And Delilah knew that Juliet knew. Not all, of course—but enough… That something was wrong.
Delilah, who had never once dissolved into a puddle of tears in her entire life, was on the verge of doing so again for the second time tonight.
Archie finished clapping Rory on the back in greeting and turned toward Delilah. “What’s all this about Switzerland, anyway?” he said. “I never had you down as one for alphorns and yodeling.”
Before Delilah could slap together a decent lie, more voices sounded in the corridor. Then Amelia was striding—Amelia was a great strider, like all the Windermeres—into the room, a duchess bedecked in sumptuous ivory silk, diamonds at her wrists, throat, and even in her hair. But her splendor wasn’t what made the room go silent for a beat of time.
It was Amelia’s mask.
Delilah was fairly certain it had diamonds, too.
Her massive and quite handsome husband—neither fact could be ignored—Tristan entered the room behind her, wearing a simple black domino, and directed a grunt of greeting that sufficed for all the room’s inhabitants. A man of few words, the Duke of Ripon.
“Amelia, Tristan,” said Archie, “are you here to burgle us?”
Amelia released an exasperated sigh. Her siblings lived to exasperate her, it was a fact. “We’re on our way to the masquerade.”
“Themasquerade?” A strange premonition sparked inside Delilah.
“Who’s having it on?” asked Archie.
“Ravensworth, of course,” said Amelia. “His autumn equinox ball is a masquerade this year.”
“Raising funds, I suppose?” asked Juliet.
“For a playhouse in Southwark, I believe,” said Tristan.
At the sound of Sebastian’s name, another round of wretchedness flooded through Delilah. “Why are youhere, then?” she asked.
Her wretchedness kept compounding.
Here was Sebastian moving forward with his life.
And here she was hiding in a house.
Amelia stared at her as if she’d gone suddenly cuckoo. “To pick you up, of course.”
Delilah spread her arms wide. She was wearing a simple muslin day dress—the same one she’d been wearing these last three days, truth told. She might have acquired a…scent. A truth that might be better leftuntold. “I had no notion of a masquerade being given by…” His name stuck in her throat. “Him.”
“Truly, Delilah,” said Amelia, “when was the last time you checked your correspondence?” She crossed the room to the correspondence desk and began riffling through the basket full of letters.
“Never,” said Delilah. “Juliet is the only person who matters that writes to me, and staff know to bring those letters to me straightaway.”
Juliet wrapped her arms around Delilah’s waist and hugged her again. “Delilah?” she asked.
“Yes?” asked Delilah, breathing in the lovely, soul-deep familiar scent of Juliet.
“When was the last time you washed your hair?”
A fair question, and one Delilah couldn’t readily answer without the use of her fingers. It was either six or twelve days. Either way, it wasn’t good. It was entirely possible she’d gone to seed.
Amelia had almost finished sorting through the correspondence. “Well, no matter. There’s no invitation here, anyway.”
A feeling that resembled pique sparked inside Delilah. “What do you mean there’s no invitation?”
Amelia shrugged. “There isn’t.”
Archie rubbed his hands together. “No matter. We’re all going.”
