Powder of Love (I) (20 page)

“Love, you’re not even close to being prepared! Hurry, hurry! I’ve sent Mr. Reed on his way. No need to have him prowling around. He says you wanted him to keep an eye on things. Ha. He needs to don the white tie and return as a guest.” Her mother’s voice came too quickly, and her eyes were bright.

“Are you well, Deirdre? I haven’t seen you all day.”

“I’ve never been better. Dear, dear Rosalie, your sweet house is a treat. Quite transformed to a fairyland. Look at the time! Let’s get up those stairs before we get a scolding from our maids.”

Her mother glittered and gabbled the way she did when she held a secret. Perhaps it was something to do with the powder, but judging from the bedraggled, wrinkled gown, the way her bodice twisted slightly, her secret was more likely connected to the rancher.

Rosalie had only to bathe, don her lovely new blue gown, and allow Murphy to dress her hair in the style her mother begged her to wear—something Grecian.

She examined her image in the mirror for a few seconds. The slight cloud of a sleeve, the fitted bodice. She wore the pearl-and-diamond necklace that had belonged to her grandmother and that her mother hated. Long white gloves. She didn’t want to be too ornate or too girlish. The soft blue ensemble befitted an aging maiden. She didn’t feel dried up and forgotten, though. Not with the unfamiliar ache still between her legs and in her tender breasts. He’d sucked on her breasts, and just recalling the tug of his mouth was enough to make them prickle and grow hard.

By the time she made it downstairs again, Miss Renshaw and her mother were walking together through the rooms, trailed by a footman who was to rush for help should they find any flaws.

The musicians were already taking their places behind a translucent curtain of red gauze and tuning up. “That is such an interesting bower I placed them in,” her mother said and smirked. “I hope they take good advantage of their near privacy. I’d enjoy the music even more.” She giggled. “Such a delicious evening.”

She met Rosalie’s suspicious gaze. “Dear girl, I shall be on my better behavior tonight, I promise. At least for a time.”

Rosalie pondered the meaning of that last statement as Miss Renshaw tried to pour oil on what she supposed were troubled waters, assuring Lady Williamsford that no one at all would ever believe she was anything but the most elegant and well-bred of ladies.

Deirdre snorted. “Nonsense, Miss…um. But I can play the part. My poor late papa spent enough on my education.”

The musicians began to play, and the ladies continued the tour. Rosalie had to admit her house had never looked grander.

Every surface that wasn’t covered with the draped red or gold shone in the candlelight. One of the decorators had set up a patented scent machine, and wisps of rose scent drifted through the rooms, mixing with the beeswax and vinegar and aroma of delicious food and the sweet starch of the bolts of crimson fabric.

At the rear of the house, lanterns adorned every branch of every tree.

“So, dear?” Her mother stood next to the fountain near a moss-covered stone wall. She whirled a hand to indicate the whole of the scene.

“Yes, it’s quite amazing. And yes, I should entertain more often.”

“Once you marry, it’ll be easier.” Her mother drifted back onto the path. “The grass is staining my new slippers, and our guests will soon be here. I believe your Mr. Reed will be among the first to arrive. He’s very worried about something. What did you hire him to do? Something to do with your powder?” She giggled.

But the noise floating from the open doors of the house was loud, and Rosalie could pretend she hadn’t heard the question.

In the parlor, Beels murmured that some carriages were pulling up. Rosalie took her place at Lady Williamsford’s side, ready to receive her mother’s visitors.

One of the first to arrive was Mr. Wentworth. He truly was unexceptionable, occasionally loud, perhaps, but never pushing. Pleasant brown eyes. Lovely manners and a tenor voice. He was such a gentleman that even if he somehow discovered she wasn’t a virgin, he’d never mention the matter. Life with Mr. Wentworth would be very similar to the life she now led, but with the addition of the scent of his pipe, his tenor voice, and perhaps, in time, some little Wentworths.

He was talking to her about something he’d read in a newspaper, and she was reminded of the former newsboy Peterkins. How many such boys did Reed discover and pay? He’d only been in her city a couple of months, but knew more about it than she’d discovered after four years of New York life.

Wentworth said something about the quaint paintings she’d enjoy. An exhibit he was inviting her to? “I beg your pardon?” she said, flushing.

