Chapter Sixteen

S affron perched on the stool in her room, trying not to dwell on her encounter with Leo the previous day and failing miserably. Every time she was certain she had put it behind her, the memory of her plaintive cries returned and brought with it a wave of embarrassment. She peeked in her mirror at the bed where Leo had crawled beneath her skirts.

She buried her face in her hands with a groan. How could she face him in a crowded ballroom without simpering like it was her first Season? A fleeting glimpse of him was enough to render her speechless.

This is ridiculous , she told herself harshly. She did not have time to be swooning over a man.

Once she left her bedchamber, she would continue her interrogations. There was only one night left before the auction and she had accomplished very little to uncover the thief or the artist.

*

"A touch to the right," a muffled voice said. Saffron lifted her skirt and moved it to the side as Lily finished pinning a dust ruffle to her hem, a collection of pins held in her mouth, her brow furrowed in concentration.

The lavender calico evening gown had been lying on Saffron's bed when she'd returned from a dull afternoon held hostage by Rosemary, watching the men knock wooden balls around the lawn. The woman had sent it along with a note that the others would be ready by morning.

Don't get used to this , she reminded herself. Soon enough, she would be back to her humble patchwork gowns and plain food. It might take weeks to track down Basil, and she had only a small amount of money saved for the journey. She would have to find her brother before Mr. Grummet returned to claim their home.

"That'll be it," Lily said, coming to her feet. "Madam, you are lovely, if I might say so m'self."

Saffron stood and shook out her skirts. The dress was a marvel. The gathered sleeves were decorated with French lace, and the heart-shaped neckline stopped just short of indecent. The flared skirt and lowered waist emphasized her slim figure, and the silk-covered dancing shoes that went with it were soft and sturdy.

She looked in the mirror and tilted her head to examine the intricate hairdo Lily had arranged. It was a complicated arrangement of swirls, made to look like one artful piece. A few stray curls trailed down and covered her ears, which were bare of baubles. The few pieces of jewelry she owned were entirely unsuitable for such an elaborate gown.

There was a quiet knock, and Lily rushed to open the door. Mrs. Banting stepped inside, clutching a small, brass-embossed wooden box.

"A small token of appreciation for all that you've done for us, my lady," the housekeeper said. She walked over and placed the box on the dressing table, then opened the lid to reveal a silk-linked interior and four glass bottles filled with a clear liquid.

A scent box.

Saffron gasped. "Mrs. Banting, where did you get these?"

The older woman blushed. "A former resident of the manor left them behind. I do not wish to trouble you with unpleasantries, but they will not be missed. If I may…" The woman gently touched the upper-right bottle. "My lord has a particular fondness for vanilla." Then Mrs. Banting spun around and exited the room, letting the door slam behind her.

Saffron leaned over the box. Her fingers reached for the indicated bottle before jerking to the side and selecting another. She spritzed it on her neck, then closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of citrus.

Another knock at the door had Lily scrambling, and a moment later, Rosemary and Angelica strolled in. Their new gowns were not yet complete, but Lily had helped restore two of their gowns that had been damaged in the carriage accident to what Rosemary had deemed an acceptable state.

"Oh, sister!" Angelica cried. She threw her arms around Saffron with a sob. "You are beautiful!"

Her aunt's lips twisted in a half-smile. "I have to say that you do look lovely, my dear niece."

As Angelica pulled away, Saffron smoothed the silk outer layer of her gown. "Lord Briarwood is a generous man."

"Indeed," Rosemary replied. "Angelica would be lucky to secure such a generous husband, even if he does not have the most sterling of reputations."

Angelica wrinkled her nose. "I suppose I would not mind Lord Briarwood as a husband."

A sudden image of Angelica wrapped in Leo's arms flashed into Saffron's mind and made her stomach churn. She had been concerned about the Duke of Canterbury but had not considered that their aunt might turn her attention to their host.

"It is a pity he is a confirmed bachelor," Rosemary said, with a heavy sigh.

Something wound tight within Saffron loosened, and she laughed. "Yes, of course. We would not want to impose further on our host."

"In any case, I prefer men who take more care in their appearance," Angelica said.

"Such as Mr. Mayweather?" Saffron asked.

Angelica blushed. "He is quite handsome, but he isn't interested in marriage."

It was as Saffron had feared. What was it about Mayweather men that made them resistant to taking wives?

Rosemary shook her head. "A duke is a far better catch, my dear."

Saffron avoided her aunt's gaze as they left the room and descended the stairs to the entryway, careful not to let her gown slip beneath her feet. The last thing she needed was to tumble down the main staircase and break her neck before she could begin her search.

