by Holly Newman
Betsy tilted her head, the sparkle coming slowly back in her eyes. "Oh, yes, miss, I might at that"
Leona laughed at the change in her demeanor and sent her on her way. Finally, blissfully, she was able to lay down. To her surprise she fell deeply asleep. She didn't waken until more than an hour later—after several repeated loud knocks on her door.
"What?" she called out disoriented and coming awake groggily.
It was Sarah Jewitt at the door. "Lady Lucille sent me to discover what was keeping you, Miss Leonard."
"What? Oh, the ball!" She rolled out of bed, stretching. "I overslept. Tell her I shall be along directly."
The dresser stood impassively, her hands folded in front of her. "May I take your gown and things?"
Her colorless voice grated on Leona's nerves. Leona frowned a moment wondering what Lucy could find to recommend this woman. Her skills must be great indeed. She gave permission and waved her toward the wardrobe where the new gown, commissioned by Lady Nevin, hung. Silently the woman gathered all her accoutrements for the ball and left the room. Watching her leave, Leona suddenly wished she hadn't made her promise to Lucy. Miss Jewitt's sour face could spoil anyone's excitement. Maybe that was why Lucy asked her to join her.
Leona crossed to the wash basin and poured water into the bowl. With a cool cloth she bathed her face and upper body, chasing the last of her sleep and lethargy away, This was Lucy's special day, and Leona would do all she could to help make it memorable. Thinking back on the events of the last week, she only hoped no other mischief was planned by Howard North and his associates, whoever they might be. Funny. He mentioned a Sally, but Leona didn't recall any Sally on the Castle Marin estate that she'd met. She bit her lower Up. Why should she think of her now? She'd even forgotten to mention the name to Deveraux. It had waited this long. It could wait another day. A betrothal ball was not the time to bring up bad memories. Now was the time to join the bride-to-be to soothe her jitters, grant compliments, and share friendly, excited laughter.
As Leona expected, Lucy was in a high state of anticipation. She talked nearly incessantly, speculating on the evening and the guests. There wasn't much for Leona to do but laugh, nod, or sigh at the appropriate moments. Sarah Jewitt wordlessly went about her tasks, her own colorless appearance in striking contrast to Lady Lucy and Leona.
Lady Lucy's gown of India gauze shot with silver was pale blue, so pale as to be almost white. Medallions of dark blue silk embroidered at the hem and on the bodice gave the gown an elegance that lifted it above debutante status. To complete her toilette, Jewitt massed her black hair on top of her head, held in place by gleaming polished silver combs.
Leona's gown was gold raw silk embroidered with gold metallic thread. Gold lace was set on at the hem and on the bodice. The dress's color was a perfect foil for her dark golden hair and the flecks of gold mingled with green and brown in her eyes. Jewitt dressed her hair a la greque—a more elaborate style than Leona had ever worn—and threaded it with bright gold ribbon. To her surprise, Leona was entranced with the new style.
"Oh, Leona," breathed Lucy. "You look so... so regal!"
Leona laughed but privately agreed the style gave her a polished elegance she'd never had before. She turned toward the dresser standing passively by her side. "Thank you, Jewitt You truly are as gifted as Lucy says."
Jewitt bobbed her head once in acknowledgment then turned to straighten the room. Lucy grabbed Leona's hands, squeezing them, her own blue eyes sparkling.
A knock on the door interrupted them. "Lucy, it's Nigel. May I come in? I have something for you."
Lucy exchanged glances with Leona, then shrugged. "Yes, of course."
Nigel entered the room slowly, a small wooden casket under his arm. Lucy's eyes widened at the sight of the wooden box. He caught her expression and grinned. He walked over to the dressing table where Leona sat and set the casket down. Then he turned to face his sister.
"You are beautiful, imp. If you weren't my sister . . ." he drawled. He looked her up and down, leering comically.
Lucy laughed delightedly, then stood up on tiptoe to kiss her brother's cheek. She glanced down at the casket. "What did you bring that here for?" she asked breathlessly, but she already knew in her heart what the answer would be. She was bursting with happiness.
"This? Oh, that sentimental brother of ours wrote me a few weeks ago and told me to let you pick out a bauble or two to wear."
"He did? And you didn't tell me until now? Oh, Nigel, how could you!"
