Now, outside this ballroom, where I will undoubtedly encounter familiar faces, I feel foolish. Reckless. I’ve never been the impulsive sort. I’ve always been cautious and followed the rules. But seeing that photograph—Barbara’s swooning desire, Kate’s lecherous grin—stirred such anger and jealousy in me.
And then I hear her. Kate. Her voice soars over the din of conversation inside the ballroom. A few measures later, another voice joins hers. A woman’s voice. I have no doubt who it belongs to. My heart pounds as I push past a couple standing in the doorway and make my way into the crowded room. The cloying scent of perfume mixes with the heady fragrance of gardenias. And at the end of the ballroom, on a raised dais, I see her—Kate, resplendent, beautiful, seated at a piano. Barbara stands near her, dressed in yellow once more, their voices twining together. A string quartet accompanies them as they sing, their voices rising in soul-piercing harmony. My fists clench at my sides. Kate is unabashedly flirting with Barbara as they sing, sending coy glances up at her through her lashes. Mr. Kincaid looks on, beaming. He’s either oblivious to what’s going on, or he’s encouraging it. No longer able to stomach the seduction happening onstage, I turn my attention to the crowd.
Next to the stage, I glimpse Arabella Meade holding court, surrounded by men and women alike, her fan languidly sweeping the air. Her beauty is incandescent under candlelight. Now that Rebecca is gone, Arabella has no rival. With her looks and her father’s standing as a wealthy shipowner, I’m shocked she hasn’t yet married. Perhaps the rumors are true—that the Meades have lost their fortune, that they’re hiding behind a mountain of debt. I can think of no other reason for Arabella’s lack of suitors. With Papa gone, Captain Meade lost one of his chief merchants and silk-buying customers, which would surely take a toll as well. Perhaps Captain Meade and Mr. Kincaid have formed a new alliance, which would help to explain Arabella’s presence here. I’ll have to do my best to avoid her, as she’s the most likely to recognize me. Other familiar faces drift past me as I hover along the outside edges of the room, trying not to draw too much attention. I exchange bland pleasantries with the guests, remembering my Scots burr. I am no longer Lillian Carmichael. I’m Mary Jones tonight, and for every night outside the walls of Angel’s Rest.
Though I hide my disdain behind a gracious smile, the simmer of cold anger that Kate witnessed in me is easy to nurse here. I hate so many people in this room. Leroy Burrows, haughty and overdressed, took great pleasure in denouncing my father to the papers. Georgina McClintock resembles a cream puff in her toffee-colored gown, white hair bundled at her nape in a knot of complex braids an enslaved maid likely spent hours accomplishing. As the chivalry’s chief matchmaker, she helped arrange my and William’s betrothal and was once my mother’s closest friend. Once.
Part of me worries that Mother will be here. But even in the unlikely event she was invited to this party, she’d still be in full mourning for Papa. Besides, our family name fell off the society invitation lists long before tonight.
A footman passes by, carrying a tray with drinks. I accept his offer of champagne to calm my nerves and find a seat near the back of the room. The irritating duet ends, finally, thankfully, and Barbara descendsthe stage, her cheeks flushed. She goes to her husband, who kisses her temple. She’s a talented singer, I’ll give her that. Begrudgingly. I’m sure she and Kate owned the stage together in their heyday.
“Varina” resumes playing, and the chatter in the room fades to a hush as she lifts her voice to sing. Distracted as I am by her performance, and my still-boiling jealousy, I hardly notice that someone has taken the chair next to mine. It’s hissmellthat finds me first. Fresh limes and tobacco smoke. I turn my head slowly and see his long, elegant fingers clutching his silver-topped walking stick.Remember, you’re Mary Jones.I repeat the phrase over and over in my head as Dr. Broadbent, my former physician, angles toward me. “She’s a bit tawdry, isn’t she?” he whispers, gesturing to Varina.
“Yes,” I concur, remembering that Mary Jones is a wealthy widow and would, in fact, look down her nose at performers like Varina. “That dress is ill-fitting. Cheap.” Though my jealousy adds a bitter drop of poison to my words, it’s no lie. As the daughter of a silk merchant, I know good fabric when I see it. Most of Kate’s costumes are made of poor-quality satin—meant for the stage, not a fine ballroom.
Dr. Broadbent assesses me coolly, his refined, aquiline features unchanged since the last time I saw him, in the courtroom where he provided the damning testimony for my conviction. “I’m so sorry, have we been introduced?” he asks. “I didn’t see you at the reception.”
“No, sir. I’m afraid I was late.” I demur even though I’ve known this man since childhood. He nursed me through countless illnesses, only to betray me in my hour of greatest need. “Mrs. Mary Jones.”
“You’re Scottish.” He smiles. “How charming. Lionel Broadbent, physician.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Broadbent,” I say. My pulse hammers beneath my skin. A few moments pass. I glance at him as he watches Varina. If he recognizes me, he’s doing a tremendous job of concealing it. He doesn’t, I determine.
“Is your husband with you tonight, Mrs. Jones?” he asks abruptly, still watching Varina.
“No, sir. He’s been gone three years now. The war.” I’m grateful that the periwinkle gown is somber enough in color to count as half mourning but curse myself for not studying Great Britain’s recent wars more deliberately. William always kept me well schooled in such matters—one thing I enjoyed about our courtship. Our shared love of history.
“In Africa, I assume?”
“Yes,” I say, my mouth dry.
His gray eyes rake over me. “You’re quite young for a widow. Are you here visiting family?”
My scalp prickles beneath the heavy wig. A bead of perspiration runs down my temple as I nod. “My cousin. She was supposed to come tonight. She fell ill.”
“How unfortunate.” He clears his throat. “How much longer will you stay?”
“At the party?”
“No, ma’am. In the States.”
“I’m not ... certain. I haven’t yet booked passage home.”
His eyes scrape over me again, and quite suddenly, I realize why he’s asking me these questions. He’sinterestedin me. Perhaps romantically. I’m not surprised. The doctor is a confirmed bachelor and a rumored playboy, handsome, with a reserved charisma. I remember that many of the young women in my cohort secretly admired him, though their standing in society would never have allowed betrothal to a doctor. But that never kept him from his dalliances. From the way he’s looking at me, it appears nothing has changed.
“If you’d be inclined, Mrs. Jones, I’d very much like to call on you while you’re here,” he says, giving credence to my suspicions.
Disgust roils through me, but I master it before it alters my expression. Still, I’m pleased my disguise seems to be effective. He doesn’t recognize me. Perhaps my acting is better than Kate thinks. “I’m afraid my elderly cousin doesn’t have the patience for entertaining gentleman callers, sir. She’s quite infirm.”
He hums thoughtfully and withdraws a small metal case from beneath the lapel of his jacket. He takes out a crisp calling card and offers it to me. “I see. Should you—or your cousin, for that matter—ever find yourself in need of a doctor during your stay, I do call on my patients at home. Or if you happen to be near Savage Street during your visit, you might stop in. I keep office hours between one o’clock and three. You may bring your cousin, if you’d prefer to have a chaperone.”
I take his card gingerly. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m quite surprised your cousin allowed you to come out alone tonight. Surely she told you.”
“Told me?”
“About our murders. There’s a curfew. Women are no longer allowed to be out past eight o’clock without an escort.”
