Chapter Twenty-Five
As ton affairs went, this ball was definitely better than Emma’s first experience.
Emma had no doubt that Alaric had pulled strings to make her feel comfortable at this lavish affair. The hosts, Lord and Lady Blackwood, personally greeted her and Marianne as if they were longtime friends.
Lady Blackwood, whose raven-haired beauty suited her name, kissed the air near Emma’s cheeks. “What a divine necklace,” she said warmly. “From Rundell and Bridge’s, is it not?”
“Er, yes. I believe so,” Emma mumbled.
“It was a gift,” Marianne said smoothly.
“Ah.” Lady Blackwood’s gaze turned speculative.
“Now don’t go giving my wife any ideas,” Lord Blackwood said wryly. With short hair of polished bronze, he possessed a soldier’s bearing and kind eyes. “Lady Blackwood is prone to extravagance as it is.”
“For that comment, I shall expect a bracelet to match the emerald earrings I purchased,” his wife said saucily.
“I am ruined.” Blackwood regarded his lady with clear affection.
“As if a bracelet could ruin you, my dear.” Lady Blackwood turned to Emma. “Well, let’s not keep you in the corner, Miss Kent. Shall I introduce you to some of the other guests?”
“Yes, please,” Emma said, more than ready to embark on her mission.
For the next hour, under Lady Blackwood’s wing, Emma circulated amongst the glittering throng. She made an effort to converse; after all, her goal was to determine if any of these guests could be guilty of murder, and to do that, she needed to establish rapport. To her surprise, some of the lords and ladies were not as haughty as she had previously assumed.
Some ladies even discussed such mundane topics as household remedies and unruly children, and Emma found herself quite naturally contributing to the conversation. At the request of a dowager, she provided her recipe for joint salve; at that of a countess with a fussy, two-month-old babe, she shared the tonic she’d used to calm Polly’s colic.
It was quite strange to find herself fitting in.
Two hours of conversation and dancing passed pleasantly enough, yet Emma discovered nothing even remotely suspicious. She headed for the refreshment table, the oasis of gossip at any social gathering. Accepting a cup of champagne punch from a footman, she discreetly posted herself behind a potted palm and eavesdropped on the surrounding voices. Alaric’s name soon cropped up, and she peered through the fronds at the backs of the chattering trio.
“ … it appears as if Strathaven truly is Croesus,” said a grey-haired gentleman. “The price of stock in that joint venture of his has increased threefold in the last week. Everything he touches turns to gold.”
“Should have bought shares myself,” said a short balding fellow.
“I wouldn’t act too hastily.” The drawl came from a tall blond man whose black jacket was meticulously fitted to his figure. “You never know what will happen with speculation. As I understand it, Strathaven doesn’t have his investors’ confidence. If the vote to expand the venture doesn’t go through in a fortnight, the shares will plummet once more.”
Obviously, the man doesn’t know Alaric, Emma thought. Strathaven would never leave something like a vote up to chance.
“Speculation is a young man’s game,” Grey Hair said. “I’ve always said that the only wealth a gentleman can depend upon comes from land.”
As the men’s talk drifted to other topics, Emma found her attention hooked by another conversation, this time between a gaggle of ladies standing by the champagne fountain to her left. Emma had a clear view of their bobbing plumes as they spoke in titillated tones.
“They say Strathaven means to resume his duchess hunt,” said a plump brunette.
“Given his scandal of late, I wonder at his temerity,” said her friend in rose silk.
“He’s never lacked for temerity and well you know it.” The arch tones came from a third lady with a smirking expression. “I have no doubt he’ll get what he wants—he always does, after all. Anyway, his search for a wife is old news. What intrigues me is when he will be on the market for Clara Osgood’s replacement.”
“Lady Julia, how perfectly wicked of you!” the first lady whispered in delight.
“You were thinking the same thing, Lady Lauren. I just said it aloud.”
“Well, I confess I am intrigued by rumors of his prowess. You have heard what they say about his personal, ahem, endowments?” Lady Lauren giggled. “Apparently they match his financial ones.”
“And that’s to say nothing of his stamina and control,” Lady Julia purred. “I’ve heard our duke is as deliciously dominant in the bedchamber as he is in out of it. Why, it’s said that a certain Lady M. enjoyed a rollicking afternoon on his desk …”
As the ladies tittered, Emma turned away, her cheeks burning. She knew, of course, about Alaric’s past and his proclivities, yet hearing other women talk about him in such an openly lascivious and covetous manner caused hurt and, yes, jealousy to burgeon.
Images flooded her: Alaric tying Lady Clara up in the garden ... him making love to nameless, faceless beauties on the same desk where he’d made love to her ...
