by Tessa Candle
“You think it was Miss Delacroix.” Lydia had entertained her own suspicions on that front.
“Yes, I do. It was she who first advanced the notion that an affair with an opera singer was his reason for departing suddenly for the continent. And now that she has apprehended that her gossip has had no effect, she may have assumed that I did not repeat it to you, and so sent this letter.”
“That is true. She has told this story before, in less detail.” Lydia wondered if she should fear a woman who showed such determination. At the moment it only made Lydia wish to slap her.
“In fact I am almost certain it was her.” Tilly shook her head in disappointment. “I usually have a pretty light hand with my servants, but since I discovered Marie's treachery, I have kept an eye on her. Just before I came to you, I received a little report on her activities.”
“You have had her followed?”
“It is really only for your sake that I am watching her.”
“It seems a bit extreme.” Lydia wondered why any of Tilly's actions surprised her anymore.
“Extreme precautions can save a lot of trouble. I trusted her once and I believe you almost paid a very heavy price for it.” Tilly looked down for a few moments. “Anyway, do you want to know what she did, or are your moral sensibilities too disturbed by the idea?”
“Of course I want to know.” Lydia leaned forward.
“Fine then. Among other things, she had a little meeting with her former mistress—Miss Delacroix, I mean. And then where do you think she went?” Tilly looked pleased with herself.
“I have not the faintest notion.” Lydia impatiently waved her stalling friend on.
Tilly gave Lydia a significant look. “Why, she went over to the home of Lord Aldley for a very brief call.”
“Lord Aldley? Whatever business could she have with the earl?”
“None at all if we are speaking of legitimate business. But I can only imagine that she has been on the same sort of business as whoever delivered the letter to you. I doubt Marie delivered your letter, however, as all of your servants would recognize her straight away.”
“You think she took a letter to Lord Aldley?” Lydia did not like to contemplate the probable subject matter of a letter from that quarter.
“I think that she delivered a letter that was more or less designed to sully your character to his lordship. And I think the author of both letters was Miss Delacroix. Who else is as desperate to put an end to your romance with Lord Aldley?”
“His mother, probably.” Lydia sighed.
“Certainly, I suspect that she would not look upon the match with a kind eye. But she is the last person I should expect to circulate information that cast the slightest shade on her son's reputation. She might happily impugn your character, but not Lord Aldley's.”
“I wonder what lie Miss Delacroix might have told about me.” A little storm crossed over Lydia's face. “But of course, this is all conjecture. We have no proof.”
“Actual proof, no. But I wish you would just accept that this letter is her doing, and that she is only making up lies. I truly wish I could ease the distress that this malicious document has given you. It is really not worth thinking on little things like this.”
It was not a little thing to Lydia.
“Do not frown so. Let me distract you with some other tasty morsels that I gathered while I was away.” Tilly's smile was all mischief. “I admit it is not a perfect distraction, for it involves our favourite acquaintance.”
“What have you heard of Miss Delacroix?”
“It seems that she has received an invitation to the ball. Can you imagine? After Lady Aldley cut her down like that at the Delacroix's dinner party, suddenly she is to attend. Odd, do you not think?”
“Yes, I do. I cannot account for it, can you?” Lydia also could not see how Tilly thought this news would be diverting.
“Well I doubt it was Lord Aldley's idea, so I can only think of two explanations.” Tilly tapped her fingertips together pensively. “Perhaps Lady Aldley has invited any reasonably attractive member of the quality she can think of, hoping to distract her son from you—which suggests he is about to propose. The other possibility is a little more scintillating.”
“Well, do not hold me in suspense.”
“Is it not possible that Miss Delacroix, or perhaps Lady Delacroix, has found something to hold over Lady Aldley's head?”
“Such as Lady Aldley's secret, you mean.” Lydia nodded. “Mr. Delacroix certainly seemed to know something.”
“So you do not think I am being too conspiratorial?” Tilly's face betrayed not the slightest concern as to what Lydia thought on the matter.
“My experience with the family has taught me to put no limits on their audacity. Still, the simplest accounting is that her ladyship is trying to attach her son to someone other than a social nothing like me.”
“You are not a nothing, no matter what the dowager countess thinks. But you are right, that is the less far-fetched explanation. Oh, do not look so downcast. It may seem like a curse, but if you were only just a little less virtuous, you would look forward to rubbing Miss Delacroix's nose in your successful conquest of the earl.” Tilly tried to induce Lydia to smile by wiggling her brows.
“I cannot share your optimism.” Lydia chafed her hands. “I am looking forward to the evening with a great deal of trepidation.”
Chapter 36
Aldley stood before the mirror in his dressing room and surveyed his formal attire with an appraising look. His valet gave his clothing a final brush, and dabbed some scent on his kerchief before offering gloves to his master.
Aldley's garments were new, sleek, without flaw and without ornament except for his gold watch and cravat pin. Every stitch of clothing was perfectly tailored—exactly how he wished to look on the evening that he proposed to his future countess. He walked to the door.
He was less than half an hour away from happiness. He would finally be able to tell Miss Norwood, Lydia, how she made his heart feel.
