Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(18)

“Of course not her,” Madame answered dismissively.

Ned’s breath came back in a relieved gasp.

“I meant the pale blue. Moving. Right there.”

Ned looked over to his left. He could see little more other than a beribboned hairpiece perched atop blond hair, and a blue-and-white gown. From behind, she looked young. She looked slender. When she turned, her gown glinted, and he realized that what he had taken for white fabric rosettes were actually pearls. Whoever she was, she was wealthy.

“Drat,” said Blakely. “I had my heart set on Feathers.”

Ned squinted across the room. Was Blakely’s bride-to-be opening that door? She was. Ned’s heart constricted. She was leaving.

“Well, Ned,” Blakely said, without a care for the fact that his future wife was deserting him, “you queered the deal. Next time, let Madame Esmerelda pronounce without prompting.”

Ned gave this inscrutable comment the moment’s consideration it deserved, before deciding to ignore it. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

Neither of his companions moved. Ned put one hand on his hip and gestured in the direction of the lady with Blakely’s watch. “She’s escaping. Don’t you want to meet her?”

“Oh,” said Blakely in a depressing tone. “Dear. What ever shall I do?”

Ned stamped his foot. “Nonsense. After her!”

Blakely smoothly plucked his watch from Ned’s fingers and dropped it, chain and all, into his pocket. “Do calm yourself, Ned. We will attract more attention than this event warrants if the three of us pelt across the ballroom like dogs on a scent.”

Ned scowled. “Madame Esmerelda,” he protested, “tell Blakely he has to hurry. The way he’s acting is just not respectful.”

Madame Esmerelda looked at him. “Ned, take a breath and calm down.”

“I’m not—” Ned started, before he realized that he was, in fact, on edge with anticipation. He shut his mouth with a click.

“And, perhaps, Lord Blakely, you could consider putting one foot in front of the other. It would be the rational thing to do. If you must wait for her to come back, you’ll have to present your elephant in front of the entire assemblage.”

Blakely’s lip curled in obvious distaste. “You make an excellent point.”

Ned’s cousin turned and strolled toward the exit where the blond lady had disappeared. Ned dashed in front of him, ducking between a surprised couple, and around one large man wearing a hideous waistcoat. It didn’t take long to wrest open the unobtrusive door in the wall.

He stepped into a deserted servants’ corridor, dim and hazy after the well-lit ballroom. The walls were a nondescript whitewash, and the narrow passage stretched before them. Why had she come here?

It didn’t matter. Whatever she was doing, she hadn’t gone far. She was a scant fifteen feet down the hall. She walked almost noiselessly. Despite the bare wood floors underfoot and the unadorned walls, the quiet tap of her steps faded, folding into the muted roar of the gathering behind them.

Behind him, Blakely’s shoes clacked noisily. She heard the sound and paused.

Blakely took advantage of her hesitation. “Pardon me,” he called.

The lady turned around slowly. Very slowly. Ned caught his breath. She was younger than he was. Her features seemed almost too sharp, too pronounced. But her eyes were wide and intelligent, and even though she’d been caught alone by three people she did not know, she held her head high and her shoulders straight. She did not speak; instead, she cocked her head, as if silently granting the rabble permission to approach. That aloof calm rendered those sharp features almost beautiful.

With that haughty demeanor, she would make Blakely an excellent marchioness. Ned darted a glance at his cousin. The man seemed unaffected by her elegance.

“I believe you dropped this back in the ballroom.” Not an ounce of emotion touched Blakely’s voice as he strode toward her, holding the gouged lump of ebony in his hand.

Ned wasn’t sure which constituted the greater sacrilege: Blakely’s cursory adherence to Madame Esmerelda’s tasks, or his ability to remain unruffled when confronting his future wife. Annoyed, Ned scrambled after his cousin.

The lady frowned as Blakely came closer. “I dropped something? How clumsy of me.”

Her voice sounded like bells, Ned decided, except not the harsh clanging kind. She put him in mind of clear, high chimes, ringing out in winter weather.

Her gaze fell on the indecipherable object in Blakely’s outstretched hand. That perfect brow furrowed in consternation. “I dropped that? I think not.” A discordant note sounded in those bells.

Blakely shrugged. “As you wish.” He swiveled from her.

The effrontery of the man! He wasn’t even trying to give Madame Esmerelda’s prediction a fair chance.

Ned clamped his hand about his cousin’s wrist and turned him back around. “Oh, I think so. Where else could it have come from?”

Aside from Blakely’s pocket. Or any of the fifteen other sources that sprang to mind.

“I assure you,” she said with some asperity, “if that object had belonged to me, I shouldn’t have waited until I attended a ball to dispose of it. Even if I had dropped it, I would never admit prior ownership when questioned.”

“Well.” Ned drew out the syllable and squared his shoulders. “If you didn’t drop it, you must accept it.”