “He will choose Fallon, but by then she will have given up on him. She will refuse to see him and ruin everything.”
“I am sitting right here,” Fallon said. “And I know where this is going, and I am not going to be a part of it.” She rose. “I’m going home.”
“Oh, no you are not,” the countess argued, pulling her back down. For a small woman who used a walking stick, the countess was remarkably strong. “You are going to allow Fitzhugh to prove his love.”
Fallon stared at her. “Fitzhugh isn’t the Duke of Pelham, my lady, and I’m not Juliette. Fitzhugh is not going to make some grand gesture.”
�
��We shall see.”
“No, we shall not.” Fallon rose again. “I am going home.” She was halfway across the drawing room, when Lady Sinclair’s words stopped her.
“I suppose if you prefer to run and hide, rather than fight for what you want, there is little I can do.”
Fallon clenched her fists, staring blindly at the pale blue and white striped silk chair by the door. If only she could keep moving and reach the chair, the handle for the door would be at her fingertips.
“I had no idea you were such a coward.”
Fallon whirled around.
“Countess!” Lily gasped.
Lady Sinclair waved a hand. “It’s true.”
“No, it’s not,” Fallon said through clenched teeth, “but I’m not going to prove it by marching into the Winthorpe ball uninvited.”
A small, devious smile spread over Lady Sinclair’s face. “Excellent plan, my dear. Abernathy!”
Fallon gave Lily a pleading look. “Now what is she doing?”
Lily shook her head, bewilderment on her face. Abernathy, the Sinclair’s butler, opened the drawing room door. “Yes, my lady?”
“Inform his lordship we are attending the Winthorpe ball tonight.”
“Of course, my lady.” He nodded. “Is that all?”
“I do not think I responded to the invitation,” Lady Sinclair said, leaning on her walking stick and rising. “Repair that oversight.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Thank you, Abernathy.”
Fallon shook her head. “Are you going to go to the ball to bash Fitzhugh about the head? If the man must be convinced he loves me—”
“Oh, hush!” The countess waved her stick at Fallon, forcing Lily to duck. “I’m merely giving the man an opportunity to prove his love to you once and for all. Lord knows it will take considerable effort to make it through your thick skull.”
“I do not have to listen to this.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Not only will you listen, young lady, but you will do exactly as I say.” The countess glanced at Lily. “You too.”
Lily nodded quickly. Fallon had the ridiculous urge to inform the countess that she was not her mother, but she kept her mouth closed. The countess had done more for her than anyone Fallon had ever known. She was not going to refuse a request by Lady Sinclair.
And her capitulation had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Lady Sinclair scared her to death.
“Now”—Lady Sinclair rubbed her hands together—“we have work to do.”
Four hours later Fallon and Lily stood in front of a looking glass and admired the results of the assault. Lady Sinclair had summoned a veritable army of modistes, hair stylists, and maids to turn Fallon and Lily from courtesans into princesses.
At least that was how Fallon felt.
She stared at the woman in the mirror and tried to find herself somewhere. She had been dressed and styled and primped many, many times before but always the effect was exotic and sultry. The woman looking back at her looked young and innocent. Her dark hair had been pulled back from her face and secured in a sophisticated chignon, which was held in place by a small diamond tiara. That was the only adornment she wore, if one did not consider the gown. It was a rich red and hopelessly out of style. The skirt was too full, the waist too low, and the neckline all wrong—and yet, Fallon loved it. She looked like a princess, and she actually twirled from side to side to watch the ruby-red skirts swish. In the lamplight, the beads flashed and sparkled. The gown might not have been the current style, but it was classic.
Beside Fallon, Lily, who was dressed similarly in a sapphire gown, smiled. “I feel like I should look about for my throne,” she said as one of the modistes fussed with her hem. “I cannot fathom where Lady Sinclair has been hiding these gowns and for what purpose she had them made in the first place.”
“I shudder to think what else she has hidden. If Fitzhugh had run off to Arabia, would she produce some sort of harem attire?”
“I assure you I have no harem attire,” Lady Sinclair said, moving into the room.
Fallon pressed her lips together. She should have known Lady Sinclair never missed anything. The countess studied her long and hard, made several suggestions to the modiste and the hair stylist, and finally nodded her approval. “You will do.”
Fallon laughed. “High praise indeed. Tell me, are we going to a masquerade? You can’t possibly think to have us dress so for the Winthorpe’s ball.”
“Not to mention,” Lily added, “Fallon and I have not been invited.”