“Of course you’re distracted.” Mr. Wentworth smiled and bent low over her hand. “Everyone is agog about this grand evening you and your dear mother have planned. Quite the social event of the season, and I’m so happy to be among the privileged few. And now I must reluctantly leave your side. I mustn’t keep you from greeting your newly arriving guests.”

No one else approached right away. The scarlet footmen were taking canes and hats, so her mother had time to comment. “Pooh. Everyone is agog? Not sure that’s the word he meant. I hope not. But he’s a nice boy even though when he talks, sometimes he strikes me as a pompous ass,” Deirdre whispered. “And love, you have to admit, it’s a good thing he didn’t pay me too much attention. Avoid the ones who look down my front, dear. I had this gown designed just for that purpose. Refuse any of them who inspect me too closely.”

“Mother, what are you talking about?”

“It’s high time—no, past the time—you found a husband. I’m doing what I can to move things along.”

A chill struck Rosalie’s stomach. She’d had that thought on her own when she saw the guest list, but her mother had deliberately planned this? “You planned this party with matchmaking in mind?”

Her mother opened and shut her fan and jiggled it. “Naturally.”

Rosalie smiled at a newcomer and then, when she and her mother were alone again, managed to say, “I didn’t know. You are being more subtle than you usually are when you try to interfere with my life.”

“Perhaps. But I’m not entirely subtle. You’ll see.”

A young lady who’d had her debut a few years earlier and had never been a great success curtsied low to them both, and her parents beamed at Rosalie.

“See what?” Rosalie asked. “What shall I see?” But her mother was starting forward, hands outstretched to Mr. Clermont, who was accompanied by a blond, goggle-eyed individual Rosalie didn’t recognize.

“Brought along my latest keeper, Trevner,” Clermont said cheerily. “Nice enough chap. Perfectly well trained. Your majordomo didn’t seem to mind the extra guest.”

“Of course not.” Lady Williamsford held Clermont by the arms and pulled him close for a quick embrace. “Everyone is welcome. I happen to know one of my friends had to cancel at the very last moment, so we don’t even need to order an extra place set at the table. I’m so glad you’re here. We’re in for
such
a treat.”

A line was forming to greet the hostesses, so Rosalie had no way to demand her mother explain what she meant when she said they were in for a treat. What treat? The music? The dancing? The menu? The sleeping birds?

She was distracted from her mother’s ominous remark when she sensed Mr. Reed’s arrival. Funny, because the air didn’t change, the music didn’t become louder. But she knew even before she spotted his dark hair, combed carefully for once.

He wore the white tie and black suit—the evening dress uniform of the gentleman. Not as immaculate as other suits, nor as new. But the way the white waistcoat and tie at his neck fit him… She thought of his flat belly and the skin on his throat that she’d kissed.

She had to stop gaping at him over the heads of her other guests—immediately. She had to cease thinking of his body under hers and concentrate on shaking hands with the sweet Mrs. Trumble, one of the few women who’d made her debut the same year as her mother and who remained friendly with Lady Williamsford.

Mr. Wentworth’s statement about this being the gala event of the season was what her mother would call hogwash. They existed in the exotic, not entirely respectable end of the social spectrum. No girl who wished to make a splendid marriage would say yes to an invitation from Lady Williamsford or her daughter. They were not as far removed as Dr. Leonard’s bohemian friends, but certainly not acceptable to the very cream of society.

The only reason any member of the most fashionable set would say yes to the event would be curiosity or a grudging admiration for Lady Williamsford, who’d been banned from the very best of society because she so happily left her husband. Her very worst behavior wasn’t public, but her devil-may-care attitude seemed to offend the proprieties of the women who perhaps wished they could run off from their own lives and not appear to give a rip.

Mr. Wentworth had enough money and prestige to make him indifferent to the mutterings about Lady Williamsford and her headstrong daughter. Of all the men who’d courted her, he was the only one who’d be able to bring Rosalie back into the arms of real society, the world from which her mother had been banished soon after she reappeared in the States, looking for fun without her titled husband.

For some reason that struck Rosalie as a mark against Mr. Wentworth’s suit. She was more her mother’s daughter than she’d suspected, for many reasons.

