Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amelia looked absently across the mezzanine, watching Mary-Ann speak with the theatre director. Her cousin gave the middle-aged man’s shoulder a squeeze. If that gesture of familiarity did not secure the theatre at Christmastide, Amelia did not know what would.
Suddenly, Philippa gave a roaring laugh beside her, waking her from her daze. She blinked hard and took a restorative sip of punch, startled when Philippa grabbed her and turned her around, tearing her eyes from her cousin.
“You must hear this, Amelia!” Philippa cried, positioning Amelia beside her like a ragdoll. “Mr. Bright has just told me the most absurd thing about the Duke of—” She stopped herself. “Why, Amelia! You seem a million miles away!”
“Miles away in Kolkata?” the man before Philippa joked.
Amelia had almost forgotten all about their male company. As soon as Philippa had suggested they move upstairs, where it would be less packed, the gentlemen had found them, saying they were friends of a friend.
Together, they had retreated to the mezzanine, though Amelia had no real interest in speaking with them. She had concealed her dance card beneath her sleeve the moment they had entered the library, utterly overcome by the noises, the heat, the flashes of color, the smells of perfume and food.
Another man stood beside the first, tall with wavy golden hair. He looked at Amelia with interest, and she mustered her most convincing smile.
“Forgive me, sirs,” Amelia said, staring into her now-empty cup. “You were saying?”
They shared a knowing look, though Amelia missed it.
Philippa laughed nervously.
Like the other women present, she was dressed to impress, in a teal silk gown with a sheer muslin overlay in red.
When she had first laid eyes on her friend, Amelia thought she had never seen anyone more beautiful—a far cry from Philippa’s usual disguise at the orphanage.
She had gone on record saying she would not be caught dead coming and going from that place in any sort of fine garment.
“Are you not the socializing sort?” the taller man asked Amelia kindly, gesturing around the room for emphasis. “Perhaps you are like me, then, preferring the peace of your own company.”
Amelia observed him, wondering what was proper to say. She so rarely attended events of this nature—so rarely spoke with gentlemen.
“I am not a solitary creature, no. But I find the noise inside... Well, it is all quite overwhelming. I feel much more relaxed in smaller groups, where one can converse properly and be heard.”
“That can be arranged,” the man said, extending his hand. Amelia misunderstood and handed him her goblet. He laughed. “No, Miss Tate. I was offering to take you elsewhere.”
“Mr. De Rees, I have not yet told my friend that which I wished to tell her!” Philippa grabbed Amelia dramatically. “And you would steal her away from me, just like that! I dub you a cad of the worst sort—one who would see a lovely woman like Miss Tate robbed of a slice of delicious gossip.”
At this, Mr. De Rees laughed under his breath, raising his brows at Mr. Bright. “I assure you, I am nothing of the sort.” He glanced quickly toward the stairs. “But here comes Mr. Elston now. We should make ourselves scarce.”
“Mr. Elston?” Amelia asked, checking Philippa’s reaction. Her friend blushed slightly and fought a smile. “I did not know he was here.”
She had heard many things about Mr. Elston from Philippa, had met him once or twice at Philippa’s home when he had come to call on her and her brother. Her friend, though she liked to play the part of the difficult, disinterested woman, evidently enjoyed his company.
Amelia had no desire to leave her friend’s side, but if a moment alone with Mr. Elston was at stake, she felt her hands were tied. She did not want to compromise Philippa’s nascent courtship in any way—even at the expense of her own comfort.
And what an uncomfortable few minutes it would be alone with Mr. De Rees and Bright.
Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Mr. De Rees stepped forward quickly.
“They are reading poetry outside in the quadrangle. Some aspirant writer or some such thing wanted to share his latest work,” he said, nodding over his shoulder.
“We would not be alone there, but I wager it is much quieter out-of-doors than within. Would you not accompany us, Miss Tate?”
He seemed overly familiar, a little assertive, but maybe Amelia had simply misinterpreted their introductions. A consequence, Beatrice liked to say, of her inadequate socialization when she was a child.
“I like poetry. Especially the romantic sort,” she rambled, looking at Philippa for support. Her friend nodded, assuring her she would be fine alone. “That sounds wonderful. Let us go,” she told the gentlemen.
Amelia was not sure how it happened, but sometime between descending into the main hall and approaching the back doors, Mr. Bright had disappeared. She found herself alone with Mr. De Rees, hoping no one looked at them overlong.
