by Anne Gracie
“Me?”
Lily laughed. “I know that look. You’re up to mischief. You don’t like opera any more than I do. So what is it? Are you meeting a man?”
“Yes, a duke. Have you forgotten Aunt Agatha’s triumph already?”
“You know what I mean.” In all the illicit adventures they’d had in Bath, Rose was the instigator, Lily the moderator. Rose was easily bored, and the restrictions of society life made her restless.
Rose’s eyes danced. “What if I am?” She handed the last bun to Lily.
Lily looked down at the bun in her hand, soft, squidgy and delicious. She should put it back on the plate. Lemon icing. “Just be careful, Rose. We’re not in Bath now, you know.”
“And I thank God for it every day. Although I do miss dear Aunt Dottie.”
“Me too.” Lily tried not to inhale the rich, sweet, yeasty fragrance. She had to resist. Finn was eyeing the bun with the mournful air of a dog who hadn’t been fed in weeks. “But you never know, you might even like this duke or one of his friends.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Rose rolled her eyes. “How many dreary old dukes has Aunt Agatha thrown at me so far? I can’t imagine where she digs them up from. I didn’t know there were so many unmarried dukes in the country.”
“I suspect she had the last one exhumed,” George said.
Rose laughed. “Exactly. And if he isn’t stodgy and ancient, he’ll be the kind of bachelor that has a string of beautiful mistresses. He’ll want a respectable young bride to bear him an heir, but he won’t change his habits at all. He’ll continue to keep a mistress or two, but expect his wife to be like Caesar’s—beyond reproach.”
“Men are horrid,” George agreed.
“Cal doesn’t have a mistress,” Lily pointed out. Not all men were horrid, surely. She picked a little bit of icing off her bun.
“It’s different for Cal,” Rose said. “He and Emm are in love. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lily, stop drooling and eat that bun. Consider it breakfast.” She picked up the wafers and tossed them to Finn, who gulped them down in two bites.
* * *
• • •
Where was Sylvia? Lily scanned the crowded ballroom for the dozenth time. After braving Aunt Agatha’s displeasure—well, it was as much for her own sake as for Sylvia’s—it looked as though Sylvia wasn’t coming after all.
“Would you care for this dance, Lady Lily?” Mr. Frome, a pleasant middle-aged gentleman, bowed before her.
Lily glanced at Emm, who nodded her permission. As Mr. Frome led her onto the dance floor, she reflected that Sylvia or no, she was having a much nicer time than she would have had at the opera. She’d danced every dance, and although her partners were mostly older gentlemen, they were attentive and charmingly flirtatious, paying her extravagant compliments and telling her how pretty she looked—not that any of them were the slightest bit serious, but it was fun all the same.
Much better than sitting under the eye of a dragon and having to try to make conversation with dukes and their friends. How was Rose getting on, she wondered. George would have no interest in dukes—the opera was all about the music for her.
But Rose . . . Maybe Lily should have gone to the opera, instead of being selfish. Her sister was like a cork in a bottle, ready to pop unless she was able to escape the prim and proper social round from time to time. This assignation of Rose’s . . . Lily hoped it wasn’t anything foolish.
“Lily?”
Lily turned. “Oh, Sylvia, there you are. I’d almost given you up.”
Sylvia grimaced. “I’m so sorry, Lily dear. It’s my husband. He doesn’t approve of frivolous social pursuits. I had to wait until he fell asleep.”
“Oh, but . . .” Lily’s gaze drifted to the smartly dressed young gentleman who stood at Sylvia’s side.
Sylvia laughed. “Oh, good heavens, this isn’t my husband. This is my cousin, Victor Nixon, who’s visiting London from his home in Paris. Victor, this is my dear friend from school, Lily—oh, no, I must call you by your correct title now, must I not? We’re schoolgirls no longer.” Sylvia tittered girlishly. “Lady Lily Rutherford.”
Mr. Nixon bowed low over Lily’s hand. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Lily.”
