She would have preferred to blend into the cream walls, hide behind the burgundy curtains, or find a quiet alcove and hope Mrs Foster ambled by.
But if Dominic had taught her anything, it was to own her space. To turn disdain to one’s advantage.
“If that chin dips, you’ll sleep in the coal shed tonight,” Charlotte teased. “Remember, walk slowly. Pause before speaking. Elegance comes not from jewels or fine clothes, but from presence.”
Charlotte guided her through the throng with practised ease, nodding to acquaintances and ignoring those who stared.
“You’re certain Mrs Foster will be here?” Daphne searched the sea of heads, looking for a woman with too much rouge and hair as wild as a bird’s nest.
“Her new protector is Lady Parker’s brother—Lord Ainsley. He never misses a ball.” Charlotte leant closer. “He would rather scandalise the room than be thought dull.”
“I suppose she’ll follow him around like a lapdog until he’s settled her debts.” Daphne didn’t smile. What would Mrs Foster do for money? Practically anything, it seemed. Did that extend to murder?
They circled the ballroom in search of the woman. Mengravitated towards Charlotte and looked straight through Daphne. Part of her was almost relieved. Her heart belonged elsewhere.
Charlotte tugged her sleeve. “There, by the terrace doors.”
Mrs Foster loitered beside a potted palm, peering through the fronds as though she were invisible. It might have helped had she not worn canary yellow.
Daphne followed the line of her gaze to Lord Ainsley—and stopped.
Dominic stood near the marble fireplace, listening with that same guarded stillness she knew too well. He didn’t spare Lord Ainsley a glance. He looked at her as if they were alone in the dark, his eyes slowly stripping away her clothes.
The air left her lungs. She should have looked away. Instead, the music seemed to fade as her thoughts returned to the memory of their entwined fingers and the hope nothing could part them.
Dominic.
For a moment she forgot why she had come.
Lord Ainsley had his own distractions. A curt nod at Mrs Foster and the woman disappeared through the terrace doors.
“We should follow her into the garden,” Daphne said, eager to put distance between her and Dominic before her composure deserted her completely.
Charlotte agreed, but her step faltered at the terrace doors.
“What’s wrong?” Daphne asked.
“Nothing.” Charlotte’s fingers tightened briefly on the door frame. “I once learned a harsh lesson in a garden.” She released a quiet breath and stepped outside. “Come. I see her heading for the rotunda.”
Mrs Foster was not draped gracefully upon a stone bench like a goddess of Olympus. She was crouched behind the garden temple, ducking like a thief avoiding the watch.
“Mrs Foster,” Daphne called, leaning around a pillar. She found the woman sipping from a silver flask. “Is there something wrong with Lady Parker’s champagne? There’s ratafia if you prefer.”
“Go away,” came the brusque reply. Mrs Foster pushed the stopper back into the flask and slipped it into her reticule. “If Mr Hawke sees me talking to you, he’ll have my guts for garters.”
“You have greater worries than that.”
Mrs Foster jerked as if a rat trap had snapped beneath her feet. “No. Tell me you’ve not found more. I thought Ainsley was the only one.”
Daphne caught the sharp scent of brandy on her breath. “The only one?”
“The only loan amongst your father’s belongings.”
Daphne shook her head, though she was not entirely confused. Dominic’s story rang in her mind like a warning.
“My father’s debts are not your responsibility.”
Mrs Foster grasped her hand. “They’re not?” She sagged with relief. “Thank heavens. You persuaded Mr Hawke to settle the debt, as he did with Mr Moseley. Your aunt received a letter this morning, confirming the account has been paid.”
