Chapter Nine
“Surely you are not leaving, Naomi?”
Not only was my lady Lutonville leaving this wretched soiree, but she could scarce wait to make her escape.
Fate, with cruel whimsy, had played a very unkind trick on her.
She was seething with rage, but because that rage must not be shown to a cynical world that would be all too ready to misconstrue it, she affected a bored amusement.
It was not easy to refrain from gnashing her teeth at the gentle ladies who gushed over her “unhappy predicament,” while glee sparkled in their eyes; or to keep from giving a sharp set-down to the gentlemen who either moaned that she was placed in a ridiculous situation, or vowed bloody reprisals ’gainst Captain Rossiter.
Recognizing the voice of an old friend, however, it was with genuine pleasure that she turned to embrace a tall young woman with a lovely and intelligent face and smiling hazel eyes. “Mitten! How wonderful to find you here! How are you, my dear? And how is little Joanna?”
Lady Anthony Farrar patted the hand she held and leaned closer to say confidingly, “Five months old, delectable, and doted upon by far too many willing slaves. ’Tis as well that by Christmas time she will have either a small Gilbert or Helen competing for the attentions of her father and her uncles, who already are in a fair way to spoiling her! ”
Naomi’s laugh held a note of wistfulness. “You look so happy, and so well. It must be wonderful to be cherished and protected by such a fine man as your Anthony. Truly, I envy you.”
“Thank you, love. You may be sure I know I am very blessed.” And watching her friend narrowly, Lady Farrar said, “I wish I could think you happy, also.”
At once brightening, Naomi demanded, “No, but why ever should you judge me otherwise? Did I look provoked just now?” She saw a flickering smile, and admitted very softly, “I was not, Mitten. Provoked is too mild a word by half! If one more person commiserates with me over this fiasco—I vow I’ll bite them!
So you see, I must leave before I—further—disgrace myself! ”
“You have never disgraced yourself. Although you tried hard enough.”
The flush on Naomi’s cheeks deepened a little, but Lady Farrar went on quickly, “I’ve heard tell that one of the penalties of being an accredited Toast, is the enemies they make among London’s ladies.
An you leave now, ’twill not be a disgrace, my love, but a retreat.
Before you are halfway to Falcon House the gabblemongers will be claiming you left shedding tears of mortification.
Only think of the lovely time they will have, grieving for your embarrassment. ”
“Aye. And giggling behind their fans, the cats,” stormed Naomi. “While they wallow in all the details of Rossiter’s libertine propensities and my—”
Lady Farrar blinked. “His—what? I’d not heard such things of Gideon.”
“Only gossip about me, eh? Lud, where have you been, Mitten?”
“Fiddle-de-dee!” exclaimed Lady Farrar, whose friends seldom addressed her by anything but her nickname.
“Pray do not turn around, but that little tabby Melissa Coombs watches us as though you were about to suffer a seizure. Naomi, you must stay, and have a jolly time however much you loathe it. If only to deny them the satisfaction of seeing you leave in a huff.”
She was perfectly right, of course. Her wisdom was confirmed a few minutes later when Naomi returned to the music room and glimpsed the faint disappointment in the eyes of several ladies who yearned for but had never achieved the status of a Toast. And so she stayed, and her gaiety was so unfaltering that only a few guessed that beneath her merry light-heartedness dwelt an impatience and vexation that increased with every moment.
It was almost a quarter past one o’clock before she slipped away to search for Katrina and beg that she be driven back to Falcon House.
There was no sign of her friend on the ground floor.
Tired and cross and with a persistent headache, she was determined to escape more sympathy, so made her way to the first-floor saloons by way of the servants’ stairs.
Turning into the main hall she hurried past two rooms where heated political discussions waged, but Katrina was not among the ladies present.
The door to the next ante room was wide open.
Inside, several gentlemen sat at cards. There was a burst of laughter and mocking voices accused someone of “surrendering too easily.” As she passed, chairs were being pushed back.
