Chapter Two #2
Uncle Jacobi led Audrey in a bow of parting, and they walked away together, but stepped to the side to permit others to go ahead of them.
“You did well, my dear,” he whispered. His encouragement was welcomed by Audrey’s fearful heart.
This was, quite literally, her first venture into society, and she did not know what to expect.
“Thank you, sir.”
He quietly continued to instruct her as Lady Godfrey’s butler announced them to those gathered in the ballroom.
“Tonight is to be an exercise in seeing and being seen in return,” he explained in soft tones close to her ear.
As they both expected, all eyes turned their way, and Audrey forced herself not to reach for her mask.
Her uncle had had the mask created especially for his daughter, Caroline.
It was red and gold to match the gown Audrey wore—all meant for Caroline, for the colors would have made a remarkable statement upon her cousin’s svelte body and would have complemented Caroline’s coal black hair.
He had instructed the maid Mathild on every detail of Audrey’s appearance, just as he had crafted every facet of Audrey’s life.
“Despite your red hair taking away from the effect the costume will generate,” he had said in his customary critical tones, “I wish you to be the semblance of an exotic flower.”
Audrey was not confident what her uncle meant by an exotic flower, but she would not speak to her qualms and alert him to the uncomfortableness she felt. Instead, she placed a smile on her lips. “Thank you for the compliment, Uncle,” she said softly.
A maid bowed before them. “Pardon, my lord, I was told to present you with this note.” Her uncle took it from the tray and broke the seal. He read it quickly and slid it in his pocket before they returned to where Lady Godfrey’s butler announced all in attendance. “Lord Honfleur and Miss Moreau.”
As her eyes scanned the throngs of people scattered about the room, they landed upon the countenance of a man, whose gaze studied her intently.
She could not determine whether his assessment was one of approval or condemnation, but, for the first time in more years than she could recall, she wanted to know what someone, other than her uncle, thought of her.
The man’s hair was russet—a dark brown with a reddish tint.
He had broad shoulders and was well-dressed.
Trim waist. A physique indicating regular time spent in sport.
The mask in his gloved hand matched his waistcoat and his gloves, all of which complemented his appearance of elegance, mixed with rugged abandon, for his cravat sat a bit askew, as if he had tugged on it several times.
The idea pleased her: She would not have him be too perfect.
Yet, despite his pleasing countenance, Audrey felt nothing but curiosity.
At least, the emotion is the first genuine one I have experienced in more than a dozen years.
It is not one dictated by my uncle, she thought with a touch of disappointment, for all the books she had read had her thinking she would fall in love at first sight with just such a man.
“The Earl of Marksman,” her uncle whispered.
“Pardon?” Audrey asked, belatedly realizing her uncle had taken note of her interest in the gentleman.
She was not confident how her uncle knew the gentleman’s identity.
To the best of her knowledge her Uncle Jacobi had not been in England since he was a young man and freshly married to Caroline’s mother.
Even her dear cousin had only a handful of memories about her own mother.
In that manner, Audrey had excelled over her cousin.
Audrey held numerous memories she could repeat of Madelyn Lisey, though, in truth, without being able to speak of them regularly, she feared losing them.
“The man who has caught your attention, my dear,” he said under his breath. “I would prefer you avoid him.”
Audrey never quite understood how her uncle appeared to know everyone, but she did not dare to ask. “I simply took note of how the strutting peacock chose a mask to match his waistcoat,” she assured.
“Naturally,” Uncle Jacobi murmured in what sounded of disapproval, a sentiment he regularly expressed when it came to her.
Audrey had become accustomed to knowing his disappointment.
Sometimes she wondered why he had gone to all the trouble to retrieve her from where her mother had left her.
Not that she was unthankful for the life he had provided her, but she wished for someone to treat her as more than an obligation.
He tilted his head so he might speak more privately.
“Do not become too distracted by the pomp and pageantry displayed in this and every ballroom in London,” he warned.
“You have a role to play in this evening’s foray.
You must not forget your purpose at my side. ”
“I understand, Uncle,” she was quick to say. “I await your instructions.”
“In that case, you are to execute a different plan than the one of which we spoke earlier,” he said softly.
“Another task?” she asked in a wobbly voice.
Before she had departed France, Audrey and Caroline had practiced how Audrey was to meet a woman named Margaret Childers, a woman who was to be dressed as a shepherdess.
Audrey was to retrieve a note carried by the woman and meant for her uncle.
