“Stamper,” Sybil corrected quietly, but the viscountess was already on to the next guest in line.
It didn’t matter. She’d been acknowledged! Accepted, if grudgingly. There would be no fleeing with hot tears of embarrassment. She was free to mingle with the beau monde.
Not that any of them were looking Sybil’s direction. The alterations to what was now her second-best gown put her appearance on the cusp of acceptability, but she was in no danger of being fawned over. A furtive glance about the room revealed she was more likely to be mistaken for a paid companion or chaperone.
All the better. The plan was not to stand out here, but at Vauxhall. Tonight, she had work to do. Though she could not help but fantasize about whether her reception would have been different if she’d worn the gorgeous new blue gown Mlle. LaChapelle had made for her.
She wished she were bold enough to strike up conversations with strangers. Oh, it wasn’t done, so there was that—one needed to be properly introduced, ideally by the hostess or someone of influence, before being permitted to make banal comments about the weather.
But it should be so much nicer to attend the Vauxhall ball if there were friendly gentlemen in the crowd. Men who might say, “Ah, yes, we met at Lady Vanewright’s soirée, did we not? I say, is that your dance card? Do allow me to claim the next set.”
Others would see this interaction and believe she was one of them. Her dance card would be full before the end of the first quadrille. Dapper gentlemen would race each other to the refreshment area to bring glasses of lemonade and ratafia. She’d made a list of the most likely gentlemen to be in attendance, as well as the likeliest offerings on the refreshment table. Then, when the first waltz played—
“Sybil. Sybil.” Lady Eunice’s elbow dug into Sybil’s ribs. “Are you making schedules and lists in your head again?”
She supposed she was, if of a different nature than the usual. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I was saying, it has to be you.” Lady Eunice made an apologetic face. “I thought Damaris and I might be able to slip away if we claimed we needed the retiring room, but neither of us are being afforded the slightest chance to catch our—” She paused as an extraordinarily handsome gentleman stepped up to her and bowed.
“Lady Eunice, how lovely to see you.”
“Lord Southerby, a pleasure as always.”
“Dare I hope you’ve a free set on your dance card for me to claim?”
“I believe there might be one left.” A small rectangle dangled from Lady Eunice’s wrist. She slipped off the bracelet and handed him her card. “Have you met my friend Miss Stamper?”
The orchestra chose that moment to burst into song, and the dashing lord completed his signature without having heard Lady Eunice’s introduction. He slid his pencil into his coat pocket and returned the dance card to Lady Eunice.
“I shall bide my time with utmost impatience until it is my turn to collect you,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the swell of music. He gave a roguish smile and slipped off into the crowd.
Sybil was nearly weak-kneed and breathless from the romance of it all. It was exactly the sort of conversation she’d dreamt of experiencing. The only way she could have scripted it any better would be if the charming rake had been smitten by Sybil for once.
Vauxhall, she reminded herself firmly. Your turn is coming.
“You see what I must deal with?” Lady Eunice said with a grimace. “It’s not any easier for Damaris. Everyone wants to talk about the military cipher she created, and how we’ve her to thank for winning the war.”
“That sounds dreadful,” Sybil lied. “I don’t know how you manage.”
“Blast, here comes Lord Bussington. This is his dance. Dear Sybil, I’m afraid you’re on your own. I will keep an eye out and my ears open, of course. Whenever anyone enquires where you’ve gone, I’ll make your excuses.”
Only a true friend could believe anyone but Damaris and Lady Eunice would notice Sybil’s absence, much less comment upon it.
“Enjoy the soirée. You’ve done your part,” Sybil assured her. She would never have been allowed to cross the Vanewrights’ threshold on any occasion, had it not been for Lady Eunice. “I’ll deal with the next bit. I have a plan.”
“Don’t forget—”
But whatever Sybil was not to forget was lost as Lord Bussington swept Lady Eunice onto the dance floor and into a minuet.
Sybil’s fingers closed tighter about the handle of the basket in her hand. She could not have danced if she’d wanted to. She was here on a mission. Sweet Mme. Blanchet needed her help. The fashionable ladies in this ballroom were blissfully unaware that the wardrobes they were relying on for the most important events of the Season had been stolen by none other than their hostess for the evening.
Lady Vanewright was one of the few women not dancing. She presided near the ratafia bowl, gossiping with two other matrons of about the same age.
Sybil edged closer to hear what they were saying.
“Lady Carmichael? Of course she’s absent tonight.” The viscountess let out a trilling laugh. “I only invited those I deemed deserving of my favor.”
Sybil’s delight at being acknowledged dimmed. Lady Vanewright would have allowed a pack of swine into her ballroom, just to illustrate how much lower her rival ranked.
