Wendy didn’t answer. Instead, she closed her eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders.
“Good girl,” whispered Lord Redhill in approval. “Lady Irene will keep you safe.” Then he touched his wife’s arm. “Come along, Helaine. We have more guests to greet.”
Helaine left reluctantly. With Penny and Samuel still deep in discussion in a corner, Irene was left as Wendy’s sole guide through the crowd. She headed steadily to her mother-in-law and Mrs. Schmitz. The two women would be thrilled to keep an eye on Wendy.
“Where did you find that silk?” Irene asked as they walked. “I didn’t buy it, but I sure would like to get—”
“Don’t know,” Wendy interrupted. “It was a gift.”
“Goodness! From whom?”
“I…” Wendy blushed. “I…”
She didn’t want to say. Irene watched as fear, confusion, excitement, and perhaps a little lust, filtered across the seamstress’s face. All of that emotion clogged the mind and colored her skin pink.
“It’s all right,” Irene said. She remembered being just as confused when Nate had started courting her years ago. “You needn’t talk now, if you don’t want to. Just know that I can be a discreet ear if you need one.”
“Thank you,” Wendy breathed, gratitude in her eyes. Then they arrived at their spot on the floor, and the men started crowding around. Fortunately, Samuel and Penny joined them a moment later, and as fortune would have it, Samuel was known to most of the hovering men. Which meant they could finally gain a proper introduction to Wendy. En masse, they stepped forward with cries of greeting to Samuel.
“Morrison, dear man!”
“Good to see you, Samuel!”
“Wonder if I could prevail upon you, ole chap—”
“Introduce me to your lovely companions.”
So it began. Samuel, with his ears red and his cravat decidedly askew, was pressed into service to introduce more than two dozen gentlemen to the ladies at large. He did his duty exceptionally well, using everyone’s correct titles, including Irene’s as Lady Irene. And then, by way of a nod of approval or a disapproving tightening of his lips, he let everyone know his opinion of the gentleman in question.
The most diligent chaperone could do no better. And very soon, everyone’s dance card was filled. Even Irene’s mother-in-law and Mrs. Schmitz were prevailed upon for a couple of the more sedate country-dances. Which meant that as first balls went, this was absolutely beyond her wildest dreams.
Irene danced. She laughed. She even flirted, while beside her Wendy seemed flushed and happy as well. Then came the country-dance with Mr. Grant’s name upon it. She looked around hopefully, but as she’d expected, he was nowhere in sight.
She tried to suppress her disappointment, but she couldn’t. It buried her in a wave of sadness well out of proportion to what had occurred. A gentleman had forgotten their dance. That was nothing unusual and certainly not a hanging offense. She was grateful for the respite in any event. Didn’t her feet hurt? She grabbed a cup of lemonade from one of Wendy’s admirers and drank it down.
That’s when she saw him. He all but stumbled out of the card room, his eyes hooded, his gaze dangerous. That was the word that flitted through her mind: dangerous. And he was headed straight for her.
She watched his progress across the ballroom. She noted that his hair was wild, as if he had been running his hand through it over and over, without even being aware. His cravat had the uneven look of a man who had tugged at it then tried to right it afterwards. But what she saw the most was the way his body moved. As Mr. Grant, he had been charming, seductive, and even a little bit fun. He had coaxed her into dancing with him, tempted her into buying his wares, and charmed her into thinking him a friend.
This man who crossed the ballroom wasn’t Mr. Grant. No, he was a man with a dark madness inside. She knew the symptoms and had seen them in her father often enough. And like a fool, she could not look away.
He was stopped multiple times as he wended his way across the ballroom. She saw him grimace more than once at the interruption, though his eyes remained locked on hers. The thrust of his chin, the force of his step, and the dark need in his eyes—all created a cage around her body and her mind. It was ridiculous. She was a strong, mature woman, but she was helpless as he stalked steadily, carefully, inevitably across the room.
“Lady Irene, I believe this is our dance,” came a man’s voice from her side.
