by Candace Camp
“Folded ’em up and stuck ’em inside ’is jacket.”
“He never said why he wanted them?” Mary asked, and the man shook his head.
“’E never told me nothin’.”
This statement seemed to be the man’s most common refrain. The earl continued to question him, but it soon became clear that they had learned all they could from him. Finally, with a shrug, the earl turned him over to the servants and told them to take him to the magistrate.
After he left, they looked at each other.
“Well,” Stewkesbury said at last. “We may not have learned much, but at last we have captured your assailant.”
“But what will happen with this man who hired Randall?” Mary asked. “Rose is still in danger, isn’t she?”
“I don’t think he is likely to try the job himself,” Royce said. “He did that once and failed. Everyone agrees that he isn’t large, and I think he realizes he’s not up to the task.”
“The odds are he would try to hire someone else,” Stewkesbury agreed. “He must be from London; that’s where he hired this chap. I would think it would be an entirely different matter to find a ruffian to abduct someone here.”
“But he already has another person helping him,” Camellia put in. “At least, that’s what it sounded like to me. Randall said he didn’t break in here to take the case.”
Stewkesbury’s face darkened. “I cannot imagine any of our people betraying us like that.” He glanced toward Fitz and Royce. “Can either of you?”
Royce shrugged. “I wouldn’t have thought it, but money is a powerful persuader.”
“The footmen have been with me for years. Most of them are from around here.”
“Why do you think it’s one of the men?” Mary asked. “It seems more likely to me that it’s a maid.” When the men looked at her in surprise, she went on, “Whoever took my case went unnoticed. The footmen are upstairs occasionally, but it is the women who are in and out of the bedchambers all the time. No one would think anything of seeing a maid carrying something out of my room.”
“You think it’s Prue?” Rose asked in shocked tones. “Or Junie?”
“No, not really. I would not have thought either of them would do anything to hurt us or the earl. I just think we should not rule them out.”
“You’re right.” Oliver nodded. “We must consider everything. It’s possible the man broke in himself. It’s not unlikely that thievery is his usual occupation.”
“I think we can assume things should be calm now, at least for the next few days,” Royce said.
“Agreed,” Oliver said. “We cannot, of course, relax our guard. But my guess is he has quit, or else he’ll go back to London to hire another ruffian.”
“Good.” Royce gave a short nod. “Then I shall go to Iverley tomorrow.”
“Iverley!” Mary’s heart sank, and it was all she could do not to protest.
“You’re leaving?” Lily asked in a woebegone voice, expressing what Mary would not allow herself to say. “But what about Lady Sabrina’s ball? I was counting on you to ask me to dance so I won’t be a wallflower.”
Royce laughed. “I sincerely doubt that you will have any lack of partners. However, I promise you that I will be back before the ball. So each of you ladies must save me a waltz.”
Mary glanced over at the earl. His face, as always, was inscrutable. But Fitz did not look surprised by Royce’s sudden decision. They already knew, Mary thought. Royce had told them he was leaving, but he hadn’t bothered to inform her.
Determined not to let him see that she was hurt, Mary said briskly, “I wish you a pleasant journey, Sir Royce. If the rest of you will excuse me, I believe I will go upstairs now. It has been a rather tiring day.”
Everyone agreed and began moving toward the door. Mary was careful not to glance at Royce as she made her way out of the room. Positioning herself between Lily and Camellia, she strode along the hall and up the stairs, never looking back.
Though Mary tried her best to pretend that she did not notice it, she found Willowmere quite empty without Royce. She told herself she might as well become accustomed to it. After all, it would be her lot in life once Royce gave up and accepted that she was not going to marry him. Better to get used to it now, when there was something going on—Willowmere was all abuzz with the news that Rose was engaged to Sam Treadwell.
“Sam asked me again last night, ever so sweetly,” Rose told her sisters the next day as they clustered about her in her bedroom. “He said I was the only one who mattered, and that he had asked Cousin Oliver for my hand only because he wanted to make sure he did everything absolutely right. I couldn’t stay mad at him. I told him yes. Look, he got me a ring. He says he’s had it for months.”