Deveraux laughed at the perplexed expression he spotted on Leona's face. He reached down to flick open the latch and push up the top. The box was perhaps six inches deep and entirely lined with padded velvet. Nestled inside the box was a glittering array of gems. "The Nevin Jewels," he proclaimed.
Lucy clasped her hands together and sighed loudly.
"I see you shall be some time making your selection. I'll leave you to pick and choose. All I ask is that you not attempt to drape every piece upon your person."
"As if I would," huffed Lucy. "Besides, I know that some of the pieces are only to be worn by the current countess." She reverently drew a diamond and pearl tiara out of the box. "I remember when Emily wore this right after her marriage to Brandon. It has a necklace and earrings to match." She scooted pieces aside with her finger in search of the other pieces to the heirloom suite.
"Just do not be all evening at choosing. Our guests will be arriving soon. Have Miss Jewitt bring it to my man when you're finished. He'll see it is locked up."
Lucy scarcely heard him, her attention on the sparkle and flash of jewels. "Oh, what should I wear? They're all so beautiful! Jewitt, come help me choose, your taste is always exquisite."
Her lips pursed and pulled forward like she'd just sucked on a sour lemon, Jewitt came up to look over Lucy's shoulder. "Most of it appears quite old-fashioned. The earl should consider remounting. That tiara with its matching pieces is hideously out of style, much too heavy."
"Out of style!" protested Lucy. "But it's the heirloom suite, passed down from countess to countess!"
Jewitt looked at her impassively.
Lucy relented. "All right, but isn't there anything here I could wear?"
Sarah Jewitt turned back to the box, picking up and discarding various items until she came to sapphires set in silver filigree. "These, my lady, are quite exceptional stones. The balance is good, and it will not seem garish and tawdry." She pulled out a delicate necklace for which most of the stones were modest in size save for the pear-shaped pendant in the front There were matching drop earrings.
"Oh, yes! Yes! That's perfect" said Lucy. She turned around so Jewitt could fasten the necklace about her throat then she leaned toward the mirror to put on the earrings. Done, she danced out into the center of the room and twilled around. "How do I look?" she asked Leona.
Leona rose from the dressing table as Jewitt gathered up the jewelry and replaced it in the casket She went over to Lucy. "Like a princess, a princess in a fairy tale about to meet your handsome prince."
Lady Lucille laughed delightedly. "That is exactly how I feel! Oh, Leona, this is the happiest night of my life!"
"Yet," Leona reminded her impishly. "There's still your wedding night to come."
Lucy blushed and nodded happily. "Quick, get your shawl and fan and let's go downstairs together. Jewitt, do you have the casket?"
"Yes, my lady."
"You can take it to Nigel's valet now, then you can go enjoy yourself."
"No, my lady, not until I see you safely in bed after the ball. You might need me to fix a hem or redress your hair. I'll not desert you tonight. Nor you neither, Miss Leonard, should you need me."
Lucy impulsively skipped forward to hug her dresser. "You may not sparkle and shine like those jewels do, but you are a gem."
Jewitt murmured a thank you, her bland expression never changing.
Leona still thought Jewitt was a peculiar person, but she seemed dedicated enough t
o her mistress, and ultimately that was all that mattered. She hooked her arm with Lady Lucille's, and together they went to stand at the top of the staircase for their grand entrance.
"Doing the pretty, eh?" The soft, rasping voice held a hint of humor.
Deveraux spun around to see a tall lean man behind him. "Jack! You rotten Blackguard! Or should I say, My Lord Keirsmyth? I'd about given up on you. Thought the notion of returning to England and your relatives might prove too much for you to stomach."
The marques grabbed Deveraux's hand in a firm grip.
"Came with Turcott this afternoon. Told your people we'd meet with you later. But what's this about a weak stomach? I always could handle the worst swill better than anyone!"
"That's because your stomach was long ago embalmed," chided Fitzhugh, coming up beside them. "It's so liquor- soaked nothing could faze it!"
The man smiled crookedly and shrugged. "I like to keep it that way. Perpetually. Self-preservation. But I have risked sycophantic opportunings from my multitudinous relations so that I might be here for this august occasion. I'm anxious to meet this sister of yours, Deveraux. Anxious to see just who could capture this frippery fellow's heart. Who knows, if I'd joined you when you sold out, it might have been me the prospective groom!"
