“Are you permitted to bring a guest with you?” The man asked. There was an edge of flirtation in his voice that made my shoulder blades tighten.
I turned around to face the stairs. “No. And you are fortunate to have been excluded from the invitation. I envy you. I would much rather be confined to my room sleeping.”
“Perhaps I should accompany you and request entrance to this secret party.”
His voice had grown closer, which told me he had stepped away from the door. He must have trusted that I wouldn’t turn around to see his exposed upper-body again—or he didn’t care.
Or he wanted me to.
All were very plausible intentions.
“What are you doing?” My voice was panicked. It would not serve my reputation at the house well to have a shirtless man following me at midnight.
“I wish to come.”
“You cannot,” I said in a harsh whisper. “You were not given a letter.”
“If it will make you more comfortable, I will put on a shirt. Even a waistcoat if you insist upon it.” His flirtatious tone caused a scowl to crease my forehead.
I kept my gaze fixed on the stairs ahead, eager to rush down them and escape his determined questioning. If I could invent something that might make the effort of attending too troublesome, he might leave me alone. I searched my mind for an idea. “A shirt and waistcoat will not be enough,” I said in a stern voice. “In Lady Tottenham’s letter, she insisted that gentlemen come dressed in their most fashionable riding attire. She specified a need for white leather knee breeches, two waistcoats, a wool frock coat, and a neck cloth of the French affectation. As for footwear…only Hessians will be tolerable. For headwear, she favors a bicorn hat.”
The man was silent for several seconds before he gave a laugh of disbelief. “All of that for the parlor?”
“Yes. As you see, it is not worth the effort, and not worth displeasing Lady Tottenham. Please excuse me.” I didn’t wait for a response. With the bannister as my guide, I hurried down the dark staircase. I only dared to look back once I was safely on the ground floor. Part of me had expected him to follow me, but I was relieved to find the staircase empty.
I wrapped my arms around myself with a deep breath, rubbing my elbows. I couldn’t be seen until I was composed. I straightened my posture outside the parlor, listening to the voices within. Had they started their game without me?
Just as the thought crossed my mind, the door swung open wide.
I jumped. Lady Tottenham faced me, her hand still clutching the doorknob. “Ah! Lady Daventry, I was just about to send someone to break down your door.” She chuckled deep in her throat before her expression snapped into solemnity. “Make haste. We have been waiting far too long for you.”
My eyes adjusted to the bright candlelight, bringing Lady Tottenham into clearer view. She wore a taffeta evening gown, the ribbons and trims an assortment of orange, red, and pink. Her hair, only slightly less orange, was piled atop her head in a cone shape, mimicking a flame. Curls spilled out from the arrangement and framed the sharp, playful features of her face: green eyes, a pointed nose, and lips smeared with dark rouge.
“What are these secret parlor games?” I whispered as I took her extended elbow.
“You shall soon find out.” She practically shook me off her arm, depositing me on a settee beside a gentleman. I glanced at my surroundings. There had been thirteen total guests at dinner, not including the shirtless new arrival. I had been introduced to all of them, but now their names escaped me. In total, there were only eight guests seated around the parlor. Four women, and four men.
Lady Tottenham drifted away to the center of the room, taking a graceful seat in her striped silk chair. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe all the participants have now arrived.” She grinned, revealing a smudge of rouge on her front tooth. “Let the games begin.” She crossed her hands in front of her, glancing at each of the guests in turn. I followed her gaze around the room.
There was Mrs. Fitzgibbon, also a young widow, who was seated beside her cousins, Miss Morton and Miss Rowley. The poor young girls likely hadn’t realized how a house party hosted by Lady Tottenham might risk their reputations. Mrs. Fitzgibbon was a naive chaperone to have approved her cousins’ attendance. For a moment, Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s eyes met mine, ablaze with excitement. She was either oblivious, or just as wild as Lady Tottenham.
The gentlemen in the room consisted of Mr. Amesbury, Mr. Barnwall, Mr. St. Vincent, and Lord Kirkham. Lady Tottenham had made it clear at dinner that all the guests in attendance were single, unattached, and ripe for the picking.
She had used those precise words.
I was not ripe, nor was a looking to be picked. Not when Miles was so close to returning. To my friends and family, I had pretended to have cared less for him than I did. But in truth, I had never forgotten him, nor my feelings for him. I had never forgotten the painful circumstances that had prevented us from marrying. I had never stopped loving him or waiting for him, even if it made me a pitiful, boring widow in the eyes of society.
“Good evening, my lady.” The gentleman beside me interrupted my thoughts. His large forehead gleamed with perspiration, and the thinning dark hair that remained on his head was combed to one side.
“Good evening, Mr. Barnwall.”
During dinner I had learned that his wife had died two years before, leaving him the sole parent of six young children. He had a fortune vast enough to employ nannies and governesses to watch over them while he enjoyed parties like this in London. From what I understood, he was only at home a few weeks each year. I was not particularly fond of Mr. Barnwall already.
My father had shown a similar disinterest in my sister and me, and so I found such views on parenthood entirely detestable. According to Lady Tottenham, Mr. Barnwall had come here to secure a new mother for his children. By the way he was looking at me, it was clear that his eager eyes were searching for signs that I might qualify. As a widow on the shelf, he would assume I had few options to choose from.
Mr. Amesbury sat across from me, legs crossed, hands fidgeting nervously. He had blond curls, a friendly face, and from what I had learned, a small fortune and modest country estate to boast of. He appeared to be the youngest of the gentlemen, likely in his late twenties.
Mr. St. Vincent was rather stoic, with large side whiskers and black hair. All I knew was that his favorite pastimes consisted of gambling and drinking.
