Chapter 30
“They are all cheering for you. They all came here for you. You are the object of desire and excitement and curiosity tonight.”
Now that she had what she’d always wanted, she realized how much she only wanted to be the object of desire for one man in particular. A man who was lost to her, likely for good.”
Adelaide, Chapter 10 (Penny Dreadful copy)
Fitz tipped his champagne flute to his lips. His efforts had comprised a few weeks of planning and pulling strings, meetings at the publishing house that still reminded him of his disapproving father, consulting with his secretary, and a lengthy list of preparations. This night had to go well.
He’d promised a favor to Tristan Valentine to place glowing reviews and thinly-coded references to Adelaide in the scandal sheet Tristan ran in secret.
It had been Noelle’s idea to give the public the character Adelaide in the flesh, just as it had been her idea to give more of them Adelaide in print: penny novels that could be consumed by more than just the higher orders who could afford the high quality first editions.
An abridged version had been flying off shelves and newsstands throughout London and across England.
As he’d guessed, Adelaide was a character that resonated with readers on both sides of the economic chasm.
When he’d done what she asked and taken on more of the yoke of his duties at his inherited business, he hadn’t thought that he’d enjoy it so much. Mostly, he enjoyed the incandescent glow that wreathed her beautiful face seeing her creation gain such traction.
And so tonight was the next phase of his plan. He’d brought this fete together with little confidence that he, in all his past close calls with destruction, would pull off this ruse for her this time when it truly mattered.
But pull it off, he had. Not just for himself, to prove himself not to be a dullard and a rake and whatever else his critics and friends wanted to call him.
But for her. A celebration worthy of her, one that she could attend.
For his father, wherever he was, looking up at him.
Fitz hoped he was seeing the big middle finger he’d sent by not being the disappointment his father had always assured Fitz that he was.
At the moment, one of his acquaintances was talking, asking a question that expected an answer. “I’d rather presumed it was your handiwork?”
Noelle had alluded to it before, but he had brushed it off. Surely no one could have thought him clever enough to be the visionary behind Adelaide? The air surrounding the assembled group in a corner of his ballroom was heavy with anticipation.
“When have you known me to refrain from tooting my own horn?”
he turned to the group who had offered their rapt attention, “If I’d written Adelaide, I’d happily say so. When it comes to the publishing house, I’m merely decorative. I’d never have any idea how to create a story that appeals to the masses; but if I knew the identity of the author or authoress,
I’d reveal the master behind this craft,” he leaned in, prompting the others to follow suit, “Alas, even I am in the dark on that score. You can concede why they would be reluctant to let a showman like myself in on such a secret, I’m sure.”
Tristan Valentine set down his own champagne flute on a nearby table before he commented. “It does seem the author is rather keen to keep their identity a secret. Adelaide was written by an author calling themselves N. Honnimers…it’s a play on the word ‘anonymous? Or did you really not catch on?”
“Well, that’s really rather clever,” The Earl of Drysdale, Moria’s escort and hopeful suitor, complemented.
Moria let out a snort that somehow managed to still come out sounding lady-like.
The Earl, in all his handsome buffoonery, didn’t seem to notice (if he did, showed no signs of offense).
Moria had that effect on people, just happy to bask in the glow of her sun.
If she had been called upon by the Duke of Andover once since the ball, Fitz could only assume the Earl of Drysdale was a hanger-on, a pawn to garner the other man’s interest or jealousy.
Moria was nothing if not a showman herself. Show-woman?
“Hmmm…clever? My cousin Fitz here definitely couldn’t have been the author, then.”
Valentine clapped Fitz on the back, which the latter shrugged off with a disgruntled move of his sculpted shoulder.
“So that woman is Adelaide or N. Honnimers?”
Miss Carina Smythe asked, pointing at a woman flocked by a small crowd as she moved toward the terrace of Pomfrey Manor.
The black and white floors and sconces and drapes of the ballroom were offset by the crimson silk of her beautiful low cut, ruby-red gown and dark hair.
But her eyes. That smile. The swish of her gorgeous hips, he knew.
Bloody hell. She made his mouth dry at the sight of her.
Fitz looked in the woman’s direction, then took a sip of his drink as he leisurely answered, “I’ve never met this ‘Honnimers.’ The manuscript was delivered to my office by way of a rather pretty little piece of baggage, and you know my weakness for those,” he gave the group a wistful grin,
“So I read it and agreed to publish it without a meeting with the author. As you can probably understand, having read it yourselves.”
“So it is possible that Adelaide and N. Honnimers are the very same, then?” Moria asked, working the pieces of Fitz’ story together.
“Bloody hell, that’s too confusing.” Drysdale asserted with a shake of his head.
Moria looked in the direction of the woman in question and her gathered admirers, and seemed to choose not to comment on her suitor’s idiocy.
“Suppose one could ask the footman what name she gave when she arrived,” Carina Smythe questioned with her eyes narrowed on the masked woman in red.
Fitz gripped the side of his champagne flute, willing calm into his voice. “The parties I host are all masquerades. I offer people anonymity. I can’t have my guests thinking I would sell them out for clout.” Trust a bored young widow to question the spectacle they were trying to pull off.
A distracting cheer went up from a nearby throng of revelers at the sight of the raven-haired woman in red.
She wore a dress finely tailored to a bountiful, but tall figure.
Her hips moved slightly when she walked.
Her companion leaned a hand on her arm, and she leaned in return to hear her over the din of revelry.
The candelabra directly above deposited rays of blue light on her raven hair.
There was something altogether familiar and trustworthy, yet other-worldly about the woman all at once. Fitz beheld, in a ruby gown and a rosy-cheeked, freely-smiling face, everything he could ever want.
“Adelaide!” The revelers cheered, tipping their glasses in salute.
The woman in question waved a demure satin-gloved hand at them and merely bowed, bestowing the tiniest glimpse of her bosom in the process, and continued on the arm of another masked young lady through the crowd of spellbound merry-makers who made way for her to pass.
An old school chum of Fitz’s commented, “I could see why that ole prig and the young Lord Swindle lost their hearts to Miss Adelaide. She cuts quite the silhouette; I’ll give her that.”
Valentine countered, “Forget her figure. When she smiled just now, I’d have given her half my fortune at least. And that hair.”
Fitz looked at Moria with a greedy smile and raised his eyebrows.
Moria’s eyes bulged and she looked from him to the woman in red, mouth agog.
He answered by placing a silencing finger to his lips for a fleeting second before the others in their party ever noticed.
Moria nodded. It seemed to be all the confirmation she needed.
“You’re right, my lord. This Adelaide creature, whoever she is, is both pretty and clever. A credit to our sex,” She raised her glass, “To the daring woman in red,” and the others followed.
Fitz felt Moria’s eyes on him again, but he couldn’t stop his vision from following the retreating figure in red lovingly.