Mr. Jordan, Charles’s father, came to her side. “He looks so odd out there. Him and his brother.” They were eye-to-eye, since he wasn’t a tall man, but his gaze had narrowed. He looked distressed.
Ester fluttered her fan while glancing at the grandfather clock. “What is odd, sir? Is something wrong?”
“Seeing the famed playwright Fitzwilliam-Cecil and Lord Hartwell here. They are enjoying themselves too much, as if they owned the place.”
Ester squinted and searched for the men. Nothing seemed odd. Just a man twirling his love in and out of the chalked lines, the other standing in the corner. “I see nothing amiss.”
“Look closer, Miss Croome. You don’t see how they size us up, looking at our women and our treasure for their taking?”
Cupping her hand to her eyes, Ester looked again and saw Theodosia’s brother-in-law, the viscount, leaning against the wall with an expression that looked pained. He looked uncomfortable, only smiling when Clancy brought the punch tray around. She saw nothing of what Mr. Jordan saw. Maybe a man no taller than Napoleon saw conspiracies everywhere.
She lowered her arm. “Mr. Jordan, I am confused. I see none of the aggressions you see.”
“Maybe with gaslights in here you would.” He chuckled, a sneering laugh. “You are young, girl.”
So, age made one see things that weren’t there? “Fitzwilliam-Cecil is a very pleasant man, and Lord Hartwell—” Ester became distracted at Frederica’s turn with Charles Jordan. She was pulling at her sleeve as if it had been manhandled. Ester’s gut twisted with guilt. “My friend, Miss Burghley, has missed a few steps in this set. I wish this dance was over so she could refresh herself.”
“Good, I see you looking at Charles. He’s a good dancer. You’ll have him to yourself soon enough.”
She wanted to say aloud she didn’t want him, and to point out how rude and awful he was being to Frederica, but Ester wouldn’t make a scene. That would embarrass her Mama. Protective hackles raised, Ester moved to save her friend. She’d take the abuse and even a lecher’s harassment to save someone she cared for.
“What is Lord Hartwell doing?” Mr. Jordan’s gruff tone deepened. “He’s cutting in on Charles.”
The viscount had moved from his spot and was taking Frederica’s hand from Jordan. Her friend’s lovely face looked bright, like a pixie, when she and Lord Hartwell twirled by.
Ester sighed in relief and Charles moved on to another girl, maybe one with virtue to match his appetite. “Don’t be concerned, sir. Your son has found a new place to warm his hands.”
Mr. Jordan frowned, his upper lip covering the lower one for a moment. “If you can’t see the problem, Miss Croome, then you are naive. Don’t worry. My Charles will protect you when you are wed.”
From what could a future adulterer protect Ester? Not from couch-sitting and wondering if and when he’d be home, or worse, like Papa, the pretense of happiness, only to discover later the lies in old love letters. Stomach turning, she nodded. “Yes, I saw how he protected Miss Burghley from a chill with his wandering hands. And she heated them by hitting them with her fan. Lucky for her, Lord Hartwell’s not cold like your son. Her shawl will stay unwrinkled.”
The man’s eyes went wide, shocked at the directness of her words, and Ester was surprised she’d said them.
The dance came to an end. Frederica gave her new partner a bow before heading to Ester. “Charles Jordan is a monster,” she said behind her fan. “How can he be so aggressive in front of you on the night of your engagement?”
“I’m not marrying him, Frederica.”
“So, you’re standing up to your father? Or are you talking about eloping with Bex?”
“I tried to tell Papa, but he’s still set on this match. Once I elope with Bex, well, he’ll come around. He’ll have no choice.”
Ester fluffed up the languets, the oval silk butterfly-like wings that she had designed for Frederica’s silver dress, but her friend pursed her lips. “Your mother will be so hurt.”
“At first, but she’s forgiven Papa for worse without even raising her voice.” Ester flicked another languet in place over the sheer lace that formed the overlay of Frederica’s gown. “I’m sorry you were manhandled by Jordan.”
“It’s what men like him expect they can do to someone like me, one borne of an illicit nature.” Frederica covered up with her long creamy shawl of fine silk, as if her gown were indecent.
“You are lovely, Frederica. Don’t let anyone make you feel less.”
Her friend’s countenance cleared. “You believe Bex will show? And after talking with him for an hour, you are ready to elope? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am, Frederica. We leave five minutes after midnight.”
Ester’s tone must not have convinced her, for the girl took a punch glass from a servant and sipped like she’d thirsted for days. “That’s ten minutes from now.” She took Ester by the shoulders into the hall. “How can you be so calm?”
“You just danced with Charles Jordan. Do you see him as anyone who could be a faithful husband? I’m calm and reasoned about Bex because I let him know how important honesty and fidelity is. It seemed just as important to him.”
Frederica squeezed her hard. “I want the best for you. If you are determined to elope, tell me how to help.”
