Chapter 17
“The worst calamities that befall an army arise from hesitation.”
Tonight was the baron’s ball. Our carriage pulled into the line of coaches waiting to disembark at Lord Cranford’s residence on Brook Street.
Mrs. Sweete sat at my side, picking at her embroidery.
Father sat across from me, engrossed in the financial column of The Times.
It had taken quite a bit of convincing on my part to get him to come tonight.
In an effort to delay marriage negotiations for a few days, I had persuaded Father to see the baron’s estate firsthand to determine if Lord Cranford’s fortune met his standards.
Funny, considering Father couldn’t even afford the ink for the marriage contract.
The wry thought reminded me of Mr. Hawke’s words two days ago: You don’t deserve to suffer because of your father’s poor choices. The slanderous insult made me bristle, and I quickly banished it from my mind.
“There will be a great hunt tonight, Mrs. Sweete,” I whispered so Father wouldn’t hear.
“Which are you?” she whispered back. “The hunter or the hunted?”
“The hunter, of course.”
I still had no answers about Mr. Fletcher.
Despite Mrs. Sweete’s attempts to uncover Mr. Hawke’s secrets about his father, she had learned nothing concrete.
There were hundreds of Mr. Fletchers in London, and we simply didn’t have the time nor resources to interrogate them all.
What I needed was to draw the information out of Mr. Hawke himself.
I hadn’t seen him since my fateful visit to Stonehill House two days ago.
A wave of nausea rolled through me at the reminder of his degrading display of charity, and I steadied myself on the carriage window.
I’d been prancing around in frilly new dresses, completely ignorant of the fact that Mr. Hawke had paid for them.
It made me appear naive at best and incompetent at worst—neither of which were looks I wore well.
Unfortunately for me, I liked Mr. Hawke, which made things far more inconvenient. Even with the mystery of Mr. Fletcher on top of the unwanted donation to my wardrobe, I couldn’t bring myself to remove Mr. Hawke from my list of candidates.
Doing so would be dangerously close to surrender. And I never surrendered.
I glanced over at Father. If he knew about my growing feelings for Mr. Hawke, he’d order me to stomp them out with haste. Infatuation is a trap, he’d say. One misstep, and you’ll be captive to it for the rest of your life.
Images of the golden bird cage in my mother’s music room flickered in my mind.
“Do you remember Mother’s songbird?” I asked Mrs. Sweete. “I can’t recall what species it was.”
“A nightingale.”
“That’s right.” I leaned back and looked up at the moon through the carriage window, letting the memory wash over me.
Father had bought my mother a nightingale for her birthday when I was six years old.
She adored the creature and its beautiful song.
She let it fly around the house, using its melodies as inspiration for her own compositions.
But Father soon grew weary of it, claiming that its warbling gave him headaches. One night, he snapped. I remembered hearing shouting from their bedroom, and the next morning, I woke to find the bird banished to a small, golden cage in Mother’s music room. It never flew again.
From then on, both the bird and my mother lost their vibrancy.
The bird’s brown feathers dulled, and so did Mother’s bright smile.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized my mother was the songbird.
She had married Father for love, but ultimately, those feelings had betrayed her.
For the entirety of her marriage, she was locked away and silenced.
And like the bird, she had died in her cage.
No, love was not enough to ensure happiness in this life. I had to be practical, meticulous, strategic. I would not allow my feelings to trap me, like Mother’s did. Which is why I needed to uncover Mr. Hawke’s secrets and guarantee my future before my heart led me astray.
The carriage came to a stop, and Father tossed his newspaper aside.
“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled. As soon as he stepped into the street, he climbed the front stairs and surveyed Lord Cranford’s entryway, likely assessing the worth of each brick.
“What is today’s plan of attack?” Mrs. Sweete asked as we stepped out of the carriage.
I shook myself away from thoughts of songbirds and cages and lifted my skirts to climb the stairs. “First, I will dance with Lord Cranford. I will keep the conversation focused on the difference between grasshoppers and crickets, and I’ll be able to postpone the topic of marriage a bit longer.”
“How much longer?”
“Until Mr. Hawke gives me a straight answer.”
“He clearly doesn’t want to talk about that man. How do you intend to get your answer?”
“Simple. I will implement the Petticoat Protocol.”
Mrs. Sweete paused halfway up the stairs. “The… what?”
