Chapter Twenty-Five

 

 

 

“You look splendid dear, positively splendid. Black really does become you.” Beaming at her youngest son, Caroline slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow as they descended the master staircase into the glittering ballroom below. Her husband walked on her other side, his formidable expression softening only when he happened to glance down at his little wife. Resplendent in a gown of ice blue silk draped with a wispy muslin overlay, she put women half her age to shame.

“I feel like a stuffed goose at a dinner party,” Grant muttered, tugging at his white cravat. In addition to his black tailcoat and neck piece, he wore a double breasted satin waistcoat, fawn colored breeches, and gleaming black Hessians. His dark hair was swept back from his temple and set in place with a thin layer of pomade. The severe style accentuated the noble lines of his face and drew the attention of more than one fawning debutante as the Hargraves made their way towards the far corner of the room where an open terrace overlooked Glastonbury’s sprawling gardens.

“Well you make a very handsome stuffed goose,” Caroline said. “Albeit a distracted one. Why do you keep looking all around, dear? Are you expecting someone?” She exchanged a quick, meaningful glance with her husband. “Someone special, perhaps?”

“You could say that,” he said evasively. There was no way to tell if Juliet would dare show her face tonight, but instinct – and intuition – told him there was a reason she’d suddenly reappeared after months of hiding. And he suspected the dowager’s extensive jewelry collection, all of which was on full display tonight, had something to do with it.

The old dame certainly knew how to put on a show, he mused as he surveyed the room, searching in vain for a flash of brilliant auburn amidst the blondes and the brunettes. There had to be at least two hundred people in the ball room, with more arriving every minute. All of the ton’s most notable had been invited, from the Duke and Duchess of Ellsworth to Miss Violet Hanover, the most famous actress in all of London. If Juliet really was here, finding her was going to be like looking for a needle in a bloody haystack. But despite the obvious difficulties, it was a challenge he was looking forward to. Even though he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do when he finally caught her and their little game of cat and mouse came to an end.

His head demanded he turn her over the magistrate. She was a criminal and she’d committed a crime. Multiple crimes, actually. Of that there was no question, nor even a lingering trace of doubt. Not after he’d caught her in the damn act. It should have been a simple matter of two plus two…but no matter how many different times or how many different ways he added it up, he could never reach four.

If only Owen had assigned another runner to the case all those months ago. Except then he never would have met her. Never would have kissed her. Never would have learned how soft her skin was or felt the fiery texture of her hair or heard the soft, breathless cry she made when she came…

“I met a young lady just the other day I thought you might be interested in,” Caroline said brightly. “A lovely girl. Just lovely. She was at the Countess of Swarthmore’s garden soiree and I was so impressed with her that I extended an invitation to our house party.”

“You failed to mention that part.” The duke frowned at his wife. “Caro, we’ve talked about this–”

“Yes, yes.” She waved away her husband’s concerns with a flick of her gloved wrist. “But I know if you met her you would have been just as impressed as I was. Why, you should have seen how she charmed the dowager! I’ve never heard Dorothea laugh like that in all my years. She gave her an invitation right on the spot. Lady Wilmington’s face positively turned green with envy. Lovely girl,” she repeated. “Witty and graceful and very beautiful. She had the most brilliant red hair I’ve ever seen.”

Grant’s head whipped around. “Did you say red?” he said sharply.

“Indeed. I know you’ve been more partial to brunettes in the past, but–”

“What was her name?” he interrupted.

“Oh.” A bit taken aback by her son’s sudden interest, Caroline blinked. “Miss Williams. Miss Juliet Williams.”     

 

The tiara wasn’t here.

Juliet glided past the elegant jewelry display in the middle of the ballroom no less than four separate times before she believed it with her own eyes. There were necklaces dripping with sapphires and bracelets weighed down by rubies and pearl chokers that could have belonged to a queen, but the tiara that had actually belonged to a queen was conspicuously absent.

“Excuse me,” she said politely, tapping the arm of the burly viscount who had been whirling her around the floor with more enthusiasm than style. “I fear I need to rest.”

He frowned down at her, flesh puckering between his eyebrows. “But the dance is only halfway over.”

“Yes, well, I am afraid it’s all the way over for you.” Slipping free of his sweaty embrace, she beat a hasty retreat before he could request another turn. Fighting her way through the pulsing sea of bodies, she gasped in a lungful of cool evening air as she staggered towards an open window.