No, she needed to blend in. That way, she could flit between groups and wait for an opportunity to ask each guest about Ravenmore.

But as they reached the entrance to the ballroom, and she realized how crowded and loud it was inside, a familiar prickling started in her neck. Six golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lit with so many candles that she had to wince, and when she looked away, there were shadows in her eyes.

She forced her feet forward, one small step at a time, until she was over the threshold. Then she split away from her aunt and sister and pressed her back against the wall, tucking her chin and squeezing her eyes shut.

Sound assaulted her next. Glasses clinking together. The screech of an out-of-tune violin string. Dozens of feet pounding the ground. Vibrations reverberated up her legs and sank into her bones.

Beyond caring what anyone thought, she shuffled closer to a heavy, velvet curtain and slapped her palms over her ears. What she didn't realize was that the servants had perfumed the draperies to keep out the smell of the horse pasture outside. The cloying, sickly sweet smell invaded her lungs and made her cough.

"What are you doing?" a voice hissed.

She opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat like sticky taffy.

It's over. I've ruined everything.

It wouldn't be long before the guests turned on her, whispering behind their fans, their wicked eyes gleaming above frothy lace. The carefully planned schedule she had worked so hard on was going up in flames.

I'll never find Basil. What was I thinking?

She distantly registered the sound of glass breaking, and then strong fingers closed around her wrist and pulled. With nothing left in her to protest, she followed willingly, her eyes still clenched shut, her feet stumbling on the smooth floor. The onslaught of sounds and smells faded, and she opened her eyes as she was shoved into a chair.

The Duke of Canterbury stood in front of her, scowling. His ruddy cheeks were stained the color of wine, and his eyes were all but bulging out of their sockets. Three servants stood quietly at the far side of the room, their eyes downcast.

"What were you thinking?" Canterbury roared. "Are you daft, girl? Another incident like that and you'll erase what's left of your sister's reputation."

A sour taste crept up her throat, but the angry words swirling inside her curdled in her stomach. The damned man was right. Her failure to anticipate her own response might have cost Angelica her future. Society already considered Saffron an oddity but had not yet associated her strangeness with anything but a quirk of her personality. If she was not careful, more dangerous rumors would start. Diseases of the mind ran in families. That was common knowledge.

The horror of what she'd almost done made Saffron want to race to her room and hide beneath the blankets.

Canterbury huffed out a breath, his arms crossed. "You are lucky that Mayweather fellow is clumsy. His accident at the refreshment table distracted everyone long enough to minimize the damage. Now…" He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. "I will only say this once. If you wish to remain out of the poorhouse, you will refrain from making a spectacle of yourself and bringing shame upon my bride."

He wiped the spittle from his mouth with a handkerchief, then stormed out of the room—the front study, she realized—and let the door slam behind him. The sallow-faced servants followed behind him, leaving her to clutch her arms around herself in silence.

His bride.

Canterbury's words finally wriggled into her mind. He had called Angelica his bride. And there was something else, too. A veiled threat that if she did not behave in a manner that he considered acceptable, that he would prevent Angelica from providing Saffron and their aunt with funds. That was the most chilling part because it meant that Rosemary's plan had a very significant flaw. If Canterbury married Angelica, she would become his legal property. They only had his word that he would provide his wife's family with an allowance.

He intends to use it as a chain to keep us in line.

Her bleak future stretched out before her, devoid of pleasure. Canterbury would not suffer her attacks in public, nor would he allow her to pursue her own employment. If she did anything that brought attention to her condition or suggested even a tinge of impropriety, he would cut them off.

The blackguard.

She could not let him get away with it. She resisted the urge to fling herself out of the chair and rush to her aunt's side. There was no proof that Canterbury was anything but what he said he was. Considering that she'd already voiced her objections to Canterbury, she was uncertain if practical, logical Rosemary would believe her.

Leo is my only hope.

She rose from the chair, took several steps to confirm that her legs were no longer wobbly, then opened the door to the study and walked back the way they had come, her head held high. With each step, the pressure bearing down upon her increased, but she did not stop until she was back in the stuffy, noxious-smelling room. Her back ramrod straight, she strode purposefully toward the nearest group. Before she could reach them, Lady Allen swept across the room and stopped in front of her.

"I thought you would never return," the woman said, beaming. Then her smile fell, and she touched Saffron's shoulder. "What is it? What did that awful duke want?"

The polite response Saffron had prepared vanished under the weight of the older woman's concern. "H-He told me not to make a spectacle of myself."

" What? That—That—" Lady Allen flicked open her fan to hide her scowl. "Not here." She drew an unresisting Saffron into a quiet corner, then closed her fan. "Tell me everything."

Too shaken to resist, Saffron repeated the conversation she'd shared with the duke.