Up until this moment, the passion she shared with Alaric, while undoubtedly wicked, had also seemed ... special. Precious. That others had known the raw intensity of his lovemaking made her chest ache. Her throat cinched, his gift suddenly heavy and constricting.
“Hello, miss,” said a hesitant voice. “I was wondering if you would mind some company?”
She turned and found herself looking into the blue eyes of a plump, ginger-haired pixie.
“I beg your pardon?” Emma said blankly.
The girl, who looked barely eighteen, turned as red as her hair. “You were standing there alone, and I’m alone ... well, not exactly, I do have my chaperone, but she’s busy with the other duennas, and I ... dash it all, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” she finished miserably. “It’s a terrible habit of mine, and Papa says it makes me awkward. As if I could be more awkward ...” Her self-conscious shrug caused the ribbons to flutter on the many tiers of her gown. “Never mind. I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’ll just be—”
Emma took an instant liking to the girl. “No, don’t go. I was just woolgathering, and I’d love some company. I’m Emma Kent.”
“I’m Gabriella Billings, but everyone calls me Gabby.” The way the girl’s smile lit her face reminded Emma of Polly. “It is lovely to meet you. It’s so tiresome to be a wallflower that even other wallflowers won’t pay any attention to. Truly, I’m more of a wallweed.”
Emma stifled a smile. “Surely it isn’t bad as all that? You’re perfectly charming.”
“Only because you’re a decent sort. I can always judge a person’s character, you know, just by looking at them,” Gabby said cheerfully. “Being a businessman’s daughter, I’ve inherited the ability to size someone up at a glance.”
“Really?” Emma said, amused. The girl’s irrepressible spirit now reminded her of Violet.
“Take you, for instance. You have a kindly disposition, yet there you were hiding behind that palm, so I surmised that you didn’t fit in here either. I thought you might be a middling class sort like me. No offense,” Gabby added quickly.
“None taken. It’s true.”
“Your gown is delectable. And your necklace has the ladies green with envy. So even if you are a Cit like me, you have oodles more style,” Gabby said in consoling tones.
Emma had to smile. “I wouldn’t mind being a Cit. But actually I’m from the country.”
“Really?” Gabby said with interest. “I’ve never been outside London. Papa owns a bank, you see, and he’s too busy to take me anywhere.”
“What about your mama?”
“She died in childbirth. The only things I have of her are a dowry and this.” Gabby tugged on a bright curl. “Unfortunately, carrots aren’t in fashion this Season. Or ever.”
“I think your hair is lovely and unique,” Emma said.
“Truly? You aren’t just saying that?”
“Not at all. As for fitting in, my papa said that the rarest of jewels shines the brightest.”
“My father says the nail that sticks out gets the hammer.”
“Ouch,” Emma said.
“Exactly.” Gabby sighed. “Unfortunately, it seems I can’t help but stick out no matter what I do. And tonight, especially. Not that I’m surprised—I’m more or less an act of charity.”
“How so?” Emma said curiously.
“Papa has a client—a gentleman of consequence—who owed him a favor.” Gabby wrinkled her nose. “Clearly it was a big favor as the fellow had to secure a spot for me on the exclusive guest list. An invitation, however, is no guarantee of success. Papa will be quite disappointed when he discovers that I was not asked for a single dance.”
“Dancing isn’t all that it’s made out to be. My toes are still sore from being trod on.”
“You’re very kind. It would be nice, however, to have made some friends,” Gabby said wistfully. “You’re the first person who has spoken with me all evening.”
“Would you like to call upon me some afternoon?” Emma said on impulse. “I have sisters your age, and I have a feeling you will rub along famously with them.”
“Oh, I’d love to, ever so much.” Gabby’s blue eyes shone.
Emma fished a calling card from her reticule. “Here is my direction.”
“Dash it, I know I have mine in here somewhere …” Rummaging in her lumpy evening bag, Gabby triumphantly produced one bent-eared card.
As Emma was tucking the card away, a liveried footman came up to her.
“Pardon. Miss Kent?”
“That’s me,” Emma said in surprise.
“I was instructed to give you this, miss.”
She took the note from the footman’s salver and, unfolding it, read the succinct message.
Meet me in the gallery on the third floor.
There was no signature, but the slashing imperiousness of the handwriting gave away the identity of its sender and made her pulse race. Then she remembered what she had overheard earlier and, with a huff, wondered if she should go running to obey his grace’s command.
Apparently, he was all too used to having females at his beck and call.
“Is everything alright?” Gabby said.
“Yes. But I have to attend to something,” Emma said, sighing. “I shall see you soon, I hope?”
Gabby gave a merry nod. “You can count on it.”