Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“Aball, Your Grace?” Mrs. Dawson’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Here? In the London house?”
Morgan stood in his study, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the street below. “Yes. Two weeks from tonight. Nothing too elaborate. Perhaps a hundred guests. Can it be managed?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Though may I ask what prompted this decision? You’ve never hosted a ball before.”
That was precisely the point. Morgan had avoided hosting such events for years, finding them tedious and pointless. But lately, he’d been the subject of increasing speculation, whispers about his reclusiveness, his lack of a wife, his peculiar interest in certain members of his household staff.
A lady had cornered him at the theater last week, all but demanding to know why he never entertained.
A lord had made pointed comments about Morgan shirking his social duties.
And then there was Arabella. Morgan had it on good authority that she had been making her opinions known to anyone who would listen.
A ball would silence the gossip. Prove he was still an active member of society. Provide the necessary distraction. And perhaps, if he was very lucky, it would finally purge Ellie Graham from his thoughts.
“It’s time,” Morgan said simply. “Make the arrangements.”
When Eliza heard about the ball, the blood drained from her face.
“A hundred guests,” one of the other maids was saying excitedly in the servants’ hall. “Can you imagine? Lords and ladies, all dressed in their finest. It’ll be the event of the season!”
Eliza felt as though the walls were closing in.
A hundred guests. Members of the ton. People who might recognize her. People who knew her parents.
“Miss Graham? You’ve gone awfully pale.”
Eliza forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just… thinking about all the work it will entail.”
“Oh, that’s true enough. We’ll be run ragged, that’s certain. But Mrs. Dawson says we’ll all get an extra half-day off afterward, so there’s that!”
Eliza nodded mechanically, her mind already racing.
She couldn’t leave. Not now, two weeks before the ball. It would be too suspicious, too obviously running away. She’d have to stay. Survive the evening. Make herself invisible.
She’d attended enough balls to know the rhythm of them. The servants who moved through the shadows, refilling glasses, clearing plates, attending to the endless needs of the guests without ever truly being seen. She could do this. She had to.
The two weeks passed in a blur of preparation. The house was scrubbed until it gleamed. Flowers were ordered by the cartload. The ballroom, a space Eliza had only glimpsed before, was transformed into something magical, all golden light and polished floors and crystal chandeliers.
Eliza volunteered for every behind-the-scenes task she could find. Kitchen duty. Coat checking. Anything that would keep her away from the main ballroom, away from the guests.
“You’ll be helping serve refreshments,” Mrs. Dawson informed her the morning of the ball. “Along with Mary and Catherine. Keep your head down, work quickly, and don’t engage with the guests unless they speak to you directly.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dawson.”
It was the best assignment Eliza could have hoped for. She would be in the ballroom, yes, but moving. Busy. Easy to overlook.
She spent extra time on her appearance that evening, not to look beautiful, but to look plain. She pulled her hair back severely, pinned her cap low over her forehead, and wore her most shapeless uniform.
Invisible. That is the goal. Just survive the night.
The ball was already in full swing by the time Morgan wished he could leave his own event.
The ballroom was packed with exactly the sort of people he’d hoped to appease: titled lords and ladies, political allies, social climbers, matchmaking mamas and their hopeful daughters.
The orchestra played beautifully. The champagne flowed freely.
By all accounts, it was a tremendous success.
Yet, Morgan had never been more miserable.
He’d danced with Lady Tayham, who’d spent the entire set hinting broadly about what an excellent duchess she would make.
He’d danced with Miss Hartwell, a sweet but vapid debutante who giggled at everything he said.
He’d even danced with the widowed Countess of Somerset, who’d pressed rather closer than propriety dictated.
And through it all, his mind kept drifting.
To a woman in a plain dress and cap, moving through the edges of the room with a tray of champagne glasses.
He’d spotted her three times now. Each time, she’d been looking determinedly away from him, her posture stiff with tension.
She was terrified. He could see it in every careful movement, every averted glance.
And he had no idea how to help her without drawing attention to the very thing she was trying to hide.
“Your Grace, you seem distracted.”
Morgan blinked, refocusing on his current dance partner, Lady Caroline Something-or-other. He’d already forgotten her surname.
“My apologies, Lady Caroline. I was merely… observing the success of the evening.”
“It’s a lovely ball,” she agreed, batting her eyelashes. “You really should host them more often. I’m sure you’d have no shortage of willing partners.”