He scarcely had words for it, but he did not want to merely rehearse something. That was too impersonal. When they were together, when they finally had a chance to talk, it would flow naturally. Still, a drink would not hurt.
His valet helped him on with his cloak, positioned his hat, and handed him his silver-topped walking stick. Aldley was just stepping out the door to meet the carriage, when a messenger approached him with yet another letter.
He resisted the urge to tear it into pieces and grind it under his feet immediately. Instead he merely drew a deep breath and tucked it into his pocket.
He was not going to read any more unsolicited correspondence. He would not let any more scheming gossips ruin his mood. His every thought was for Miss Norwood, who would soon be his dearest Lydia. And then, to the devil with everyone else.
When he arrived at the ball, he ignored good form and sneaked in through a private entrance, to avoid the tedium of standing with his mother to receive guests.
He discovered that there were many eager young ladies already there. He was surprised that his mother invited some of them—the ravishing but title-less Miss Dervish, for example. And Miss Delacroix.
His lips flattened. He thought his mother had taken a disliking to the Delacroix family, though he knew not why, precisely. It was possible that she had learned enough of Mr. Delacroix's character to turn her against all his relatives. And yet, here was Delacroix's sister, decked out in a deep wine silk.
She turned and smiled at him as she bowed from across the room.
He sighed. Leave it to his mother to contrive to place a big fly in the ointment. The Duke of Grendleridge made his way over to Aldley, his daughter on his arm.
Or, perhaps there were an entire horde of locusts in the ointment. He drew a hand over his face. The thought was unworthy. He respected the somewhat eccentric duke immensely, and his daughter, though unattractive, was sensible and a decent conversationalist.
He should no
t let his love make him entirely uncivil to everyone but its object. If only Miss Norwood would arrive soon. He threw back a quick glass of champagne, and readied himself to greet the two highest ranked guests in the room.
As they were chatting, Aldley saw, or perhaps first felt, Miss Norwood enter the ballroom. She stood next to her chaperone, Lady Goodram, who caught Aldley's eye and winked, then whispered something in Miss Norwood's ear before sailing merrily off to the card room.
He wanted to catch Miss Norwood's gaze, but she did not see him. She was radiant and beautiful. She looked like a queen with her hair piled up high on her head, and decked out in a virginal ivory silk and lace gown that showed off her perfect collarbone.
He caught his breath and stared, resisting thoughts of unpinning that hair, running his finger over the delicate edge of that clavicle, over the curve of a blossoming breast. Aldley swallowed and fought to restrain his ardour. He had to talk to her, to make her his own.
But before he could politely detach himself from the duke and his daughter, he saw Miss Delacroix, with a speed he had not thought possible within the confines of a ball gown, hasten directly to Miss Norwood's side.
The conversation was left to his imagination, but Miss Norwood's smile looked like the product of monumental effort and facial control. Aldley chuckled to himself, which confused the duke, who was speaking of his new plans for a very large orangery with a glazed roof.
“An orangery strikes you as amusing, does it?” The duke squinted one eye as he sipped his champagne. “Is this some fashionable new form of wit blown in on a fresh wind that has escaped a sheltered old cheese like myself?”
“I beg your pardon, Duke. I am a little distracted.” Aldley was already engaged in the unsupportable rudeness of casting about the room to find to Miss Norwood's face. “Terrible manners, forgive me. I hope you will excuse me, but I see someone I simply must speak to.”
“Of course, Aldley.” The duke waved his hand in a flourish of sparkling rings. “I am accustomed to your cavalier indifference to precedence. We can resume our chat later. Quite at your leisure.”
Aldley chuckled at the duke's castigation. But when he had turned again to walk to where Miss Norwood had been, she was gone. It was vexing, but he was not of a mind to let her go so easily. He moved through the crowd to the place where she had stood and began searching for her.
His eye caught sight of Miss Ferrel.
“Miss Ferrel.” He received her bow almost with impatience. “I am sorry to disturb you, but have you seen Miss Norwood. She was just here a minute ago.”
“Yes, my lord. So she was. I was just about to come greet her, when Miss Delacroix swept her away suddenly.” Miss Ferrel looked as bewildered as Aldley.
“Did you happen to see where they went?”
“Toward the card room, I believe.” She gestured.
“Thank you, Miss Ferrel. Please excuse me.” Aldley dashed off. He knew he was not demonstrating the best breeding tonight, but he was desperate to find Miss Norwood.
There were many people in the card room—including Lady Goodram, who could not resist the allure of so many rich adversaries—but none of them was Miss Norwood.
“So good to see you, again, Lord Aldley.” Miss Delacroix appeared suddenly at his shoulder. “I hope you are well.”
“Exceedingly well, thank you, as I hope you are.” He cut her off before she could entangle him with more pleasantries. “Have you seen Miss Norwood this evening?”
“Miss Norwood?” She looked surprised. “Well, yes. I was just speaking with her. Only she did not seem very well.”
“Where is she now?”
“I am not sure, she left rather abruptly, I think perhaps she went outside again.”
He got the impression that the chit was being intentionally vague. “Excuse me, Miss Delacroix.” He made to leave.
