In fact, it was a whopping untruth. She did not simply deliver the note her father had been incapable of delivering that night years ago. She’d forced her way inside the small church and demanded answers. That evening her entire existence had changed. It had given her a purpose she hadn’t even known she needed.
“Will you tell me about it now, Father?”
He was smiling, the creases on the sides of his mouth deepening. His black hair was grey now, but his shoulders were still straight, and he walked about as he always did, with purpose.
“I will not, but I thank you for waiting five years to ask me that question. You showed far more restraint than I give you credit for, Daughter. That night you did something for me that was extremely important, and I will never forget the act.”
He’d asked her to knock on a door and repeat the words “Veritas scutumtibi erit,”the truth will be your shield. He’d then told her to never speak of it again. She’d honored his wishes, but she had spoken the pledge many times since.
“For heaven’s sake, Mary, put your shoulders back. Slouching is unbecoming,” her sister said, shooting a look over her shoulder.
Mary and her father sighed as one.
“Leave the girl alone, Phillipa,” Lord Blake said.
“It’s all right, I am used to it,” Mary said.
Her father sighed, but he said nothing further. The truth was he did not often interject on her behalf because unlike her, he escaped every day on the pretense of doing something that took him from the house. Mary did not have that luxury.
“Lord Hatton,” Mary’s mother said loudly, as if they did not know that the man she was curtsying to was a lord. “It is so gracious of you to invite us.”
The man smiled in that way some men did when they had nothing else to offer. The fact that he had no idea the Blakes had been invited because his wife had organized the guest list was clear to Mary. He was like many of his standing. Clueless about anything but their own needs and desires.
“Blake.”
“Hatton.” Lord Blake shook the peer’s hand.
Mary dropped into a curtsey and then they moved on and were announced into the ballroom.
She hated these events—in fact, Mary pretty much hated everything to do with society and the people in it. Except maybe her friends. She only had a few, but still, she liked them.
Primped and pampered guests danced and flirted. They conversed loudly to show how important they were and ignored those they saw beneath them. Mary was one of those.
She may have a viscount for a father, but that didn’t matter because she was unpopular and not a man, and she didn’t give a fig about it.
“Smile,” Phillipa hissed.
“I have nothing to smile about because unlike you, sister dear, I care nothing for events such as this or, for that matter, society.”
Phillipa was pretty when she wasn’t looking ugly, which needed clarification, but the truth was her sister often scowled, glared, or looked put out.
“Have a care, Phillipa. Soon your much vaunted appearance will diminish, and that scowl will be permanent,” Mary said.
“You are the worst sister,” Phillipa hissed. But Mary noticed she attempted a smile so no one realized the words coming from her mouth were coated in venom.
“Oh now, we both know that isn’t true. Ask anyone.”
Phillipa’s eyes narrowed. Mary rarely fought back—she extracted revenge in other subtler ways. But tonight she was not feeling charitable.
The Blake women were once again wearing hideous fashion disasters courtesy of their mother’s favorite dressmaker. Mary had a suspicion that it was the same dressmaker the Duchess of Yardley used. As yet, she had not had this confirmed.
The Paisley boutique was usually empty when they arrived for a fitting, and in fact, she was sure no one but them used her services. However, Eleanor Blake always knew best, and as her own mother had used the horrific dressmaker, then so must she and her daughters.
Phillipa, of course, looked good in anything, but Mary did not.
Tonight’s creation was a peach, though some would say orange, dress with large ruffles around the bodice which made Mary’s already substantial breasts look bigger. She hated it and the looks she knew she’d receive from men even more. She wore a plaited velvet band around her head and in that were feathers. She looked like a bird and not an exotic one.
“Mary!” The call came from her left, and she found her three friends standing together. Unfortunately, behind them was him. Zachariel Deville with his brothers. Scoundrel, bounder, and general annoyance.
