Emma, who knew she wasmeantto find it elegant, wasn’t sure how to reply. The truth was, she didn’t find it to be any more elegant than the Pink Pearl, but one didn’t compare Almack’s to a brothel, no matter how similar their purposes, so she only said, “Er…the company is certainly fashionable.”
Familiar, as well.
Emma’s lips twisted as she took in the array of gentlemen milling about the rooms. She couldn’t stir a step in any direction without stumbling over some flawlessly attired noblemen, many of whom were frequent visitors tothe Pink Pearl.
To look at them now, one would never suspect them of lustful urges, or drunken brawling, or of publicly exposing parts of their anatomy best kept private. No one would think them anything other than proper, well-bred gentlemen, with their gleaming smiles and snowywhite cravats.
Lord Baddeley was here, chatting with a group of young ladies on the opposite side of the ballroom. He was far from the worst of the swains, but he wasn’t quite as fastidious about his personal hygiene as one might wish, and he had a quick temper. Lord Kittredge was fragrant enough, but he was the sort to find fault with everything and everyone, and his hands were always cold. Or so she’d heard from Helena, who was not as discreet as she ought to be.
And they were among the better offeringshere tonight.
Emma’s gaze fell on Lord Peabody in his impeccable evening dress. For all his apparent good humor, she knew his frigid blue eyes were roving over the collection of young ladies, assessing each with the same narrow calculation as he might a costly bauble at Rundell and Bridge. She pitied any lady who found herself at Lord Peabody’s mercy.
If the dozens of sweet young ladies in their pale-colored silk gowns assembled here this evening knew what Emma did about London’s noblemen, they’d run screaming into the night and never look back. A vague pity swelled in her breast for them. At least the courtesans at the Pink Pearl understood the fate that awaited them, but one had only to look at these poor girls to see that their every romantic illusion remainedfirmly intact.
How many of these hopeful young innocents would find the love they longed for in a marriage? One, perhaps two? The others would have the stars in their eyes extinguishedquickly enough.
“Ah, here we are at last.” Lady Crosby gave Emma’s arm a discreet nudge. “Your quarry, my dear.”
Emma rose to her tiptoes to peek over the shoulders around her as the gentleman she’d been waiting for made his way through the crowd to the center ofthe ballroom.
Her eyes widened when she caught her first glimpse of him. “That’sLord Lovell? But…where’s therest of him?”
Lady Crosby sighed. “Emma, dearest, I do wish you’d stop saying that.”
“I beg your pardon.” It wasn’t quite what Emma had meant to say, butthisman, a debaucher? A wicked rake, a despoiler of virgins, a heartless seducer?
Lancelot Banning, Lord Lovell—or, as he was called by every housemaid, matron, marriageable young lady, and courtesan in London,Lord Lovely—with his fine, delicate features and charmingly disheveled dark curls, was quite the prettiest gentleman Emmahad ever seen.
Thisbeautiful young man, with his soulful dark eyes and fine, elegant hands, was meant to be the scoundrel who’d seduced, ruined, and then abandoned Caroline Francis on the doorstep of the Pink Pearl?Hewas the despicable villain meant to have done away with two of his aunt’s housemaids?
Of all the men crowding the ballroom this evening, he was the very last one Emma would have suspected, butsomeonehad donesomethingto Amy Townshend andKitty Yardley.
Emma’s throat closed, just as it did whenever she allowed herself to imagine what might have become of those two girls. Kitty Yardley had been only fifteen years of age when she went missing, the same age Emma had been when Lady Clifford took her away fromthe Pink Pearl—
“My goodness, look at the heads turning to follow Lord Lovell’s progress. Such a fuss!” Lady Crosby gave a disdainful sniff. “One would thinkhe was a duke.”
“A prince, even.” And so he was, as far as thetonwas concerned.
If Lord Lovell had done even half of what Caroline Francis claimed he had, he deserved to be locked into a cell at Newgate, not sailing around a ballroom with dozens of admiring femalegazes on him.
But Lord Lovell was a wealthy viscount, cousin to an even wealthier marquess, and even Emma couldn’t deny he was as handsome as rumor claimed. Thankfully, she’d never been the sort to be felled by a fine face, but it seemed she was the only one.
The rest of the ballroom was abuzz over his presence here tonight. After all, there was only one reason a gentleman appeared at Almack’s during the season. Lord Lovell was on the hunt for a wife, and half the young ladies in the ballroom this evening were imagining themselves Lady Lovell at this very moment.
Emma watched the crowd part to allow the exalted procession to pass. How lucky it was she’d had the foresight to choose a place in an unobtrusive corner of the ballroom, where she might observe the drama unfolding without attracting attention.
Still, she’d have to make her presence known soon enough, and then she’d have more attention than she’d ever wanted. Until then, she prepared to wait, and watch.
Lady Crosby tutted, shaking her head. “You’ll have a number of rivals for his affections, I’m afraid.”
Emma’s lips curved in a grim smile. “I’ll manage somehow, my lady.”
Lady Crosby chortled, her powdered face falling into a dozen gleeful wrinkles. “Oh, I’ve no doubt of that. You look ravishing tonight, my dear. Every inch the belle, from the crown of your fair head to the tips of your slippers. One glance into your blue eyes, and poor Lord Lovell will be yourwilling slave.”
Perhaps he would, but not for the reasons Lady Crosby supposed. It had nothing to do with Emma’s face, or her gown, her blue eyesor fair hair.
If Lord Lovell’s heart did end up in the palm of her hand, it would be because Emma was very, very good at pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Once she discovered what sort of lady Lord Lovell wanted, it was the work of a moment only for her to become that lady.