“What did Stewkesbury say to him? Did he interrogate him about his prospects and whether he could take care of you?” Lily asked.
“Yes! But Sam apparently convinced Stewkesbury that he could support me even if his father cast him off for marrying against his wishes—though he said that he could see that Stewkesbury was excessively annoyed at that thought! Sam has saved his money for years, and he wants to start a drayage company. Coal has been discovered farther west, and he intends to haul it out. The earl seemed quite impressed with his steadiness and business sense. And—you will not believe this—Cousin Oliver is even giving me a dowry!”
“A dowry? How medieval,” exclaimed Camellia.
“Apparently not in the circles in which we now live. Cousin Oliver explained it to me himself. He said it was only fair, as our grandfather had cut Mama out of his will. The banns will be read this Sunday and next, and after that we can be married. It’s terribly hasty, I know, and I shall have to wear one of the dresses Cousin Charlotte had made for us. But Sam wants to get back to the United States. And I can’t wait to marry him!”
“Who can blame you?” Mary asked, going to her sister and putting her arm around her.
“But how can you leave us?” Lily wailed. “We’ll miss you so much! Do you really want to go back?”
“Yes. Oh yes, I do. I miss home—the way it looks, the way it feels. Everything is so formal here; I hate having all the servants hovering around, doing everything for me.”
“Oh!” Lily threw up her arms and dropped back onto the bed. “I think it’s absolutely wonderful! All the clothes and the parties we’re going to have.” She looked around at her sisters. “All right, I know. I am the only one.”
“No, I like it here, too,” Camellia said, surprising all of them. “I mean, the people are awfully odd sometimes, and I hate our lessons with Miss Dalrymple. But those will end eventually. I love riding; I love the horses. Vivian wants me to teach her how to shoot, and Fitz has said we’re going to set up targets. I can practice with him. He says he’ll teach me archery as well. And croquet.” She shrugged. “I like Fitz and Charlotte and Royce and Vivian. I think I even like Cousin Oliver.”
Mary nodded. She liked it here too, more than she had ever expected to—if only there weren’t that odd, empty feeling when Royce was not around. She smiled and reached out to hug Rose. “We will miss you, but we want you to be happy.”
“I will be. I promise you I will be.”
“You must write us at least once a week and tell us everything,” Lily said, jumping off the bed and going to put her arms around her sisters.
Camellia joined them, and for a long moment they clung together, poignantly aware of the great change that loomed before them. Then, with a little sniffle here and there, they broke apart, and the conversation returned to the question of what they would wear to the wedding.
Only slightly less important than the upcoming nuptials was the prospect of Lady Sabrina’s ball three days hence, and the sisters passed many a pleasant hour planning their wardrobes and hairstyles for the first major social event of their lives. The evening gowns Charlotte had brought were far more elegant than any dresses they had ever owned, but Lady Vivian decreed that, while they were perfectly fine
for a county assembly or some other such country dance, something more refined was needed for Lady Sabrina’s ball.
Therefore, as soon as Vivian had learned of the ball, she had sent a note posthaste to Madame Arceneaux, ordering new ball gowns for the Bascombe sisters. The day before the ball, Vivian arrived at Willowmere followed by two footmen with a trunk.
“I thought it would be a problem coming up with four gowns all white and yet distinctive enough,” Vivian told them. “But Madame’s taste and ingenuity have won the day.”
Prue and Junie took the four ball gowns out of the trunk and laid them across the bed in Mary’s room. The gowns themselves were exactly alike—puff-sleeved concoctions of white satin slips over which hung round dresses of Urlings net. Flounces of white Urlings lace festooned the bottoms of the skirts, each point of the festoons anchored by a small cluster of satin roses. The difference among the dresses lay in the color of the satin roses and the ribbons that decorated the short sleeves and ran around the high waists. Blue satin ribbons and roses adorned Rose’s dress, while Lily’s were pink, Camellia’s yellow, and Mary’s a delicate lavender. White kid gloves, white satin slippers, and white lace fans decorated with matching ribbons completed the outfits.
