17. Chapter 17 #2
I am more grounded, I find, more aware of small bursts of loveliness in the dark room around us than I had been before him. With a little sob I pull back.
“Forgive me,” he breathes near my ear.
Our gazes lock again, and a knowing passes between us.
I cannot stay, his guarded look says.
No, you cannot.
I wish to.
I know it.
“You’ve taken nothing that was not freely given,” I say.
“I had no right to accept it.” His face is troubled. “I respect you far too greatly to toy with you, Miss Snow.”
My eyes are closed.
His fingers trace my cheek, my jaw. “I cannot stay in your world.”
“But if we change this house, if everything—”
“He would still be there.”
My eyes fly open. “Who?”
His face—his haunted face—has paled again.
“My father.” He pushes out a breath. “He’s looking for me.”
“Surely he wouldn’t—”
“He already has. Hurt someone, that is.” His voice is quiet. “My mother.”
“No.” My hand goes to my mouth. “He… killed her?”
“He drummed up charges and had her arrested. She died in a filthy prison.”
“Not by his hand, then.”
“He chairs the Commission for Public Order. Every constable, detective, and officer is at his beck and call. Once she was in the old gaol, her fate was his to decide.”
Blood drains from my face. His dire fear of arrest becomes utterly clear. “What sort of man would do such a thing?”
His jaw tightens. “A former colonel in the Hussars, decorated for service in India, who’s known for his grand speeches on ‘loyalty, lineage, and moral reform.’”
“I see.” I can hardly breathe. I recall what Jane has said about the beloved duke—known for his heart, his pure goodness in a corrupt world.
“Mother went to him when the theater closed down, first asking for money enough to survive. Later, when he refused, she apparently threatened to reveal the truth to his followers, who were nearly ready to grant him sainthood, if he did not formally acknowledge me as his.”
“Her story, and your existence…”
“I could destroy his life with a single breath. And he could have me erased with a word. It’s best we never, ever cross paths. Either in the grand halls of the ton or a prison cell.”
“But we don’t share any connections with the duke. Surely we can—”
“It’s best this way.”
I close my eyes and with a whoosh of chilly air, he leaves me.
I force myself past the moment, busying my hands, my mind. It’s nothing. Nothing.
An odd tingle creeps over me whenever I slow, a whoosh of elation shot through with pain and regret. I hurry on to my other tasks, rushing about as if nothing’s happened except a gathering of the wealthiest people this side of London.
Everything rests on my shoulders. I mustn’t lose focus.
When I hurry into the kitchen to check on dinner preparations, the butler informs me that the station is empty, and no trains are coming in. I send out the footman, but there aren’t any musicians or illusionists of any kind to be had in St. Ives on short notice.
Just as I’ve despaired at finding any entertainment outside of young Anwen Dunn’s singing, I step into the parlor and find the matter handled.
For there, in the center of that great crowd of glittering guests, kneels Simon Balfour, whisking my mother’s pastels across a small canvas propped on one knee, creating a stunning likeness of a masked guest dressed as Julius Caesar.
Anwen Dunn sings sweetly in the background, the vibrato of her voice echoing in the ballroom.
It isn’t dead tonight—the air’s tight with excitement. Expectancy.
Uncle’s back is to me, and I hold my breath. Is he pleased or angry?
His shoulders are stiff, back straight.
The watchers gasp as the image all but springs to life with a few swift strokes to define the cheekbones.
How could anyone not be pleased with the night’s entertainment?
The man is portrayed in the night’s costume, but on horseback, spear extended overhead as he charges into battle, much as Julius Caesar had in real life.
If I’m correct, the man behind the red-and-black mask being sketched is Colonel Fitzgibbons.
“There you are! Where have you been?” It’s Felix, dressed as a naval captain.
I roll my eyes. “Banished for indiscretions. How have you found the house party?”
But he’s distracted, gaze darting around. “Where’s your gentleman?”
“He’s not my—” I sigh. “He’s there.” I tip my head toward the throng blocking him from view.
Bodies crowd around, eager to see him work.
Simon paints the guests as they appear in their costumes, but somehow he also manages to capture who they truly are.
Cunning, hopeful, romantic—he portrays it perfectly.
He works swiftly and easily, pastels skimming the thick vellum canvas over and over as each guest takes his turn.
Uncle comes near, hovering.
“Who is that fine artist, Miss Snow?” Lady Collins asks, fan to her chin. “What trade is he in?”
Heart pounding, I lift my eyes to Uncle’s. “The same industry as my father, actually.”
“Mining, is it?” she says.
“No, his present occupation.”
Uncle pales. He’s taken my meaning.
The throng tightens and dancers whirl as the sun slips away and only candlelight remains, throwing garish shadows across masked faces and gleaming silk. Jewels flare when heads turn. Laughter rises.
I cannot breathe.
That melodic voice, a surprising burst of confidence from one so young, thickens in the room with the pianoforte in the background as the night carries closer to a conclusion I cannot name, but I know is there, hovering just out of reach.
I press closer to Simon, my tingling lips remembering him exquisitely, and watch him capture the movement and energy of the dancers on canvas.
An approaching sleigh jingles outside, and I idly wonder if we shall have our orchestra after all.
The front doors bang open and a blast of wind whistles through the entry.
I turn to Jane as she bursts into the room, wringing her hands. “Jane? What is it?”
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I had meant to tell you. But no one has seen you for the better part of a week! I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with you about it, and now it’s…”
“Good heavens, what is it you’ve done?”
Her eyes are wide. “Oh Ros, I’m afraid this time it is I who scandalously invited a stranger. I know I’ve no right, but how could I not?”
“What? Who is it? Who—”
“I sent him a letter in the post. Then before I knew it, I found myself suggesting to your uncle that a certain gentleman has expressed interest in gems—especially unusual ones.”
“Jane,” I whisper. “Oh Jane, your Mr. Hammond will be crushed that you’ve invited another gentleman.” She’d only lately come to an understanding with the man before she’d left London for the holiday. “How could you toy with his affections so?”
She shakes her head, face pale. “It isn’t that, Ros. It’s—”
I glance his way, and Simon is looking at me. Staring. He isn’t glowing, though—he’s pale. Tight-lipped.
No, he isn’t looking at me at all, but beyond me. At someone behind me, who’s just come in. Whoever was in that sleigh. I have the vague sense that our mysterious guest of honor has arrived.
The music heightens, and an odd niggling fear concerning Jane’s nervous confession. I turn slowly, and there, framed in the parlor doorway without a mask, stands the dashing Duke of Ashbourne and his elegant wife, looking over the crowd.
Jane is breathless. “I wrote him about his son. I simply had to. He misses him so.”