"He's even more of a monster than I thought," Lady Allen said. "You mustn't believe any of his lies, dear. There is nothing wrong with you. Do you understand?"

Saffron lifted her gaze from the floor, where she'd been staring. "But—"

"No excuses. His Grace is a fool." Lady Allen tapped her on the forehead with her closed fan, then linked their arms together. "Come, visit with me. We will show that beast how much you value his opinion."

They joined the small circle of guests around Mrs. Morgan. The woman wore a light-pink gown decorated with small, red flowers. The rear of the skirt rose so high in the air that Saffron had to hold her lips shut to keep from smiling. She was dressed as if she were still a debutante, and not an established matron with her own daughters to provide for.

Beside her, Mr. Morgan wore a rumpled, lilac pinstripe suit. There was a gap between where his gloves ended and his cuff began. Like his wife, the suit was decorated with small, red flowers. Together, the couple were like a faery king and queen waiting to hold court.

"Miss Summersby," Mrs. Morgan said, tilting her nose in the air. "That display earlier was quite—"

Lady Allen interrupted, fluttering her eyelashes at Mrs. Morgan's husband. "Do you have your eyes set on a piece, my lord?"

The man puffed out his chest. "The Ravenmore, of course. We wouldn't have come such a way for just any artwork."

"Oh, how lovely," Lady Allen exclaimed. "You will be the envy of the Ton ."

Mrs. Morgan preened. "We shall have guests as soon as we install it. I am certain there are many who would love to see it."

Saffron flicked open her fan and waved it in front of her face to hide her grin. Lady Allen was a master manipulator, guiding the couple from topic to topic and heaping praise upon the older woman when she attempted to turn the conversation to Saffron. As vain as the woman was, it worked flawlessly.

Then Lady Allen leaned in close, lowering her fan and letting her hair droop over her décolletage. Said action captured Mr. Morgan's attention immediately. "Have you heard?" she whispered. "A thief broke into the estate. Seeking the Ravenmore, I would imagine."

Saffron froze. What was Lady Allen doing?

What did she know?

Mr. Morgan's glower at her husband's wandering eyes transformed into an open-mouthed gasp. "They did not take off with it, did they?" She pursed her lips. "We should insist that our host reveal the painting." She straightened, searched the room, then grabbed her husband's elbow and dragged him in her wake.

"What was that about?" Saffron asked with an awkward laugh.

"It was not hard to figure out, darling." She winked. "I am more observant than you might think. I heard the servants gossiping, and I've seen how you've lurked around. You are trying to figure out who broke in that night. I thought I might help."

"Oh." Saffron didn't know what to say. The speed at which Lady Allen had figured out their plan both impressed and disturbed her. There didn't seem to be any reason to lie, so she shrugged. "You are correct. Leo—I mean, Lord Briarwood and I are investigating. We suspect the thief might strike again before the auction."

Lady Allen giggled behind her fan, then snapped it shut and linked her arm with Saffron once again. "Well, I suspect you can remove at least one name from your list. Mrs. Morgan does not have the talent to fake such a reaction. I wondered if steam would billow from her nostrils, she was so worked up."

Saffron chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. "That sound she made as she rushed off did rather sound like a teakettle, did it not?"

Lady Allen burst into peals of laughter, eliciting a good number of shocked and scandalized glances from nearby guests. It was a nice change, to have censure directed at someone other than herself. Saffron had already realized that by standing at the side of the vivacious beauty, no one paid her any mind. The lack of scrutiny relieved some butterflies fluttering in her stomach. It was still a struggle, of course, and more than once, she had to fight back the urge to flee for the terrace, but it was manageable.

They stopped in the refreshment room for a biscuit and a cup of tea, then returned to circulate.

"Ah, this is wonderful," Lady Allen said. "To be young again, and full of such excitement. It has been too long." She skipped a step, then winked at Saffron. "Come, we've many more people to talk to, and the night is young. Stay sharp."

They joined a group that contained the Duke of Hawthorne and Simon Mayweather. The former was engaged in a lively political discussion, and the latter was obviously distracted, gazing above the heads of the others and occasionally tugging on his cravat.

Saffron didn't need to turn around to know what—or, more accurately, whom—Mr. Mayweather was looking at.

Better him than Canterbury.

The man did not have substantial wealth, so he could not use the purse strings as a lead to keep his wife in line.

Assuming Angelica can change Mr. Mayweather's view on marriage.

Given the passionate interludes she had enjoyed with Leo, it was equally likely that Simon's only interest in Angelica lay along those lines. Goosebumps spread up her arms, and she resolved to keep a closer eye on her sister. She didn't need Simon breaking her sister's heart.