David Fitzhugh laughed. "Stubble it, Keirsmyth. You wouldn't have possessed the presence of mind to recognize a gem when you saw one."
Keirsmyth's crooked smile grew. "Perhaps, my little game cock. Perhaps. But when do I meet this paragon of virtues?"
"Soon. And it is not one you'll meet, but two," Deveraux said, clapping him on the back.
"Two?" Keirsmyth drawled. He languidly drew an enameled gold snuff box from his elegant waistcoat pocket and flicked it open, taking a small pinch of the aromatic mixture. "I feel I am being baited. Now how should there be two? You see me before you all agog with curiosity."
Deveraux laughed. "Our second paragon is Miss Leona Leonard."
"Leona Leonard?" Keirsmyth's high brow wrinkled in thought. "Good gawd! You can't mean Cheat'm Charlie's sister? A paragon?"
Deveraux nodded. "I can honestly say that Miss Leonard would undoubtedly have led Leonard's troops to better effect"
"High praise indeed! Though not difficult to accomplish when one considers how dismally our dear friend Charlie failed. Though to give the devil his due, he has pulled his ship out of the River Tick by marrying Madame Roussault"
"He did marry her, then? Your last letter only spoke of the possibility."
"To breathe a possibility at Madame Roussault is to create a probability. I shudder at the match. It was done with all the ceremony she could command."
"How do you think this new Mrs. Leonard will take to a sister-in-law."
"Is she young and attractive?"
"Yes."
Keirsmyth waved his hand dismissively. "Then she will not"
"My thought as well." Deveraux exchanged glances with Fitzhugh.
"This is a fine bramble bath," Fitzhugh suggested, scratching his chin.
Deveraux nodded. "A thorny problem in more ways than you could imagine."
"Excuse me, gentlemen. Am I to understand you have some feeling for this Miss Leonard?"
Deveraux frowned. "Feeling is not the half of it. Miss Leonard is the person who rescued Chrissy last December."
"Ah, Chrissy, your niece, of course. She is now placing you under an obligation?"
"Egad, no!" Fitzhugh interjected. "If only she would, it would ease matters greatly for Dev. She's an independent little thing. And proud as a potentate. She and Dev seem to be forever coming to verbal fisticuffs. The thing is, you see, the kidnappers have vowed revenge against her."
"And against the family."
Both of Keirsmyth's thin eyebrows rose. "What singularly dedicated brigands!"
Deveraux shook his head, frowning. "I'm glad you're here, Jack. I don't mind admitting I'm concerned that they'll try to do something tonight."
"Revenge is sweet with an audience," Keirsmyth drawled understandingly.
"I could use another pair of eyes and ears tonight. Turcott, too. As he has a passel of schoolroom-age sisters, he might watch after Chrissy without seeming to." Keirsmyth nodded. "Don't worry, Deveraux. We'll see that nothing disturbs the festivities. After all," he said with a wicked smile directed at Fitzhugh, "seeing this young banty rooster get caught is an event of a lifetime!"
The stairway was awash with golden candlelight. From the entrance hall came a murmur of voices from the arrival of the guests invited to the dinner preceding the ball. Eighteen were expected for dinner. Those arriving included the Earl and Countess of Penmere, Mr. Fitzhugh's parents; Viscount Hollingshead, his elder brother; Sir and Lady James Fennimore, Lady Christiana's grandparents; Lord and Lady Peter Goudge, Bt., Lady Lucille's godparents; and, to fill out the numbers at the table, two great friends of Fitzhugh's and Deveraux's: the Marques of Keirsmyth—formerly Colonel Jack "Blackguard" Randall—and Captain Harry Turcott, still in His Majesty's service, lately returned to England to recuperate from a wound in his left shoulder earned in the war with America. To Lady Lucille's satisfaction, they were all downstairs before Leona and she.
Leona tried to withdraw her arm and encourage Lady Lucille to precede her down the stairs, but her friend wouldn't do it. Together they walked down the stairs, their gowns glistening in the candlelight, the sapphires at Lady Lucille's neck catching the light from the candles and reflecting back like so many points of light. Their coloring and their gowns were each a perfect foil for the other.
"By God, Deveraux, I knew you had one beauty hidden away in this miserable excuse for a castle, but two?"
