Elizabeth Powell (4 page)

Rear Admiral William Locke stood at the head of the stairs, greeting his guests with gracious ease. His younger sister, Lady Desmond, stood next to him as his hostess, but Amanda scarcely noticed her; she fixed her entire attention on the man who had destroyed her family. He was nothing like what she had imagined. She gauged him to be near her father’s age, and still well-favored despite years spent at the mercy of wind and sea. He was perhaps a head shorter than Harry, and stockier. Wavy, gray-streaked brown hair crowned his tanned face, a stark contrast to his pale blue eyes. The high planes of his cheekbones and the aquiline arch of his nose hinted at aristocratic lineage. In his heavily braided dress uniform, he radiated dignity and confidence. He didn’t look like a monster at all.

As Amanda stared at him, she felt her anger rekindle and burn her fear away. She swallowed, hard-pressed to keep that fire under control; she mustn’t give Locke any reason to suspect that she was anything other than a featherheaded female. She opened her sandalwood fan to cool her heated skin.

She barely heard Harry’s voice as he introduced her. “Admiral Locke, may I present Mrs. … ah … Seagrave.”

Admiral Locke did not seem to notice the lieutenant’s hesitation; he smiled and bowed over Amanda’s gloved hand.

“Welcome to my home, Mrs. Seagrave. I do hope you enjoy yourself this evening.” His pale eyes flicked to her abundant
décolletage
, then back to her face.

“Admiral, this is such an honor. My late husband spoke so highly of you.” Her greeting came out in a high, breathy rush. She batted her eyelashes and tried to appear pleased by his attentions, even as her stomach roiled and she resisted the urge to yank herself away from his touch.

“You flatter me, madam,” Locke stated, his smile widening. “May I present my sister, the Viscountess Desmond? Letitia, this is Mrs. Seagrave and her escort, Lieutenant Henry Morgan.”

Amanda curtsied to Lady Desmond, a sharp-faced, sharp-eyed matron dressed in a fashionable slip of gold net over a green crepe gown. She towered over Amanda like a ship’s figurehead, distant and wooden, and eyed the younger woman up and down with patent disapproval.

“
Enchantée
,” she intoned. Then she turned a dismissive shoulder to Amanda and graced Harry with a flirtatious smile. She tapped his arm playfully with her fan. “You must save at least one dance for me, Lieutenant. So rarely do I find a man whose stature complements my own. And I warn you—I don’t take no for an answer.”

Harry blushed and stammered a polite response. Amanda hoped he knew how to swim with barracudas.

Having exchanged the requisite pleasantries, Amanda and Harry moved past the receiving line and into the first of a series of chambers that formed the ballroom. Amanda exhaled in a slow, relieved sigh.

“What on earth possessed you to choose that name?” Harry growled at her. “Didn’t sound strange until I introduced you. ‘Mrs. Seagrave,’ indeed. Rather transparent, don’t you think?”

“You didn’t think so earlier.” She glared back. “I told you I’d been using the name since I came to London.”

“Well, the name’s only part of it,” he declared. “You don’t look like widow, not by half.”

“Don’t be such a half-wit,” she snapped, but the reproach was hollow. Harry was right. At three and twenty, Amanda considered herself a spinster—old enough to play the part of a married woman. The dress she wore,
however, might be considered too
outré
, even for a widow. She did not wish to think of that at the moment. “Besides, Locke didn’t recognize me. I don’t think you should be worried about me so much as you should worry about Lady Desmond.”

“Why?” he inquired, suspicious. “I thought her very charming.”

“Oh, never mind.” Amanda lifted her eyes to Heaven and prayed for patience. For all his intelligence and naval acumen, Harry could be so obtuse when it came to the fairer sex. He would no doubt find himself well in over his head before the evening was over.

Amanda was astounded by the seething, suffocating mass of over- and under-scented humanity congregated in these rooms. The throng on the stairs had been nothing compared to this. The din was incredible, like the pounding of the surf against the shore in one long, unending wave. Dozens upon dozens of white beeswax tapers illumined the area; their light reflected off the inlaid wooden floor, and the sparkling jewelry on ladies’ throats, wrists, and hair. The heat from the candles, added to that of bodies pressed in a confined space, turned the ballroom into a glittering furnace. Amanda felt a bead of sweat gather between her breasts, and she fanned herself briskly. This was society’s idea of a party? Dressed, stuffed, and roasted—she felt more like a Christmas goose than a party guest.