After having her feet repeatedly trod on and her arms nearly wrenched from their sockets, she had a new appreciation for the physical demands put upon women at balls. How they danced for hours upon hours – with a smile on their face, no less! – was beyond her. At least the men were able to wear trousers and practical footwear. In her heavy gown and thin slippers she was at the mercy of her partner’s clumsy feet.

Fanning a hand in front of her face, she leaned out the window and gazed down at the gardens below. They were empty now, but she suspected more than one couple would sneak out for a secret tryst between the shrubbery before the night was through. Behind her the dancing continued as couples joined together in circles of eight for the first Cotillion of the evening. A moment of silent anticipation and then the music began, flowing down in perfect harmony from two separate balconies on either side of the ballroom.

When Juliet finally turned back around the room was a blur of dizzying movement. Taking advantage of everyone’s preoccupation with the dance, she began to slowly edge her way along the wall towards a double set of doors that led to the master staircase. The tiara may not have been in the main ballroom, but surely it was somewhere in the palatial mansion. All she needed to do was find it.

When the Cotillion came to an end everyone broke apart and clapped politely, their perspiring faces wreathed in smiles. In a surging wave of pastel colors the debutantes began to hunt down their next partner with eagle-eyed determination.

“A glass of champagne, my lady?” A footman neatly intercepted Juliet just as she reached the doors.

“No thank you. I – Bran?” Shocked to see Bran’s twinkling blue eyes staring down at her, she gaped at him for a full three seconds before she came to her senses. Her gaze darting left and then right, she grabbed his arm and dragged him behind a potted fern that was nearly as tall as she was. “What are you doing here?” she hissed. “And why are you dressed like that?”

In a black coat with brass buttons, knee breeches, and white stockings, Bran looked exactly like all of the other footmen milling about the ballroom. He’d even powered his hair white, but the smirking grin he wore was all his.

“I thought ye might be able to use a little ‘elp,” he said with an innocent shrug. 

“Help?” The word came out strangled. “Since when do I need help?”

“Since ye made up yer mind to steal from bleedin’ royalty.”  

“Lower your voice!” she hissed as she glared out through the fern’s spiky leaves. Thankfully another dance had begun and it didn’t appear as if anyone was paying them any mind. Beside her Bran drained a flute of champagne and tossed the empty glass into the fern pot. She looked back at him in exasperation. “You need to leave. You’re going to get us both caught.”

“Me? I’m jest a footman doing ‘is job.” He shifted his tray from one hand to the other. “Do ye know how much these poor blokes make in a week? Why, it’s no better than slave labor. And the shite they’ve got to do! One woman asked me to polish ‘er shoe. ‘Er shoe, Jules. Can ye believe it?”

“Shut up, Bran. Let me think.” Pinching the bridge of her nose, she drew a deep breath. If she’d wanted Bran’s help she would have asked for it, but she knew there was no getting rid of him now. He was far too stubborn and – loathe as she was to admit it – he did have a point. Maybe this was a job for two people. “I suppose your being here isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“No,” he said agreeably. “That would be The Wolf headin’ this direction.”

“Don’t joke, Bran. I’m not the mood.”

But he wasn’t joking, something she realized when he set down the champagne tray and pulled out a pistol from beneath his jacket.

“Bran!” she gasped, her eyes widening. “Put that away! We’re in the middle of a ballroom, for God’s sake! You’re going to kill someone.”

“Aye,” he said grimly. “Yer runner.”

“He’s not my – never mind.” She shook her head. “That’s not important. What’s important is that you put that bloody thing away before we’re both arrested!”

With obvious reluctance Bran slipped the pistol back into his jacket, but he kept his hand within easy reach of the weapon. “Do ye at least have a plan?” he growled. “Because I think he’s seen ye and he doesn’t none too pleased.”

“Yes, of course I have a plan. An excellent plan.”

He looked at her dubiously. “Ye don’t have one, do ye?”

“Not in the slightest.” She’d always known Grant’s presence at the ball might be a possibility. Their moment of reckoning had been coming from the first night they met. Better to get it over with once and for all than have it continue to linger over her head like an axe ready to fall.

“The tiara is here somewhere,” she told Bran urgently. “In the dowager’s bedroom, if I had to guess. Find it and meet me on the back terrace at exactly eleven o’clock.”

“What about ye?” he frowned.

“Don’t worry about me, I can handle myself. Now go!” She gave him a not-so-gentle push. “I’ll keep The Wolf busy.”

Quick as a cat, Bran slipped out from behind the fern and followed two women out into the hall. She heard him ask one of them if they’d liked to have their shoes polished as the double doors swung closed. Biting back a smile, she took another deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped out to meet her fate.