Marquesses at the Masquerade(13)
But Rosamund could easily imagine that the marquess would not surrender the necklace without first discovering from whose house the footman had come. Or, even if the Marquess of Boxhaven did give it back immediately, the footman would still be a clue, a very large clue, to her identity, and she knew the marquess was far too smart and persistent not to make use of it.
“No,” Uncle Piggott said, “it would be too great a risk.”
“Agreed,” Rosamund said. “Maybe I could sneak into Boxhaven House in a few hours, when the ball is over and everyone has finally gone to bed.”
“No,” Mrs. Barton and Uncle Piggott said in unison. Rosamund knew it was a preposterous idea, but what else could she do?
“I’ll speak to Bronwen,” Mrs. Barton said. Bronwen was Melinda’s personal maid. “When she undresses Melinda tonight and puts her jewels in the box, Bronwen will say nothing about the missing necklace. And she can do whatever is needed to make sure Melinda doesn’t notice.”
Uncle Piggott nodded. “And in the meantime, we’ll think about how to get that necklace back.”
Rosamund knew this was not a very good plan in terms of its likelihood for ultimate success, but it was the only sensible course any of them were likely to come up with.
She took their hands. “I haven’t yet had a chance to say that, aside from the loss of the necklace, I had a truly splendid time. I never dared dream that I might go to a ball—and such a fabulous ball—and I can’t thank you both enough.”
Uncle Piggott grinned. “You met a handsome fellow and danced with him, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Rosamund said, and her heart squeezed. Marcus was so much more than a handsome man, and all she now wanted in life was the chance to get to know him more. Which would never happen.
“But that’s wonderful!” said Mrs. Barton. “Surely you could ask the gentleman to help you. Perhaps you could send him a note, and he could procure the necklace on your behalf.”
“It’s impossible,” Rosamund said.
“But if you had a wonderful time together, which I can see from your face that you did, he’ll be wanting to see you again, Miss Rosamund.”
Uncle Piggott had been watching this exchange. “Unless he’s the sort of gentleman whose station in life would require him to be very... discerning.”
Rosamund nodded, forcing down a lump that wanted to form in her throat. “He doesn’t know who I am, but I figured out who he is. He’s someone who could never know me outside of a masquerade.”
“One of the high-and-mighty lords, is he?” Uncle Piggott asked.
“Yes,” whispered Rosamund.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Barton said. “There must be some way.”
“There’s no way,” Rosamund said. “But nothing can ever take away my memories of the ball, and for that, I’m very, very grateful. Now,” she said briskly, needing to stop talking about the ball whose like she’d never see again and the marquess she’d never get to know, “Mrs. Barton had better speak to Bronwen before the others come back.”
Bronwen did as she was asked and breathed not a word of the affair. The next day, everything in the Monroe household proceeded as usual. Rosamund was left to fix the tears that had been made in the ladies’ gowns from the evening before (Calliope in particular was a great one for stepping on the hems of her gowns), and no one made any accusations or suggested the ridiculous notion that Rosamund herself had gone to the ball.
But it couldn’t last, and Rosamund was torn between delirious memories of the ball and awareness that she had done something that could not go unnoticed forever. As she sewed, she tested scenarios in her mind of what she might do if, or rather, when Melinda found out about the pearls. But none of the scenarios was of any help, because if she had had anywhere else to go, she would long ago have gone there.
*
How hard could it be for a powerful marquess, with all the avenues that riches and connections could offer, to find one woman in London who did not wish to be found?
Very hard, apparently. This was what Marcus discovered in the days after the ball.
His masquerade lady had fled into the garden for whatever urgent reason had possessed her, taking a little piece of his heart with her and, he imagined, though he could not know, without a backward glance. This last part was somewhat pathetic on his part—for all he knew, she’d raced across the garden gazing regretfully over her shoulder the whole time, but he was in all honesty a little hurt.
How could she run off like that, after everything that had passed between them? What could possibly have been so pressing that she’d had to leave so suddenly? And who the devil was she?
He began trying to find out who she was as soon as possible on the day following the ball. He had one additional clue beyond the name Poppy, the few details she’d revealed, and the unremarkable gloves she’d left behind: the pearl necklace that had come loose as he’d tried to catch her. It wasn’t much to go on. Pearls being fairly indistinguishable, all the necklace had to offer was the clasp, which was engraved with SDW to HPW. He brought the necklace to his mother, who knew the most of any of the family about the members of the ton.
“SDW to HPW,” she mused. “I’m flattered that you think me so knowledgeable, but this is really very little to go on. And you say she gave her name as Poppy?”