“Hell!” Ethan thrusthimself into the ancient chair. It groaned, and for the fiftieth time he thought of having one of Brigham’s footmen bring him another.
Glancing at the paper crumpled in his hands, Ethan swore again. Alex’s letter confirmed that a new shipment of British arms had been delivered to the French, and the smugglers they’d been investigating were no longer in Hampshire. Ethan hoped when he saw his brother tonight, Alex would have new information.
Ethan itched to go back to work, scour London and Paris for the smugglers and their traitorous leader. Instead, he was late for his own betrothal ball. He couldn’t even call off the ball because he couldn’t be certain a smuggler was responsible for Francesca’s attack. The timing of Nat’s attack was after he thought the smugglers long gone. Had one stayed behind? Was he wrong to suspect them all along?
He still held out hope the attacker might make another attempt on Francesca at the ball.
Thoughts of the long night ahead made him grit his teeth, but he rose, tried to ignore the chair’s squeal, and headed into Hell. It would all be worth it when he caught Francesca’s attacker.
It was after eight, but the light from the house and the lanterns on the line of arriving carriages lit the lawn as though it were midday. Ethan skirted the busy main entrance and angled for the quieter south front. Once inside, he made a rare stop to right his cravat and coat.
Despite Pocket’s attempts to persuade him to don a striped green-and-gold coat with matching waistcoat and fawn breeches, he’d chosen to wear his usual conservative black attire. Now, he straightened his simple white cravat and hoped Pocket wasn’t lying in wait with one of his infamous bristle brushes.
––––––––
ETHAN AMBLED ALONGthe halls, greeting guests and avoiding the harried servants. He recognized several of his acquaintances and was beginning to think the evening might not be torture after all, when he entered the ballroom.
Clearly Lady Brigham had outdone herself, and in a fashion only she could manage. The room glittered, sparkling gold everywhere he looked. The theme the viscountess had chosen was, not surprisingly, Italy. Like gold-flecked sentries, replicas of the Coliseum, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and the Sistine Chapel stood guard around the room. Replicated sculptures and paintings by the Italian masters—Michelangelo, Raphael, da Vinci, among others—cluttered the walls. At the top of the room, the small orchestra was hidden, not behind ornamental shrubbery, as was the usual custom, but sequestered behind a lavish grotto, overflowing with dense foliage.
Plants and flowers toppled over each other, vying for space. The profusion of roses in every hue choked him with the strength of their scent, and interspersed among the roses were lilies and irises, daffodils and tulips. The trees, plants, and vines of the grotto were real as well. And though he’d never planned a ball, Ethan knew that it must have cost Lady Brigham a fortune to obtain the fresh flowers and plants during the cold English November.
Ethan shook his head and made his way through the ballroom to the supper room. It took him perhaps a quarter of an hour to navigate the short distance; he was stopped time and again by Lady Brigham’s guests. He knew all of them—Lady Sefton, Lord and Lady Osterley, the Marquess of Alton, Baron Montague. Even the Prime Minister, William Pitt, was expected.
Patience now strained to the breaking point, and still hours of merriment remaining, he glanced once, then again, at the lavish feast tumbling down the endless table. The massive piece of furniture looked ready to collapse under the weight of its offerings. Ethan almost gaped at the piles of food. There were mounds of fruit—mostly fresh, not preserves—strawberries, pineapple, apricots, peaches. Cherry water and pineapple cream ices, sweetbreads, several chocolate soufflés, and, Francesca would be pleased, dozens of pastries and sweets—
sugarplums, candied violets, cakes, pies, meringues, and tarts of every variety, including chocolate—vied with the other dishes for the choice positions.
One of the footmen, in new blue-and-gold livery, offered him a glass of champagne, and Ethan gulped it down, then took another.
Ethan’s gaze swept the room. More guests had arrived—Lady Bessborough held court just outside the supper room, Charles James Fox passed by, already in a deep political discussion with Lord Brigham, and Ethan thought he saw Lord and Lady Holland as well as Lady Melbourne, making their way to the ballroom.
It was the middle of a wet, cold, dreary November, and yet the most august personages in the country had left their warm residences and flocked to Hampshire to attend Lady Brigham’s betrothal ball. He didn’t know why the fact should surprise him. After all, Francesca was the daughter of a prominent viscount, and he was a marquess.
What did surprise him was how much of a fool he was. In several weeks these same eminent guests would be sitting in their drawing rooms readingThe Morning Chronicleand gossiping over the lateston-dit—the abrupt end of the Dashing-Winterbourne betrothal. It would take machinations and maneuverings, but he had to make certain Francesca emerged unscathed.
He scanned the room again. It was packed with people, and not one of them was the person he wanted to see. Where the devil was his betrothed? She’d barely acknowledged him the past week, but surely she’d attend her own betrothal ball.
Ethan pushed his way out of the room, ever vigilant for any guests who did not look as though they belonged. He spotted Alex, who looked bored. The earl shook his head, indicating he’d seen nothing. He nodded to Alex, then spoke briefly to several guests before squeezing through the crowded doorway into the hall.
“Che buona fortuna!” Lady Brigham fastened onto his arm. “There you are, Lord Winterbourne! We have been looking everywhere for you.”
And he’d been watching for her as well, hoping to avoid her. Too late for that now.
Lady Brigham wore a scarlet gown trimmed with gold, and the huge red and gold plumes on her headdress poked him in the face as she turned her head about. “Look at all these people,” she hissed. “I was afraid the rain would keep them away, but they have all come!” She beamed at him, and Ethan tried to smile back.
“Francesca is with herpadrein the ballroom. Are you ready to make”—she paused, fingers tightening on his sleeve—“theannouncement?” Her voice was breathy with excitement.
She didn’t wait for him to respond, merely tugged at his sleeve to encourage him in the direction of the ballroom. He went to his fate without protest. Best to get it over and done with.
The guests milling in the ballroom were all smiles, faces full of eager anticipation. Ethan inclined his head, spoke to several, and then in mid-stride he stumbled.
Standing at the top of the room, framed by the spill of roses and greenery from the grotto, stood Francesca. Her arm was linked with her father’s, and if it had not been, Ethan might not have believed it was she.
She was exquisite—wilderness tamed—in an ivory tunic dress of white crepe over white sarcenet and all trimmed with gold. Her glossy chocolate curls were pulled into an intricately twisted coil at the back of her head. A few rings of chocolate flowed from the center of the twist, arranged flawlessly. Her hair was perfect, nothing at all like the unrestrained jumble of tangles he was used to. He was almost disappointed, until he noticed a few recalcitrant tendrils escaping to frame the milky white skin of her face and neck.
That was the Francesca he liked.
The style of the times dictated elaborate headwear and ornate jewelry, but Francesca wore neither. Ethan could see, as he neared her, that her only embellishment was a pair of small gold earrings with golden stones, most likely a gift from her parents. Ethan wished he had thought to buy her something. Suddenly he wanted to see something of his on her.