“Vivian!” The Bascombe sisters showered their friend with thanks.
Vivian simply smiled and said, “I could not let you make your first public appearance in anything less than an Arceneaux gown.”
The following evening, when the girls were dressed, with their hair done up in curls in the French style, small satin roses of the same color as the trim of their dresses pinned into their hair, the effect of all of them together was both dramatic and sweetly innocent.
As she made her way downstairs with her sisters, Mary knew that she looked her best. She was filled with a jittering anticipation. Royce had been gone for almost four days. He had returned that afternoon, she had heard, but as she had been upstairs in the midst of dressing for the party, she had not seen him. She would never have admitted how badly she wanted to see him, how much she had missed him. How many times a day she had thought about him.
Royce was standing in the entryway chatting with the earl and Fitz when the girls made their way down the stairs. He turned, and his reaction when he spotted Mary was everything she could have hoped for. He took an involuntary step forward, his face suddenly taut, his eyes burning.
“Mary …”
She could not hold back a triumphant smile. Perhaps there was hope for them. Maybe if she married Royce, someday his desire for her might turn to love.
Royce bent over her hand, murmuring, “You dazzle the eyes tonight, my Marigold. Every man at the ball will be jealous of me for arriving with you.”
“A pretty speech, sir,” she retorted. “But we shall see how they feel after they have danced with me.”
At the ball, Lady Sabrina greeted them beside her husband. She was coolly beautiful in an ice blue satin gown, pearls looped around her throat and palely glowing in her earlobes. She could have been the goddess of the moon, Mary thought, lovely and unobtainable, the object of any man’s desire.
“Darling Mary!” Sabrina greeted her with a smile, but now Mary could see that it did not reach the woman’s eyes. “How lovely you look. I hope you are not too nervous about your first ball. I am sure that you will not stumble or do anything wrong.”
“Oh, no, I intend to be too busy having fun to do anything like that,” Mary responded easily. “You look very pretty, too. What a lovely dress you’re wearing. But where is Lady Vivian? I would have thought she would be here to help greet your guests.” Mary had little doubt that Sabrina had purposely excluded Lady Vivian from the receiving line; she would not want the competition of Vivian’s dazzling beauty.
“Oh, you know our Vivian.” Sabrina smiled noncommittally and passed Mary on to Lord Humphrey. “And Sir Royce,” she purred, reaching out to take his hand. “So wonderful to see you again.”
“Hello, Lady Sabrina.” He gave her a perfunctory bow. “Lovely party.” He moved on to shake Lord Humphrey’s hand.
Mary danced a cotillion with Royce first, followed by a dance each with the earl and Fitz, so that by the time she was asked out onto the floor by Lady Vivian’s stately uncle, her nerves were almost entirely gone, and she was able to get through the steps with only a minor bobble.
She glanced around, happily noting that her sisters all seemed to be dancing and chatting without problem. Even the normally reserved Rose was much more animated tonight, a state due, Mary suspected, to Sam Treadwell’s presence by her side. Mary chatted with Charlotte and Lady Vivian, who was absolutely stunning in an emerald silk gown with black lace trim and an elegant little train.
As Mary danced and talked, now and then she glanced around, unable to keep from looking for Royce. Once she saw him dancing with Cousin Charlotte, and another time chatting with an older gentleman she did not know. When next she looked over, she saw him taking the floor with Lady Sabrina.
Mary went still, her insides suddenly chilled. It was a waltz, and she watched, unable to look away, as Royce and Sabrina began to move about the floor. Maddeningly, she could catch only glimpses of their faces. She could not read his expression, but whenever Sabrina’s face came into view, she was smiling, her perfect features animated, her blue eyes sparkling. Sabrina was still in love with Royce, Mary realized, and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest.
