“And demonstrate that no matter what they say, you are not ashamed. You have done nothing wrong.”
“They will hate me for the scars.”
“They will hate me for not following their protocols. But I am a duke and you will be my duchess. At that level, they can do little.”
“A cut direct.”
“With my mother and me at your side? They would not dare. And you have the support of two of the patronesses.”
“Grudgingly.”
He smiled. “That will change. There is little consistency in the beau monde. Changes can happen at the whim of a dragon or a duchess. Or one of the patronesses at Almack’s.”
As the orchestra set about tuning their instruments, dancers gathered near the ropes, awaiting the eleven o’clock start and the approval of the women on the far sofa. Matthew nodded toward the floor. “I am claiming the first dance, but then you will be on your own for a bit. Do be careful. The dance floor is quite slippery. More than one dancer has skidded into a collision over the years.”
The image amused Sarah, the idea of the staunch members of the aristocracy crashing into each other like so many runaway carriages. “I will watch my step.”
The first notes sounded, and the dancers almost sprinted onto the floor. Matthew and Sarah took up their positions with three other couples for a quadrille, and Sarah noticed some sort of competition had arisen among the dancers to join their square. One couple was rather rudely elbowed out of the way, and Matthew’s eyes gleamed as he observed the scuffle. As the highest ranking noble in the square, Matthew stepped into place as the first gentleman. Sarah did not recognize the second and third couple, but the fourth lady she recognized from... somewhere.Where did we meet?A few years older than Sarah, Lady Catherine DeVere had been friendly in the past but now eyed Sarah somewhat warily. The man partnering her was not Lady Catherine’s husband, and Sarah recalled some tidbit from Reid about the man dying—he had been substantially older than Lady Catherine.
The dance began. The music, a bouncy tune led by the harp and other strings, echoed off the walls. Matthew and Sarah bowed and curtsied to each other, then—as first lady—Sarah stepped off, reaching for the hand of the second gentleman opposite her. The dance moved too quickly for conversation, and the rapid steps, in-and-out and circles, the star shape left Sarah breathless but exhilarated. Each “return to partner” meant a tight grip from Matthew’s hand and a gleam in his eyes as he focused on her face. He was a better dancer than she would have expected from a man his size, and his footwork was adept and skilled.
As the dance ended, they acknowledged each other again, then Matthew backed away and went to join a cluster of older men on the far side of the room. Sarah recognized several as members of Parliament—his peers—and she wondered if, despite the dictate of the patronesses, men politicked as much here as they did at other balls.
She left the floor, her hand across her stomach as she slowly caught her breath. She had not danced like that in many years. Owen—not a good dancer—had eschewed balls, preferring to attend soirees or the men’s clubs, where he could mingle and converse with his male peers without appearing too standoffish.
As she searched for an empty seat on one of the sofas, an iron grip abruptly closed over her forearm. Sarah yelped, jerking away, then covered her mouth as she turned toward the person next to her.
Lady Catherine’s face pinched, a mask of irritation, her words a sharp hiss. “You should not be here!”
Sarah flinched and took a step back, fighting the urge to bolt for the door. This had been her fear, her deepest dread.
“Remember why are here.”
Matthew’s words held sway, and Sarah straightened her shoulders. “Yet I am, with a voucher, the same as you.”
“You arenotthe same as me. Or any of the other ladies here. That voucher had to be a mistake. You are a murderess.” Lady Catherine glanced at Matthew, who had taken a sudden interest in the conversation. “Especially not with him.”
Ah.“Did you think you were a prospect for him?”
Lady Catherine’s eyes shot wide. “That is none of your concern. You should leave.”
Feeling an odd and unexpected spark of boldness, Sarah pointed to the scar on the side of her neck. “When my husband died, I was bedridden with this burn. Weeks before I could even walk. So where were you when yours died?”
The resulting slap turned heads for yards in every direction, and Sarah felt the sting of it all the way to her toes. She heard several whispers of Lady Catherine’s name, and in her peripheral vision, Matthew stalked his way through the dancers toward them. But she refused to touch her burning cheek. “As always, your decorum is impeccable, Lady Catherine.” She leaned a little closer, which made Lady Catherine take a step back. “And accusations are not proof. Because there is no proof, something the patronesses obviously understood.”
“They found a powder—”
“Arsenic.” Recognition hit Sarah hard. A faint memory. Lady Catherine and the current Lady Crewood, heads together, at a musicale a few seasons ago. Friends.
“Yes!”
“Yet he died due to opium. Or have they not included that tidbit in their rumormongering?”
Lady Catherine blinked, and those turned heads moved closer. “Opium.”
“Yes. So declared the doctor.”
“Whom you bribed.”