She looked about then, determined to distract herself from such troubling thoughts by finding Lady Belham. To her surprise her employer was nowhere in sight.
“I wonder where she could be,” she mumbled, frowning as she scanned the assembled guests.
“Grace? Isn’t she here? She was talking to Mrs. Weeton before we left.”
She was about to respond when Lady Belham appeared. She ducked into the room via the open doors that led to the garden, with a flushed, strangely flustered look about her.
Rosalind hurried to her, for with her heightened color and almost feverish eyes her employer appeared almost ill. “My lady, are you well?”
Lady Belham tried for a smile but it faded quickly. “I’m fine darling. I needed some air, is all.”
Tristan was on her other side, peering at her in concern. “You don’t look well. Should we return home?”
“Of course not,” she scoffed. “Goodness, I am hardly fragile. There’s no reason for such concern.”
Lady Belham kept her voice light, yet Rosalind thought she detected a slightly strained undercurrent to it. When she studied her, she noticed there were tense lines bracketing her unsmiling mouth. She hazarded a glance at Tristan to see if he saw it as well. He shot her a hooded look, but it did not hide the banked emotion in his eyes.
He was worried as well. A jolt of anxiety shot through her, for his concern only cemented the fact that she actually had reason to worry at all. But there was also a relief, deep in her gut, warm and comforting. She was not alone. Whatever happened, she had someone to lean on.
It was a foreign feeling, something she had never thought to experience. She had the sudden urge to throw her arms around him. Instead she turned back to Lady Belham, hoping to distract her and relieve the tension that had crystalized in her like veins through marble.
“There is quite a collection of debutantes ready to regale the party with their talents I see.” She pointed out a giggling group of young women gathered about the pianoforte in the corner, no doubt waiting to descend upon the instrument the moment the lady at the bench lifted her fingers from the keys. “Which do you think shall win the honor of playing the next song? As for me, I think the girl in blue shall be the victor. She has a cunning, bloodthirsty look about her.”
As she’d hoped, Lady Belham gave a tinkling laugh, the strain in her eyes melting away. “I don’t know, the blonde in pink looks like she has the makings of a winner in this instance.”
“Surely you’re joking,” Rosalind said, eyeing the girl. “Why, she appears much too demure.”
“The demure ones are often the ones to look out for, Miss Merriweather,” Tristan drawled.
Rosalind peered up at him, pursing her lips to keep from smiling. “Are you teaming up with Lady Belham then? Hardly fair; I am outnumbered.”
“Oh, no. I would never be so ungentlemanly as to do that.”
Lady Belham gave him an arch look. “I am your cousin, you ungrateful whelp, and your elder as well. I should garner your loyalty without question.”
“Ah, but you see,” he said officiously, “I refuse to take sides at all. For I don’t believe either of you will win in your choices.”
“And who do you think will be the next to descend upon the pianoforte to regale us with her playing?” Rosalind asked, unable to keep the laughter from coloring her words.
He considered the group. “I am for the dark-haired lass in white silk.”
Rosalind laughed openly then. “She is not even part of the group.”
“Ah, but you are not looking closely enough. If you study her, you will see she is merely biding her time. She will wait until the others are distracted and swoop in for the kill.”
“Come along, you are reaching.” Rosalind looked to Lady Belham. “What do you think of his choice?”
Lady Belham, to her surprise, was looking at Tristan with interest. “I think, my darling Miss Merriweather, that you will find yourself surprised by my cousin’s insight into people. He is amazingly adept at such things.”
The song came to a close. Rosalind, Tristan, and Lady Belham fell silent by some unspoken mutual agreement, watching closely the group of women across the room. As suspected, before the last strands of the song had even faded, the waiting girls started twittering with one another, apparently trying to decide who should take the next place at the instrument. Rosalind watched with amazement as the girl in white, sneaking behind the women, slid onto the bench and began to play before anyone had even noticed she was there.
Rosalind looked to Tristan, equal parts amazement and respect clamoring in her breast. “I did not think it possible. That is quite a talent you have.”
He grinned as Grace laughed delightedly. “It is not the first time you have underestimated me, Miss Merriweather,” he murmured.
She should have perhaps taken offense at that. It was a distinct dig at their little bet that was currently taking shape in the card room even as they spoke.
But she could not manage even the smallest kernel of outrage. Instead she murmured to herself as he began conversing with his cousin, “And I daresay it shall not be the last.”