Irene blinked, brought back to herself almost painfully. “What?” she said as she turned to a young man at her side. Mr. Palmer.
“Our dance, I believe,” he said.
“Oh yes. Of course.” She dredged up a smile and willed herself not to look back at Mr. Grant. She almost succeeded. But as she took up position for the dance, he finally made it to the point directly across from her. Then he stood there, like a dark force, and he watched her dance. She tried to ignore him. After all, it wasn’t her fault he’d missed his chance to partner her. But every time she turned, every shift in position, had her eyes inevitably drawn to his.
This was ridiculous, and it made her angry. At herself and at him. By the end of the dance, she had worked herself up so much that she snubbed him as she walked by. He held out his hand, he gestured to her, but she blithely walked by. It was unfair to him. He was clearly trying to apologize. But she did not like his hold on her, and so she stepped right past him and gave her most brilliant smile to her next partner.
That strategy worked for a time. After all, her dance card was filled. But she had forgotten about his second slot on her card. And worse, it was the dance before the midnight buffet. He would expect to take her to supper, most likely. She had not promised her hand to anyone else, and so she would be stuck.
She was still deciding what to do when he stepped up to claim her hand for his dance. She turned, her heart pounding in her chest so much she wondered if she would be able to hear his voice. Apparently she could, especially as she watched his mouth shape each phrase.
“I am a cad,” he said. “You have every right to be angry.”
She lifted her chin, but her eyes remained locked on the shape of his lips. They were somewhat full, she realized. Not thin or tight as with so many men, and she decided she liked it. “I’m not angry,” she lied. Then when his eyebrows rose, she huffed out a sigh. “Very well, I admit it. I prefer a man who keeps appointments.”
“But I did keep it,” he said. “I was just tardy. Much as you were some days ago.”
She frowned then abruptly flushed. She had been so absorbed in the ball, so strangely caught up in the life she’d never had as a feted debutante, that she’d forgotten how a man could be delayed. People made mistakes. And only a shrew would be angry that he had missed a dance.
“I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered.
He caught her hand. “No, it is I who am behaving badly. Again. We are at a ball, and I should not have made reference to…” His voice trailed away, and he appeared acutely uncomfortable.
“To an association outside of a party? But Mr. Grant, I am not ashamed of my job. Anyone can know of it.”
Of course, almost no one did. They thought of her as Lady Irene, school friend of the new Lady Redhill. And if they really pressed, they thought of her as chaperone to Miss Wendy Drew, the stunningly beautiful woman who was stepping onto the dance floor with her latest partner.
“The set is forming. Shall we?” Mr. Grant asked.
She placed her fingertips to his. “Of course.”
He took much more of her hand that she expected. His hand was large and powerful, and her long fingers felt engulfed by his strength. After spending the evening dancing with dandies who used their hands simply to hold their horses’ reins or lift a drink, she appreciated a man who labored. Who seemed as if he could hold her up with just one hand should she stumble.
She liked that in a man, and she felt her anger melt as they formed the pattern of the dance. They moved easily enough. She had re
called the motions after the first hour of dancing, but he seemed to dance as though it was second nature—very odd in a fabric salesman. Even more unnerving was the way he watched her through the entire pattern, completely ignoring whomever danced opposite him.
“You are amazingly athletic,” she said as the dance pulled them together. “You must have practiced this.”
“I danced with my mother,” he said simply, his gaze canting away for the first time since he’d left the card room.
“Not this,” she countered. “This cannot be done with just two.”
He flashed her a smile. “Most perceptive. But there was also my brother and sister.” His voice broke slightly on the word “brother,” but it may simply have been because the air was dry. At least her mouth felt incredibly dry.
They moved apart again, and her hand felt weirdly empty until she was brought back to him. Ridiculous, and yet, the impression was so strong. In the end, the next step was inevitable. As the dance came to its end, he smiled.
“Please, will you join me for the supper buffet? Allow me to apologize for being tardy on the dance floor?”
