The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(53)

“Miss Song,” he called as he approached, folding his arm in front of his waistcoat and making a neat bow. The color was high in his cheeks. “May I have this dance?”

I hesitated, but it was the height of rudeness in the era to refuse when asked. How could I do so without further arousing his suspicion?

So we danced, his right hand warm and gentle at the small of my back, just above the pink bow. At first, I was stiff in his arms, but he was smiling at me and his eyes were the blue of the open water, so for a moment I let myself imagine we were simply two young people whose entire purpose tonight was to dance on the grass under a hundred paper stars.

Then the moment passed and the song ended, so I prepared my excuses. But rather than removing his hand to clap for the musicians, Blake pulled me closer, his cheek next to mine, his lips brushing my ear, and whispered, “Don’t do it.”

Suddenly the polite applause of the crowd seemed to roar like crashing waves. My first instinct was to run, to forget the map, to simply escape, but I couldn’t even catch my breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, sounding much calmer than I felt.

“You don’t? Let me explain.” The next number began. He held me firmly as the dance started—a two-step. “The men you met with. All members of the Hawaiian League, which supports annexation by America. Interestingly, not a single Hawaiian among them. Now,” he said as we spun across the grass, Blake advancing as fast as I could retreat. “I’m not one to claim that haoles can never have the interests of the natives at heart, but I will insist it’s the truth about these haoles in particular. So whatever the business is between your father and those men, don’t let him do it.”

“Sugar,” I said quickly. “Your father needs someone to carry his cargo to California.”

Blake lowered his chin and sighed, almost regretfully. “My father is not a plantation owner.”

I was hot and dizzy, my feet like anchors, and the music of the band like the shrieking of the wind in a gale. The more I spoke, the worse it got. “Excuse me,” I said, pushing away from him. “I need to powder my nose.”

“I’ll escort you,” he said, still at my side.

“Don’t bother.” I quickened my steps.

“No bother at all,” he replied, still behind me.

I glared over my shoulder, but before I could object further, I ran directly into a man’s broad back. He turned and looked down at me with those weak-tea eyes. I swallowed. “Excuse me, Mr. Hart.”

“Pardon me, I’m sure,” he muttered. Behind him, my father raised his eyebrows.

I practically fled across the patio, but Blake dogged me all the way to the great hall. “Miss Song—” He caught my arm and I rounded on him.

“How dare you accost me?” I mustered all the outrage I could. “Remove your hand!”

He did so, lifting it, palm open, his eyes wide. “Now that was very nearly convincing. Very nearly.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s your crewmate, isn’t it? What is he? An assassin?”

“A what?”

“Certainly he is no tutor! Please,” he said, taking my hand, his eyes softening. “I don’t want to have to bring him to the attention of the authorities, but if you go forward with whatever you are planning—”

“And what will you report?” I ripped my hand away. “That we came to a rather dull party?”

“I’m certain I could come up with something better than that. It doesn’t have to be true. It only has to be worth investigating.”

I glared at him. Was he bluffing? But as frustrating as Blake’s questions were, I was more furious at myself. A fine job I’d done of distracting, leading him right into the hall! “I’ll tell you everything,” I said, desperate to get rid of him. “But not here. They might see us. Meet me in the garden in ten minutes.”

He stared at me, and I tried as hard as I could to look truthful. “I have another idea,” he said. “In here.” Then he put his hand on the door to the study.

“Mr. Hart,” I began, but I was spared coming up with another excuse when we heard a little gasp, followed by shushing. We both turned; the door to the next room was cracked open. I caught, in the shadows, the glint of blue silk on a bodice and the curve of a man’s black coat sleeve. Mrs. Hart was in the drawing room, and she wasn’t alone.

And Mr. Hart was still speaking to the captain on the lawn.

Blake was red to the roots of his hair. I stared him down, and he looked away. Then I tossed my hair and left; he did not follow me this time.

I rounded the corner and stopped, pressing myself against the wall. As I did so, I heard a light, trilling laugh in the hall. “Oh! Blake, dear, what are you doing so far from the party?”

“I might ask you the same question,” he said.

Mrs. Hart’s reply was immediate. “If you must know, I was enjoying a moment of solitude. You know how exhausting guests can be. But now I’m ready to dance some more. Come, dear, escort your mother back to the lawn.” The sound of their footsteps receded.

I peeked out around the corner. The hall was clear.

My God. Now I understood the sly eyes, Mr. Hart’s embarrassment, Milly’s little joke. “Capable host” indeed. Scratch the surface, and you’d find Victorians were nearly as obsessed with sex as they were with death.