A Taste for Scandal (36 page)

Until now.

As everyone watched Charity’s performance, Richard’s eyes were riveted on the baker where she hovered by the doorway from almost the very moment he returned. Poor Jane’s cheeks were bright red, her eyes steadfastly forward. She must know of his regard. Why didn’t she do something? Look back at him and smile, or speak with him? Beatrice knew full well how the woman felt about Richard.

Jane had never said as much, but a woman like her did not go inviting men she did not love into her house at night. Originally, Jane had made Beatrice promise that she wouldn’t go to Richard to have him intervene, but now he knew of her presence here. Why didn’t he do something?

Beatrice had observed the way her brother interacted with Charity for a month now. Mama and Papa clearly expected a match, and even Richard seemed to show every inclination of choosing her for a bride, but Beatrice was convinced that though Richard certainly liked the girl, there was no love, or even passion, between them. They were just . . .
nice
together.

A worse fate, Beatrice could hardly imagine.

Leaning back in her chair, Beatrice pursed her lips. She knew without doubt that Jane loved Richard. Now, for the first time, she suspected Richard might feel the same way. Beatrice’s gaze drifted to Evie, who rocked back and forth in time with the music. Perhaps it was time they had a chat about their brother and the baker. A little subterfuge may be in order and, lucky for them, that was Beatrice’s forte.

Chapter Thirty-two

Saturday morning, Jane awoke at the same time she always did, when the moon was still high in the night sky. She lit a candle and went about her toilette, then coiled her hair at the nape of her neck, pinning it securely in place—the same way she did every morning. But even as she went about her daily routine, she knew that today was a day like no other.

Today was the day of the ball.

That meant all the frantic preparations of the past week would come to a head, and by eight o’clock that night, everything had to be perfect. Every biscuit a work of art, every custard a creation, and the cake must be a thing of beauty both inside and out.

But the work ahead of her had absolutely nothing to do with the dread lying heavy in her chest, weighing her down from the inside out. The thing that pained her the most today was the same thing that had plagued her for days—weeks even.

By the end of the ball, Richard would be lost to her forever.

She pressed her eyes closed, wrapping her arms around her stomach. It was ridiculous; after all, how could one lose something one never had in the first place? But her heart was unmoved by logic. No matter what she told herself, she knew that at the end of the day, things would never be the same.

As she stared up at the ceiling trying to keep the stupid tears from forming, she realized that more than anything, she needed comfort. She wanted her mother’s calm words of advice, even if they didn’t pertain to Jane’s problems in the least. Having something familiar—anything—would help her to get through the day. Her mind made up, she dug into the bottom of the cedar chest and pulled out the second to last letter. Just seeing Mama’s handwriting on the outside soothed Jane like no nothing else could. Without hesitation, she slid her finger beneath the seal and popped it open.

Settling back on the bed beside the candle, she began to read.

My Dear Jane,

If you are opening this letter, then there is but one more to go, and that one is for before your wedding night. Therefore, I assume you are at the point of deciding if this is the gentleman whom you shall marry. Such an exciting and terrifying prospect! In all of my letters, I have given you every piece of motherly advice I could think of—many of which my mother gave to me.

However, my dear, as strange as it may be for you to think, I am not just a mother. I am also a woman, and I have been fortunate enough to have been married to a man I loved, and who loved me in return. While being courted, I discovered that love is more than just simply following the rules—it is knowing when to break them.

If, after all I have advised, you have been tempted—and sometimes swayed—to disregard my advice, you may have found the man with whom you can share true passion with. If that is the case, all I can say is follow your heart, my dear. You deserve the absolute best in life. True love is a rare and precious thing—don’t let anything stand in its way.

Love,

Mama

Jane lowered the letter to the coverlet, blinking back the tears that blurred her vision. Mama understood. She knew what it was to be in love, and she would have forgiven Jane her actions. That thought alone brought a smile through the tears, shining a light on the deepest worries in her heart—that her parents would be disappointed in her.

It was as though someone had lifted a weight from her shoulders, one that she hadn’t even realized was there. Mama was on her side. She wanted Jane to find happiness, and love, and passion—all the things Jane had struggled with for weeks now.