“Of course I will,” she said with a gracious smile. Because of all things, she had been taught to be gracious when a man offered to apologize. After all, it happened so rarely.
They gathered up Wendy and her partner. Her mother-in-law waved her ahead, obviously wishing to discuss something in detail with Mrs. Schmidt. So the four spent a happy mealtime discussing everything inconsequential from the weather to the musicians. Soon Mr. Grant had them laughing at a silly story. He was speaking of a carriage race that had happened many years back. It was the kind of story that was hysterically funny, unless one thought about the dangers to horse and driver, not to mention any hapless stranger on the road. She laughed along with everyone else, but the note cut at her mood.
He caught her eye then, and not wanting to spread her ill humor, she smiled. But he must have seen her hesitation. He must have understood that something was amiss because he frowned back at her. Or rather, he frowned, not at her, but at himself as he clearly began thinking hard.
But then the meal was over, the musicians were tuning their instruments again, and Wendy was laughing into the eyes of her gentleman. For her part, Irene was feeling her joy return. Just seeing Wendy so happy erased any uncomfortable moments. The woman was usually so tense, always stitching or mysteriously absent. Every one had noted the dark circles under her eyes. And yet right here, she was smiling, her eyes sparkling, and the lines of care that usually pinched her brows beautifully gone.
Disaster struck in an instant. It was so fast that Irene didn’t even see it happen. A man appeared. A gentleman she didn’t know, but that meant very little. She scarcely knew any of the men in society. But he slipped in beside Wendy and took her hand. She turned, laughing because of something Mr. Grant had said, and then suddenly her body went rigid.
Beside her, the gentleman’s expression turned to glee. “I knew it,” he crowed. “I would know you if you wore sackcloth.”
Wendy stood there, her mouth slowly gaping open while the blood drained from her face. For a woman who always had a tart answer ready, something was clearly wrong. Without even knowing what was going on, Irene stepped forward and firmly disengaged the man from Wendy’s side.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”
“Oh, my name isn’t important. It’s Miss Drew’s that is so very interesting.”
“Miss Drew is her name, and it is completely unexceptional,” Irene snapped. “Good evening.”
With that, she walked away, pulling Wendy along. The girl moved woodenly, all her earlier animation gone. Behind them, Mr. Grant had taken up a position to block the impertinent man’s approach. Irene felt reassured with him there, so solid behind them.
“I shouldn’t have come,” whispered Wendy. “I knew it was wrong.”
“Of course it wasn’t wrong,” Irene said. “But there is clearly something at fault here. Who was that man?”
Wendy shook her head. “I don’t even remember. That’s the horrible part. I don’t remember.”
Irene aimed them straight to the ladies’ retiring room. Sadly, as it was just after supper, there were a host of women, and all were gossiping. Irene wanted to change course, but they’d already stepped inside. So with a significant look at Wendy—one that said their discussion wasn’t over yet—both ladies set about fixing their hair. And they listened to the gossip with a rather distracted air.
It was nothing they hadn’t expected. After all, this was Helaine’s first ball as Lady Redhill. This was also her first time in society after her true identity was revealed. She was not actually Mrs. Mortimer, dress designer extraordinaire at A Lady’s Favor dress salon. She was Lady Helaine, the daughter of the Thief of the Ton. And the biddies—young and old—were ready to crucify her for that fact.
Or so it seemed by the murmured talk in the retiring room. Irene absolutely hated that these women could come to Helaine’s ball, eat from her table, and enjoy her hospitality, while simultaneously damning the woman for being common. It was ridiculous, and she burned to give them all a piece of her mind.
Sadly, she knew that any amount of argument added fuel to the flame. Besides, Helaine could defend herself, especially with the powerful Lord Redhill as her husband. Wendy was the one who needed her attention right now. The girl was still pale and shaking.
“Come along, Wendy,” she said, pitching her voice to a clutch of shrews. “The air is foul in here. Poisoned by people who know nothing of life because they have never done anything of worth.”