"How are you enjoying the music, Your Grace?" Lady Allen asked, sliding closer to the duke, who wore a gray coat; gray, striped trousers; and a necktie, rather than a cravat. "I have a thought to speak to Lord Briarwood about the violin player. That screech made me cover my hair, as I thought an owl had flown in through the terrace doors."

The duke rubbed his bushy, black mustache. "Indeed, my lady. You would be doing all of us a favor. If the same musicians play during the auction, I might break the instrument over the man's head myself."

Lady Allen laughed prettily. "Oh, certainly not, Your Grace. That would be quite a feat."

The duke grumbled something beneath his breath about having to wait so long.

"I am not a collector myself," Lady Allen said. "But I've heard there are many who would give a fortune to have a Ravenmore. It's quite remarkable that one has finally surfaced at auction. I dare say many collectors are eager for a chance to buy it."

The duke perked up. "You would be correct. I'm hoping to take that one home myself."

"It's a pity we do not know the painter," Saffron said. "I would love to learn whence he gets his inspiration."

"I agree," Lady Allen replied. " The London Times once printed a full page, speculating his identity. I remember it because it was very amusing. I simply cannot imagine the Duchess of Killian has the time to create such masterpieces. And that it might be a common laborer was laughable. Did you read it, Your Grace?"

"Don't read The Times if I can avoid it," the duke said, sniffing. "Hardly better than a scandal rag. If the painter prefers to remain anonymous, the better for collectors."

"Are there any other paintings you are interested in, Your Grace?" Saffron asked.

The duke shook his head. "The walls of both my house in London and my country estate are completely filled, thanks to Mr. Morgan. I would need to buy another property to find space to hang anything else." The duke laughed, then smiled at them, inviting them to join in on the joke.

Saffron laughed prettily, then dove back in, sensing she was close to a clue. "Mr. Morgan, you mean he's an art procurer?"

"Well, I—" The duke grabbed an hors d'oeuvre from a passing servant and took a bite. His jaw seemed to move with incredible slowness.

"What my companion is not saying is that I am interested in procuring some pieces myself," Lady Allen said. "We would be most pleased if you could provide a reference."

The duke swallowed, then nodded. "If that is your aim, I can suggest Mr. Morgan for the job. I had a few select pieces I fancied, and Mr. Morgan fulfilled his duty. Now, if you will excuse me, ladies, I have a dance partner to engage." The duke stepped away from them and strode quickly away.

"Wonderful work, my dear," Lady Allen said. "I can see I am no longer needed. Enjoy yourself, and I expect to hear every detail of what you learn tonight."

Her mischievous smile spoke of what she had planned. As much as Saffron respected the woman, she had no desire to learn whose bed she would warm. That Leo was still in the ballroom had nothing to do with her sense of relief.

Indeed, Saffron mused, aside from the Morgans and Canterbury, her fellow guests had treated her far better than she'd ever been. Not once had she been asked to fetch a refreshment or bumped into with a snide apology. No angry debutante had spilled wine on her dress or made fun of her gown. The experience was so thrilling that when Mr. Whitewood asked her to dance, she agreed. The older man treated her with a fatherly air and answered all her questions with a gentle smile. She quickly ruled him out as a suspect because his joints creaked and moaned as he dipped her, and there was a faint cloudiness to his eyes. The man was in no shape to be riding a horse through the night, nor perching on a stool for hours on end, peering closely at a canvas.

When the music ended, the baron led her back to her aunt, who was watching Angelica like a hawk.

"Have you seen the Duke of Canterbury?" Rosemary asked, clutching her fan in both hands. "I had hoped Angelica might snare his attention with her new gown."

A powerful urge to confess what had happened in the study filled Saffron, but she pushed it away. The middle of a ballroom was not the place for such a discussion.

If she will even believe it.

"I heard him mention visiting the stables," Saffron said instead. She scanned the room, searching for a golden head. Where was Leo? She had caught only fleeting glances of him all night. She had to find him and tell him what she'd learned.

Was he avoiding her? Did he regret what had happened between them?

The room spun. Rosemary was still talking, but Saffron did not hear the words. She licked her suddenly dry lips. The prickling had returned with a vengeance, traveling down her neck and making the muscles in her back spasm.

"Settle down," Rosemary hissed. "You are squirming like a child at her first Sunday Mass."

That must be it. He wants nothing to do with me.

It shouldn't have been such a crushing blow. He was a member of the House of Lords, a disreputable rake desired by any woman with a pulse. She was an outcast, branded strange by society, hidden in the shadows of her much more beautiful sister.

She had to do something before she fell apart and brought Canterbury's fury down upon them.

"My throat is parched," she said. "Please excuse me."