by Anna Bennett
“Perhaps,” the marquess mused, his expression grim. “I truly hope that is the case.”
As the marquess stalked from the room, Reese dragged a hand down his face. He needed to warn Sophie before her engagement ball. And, if at all possible, he needed to get her journal back.
Chapter 33
“We’re going to your engagement ball, not a funeral.” Mary tugged on her pale yellow kidskin gloves and checked her reflection in the mirror of Sophie’s vanity. “You might at least pretend to be happy.”
“I know,” Sophie said, tamping down an unseemly but potent wave of resentment. “It’s been a rather trying day.” Since most of the staff were gone, Sophie and Mary had taken on many of the household chores. They were exhausted before they even began ironing their gowns, styling their hair, and dressing each other.
Besides, Sophie was saving all her pretending for tonight’s ball. When Lord Singleton—that is, Charles—announced their engagement at midnight, she would have to play the part of a delighted bride-to-be. And that was going to be exceedingly difficult, considering she was still grieving over losing Reese and desperately worried that her journal would fall into the wrong hands. Or any hands. Blast.
Sophie was fastening the clasp of her aquamarine necklace when Mrs. Pettigrew, their sweet and loyal housekeeper, appeared in the doorway. Upon seeing Sophie and Mary, she pressed a thin hand to her chest and gasped. “Goodness me,” she said. “You two look like a pair of princesses.”
It was true—they had turned out rather well. Mary’s thick blond hair was piled on top of her head with loose ringlets framing her face. Dressed in white silk shot through with gold thread, she looked as though she should have been the belle of the ball.
Sophie had pulled her hair to one side, letting the long curls spill over her shoulder. She’d settled on a pale green silk gown embroidered with dark green vines because Fiona and Lily had once said it made her resemble the goddess of spring, and if ever she’d needed the courage and confidence of a goddess, tonight was the time.
But her favorite accessory was the crown of white silk flowers she’d woven into her hair. They weren’t asphodels, but they made her feel as though Reese was with her. And they reminded her of the night when he’d pronounced her the queen of all she surveyed.
Sophie cast the housekeeper a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Pettigrew. And thank you for all your help today.”
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Sophie.” The housekeeper beamed. “To think you’ll soon be a marchioness!”
“Yes,” Sophie replied, feeling herself wilt.
“Well, then,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, “there’s no time to dally. I just left your mother and father downstairs; they said they’ll wait for you in the coach.”
“We should go,” Mary said forlornly—as though she were the lamb that had been sacrificed on the family altar, when in truth, the only thing she’d lost was a night at home reading her beloved books.
Sophie grabbed her reticule and shrugged to herself. She’d already made her choices, and wishing things were different couldn’t make it so. Neither could blaming her sister, for it wasn’t Mary’s fault that she’d been so sheltered. “I’m ready,” she said, striding out of the bedchamber.
Mary followed on her heels as they glided through the hallway, down the staircase, and into the foyer, where Sophie stopped in her tracks. The silver tray on the side table held a single envelope—and it was addressed to her.
“I wonder when this arrived,” Sophie said. A shiver skittered down her spine as she picked it up and examined the outside, which simply read: Miss S. Kendall.
Mary winced guiltily. “I’m sorry, Soph. A footman dropped it off a couple of hours ago. I happened to answer the door and, in the rush to prepare for the ball, I forgot to mention it.”
“That’s all right,” Sophie said breezily. “It’s probably from Fiona or Lily. Why don’t you head out to the coach and tell Mama and Papa I’ll be along momentarily?”
Mary bobbed her head and hurried outside, leaving Sophie alone in the foyer. She had a sinking feeling that the letter had something to do with her journal, and the possibility that someone might use it to expose and eviscerate the Debutante Underground made her gut clench. Hands trembling, she opened the letter.
Dear Sophie,
I must talk with you. I’ll be at the shop between four and seven o’clock. Meet me there if you can. Make certain no one follows you.
R.
Oh no. Reese needed her, had waited for her. She detected the urgency in his words, but she’d missed the chance to see him, and now she didn’t even have time to pen him a quick note.
She wished she had some inkling of what he wished to discuss. He’d known that her engagement was going to be announced at the ball tonight, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he wanted to try and dissuade her from going forward with it.
If that was the case, it was best that she hadn’t met him. Because where Reese was concerned, she was weak. She’d thought that once she’d said goodbye to him, she’d feel a sense of finality and peace. Instead, she missed everything about him, from his dark allure to his quiet thoughtfulness to his gruff charm. If she’d met him earlier that afternoon, and he’d begged her to run away with him to Gretna Green, well … she wouldn’t have been able to resist him.
She tucked the letter into her reticule and pressed a palm to her unsettled belly. As she walked out of the house and strode down the pavement to the coach, she decided there was no way she could contact Reese tonight. Tomorrow, she’d write to him and apologize for not meeting him. By then, the news of her engagement would be on everyone’s lips, and her stubborn heart might finally give up on its hopelessly naïve notions.
The fairy tales had been wrong.
Love didn’t always win.