Harry leaned down until his mouth was next to her ear. “Well, where do we begin?”

Amanda started, speechless. We? She hadn’t counted on Harry’s willingness to do anything beyond getting her to the ball. She stared up at him, measuring his anxious countenance. Harry was a loyal friend, but he would take exception to what she was actually here to do.

“Well,” she began, “we can’t really do anything until we see someone who can introduce me to Lord Hardwicke. I did promise you I’d be discreet, after all.” She smiled at him, and was relieved to see some of the apprehension leave his face.

He squeezed her hand. “That’s my girl. Shall we take a turn about the room and see who’s here?”

Amanda nodded, her mind a mad whirl. She hadn’t thought at all about what to do with Harry; she had hoped he would find an acquaintance or two and distract himself with conversation. So much for that. Her plan, though far from perfect, turned out to have some ship-sized holes in it. Then she seized upon an idea.

“We can cover more of the room if we split up,” she said eagerly. “You go one way, and I’ll go the other, and we’ll meet back here.”

The young lieutenant surveyed the sea of people and frowned. “I can’t let you wander off unescorted. What if something happened to you?”

Amanda feigned nonchalance. She gestured to the room with her fan. “What could possibly happen to me with all these people around? Besides, this is not a social occasion; I do not wish to stay a moment longer than is necessary. I can take care of myself, Harry. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

Harry scanned her up and down, as if seeing her for the first time. He blushed. “I can see that,” he replied brusquely. “I wish you’d worn something else.”

“It was the only gown I could borrow on such short notice.” The vibrant green silk was one of Madame Molyneaux’s most fashionable creations, but that didn’t make Amanda any more comfortable with the low neckline and the drapey skirts. She felt positively undressed.

“Are you certain about this?” Harry sounded like he wanted her to change her mind.

“I’ll be fine, Harry,” she assured him.

He nodded, reluctant. “All right. I’ll meet you back here.”

They parted in opposite directions; Amanda guessed that she had between five and ten minutes to discover the location of Locke’s study. If she found it now, she would waste less time later and lower the chances of getting caught. Since she couldn’t descend the main staircase, she needed to find another way to get back to the first floor. This place was immense, as town houses went. She would wager there was a servants’ staircase toward the rear of the house.

Amanda battled through the assembled throng like a salmon swimming upstream. Guests seemed to occupy every inch of floorspace, and more than once Amanda bit back a cry of pain when someone trod on her toes or poked her with a bony elbow. She escaped through the last set of doors, and paused in the corridor to take a restorative breath. Heavens, what a crush. She brushed a damp tendril of hair from her cheek and proceeded down the hallway. A few guests spared her a curious glance as she passed, but she smiled and continued to walk with a sense of purpose, as if looking for someone. There was indeed a rear staircase, just as she had hoped.

Amanda spared a surreptitious glance over her shoulder. No one else had ventured this far back into the house. Her heart beat at a furious pace as she lifted the hem of her dress and crept down the narrow stairs.

The poor footman who was on his way up was as startled as she when they nearly collided on the landing.

“Excuse me!” the servant exclaimed. He leaned against the wall to steady himself; the champagne flutes on his tray clattered, but remained upright. He sighed with relief.

“Forgive me,” Amanda replied, breathless. Her jangled nerves screamed at her. “I should have watched where I was going.”

The footman appraised her with careful eyes. “Are you lost, madam?”

Amanda’s heart plunged into the bottom of her stomach. What should she say? She giggled nervously and clutched her dress. “Oh—well, yes. I was looking for a way back to the cloakroom, and the main stairs were so congested—someone stepped on my hem, you see, and I simply must repair it before the dancing begins. Tonight is so important, and I must look my best!” She cringed to hear herself prattle so. Mrs. Siddons she was not, but she was desperate.

The servant gave her a knowing smile. “Of course, madam. Allow me to show you the way.” He turned and
descended to the bottom of the stairs, then waited for her to follow.