Mary’s fragile hopes earlier this evening seemed quite foolish now. How could she ever hope to compete with this woman? She was Royce’s first love, the woman who had turned his heart to stone. All that Mary could ever hope to have was the remainder of the man. Was that enough?
The dance ended, and Mary turned hastily away, not wanting Royce to know that she had been watching him. Fiddling with her fan and straightening her skirt, she did not realize that Royce was walking toward her until he was upon her.
“Oh!” She jumped, startled, when he stopped before her.
“I believe I have this dance.” He was not smiling; indeed, his face was sober, almost grim.
“Yes, of course.” Mary placed her hand on his arm, wishing she did not have to go out onto the dance floor with him just now. At least it was not a waltz; she would not have to try to keep up a conversation.
To her surprise, however, Royce steered her away from the dance floor. She glanced at him questioningly.
“I have something I want to talk to you about.” He guided her through the double doors and into a corridor, then turned and walked to the door at the end of the short hall.
“About what? Have you heard something about the man behind the abduction attempts?”
“What? No. This is something else altogether. It’s the reason I went to Iverley.”
“Oh?” Mary’s curiosity was aroused.
They walked out onto a covered veranda that wrapped around the side and back of Halstead House. He found a dark, secluded corner with a wrought-iron bench and gestured Mary toward the seat.
“Here. Please sit down.”
“All right.” Mary sat down and looked up at him. He was acting rather peculiarly, stiff and at the same time nervous. She remembered, with a sudden sinking feeling, another time when she had seen him behave this way—the afternoon that he had proposed to her. She started to stand up. “Royce—”
“No.” He took her arm and tugged her back down onto the seat. “Please listen to me. I want to do this right this time. The reason I went home was to get something.” He went down on one knee on the flagstone before Mary, startling her. “Marigold Bascombe, I am asking you to become my wife.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box. Opening it, he held it out to Mary. There, nestled in the satin, lay a deep red ruby ring. Mary took it, holding it up close to look into its red depths.
“It’s the Winslow ring, given to all the Winslow brides since 1678. My father gave it to my mother, and now I want to give it to you.”
“Why?” Mary asked, watching him.
He sighed. “Mary … every time I tell you the reasons, you get angry. I am trying to do it the right way, to show you—”
“And you think what I want is a ring?” Mary asked, her voice rising.
“No. I mean, well, I don’t know whether you want the ring or not.” He sounded weary and confused. “But I thought you would understand that I am serious, that I truly want to marry you.”
“I understand that. But it is obvious that you don’t understand.” Mary stood up.
“No.” He rose lithely, temper flaring in his eyes. “You’re right. I don’t understand. When we talk, when we joke, when we do anything, it seems good and right. And when we’re in bed together—well, I haven’t any words for it. But when I ask you to marry me, you refuse out of hand. I thought it was the way I did it the first time. I was clumsy and stupid and not at all myself. I thought if I went and got the ring, if I gave you the Winslow ring, then I could do it correctly, say the thing that would make you
accept.”
“I can’t!” Tears clogged Mary’s voice. “Don’t you see? I feel all those things and more. I love you. I can’t marry you because I love you, and I can’t spend the rest of my life like that, with my heart breaking every day because you don’t love me!”
She pushed the ring back into his hand and shoved past him, running back into the house. Royce stood staring after her, the ring cold and glittering in his hand.
Mary darted down the corridor. She had to get out of here. She turned in the direction they’d come, then stopped, unable to enter the ballroom. There was no way she could face everyone now. She wished that she could leave, just run home to Willowmere and cry her heart out. But of course she could not. Her sisters were scattered about, enjoying themselves. It would be wrong to make them leave just because of her own unhappiness.
She would go out into the gardens, she decided. Quickly she walked through the ballroom, looking neither right nor left. She did not want to meet anyone’s eye and have to smile or stop to talk. All she wanted was to reach the terrace doors. Once she heard someone call her name, but she did not look around.
