Once Upon a Wallflower (25 page)

“I cannot imagine what.”

Pawly stopped in his tracks and faced Nicholas squarely. In an uncharacteristically sharp voice he took Nicholas to task. “Well, my lord, something in that cottage scared the girl. And you better be thinking what it might be, or you are going to lose her.”

Nicholas met his friend’s eye and raised one brow in challenge. “Perhaps
I
scared her off,” he shot back, memories of their passion taunting him. He had thought the passion shared, but perhaps he had frightened her somehow with his intensity. Perhaps he had bungled it all.

He shrugged. “It does not really matter. She is leaving tonight, and I will not stop her if she wishes to go. Besides,” he added, letting his gaze drift back to the fireplace, “besides, it is really for the best.”

“It is not for the best,” Pawly muttered.

An uneasy silence filled the room, but Nicholas had no interest in breaking it. He continued to stare hard into the fire, letting everything else melt away until he had recovered a sense of cold, empty calm.

When Pawly spoke again, his voice was hushed, but earnest.

“You are not a child anymore, my lord.” Pawly ignored the thunderous rage that clouded Nicholas’s face. “You could not have saved your mother, but you have the power to stop this.”

For an instant, Nicholas’s heart froze in his chest, and then it began to hammer there, the insistent thudding filling his ears.

“Even if I could stop her from leaving, I should not. She has already threatened to expose my father and her life has been endangered as a result. For her sake and ours, I should let her go.” Nicholas heard his own words as though they were coming from far away, in a voice not his own, filtering through the pounding of his heart like a whisper through a closed door.

Chapter Eighteen

“You look lovely, Miss Mira.” Nan tucked another pin in Mira’s curls and smiled.

Mira took in her own reflection with an ironic sense of amusement. She did look lovely, as lovely as she ever had. She wore an emerald green, satin dress covered with peacock blue netting, cut low and square at the neck and secured beneath her breasts with gold lacing. Other than her wedding clothes, which she might or might not be wearing in the morning, the dress and the matching emerald slippers and wrap were the finest clothes she owned. Nan had dressed Mira’s hair with a broad satin ribbon of peacock blue adorned with a cluster of white satin roses and gold foil leaves. It was a simple style, but it was flattering, emphasizing her wide blue eyes.

It seemed ridiculous to wear such finery to an outdoor fair where they would eat meat pies with their hands and drink ale rather than lemonade, but Lady Beatrix had made it clear that, as the centerpiece of the Blackwell house party, the event should be treated as one of the grandest gatherings of the London Season.

So, for perhaps the first time in her life, Mira felt comfortable in her own skin and proud of her appearance, yet she could take no joy in the evening at all. Instead of dancing and flirting and enjoying the other delights pretty young women enjoyed, she would spend the evening solving a murder and perhaps running away from her best chance at happiness…running away from the shelter of Nicholas’s arms. Indeed, as much as she loved the stylish clothes, she wanted nothing more than to strip them off and hide beneath the bedcovers.

“Thank you, Nan,” she murmured, returning the young woman’s smile with a wan one of her own.

Reaching for her wrap, she studied her reflection one last time. She wore no jewelry except for the pendant Nicholas had given her, and that was hidden within the bodice of her gown, the long fine gold chain on which it hung the only evidence of its existence. On impulse, she carefully lifted the necklace over her head and laid it on the dressing table.

She was conscious of Nan looking on curiously as she searched the dressing table for a small length of narrow ribbon. Gently, so as not to damage the delicate links of the chain, she held a segment of the chain together and tied the ribbon around it, in effect shortening the length of the chain. With a fleeting smile Mira slipped the necklace back over her head. The pendant now hung above the neck of her gown, there for everyone to see.

She hesitated just a moment, and then opened her small jewelry case and withdrew Olivia’s locket, slipping it over her head so that it hung entangled with the jonquil pendant. It would look strange, perhaps, but Olivia should be somehow with her tonight.

Mira rose to leave, and, on impulse, threw her arms around the tiny maid in a short fervent embrace. “Thank you, Nan. Whatever happens, you have been a wonderful friend these last few days. The best I could have hoped for.”

