Chapter Nineteen
It was a plan all too easy to set in motion once Gin settled her stomach.
Donald was so assured of his desirability that his irritation with her vanished at the crook of her finger, and Gin found grim solace in how well she’d taken the measure of his character.
The smug delight in his watery eyes foretold a renewal of future proposals, confident that her prior refusals had been based on nothing but foolishness.
It was a bitter pill for Ginevra to swallow, but gaining prime access to the Damocles party was worth it.
Gin pulled white silk gloves above her elbows and clasped a diamond bracelet around her left wrist. She had chosen a midnight-blue gown for the party at Foxley Hall, a strapless affair that accentuated her collarbones and pearl necklace to great effect.
The smooth, fitted bodice tapered to the waist and then plumed into a wide, full skirt held aloft with layers of soft tulle that swished when she twirled.
It would be a very nice dress for dancing if she were going with someone other than Donald, whose bony arms at the Queen Charlotte’s Ball had felt like the embrace of a large praying mantis.
That was, of course, before the champagne and snogging and ensuing proposal, but it was a vivid detail that haunted Gin whenever Donald loomed too close.
She uncapped her red lipstick and shuddered, wishing she could step into the past and chide her younger, heartbroken self.
She’d still been reeling from her mother’s death, so desperate to escape her father’s house—anything had seemed like a better alternative to her grief and anger that night, even a man who kissed her like perusing the newspaper.
She was very fortunate indeed that sense had returned with sobriety, but she could have saved herself a world of headache since.
Tonight, however, there was no room for remorse. She would suffer Donald’s presence for the good of the investigation.
Iris leaned around the doorframe and whistled. “Gosh, Gin, are you sure you’re not leading Craddock on a bit dressed like that?”
Gin whirled around. Iris wore a yellow dress the exact shade of a daisy center, her cheeks and lips a velvety pink. “Where are you going?” Gin asked sharply.
“To the party at Foxley Hall.” Iris smiled, smoothing her waist. “Harold asked me to accompany him.”
Gin stiffened. Donald had traveled home earlier in the day to oversee preparations, so Sidney had secured her a seat in Harold’s car.
They knew better than to deter him from accepting the invitation; the best they could do was plan a series of diversions to keep him out of the refreshment.
Adding Tweety to that plan complicated matters further still.
“How jolly.” Gin forced a smile. “Are you sure you want to, though? The Damocles set is awfully dull.”
“Yes, I do. I might never see the inside of a house like Foxley Hall again.”
“You’re welcome to Chiseldon Park whenever you like.”
Iris frowned, her eyes narrowing with a stubbornness that boded ill for dissuading her. “Do you not want me to go? Do I embarrass you around your posh friends?”
“What?” Gin exclaimed. “Of course not, darling. They’re just—odious people.”
Iris huffed. “You’re going.”
“As a favor to Harold Webb, if nothing else. Someone has to keep him out of the Damocles boys’ clutches. As much as I adore you, Tweety, I’m not sure you’re up for the task.”
“Of course, how silly of me.” Iris dipped in a dramatic curtsy. “We humble folk do so appreciate St. Ginevra’s favor.”
Gin caught her arm, forcing Iris to meet her eyes. “I mean it, darling. You need to be careful tonight.”
Confusion and frustration warred on Iris’s face, and Gin eased her grip, patting her friend’s hand before she questioned the warning.
“Is Sarita joining us too?” she asked lightly.
“No.” Iris’s face fell. “She’s arriving with someone else, I think.”
Ginevra’s smile tightened. “Splendid.”
There were times when the easy chatter of friends soothed Ginevra’s anxiety, and there were times when it wore upon her nerves to the breaking point.
Crammed into the back of a car with Sidney while Harold and Iris held a rollicking conversation in the front seat was most certainly the latter.
Her frame rigid, Gin drummed her fingers against the seat as the Oxfordshire countryside sped by under Harold’s leaden foot.
The great responsibility of their business that evening combined with the pressure of her friends’ presence put a heavy weight on Ginevra’s shoulders, one that would not shift no matter how much she reminded herself they were not acting alone.
The Rook had assured them an adequate number of agents were placed among staff hired for the evening, and someone would identify themselves as an ally.