And more than that, Mama thought that she was worthy of it.

There was only one thing that kept Jane from jumping to her feet and spinning about the room in joy. Mama might understand, but that didn’t change things with Richard’s family. Mama could never have known that for Jane to have the man she loved, he would have to cast aside his own parents’ wishes for his future. He wanted so badly to do the right thing, and she didn’t want to stand between them.

She lay back on the bed, chewing her lip as she decided what she should do. She wouldn’t seek him out. If he came to her today—and she desperately hoped he would—then she would seize the moment. Somehow she had to let him know how she felt. His choices were his own, but she didn’t want to live with any more regrets in her life.

As the carriage rumbled along the dark streets of London toward Dennington House, Richard stared out the window, not really seeing anything. It felt much more like he was going to a funeral than to a ball. Apt, he supposed. Was this not the funeral of his bachelorhood?

But even that wasn’t it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to make a mistake. That wasn’t right. He had already made the mistake—he had asked for Charity’s hand that very morning, and she had very prettily accepted. No passion, no happy outbursts, just a chaste kiss to her cheek and a patting of hands. The details would be settled after the ball, but for all intents and purposes, the deed was done. The announcement tonight would merely make it public.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite so unenthusiastic about a ball in my life.” Beatrice shook her head, as if it were the gravest of sins to be melancholy. With Mother and Father in the carriage behind them in case Father needed to leave early, he and his sister were alone for the first time in weeks.

“Don’t mind me. I may have had a bit of a late night with a bottle of whiskey.”

“Not exactly the most thrilling way to spend the night before one announces a betrothal, but to each his own.”

Richard’s gaze jerked up. “How on earth do you know
that
?” Christ, the girl really was an incredibly talented spy, not that he could say he was happy about the fact.

“I am in possession of two very important attributes. Number one, I actually pay attention to those around me, and two, I have
very
good hearing.” She looked very pleased with herself, the little detective.

“I think the crown could use someone like you.”

She grinned impishly and leaned forward, her billowing skirts rustling. “Stop teasing and tell me who is to be the lucky betrothee.”

His jaw clenched. She had to know already. Everyone in the family already suspected, didn’t they? Mother, Father, even Evie seemed to wax poetic about the girl at every turn. He shook his head. “That is not a word.”

“That’s never stopped you before. Now, answer the question.”

“Isn’t it obvious, Miss Spy?” Exasperation tinged his tones, and he sat back against the squabs and sighed.

Beatrice watched him, her eyes as dark as the sky at midnight. He felt oddly exposed, as if she could see right through him. At last she shook her head. “No, actually. I don’t think it is.”

He swallowed, oddly affected by her soft words. The strangest sensation slipped through his belly, something that echoed the long dormant stirrings of . . . hope.

“Well, then, I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Oh my goodness, Jane, I’m so sorry!”

Jane gasped, jumping back as cold red liquid ran down her bodice in rivulets. Jam and splash, her gown was surely ruined now. Things just seemed to get worse and worse today. “It’s quite all right, my lady. It was entirely my fault for, um, walking.”

It wasn’t her fault, actually. She had come upstairs at Evie’s summons, though whatever last-minute change she wished to discuss with her, Jane couldn’t begin to guess. She had finished her work more than an hour ago, and had spent the time trying her best to get a glimpse of Richard—to intercept him before everything changed. If only their eyes could meet, she felt certain that he would come to her. But things were in full swing now, as punctuated by the muted sounds of the orchestra filtered through the papered walls of Evie’s bedchamber and the low buzz of the attendants below them. Her hopes of finding Richard among the crush without being seen were fading by the second.

And now, somewhere between Jane entering the room and Evie and Beatrice turning to greet her, the entire contents of Evie’s goblet ended up all over Jane’s best gown.

“No, no, you must blame me.” Evie snatched a towel from beside her water basin and handed it to Jane. “I’m afraid I’m all thumbs tonight. I’ve never hosted a ball before, and I’m hoping
never
to do so again. I’m actually a bit relieved that Beatrice tore her flounce—I have an excuse to disappear for a moment.”