The countess shook her head. “I have never understood that expression—not to mention. If one is not going to mention something, why follow the phrase by mentioning it?”
Lily opened her mouth to explain then closed it again, looking perplexed.
“In any case,” the countess said, “you will attend as my guests.”
Fallon took a deep breath. “I really do not think this is a wise idea.”
The countess raised her brows. “I assure you, my dear, if the idea is mine, it is wise. And stop clutching your belly. You look as though you will cast up your accounts at any moment.”
Fallon felt as though she might. The situation worsened by the moment. Just the thought of seeing Warrick made her heart gallop. She felt like such a fool. How was she going to hold her head high when he cut her, ignored her, and danced with Lady Edith? She took a step back.
“Oh, no!” The countess was before her immediately. Again, for a woman who needed a cane, she moved remarkably quickly when she wanted. “Whatever you were thinking of just now, cease.”
“I am not attending the ball. I have better things to do with my time.” She shook her head, undeterred even by the cutting glare the countess leveled on her. “And I do not wish to be humiliated.”
“Fallon, you can do it. You’re strong—” Lily began. Lady Sinclair held up a hand, and the gesture was enough to silence Lily.
“Leave us for a moment,” she said to Lily. “Wait in the vestibule, if you do not mind.”
“Not at all.” Lily all but ran for the door. Fallon wished she could escape too.
“All of you,” Lady Sinclair said to the remaining modistes, maids, and hairdressers. “Please, leave us.”
The room emptied as quickly as it had filled earlier in the day, and Fallon felt the weight of dread in the heavy silence.
“You can’t scare me into going,” Fallon said. But, truth be told, she wasn’t so certain.
“I had not intended to scare you,” the countess answered. “I am merely going to ask you to go.”
Fallon swallowed. This was indeed worse.
“Have I ever asked anything of you, Fallon?” Lady Sinclair questioned. “Have I ever asked so much as a single favor?”
Fallon shook her head. “No.”
“I am asking you now. Please go to this ball.”
It was the please that did her in. That and the fact that she owed the countess everything, and it was true, Lady Sinclair had never asked for anything in return. Fallon bowed her head. Who was she to use humiliation as an excuse? The countess knew humiliation better than anyone. For years she’d been pitied by almost every one of her friends and acquaintances because Lord Sinclair kept three mistresses. Had Lady Sinclair ever denied the accusations, even though they were patently false? No, she had allowed everyone to believe the rumors, even fostered them, because those rumors helped Fallon and the other members of The Three Diamonds.
And now Lady Sinclair was asking for a favor in return. How could Fallon deny her? She owed the countess everything.
Fallon offered her arm. “I am happy to accompany you, my lady.”
Lady Sinclair smiled. “Fallon, you will thank me for this; you do realize that, do you not?”
Oh, how Fallon wished that were true.
***
Warrick was late to the ball. Even by Society’s standards of fashionable tardiness, he was late. It was his own fault, really. He’d had second thoughts about bringing Fallon. He didn’t like to admit it, but it was true. His father’s words had affected him, and even more than his father, the domestic scene he’d witnessed yesterday in his parents’ drawing room had affected him.
How he wanted that domesticity for himself.
But he did not want it with any woman but Fallon. He wanted her more than anything else. If his father was prepared to deny his son because of Warrick’s choice in wives, then his father be damned. Lord Winthorpe was making the mistake, not Warrick.
But he’d mulled the issue over too long. He knew that now. He should have gone to Fallon immediately or at least sent some word. Instead, when he finally arrived at her town house in order to escort her to the ball, Titus informed him she was not at home. Warrick had been prepared to search her residence, even if it meant fighting Titus to do so—a terrifying prospect, but he was determined. Titus had made a sweeping gesture and gladly suggested he look himself. The butler would not have done so if Fallon was hiding in her bedchamber.
Which could only mean that she had already gone out.
Warrick could not imagine where. She probably had a dozen invitations. She could be anywhere in the city. She could be with anyone. Dozens of men wanted her, desired her. Just the thought of her smiling at one of those men, flirting with him, dancing with him, made Warrick want to smash his fist into the nearest wall.
Since that wall was his father’s, he refrained, but he was aware he was scowling deeply, and his parents’ guests were giving him a wide berth. He’d been a fool, but he would not lose her. He would go to her tomorrow, plead forgiveness.
He was not going to make a mistake he’d regret the rest of his life.
“Warrick?”
He turned and looked down into the smiling face of his mother. Only she would dare approach him when he was so obviously annoyed. And only she would bring someone with her—Lady Edith.
