Taking a restorative breath, Constance finally allowed the dreaded words to form. Each one of them cut straight through her soul, but she forced herself to continue until a brief paragraph had taken shape.
Before she could stop herself and rip the missive into shreds, she quickly folded it and sealed it with a dollop of wax. Even then, she stared at it for countless minutes, wondering what the reply would be from the investigator. He had come highly recommended by Mr. Plainview, although she hadn’t bothered to tell Devin that. He would likely only jump to the wrong conclusions, just as he had with Sir Isaacson.
With a weary sigh, she set the letter on her dressing table where it would sit until morning.
That would give her enough time to reconsider her actions if she chose to do so.
The Countess of Blessington looked about her ballroom and clapped her hands together in delight. “This will be a masquerade like no other. One that will be spoken of for years to come.” She slid a sly glance to Constance. “And it’s all due to you, my dear Mrs. Hartford. You have solidified my position in English society by this fete. It’s all anyone can talk about.”
Count d’Orsay was by the lady’s side in a striking yellow waistcoat with green embroidery. “Indeed. I daresay it will be perfectly splendid, even if it will likely take me all that afternoon to powder my face.”
Constance couldn’t help but snort, knowing the man’s penchant for flamboyancy. “That may be, but I bet your costume will be envied by all.”
“On that, my dear, you may rest assured.” He grinned coyly. “I do have the best reputation when it comes to my fine threads.” He bowed deeply to both of them. “Until Saturday evening, my fellow conspirators.”
Dipping into a pair of impressive curtsies, the countess and Constance bade him farewell. The latter walked over and threaded her arm through Constance’s. “Do you have a partner for the evening’s festivities? I daresay it won’t be Sir Isaacson. After what you told me about him, I wish I hadn’t sent him an invitation. Perhaps he’ll cry off at the last minute and spare us all.”
While Constance had focused most of her time on the preparation for the metamorphosis ball, the few events that she had attended where the baronet was present, their interactions had been strained and brief, his expression promising her that retribution would come, and that he hadn’t forgotten the way she’d insulted him in his own carriage. “One can only hope,” Constance murmured, although something told her that he would, indeed, make an appearance. She just prayed he wouldn’t make a scene in front of Lady Blessington. “As far as an escort, I will be attending alone, but it’s not as if my reputation is in any danger. I will be a gentleman, after all, not some helpless female in need of protection.” She offered a wink that made the countess laugh gaily.
“I have no doubt that you’ll make a smashing success as a male.” The lady lifted a brow and her eyes grew mischievous. “I am anxious to see what you look like in a pair of trousers.”
Constance grinned. “Then I shall ensure that I walk directly ahead of you so that you can enjoy your fill.”
Lady Blessington’s lips twitched. “You are a true diamond in the rough, Mrs. Hartford. I have the feeling all heads will be turned in your direction. I shall have my work cut out for me, I’m sure of it.” She opened her fan and steered them out the terrace doors. There, they took a short walk through the gardens.
The lady was quite proud of her flowers, so she was eager to point the new recruits out to Constance. “And my new gardener has been a Godsend.” She wagged her fingers as they passed a man bent over a fresh area of dirt where he had just planted a lavender bush.
He turned his head and Constance was struck with a frisson of alarm. She had never lain eyes on the man before, but the way he glanced past his employer and looked directly at her, it just didn’t set well. “What did you say his name was?”
The countess put a finger to her lips and thought for a moment. “John? Jacob?” She waved a hand. “You know, I can’t really recall. Why do you ask?”
Constance smiled stiffly. “I thought he might have looked familiar,” she returned vaguely, as she couldn’t very well mention that she was merely being paranoid, that the sixth sense she’d always relied upon was knocking firmly upon her conscience.
To ease her mind, she decided that she would pay a visit to Montfree’s to find out if her instinct was still as faithful as it had always been.
However, when she arrived at the gaming hell later that afternoon, Brutus wasn’t at his usual post at the front door. When a strange man with a dark expression and hard eyes faced her on the front step with arms crossed, she asked about the former pugilist’s whereabouts.
“’E’s not ’ere.”
His tone was clipped and considering he didn’t move aside Constance took that as a hint she wasn’t welcome to enter the establishment. Instantly, the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled in caution. “I can see that. What I’d like to know is why. He’s not one to slack his duties.”
He shrugged carelessly. “Can’t say.”
Constance sighed inwardly. So, it’s to be the hard way…
She removed the pistol that she’d concealed in her skirts and pointed the barrel straight at his chest. His eyes bulged and he slowly lifted his arms in surrender. “Now, let’s try this again,” she enunciated clearly. “Besides, don’t you think it’s rather impolite to leave a lady standing outside?”
He quickly bobbed his head and as he backed up, she kicked the door shut behind her with her boot. She glanced around quickly, to see if there were any other brutes that she had to concern herself with, but all was quiet. And during the day, with a popular establishment like Montfree’s to be without a single customer—needless to say, it didn’t add up.
She tilted her head to the side and stared at him unflinchingly. “You will find I’m not easily dissuaded when I want something.”
Again, he nodded, and she could actually see his arms trembling. It was always so easy to decipher the brawny men who were actually cowards beneath all their gruff. “Now, tell me. Where is Brutus?”
“’E is...indisposed.”
Constance didn’t like the sound of that. “Here?” She could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, still weighing his options about whether he should come clean or not. She gave an annoyed sigh and cocked the hammer back. “I’m not asking again—”
He pointed toward the ceiling. “Granelli’s got ’im. Upstairs wit’ th’ owner. In th’ office.”
