had been reassured and Delilah had promised to take her to all the best parties of the Season. The plan was short-lived. Evie had twisted her ankle in her high-heeled court shoes and had to beg off the first ball, sitting at home with a cold compress on her ankle while everyone else danced the night away. That was the night Delilah met Johnny, and before anyone could blink they had eloped amid a flurry of deliciously scandalised gossip. The Season was over for its most glorious debutante before it had even begun, and Evie put aside her grand hopes and went back to work, chiding herself a little for getting caught up in Delilah’s glamour. They had exchanged letters several times since, but never managed to meet in person. Delilah had been too enthralled with her new husband to spare much time for anything else, and Evie didn’t pursue it. It was simply too lowering to sit with someone who had it all—beauty, style, a sinfully handsome husband who adored her—and have to admit what a bore life had become. For her part, Evie had a series of jobs that didn’t last, and each was more degrading than the last. She had firmly resisted taking on domestic work, but after a disastrous stint as a shopgirl working for Belgravia’s most exclusive florist—one that ended with her breaking the most expensive vase in the shop over the florist’s head—she had taken a post as a governess. She hadn’t lasted until luncheon, and she trudged home in vile weather, saving the bus fare, to find a letter in Delilah’s elegant hand, demanding her attendance at a New Year’s Eve party.
“I’ve nothing to wear,” Evie said mournfully. She knew Delilah’s people had been difficult about the elopement. They had restricted her allowance, and Johnny had little of his own, but even without much money, Delilah would look like a queen. She was one of those tiresome girls who could put on a bedsheet and make it look like—
Evie sat up straight, her mind working furiously. She had five days to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and she knew just where to go. She patted the little bronze rabbit goodbye and sped off down the path.
* * *
In his moderately comfortable flat in the worst street in the worst square in the best neighbourhood in London, Gabriel Starke smiled at the handwriting on the envelope. Delilah Drummond. Now that was a name to conjure with. He had had a single dance with her at her first debutante ball before he’d made the mistake of introducing her to Johnny. He’d only been dancing with her to kill time until he could hunt down their host and discuss his upcoming expedition to the Himalayas. Expeditions were costly, and the more patrons Gabriel found, the more comfortable his trips. He’d abandoned Delilah for the chance to land a sponsor and by the time he’d come back, she and Johnny were making a scandal of themselves by slipping into the garden for a little tête-à-tête. They’d come back with Johnny still buttoning his shirt and Delilah’s lipstick smudged under his ear, but the disgrace had been blunted when they’d eloped two days later. Gabriel found he hadn’t minded one bit; a benefactor was far more important than a girl, and he had secured all the funds he needed for his attempt to summit Masherbrum. Four months later, he was back in England, unsuccessful but more famous than when he had left, and he hadn’t yet seen the newlyweds. He wasn’t sure why Delilah had invited him, but it occurred to him he hadn’t anyplace better to go on New Year’s Eve. His family were in the country, thank God, and an evening of bachelor delights at his club sounded distinctly unappetising. Delilah would have good food and pretty girls, and enough liquor to take his mind off his troubles.
Just as he made up his mind to go, his telephone rang. He answered it, knowing before he spoke who would be on the line. “I just received an invitation to Delilah’s New Year’s Eve party. Going, old man?”
Gabriel suppressed a smile. Tarquin was almost two decades his senior. “Yes, old man. You?”
“I think so,” Tarquin said slowly. “It might be a very good idea to make an appearance.”
Gabriel cut in. “Hang on, how do you know Delilah? I thought the Marches were too ancient and exclusive a family to mix with Louisiana sugar millionaires.”
Tarquin gave a little sniff, and Gabriel smiled. He knew exactly what gesture accompanied that sniff. Tarquin would be polishing his spectacles, his dark, clever brows knit together. “I don’t. I was invited at the request of Quentin Harkness. He’s a fellow I think you should meet. Whatever your plans were for New Year’s Eve, cancel them. You’re going to Delilah’s.”
Before Gabriel could respond, Tarquin had severed the connection. He sighed and replaced the receiver before pouring himself a small glass of single malt. It was the last of the good whisky, he realised ruefully. Time to turn his hand to earning more money. And that meant going to Delilah’s party, whether he wanted to or not.
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