Wendy gasped at her words, though there was a gleam of delight in her eyes. Irene was a little startled herself. After all, if things had gone how she’d wished so many years ago, she would have been one of those girls. Titled, pampered, and firmly settled in the belief that such things made her a woman able to judge other people. What a shock it was—albeit a small one—to discover how wrong her entire childhood education had been.
In any event, they were out of the room now. She had perhaps twenty seconds of privacy in which to grill the quiet Wendy. Irene seized it with both hands.
“Out with it, my girl. What is going on?”
Wendy shook her head. “I cannot say. Not here.” She looked around. “I can leave, can’t I? I’ve stayed long enough that it won’t reflect badly on Helaine?”
Irene grimaced. Trust Wendy to be worried about Helaine when clearly she was the one feeling threatened. “Yes, of course you can leave now. It’s perfectly acceptable—”
“I’ll go then. Thank you, Irene. Thank you for helping.”
“But Wendy—”
“I’ll tell you everything later. Maybe tomorrow. But I must go now.” And with that, she rushed for the door. Not so fast as to draw attention, but quickly enough that Irene would have to run to catch up. And that, of course, would draw attention. She gathered her skirts, planning on making an attempt, when Mr. Grant appeared at her elbow.
“Let her go,” he said softly.
“What? But she’s—”
“Safest out of here. Come along. I had a discussion with the rude Mr. Marris. If you would care to walk with me…”
She nodded, her eyes narrowing as she watched Wendy top the staircase on her way out the door. “I should see that she gets home safely.”
Mr. Grant saw the direction of her gaze. “I’ll see that she gets into a hackney. She likely walked here.”
Irene nodded, knowing it was true. “And I’ll tell mama that she’s taken ill and that I’m seeing her home.”
“Excellent. I’ll call for your wrap and meet you at the door.”
“Done.” Then just before they separated, she grabbed his arm. “You promise to tell me everything you’ve learned?”
He flashed her a grin. “Of course.” Just for a moment, she saw the darkness in him again, the predator that drove him. It sparked a shiver of excitement down her spine—part f
ear, part attraction, and wholly inappropriate. It was what she felt when entering a difficult negotiation. It was the life that roused her from her bed every morning and filled her days with excitement. And here it was with him, except they were likely going to negotiate something a great deal more important than simple money.
“Very well,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll meet you at the door.”
Eight
It was a struggle to keep the gorgeous seamstress from fleeing, but Grant managed to delay her. She was twitching in her anxiety, but apparently felt better once her cloak was about her shoulders, the hood covering nearly her entire face.
“You don’t want to be seen,” he said in a low voice. “I understand. But rushing away will draw more attention than a leisurely stroll away from a ball.”
She nodded, showing that she’d heard him, and to his relief, her anxiety eased. Then Grant was pleased to see Irene join them. He took a moment to help her with her own cloak, settling the heavy black fabric about her shoulders.
More black. Blech.
For once Grant agreed with his madness. It was a crime to cover her beauty with such dreariness, but this wasn’t the time to discuss her attire. Then with a lady on each arm, he headed toward the street.
“Shall I call a hackney?” he asked.
Irene hesitated, her gaze on the seamstress who adamantly shook her head. “I don’t want the expense,” she said. “It’s a short walk to the shop.”
Beside him, Irene gasped. “Surely you’re not going to work now!”
Miss Drew stuck out her chin. “We’ve got orders coming in. More’n I can handle. And if the nobs won’t pay their shot, then I’ve got to finish the orders for those that will.”
“Wendy,” Irene said with a sigh. “You’re upset and frightened. If you could tell us—”
“I need payment, that’s all. We all do!”
“But—” Irene began.
Grant forestalled an argument by walking faster. The ladies followed suit. They were headed toward the dress shop, which probably represented a place of safety for the seamstress. Meanwhile, Wendy was getting herself under control, speaking as much to herself as to the others.
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