And Then She Fell(35)
“Well said!” Lady Osbaldestone thumped her cane on the floor and caught Henrietta’s eye. “And if you’ve a mind to be helpful, you might think to repeat that to your younger sister. She’s hiding over there with the other young ladies thinking we haven’t noticed what she’s about, but she’s one who definitely needs to put more thought into what she truly wants before she starts pushing and shoving.”
“Being, as she is,” Helena added, “so very good at pushing and shoving.”
Henrietta found herself smiling and promising to pass on the message to Mary, who had spent the entire visit chatting in a corner with several other young ladies, then she happily accepted a dismissal and escaped from the two grandest grandes dames in the room.
Only later, when she was heading for the door in her mother’s train and turned her mind to summarizing all she’d learned, did it occur to her that she wasn’t at all sure who had been the principal target of Lady Osbaldestone and Helena’s warning: Millicent Fotherby, Mary . . . or herself.
The thought distracted her, but once they’d settled in their carriage and it was rolling over the cobbles, carrying them to their next appointment, she mentally shook herself and refocused on the indisputable facts.
Rafe Cunningham notwithstanding, Millicent Fotherby appeared to be the answer to James’s prayers.
And equally undeniable was her own welling desire to push Millicent aside and take her place.
Pushing and shoving?
Henrietta inwardly snorted, and stared out of the window as they rocked along.
Lady Hamilton’s event that evening was a ball masque. Having realized that fact and recognized it as a godsend, James arrived at Hamilton House in good time to stand idling just inside the ballroom, indistinguishable from countless other gentlemen in domino and mask, waiting to pounce the instant Henrietta arrived.
When she did, shrouded in a hooded domino with a pale blue mask fixed across her face, he nevertheless recognized her instantly and swooped immediately she parted from their host and hostess and turned to survey the ballroom—already a sea of hoods, masks, and black cloaks.
He’d previously thought ball masques boring, their current resurgence in popularity distinctly ho-hum, but tonight . . . tonight, he hoped this ball masque would facilitate his salvation.
Halting beside Henrietta, grasping her elbow through her domino, he dipped his head to murmur, “Good evening.”
She looked at his masked face, looked into his eyes, and smiled; relief tinted the gesture, which seemed almost absentminded. “I’d forgotten it was to be a ball masque until it was time to dress. I wondered how I was going to find you in all this.” She waved at the anonymous crowd.
“Indeed—and speaking of that, I’ve had a revelation.” He drew her aside, out of the press of incoming guests. Steering her toward the wall, he elaborated, “A ball masque is completely useless in terms of further assessing others—even if we think we know who someone is, we won’t be certain, not until the unmasking at midnight. The odds that we might merely waste our time are high. Hence, for tonight, I propose that we set aside all thoughts of broadening my horizons and extending my short list, or even further discussing Miss Fotherby, and instead simply allow ourselves to enjoy the evening and the pleasure of each other’s company.” Halting by the wall, where the crush was less evident, he smoothly faced her and arched a brow, visible above his minimal mask. “What say you?”
She stared up at him, slowly blinked, then her gaze refocused and raced over his face. She hesitated, then glanced out at the crowd, surveying the shifting, anonymous throng before, finally turning back to him, she said, “I think . . . that’s an excellent suggestion.”
Henrietta wasn’t sure what had most prompted that answer—her own inclination or the echoes of Lady Osbaldestone’s and Helena’s voices still ringing in her head—but the instant the words left her lips, she felt certainty and assurance well. She’d felt the lack of both in recent days, so she welcomed and embraced them, and beamed at James. “All right. So tonight it’s just us, and all for fun.” She spread her hands. “Where do we start?”
The answer was an exploration of her ladyship’s rooms and the various entertainments offered therein. Neither felt drawn to the card tables set up in a minor salon, but they filled glasses at a fountain overflowing with champagne, and sampled the strawberries footmen were ferrying through the guests on silver salvers. The dance floor, occupying the half of the large ballroom before the raised dais on which a small orchestra labored, captured them. And held them.