Chapter 12
Twelve
Thank heavens there were some familiar faces in the crowded, overheated ballroom, thought Alex, spotting several of her botanical friends as she stood in the arched entryway to look around before reluctantly joining the crush.
The space felt cramped and confining due to Lady Hopkinton’s sad lack of taste. The flowers were too garish and overpowering, filling the air with a cloying scent that only accentuated the heaviness of the thick damask drapes that blocked every window.
Even the music sounded off-key …
Repressing a sigh, Alex began moving through the shadows flitting along the perimeter of the dancefloor, intent on joining her friends. Perhaps Mr. Simpson and his wife could be convinced to leave this dreary gathering early—
“Miss Chilton?”
She turned.
“Are you as uncomfortable as I am?” asked Lady Cecilia Ashton, a mischievous twinkle sparking beneath her lashes. “Please come join me for a glass of ratafia punch in one of the less-crowded side salons—before I say something rude to our hostess.”
Alex bit back a laugh.
“Ah, thank heavens—a kindred soul.” Cecilia took her arm before she could reply and edged toward one of the side doorways. “This way.”
Though surprised—and little intimidated by the invitation—Alex let herself be led along.
“Have you read the recent article in The Lady’s Magazine on Humphry Repton’s garden design philosophy?” asked Cecilia after signaling for a footman to bring over two glasses of punch. “There were some interesting observations …”
Alex found herself pleasantly surprised at how knowledgeable her companion was on the subject, as well as how pithy her comments were. Losing her shyness, she voiced some of her own observations, and it was gratifying to see a spark of understanding and amusement in the other woman’s eyes.
Was it possible that the two of them might form a friendship, despite the differences in their social standing?
There was a brief lull as Lady Ashton selected a small plate of canapés, and then she suddenly changed the subject. “Speaking of gardens, Sebastian told me that he greatly enjoyed visiting Kew Gardens with you.”
Alex nearly choked on a sip of her punch when she realized to whom Lady Ashton was referring.
“H-He did?” she managed to reply, hoping that the heat she felt stealing over her wasn’t causing her face to flame.
“Yes. In fact, I haven’t seen him appear so happy since … well, since before Jeremy was killed on the Peninsula.” A pause. “I take it you have heard about that tragedy?”
Alex nodded.
Lady Ashton’s eyes narrowed. “The truth has been twisted by vicious rumors,” she said quietly. “Sebastian pretends to pay them no heed, but I know that they cut him to the quick. He cared for Jeremy very much.” She let her voice trail off, an angry look darkening her features.
Alex liked her even more for her passionate loyalty.
“In any case,” continued Lady Ashton. “I think we have you to thank for the change in his demeanor. He is a very dear friend to me …”
She felt herself stiffen.
“Oh, not in that way,” assured Lady Ashton with a wry smile. “Be assured that I am quite happy with my own husband. He and Sebastian have been close friends for years, and I, too, have come to feel the same regard.”
Alex once again felt flustered. “I … I can’t imagine that I have any influence over Lord Branford’s moods.”
Lady Ashton regarded her shrewdly but remained silent. She felt her face flame even more under the scrutiny but was saved from having to respond by the timely arrival of Lord Ashton.
“My dear,” he said, taking his wife firmly by the arm.
“Your great-aunt has sent me to fetch you to pay your respects—without delay!” A harried huff.
“I know you’ve been avoiding her all evening.
” He turned to smile at Alex. “I beg you will excuse us, Miss Chilton, but I am afraid that family duties call.”
“In other words, the old dragon calls,” muttered Lady Ashton under her breath. She gave Alex a parting smile. “I look forward to speaking with you again, Miss Chilton. It has been a most interesting conversation.”
Alex was grateful for the interruption. She most definitely did not want their pleasant discussion turning to Branford. Her current feelings on that subject were not ones she cared to discuss with anyone.
Indeed, how could she, when she wasn’t at all sure what they were?
Drat the man!
But she had promised herself to put him out of her thoughts tonight, and she meant to do just that.
Drawing a deep breath to steady her composure, Alex made her way back to the ballroom and headed toward the spot where she had last seen Mr. Simpson and several of their London Botanical Society colleagues conversing.
The dialogue there would no doubt be a trifle heated—but much less inflammatory to her own overwrought emotions.