The gentleman's dry raspy voice rang out through the marble entrance hall capturing everyone's attention. They all turned to look up. It made for a perfect entrance. Lady Lucille edged her chin up higher, preening.
Leona tried to pick out the owner of the strange voice. It was not difficult. It belonged to a tall, sinewy blond gentleman standing next to Deveraux. He looked to be about forty, lines of dissipation and hard living evident on his harsh weathered features. Next to him stood a younger, fresh-faced young man in scarlet regimentals.
The women came down the stairs slowly, savoring the notice. At the bottom they dropped each other's arms and came forward for introductions.
"Deveraux says you're Charlie Leonard's sister," the tall lean gentleman, the Marques of Keirsmyth, told Leona as he bowed over her hand.
"Yes, do you know him?"
"Yes, I can see immediately you don't take after him at all."
She raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
He smiled, a sudden slanting, rakish smile, his dark eyes closing sleepily. The man was flirting with her! "You're much too beautiful."
Leona laughed, delighted with his casually flirtatious manner. "We shall have to talk later about similarities and differences."
"I believe I am already partial to the differences," he said smoothly.
Leona shook her head and regretfully turned to greet another. There was no danger of her succumbing to the Most Honorable Marques of Keirsmyth. His flattery was too contrived for her taste; nonetheless, she acknowledged she enjoyed their repartee and looked forward to continuing it later.
Her head spun as she moved about through the entrance hall and the drawing room talking with people, meeting others. It had been three years since she attended even a country assembly, and never had she been to as glittering a gathering as this. And these were only the dinner guests! She found herself a trifle nervous, yet everyone greeted her warmly. In the mingling crowd, there was no opportunity to talk with Sharply and discover what he wanted.
She smiled some more and made her way through the throng to Maria's side. Her companion looked positively radiant! Leona had to struggle to keep from gaping. Maria Sprockett was clothed in a primrose-colored gown trimmed with rose ruchings and ribbons. A tiny pink toque with feathers and lace sat atop her tight curls. She and Maria were soon drawn into conve
rsation with other guests. The group chatted happily about all manner of subjects from fanning to the new political laws and from the distressing state of the poor to Princess Caroline's outrageous behavior. It was a relief when dinner was finally called. Her feet already hurt from standing for so long. What would they be like after the ball? If she lasted that long, she thought with a silent groan.
At dinner she was seated between Captain Harry Turcott and the elderly Lord Goudge. She found them both delightful dinner companions. She smiled and chatted easily, amazed at how comfortable she was amidst a growing crowd of strangers. One of her long-buried reasons for not wanting to go to London for a season was her own certainty that she would sit silent and alone at the side of a room. Deveraux hit upon that reason early on, though his conclusion that time—like so many other times—was faulty.
Somewhere, deep in her mind, a tally clicked off all the times he proved right. It was an unnerving total. Oh, often, she acknowledged, his conclusions were faulty, or he was only half right concerning something, but he was amazingly astute. Two tiny questions took root and grew in her mind: How was he right about Charlie? and How was he wrong?
After dinner the men did not stay long over port and tobacco, for the first stream of guests for the ball arrived. In the ballroom, Leona found Maria Sprockett gamely attempting to engage Sharply in conversation. With Fitzhugh and all the Deverauxs in the receiving line, she was the only one of the co-conspirators available. She couldn't let her friend and companion suffer Sharply. As Leona well knew, a little of George Sharply went a long way. It was a tiny step from sated to surfeit Besides, there was no better time for her to speak with him than when the guests were still arriving, and the musicians only beginning to settle at their places.
First though, she sought out Rosalie. She decided it was wiser to bring Rosalie with her when she talked to Sharply. It might keep her from swearing violence on George Sharply's head! She found her sister sitting in a brocade chair near the wall, in back of Maria Sprockett and nearly totally obscured by hothouse flowers. Rosalie was nine years older than Leona. So far, the years had been kind to her. She was on the plump side, but her simple burgundy-and-cream satin gown flattered her figure. There were few lines on her face, and as yet not a strand of gray laced through her hair, a shade darker than Leona's golden tone. She was an inherently quiet woman, but there was an air of peace about her that Leona realized she'd never bothered to notice before. That sense of peace might be necessary to be able to live with George Sharply, Leona mused.
