“For what, pray tell?”
“I failed to thank you for the flowers.”
Good God. He’d completely forgotten the hundreds of roses he’d sent to her, all red. “They, er, reminded me of you.”
Something indefinable, besides her blush, crossed her features. Regret? “How very nice of you to say, my lord. Thank you.”
His eyes shot to her. It felt as if she was saying goodbye. “Is there something wrong, Lorelei?”
Her laughter tinkled like a tiny bell. Of warning. “Of course not.” Had her words been rushed?
After their dance, she turned her obligated smile on him. The brilliant one that overpowered the brightest flame. She made her excuses and trotted back up the stairs. He didn’t follow this time. She wouldn’t be sneaking off to another empty room.
He’d seen Shufflebottom disappear into the card room located on the opposite end from the ladies retiring chamber. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make certain the man wasn’t putting one over.
Thorne worked his way through the crowd and entered the smoke-filled room. A thick cloud of it hung low. No tepid lemonade or warm champagne served in here. Just the best spirits available: brandy, whiskey, port.
Shufflebottom was seated at a table with Faulk, Maudsley, and Martindale. Shufflebottom tapped the deck of cards he held on the table, evening their edges. “Hey, there, Kimpton. How about a quick game of whist?”
Faulk shoved away from the table. “Take my chair, Kimpton. He’s claimed my last debt of the night.”
Against Thorne’s better judgement, he lowered in Faulk’s vacated chair. He couldn’t abide Shufflebottom, but playing cards with the man kept him from Lorelei.
Based on Ginny’s instructions, Lorelei found Lord Peachornsby’s study and stole out the terrace doors. She wasted no time making her way past the garden gate to the mews. The Maudsley’s carriage was just where they’d planned. Letting out a relieved rush of breath, she tapped on the door. It opened immediately.
“Blimey, Lore. I thought you’d never get here.”
“Give me a hand up.” It was a struggle in her gown and the stiffness of her corset, and by the time all was said and done, she’d all but rolled in on the floor in a heap of skirts. “Did you get everything?”
“Yes.” Brandon tapped on the ceiling, and the carriage started forward.
“Lower the shades.” An aged portmanteau rested on the seat. Lorelei dragged out a black bombazine frock and held it up to her. “You’ll have to help me, Bran. I can’t manage this by myself.” It took twenty minutes to complete Lorelei’s transformation from debutante to widow. She set the smart little hat complete with veil on the seat beside her and turned down the lamp. She lifted the shades, letting in a sliver of rare moonlight. “Where are we headed?”
Brandon had been tasked with mapping out their route. “We’ll stay the night in Cheshunt by way of High Street tonight. Lady Maudsley’s man will secure us a private carriage for the rest of our journey to Spixworth. We’ll have to stay the night in Newmarket.”
“You, Lord Harlowe, are a very clever fellow.”
“High Street is less populated than the Great North Road, but it should be safer in the event Aunt Isobel sends anyone after us.” She heard the frown in his voice. “Do you think she’ll hunt us down?”
The tension in Lorelei’s neck tightened. “I don’t know. The duchess is ill. I feel bad leaving like we did. She might not learn of our departure for a couple of days, though that’s unlikely. She’ll be furious, for sure.” She had no idea to what lengths their great aunt would go for Lorelei’s slight.
Brandon snorted. “Why should you feel bad? She was going to force you into marrying that popinjay.”
“Regardless, I do feel bad. After all that money and time she spent on me.” She lifted her chin even as a shudder snaked up her spine. “But you are quite correct. I should have some say in whom I marry, and I could not abide that man. I’d rather jump in the Thames laden in a stone’s worth of petticoats.”
Twelve
T
horne stuffed Shufflebottom’s vowel in his pocket with smug satisfaction and strolled back to the ballroom with the idea of escorting Lady Lorelei into supper. She had to be famished, as he highly doubted she’d been on the sideline watching the dancers.
But she wasn’t on the dance floor. He scanned the ballroom, alarm prickling his skin—from the hoard of gathered debutants to the wall of chaperones to the corner of titled women—nowhere did he spot Lorelei. His gaze moved back to the dance floor. Lady Maudsley was partnered with Oxford. They were an odd combination as the top of Oxford’s head barely reached her chin. It was a sight Thorne was relieved to see, frankly, as Brock’s company could only bring Lady Maudsley grief.
Maudsley was still in the card room, so speaking to her shouldn’t pose too great a problem.
The music drew to a close and Thorne moved to intercept Oxford and Lady Maudsley. “Oxford,” he greeted, inclining his head. “Lady Maudsley.” This close to the woman, he could see the bruising discoloration on the exposed sliver of her upper arm.
“Kimpton.” Oxford turned to Lady Maudsley. “Thank you for the dance, madam. If you’ll both excuse me?”