Quickly, before Nan could respond, Mira dashed out of the room and made her way to the drawing room in which the revelers were meeting.

When she entered, there was a brief lull in the lively conversation as all eyes turned to her. She lifted her chin and managed not to blush, and soon everyone returned to his or her chatter.

Mira did not bother trying to insert herself into any of the small groups of people, but instead moved to stand near the fireplace, hoping to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Just to Mira’s left, Lady Beatrix and Lady Bosworth sat on a settee speculating about whether dress waists would remain high or drop lower the following season.

A flash of movement caught Mira’s eye, and she looked up in time to see Mrs. Murrish slipping around the periphery of the room. The broad, dour woman approached the settee and, without a word, handed a note to Lady Beatrix.

Beatrix unfolded the missive and scanned its contents quickly. Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth tightened as she read.

“Dear, is something amiss?” Lady Bosworth asked, leaning in and speaking in confidential tones even as her eyes lit up with lurid curiosity.

“No, no,” Beatrix responded, her mouth tilting in a strained smile. “Nothing serious. Jeremy has sent down his regrets. He is feeling a bit under the weather.”

“Oh, no, how sad!” Lady Bosworth exclaimed. “He shall miss all the fun.”

“Indeed. Now, what do you think about necklines? Surely they will become more modest next season, don’t you think?”

So, Mira thought, Jeremy was crying off. She wondered whether he was laying low because he had ended things with Bella and wished to avoid her, or whether he was staying behind to prepare for the elopement. Bella had not yet put in an appearance, and Mira was intrigued to see whether she would show up at all.

Before Mira could give Bella and Jeremy any further thought, Nicholas arrived. His entrance was met with the same sudden quiet as hers had been, but the conversation never resumed.

He swept the room with his aloof gaze until he settled on Mira. She offered him a shy smile. He inclined his head in response, and Mira thought she saw his shoulders relax a bit, but his expression was distant, noncommittal.

Bella flounced in behind Nicholas, looking like a dream in a gauzy white dress adorned with clusters of violets. Bella’s attention moved unerringly to Lady Beatrix, and the tension between the two fairly crackled. The tilt of Bella’s chin and the bounce in her stride as she made her way to her mother’s side were entirely unapologetic.

Lady Beatrix glared at Bella for a heartbeat longer, and then looked over her guests, subtle nods marking her count of heads. Apparently satisfied that everyone was present, she began herding guests out.

Although they were not going far, the ladies’ dainty slippers made walking difficult. Most of the house party guests piled into carriages to travel into Upper Bidwell and then double back across the moor to the circle of standing stones, although a few of the men—including Nicholas—chose to ride instead.

Mira rode with Kitty, George, and Bella in the family coach. Mira assumed the mood in the other carriages was more festive, but the Fitzhenrys were a solemn bunch. George sat silent as a mouse, toying with the buttons on his waistcoat, and only occasionally shooting a nervous glance at either Mira or Kitty. Bella pressed herself into her corner of the carriage, staring out the window, her face expressionless. She and her mother had obviously not yet made amends. Even Kitty was uncharacteristically quiet, and Mira wondered if her aunt, like George, was beginning to feel guilty about shuffling their niece off to a reputed murderer.

The somber mood of her family suited Mira well. She settled back against the squabs and allowed her mind to drift as she marshaled her energy for the evening to come. She did not know what the night held in store for her, but she knew she would need every resource at her disposal to survive it unscathed.

…

They heard and smelled the Midsummer festival long before they arrived. The aroma of roasting meats, the yeasty scent of ale, and woodsmoke tinged with burning herbs all permeated the cool night air, and the moors rang with music and raucous laughter.

As the coach ground to a halt, Mira looked out the window at their surroundings. Before the carriage a circle of tall stones stood, each easily twice as tall as the tallest man Mira had ever seen. The stones jutted out of the earth, straining into the night sky, and were it not for the symmetry of their formation, they would have appeared to be a natural part of the landscape.

