Page 34 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
Chapter 11
“These events would be vastly more fun if I could see anything,” Margaret complained. “I need chopines.”
“What are those?” Antonia asked as she flapped her fan before her face. In deference to the cold winter weather, their hosts refused to open windows. Fires roared beneath gigantic mantles and the candles above them dripped hot wax as they melted in the excessive heat.
“Stilt shoes. Another three inches and I might be able to overhear what Lady Woolryte is whispering.”
Of all the things to be curious about. Antonia suppressed a flash of frustration. “Why would you want to know?”
“One of the Kilpatrick women was married last week. No one will tell me why because I am an unmarried woman but I am dying to know how that came about so quickly.” Margaret strained on tiptoe.
“Might we try the cards room? This ballroom is too stuffy to endure.” Antonia urged her companion along, but Margaret resisted. “Come on. The old men are more likely to gossip openly than a lady.”
“Men? Gossip?”
Antonia winked. “Think about your brother and his friends when they come back from the club, or when they rejoin us after their post-supper cognac and cigar. Do you not think they were sharing secrets?”
Margaret frowned. “I know they do. That was, after all, how my brother tried to tie me to Lord Darby last fall. All it took was one confidential conversation.”
“This is why reputations are so easily damaged,” Antonia nodded sagely, as if she had been raised in this rarefied world. Being an outsider gave her a certain distance from these elegant proceedings and exposed the underbelly of society. “Everyone is talking about one another behind their backs. It’s only necessary to be polite face-t0-face. Can you imagine how refreshing it would be if we spoke directly?”
“More like terrifying.” Margaret jostled her way past a lady in a fine double strand of pearls from the center of which dangled an emerald ringed with diamonds. It would have made a fine addition to her collection, but tonight, Antonia had worn gloves without the slits in the fingertips to let her snip and steal pretty baubles. Her kit of tiny shears and deep padded pocket lay in a hidden compartment of her trunk back at the Evendaws’ home. Tonight, she was on a mission.
Find the Dowager Duchess of Summervale and challenge her to a card match.
“How are your dancing lessons coming along?” Margaret asked once they had crashed through the wall of people into the less-populated card room. Every table was occupied.
Antonia scanned the room for her quarry. “Well enough.”
“Do you think you can secure a voucher to Almack’s for next Wednesday?” Margaret asked fretfully. “Lady Jersey and Princess Esterhazy granted you one last week on my brother and sister-in-law’s word, but the waltz with Havencrest was such a faux pas. I would have warned you not to if I had realized you didn’t know the rules. Sometimes, I forget that you aren’t from here. You blend in so easily. Even your American accent is disappearing, Toni.”
Which meant that either Antonia had done a more than passable job of memorizing her hosts’ mannerisms and speech patterns, or that Margaret was easily fooled. She’d put her money on the latter. Not a single other person had commented once upon how well Antonia had adopted the English lifestyle. Least of all Havencrest. If she could convince him, she could convince the duchess—and be one step further to collecting the few belongings from her bolt-hole and being on her way. Anthony Lowe had a bright future, just as soon as she figured out what he ought to do with his life.
“Lady Evendaw,” came a male voice from beside her. Antonia jolted and inhaled, willing her body not to reveal any outward sign of awareness even though her entire being was focused on not looking at the man who stood at the periphery of her vision. Malcolm.
Havencrest.
LordHavencrest.
Their secret early-morning meetings meetings warmed her icy heart like a bright coal on a cold, clear night. Margaret didn’t know about them. Antonia hadn’t told her and had no intention of doing so. Those precious hours were hers alone. When Antonia was gone and Margaret married to Havencrest—and there seemed a fair chance they might agree to such an outcome, considering her brother’s keen interest in marrying her off and Malcolm’s disinterest in the subject—she resolved to be content with the idea of her two almost-friends living long, happy lives together. Anthony Lowe, after all, had things to do. A business, probably. Havencrest’s funds had set her up nicely to be able to purchase a shop. Perhaps a jeweler’s workshop.
The prospect tugged her mouth into a smile.
“My grandmother has an opening at her table,” Havencrest said softly. “I leave you to it. Margaret wishes to join the cotillion.”
“Must keep up appearances,” Antonia responded snidely to cover the twist of jealousy that took her off guard. Five seconds ago, she had been happy for them. Shewashappy. Or would be, eventually, when she had moved on from this place. “I’ll bet Margaret’s smile blinds the room when she dances with you.”
Havencrest shot her a speaking glance. “It does.” He sketched a bow, then inclined his head to indicate the game table dominated by a white-haired lady in a silver-and-blue turban. “You had best go before Lady Woolryte fleeces my grandmother. She’s rumored to be a card cheat.”
Antonia glanced at the empty chair. Havencrest was gone when she looked up. She folded her fan and pointed it to the open seat as she moved closer to the table, marking it as hers. “Might I join you for a round?”
Lady Summervale and Lady Woolryte scanned her up and down. Their third, Lady Palmer, recognized her at once. “By all means. I would love to hear all about your progress at learning to dance. I don’t believe Almack’s Assembly Rooms have ever been disgraced by quite such a display as the one you and Havencrest put on last week.”
Despite the lilt of her voice, Antonia heard more threat than friendly invitation. “Well, as you know, I am but a renegade American. We aren’t accustomed to such niceties as dancing.”
“What a wretched way to live,” Lady Woolryte commented. Her gaze dropped down and up Antonia’s new-made pink gown. Her thin lips pursed into a pucker of disapproval. “No dancing?” She turned to Lady Summervale. “Are we bidding this game?”
“Bidding is for Fridays, if you wish to play.”
