Page 60 of The Grand Mistletoe Assembly
“So mightwe ask you how the foundling home is run, since you began your life there?” A pompous, jowly old man peered at Ruby through his spectacles. Lord Andrepont rolled his eyes.
She fought the urge to spit.
Lady Andrepont cut in before Ruby could embarrass herself or her sponsors. “Lord Frederick, have you seen the paintings up for auction? I know your lady wife had discussed refreshing your morning room. Might I suggest we promenade in that direction? I think you’ll find the watercolors particularly pleasing.” She took the old fart’s arm and dragged both him and the scowling Lord Andrepont through a doorway.
“My sister has a knack for managing difficult personalities,” Corinthian John told Ruby. “Try not to take it personally.”
Ruby shrugged. Her stays were new, firmer than her old ones, and they didn’t move with her body. The beautiful deep orange dress—for it weren’t red, according to Lady Andrepont—required Ruby to get new undergarments. Her normal stuff was all woolen and lumpy, and this dress was sleek like an otter. The sensation felt completely foreign, and Ruby couldn’t figure out if she liked it or hated it. Instead, she blew out a sigh. “I don’t fit in here.”
The prizefighter gave her a smile, making his face crinkle. Graying at the temples, just muting some of the vibrancy of his red-blond hair, he was still handsome, despite being old. “No one does. Just remember that everyone is pretending.”
Ruby fought the urge to pull at her undergarments. Her satin stockings were still tied in place, but damn, they felt as if they’d fall any moment. “Someone fits here. It just ain’t us.”
“You think I don’t fit?” The old fighter huffed, but she could tell he was only teasing.
“You could prolly kill half these blokes with one good jab. The other half, I could.”
Corinthian John surveyed the room and the soft bodies it contained. “Ain’t saying yer wrong, Ruby.”
Ruby barked a laugh. Fighters knew fighters. They knew that strange world full of sweat and concentration. People thought prizefighters were stupid—being hit about the head and whatnot. But it wasn’t true. A fighter had good instincts, saw movements before anyone else, and could read their opponents’ bodies and know how they’d fight.
Ruby should keep her mouth shut, but she trusted Corinthian John, despite herself. “I think my father might be here.” She leaned away from him, already regretting she’d mentioned it.
The man blinked at her in surprise. “And who is your father?”
Ruby opened her mouth. Then closed it.
“Out with it.”
“Daniel Miller.”
“Are you certain?” Corinthian John scanned the crowd, then took a few steps to see through the doorway into the main hall.
Ruby shook her head. “Just a hope.”
Corinthian John looked at her, not with pity but with recognition. She knew he and his sister were orphans, but they hadn’t gone through the foundling home. They’d had family and friends—the Irish were like that, sticking together when they could. But Ruby wasn’t Irish—not as far as she knew, anyway. In Ruby’s fuzzy memory, her mother had been sick when she’d left her at the foundling home. Ruby was perhaps three or four, and she’d been clutching newspapers that described organized set-tos. Daniel Miller was the common thread in the articles, which made Ruby believe he was her father.
She’d seen him at a distance a number of times, and they shared the same peach-ruddy skin, brown hair, and hazel eyes. Of course, many a person in England could boast the same.
“Have you ever been introduced?” While Corinthian John seemed all business, she could tell he was searching her features for the other man’s likeness.
“No, never spoke to the man.” Ruby felt all the smaller and stupider for her admission. Should have stuffed one of those cheese-filled mushrooms in her mouth instead of speaking.
Corinthian John turned to her with a smile that lit up his face and made him seem just as impish as his sister, Lady Andrepont. “Then let’s rectify that.” He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her from room to room, using his height to see over the crowd.
Ruby tried to keep her mouth closed as she inwardly gaped at all the finery. Bloody hell, those were actual rubies dangling from that woman’s ears. And the gold! So much gold. Ruby tucked her free hand in close to her waist as they dodged around a couple staring into one another’s eyes like love-sick bumpkins.
“You’re in luck,” Corinthian John tossed back over his shoulder. “There he is.”
Ruby followed Corinthian John’s gaze to where Daniel Miller was speaking with two men in military uniforms. He had thick features, a square jaw, and a nearly shaved head. His shoulders were broad, making him almost as wide as both of his companions. Could this be her father?
Her mouth went dry, and suddenly, she couldn’t manage another step.
“C’mon now,” the prizefighter encouraged.
She’d paid attention to her heart while she trained—how fast it pounded when she jumped rope, when she practiced with the sawdust dummy. She calmed it during fights to last longer. But here, in this wondrous house full of beeswax tapers and jewels, her father standing close enough to reach out and touch, it felt like her heart stopped completely, and she couldn’t breathe.
She felt the sharp touch of metal on her side, and then a gentle impact on her skirts, like a troop of friendly mice had leapt on her all at once. But surely, there were no animals at this party.