The stone circle was lit by a massive bonfire and a ring of blazing torches in its center, the light as bright as daylight but hellish in its cast, throwing long dark dancing shadows in every direction. It was a London ball gone wickedly, monstrously mad. As Mira and her family cautiously left the protection of the carriage, she observed people dancing frenzied jigs, couples locked in lewd embraces, laughing men chasing squealing women in every direction, and everywhere the sultry beat of drums and the earthy perfume of ale made the very air vibrate with dark delight.

As she struggled to take it all in, Nicholas suddenly appeared at her side. In the flickering orange glow of the flames, his grim visage was as sinister as his reputation.

“Good evening, Mira,” he said, a thin smile curving his mouth. “Welcome to Upper Bidwell’s Midsummer festival.”

His dark allure was potent, and a sizzling thrill shot through her when he spoke. She struggled for a polite smile. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Nicholas’s gaze slid down to her chest, and his smile widened a fraction. “I see you are wearing my gift.”

“Always,” she replied, feeling the blush warming her cheeks.

“And this,” Nicholas reached out to run a finger along the curve of Olivia’s locket. Mira held her breath, watching with dread for some sign of recognition on Nicholas’s face. “I have not noticed you wearing this before. It is pretty. Is it special to you?”

Mira’s legs went weak with relief. Nicholas did not recognize Olivia’s locket. He acted as though he had never seen it before. Someone else must have left it at Dowerdu, someone who wanted her to find both it and her shawl. Someone who wanted her to doubt him. She smiled. “It is very special to me. It belonged to a friend.”

Before he could inquire further, Mira rushed to change the subject. She waved her hand to indicate the frenetic merrymaking all around. “This is not quite what I expected. Until tonight, the townspeople seemed so, well, reserved.”

Nicholas chuckled. “But this is a special night.”

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, the rhythm of his voice and the caress of his breath stealing Mira’s last coherent thought. “It is Midsummer’s Eve, Mira, the night when the doorway to the magical world swings open and the pixies and faeries cavort with men. It is the night when fortunes are made, both good and ill, when the face of love may be divined, and when all manner of sin may be committed with impunity.” He brushed the curve of her ear with his lips and Mira’s eyes fluttered closed. “Tell me, Mira-mine, what sort of sin will you indulge tonight?”

Before Mira could summon the will to answer, a young man with wild eyes and a garland of herbs around his neck careened into her, sending her stumbling to the side. Nicholas’s hand shot out to steady her, and the young man laughed as he righted himself before disappearing into the dark.

As Mira turned to face Nicholas, however, another group of merrymakers crowded around them, forcing them apart, and before she could gain her bearings she had lost sight of Nicholas entirely. A line of people moved past her, laughing men and women, all holding hands as they executed some strange dance. As the last dancer passed, he grabbed up Mira’s hand and pulled her after them.

She was swept along in the wake of the dancers as they made a circuit around the stone circle, weaving in and out of the massive stone pillars as though they were dancing around some sinister maypole. As the group completed the circle, Mira managed to break free.

She steadied herself and began searching the crowd for Nicholas. She saw Lord and Lady Marleston, both flushed with excitement and clasping hands like young lovers, and Lord and Lady Bosworth, locked in a scandalous embrace as they joined the dancing in the center of the stone circle. Mira even caught a glimpse of timid Lady Phoebe, lurking in the shadow of one of the standing stones, being swept into the arms of a stranger, a man built like a blacksmith. All around her, the members of the Blackwell house party were surrendering to the wanton madness of the Midsummer festivities.

All except Bella, who hung back near the carriages, a secretive smile tilting her lips, an aura of tightly concentrated energy radiating from her small form.

Turning in a circle to better search the crowd, Mira suddenly found her field of vision completely occupied by a broad male chest clothed in the most exquisite white brocade waistcoat, a perfectly knotted cravat spilling over the top. A hollow feeling settling into her chest, Mira slowly tipped her head back to look directly into the face of Lord Sebastian Ellerby, Earl Blackwell.

Blackwell’s features were as composed as usual, only the faint twist of a smile and a glint of jaded amusement in his eyes giving any hint of expression.

“Miss Fitzhenry. You are looking well tonight.” Blackwell punctuated his compliment by running his gaze the length of her body.