Chapter 20
“To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.”
“No.”
“But, Father, it’s just one evening—”
“I said no. I will not have you embarrassing us once again and ruining our chances with either Cranford or Lichtenstein.”
I stabbed my eggs with my fork. This breakfast was the first meal Father had allowed me to share with him since my banishment, and I was intent on using it to secure approval to attend the opera with Edmond. But Father was being stubborn as usual.
There was only one viable strategy.
“I will do whatever you think is best, Father.” I waved down a servant and said, “Please deliver a message to Lord Cranford. Give him my apologies that I cannot attend tonight.”
The servant nodded and turned to leave, but Father grabbed the poor servant’s arm, then glared at me. “Cranford invited you?”
I took a delicate sip of tea. “I was to join him in his box. But I’m sure he will underst—”
“Nonsense!” Father yanked the wide-eyed servant closer.
“Run as fast as you can to Cranford’s house and tell him my daughter will be there even if the Second Coming happens.
” He released the servant, and the poor man darted out the door.
Father turned back to me. “You may go to the opera… and you’ll accept the baron’s proposal while you’re there. ”
I forced a smile and ignored the quiver in my stomach. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll do better than your best.” He bit off a large piece of toast, crumbs falling from his mouth. “I need that contract signed, Helena. Do you understand?”
My fingers tightened around the diamond on my bracelet. “I understand.”
∞∞∞
I spent the entire afternoon preparing for the opera.
Mrs. Sweete was back at my side, her nephew having recovered.
Ever the faithful lieutenant, she advised me as I spent hours weaving ribbons into my intricate braids, comparing jewelry, and selecting which gown I’d wear.
We settled on the French blue dress, with a train and thin sleeves.
A gossamer film of organza overlaid the silk, and delicate seed pearls dotted the neckline.
Mrs. Sweete had even embroidered a few blue flowers on my white gloves.
The completed look was mightier than a suit of battle armor.
When the hour finally came, Mrs. Sweete and I stepped into the baron’s opera box overlooking the glittering auditorium.
Gilded columns flanked the stage, draped with red velvet curtains.
Crystal chandeliers cast a glow over a sea of guests, the men in fine coats and the women in silks and jewels.
The air hummed with the eager chatter that always came before a performance.
We were met immediately by Mr. and Mrs. Sedgwick, the aging couple whom I often saw at dinner parties. Mrs. Sedgwick’s skin was paper thin, and I feared it would tear if she so much as moved. Miraculously, it remained intact as she took my hand in hers and smiled warmly.
“My dear Miss Weston,” she said, patting my knuckles, “I hope you ignored those dreadful rumors from the other night. Thank goodness Mr. Hawke put all that to rest. He’s a gentleman born and bred, isn’t he?”
Mr. Hawke was certainly not born a gentleman. But I smiled and said, “He is a man of unique character indeed.”
Mrs. Sedgwick yawned. “Let’s sit down, dear. I’m feeling tired.”
Mr. and Mrs. Sedgwick retired to their seats, and my attention drifted to the other side of the box. Edmond stood in hushed conversation with Lord Cranford, and to my surprise, the pair of them were laughing.
I blinked at the sight. I had not seen the baron laugh before.
The men looked completely at ease with each other.
They must have grown close when the baron helped Edmond with his work after the accident.
Seeing their camaraderie stirred something tight in my chest, but I smothered it and turned away—
And froze.
There, leaning over the box’s balcony, waving to someone across the auditorium, was Sybella.
“What in heaven’s name is she doing here?” I whispered to Mrs. Sweete.
“Her parents are in another box across the theater, see?” Mrs. Sweete pointed to where Mr. and Mrs. Pratt sat. “Perhaps Sybella came with them, then was invited to attend the baron’s box instead.”
I frowned. Sybella had been unusually quiet since Mr. Hawke quelled her rumor. I had expected some sort of retaliation. Of course, I’d been locked up since that night, and thus unavailable for her to torment me further. Perhaps I was about to witness her next attack.
“Hel!” Sybella clapped gleefully upon seeing me. “You’re finally here! I thought you’d gotten the times mixed up again. Or that you didn’t want to come because a certain person isn’t in attendance.”
I didn’t get the chance to respond, for Edmond was on his feet the instant he realized I was here.
Lord Cranford followed suit more slowly, bracing himself on his cane.
As if choreographed, they both simultaneously said my name, then Mrs. Sweete’s, then bowed.