* * *
Sophie, Mary, Mama, and Papa glided into Lord Singleton’s ballroom, carried along with a stream of animated guests who exclaimed over the ballroom’s shimmering silk wall hangings, the abundant, fragrant white roses, and the brilliantly lit crystal chandeliers. Music floated up to the high coffered ceilings, and bubbly champagne flowed freely on the silver trays of efficient footmen.
Clearly, Lord Singleton had spared no expense, and the crowd already buzzed with whispers that the marquess would make a special announcement at midnight. Sophie painted on a smile as she approached him, extending her hand. He let his gaze wash over her, his expression appreciative … but also slightly wary.
“You’re looking positively lovely, Miss Kendall,” he said, bowing over her hand.
“Thank you, my lord.” Looking around the dazzling ballroom, she said, “You’ve outdone yourself. It’s beautiful.” She couldn’t shake the feeling that they were two strangers—mere acquaintances who were about to bind themselves together for eternity.
“I’m pleased you like it.” Leaning closer to her ear, he whispered, “Forgive me for not claiming you for the first set. If I did, I’m afraid everyone would guess our exciting news—and I would rather prolong the suspense.”
“I understand,” Sophie said, grateful that she wouldn’t be the subject of speculation all night long. Perhaps she’d even have the chance to talk privately with Fiona and Lily—and tell them the troubling news about her lost journal.
Charles proceeded to greet Mama with a polite bow, Papa with a bracing slap on the shoulder, and Mary with a kiss to her hand. Mary blushed furiously, and as they moved toward the refreshment table, Mama clucked her tongue. “If you attended more balls, Mary, you would not become so easily flustered.”
Papa grunted his agreement and reached for a glass of champagne, but Mama deftly steered him in the opposite direction. “Ah, I see the Hartleys are here. I haven’t spoken to them in an age. Let us go and pay our respects.”
Sophie walked behind her parents, nodding greetings to various acquaintances and craning her neck in search of Fiona’s fiery auburn hair or Lily’s gleaming dark curls. She didn’t see either of her fr
iends or their dashing husbands, but one gentleman in the crowd did catch her eye.
He was older—perhaps sixty years or so—and his halting, uneven gait was oddly familiar. She waited for him to turn, so she’d have a better view of his face, and when he did, her blood turned to ice. The thin, drawn lips, the deep crevices in his cheeks—they belonged to the man she’d collided with in the alley. The man who must have her journal.
Terrified that he’d recognize her, she quickly spun, then swayed on her feet. “Sophie,” Mama said, her voice laced with worry. “Are you feeling well?”
“Just a little dizzy. I think I’ll head to the terrace for some fresh air.”
Before her mother could object—or worse, send Mary with her—Sophie made a dash for the French doors at the back of the ballroom. She didn’t think the man had seen her, but she intended to stay as far away from him as possible.
She rushed onto the empty flagstone terrace, leaned her back against a brick pillar, and closed her eyes, inhaling lungfuls of air. It felt as though her carefully constructed plan to save her family from financial ruin was teetering, on the brink of crumbling around her. If her involvement in the Debutante Underground became known, Charles would no longer wish to marry her. He’d demand that Papa repay his loans, and her father would go to debtors’ prison, leaving Mama distraught and all of them destitute.
To make matters worse, her role in the scandal of the season would ensure that they were barred from proper drawing rooms and cast out of polite society. Because if there was one thing the ton loved more than reading The Debutante’s Revenge, it was having the front-row seat at a spectacularly disastrous fall from grace.
Oh God. She snapped open her fan and waved it vigorously, as if her problems were persistent puffs of smoke that could be carried away with a good, stiff breeze.
“Sophie.” The voice, gravelly and deep, stopped her fan midwave. Unless she was now hearing things—which was quite possible given her current state—she knew that voice. She knew that man.
She turned and looked out at the small garden beyond the terrace. “Reese?” she whispered.
He emerged from behind a tall boxwood several yards away. Dressed in a dark evening jacket and buckskin trousers, he stood in the moonlight like a mysterious and powerful god who’d decided to spend an evening in the amusing world of mortals.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“There’s something you need to know,” he said. “But we can’t discuss it here. Will you come with me?”
She wanted to say that she’d go with him anywhere. Anytime. “I can’t disappear for long,” she said regretfully. “I’ll be missed.”
He nodded, his expression unreadable. “This way.”
She walked toward him, and he reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He led her down a pebbled path and behind a row of hedges, seemingly unaware that the simple pressure of his palm on hers made her belly turn cartwheels.
They sat on a secluded stone bench, their hands still joined and their knees a scant inch apart. Even in the relative darkness, she could see the heat and longing in his eyes.
“You’re beautiful,” he said reverently. With a knee-weakening smile he added, “You should wear flower crowns every day.”
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she said, “I’m sorry that I didn’t meet you earlier. I received your message too late.”
“It’s all right. I wouldn’t have written to you if it wasn’t urgent.” His handsome face turned serious, and an ominous chill stole over her skin. “Singleton visited me at the manor house this morning.”
Panic swirled in her chest like a freshly spawned tornado. “What? Why would he do that?”