“Or perhaps I should use the Chemisette Contingency.”
“You’re not making sense, Miss Weston.”
“They are tactics, Mrs. Sweete. Every good military strategy has a name.”
Mrs. Sweete narrowed her eyes. “But, dare I ask, what does getting answers from Mr. Hawke have to do with… petticoats?”
“Nothing, of course. Men make up all sorts of silly names for their war tactics. Why can’t I?”
She shook her head, but I could see the smile pulling at her lips. “You are more than welcome to make up names for your subterfuge, Miss Weston. But I require more than a name to understand the plan.”
“Are you two done dawdling?” Father called out from the entryway. His mouth pinched into a tight frown as he dragged a gloved finger along the banister. “This place is smaller than I thought it’d be.”
“Small?” I asked as we hurried to his side. The house stood five stories tall, one more than our home on Grosvenor Square.
While Lord Cranford’s residence was large and unquestionably grand, it was also austere. The brickwork around each window was plain, and the landscaping out front was minimal. Even the front door was just an unadorned slab of oak.
“Hopefully the inside is more impressive,” Father sniffed, waving at the two footmen to open the doors for us.
The inside of the house was just as unadorned as the outside.
All of the furniture was a muted gray, from the couches to the curtains.
The white walls had only a few pieces of uninspiring art hanging on them, and sparse floral arrangements dotted the refreshment tables, each filled with plain, white daisies.
That seemed to be tonight’s theme: bland.
I could hardly fault the baron. He was unmarried and thus had decorated himself. His future wife would surely bring some life to this house—
I shunned the thought. I could very well be his future wife. I peered at the bare walls and high ceilings, and the weight of the house’s emptiness pressed down on me. Could a place like this ever feel like home? Or would it swallow me whole?
“I’m going to tour the place,” Father said. “Helena, do whatever it is women do at these things. And do it well. Make your future husband look his best in front of his guests. Remember, not even a wrinkle!”
“Yes, Father,” I said with a faltering smile, but he was already out of the foyer and into the drawing room with the billiard table.
“Miss Weston,” Mrs. Sweete said, her tone unusually urgent.
“What’s wrong? Did Sybella do something again?”
“No. It’s not Sybella.”
“Then who?”
Mrs. Sweete drew in a sharp breath. “It’s everyone.”
“Everyone? What do you—” The words fell off my tongue as soon as I cast my gaze about the ballroom. I’d been so caught up in picturing myself as the mistress of this house that I hadn’t even noticed the stares and whispers that all seemed to be directed at me.
My pulse quickened. Women laughed quietly from behind their fans, and men swapped amused murmurs. Even the mamas were glaring at me with disapproving frowns.
What was going on? I was used to receiving some level of attention upon entering a ball… but this? This was wrong.
I leaned sideways toward Mrs. Sweete with a practiced smile, as if I was merely commenting on the refreshments. “What in heaven’s name is going on?”
“I’ll find out. Until I do, you should stay out of sight.”
I shook my head. “If I cower in a corner, that will only fuel the fire. It’s better I address this head-on. You should join the other chaperones as usual.”
“Are you sure?”
“I must find out what’s going on before I talk to Lord Cranford or Mr. Hawke. Remember: When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.”
“That doesn’t make any sense in this situation, Miss Weston.”
“It makes perfect sense. Now sally forth, lieutenant.”
Mrs. Sweete muttered oh dear under her breath as I marched off, searching the crowd for my target. I met the eye of anyone who stared as I passed, forcing them to look away first. Let them see that I was not afraid. I had done nothing wrong.
As I made my way through the ballroom, I spotted both the baron and Mr. Hawke. Lord Cranford was greeting his guests in the corner, looking rather uncomfortable. Mr. Hawke was leaning against the opposite wall, his gaze trained on me.
Despite the sling, he was as handsome as ever, with a black tailcoat tailored perfectly to his tall, muscular frame. He had forgone his usual golden watch chain and now sported a silver one that matched his elegant cufflinks. He looked every bit the gentleman, which only unnerved me further.
Was he a gentleman? Or was it all an act?
As soon as we made eye contact, Mr. Hawke pushed off the wall and cut through the crowd, heading directly toward me.
But I couldn’t talk to him yet… not until I knew what all the whispering was about.
A good commander didn’t step foot on a battlefield unless she knew the terrain, and right now, I was certainly at a disadvantage.