Their synchronicity was theatrical—two men unknowingly auditioning for the same role of wealthy husband. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Sybella grabbed my hands and squeezed them tight. “I was starting to worry about you, Hel. You’ve been hiding away at home for days. Don’t tell me you’re still upset over that little misunderstanding.”
I removed my hands from hers. “Not at all. I knew the truth would come out sooner or later. It always does.”
Sybella had no idea of the weapon I currently held in my arsenal.
I had seen her with Mr. Marceaux, alone in the orangery.
I could spread word of it around the ton in a matter of minutes.
But I held my tongue. First, the only proof I had was my testimony.
And second, unlike Sybella, I did not find joy in ruining another woman’s life, even one who seemed intent on ruining mine.
Besides, one did not use a greatsword to slice a mere apple.
I would wait for the right opportunity to wield the truth.
I glanced over at Edmond. He was no longer wearing the sling. “Have you recovered, Mr. Hawke?”
“Mostly.” The hint of a smile touched his lips. “You’re wearing blue.”
“Oh, am I? It was the first thing I picked out of my wardrobe.”
“Hmm.”
Edmond didn’t so much as look at the dress. “It matches your eyes.”
“My mother says that my eyes change color,” Sybella chimed in. “What color would you say they are today, Mr. Hawke?”
She leaned over to him and batted her lashes. He pulled back slightly, his lips pressed together. “Um… brown, I suppose?”
“But which shade of brown? Chestnut? Mahogany?”
“Soil?” I offered.
Sybella threw a displeased glance in my direction.
“Miss Weston’s eyes are a unique shade of blue,” the baron said. “They remind me of the Calliphora vomitoria.”
Sybella snorted. “Vomitoria? How vile.”
The baron paled. His mouth opened and closed as if trying to form a response, but he had none.
Mrs. Sweete came to his rescue. “Calliphora vomitoria is the scientific name for the blue bottle fly. It has an iridescent exoskeleton that’s a beautiful blue. It was quite the compliment, Miss Weston.”
Lord Cranford stared at my chaperone, mouth agape. “How did you know that?”
Mrs. Sweete blushed. “Oh, well, my uncle was an acquaintance of a Danish fellow who wrote about naming insects and the like. He gave me a copy of his book, and I read it every night. I suppose it’s a hobby of mine.”
I raised an eyebrow. She had never once mentioned such a hobby. The only thing I’d ever seen her do was needlework. Clearly there was much about my chaperone that I didn’t know.
A small pang pulled at my chest at the thought.
I had known Mrs. Sweete for most of my life.
She knew everything about me—every like and dislike, every secret.
But how much did I really know about her beyond her nose for gossip and her love of embroidery?
More importantly, why hadn’t I ever bothered to find out?
“Your uncle’s acquaintance wasn’t a man named Fabricius by chance, was he?” the baron asked, pulling me from my doleful thoughts.
“Oh, yes! That’s him!”
“Brilliant!” He leaned toward her. “You have a copy of his Systema Entomologiae?”
“A first edition, actually.”
“From 1775?”
“Yes! Would you like to see—”
“Enough about bugs!” Sybella interrupted. “The opera is starting soon. Hel, I’m so sorry it’s not a French opera.”
I cast her a confused look, but Lord Cranford said, “Forgive me, Miss Pratt. I get carried away sometimes.” He motioned to the row of unoccupied chairs.
There were seven in total. The Sedgwicks occupied the two on the far left.
“Mrs. Sweete, why don’t you sit beside Mrs. Sedgwick? She has a Danish relation as well.”
I had forgotten the ancient couple was there, for they were already snoring quietly in their chairs.
“A thoughtful match, Lord Cranford,” she said while taking her seat. “Thank you.”
The baron sat down one spot away from Mrs. Sweete, then gestured to the empty chair between them. “Miss Weston, would you do me the honor of sitting next to me?”
“Actually,” Edmond piped in, “I’d already reserved a chair for Miss Weston.” He motioned to the other far right of the box, right next to where he sat. “This one is closest to the stage.”
“Yes, but this one seats Miss Weston next to her chaperone,” the baron said.
“This one has an unobstructed view.”
“This one is closer to the refreshments.”
“And this one has its own armrest.”
The baron tapped his fingers on his cane. “Why don’t we let Miss Weston choose?”
Both men turned to me.
Oh no. This wasn’t going to end well.
I offered a diplomatic smile. “Lord Cranford, if you take the seat next to Mrs. Sweete, then I can sit by both you and Mr. Hawke.”
Edmond glanced at the baron, his lips pressing into a slight frown. Good, I thought. A little competition was healthy for the male spirit.