Stir her to action. Place her above the debilitating pity others would heap upon her.
Dear Readers, Miss Crimson entered Saint Paul’s Knightsbridge with high hopes for having her faith in love and marriage—her delight in a happily ever after—reaffirmed, she wrote. The words flowed from her pen, a sure sign of divine inspiration. Yet—as you may have heard—the wedding of Miss Maria Palladino to the dashing Jason Darington, heir apparent to Phillip, Lord Darington’s title and estates, left the guests gaping.
It began as any wedding, with the gathering of family around the beautiful bride. Miss Palladino’s gown, an original design from the house of LeChaud Soeurs, befitted a queen with its layers of elegant lace and seed pearl embellishments. When I caught sight of her posing for a bridal portrait being made by Jude Darington, twin brother of the groom, she glowed with a rosy anticipation—not to mention the glimmer of an exquisite jeweled butterfly pendant unlike any I have ever beheld. Maria Palladino was the picture of bright-eyed anticipation, a dusky rose opening to the life of privilege and sophistication her dashing groom would surely provide. Her brother, Rubio Palladino, London’s esteemed trance medium, waited to escort her up the aisle.
Maria paused, smiling as she nibbled the end of her pen. It was a treat to sketch her own wedding from a columnist’s viewpoint.
Lady Darington and Jemma, her daughter, were exquisitely arrayed, as well, she scribbled. But as the minutes ticked by, the assembly of friends murmured beneath the organ prelude: where WAS the groom? What reason could he possibly have for not taking this lovely woman as his wife? Upon questioning Jason’s groomsmen, Lord Darington and his younger son set out to locate Jason while Father Stoutham assured the guests all would be well.
WELL, indeed! The guests erupted in disbelief when Lord Darington canceled the ceremony! Then, an albino ferret scampered down the aisle and up a guest’s skirts, causing the crowd to disperse in hasty, shrieking dismay. One can only imagine the bride’s devastation, her concerns about her groom and her future. Yet her dignified grace under such scrutiny and pressure impressed this columnist so deeply that I am moved to depart from my usual juicy fare to lend my assistance.
Maria paused, her pulse pounding with the sheer nerve of what she was about to do. But damn it all, if Miss Crimson couldn’t come to the distraught Miss Palladino’s aid, who could? Who would?
I implore you, Dear Readers: anyone knowing details of Jason Darington’s disappearance would be performing an act of tremendous generosity by informing me of his whereabouts! It’s quite plausible he’s ill or injured, unable to get word to his beloved Maria. Please submit any information to me in care of the Inquirer, as soon as possible, and I will see that this beleaguered bride and the Darington family receive your assistance. Something is gravely amiss, and we must use the power of the press to hasten Jason’s return. Thank you so very much for your understanding and cooperation!
There, she’d done it! Maria stepped into the plain dark skirt she wore while delivering her columns, and then paused. The town house was silent, except for the delicate ticking of her mantel clock, but what if Mrs. Booth and Quentin were hovering in the hallway, peering through the keyhole? If she allowed the servants to stop her now, what did that say about her devotion to Jason? To the life she’d hoped to share with him?
Maria slipped into her charcoal cloak and pulled the hood up over her hair. She paused outside her door to listen, chose the main stairway as the most direct route to the door, and within moments she was hurrying along the side streets. As she avoided the light from the gas lamps, she again realized how much more difficult her secret occupation would become once she became Jason’s wife.
We’ll worry about that when the time comes, a voice much like Miss Crimson’s echoed in her head. And who knew when that would be? All she could do was move along this path she had chosen, hoping it would lead her to the man she intended to marry. She blinked away Rubio’s visions of dark, boundless water and Jason’s disoriented expression, slipped the envelope containing tomorrow’s column into the mail slot of the Inquirer’s door, and then hurried along the buildings’ shadows again, back to the town house.
Had she done the right thing? Or had she asked for more trouble?
Too late to worry about that! The wheels are set in motion…and please know I’ve done this for YOU, my dear Jason. I love you! So please, please come home to me!
7
“Never in my life have I felt so—exposed! Hung out to dry, like so much dirty laundry!” Lady Darington spewed. Then she grasped Jemma’s hands and peered into her daughter’s red-rimmed eyes. “Mark my words, darling! We shall hold the Inquirer responsible for such—such irresponsible gossip! And when I learn the identity of that vile, hateful Miss Crimson, I intend to tear her limb from limb! And you may watch!”
“Oh, I intend to help you, Mumsy!” Jemma gushed. “Such slander—such a slight!—shall not go unanswered, so help me God!”
Maria perched on her chair in the parlor, holding her face expressionless. While she was not surprised at this outburst, she again wondered if she’d done the right thing last night and if other readers would share Dora Darington’s outrage. Had she inadvertently endangered Jason by publishing her plea for help? Would she find an irate note from the editor in her postal box, informing her Miss Crimson’s column would be cut? This visit was a grim reminder of her vulnerability—and of how she might be depending upon her journalistic income soon, if Jason’s family booted her out.
Across from her, on the striped ottoman, Jude pored over the morning’s newspaper. He, too, refrained from showing emotion, although his reasons were different from hers. What did he think about Miss Crimson’s bold request?
He glanced up at her, clearing his throat. The rings beneath his eyes told of a sleepless night, either because his mother and sister had kept him awake with their tirade or because he was becoming more worried about his twin. “We had hoped to arrive this morning to protect you from Miss Crimson’s news, Maria. Or at least to warn you of it, before you were quizzed about the column’s contents,” he remarked wryly. “But being a man, I must plead ignorance, I’m afraid. Why are you so offended, Mum? Miss Crimson has called upon all of London to help us find Jason! What a gracious, generous thing to—”
“Gracious?” his mother cried.
“Generous?” Jemma echoed as she popped up from the settee. She glared at her brother as though he were a pile of horse manure on the parlor carpet. “How dare that mean-spirited gossipmonger rave about poor Miss Palladino and not even comment about our gowns? They came from LeChaud Soeurs as well, you know!”
“And indeed I paid far more for my attire—and for Jemma’s—than I did for that wedding dress!” Dora Darington joined her daughter. The two of them paced around the perimeter of the room like caged tigers at a circus.
“Even Willie received more coverage than Mum and me! And in the worst way!”
Jude rolled his eyes. “Call her mean-spirited if you must, but she merely reported the facts about your runaway ferret, Jem. Do you think I wanted to spend the rest of the evening trying to trap him, in that enormous sanctuary?”
Maria shifted, trying not to laugh. That explained why the Daringtons hadn’t descended upon her last night, and the vapid attitudes of mother and daughter justified the way she’d given them short shrift in print, didn’t it? What lady would speak, in front of an abandoned bride, as though a simple wedding dress represented the supreme act of charity rather than a gift from a family that could well afford it? A family that was using this wedding to flaunt their affluence.
“Actually, I applaud Miss Crimson for taking our part,” Jude stated. He glanced at the column again, as though inspired by it. “Rather than stirring up doubt and speculation about why Jason didn’t show up, she has enlisted thousands of readers to watch for him. Anyone with information will be far more likely to slip her a note than to approach the police. No one wants to be subjected to an inquisition.”
“The police!” Dora jeered. “Your father has already reported