Ned set his jaw. “Apologies,” he muttered, giving the chain an unapologetic jerk. When Blakely made no move to relinquish control of his watch, Ned added, “Can you unhook that thing? We need it over here.”
“My pleasure,” Blakely said sarcastically. He made a tremendous fuss and bother of undoing the hook from his buttonhole and lifting the gold chain from his pocket. But all that dithering didn’t matter, because the time was—
Still thirty-eight minutes after ten. Ned sighed. Well, little enough time had passed. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that it hadn’t been a minute yet.
But just to be sure, Ned checked again.
Indeed. It was still thirty-eight minutes after. Ned sighed in frustration and looked up, scanning the crowd. He wondered which of the ladies he saw was intended for his cousin. None seemed particularly interesting.
“Ned,” murmured Madame Esmerelda. “Do you recall what I told you about patience?”
“I am being patient,” Ned muttered.
She cleared her throat. “Your foot.”
Ned blinked, looking down. His damned foot was tapping in frustration. He willed it to stop, and then, because at least two seconds had elapsed, he allowed himself to look down again.
“Still thirty-eight after? Blakely, is the damned thing broken?”
Before his cousin could answer, it happened. The minute hand shivered, like a cat preparing to stretch. It trembled. And then … It ticked. A shiver shot through Ned’s spine, and he glanced up at Madame Esmerelda.
“The thirty-ninth minute is upon us,” Madame Esmerelda intoned.
“And woe betide us, every man.” It was a mystery, how Blakely maintained that bored appearance with his future hanging in the balance.
But Madame Esmerelda would handle everything that mattered. Ned turned expectantly to her.
She was scanning the throng. “There,” she finally said, pointing one long finger at an exceptionally thick portion of the crowd. “That’s her. In the blue. By the wall.”
Ned followed the line of her finger. He goggled. Then he gasped, choking on the impossibility of it all.
“Are you perhaps referring to the lady wearing the delightful feathers?” Blakely did not betray so much as a flicker of horror. “She’s lovely. I think I’m falling in love already.”
“She—I—that—” Ned turned to Madame Esmerelda, his hands aquiver. The incoherent stream of syllables from his mouth refused to resolve into anything so cogent as a complaint. He’d felt doubt before, looking into her wise and knowing face. But all those times, he’d doubted himself.
He’d doubted he would escape the darkness that periodically captured him.
For one timeless second, though, the cold fingers of uncertainty touched the back of his neck, and Ned doubted her. If she’d pointed to a pig, he’d have believed it under an enchanted spell. One that could be broken with a kiss. But she’d picked the one woman who simply could not marry Blakely.
“Of course not her,” Madame answered dismissively.
Ned’s breath came back in a relieved gasp.
“I meant the pale blue. Moving. Right there.”
Ned looked over to his left. He could see little more other than a beribboned hairpiece perched atop blond hair, and a blue-and-white gown. From behind, she looked young. She looked slender. When she turned, her gown glinted, and he realized that what he had taken for white fabric rosettes were actually pearls. Whoever she was, she was wealthy.
“Drat,” said Blakely. “I had my heart set on Feathers.”
Ned squinted across the room. Was Blakely’s bride-to-be opening that door? She was. Ned’s heart constricted. She was leaving.
“Well, Ned,” Blakely said, without a care for the fact that his future wife was deserting him, “you queered the deal. Next time, let Madame Esmerelda pronounce without prompting.”
Ned gave this inscrutable comment the moment’s consideration it deserved, before deciding to ignore it. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
Neither of his companions moved. Ned put one hand on his hip and gestured in the direction of the lady with Blakely’s watch. “She’s escaping. Don’t you want to meet her?”
“Oh,” said Blakely in a depressing tone. “Dear. What ever shall I do?”
Ned stamped his foot. “Nonsense. After her!”
Blakely smoothly plucked his watch from Ned’s fingers and dropped it, chain and all, into his pocket. “Do calm yourself, Ned. We will attract more attention than this event warrants if the three of us pelt across the ballroom like dogs on a scent.”
Ned scowled. “Madame Esmerelda,” he protested, “tell Blakely he has to hurry. The way he’s acting is just not respectful.“
Madame Esmerelda looked at him. “Ned, take a breath and calm down.”
“I’m not—” Ned started, before he realized that he was, in fact, on edge with anticipation. He shut his mouth with a click.
“And, perhaps, Lord Blakely, you could consider putting one foot in front of the other. It would be the rational thing to do. If you must wait for her to come back, you’ll have to present your elephant in front of the entire assemblage.”
Blakely’s lip curled in obvious distaste. “You make an excellent point.”
Ned’s cousin turned and strolled toward the exit where the blond lady had disappeared. Ned dashed in front of him, ducking between a surprised couple, and around one large man wearing a hideous waistcoat. It didn’t take long to wrest open the unobtrusive door in the wall.
He stepped into a deserted servants’ corridor, dim and hazy after the well-lit ballroom. The walls were a nondescript whitewash, and the narrow passage stretched before them. Why had she come here?
It didn’t matter. Whatever she was doing, she hadn’t gone far. She was a scant fifteen feet down the hall. She walked almost noiselessly. Despite the bare wood floors underfoot and the unadorned walls, the quiet tap of her steps faded, folding into the muted roar of the gathering behind them.
Behind him, Blakely’s shoes clacked noisily. She heard the sound and paused.
Blakely took advantage of her hesitation. “Pardon me,” he called.
The lady turned around slowly. Very slowly. Ned caught his breath. She was younger than he was. Her features seemed almost too sharp, too pronounced. But her eyes were wide and intelligent, and even though she’d been caught alone by three people she did not know, she held her head high and her shoulders straight. She did not speak; instead, she cocked her head, as if silently granting the rabble permission to approach. That aloof calm rendered those sharp features almost beautiful.
With that haughty demeanor, she would make Blakely an excellent marchioness. Ned darted a glance at his cousin. The man seemed unaffected by her elegance.
“I believe you dropped this back in the ballroom.” Not an ounce of emotion touched Blakely’s voice as he strode toward her, holding the gouged lump of ebony in his hand.
Ned wasn’t sure which constituted the greater sacrilege: Blakely’s cursory adherence to Madame Esmerelda’s tasks, or his ability to remain unruffled when confronting his future wife. Annoyed, Ned scrambled after his cousin.
The lady frowned as Blakely came closer. “I dropped something? How clumsy of me.”
Her voice sounded like bells, Ned decided, except not the harsh clanging kind. She put him in mind of clear, high chimes, ringing out in winter weather.
Her