“And what does this matter, really?” Fresh tears dribbled down Jemma’s face as she wrung her handkerchief in her hands. “I wanted to meet the unattached men in attendance, a preview to my coming out. And now my hopes are dashed!”
“You could’ve asked those unattached men to help me corner that ferret,” her brother muttered. “Not that your request would’ve endeared you to any of them.”
“Jude! That’s quite enough!” Dora whacked his shoulder with her fan. “Must you always bait your poor sister?”
He bit back a grin. “I’m making up for Jason. In case Jemma misses him more than she can say.”
“If you’ll pardon my intrusion,” came a voice from the door. “I’ve come with your tea.”
Maria could’ve kissed Quentin McCallum at that moment. They were in dire need of fresh air, and the butler’s bright smile cut through the gloom that was closing in around her. “Thank you, Quentin. Please set the tray on the table and I shall pour.”
Nodding, he approached, but was intercepted by an indignant Dora Darington. “You’ll do well to remember who signs your check, Quentin,” she said in a low voice. “You shall place the tray on the sideboard, where I shall serve when I feel like it!”
“Yes, milady. Of course.” With an obsequious bow, he paused beside Jemma. “Mrs. Booth sends her condolences and these lovely lemon tarts, knowing how you favor them, Miss Darington. Might I inquire if you’ve heard news about Jason this morning?”
“If you call this news!” Lady Darington pointed at the newspaper her son was folding.
“Ah, yes. That.”
“Miss Crimson’s identity should be revealed, as much as my son’s whereabouts! I suppose you and Mrs. Booth shared a laugh at our expense upon reading about the wedding?”
Quentin folded his hands before him. He was the picture of cautious diplomacy in his dove gray coat and pin-striped trousers. “A most unfortunate turn of events,” he hedged, glancing around to see whom his allies might be. “And Miss Crimson’s request for assistance may well lead to her unveiling—for if your son is found because of her column, all of London will want to know whom to thank.”
Dora’s smile suddenly shone like the sun come from behind a cloud. “Why, Quentin, I believe you’re on to something!” As she poured their tea, her face took on a feline delight. “When Jason is located—for I believe he will be—I shall personally request an introduction to Miss Crimson! To thank her for bringing my son home, of course!”
As she accepted her tea, Maria’s knees quivered. This was an angle she hadn’t anticipated! And the butler seemed awfully proud of himself for mentioning it. She chose a tart, although she had no appetite for the beautifully crafted confection, which resembled a yellow rosebud. “I’m sure she must be someone perfectly ordinary, someone we’ve all seen at social events,” she speculated. “How else would she know what to write about, after all?”
“How else could she harass so many of London’s finest families?” Dora countered. “I’ve always figured her for a vindictive biddy with nothing better to do. Perhaps a jilted mistress or a dumped debutante, now unable to catch a man. It’ll be fascinating to find out, will it not?”
“Oh yes, Mumsy. We’ll have to have these incredible tarts when we celebrate that occasion, as well!” Jemma forked the last bite into her mouth, grinning at Quentin. “Please pass along my gratitude to Mrs. Booth. Her consideration has delivered this day from total ruination!”
The butler fumbled with his tie. “Indeed I shall, Miss Darington! So happy to play a part in your recovery.”
As though Jemma ever has anything from which to recover! Maria didn’t miss the butler’s between-the-lines efforts to gain the young lady’s favor, but as Dora and Jemma plotted the unveiling of Miss Crimson, she withdrew into her own thoughts.
Perhaps she’s a jilted mistress…or a dumped debutante…now unable to catch a man. Maria concentrated on the final bite of her tart, burning hotter than she cared to admit. Yesterday at this time, such remarks wouldn’t have cut so close to the bone. What a difference a day made—and this day, without Jason, was already feeling endless.
8
Lord Fenwick’s manor was brightly lit the following Saturday evening, with fine carriages lining the semicircular drive, yet Maria felt anything but festive. She lingered inside her brother’s carriage, watching those who approached the door. “I should be in Spain, enjoying my honeymoon with Jason,” she murmured. “While it was kind of you to escort me, Rubio, I’m not sure I want to face everyone’s…pity. Or their morbid curiosity.”
Rubio slung an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll not leave your side, dear sister, unless you ask me to. I only accepted Fenwick’s invitation because his dear, departed wife was a client—and because he hinted the evening’s guest of honor might be of special interest. We can leave whenever you please.”
Maria chuckled ruefully. “We’re a fine, feisty pair tonight, aren’t we?”
“The evening might provide you relief from brooding in your room. Fodder for a column, too, no doubt.”
“There’s that,” she agreed. “My readers would wonder at my silence if I didn’t report this evening’s gossip.”
She smiled at her brother in the dimness of the carriage: wearing a purple cape with an Egyptian-print scarf draped dramatically around his neck, he would cut a brazen figure in this fusty crowd of old money with older ideas about decorum. The gold ring in his nose glimmered as he grinned at her, mentally preparing to make his entrance. Fenwick was a peevish old wasp who stung whenever anyone challenged his opinions: Rubio had often been his victim when Fenwick’s much-younger wife had sought advice from her spiritual guides.
“Shall we go, my dear?”
Sighing, Maria nodded. She preceded him from the carriage and paid close attention to the other guests, noting a gaggle of older ladies whose jewels twinkled in the lights as they approached the door. Many of them wiggled their fingers at her brother, and one of them broke away to greet him with a spry smile.
“Mr. Palladino, what a pleasure to see you here!” she chirped. “And don’t you look dashing, as always?”
Rubio grinned, bowing over her hands. “Meriweather, it’s a particular joy to see your face this evening,” he crooned. “I feared tonight’s event might be a crashing bore if Fenwick’s old-guard cronies started talking politics, or—God forbid—religion!”
The old dear twittered, her gaze lingering on Maria then. “And have we heard any news about your Jason, dear? What a worrisome situation for you.”
“No news from the Yard or anywhere else, I’m afraid.” Maria forced her lips to remain curved upward. This was only the first of such remarks she’d endure this evening, and already she’d tired of playing the abandoned bride.
“I have all faith he’ll return to you.” Meriweather Golding nodded as though she had inside information. “Your brother will be instrumental in locating him. Rubio never misses a prediction!”
“Thank you,” Maria murmured, relieved when the little woman rejoined her friends at the entrance. “See what you’ve let yourself in for, bringing me here tonight? Gloom and doom. Not to mention questions about why you haven’t led the police to Jason.”
“I’d do that in a heartbeat if I could connect to his vibrations. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course. But don’t tell anyone that, or they’ll hound you about losing your power,” she replied in a thoughtful tone. “No need to put your reputation—your work—in the same unfortunate spotlight my life is in right now. My real concern is why you sense no vibrations, no sign of him on your otherworldly planes.”
He