“Someone better go and tell Miss Wylde,” Angelique said. “She may need to adjust her program.”
They were both indescribably relieved they would not need to play pianoforte for her.
They saw Miss Wylde’s little face peep out of a slit in the velvet curtains at the sound of the violins. Then immediately duck back behind it.
Then Delilah and Angelique pivoted toward the doorway again and almost gave a start.
A gentleman—for he most assuredly was—and a lady—for she most assuredly was—hovered there, each wearing evening finery and harried, wary expressions as they approached.
But when they were met by the warm, gracious smiles of two beautiful ladies, one dressed in gold silk, the other in red silk, and when they peered past them into the ballroom, their tense expressions cleared and evolved into a certain puzzled wonder.
And then relaxed into lines of pure pleasure.
“We should like two tickets to hear Miss Mariana Wylde, please. We are Lord and Lady Dovecoat,” he said, briskly confident now.
“Of course,” Delilah said smoothly. “Eight shillings, please. And we do thank you for coming. Here is your program. As you are among the first to arrive, you’re entitled to a commemorative handkerchief, because we feel you will need it when Miss Wylde breaks your heart. We think you’d like a memento, because we feel certain you will want to remember this exclusive occasion forever.”
They were visibly charmed by both this speech and the gift.
“Oh, a handkerchief, Dovecoat!” Lady Dovecoat was delighted about this. “And a broken heart! How novel! What do these initials stand for?”
“The Grand Palace on the Thames, Lady Dovecoat. We are the finest, most exclusive destination for entertainment this side of London.”
Angelique had improvised, and Delilah shot her an amused, approving glance.
“Dorothy will show you to your seats,” Delilah told them.
Dorothy was Dot, of course, who curtsied deeply to them, and led them to the second row and sat them three chairs in. To their evident puzzlement, her face was still, very faintly, blue from the nets, which lent her a bit of an ethereal air.
She went on to amuse herself by seating all the arriving couples by the colors the ladies wore, creating a pattern of blue, red, gold, and green stripes across the rows, sorting mauves in with the blues and pinks in with the reds, and this was often accomplished by seating one couple in the middle of an empty row, squeezing another couple onto the end, and more than once, asking another couple to move. Soon the pattern was part of the scenery and a very pretty sight that greeted all the new arrivals.
What did it mean?they murmured amongst themselves. Surely it was arankingof some sort. Wasn’t everything?
The cryptic and clearly deliberate arrangementkept the aristocrats unsettled and obsessed for weeks.
Later, Mariana thought she first understood what was about to happen when she heard the first note dragged by a bow from a violin.
Her heart lurched. She’d felt that note like it had been drawn from her own heart.
She was motionless, puzzled.
Suddenly, Mrs. Pariseau, looking very handsome in a dark green silk with long fitted sleeves and a matching turban, peered through the curtain.
“Miss Wylde, are you decent?” she whispered.
“When am I ever decent?” Mariana bent to whisper back.
They both chuckled.
“A string quartet has arrived. Though the sudden Bach probably gave that away. The musicians claim they were paid to play for you. Do you know anything about it?”
While Mariana could not truthfully say sheknewanything about it, she’d been smiling to herself since she heard the Bach. She was almost certain shedidknow how and why they were there.
He’d listened to her. He’d always listened to her. And it seemed he could make some dreams come true, after all.
She had learned her lesson about hope and portent, however. They stirred, of course; she gave them the cut direct. She would not again be swiftly encouraging something that had caused her so much pain.
“Would you like to have a word with the cellist?”Mrs. Pariseau asked. As the cellist wasn’t currently occupied.
