Chapter 13
The entire earth was created in six days. Six. And what had Juliet achieved since discovering the patch snipped from Charity’s nightgown?
Precious little.
Disgusted with herself, she fiddled with the fur trim on her borrowed pelisse as the coach neared the Bedford Assembly Rooms. All she had to show for the past week was a megrim from scrutinizing the penmanship on a cryptic card.
Farewell to you.
Written in the same nondescript block letters as all the other notes and delivered with flowers for Charity …
and for her. This time, the boy who’d brought them had conveniently vanished to London, or so Mr. Walton said when she’d enquired—for the young man worked for the greengrocer, after all.
And as if that weren’t vexing enough, she’d run into Mr. Scather in town, which had sparked yet another pointless row over tinctures and legality.
And then there was Mr. Dankworth. She and Henry had questioned every servant and even trudged to the neighbour’s, only for that maddening man to speak about moon phases instead of giving a straight answer—though he did enquire specifically about Henry’s sister and seemed to be inordinately interested in her health.
On the cushioned bench next to her, Charity reached over and stilled her hands. “You need not be nervous, Juliet. The only one my brother will be frowning at tonight is me.” She arched an indicting brow at Henry, sitting opposite them in the coach.
His scowl deepened, lending him a gothic attraction. “You should have been on that ship yesterday,” he grumbled.
The light from the carriage lanterns didn’t flicker against his form so much as bow to him.
His dark garments—a black coat with silver embroidery on the lapels, a midnight waistcoat and matching trousers—lent him an intensity that stole Juliet’s breath.
Only the flash of green in his eyes and ivory cravat broke the austere uniformity.
Even so, he was an imposing figure, one that commanded attention whether she wished to give it or not.
Charity grabbed the sidewall as the wheels dipped into a rut. “As cochairwoman of the committee that arranged this evening’s fundraising soiree, you know I couldn’t miss this event. Besides”—she grinned at her brother—“you are too much of a gentleman to drag me to the port kicking and screaming.”
Henry planted his elbows on his thighs, leaning forwards.
He did not return her smile. In fact, the sharp set of his jaw made it clear he was not playing.
“You overestimate me, Sister. If I thought it would work, I’d truss you like a Christmas goose and pack you into a barrel, then load you onto the next dray bound for port. ”
“Henry, really!” She rolled her eyes.
The passion in his gaze did not relent. Juliet’s heart fluttered in response. She had no doubt he would go to any lengths to keep his sister safe. Would to heaven that her own father had felt that way!
Gently, she squeezed Charity’s arm. “Your brother merely wants what is best for you, that is all.”
“I know.” She sighed. “And I will keep my promise. After tonight’s gala, I shall take the next ship to Italy. So, no more frowning, agreed?”
The barest hint of a smile played on Henry’s lips as he sank back against the cushion. “I make no promises.”
With a “Ho now” from the driver, the carriage rolled to a stop.
Juliet peered past Charity, catching a glimpse of the Bedford Assembly Rooms outside the window.
How different the stone walls looked by torch flames, so much more regal in the soft glow than in the harsh light of day.
Roman columns lined up like soldiers in front of the entry doors, and behind the low-set gabled roof, two upper levels towered above, golden light pouring out the windows.
Henry opened the coach door and jumped down, offering his hand to his sister. Once Charity alighted, he reached for Juliet.
She steeled herself before grasping his fingers—and a good thing too, or she’d have staggered from the twang of his touch through her lace gloves. Just like the night they’d brushed hands at her door, the same heat flashed through her from head to toe. Did he feel the same?
For barely the space of a breath, something sparked in his eyes. Something charged, like the hint of lightning on a stormy night just behind a black bank of clouds. Then, every bit as quickly, it vanished, his expression completely composed as he released her. Had she imagined it?
“Well, ladies, shall we?” He crooked both his arms. Charity took his left.
Juliet rested her fingers atop his right, trying not to notice the swell of his muscles beneath his sleeve as he led them into the mix of arriving guests.
Inside the lobby, he helped them out of their pelisses and checked their coats, then directed them into the grand ballroom.
Chandeliers glittered like thousands of diamonds over the gathered suits and gowns. Canary-yellow walls added to the enchanting radiance, as did the sconces gleaming along the upper gallery. The hum of conversation filled the room, along with laughter and greetings.
And then—there she was.
