Devil in Spring (The Ravenels #3)(5)

A moment of expectant silence ensued.

Pandora glanced at the ballroom windows, their panes glittering with coruscating reflected lights. It was dark outside.

Unease slithered down her spine. She didn’t like going anywhere at night, especially alone. But Dolly seemed desperate, and in light of her past kindness, there was no way Pandora could refuse.

“Do you want me to fetch it for you?” she offered reluctantly.

“Would you? You could dash to the summer house, retrieve the earring, and return in a flash. It’s easy to find. Just follow the graveled path across the lawn. Please, please, dear Pandora, I’ll owe you my life.”

“There’s no need to beg,” Pandora said, perturbed and amused. “I’ll do my best to find it. But Dolly, now that you’re married, I don’t think you should rendezvous with Mr. Hayhurst. He can’t be worth the risk.”

Dolly gave her a regretful glance. “I’m fond of Lord Colwick, but I’ll never love him the way I do Mr. Hayhurst.”

“Why didn’t you marry him, then?”

“Mr. Hayhurst is a third son and will never have a title.”

“But if you love him—”

“Don’t be silly, Pandora. Love is for middle-class girls.” Dolly’s gaze chased anxiously around the room. “No one’s looking,” she said. “You could slip out now if you’re quick about it.”

Oh, she was going to be as quick as a March hare. She wouldn’t spend any more time outside at night than absolutely necessary. If only she could recruit Cassandra, always her willing conspirator, to accompany her. But it was better for Cassandra to continue dancing; it would keep Lady Berwick’s attention occupied.

Casually she made her way along the side of the ballroom, past spills of conversation about the opera, the Park, and the latest “new thing.” As she slipped behind Lady Berwick’s back, she half expected her chaperone to turn and dive at her like an osprey sighting a mullet. Fortunately Lady Berwick continued to watch the dancing couples, who circumnavigated the room in a swift current of colorful skirts and trousered legs.

As far as Pandora could tell, her exit from the ballroom went unnoticed. She hurried down the great staircase and through the great balconied hall, and reached a brightly lit gallery that stretched along the entire length of the house. Rows of portraits covered the gallery, generations of dignified aristocrats glowering down at her as she half-walked, half-ran across the inlaid flooring.

Finding a door that opened to the back terrace, she paused at the threshold, staring out like a passenger at the railing of a ship at sea. The night was deep, cool, and dark. She hated to leave the safety of the house. But she was reassured by the procession of oil-burning garden torches, consisting of copper bowls set on tall iron poles that lined the path across the wide lawn.

Focusing on her mission, Pandora skittered across the back terrace toward the lawn. An abundant grove of Scotch firs made the air agreeably pungent. It helped to mask the smell of the Thames, which coursed turgidly at the edge of the estate grounds.

Rough masculine voices and bursts of hammering came from the direction of the river, where workmen reinforced the scaffolding in preparation for a fireworks display. At the end of the evening, the guests would gather on the back terrace and along the upper floor balconies to watch the pyrotechnics.

The graveled path meandered around a giant statue of London’s ancient river deity, Father Thames. Long-bearded and stout of build, the massive figure reclined on an enormous stone plinth with a trident clasped negligently in one hand. He was entirely nude except for a cape, which Pandora thought made him look remarkably silly.

“Au naturel in public?” she asked flippantly as she passed him. “One might expect it of a classical Greek statue, but you, sir, have no excuse.”

She continued to the summer house, which was partially shielded by a yew hedge and a profusion of cabbage roses. The open-sided building, with matchboard walls that went halfway up the columns, was constructed on a brick foundation. It was adorned with colored glass panels, and illuminated only by a tiny Moroccan lamp hanging from the ceiling.

Hesitantly she went up two wooden steps and entered the structure. The only furniture was an openwork settee, which appeared to have been bolted to the nearby columns.

As she searched for the missing earring, Pandora tried not to let the hem of her skirts drag the dirty floor. She was wearing her best dress, a ball gown made of iridescent shot silk, which appeared silver from one angle, and lavender from another. The front was simple in design, with a smooth, tight-fitting bodice and a low scooped neckline. A web of intricate tucks in the back flowed into a cascade of silk that fluttered and shimmered whenever she moved.

After looking beneath the loose cushions, Pandora climbed onto the seat. She squinted at the space between the settee and the curved wall. A satisfied grin crossed her face as she saw a rich glitter at the seam of the wall trim and floor.

Now the only question was how to retrieve the earring. If she knelt on the floor, she would return to the ballroom as dirty as a chimney sweep.

The back of the settee had been carved into an ornate pattern of flourishes and curlicues, with spaces wide enough to reach through. Tugging off her gloves, Pandora tucked them into the concealed pocket of her gown. Gamely she hiked up her skirts, knelt on the settee, and inserted her arm into one of the openwork gaps, all the way to the elbow. Her fingertips wouldn’t quite touch the floor.