her collections and escape Meredith’s ambitious plans.
***
Constantine brushed his gloves together in an effort to rid them of dust and opened the hack door as he spoke to Brooks in a low tone. ‘There is one painting left in the studio. It is large and I’ll need your help bringing it down to the street.’ His command cut through the unsettling quiet of the night.
The two men had already made several trips from the third-floor studio to the hired hackney with eleven of his most recent works of art. Unframed they weren’t very heavy. Now arranged with care, each wrapped in a tarp so the long ride to Highborough House would not cause damage, their work was almost complete.
Without a word, the two men turned and took the steps. They manoeuvered the last canvas down to street level. It took a bit longer than anticipated, but eventually they placed the painting on the curb.
‘Bloody hell, why did the driver leave? I mentioned we needed to bring one more painting out.’ Con grunted his disapproval, aggravated with the tedious day.
‘I cannot explain it, milord. Did the driver give you any indication how long it will take him to reach Highborough House? Although the lamps are well lit in Grosvenor Square, I doubt the less traveled roadways will be serviceable until sunrise.’
‘I did not speak to him, but I thank you for arranging this appointment. It seems the best way to transport my paintings without detection.’
‘Milord?’ Brooks voice held a note of apprehension. ‘You did not speak to the driver? Nor did I. I arranged for him to meet us here at three o’clock but did not furnish a destination address. I assumed you would direct him once we finished the task.’
Con jerked his head up and he eyed the anxious valet with a steely glare. ‘Then where the devil are my paintings? And how the hell will I get them back?’
‘Good heavens, it is crowded in here.’ Isabelle’s eyes scanned the room with reluctant enthusiasm, her barely contained excitement at war with her natural pragmatism. ‘Hasn’t anyone given a thought to safety? Lady Rochester has invited far too many people to this event. I can scarcely move in the crush.’
Beside her, Meredith smiled at a passing guest. ‘Crowded and wonderful. I am thankful Lady Newby kept her word and secured this invitation. The Rochester Ball is the most prestigious event of the season.’ She placed her hand on Isabelle’s arm and squeezed. ‘Oh this is a terrible crush and utterly exciting.’
Isabelle looked at her stepmother with mild confusion. During the entire carriage ride she’d endured Meredith’s incessant chatter explaining her strategy for attracting the attention of Lord Highborough. She failed to comprehend how any female could become so infatuated by reading of a man’s exploits having never set eyes on the individual. Wouldn’t one need to know him on a personal level before falling helplessly in love?
‘Won’t this ridiculous crowd hamper your search for the wicked earl?’ She inflected just enough drama into the final three words to express her opinion of Meredith’s goal for the evening. She just couldn’t help herself. The idea of hunting down the man and stalking him until he noticed her seemed immature and absurd.
Granted, Lord Highborough was likely very handsome. The few gossip papers she’d suffered through on Meredith’s insistence described him as dashing and well built, and favoured by every member of the ton, including distinguished gentlemen and aged dowagers. Such a unilateral collection of admirable traits struck her as uncommonly rare. Rather like a unicorn or a four-leaf clover. Surely Lord Perfection possessed some kind of flaw. Yet every article craftily depicted his clandestine indiscretions as romantic, his excessive indulgence as grandiose.
‘Well, I wish you luck in your conquest. I believe if we become separated we will never find each other until the dinner bell rings. There are far too many people crammed into this ballroom. I sincerely hope no one overturns a candle.’ Isabelle ended her complaint with a little squeak and moved her slipper before a nearby gentleman trod upon her toe.
‘I agree, isn’t it wonderful?’ Meredith scrutinised each passing guest in search of her quarry.
Isabelle was happy to leave her to the task as she had no intention of crossing the wicked earl’s path. And if ever she had the notion, which she absolutely did not, how would she even approach him? It sounded as though the man was forever surrounded by dozens of twittering females and raucous upstarts. Perhaps the obsequious mob was needed to support his exaggerated reputation.
The musicians took up their instruments and as she stood on the cusp of the marble floor, dance card on her wrist and champagne glass in hand, Isabelle could almost hear Meredith’s rehearsed plan of strategy and see her stepmother’s diligent gaze darting around the room. Any stranger would assume the lady had something in her eye or was bothered by the huge candle filled chandeliers that bathed the dance floor in soft golden hues. Isabelle rolled her eyes and caught a glance of the elaborate crystal lighting overhead. The shimmering display gave her pause.
The ballroom did look uncommonly beautiful if she allowed herself to appreciate it. Every colour of the rainbow was represented by the beau monde’s extravagant mode of dress. Ample arrangements of flowers graced each available surface not covered with syllabub, sweets and savouries. Much to her delight, Isabelle had noticed a rare bouquet of tulips on the entryway chiffonier as they had whisked though the doorway earlier. Servants bustled about and elegant laughter wafted over the delicate strains of the orchestra. The evening did feel a little enchanted. She took a small sip of champagne and rationalised how it proved impractical to be ensconced in the ballroom and not take full advantage of the situation. Isabelle prided herself on resourcefulness.
With a bemused smile, she relaxed in her new satin slippers. How she had fussed and complained throughout the entire shopping trip to Bond Street, protesting she had no time for foolish vanity. But now she could not be happier she had heeded Meredith’s advice. Dressed in a deep glittering shade of green, she complemented the lovely ladies surrounding her. An unfamiliar, but welcomed feeling washed over her.
***
Constantine Highborough, Earl of Colehill, was not currently ensconced in conversation with a bevy of fluttering females, nor otherwise occupied with a Johnny raw anxious to copy his style or listen to tales of his exploits. Instead, he’d retreated to the study with his closest friends to enjoy an aged brandy courtesy of Lord Rochester’s liquor cabinet. Beside him, Devlin Ravensdale, Duke of Wharncliffe, and Phineas Betcham, Viscount Fenhurst, discussed the purchase of a new barouche. The three of them enjoyed a solid friendship although Devlin rarely mixed with society. Phineas, the tallest and most reserved, balanced family obligations with social responsibilities. He presented himself as a fine gentleman and was considered a prime husband candidate by those who compiled such lists. A stark contrast to Devlin, a dark, reclusive man who lived in secret and shadow. Yet no matter their differences, the men had formed a strong bond, one for which Constantine was grateful.
For the umpteenth time his thoughts returned to the runaway hack and the loss of his artwork. He did not fear discovery as no one in their right mind could decipher the scrawled signature in the lower corner of each work as his name. But the paintings were a part of him, an expression put upon canvas, and he wanted them returned. The hackney yard had record of Brooks ordering a hired vehicle, yet two had shown instead of one, the second carriage arriving nearly twenty minutes later than the first, the driver flustered and apologetic. The entire situation vexed Con immensely.
Taking a long sip of brandy, he glanced to where his friends played at the bagatelle board. The clicking noise of the ivory balls as they struck the pins distracted him from his dark thoughts and he snatched up the cue stick as soon as it was thrust in his direction.
‘How is it that you never tire of these evenings? Were you to take count, how many events of the ton have you attended over the years?’ Devlin asked the question, although his tone implied he did not expect a serious answer.
‘Do