Miss Potter, in all her unabashed glory, stood near the punch bowl.
Tonight’s triumphant hat featured a stuffed owl, an arch of black lace, and what Juliet swore were actual ribbons of spiraled beetroot trailing down like streamers.
The woman’s audacity knew no bounds, nor did her apparent lack of self-consciousness.
Juliet wasn’t sure whether to envy her, admire her, or toss the owl a breadcrumb.
The sight drew a reluctant smile, one of the first she’d felt all evening.
The familiarity of such an assembly put her at ease, reminding her of better times, whispered praises, the giddy swirlings on a dance floor.
This was her element. Her home. A place she’d once commanded with nothing but a smile … at least it had been.
But that was in the past now.
She tucked in a stray curl, acutely aware she no longer belonged to this world in her borrowed dress and fake dignity. Were she not accompanied by Henry and his sister, she’d not have been allowed through the door.
“Ahh, Henry. Miss Russell. Good evening.” A stocky fellow in burgundy trousers that were far too tight dipped a bow.
Juliet edged behind Henry, allowing them to exchange pleasantries without having to introduce her.
Despite the press of partygoers, she hadn’t felt this alone in a long time.
Perhaps it was the memories crowding her throat that inspired such melancholy.
Or maybe it was the fact that once Charity sailed for Italy, she would no longer be needed.
Either way, she’d be glad when she could drift off to sleep tonight and escape reality, if only for a few hours.
She scanned the room by instinct, her attention catching on a solitary figure in the corner gripping a glass of blood-red wine that caught the light like a warning.
Edwin Parker stood stiff and unsmiling, balanced by his polished cane.
Anchored solidly. His eyes locked on Charity with such fierce focus it was as though no one else existed.
For a fleeting moment, something unguarded softened the sharp angles of his face. Not calculation. Not disdain.
Longing.
Juliet’s breath hitched. Perhaps there was still feeling there—hidden beneath pride and distance.
Love, especially when mingled with resentment or regret, could drive a person to strange choices.
Whether that made Edwin Parker dangerous was impossible to say—but it was a possibility she could not dismiss outright.
Rising to her toes, she whispered behind Henry’s ear. “Mr. Parker is here and has noticed Charity, so be on alert.”
The fabric stretched taut across Henry’s back, yet his tone gave no hint of alarm as he addressed the man in front of him. “Pardon me, Mr. Hexam. I should not take up all your time tonight.”
“Nothing of the sort, my good fellow. I was just about to part ways and visit the punch table. I see Miss Potter and wish to examine her latest millinery conquest. The old girl never fails to surprise.”
As Charity bid Mr. Hexam goodbye, Henry turned on his heel, a muscle on his neck standing out like a whip staff. “Where is he?”
Juliet tipped her head. “Over—”
“Henry! I’ve been waiting for you to arrive.” Clara floated over, her ruby earbobs swaying against her stately neck. She truly was a picture, clad in white silk with golden embroidery—her gown a summer day against Henry’s winter night. A perfect match to him in every way.
Which oddly chafed.
Clara beamed a brilliant smile, her blue eyes aglow. “Charity, Juliet, you two are heavenly dreams, you look so lovely.”
“As do you, Clara.” Charity swept her hand from Clara’s shoulder to toes. “Your gown is exquisite.”
“Isn’t it?” She twirled in a graceful circle.
The fabric shimmered as it cascaded around her shape, highlighting her curves.
“Mrs. Fan did a splendid job, did she not? The most talented seamstress in all of Bedford, I daresay. And oh, Juliet, I had so hoped you would join me for tea after my final fitting, but you”—she turned to Henry with a mock glower—“have been keeping your houseguest far too occupied.”
He merely shrugged. “There has been much going on.”
“Oh?” Interest curved her lips. “I suppose I haven’t been over this week to catch up on all the latest. Nothing bad, I trust?”
“Nothing to concern yourself about.” Henry straightened his sleeves as if he hadn’t a care in the world. What composure, especially since he had to be itching to confront Mr. Parker.
Charity looped her arm through Clara’s, oblivious to any danger. “I really should make sure the silent auction items are in order. Would you like to join me?”
“I would, but the first dance is about to begin and who am I to break the tradition of sharing it with your brother?” She gently pulled away and rested her fingers atop Henry’s arm. “Unless, of course, I am presuming too much.”