Dismayed by the sound of a high-pitched and all too familiar giggle, she thought, ‘Reggie Smythe! Oh, no!’ She could scarce endure the dandy’s malicious tongue at the best of times and knew all too well how he would delight in slanting his vicious barbs at her.
One swift glance confirmed that it was indeed Smythe, together with his bosom bow, Sir Gilbert Fowles.
Shuddering, Naomi whipped past and sought about for a refuge.
A merry group stood chatting a little distance along the hall.
Nearer at hand was a recessed alcove with French doors, now closed, which gave onto the balcony at the rear of the house.
She darted into the alcove. The balcony doors were stiff and resisted her efforts, but she succeeded in pushing them open, whirled into the cool darkness, and quickly shut them again, then leaned her cheek against the doors, listening.
She heard men’s voices and the despised giggle, but no outcry.
With a sigh of relief, she turned, started to take a step and recoiled in horror.
There was no balcony! Or at best, only a suggestion of one.
She was perched on what was no more than a decorative window ledge about fifteen inches deep!
But of course! She had come up the servants’ stairs rather than the main staircase, and was not at the rear but on the west side of the mansion!
How could she have been so idiotically confused?
It was little short of a miracle she’d not fallen to her death when she ran outside!
She felt quite faint with fright and shrank back against the doors, suddenly reminded of the only fear Gideon had ever shown her—his intense fear of heights.
Trembling, she told herself sternly that there was no need to be such a weakling.
Her situation was easily resolved. All she had to do was open the door (very carefully), and go back inside.
She reached for the handle and gave a sob of terror.
There was a handle, but it was decorative only and did not turn.
The doors could not be opened from the outside!
Panicking now, trying not to give way to tears, she beat against the glass.
She could hear the buzz of talk and a woman’s shrill laughter.
Were they all deaf? Why did they not come to help her?
Probably, because they were making so much noise that her own rattling at the doors was drowned.
Well then, she would break the window. If she could contrive to get her slipper off.
She clung with one hand to the door handle.
She dared not bend down, nor even look down, and she discovered that to raise her foot constituted quite a challenge.
When she groped for her shoe, her wide skirts not only impeded her, but she almost lost her balance.
With a gasp, she pressed back against the house, her knees beginning to feel like blancmange.
She must try again. Perhaps, if she could ease the high-heeled Spanish slipper down to her toe, it would be more easily grasped.
She wriggled her left toe against the back of her right shoe.
It took a few minutes, but at last the slipper was off her heel.
Holding her breath she pushed her skirts aside.
She had to hold her foot out as well as up, for her panniers forbade her reaching it otherwise.
Balancing carefully, she made a wild snatch for the shoe, and it flew off and sailed from sight.
“Oh, you nasty thing,” she wailed. But there was, thank heaven, another shoe. Reaching for it once more, she paused.
With hideous clarity she could picture the scene that would result when she broke the window and was (hopefully) rescued.
What a delicious tidbit she would provide the guests, and how they would delight in spreading it about a city that throve on gossip.
“Did you hear about poor Naomi Lutonville? Gideon Rossiter made her look a proper fool at the Dowling Soiree, whereby she is gone demented, and was found wandering along the window ledges!” Or, worse—“Poor Lady Lutonville was so distraught at the prospect of suffering Rossiter’s escort that she attempted suicide and was rescued at the last minute!
” The next thought was worst of all. Lud!
They might even say she had tried to kill herself for unrequited love!
All thought of breaking the window was abandoned.
At least for the moment. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness now, and she looked about for some other means of escape.
To the left was the corner of the building.
On the right, however, and just below her ledge, the roof of the conservatory extended from the house, and beyond that was another ledge like this one, with French doors that stood slightly open.
She could even see tobacco smoke drifting from the room.
If she could but cross the conservatory roof and reach that ledge, she could bide her time until the occupants left, then slip back inside and no one would be the wiser.