“His uncle found a journal outside the tailor’s shop. Singleton thought I might know who it belonged to.”
“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “Please tell me that he doesn’t have my journal.”
Reese winced. “I’m afraid he does. He said that it contains the first names of all the women who are part of a secret society called the Debutante Underground.”
“Dear God.” Her whole body started to shake, and he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“He suspects that the journal may be yours, but he has no proof. If he asks you about it tonight, I suggest you deny any knowledge of it. In the meantime, I’m going to steal it back.”
A seed of hope sprouted in the arid, cracked earth of her heart. “You’d do that?”
He looked at her as if she was mad. “I’d do anything for you.”
Warmth flooded her limbs. “But … how? Do you even know where it is?”
“No,” he said, frowning. “But I’m going to try his study first. If it’s not there, I’ll sneak into his bedchamber. If necessary, I’ll search the house, room by room, until I find it.”
“What if someone discovers you sneaking around?” she said. “It would look very bad.”
“I don’t plan to get caught,” he said with a shrug. “Even if I did, I would never implicate you.”
“Oh, Reese,” she said, touched by his desire to protect her. “I got myself into this dilemma. It’s not fair that you should risk everything to get me out of it.”
“This isn’t about blame or fairness.” He flashed a grin that melted her insides. “I love you. If you’re in trouble, then I’m always going to want to help.”
“Even if I’m engaged or married to someone else?” she asked weakly.
He flinched at that, then looked earnestly into her eyes. “Always means always. I know I can’t have you and that, after tonight, I might never see you again. But that won’t change the way I feel about you, Soph.”
“I…” She wanted to blurt out everything in her heart. To tell him she loved him too and that she’d forever treasure the nights they’d spent together. But Reese was already gutted, and revealing her feelings at this point would only be twisting the knife. “I don’t deserve such kindness.”
“I disagree.” He lifted her hand and pressed a tender, lingering kiss to the back. “You deserve the world.”
Before she could properly catch her breath, he released her hand and stood. “I should go. Remember, you don’t need to admit anything to Singleton.” He paused for a moment, then added, “He thinks that the Debutante Underground is a radical, subversive organization that threatens the fabric of society.”
“He said that?” Her blood heated with a mix of rage and fear.
“Something like that.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step toward the house, his dark eyes full of regret. “Good luck tonight.”
“You too,” she breathed. “And thank you.”
He nodded, turned, and started up the path, but she called out, “Reese, wait.”
When he spun to face her, she hesitated, then voiced the question she couldn’t resist asking. “What do you think of the Debutante Underground?”
He tilted his head, thoughtful, then said, “I don’t know much about it, obviously, but if priggish, narrow-minded people take offense, I’d say that’s a sure sign you’re doing something important and worthwhile.”
With that, he strode off, leaving her alone and more certain than ever that she’d given up the one man who could have been her true partner—and true love.
Chapter 34
At the sound of the doorknob jiggling, Reese dove behind the sofa in Singleton’s drawing room and held his breath.
The door creaked as it swung on its hinges, and footsteps shuffled across the hardwood floor. If he had to guess, the utilitarian, brown shoes belonged to a maid, and she hummed softly to herself as she moved about the room.
Reese hoped she didn’t walk to his side of the sofa, but if she did, he was prepared to play the part of a ball guest who’d drunk too much and gone in search of a quiet spot where he could sleep off his excesses.
He’d spent the last hour furtively searching Singleton’s study and bedchamber, but aft
er scouring every shelf, drawer, and closet in both rooms, he still hadn’t found the journal. He’d reasoned that the marquess might have spent time in the drawing room before the ball—and that he might have left the journal out on a table or even stowed it in the desk drawer.
But a thorough check of the room had yielded no sign of it, and now doubts were creeping into Reese’s mind. What if Singleton had hidden the journal in a locked drawer or safe? What if he’d decided to keep it with him, and it was tucked inside the pocket of his bloody evening jacket right now?
Frustrated, he grabbed a fistful of hair and cursed under his breath.
“Is someone there?” the maid called out, her voice threaded with alarm.
Damn it. He quickly debated whether to reveal himself now or to pretend to be passed out. Heaving a sigh, he rose on his haunches and—
“Where have you been, lass?” asked an older female in a scolding tone. “The mistress has been asking for her lorgnette. Can ye not find it?”
“Ah, here it is,” the young maid replied, “hiding beneath a cushion.”
Reese went still as a statue as she leaned over the sofa.
“Hurry along, then.” The older woman clucked her tongue. “Lady S. isn’t a patient sort.”
He waited until he heard the door click shut behind them, then sprang to his feet. The diary wasn’t there in the drawing room—and he was running out of time. To make good on his promise to Sophie, he needed to find out exactly where Singleton had hidden her journal, and soon.
Which meant Reese would have to put in an appearance at the ball—his first in approximately three years. Even worse, he’d have to dance.
* * *
For several minutes after Reese left Sophie in the garden, she remained sitting on the bench, perilously close to tears. She’d thought she could set aside her own feelings and desires to help her family. Moreover, she’d thought that she should—that it was the noble and selfless thing to do.