The company of the unknown gentleman made her uneasy. She tried to say something just as he opened the door for her, all but forcing her outside.
The cool autumn air wrapped around her, and Amelia wished she had brought a shawl. She glanced up at the night sky. The moon glowed pleasantly overhead, threatening to be obscured by approaching clouds.
Following Mr. De Rees through the cloisters, Amelia looked up at the lanterns that lit the way forward, casting Mr. De Rees’s form in shadow.
“How did you say you knew Mr. Elston?” she asked distractedly, crossing her arms over her chest.
Mr. De Rees slowed his pace, allowing her to fall into step beside him. “We met only tonight,” he explained. “Mr. Colin Bright—the gentleman who was just with us—is a student, as I am, at Oxford. We are part of the same college, you see. Merton College, do you know it?”
“I have heard of it, yes. My uncle knows all about Oxford University. He is friends with some of the professors there.”
“Baron Spencer?”
“Yes...” She focused on the path ahead, ignoring her gut. “You must be very young then.”
“Do I not look young?”
“Not so young as eighteen or nineteen.” Amelia dared a look at him. His face was boyish. But his eyes... Those were experienced eyes, glinting at her in the dark where his irises reflected the light.
“I am the same age as you are,” he said.
Amelia started, her footsteps coming in uneven bursts until they stopped altogether.
“Did Miss Ashwood tell you my age?” she asked, surprised that he knew this fact about her.
“No.” His voice lilted with mischief. “Mr. Bright described you a little to me before we approached you and your friend. He had many interesting things to say, and I was eager to acquaint myself with you.” He smiled, extending his hand. “Come, Miss Tate. We are not far now from the poetry reading.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Amelia debated turning back. Something about the encounter, his persistence, his familiarity with her, unsettled her.
The man took her hand without asking.
Through the sheer fabric of her glove, his hand was cold and uninviting. She sensed something was wrong and pulled back abruptly, yanking her hand free.
By that point, they had arrived at the end of the cloister. A door before them led into another building, a dark gothic mass before them. The quadrangle was nowhere in sight. The gentleman turned around, slighted.
“Mr. De Rees, I would like to return indoors.”
“What? Oh, Miss Tate.” He approached and stepped around her so slowly she did not realize he was trying to block her exit until he had. His voice was gentle as he cajoled, “There is no need for all that.”
“For what?” Amelia’s heart beat fast in her chest. “I simply wish to return to the ball. I do not want to listen to poetry any longer. Please, take me back to Miss Ashwood.”
“Do you really wish to return?”
“I do.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“But... Mr. De Rees...”
“This is not how they said you would be,” he murmured.
He shifted his weight on his feet, his eyes trained on her face, fists clenched at his side.
“Not how you appeared at all, either. You followed me out after all. You must have known somewhat. A woman would not follow a man she does not know outdoors unless... Unless...”
Amelia took a step back, flinching as something moved in the hedges nearby. Likely a hare, though it felt like a specter. Mr. De Rees seized the advantage, stepping closer, and Amelia gasped.
“Your compliance thus far means my every suspicion was true. It is only now that you wish to make things difficult for me.” His voice rose, as though he had any reason to be angry. “Or is this the game you always play? Yes, I wonder...”
“I do not know what you are saying,” Amelia whispered, afraid. “But please, let me go and I—”
“It’s alright,” the man said quietly, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I understand how this might look. But I did not lead you out here to hurt you.”
“I… I don’t understand,” she said, breathlessly.
“You are Amelia Tate, the daughter of Hammond and Olivia Tate.” It was not a question but a fact, and it made him smile.
Amelia’s breath hitched at the sound of her parents’ names. She stumbled sideways, seeking purchase on the balustrade, as his intentions became painfully clear to her.
“Colin told me all about your mother. Said she was a madwoman, and that you are mad too. You have strange fits—a moral deficiency, the demon within you. And your father, hopeless, taking his own life like that... Well...”
Mr. De Rees stepped toward her, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s really no surprise you ended up as you did, is it? All things considered, you should not mind this moment at all. You will likely not remember a thing, will you? Please, say nothing more.”
Not bearing to look at him, Amelia squeezed her eyes shut. She thought she might be sick, stunned into inaction by his accusations, his threats.
He had learned who she was.
And he planned to use it to destroy her.