“Tonight at the Beaufort ball.”
“You shall have to keep Lizzy from attending.”
Catherine raised her brows. “I thought you knew Elizabeth better than that.”
“You’re right. She is a bit headstrong.”
Catherine snorted.
“Very well, then,” Maddie said, ignoring the snort. “You must attend as well and—”
“Me attend? No, you have to help me avoid that.” Just the thought of all those people crammed together made her hands clammy.
“Catie, there’s no other way. Besides, you know you need a bit of confidence, and this will be good for you. While you’re there you can keep Lizzy away from Valentine.”
“How?”
Maddie threw her arms out. “I don’t know. Tie her up and hide her in the bushes.”
Catherine nodded, impressed. “That might work.”
“I was only joking, Catie,” Maddie said in a warning voice.
Catherine gave her a placating smile. “I know.” But she was inwardly thrilled at the new plan. It might even be worth braving the ball.
She was off to a good start, and she would be able to buy herself some time. But she still needed to talk to Josie. Josie would help her escape. And she needed to talk to her soon, or it would be too late. She suspected her father had already concocted a devious plan, one not even his brother, the Earl of Castleigh, could prevent.
Chapter Three
Quint Childers, the Earl of Valentine, heir to the marquessate of Ravenscroft, strolled from the floor of Parliament flushed with success.
He stepped outside, lit a celebratory cheroot and, staring up at the bleak London night, began to smoke. MPs swarmed out behind him, many of his fellow Whigs pausing to slap him on the back and congratulate him on his latest victory, and Valentine congratulated them back.
The reform bill he had slaved over, the bill he had written, revised, and pushed through the House practically on his hands and knees, had finally passed. It was a complicated bill, but the bottom line was that there would now be more aid for the poor of England. Quint felt like a new mother.
“Going to the Beaufort do?” the new Earl of Westman asked, pausing beside him.
“Hmm?” Quint stubbed out the cheroot and watched Westman lift his arm to hail a passing hack. Westman was about the same height as Quint and an imposing figure. The hackney driver swerved to stop at the corner.
“The Beaufort do. Are you going? If so, we can share this coach.”
For a moment, Quint had no idea what Westman was talking about, and then it came to him in a rush. Elizabeth. The Beaufort ball. He had told her he would be there at eleven. He pulled out his pocket watch, glanced at it.
“Damn!” It was after midnight.
Westman raised a brow at him. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a yes, but goddamn me. I had no idea it was so late.”
The two men started down the steps. “Arguing a bill like the Valentine-Cheswick Reform Act can make a man lose his sense of time. I watched the debate. Your efforts were well worth it, I’d say.”
“If only the ladies would take your view of things.”
“Women take an interest in politics? What kind of country would this be then? But I see your predicament. You are late for an engagement.”
“Very late.” It was so late, in fact, that he dared not even return home to change his clothes.
The roads were crowded and blocked with the carriages of the ton scurrying to this rout or that soiree, and the journey to the Beaufort ball took the better part of an hour.