And now Mr. Reed was there, unsmiling, gazing into her face as if trying to read her thoughts. This time he kissed her gloved hand. Proper depth of bow, perfect salute over her knuckles. Perhaps he was a gentleman—or he could play that part as well.

“Good evening, Mr. Reed,” she said, speaking automatically because her heart raced too fast, yet no blood seemed to go to her brain. “I’m so glad you could come tonight.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been as great a help as I’d hoped.”

He still held her hand, ruining the impeccably correct salute and causing her mother’s eyebrows to arch.

* * *

The party was a mix of dancing, cards, and conversation. And as Rosalie walked from room to room, talking with the guests, she felt herself relax. Whoever had the powder hadn’t struck her party, and perhaps she’d have time to find out what had happened.

The guests had all arrived by eleven, and supper could be served. Nothing too heavy, her mother had decided. After all, they’d had canapés, served by the scarlet-coated servants.

They’d planned a clear consommé, and two days earlier, her mother had added the choice of terrapin soup as well. It went better with the oyster patties, her mother had argued.

Her mother had placed Rosalie at the foot of the table, with Wentworth on her right and Mr. Gramble, a middle-aged Wall Street tycoon who had a laugh like a steam engine, at Rosalie’s other side.

Halfway down the table was Reed, who didn’t eat soup but smiled and spoke to both women on either side of him. He displayed impeccable manners, not a sign of the roughneck who wielded a gun and irons.

One of the footmen leaned close to Mr. Reed and whispered in his ear. Rosalie’s throat, already tight with nervousness, closed entirely, and she put down her spoon.

She knew he’d slipped the staff substantial tips to keep their eyes open. This could not be good.

Smiling, he turned to each of the ladies and spoke. Good, he wasn’t panicked. Yet. But now he was rising from his chair.

She tried to listen to the financier on her left, who was gulping mouthfuls of terrapin soup and telling her a story about a donkey. A story that wasn’t entirely proper. The banker broke off when Mr. Reed approached Rosalie, who tightly clutched her napkin on her lap. Please, nothing horrible, she thought.

“May I speak to you a moment?”

She refused to allow her smile to waver. “Naturally. You’ll excuse me?” she said to the banker and Mr. Wentworth, who was also watching now, mildly puzzled that she would allow a guest to pull her away from the table.

She walked with him only as far as the corner of the room. No need to cause further talk by disappearing together.

“Sorry to bother you, and it could be nothing, but the cook told Jenkins that just before dinner, your mother put a piece of paper into the thicker soup.”

Her heart sank, but she wasn’t surprised. “My mother. Of course it was her. What do we do?”

“It could be nothing.”

“No.” She looked over to the table where her mother laughed, her head back, her hands toying with the sapphires at her white throat. “No, it’s not nothing. She made us change the menu almost at the last second. I don’t know how she managed it, but I think it must be the powder. How could she? Her own party?”

“Perhaps I should send Jenkins off for Dr. Leonard.”

She twisted the napkin and stared back at the table and the candles sparkling on jewels, glasses. Such a pretty scene she’d have to disturb. “Gideon. Maybe it’s a false alarm. Shouldn’t it be happening already? It seemed to take effect almost at once when we touched or breathed it.”

“Perhaps it’s not as dramatic with digestion? If we’re lucky, cooking it destroys it, and nothing will occur.”

She still gazed over at her mother, who was now gesturing widely. Fury consumed her. The silly, stupid woman. And yes, something was happening. The banker’s stupid donkey joke was proof, as was her own growing desire to reach out and stroke the smooth lines of the tie at Gideon’s throat, then touch his Adam’s apple. She fought the need to fall into Gideon’s arms and roused herself to act.

Rosalie met Beels’s eye. She beckoned with a nod, and he was at her side at once. “Remove the soup immediately,” she instructed in a low voice. “Don’t let anyone take another mouthful of the terrapin soup. Bring the fish course at once.”

No, they weren’t moving fast enough. The footmen, too polite to grab, waited by the shoulders of the diners. She shook off the slowly cocooning effect of the drug, strode back to her place, and tapped a glass to gain their attention.

Her hands trembled, and she felt nausea rise. They’d all believe she was a crazy woman, but it would be better than the alternative—another mouthful eaten.