“Oh, thank you!” Amanda gushed. Her knees wobbled as she trailed the footman down the corridor. If she had waited a few moments more before going down the stairs, she could have explored the lower floor unhindered; she guessed that most of the servants were either in the kitchen or upstairs in the ballroom. It was her rotten luck to run into one at this very moment.

As the liveried footman led her down the main corridor, Amanda tried to guess which room was Locke’s study. Two chamber doors had been left open; these led to the breakfast room and a formal reception room. No, she surmised, the study door would be closed. At least that narrowed down her choices, but trepidation nibbled at the edge of her resolve. What if the door was locked? What if someone caught her as she tried to open it?

The servant stopped at the cloakroom and bowed. “Here you are, madam. I trust your maid will be able to assist you.”

Again Amanda assumed the air of a giddy miss, although the giddiness was genuine. “Oh, yes, thank you.” She slipped into the cloakroom, made a show of smoothing her dress for the benefit of the other guests, took several deep, calming breaths, and reemerged. The footman was gone. A shudder coursed through her. That had been a narrow escape. Now she needed to get back up to the ballroom before Harry began to wonder where she was. Botheration—if only she had more time! Well, she would make another attempt later.

The main body of guests had gone through the receiving line, allowing Amanda to ascend the grand staircase unimpeded. Strains of music reached her ears. The dancing had started, which meant it might be easier for her to navigate through the crowd back to where Harry had left her, and be in place before he returned.

No such luck.

She wended her way through the people clustered at the edge of the dance floor. Harry stood where she was supposed to be, his face contorted in a scowl, his complexion
flushed. Oh, dear—she had taken too long, and now Harry was going to fly into the boughs.

“Where the devil have you been?” Harry demanded as she approached.

She gave him a tremulous smile. “I’m terribly sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to worry you. But I saw someone—a friend of my father’s. I thought he might recognize me, so I had to avoid him. I got caught up in the crowd.” She hoped that God—and Harry—would forgive her all these lies.

Harry’s glower lessened only slightly. “Well, did you see anyone?”

Amanda shook her head. “No, not right away. But there must be someone here.” She surveyed the dance floor and felt a sudden longing. She hadn’t danced in such a long time; surely one set wouldn’t hurt. “Dance with me, Harry.”

“Dance with you?” Harry’s eyes widened. “What on earth for?”

She sighed. Harry had never been one for more refined pursuits. “Because we might see someone we know, and because I haven’t danced in ages. Please, Harry, indulge me.”

“Amanda, I’m not sure I—”

“Oh, come now, it’s just a country dance. You do remember the figures, don’t you?” she teased. She took his hand and led him toward the nearest set of couples. Harry was stiff as a wooden plank, but he managed to get through the figures well enough.

The dance ended far too soon for Amanda—she had enjoyed herself almost to the point of forgetting why she was here in the first place. The opposing lines bowed to each other at the final chord and began to disperse.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Amanda asked with a little laugh.

Harry didn’t answer; his attention was focused across the room. “Ah … I think I see someone,” he announced. “It’s Captain Bennett. He said he might attend this evening. He would introduce you to Lord Hardwicke. Do you want me to get his attention?”

The butterflies in Amanda’s stomach redoubled their fluttering. She needed a way to put Harry off the scent, and quickly. “Oh—well, I—oh, botheration!” she exclaimed, staring down at her hem.

“What is it? Did someone step on your dress?” Harry, bless him, did not disappoint her.

“I’m afraid so.” She managed to disguise her panic. “I should go down to the cloakroom at once to repair it. If I don’t return this dress in pristine condition, it will mean my head!”

Exasperation crossed Harry’s face. “Oh, all right. But I should go speak with him. Dashed bad form not to thank him for getting us these invitations. I’ll meet you over there.”

More rotten luck; Harry was too determined for his own good. “Of—of course,” she stammered. “I shan’t be long.”

At least this meant that Harry would be occupied for a time. Eager to make her escape, Amanda turned away, but with such haste that she collided with another body. She stared at the broad chest before her. Her gaze rose along the line of waistcoat buttons, up the elegant white waterfall of the cravat, and finally reached the man’s dark, sardonic face. Heavens! Amanda retreated.

“Oh! I didn’t see you.” She fumbled for the words. “My apologies. Do excuse me.” She started to move around him, but the stranger reached out and snagged her hand.