The implication was clear. Morgan smiled politely and said nothing. The music ended. He bowed, she curtsied, and he made his escape before she could secure a promise for another dance.
Ambrose materialized at his elbow, two glasses of whiskey in hand.
“You look like you’re being tortured,” Ambrose observed, offering one of the glasses.
“Astute as always,” he laughed as he took the glass and took a long sip.
“This was your idea, remember.”
“Don’t remind me.” Morgan drank more deeply then, scanning the room.
Where is she?
He’d lost sight of her again.
“Looking for someone?” There was something knowing in Ambrose’s tone.
“No.”
“Liar.”
Morgan shot him a look. Ambrose simply raised his glass in a mock toast.
“I know you too well,” Ambrose said with a raised eyebrow. “It’s about Miss Graham… is it not? In fact, I saw her—”
“Where is she?” Morgan asked with curiosity, scanning the room.
“Morgan, this is your ball… you cannot—”
“Where is she, Ambrose?”
Before Ambrose could answer, a commotion near the refreshment table drew Morgan’s attention. And his blood ran cold.
Eliza had been so careful.
She’d kept her head down, moved quickly, avoided eye contact with every guest. The evening was nearly over. Another hour, perhaps two, and she could retreat to the servants’ quarters and breathe again. She was refilling champagne glasses when a hand seized her wrist.
“There you are,” a voice hissed. “I knew I recognized you.”
Eliza’s head snapped up. Lady Arabella Fairfax stood before her, eyes glittering with malicious triumph.
“My lady, please,” Eliza tried to pull away, but Arabella’s grip was iron. “I beg you…”
“Oh no, you don’t.” Arabella’s smile was vicious. “We’re going to settle this once and for all.”
Before Eliza could react, Arabella was dragging her away from the table, through the crowd of guests, toward the center of the ballroom by the wrist.
“Stop,” Eliza pleaded, her voice barely audible over the music. “Please, Lady Fairfax!”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Arabella’s voice rang out, clear and commanding, her shoulders back and chest puffed out.
The music stuttered to a halt. Conversations died. Every face in the ballroom turned toward them. Eliza felt her knees buckle. She feared she would pass out.
“I feel it’s my duty,” Arabella announced, her voice dripping with false concern, “to inform you all that you’ve been deceived. This woman,” she yanked Eliza forward, “Is not a maid at all. She’s Lady Eliza Newmont, daughter of Lord and Lady Ramersby.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“That’s impossible,” someone said.
“Lady Eliza disappeared weeks ago!”
“I heard she was sick!”
“What’s she doing dressed as a servant?”
“Is that really her?”
Eliza couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The room was spinning, faces blurring together in a nightmare of recognition and judgment.
And then she saw her parents. Lord Ramersby looked as though he’d been struck by lightning. Lady Ramersby’s face had gone white with shock and fury, her face as red as a tomato.
“Eliza?” her mother’s voice cracked across the room. “Eliza!”
And worse, so much worse, standing just behind her parents, watching with cold, calculated interest…
Lord Whitfield.
“This is quite the scandal,” Arabella continued, clearly relishing every moment. “The Duke of Kirkhammer, harboring a runaway aristocrat in his household. One wonders what other services she’s been providing…”
“That’s enough.”
Morgan’s voice cut through the ballroom like a roar of thunder. He strode forward, his expression dark, and positioned himself directly between Eliza and Arabella.
“Lady Fairfax,” he growled through gritted teeth. “You will leave my house. Immediately.”
Arabella blinked, clearly shocked. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“You heard me. Get out.”
“Morgan, I’m trying to help you! This girl has been lying to you, using you!”
“I will not tolerate such a scene in my home,” Morgan said, his tone glacial. “You’ve caused quite enough damage and with no decorum. Leave. Now. Or I’ll have you escorted out by footmen. Your choice.”
Arabella’s face flushed crimson. She looked around the ballroom, clearly expecting support, but found only shocked faces and averted eyes.
“You’ll regret this,” she hissed.
“I sincerely doubt it. Jenkins!”
Morgan’s butler appeared immediately. “Your Grace?”
“Show Lady Fairfax to the door.”
Arabella drew herself up, trembling with rage. “You’re making a fool of yourself over a servant girl!”
“Jenkins. Now.”
With one last venomous glare at Eliza, Arabella allowed herself to be escorted from the ballroom. The massive doors closed behind her with a resounding thud. For a moment, silence reigned.