Jane returned her smile as she patted at the stain. “What is it that you wished to see me about?” The sooner she could get back downstairs to change the better. The sticky red wine had seeped beneath her stays—not the most comfortable thing in the world.

Beatrice clicked her tongue beside her. “Don’t worry about that—we need to get you out of those wet clothes.”

“No, no,” she said quickly, backing up a step as the girl moved to walk behind her. “I’ll be fine until I get downstairs—”

“Heavens no,” Evie exclaimed. “We can’t let you out of this room looking like that. What if someone sees you? They’re likely to think you were stabbed in the chest with all that wine staining your dress.”

“Really, I’ll be very quick—”

“Don’t be silly. I have an entire wardrobe of gowns up here—I’m sure we can find you something dry to send you downstairs in. I absolutely insist.” As Evie talked, Beatrice slipped behind her and began attacking the short row of buttons at the back of her gown.

Jane tried to protest—she couldn’t possibly wear one of her employer’s gowns—but the sisters paid not a whit of attention, and soon had her out of her own clothes and were busily putting her in a fresh set that seemed to appear as if by magic. They tugged and pulled and prodded at various unmentionables until a slip whispered over her head, the satin floating down her body like rainwater. She caught a glimpse of a gown as they prepared to put it on her. The fabric was a glorious, almost shimmering, gauzy cream adorned with deep, rich purple embroidery. She gasped and pulled away; nothing so fine had ever touched her skin. “Oh, my lady, I—”

“I’m Evie when we are in private. Now, hold still—we’re almost done.”

Jane didn’t even dare breath as they buttoned her up. What if she ripped it? At last they stepped away,

“There,” Beatrice breathed, her eyes bright as she looked Jane up and down.

Evie’s gaze was more critical, and she shook her head. “No, not done yet.” Before Jane knew what she was about, she reached out and began plucking pins from Jane’s hair.

“Wait, no, don’t—” But it was too late. Already her hair drooped around her shoulders. This had to be the most bizarre experience of her entire life. She looked helplessly to Beatrice, who grinned.

“She’s right—we had hopelessly mussed your hair.”

“Bea, ring for Morgan, will you? She can fix this in a thrice.”

Jane only just managed not to groan. What would the maid think of her? “I really should be getting downstairs. I can at least do my own hair. I do it everyday, after all.”

“Not with a gown such as this on,” Beatrice said, lifting an eyebrow. “They are most certainly not made for optimum mobility.”

Blast, she was probably right. Jane sighed and looked down, though instead of being exasperated, she couldn’t help but marvel at the gown. The lovely little cap sleeves were so dainty, they were like two little puffs of meringue on her shoulders. What would Mama think if she could have seen her in such a beautiful creation? Almost reverently, she ran her fingers over the gorgeous embroidery beneath the bodice.

“I’m so glad this gown will finally see some use.” Evie’s voice was matter-of-fact as she removed the final pins. “It’s much too pretty to languish in the back of the wardrobe as it has.”

Beatrice nodded. “It’s simply all wrong for our coloring, but it looks to be perfect for you.” She slipped her hand in Jane’s and gave a little squeeze. “I must get back to the ball, I’m afraid. My dance card is quite full this evening.”

She left just as Morgan came in. The maid’s eyes rounded, but she merely nodded when Evie instructed her to do something simple with Jane’s hair. Several tortuous minutes later, the maid stepped back with a critical eye and nodded. “You look beautiful. Go have a look.” She waved to a tall mirror with a gilded frame hanging from the wall.

The temptation to see how the gown looked on her was too great to deny. Morgan and Evie exchanged glances, both grinning broadly. Jane couldn’t begin to imagine what prompted them to want to dress her up like a porcelain doll. Had the spilled wine even been an accident? Looking down at the shining gown, Jane was beginning to doubt it. It didn’t make sense. Could they know how difficult the day had been for her, waiting for the announcement that was sure to come that night, and wished to lift her spirits? Yet Jane was just an employee—why would they care?