“Shall we not have a glass of champagne and chat? Surely you will see her in the course of the evening. Unless of course she has sneaked off with your charming friend. What was his name? Mr. Rutherford? I hear they were quite inseparable out at Mr. Norwood's little farm.”
“Did you? Well, whatever quarter you heard that from, I suggest you stop frequenting it, for that is only idle gossip, and entirely untrue. It is not becoming for anyone to repeat lies about a member of their acquaintance. Nor is Mr. Rutherford in attendance this evening.”
He spoke with more heat and candour than was truly acceptable at a ball. But he was sorely provoked—probably by intention, if he understood anything about the young lady's character.
He forced himself to assume a calmer demeanour. “If you see her, please tell her I am looking for her.”
“Of course, Lord Aldley.” Miss Delacroix procured two glasses of champagne from a passing servant, and offered him one with an inviting lick of the lips. “But are you sure you would not rather wait here with me? I am certain she will be back.”
Her laugh was disdainful as she added, “A girl with no status and low connections would never allow herself to miss such a gathering as this. It must be the high point of her life.”
He clenched his jaw. The young lady gave the impression of being more than a little fast. “If I were you, Miss Delacroix, I should remain silent on the topic of low connections. Excuse me.” Miss Delacroix inclined her head. She smiled and lifted a flute to her lips in a single smug gesture of serenity, as Aldley strode away.
Chapter 37
Lydia stood in a poorly heated back chamber behind the ballroom, where, she supposed from the various supplies stored on the shelves about her, servants did laundering and repairs to clothing.
She had no idea where her lady's maid had gone. The house servants had dabbed at her gown, trying to remove the red wine from the fine fabric, but it was pointless.
Miss Delacroix had done it on purpose, she was certain. She even smiled at Lydia as she did it. Then she feigned that she was sorry and mortified and whatever other polite profession she could heap onto the humiliating moment after the fact.
It had been all Lydia could do not to plant that nasty little minx a facer. They would never shift the wine stain. The servants seemed to feel the need to try, but it seemed pointless to Lydia to pretend that the gown could be rescued.
The evening was off to a very unpromising start—so much for the soothsayer's visions of white dresses. Her mother should have saved her money.
Lydia remained shivering in the cold room as the servants left. Only one of them remained.
“Would you like to send for a new gown, Miss?”
“Yes, that would be best. I shall write a note to my mother.” There was no need to disturb Lady Goodram's card sharping. Sending for new clothes directly would be faster.
“Shall I send this dress back too, Miss? Perhaps your servants can save it if they start to cleaning it straight away.”
Something about the way she said it made Lydia pause. And it was odd to suggest an arrangement that would leave Lydia with nothing to wear, standing in a distant acquaintance's house in her undergarments.
And it was perfectly clear that a wine stain of this size on white silk would never be gotten free without ruining the finish of the fabric, whether one started a heartbeat after the wine was spilled, or whether one started a fortnight later. The dress was unsalvageable.
She gave the servant a strange look. “I shall keep this dress until I receive a replacement. Only bring me a pen and paper.”
“Oh, but what a shame it would be to lose such a lovely gown, Miss,” the servant wheedled.
The hairs on Lydia's neck stood up. There was something wrong with this servant. London servants in noble households did not back-talk their superiors. What did she know about this maid? Was she an extra hired for the party?
Many guests brought servants with them, as she had done, if only she could find her itinerant lady's maid. Was her anxiety just a case of nerves that had been frayed by recent events? Was she seeing conspiracies where there were none?
&nb
sp; “Never mind.” Lydia was not in the mood to speak longer to this person. “I shall go send the message myself.”
“No, no, Miss. Let me. The servant almost bolted for the door, but Lydia was fast and got there first. The audacious servant actually tried to get ahead of her and herd her back into the room.
“Oh, Miss, please, don't be seen like this in the ball. Please, I shall fetch pen and paper to you.”
“I care not how I am seen at the ball. Recollect your place and stay away from me.” Lydia's instincts were now on high alert.
The servant's face changed. “You'll get back in that room and stay there, or you will be very sorry.”
“No one in my family has ever raised a hand to a servant.” Lydia's pulse raced, but she kept her voice as even and commanding as she could. “But if you do not step away from me this instant, I will put you in your place, make no mistake. Do not take me for a meek little weakling like the London ladies you are used to. I could leave you in a heap, just as I could that scheming little witch you work for.”
The servant looked taken aback, but only paused slightly before attempting to grapple Lydia.
It was enough time for her to anticipate the attack. Lydia evaded the servant's grasp, ducking under her arm. She seized the woman's wrist as she passed and twisted it around behind her.
The servant struggled to free herself, but Lydia gave a sound kick to the back of her knee, knocking her off balance. She wrenched the woman's arm up, eliciting a screech of pain, and pinned it behind her back.
“If you struggle, I will break off your arm.” She wrenched the servant's arm up further to prove the point.
“Mary, mother of Christ!” The woman shrieked in agony. “Right! Enough! If you break it I'll never find work again.”
“Finding work will be the least of your worries. Tell me where Miss Delacroix is.”