But it all seemed very risky, and Ginevra wasn’t sure she enjoyed this much adrenaline.
It made her itchy and unsettled, like she could run to Foxley Hall faster than Harold’s speeding car.
A soft touch trailed against Gin’s little finger, and she found Sidney’s hand resting beside hers. “It’s going to be fine,” he murmured.
A lump rose in Ginevra’s throat. It was absurd that Sidney Braithwaite should be offering her gentle reassurances after she had wheedled and prodded and dragged him into all this.
But the dark tuxedo he wore that evening highlighted the quiet confidence in his manner that usually lurked just beneath the veneer of annoyance, and Ginevra felt the vexing desire to straighten his tie and smooth his lapels—as if touching him might transfer that confidence to her.
She dipped her head in a tight nod, pressing against his hand to show she appreciated the gesture when a glance from Iris over the seat back made them both jerk apart.
When they unbundled upon the Foxley Hall drive, Gin stepped to the side to shake out her skirt and compose herself. Iris, however, swooped upon her with the accusatory air of a police inspector.
“You might have told me Sidney Braithwaite is sweet on you,” she whispered. “That was the most awkward drive of my life! I had to talk nonstop to cover up the moon-eyed silence in the back seat.”
Gin’s head snapped upright. “What—!”
“Don’t play innocent.” Iris crossed her arms. “That man had his eyes fixed on you the entire ride. Is that why you didn’t want me to come? Is it you that’s hiding a lover, not Sarita?”
“He isn’t! I promise we’re only—” Gin cut off with a strangled sound.
How the devil was she supposed to explain what tonight meant for her, for Sidney—how the nerves and apprehension of what lay before them could be confused for a different sort of entanglement?
She couldn’t, of course, but she also couldn’t allow such a misunderstanding for Sidney’s sake. He would be mortified.
Gin squeezed her friend’s hand. “We’re friends, Tweety, I promise, and barely even that. If Sidney had invited me, I would have laughed in his face. I’m here with Donald.”
There was a soft footfall on the gravel behind Gin, and Iris buttoned up her mouth, eyes wide with alarm.
“Are you two ready?” Sidney asked.
His voice was no stiffer than usual, but he wouldn’t quite meet Gin’s eyes when she turned around. Iris hurried to join Harold, and Sidney hesitated only a moment before following without Ginevra.
She stifled a groan. God help her if Sidney had heard the entire exchange.
The man was already as touchy as a pregnant barn cat, and gossip about their relationship could undo every bit of hard work she’d put into softening him up.
With a sigh, Gin gathered her skirt and trailed after her party into the glowing edifice of Foxley Hall.
Harold had spoken true when he said the Damocles Club was inviting everyone.
Transportation had probably determined how many actually attended—a factor that favored the upper classes more likely to own and store vehicles near the university—but the glittering throng inside the grand foyer felt as though the night would set a record for a private club event.
Gin made her way through the crowd to join Donald near the grand staircase.
“Ginevra—” Donald wafted a kiss near her cheek and offered her a champagne flute from a passing footman. “I was beginning to fear something had kept you in Oxford.”
“Only fretting over my outfit, I’m afraid.”
“You’re lovely,” he drawled, his diction already slurred with alcohol.
She accepted the compliment and champagne with grace but returned the drink to a different footman when Donald looked away.
He shifted her to stand beside him, placing a hand on the small of her back, and Gin struggled to keep her face in check.
She took a few deep breaths, reminding herself that this was the goal, after all, but it was Sidney’s eyes locking onto hers from across the room that steadied her.
That beautiful, stony face, so often unreadable, telegraphed a clear message for her alone: They were there to avert a catastrophe, and they had to persevere. She had to persevere.
Gin forced herself to smile up at Donald and laugh along with whatever nonsense his friends spouted.
The first part of the evening passed in a whirl of mindless drivel punctuated with furtive checks around the room for any sign of Marion.
Endless names, endless introductions, Donald’s hands growing ever more familiar till Ginevra slid away under the pretense of needing food, champagne, or to powder her nose.
After the arrivals ended, Donald held court in the largest drawing room with his cronies, and Gin was relieved to recognize a few girls from the Wiltshire families among which she’d grown up.