Caroline and Audrey had rehearsed over and over again how the Childers woman would palm a note and slip it into Audrey’s hand as they passed each other in a crowded ballroom.
There were at least a dozen women dressed as shepherdesses in the room, but that was no longer an apparent issue.
“What must I do?” she asked as she studied the room.
“Listen carefully,” her uncle said in that particular tone which he used when especially upset. “The note you were to receive has been placed in the women’s retiring room. The smaller of the two rooms—the one used for a maid to repair a lace or hem.”
As Audrey had never attended a ball, what he said was more than a bit confusing, but she dared not to ask for an explanation.
“Pretend you must attend to a tear in the garment you wear,” he ordered. “Go to the retiring room along the hall on the same side as the supper room.” He nodded to the other side of the large hall. “Retrieve the note and bring it to me.”
In Audrey’s opinion, anyone with intelligence would realize if she had a tear in what she wore, the costume would be lying at her feet, for it was all connected.
Even so, she offered her uncle a small curtsey and turned in the direction he had indicated, only to be brought up short again as she neared the passageway.
Navan had watched with a mix of concern and amusement as Alexander Dutton, Lord Marksman, quickly moved to intercept Honfleur’s niece.
The concern came at the hands of Lady Theodora Duncan.
Each of Lord Duncan’s adoptive sons and the earl himself thought Marksman meant to make Theodora his wife.
They all often teased the pair regarding their apparent affection for each other; however, something Navan could not name had recently come between the supposed lovers, and it was about to explode on Lady Godfrey’s dance floor.
Marksman had made a move to learn of the niece’s destination, for the British government was aware Honfleur meant to lead some sort of manipulation of British society.
They were not yet confident on the nature of the manipulation, though they held their suspicions.
Unfortunately, Lady Theodora had intercepted his lordship, and Navan moved into a position to approach Honfleur’s niece, depending on what occurred between the lovers.
In the government’s estimation, Honfleur, of whom they knew little, for the man had chosen a remote area of France to serve as his home seat, making it more difficult to learn of his true intent, expected some communication this evening, and the niece was to be the courier.
Navan was stuck watching all the players when Theodora stormed away with tears in her eyes.
Ironically, while both Marksman and Navan separately had been distracted by Theodora’s fit of temper, Lord Baccgart had intercepted Honfleur’s niece.
The man was bowing before the girl, but, thankfully, Marksman recovered and rushed to claim the girl, while Navan dutifully sought out Theodora to soothe the girl’s Scottish temperament.
Dora was nowhere to be seen, but as the hallway ended rather than branching off to another part of the house, Navan waited, half expecting Theodora’s immediate return, but there was a delay.
Was she crying over whatever Marksman said?
Navan despised when a woman cried. Unlike other men who thought women cried about the simplest of things, Navan knew the fairer sex was more often than not, the stronger sex.
Perhaps not the size of their muscles or their chests, but rather the hearts within those chests and the mettle in their backbones.
His father, the man who had actually sired him, once had told Navan, “Son, do not ever underestimate a woman’s soul nor her love.
Trust me, if a man ever once was called upon to give birth, it would be the end of humankind.
” Naturally, his father had said this in Irish Gaelic.
The idea that Navan rarely spoke Gaelic nowadays saddened him.
“I am becoming more English than Irish,” he murmured under his breath, just as both the musicians struck the first notes of music and Theodora emerged from a room at the end of the passageway.
“Why are you here?” she asked suspiciously.
When she stopped before him, he caught her hand and placed it on his arm. “I am thrilled to enjoy your company also, Sister dear.”
“Thank you,” she said in recognition of his kindness. “It was not my intention to speak tartly to you.”
“You were upset with Marksman,” Navan suggested.
Her chin rose in defiance. “You mean that foolish man who has chosen ‘Miss Half-Naked Princess’…” she declared with a hint of revenge in her tone, “rather than a Scottish lass who has previously pledged her loyalty?”
“Not a princess,” Navan corrected, feeling a need to defend the young woman when others would not, “just a lost soul.”
Theodora frowned, but she announced, “I cannot speak to her soul, but I know something she has lost.” She held up a folded-over piece of paper. “Marksman may claim her first dance instead of mine, but I suspect I have claimed the message meant for the sheik’s princess and her uncle.”
Navan smiled widely. “I adore it when you knock Marksman off his lordship’s self-imposed pedestal. It does my heart well to view his failures at your ever-so-capable hands.”