Whisper of Jasmine. Deanna Raybourn

party.

      “I’ve nothing to wear,” Evie said mournfully. She knew Delilah’s people had been difficult about the elopement. They had restricted her allowance, and Johnny had little of his own, but even without much money, Delilah would look like a queen. She was one of those tiresome girls who could put on a bedsheet and make it look like—

      Evie sat up straight, her mind working furiously. She had five days to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and she knew just where to go. She patted the little bronze rabbit goodbye and sped off down the path.

      * * *

      In his moderately comfortable flat in the worst street in the worst square in the best neighbourhood in London, Gabriel Starke smiled at the handwriting on the envelope. Delilah Drummond. Now that was a name to conjure with. He had had a single dance with her at her first debutante ball before he’d made the mistake of introducing her to Johnny. He’d only been dancing with her to kill time until he could hunt down their host and discuss his upcoming expedition to the Himalayas. Expeditions were costly, and the more patrons Gabriel found, the more comfortable his trips. He’d abandoned Delilah for the chance to land a sponsor and by the time he’d come back, she and Johnny were making a scandal of themselves by slipping into the garden for a little tête-à-tête. They’d come back with Johnny still buttoning his shirt and Delilah’s lipstick smudged under his ear, but the disgrace had been blunted when they’d eloped two days later. Gabriel found he hadn’t minded one bit; a benefactor was far more important than a girl, and he had secured all the funds he needed for his attempt to summit Masherbrum. Four months later, he was back in England, unsuccessful but more famous than when he had left, and he hadn’t yet seen the newlyweds. He wasn’t sure why Delilah had invited him, but it occurred to him he hadn’t anyplace better to go on New Year’s Eve. His family were in the country, thank God, and an evening of bachelor delights at his club sounded distinctly unappetising. Delilah would have good food and pretty girls, and enough liquor to take his mind off his troubles.

      Just as he made up his mind to go, his telephone rang. He answered it, knowing before he spoke who would be on the line. “I just received an invitation to Delilah’s New Year’s Eve party. Going, old man?”

      Gabriel suppressed a smile. Tarquin was almost two decades his senior. “Yes, old man. You?”

      “I think so,” Tarquin said slowly. “It might be a very good idea to make an appearance.”

      Gabriel cut in. “Hang on, how do you know Delilah? I thought the Marches were too ancient and exclusive a family to mix with Louisiana sugar millionaires.”

      Tarquin gave a little sniff, and Gabriel smiled. He knew exactly what gesture accompanied that sniff. Tarquin would be polishing his spectacles, his dark, clever brows knit together. “I don’t. I was invited at the request of Quentin Harkness. He’s a fellow I think you should meet. Whatever your plans were for New Year’s Eve, cancel them. You’re going to Delilah’s.”

      Before Gabriel could respond, Tarquin had severed the connection. He sighed and replaced the receiver before pouring himself a small glass of single malt. It was the last of the good whisky, he realised ruefully. Time to turn his hand to earning more money. And that meant going to Delilah’s party, whether he wanted to or not.