For a few moments, Gin was transported to the past, where her mother’s smile welcomed her home, where her father’s dogs caused mayhem tripping footmen.
In that world, it was very possible she would have accepted Craddock as an inevitable choice of husband, for she had thought him a tolerable acquaintance for many years.
Only her mother’s death had changed everything, from the way Gin thought about love to the things she wanted to achieve, and Oxford had offered her new possibilities for the future.
But the echo of a different life haunted her in the Foxley Hall drawing room as she forced herself to laugh along with old acquaintances.
What path would she have chosen if her mother had lived?
Though the pressure to locate Marion divided Gin’s attention, there was another familiar face in the crowd she couldn’t help watching.
Sarita was radiant in a wine-colored gown with a sweetheart neckline, but the man accompanying her was a stranger.
His skin was slightly darker than Sarita’s and he had thick, wavy brown hair that set him apart from the fashionable, sleek Damocles Club members.
They made a strikingly handsome couple and circulated throughout the room, chatting to many people.
But the way Sarita’s face glowed with pride while the man talked perplexed Ginevra.
If he wasn’t a beau, then what the devil was going on?
When Gin returned to Donald’s side, the whisky on his breath hit her in a pungent wave. His arms snaked around her back with a possessiveness that made her skin crawl. “The boys have organized a bit of fun upstairs. Care to join?”
“You smell as though you’ve had enough fun already.” She smiled up at him, trying to pull back, but his hold only tightened.
“The night’s just getting started, Gin.”
“Craddock.” Oliver Whitby, also intoxicated, pulled on Donald’s other side. “Come on, they’re dealing us into the next hand.” He leered at Ginevra, blinking as though it was impossible to place her outside the newspaper’s office, but then brightened. “Bishop! Fancy seeing you here.”
Donald nuzzled into Gin’s hair, and she held her breath, trying not to recoil. “You’ll come for good luck, yes?”
“Of course,” she said with false brightness. “Though you know Lady Luck has a way of turning.”
“Not tonight.” Whitby’s wide, vacuous smile raised the hairs on Gin’s neck once more. “I found us a plump goose to pluck.”
Donald rumbled with delight and pulled Gin up the stairs after Whitby.
She twisted back to survey the foyer, but there was no sign of Sidney among the crowd.
It would have been a comfort if someone knew where she was going, but Gin stuffed down her fears.
If Marion was planning mischief for the evening, the Damocles inner circle was exactly where she needed to be.
Whitby led them into a wood-paneled study on the second floor where men gathered around a table.
At one end sat a group of older gentlemen, presumably Damocles alumni, and at the other end, a group of eager prospective members listened to Leland describe in tedious detail all the renovations to his cottage.
To Gin’s surprise, Lewis Hughes sat among them, observing the proceedings with amusement.
But beside him sat Harold, and Gin’s pulse quickened.
How on earth had Sidney lost him already?
Donald released her to pour a drink from the cart in the corner, and Gin slipped behind Harold’s chair. She leaned forward, laughing along with the rest, and hovered near his ear long enough to whisper, “You really shouldn’t be here.”
Harold startled, his innocent eyes clouding with guilt. “It’s just a bit of harmless fun!”
“And you left Iris downstairs?” She tsked, and his cheeks pinked. “Very unchivalrous, Mr. Webb.”
“I—well—” Harold stammered, and for a moment Gin felt truly sorry for making him feel bad. “I didn’t think of it like that, I suppose.”
“Then I suggest you hurry back to her side, and all will be forgiven. She’s a very nice girl—much nicer than me,” she added darkly.
Harold winced, but he shook his head. “You’re right—you’re right. Thank you.” He looked around the table with faint alarm. “Dash it all, they’ve already dealt me in though, and I’ve got money in the pot.” He grabbed her hand. “Would you take my place, at least?”
Across the room, Donald was already refilling his tumbler of whisky, slapping another man on the shoulder as they chortled.
The air was redolent with entitlement, a heady haze of comfortable wealth and power, and the thought of having a bit of fun at their expense sweetened the odiousness of Ginevra’s position.
“I’d be delighted,” she said.