Rhoda opened the marriage contract once again. “I’ll need to perfect his signature.”
Could she really forge his name? “I’ll take a few days. And we’ll need disguises. We’ll need to look like gentlemen if we’re to stand a chance at gaining entry.”
“Dev says Kensington usually enters with an entourage. I think perhaps we could attach ourselves to such a group.”
“With Kensington? As in Flavion?” Rhoda raised her fist to her mouth. This might be trickier than she’d originally thought. Perhaps her mother was right…
Sophia shrugged. “We’ll fit right in with that group of dandies. Half of them look like women as it is.”
How could Sophia seem so undaunted by all of this? “Will you tell Prescott? Surely, he wouldn’t support his wife undertaking such a dangerous prank?
“Of course! I tell him everything.”
Rhoda groaned. “Let’s wait a few days. Let me see if Carlisle stumbles on his miracle. If God fails to lend him a hand, well, then I suppose we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
Still Undecided
Viscount of Dorwich.
Too much flourish. Rhoda made another attempt and cursed beneath her breath when the ink bled from the r to the w. Two days had passed since she and Sophia had discussed sneaking into the exclusive male gentlemen’s club to forge her fiancé’s name in the betting book.
At least she believed he was still her fiancé. She’d done naught but slip out for a turn about the park early in the mornings since arriving in London. With her maid and one of her mother’s manservants, of course.
The firsttonaffair they planned to attend was tonight. Perhaps she could feign a megrim—or female troubles. Her heart raced at the thought of entering the Primroses’ ballroom.
Not that she’d never entered it before. She’d attended numerous balls at the elaborate mansion, ironically enough, set right next door to Lord Kensington’s townhouse.
But she’d not attended even one since the Snodgrass’ garden party.
Hearing a knock, Rhoda stuffed the contract and her abysmal attempts at forgery into her top drawer. “Enter.”
“You aren’t dressed yet?” Her mother’s hair had already been styled high atop her head, and she wore a pearl taffeta evening gown embellished with silver ribbon. “I’ll send Lucy down, so you can ready yourself. Important that you look your best. Not that you ever have anything to worry about.”
Rhoda winced. “Must we? Can we not simply return to Pebble’s Gate? Forget this Season ever happened?” She knew the question was a ridiculous one. Firstly, her mother would die rather than reside in the same home as her father, and second, Rhoda was not a coward.
Her mother strode across the room and tugged on the rarely used bell-pull. “Turn around. Let’s get you out of this day dress.”
Rhoda lifted the long strands of hair off her nape while her mother began unlacing the comfortable gown. “What should I wear?” She felt like a small child, her mama forcing her to go to her first party.
At that moment, Lucy appeared and strode toward the large wardrobe. “Oh, Miss Mossant, the artichoke taffeta. It brings out the little green flecks in your eyes and makes the copper in your hair stand out.”
Rhoda peered over at the looking glass. She was completely unaware of any green flecks in her eyes. She did have red in her hair though. And red was the opposite of green.
And green was her favorite color.
With a deep breath, she nodded. “Very well. Green, it is.”
Two hours later, Rhodafeltgreen as she waited to climb out of the carriage behind her mother. Dozens of familiar faces mingled in the drive, milling about waiting to climb the wide staircase.
The men wore combinations of bright silks and woolen blacks, separating the dandies from the soberer gentlemen. The ladies tittered behind fluttering fans, some with tall feathers in their hair, the younger ones dressed in pastels and whites.
Oh, how she wished Sophia had been able to attend with her! Or Emily or Cecily! She’d not realized how reliant she’d come to be upon her friends over the past two years. And tonight, of all nights, she needed them more than ever.
And then a gloved hand appeared in the doorway.
Masculine, at the end of an elegant black sleeve.
Not the hand of a footman.