As she circled around one of the decorative plinths that held a large display of flowers, a liveried footman approached her, a silver tray full of champagne flutes balanced on one hand.
“Miss Chilton?” he asked softly, as he stopped and offered her a glass.
“Yes?” Alex was mystified as to how he knew who she was.
“A gentleman asked that I give you this,” he whispered, “but said it was important that no one see.” He discreetly pressed a note into her gloved hand along with the champagne. “I was told to tell you to be extremely careful of how you proceed from here.”
Before she could react, the footman melted back into the crowd.
Alex managed to gather her wits after the momentary shock and retreated to a quiet nook half hidden by a cluster of potted palm trees. Fingers trembling, she unfolded the note and quickly scanned its contents.
If you wish to know the reason for the attacks on your brother, leave at once and take a hansom cab to St. Giles Lane. Turn left and walk down to the river. I dare not say more or contact you again. Do not delay—his fate is in your hands.
There was no signature.
Paper crackled as she quickly stuffed the paper into her glove and looked around, her mind racing.
Choices, choices … and precious little time to make up her mind.
After a moment of hesitation, Alex beckoned to one of the servants serving ratafia punch and sent him to tell Mr. Simpson that she was returning home early with an indisposition and wouldn’t need a ride home.
Then, edging back into the shadows of the decorative palms, she slipped out of the ballroom.
A glance back over her shoulder showed that her exit hadn’t attracted any attention. Quickening her pace, Alex hurried down a long corridor, past the ladies’ withdrawing room, to where a side staircase led down to the main entrance of the townhouse.
It was highly unlikely that Lady Hopkinton or any of the guests would even notice her early departure.
A cold mist rose up from the river, obscuring the sooty brick warehouses and splintered docks in swirling tendrils of fog. Sounds were muffled in the dampness—the creaking of the timbers in the ebbing tide, the lapping of water against the embankment and the pacing of booted feet on a dirt path.
“What time is it?” Standish halted by the side of a carriage, which had been temporarily stripped of all distinguishing markings.
The horses snorted and whisked their tails in response to the creeping chillness in the air.
He pulled the thick black scarf wound around his face even higher, leaving only his eyes visible, and peered into the unlit interior.
“Precisely five minutes later than when you last inquired,” came a voice from the impenetrable darkness. “She will not be here for at least another hour. I suggest you climb inside before you exhaust yourself with such a pointless display of nerves.”
Standish swore under his breath. After one last, jerky look around at the ghostly grey mist and overcast sky, he got in and threw himself onto the seat opposite his cousin.
A fire-gold flare illuminated Hammerton’s face for an instant as he inhaled on his cigar, then exhaled a mouthful of smoke, thicker and more choking than the air outside.
Coughing and sputtering, Standish waved a hand in front of his nose to punctuate his distaste, but Hammerton ignored him and continued to puff away.
After a fraught interlude of silence, he began toying nervously with the pistol he had drawn from his pocket. “It’s one thing to deal with another man. But I don’t fancy the idea of having to shoot a woman.”
“Yes, your standards are so very high,“ mocked Hammerton. “Pray, don’t waste such sniveling sentiments on me. I know you too well.” A shrug. “And besides, the plan doesn’t involve putting a bullet into her. Our weapons are merely a precaution against the unexpected.”
The seat leather crackled as he shifted his position. “As you’ve noticed, I think ahead. That is why my plans succeed.”
“When are you going to tell me the exact plan?” demanded Standish in a sulky voice.
The tip of the cigar came alight again as Hammerton drew in a mouthful of the pungent tobacco, then let it out slowly, as if savoring its spice.
“You still haven’t figured it out?” he asked, a touch of disdain in his voice. “I would have thought the letter I showed you would have made everything exceedingly easy to comprehend.”
Standish responded with a blank stare.
Hammerton heaved a mock sigh. “Ah, well, then let me explain it clearly. As you read, the letter reveals a despondent Miss Chilton, who, having been seduced and abandoned by Lord Branford, finds she can no longer live with her shame, and the disgrace she will bring to her family.”
“But Branford has withdrawn from the bet,” interrupted Standish. “How are you going to get her to …” He suddenly fell silent as his mind began to work out the implications of his cousin’s words.
“It is finally beginning to dawn on you, is it?”
Standish muttered something through the thick scarf covering his mouth.