“Victor was kind enough to escort me here,” Sylvia said. “My husband rarely ventures out. He’s a complete stick in the mud. Now”—her gaze ran around the room—“who do we have here? I see the former Miss Westwood is here, playing the duenna, no doubt—she was a teacher at Miss Mallard’s school,” she explained to her cousin. “She married Lady Lily’s half brother and has done very well for herself. From poor, plain spinster to Countess of Ashendon.”
“Emm isn’t plain—” Lily began indignantly, but Sylvia swept on.
“Oh, and there’s the former Sally Destry, dancing with her husband, Lord Maldon. Who would have believed that such a spotty little creature would grow up to marry a handsome young lord? And is that—yes, it is—Jenny Ferris, as was! Heavens, hasn’t she grown frightfully fat?”
“She’s just had a baby,” Lily murmured.
Sylvia snorted. “She’s as big as a barn! You should recommend your dressmaker to her, Lily—I mean Lady Lily. That dress you’re wearing is quite slimming.”
Mr. Nixon glanced down at Lily. “I rather like a few extra curves in a woman,” he murmured, his gaze delving down her neckline.
Lily felt herself flushing.
Sylvia laughed. “Behave yourself, cousin.” She smiled at Lily. “I’m afraid Victor is a terrible flirt.”
“I thought you said you knew nobody in London,” Lily said. “You seem to know quite a few people after all.”
Sylvia sobered. “Did I sound awful? I expect I did. Sorry, I’m just . . . frustrated. The former Mallard’s girls in London have refused to recognize me. Just because I left school under something of a cloud, none of them can forget it.” She linked her arm through Lily’s. “You’re the only one generous enough to overlook my youthful folly.” She glanced around the room. “I suppose it’s too much to expect Rose to be friendly. She slapped me once, over absolutely nothing.”
“Rose does have a temper, but—”
“I don’t see Rose here. I hope she’s not indisposed.”
“No, she’s at the opera with our aunt.”
“Damnation,” Mr. Nixon exclaimed suddenly. “I’ve left something important in my carriage. If you ladies will excuse me, I’ll go and fetch it.”
“Bring us a drink when you come back, will you, Victor,” Sylvia said. “It’s horridly stuffy in here with all these candles burning, not to mention the hot and sweaty bodies.”
“Will do.” He hurried away.
He was back in ten minutes, bearing a couple of glasses of fruit punch. Lily drank hers thirstily. Mr. Nixon whispered something in Sylvia’s ear. She frowned and glanced at Lily. “Are you sure?” she asked in a low voice.
He nodded.
“Tell her, then.”
They both turned to Lily. “When I went outside,” Mr. Nixon said, “there was a shabby young boy trying to gain admittance to the house. Of course, the butler refused him, but I happened to hear the boy say he had an urgent message for Lady Lily Rutherford.”
“Urgent? For me?”
Mr. Nixon nodded. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty—slipped him a shilling and promised him I’d deliver the message.” He produced a folded scrap of paper. “He said it was an urgent message from your sister—Rose, is it?”
“Yes, Rose,” Lily said distractedly. A note. Urgent from Rose. Oh, she’d known Rose was going to do something dreadful tonight. What on earth had happened? With shaking fingers she opened the note, and stared blankly at the contents. As usual the letters seemed to shift before her very eyes. She took a deep breath—it was always worse when anyone was watching; she felt so self-conscious and stupid—but t
his was Rose, and important so she had to make it out, she just had to. She stared harder, willing the words to become legible.
Sylvia and her cousin pressed closer. “Well?” said the cousin.
Lily swallowed, anxiety for Rose battling with shame. She had no idea what the note said. She glanced around, looking for Emm or Cal.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, how stupid!” Sylvia exclaimed.
Lily flinched, but before Sylvia could loudly reveal Lily’s dreadful flaw to all around them, she said, “I forgot for a moment—Lady Lily can’t read a word without her spectacles. Here, give it to me.” With a wink at Lily, she plucked the note from Lily’s nerveless grasp and quickly scanned the contents of the note.
Lily held her breath.
“It’s from Rose. She says she’s in trouble and needs your assistance. She’s waiting in a carriage outside the house and says you’re to go to her immediately.”
