was he?
Lady Imogene Devary stood at the edge of the crowded ballroom, up on the toes of her white kid evening slippers. She hadn’t even had a chance to dance, yet her heart was pounding in her satin-covered chest, and she could barely catch her breath.
Where was he, the stranger who had appeared at her door the past three days? Her father, Lord Widmore, had refused to see him each time, most recently so loudly the miniature of her little brother had clattered against the wall. Why did the stranger so concern him?
She peered about, twisting this way and that. The sounds of the ball brushed against her: the rise and fall of a hundred conversations, the strains of a string quartet, the dull thump of slippered pumps on hardwood and the laughter of flirtation. The Mayweathers had rented the prestigious Elysium Assembly Rooms for their annual ball. A dozen fluted columns marched down the center in Grecian elegance, and two crystal chandeliers hung from the gilded, domed ceiling above. Ladies in satins and velvets strolled past, and gentlemen nodded at Imogene in greeting. She knew almost every one of the nearly three hundred guests. How could a stranger escape notice?
Had he seen her pacing him in the ballroom when she’d first spied him earlier? She’d been shocked that anyone her father refused to acknowledge would be allowed entrance to such a fine occasion. So where had he gone now? Had he ensconced himself in the card room like her mother? Evaporated like a wisp of her imagination? Was she never to learn the truth?
And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose.
Yes, she had to hope in that verse. She had a purpose in spending her time searching the ballroom when she ought to be finding herself the perfect suitor. She loved her father too much to see him harassed. Hadn’t they suffered enough? Or perhaps the stranger thought their suffering made them vulnerable. She squared her shoulders. That fellow would learn the Devary family was made of stronger stuff.
But perhaps she would not be able to convince him tonight. She puffed out a sigh and lowered herself to her heels. If she could not find him, she would have to determine another way to wrest some pleasure from the remainder of the evening. Tomorrow she could question Elisa about the guest list, perhaps identify him that way. She’d simply thought she would be better at this espionage business.
Her good friend Elisa Mayweather certainly had a talent for going unnoticed. She had pressed her back against the creamy white wall, and Imogene was certain she was strategically placed so that a column hid her from her imperious mother. As if to be certain no one would recognize her, she fluttered an ivory fan before her long face, embroidered satin skirts swinging with the motion. Another friend stood sentinel beside her.
Imogene hurried to join them. “Why aren’t you dancing?” she asked, noticing their tight lips, their deep frowns.
Elisa snapped her fan shut and leveled it at a group of men crowding the far corner. “She’s doing it again.”
Kitty Longbourne sniffed, dark eyes narrowed to slits that made her resemble her nickname. “Rotten beau-snatcher.”
“What, not you, too?” Imogene whirled to join her glare to theirs. “Freddie Pulsipher has lived in your pocket the past year. Don’t tell me he’s defected.”
“Defected and forgotten me entirely,” Kitty said, her normally dulcet voice closer to a growl. She shook her pale skirts and lifted her chin as if she were well rid of the boy.
“That is the outside of enough!” Imogene started toward the group. Elisa snatched at her shoulder to pull her up, fingers biting into the lace on Imogene’s short sleeves.
“Where are you going? You can’t accost her!” Elisa’s wide brown eyes begged Imogene not to cause a scene.
But Imogene wasn’t about to stand along the wall like some hothouse palm and bemoan her fate. She might not be able to find that stranger tonight, but she could help her friends.
She patted Elisa’s hand. “There, now. I shan’t kick up a dust. But someone must put a stop to her.”
“This is her first Season,” Elisa said, dropping her hand. “She was only presented to the queen two weeks ago. Perhaps she doesn’t know the rules.”
“I understand she was raised in the back of beyond,” Kitty agreed with another sniff, this time of decided superiority.
Imogene had heard the rumors, too. The girl was an orphan with only three male cousins for guardians. That might have been enough to put Imogene in charity toward her, except her rival was also a beautiful heiress, with her own title no less, and the respected Lady Claire Winthrop was her sponsor. Where the young gentlemen of London were concerned, those factors conspired to make Samantha, Lady Everard, very popular indeed. But that her friends should be ignored while every gentleman danced attendance on the upstart—well, that was something Imogene would not tolerate.
“I don’t intend to rip out her hair,” Imogene informed them, to which Kitty muttered, “Whyever not?” Imogene shook her head. “But something must be done. Look, this set is ending, and the musicians are likely to take a short break. I for one plan to have a partner when they strike up the music again.” Before her friends could say another word to dissuade her, she lifted her white skirts and swept across the room.
Her way was impeded immediately. Couples promenaded past, gazes entwined. A collection of dowagers debated the latest fashions. Distinguished gentlemen gestured with crystal goblets, intent on making their points on politics.
But by far the largest single group, at least three deep, was clustered in the corner. Imogene couldn’t even make out the lady at the center. That truly did seem excessive. A girl on her first Season should expect a loyal group of followers but not at the expense of every other young lady on the ton.
Imogene put on her prettiest smile and tapped the rear gentleman on the shoulder. Short as she was, it was difficult to tell his identity from the back, but she recognized him the moment he turned.
“Mr. Wainsborough,” Imogene informed him, “I am quite vexed with you.”
He blinked blue eyes as if suddenly finding himself transported to the farthest reaches of the Empire. “Lady Imogene, I have no idea what I could have done, but I most sincerely beg your pardon.”
Imogene raised her chin. “You are forgiven, so long as you march yourself over to Miss Elisa Mayweather and ask her to dance.”
“Miss Mayweather?” He glanced around the room, and Imogene nudged him to the left so he could see Elisa standing against the wall. He looked back at the crowd of gentlemen, then returned his gaze to Imogene as if begging for mercy.
She narrowed her eyes at him. He slumped in defeat. “Of course. Delighted. Your servant, Lady Imogene.”
She waited only until he was on his way before tapping the next nearest fellow. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
He jerked around, sandy brows up in surprise. “Why, Lady Imogene, what do you mean?”
Imogene put her hands on her hips. “Here you stand while my good friend Kitty Longbourne pines away for a moment on the dance floor.”
“She’s pining?” His head turned as if he expected to see Kitty reclining on a divan with a cold compress on her forehead.
Imogene