“Of course,” Lily said. She was feeling a little dizzy. “I’ll just let Emm and Cal know.” She scanned the room, but she couldn’t see Cal or Emm anywhere.
Sylvia placed a hesitant hand on Lily’s arm and said in a discreet tone, “Far be it from me to interfere, but she sent the note to you, Lily, not your brother or his wife. It sounds to me as if Rose doesn’t want them to know.”
“Oh, of course,” Lily said, flustered. It would be just like Rose to do something reckless and try to hide it from Cal especially. Whatever had she done? Rose could be so hotheaded at times.
“I saw a golden-haired young lady sitting alone in a carriage outside,” Mr. Nixon said. “Quite a beauty. Would that be your sister?”
“Yes, yes, it would.” Lily bit her lip. Rose leaving the opera on her own didn’t surprise her in the least. Her sister had always been a rule unto herself. She scanned the room anxiously. “But I must tell—”
“In the absence of your brother, I would be happy to escort you outside.” Mr. Nixon offered his arm.
Sylvia nodded. “Go and see what Rose wants, and if you need your brother or his wife, you can come back in and fetch them. It’ll only take a minute.”
Lily hesitated. She shouldn’t go outside with him, she knew. But he was Sylvia’s cousin, not really a stranger. And her sister needed her.
Mr. Nixon proffered his arm again. Lily gave one last agonized look around the ballroom and nodded. “All right.” She took his arm.
“Do you have a cloak?” Mr. Nixon said as they neared the exit.
“What?” Lily gave him a distracted glance.
“It’s cold outside and your sister was shivering. I’ll fetch it for you.” He hurried toward the cloakroom.
Lily rushed out of the house and down the front steps. She stopped dead. In the street stood a long line of waiting carriages. Which one was Rose in? She hesitated and found herself swaying a little. The dizziness was getting worse. She should have eaten something at supper.
“Here.” Mr. Nixon dropped her cloak over her bare shoulders. She shivered. He was right. It was cold outside. “Your sister’s carriage is along here. Come.” He led her around the corner, to where a lone carriage waited.
He opened the door. The interior was dark and gloomy. “Rose?” Lily peered inside. A shadowy figure was huddled in the far corner of the coach. “Is that you, Rose? Whatever is the matt—” Without warning she was pushed hard from behind. She fell half into the coach and before she knew it, her legs were seized and she was shoved bodily onto the floor of the coach.
Lily tried to scream but someone grabbed her chin in a rough grasp and stuffed a rag into her mouth. It almost choked her. A heavy cloth was bundled over her head. Someone caught her flailing arms and bound her tight. She couldn’t see or move. A pair of heavy feet pressed her to the floor.
“Go!” Mr. Nixon shouted. With a jerk, the carriage moved off, its wheels rattling over the cobblestones.
Chapter Two
There is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
—EDMUND SPENSER, THE FAERIE QUEENE
“You look as sick as a dog,” Cal told his wife.
“Such a charming way with words you have,” Emm said, smiling despite the nausea that had suddenly swamped her. Her current condition made her extra sensitive to smells, and the close atmosphere of the room, combined with the clashing scents of burning candle wax, strong perfumes and overheated bodies made her distinctly queasy.
Cal slid an arm around her. “Even pale green and drooping you’re beautiful. But you need to be in bed, so we’re leaving.” He glanced around the room. “Where’s Lily?” He frowned. “Wait here and I’ll go and find her.”
He settled Emm in a chair with a glass of water at hand and asked the Countess of Maldon, one of Emm’s former students, to keep her company.
He looked in every room in the house, even sending a female acquaintance into the ladies’ withdrawing room to look for Lily, but there was no sign of her.
“Maybe Sylvia will know,” Emm suggested when he returned with no news. “I think she was talking with Lily before we stepped outside.”
“Sylvia?”
“That woman over there. Help me up.” Cal helped her to rise, and together they approached Sylvia.
“Oh, yes, she and I were talking,” Sylvia said vaguely after the initial pleasantries were concluded, “but that was some time ago. She received a note, a message from her sister, I think.”
“From Rose?” Emm frowned. “What kind of message?”
Sylvia gave her a troubled look. “I couldn’t say. But she did look a bit worried.” She looked around uncertainly. “She might have stepped outside for a moment. It’s quite stuffy in here, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Could she have gone into the garden?” Emm exchanged glances with Cal.
“I’ll check,” he said, and strode from the room.
“I must congratulate you on your marriage, Lady Ashendon,” Sylvia said. “It seems such an age since we were all at Miss Mallard’s. I see several of your former pupils are here. Little Sally Destry—a countess now! And you, now a member of the peerage, as well. Marriage changes things, doesn’t it? It certainly changed my life.”
But Emm wasn’t listening. She was watching the exit to the garden. In a few minutes Cal appeared in the doorway and shook his head.
“Sylvia, are you sure she went into the garden?”
Sylvia looked surprised at the question. “No, I didn’t see where she went. She was talking to my cousin, and frankly, I felt a little de trop, if you know what I mean.”
“Your cousin?” Cal asked.
“Yes, Mr. Victor Nixon. He’s visiting from France. He and Lily were flirting, so I thought I’d be tactful and was edging away, planning to take myself off, you understand. But then she got the message and she and Victor were talking about it, but I confess, I wasn’t taking much notice. I’d seen someone I wanted to talk to, and well, this room is so stuffy and crowded, it’s almost impossible to keep track of anyone, isn’t it?”
“Where’s your cousin now?” Cal snapped.
Sylvia shrugged. “In one of the card rooms, I expect. That’s where he usually ends up. He’s hopeless, but since my husband won’t escort me anywhere, I have to make do with Victor.”
“You don’t think she’s gone home without us?” Emm said to Cal. “If she got a message from Rose and couldn’t find us, she might have left on her own.”
Cal’s lips tightened. “It wouldn’t be the first time she and Rose have gone gadding about on their own at night. Dammit, I thought all that nonsense was behind us.”
“I thought it was too,” Emm said. “Did you ask the butler? Or whoever’s at the door?”
He shook her head. “Let’s go.” He gave a brusque nod to Sylvia, took Emm’s arm and hurried toward the exit.
Inquiries from the butler revealed that Lady Lily had indeed left the Mainwaring hous
e some twenty minutes earlier, along with a tall young gentleman who’d collected her cloak.
Cal sent a footman out to summon his carriage.
“I’m going to strangle Rose,” Cal muttered as they waited for the carriage to arrive. “I thought she’d given up on her old tricks.”
“I thought so too.” Rose and her antics were the reason Cal had married Emm in the first place. “Even so, if there was some problem with Rose, I don’t understand why Lily didn’t come to tell us.”
“Don’t you?” Cal darted her a grim look. “Lily’s very loyal. If Rose is up to some mischief, wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of Lily.”
Emm gave a rueful grimace. It was true. “So where do you think she’s gone?”
Cal shrugged. “I’ll take you home first, then—”
“Oh, no, I’m feeling much better now.”
Cal snorted. “Says the woman who’s as pale as paper and looking ready to cast up her accounts at any moment.” He slipped his arm around her waist and said in a softened voice, “Home first for you, my love, to put your feet up and rest. And don’t worry about my wretched sisters. I’ll track them down soon enough.” He glanced at her face and added, “And when I do find them, I’m going to throttle them for adding to your worries.”
* * *
• • •
Lily lay on the floor of the carriage, gagged, bound up in a shroud of heavy cloth and unable to see a thing. She struggled to breathe. Waves of dizziness and a strange lethargy added to her fear and confusion. She tried to move her legs, but it was as if there were weights attached to them.
The cloth covering her was musty and stank of horses and mildew. A horse blanket? She pushed at it. “Keep still, you!” a man snarled. Not Mr. Nixon; his voice was rough and uneducated. Something pressed down on her neck—a foot? She froze, her heart hammering in her chest. She could barely breathe as it was. If he pressed any harder . . .
