The Bride Behind the Curtain (4 page)

The moment's lightness Adele had known waltzing with James evaporated beneath the heat of Patience's glower. She felt herself shrinking. She felt the press of the horrid, starched ruff all around her throat and the awkward weight of her sash, and its enormous bow.

And she was not the only one who was brought back to reality by Patience's pointed speech. James turned away and said languidly, “Well, Lady Patience, should your sister choose to beard the lioness, she can tell us after our dance.” He bowed. “It is our dance, is it not?”

“Why yes, it is. I had quite forgotten.” Patience tossed her head, but she took his arm just the same. Aunt Kearsely watched her youngest niece be lead away. Her weary glance said to Adele that they would continue this conversation later, and she sailed away to speak with another set of guests.

Not, Adele noticed, the notorious Miss Sewell.

A hand touched her arm, startling her. She had forgotten Madelene Valmeyer.

“D-do you really think Miss Sewell wrote
The Matchless
?” she stammered. “My stepmother says she should be sued for libel for the things she says about society.” It was an obvious effort to distract Adele from Patience and James on the dance floor, but it was just as obviously meant kindly, so Adele rallied her nerve, and her manners.

“Aunt Kearsely certainly thinks she wrote it. That's why she was invited. And she really is watching us.” From her side of the ballroom, Miss Sewell might have her fan raised to half cover her face, but there was no mistaking where her searching eyes were directed.

Pointing this out, however, was a mistake. The very last speck of color drained from Madelene's cheeks. “Oh. Oh. I don't think . . . I don't think I can stand it anymore, Helene. You promised we could go if I . . .”

“I did, and we will, in just a minute,” answered Helene. “Just try to breathe calmly and think of something else.”

Adele furrowed her brow. She wanted to tell Madelene to buck up, there was nothing so terrible in being stared at, even by a suspected lady novelist, but one more look told her the girl really was on the verge of panic.

“I can't. Helene . . .”

“You can.” Helene laid a hand on the other girl's shoulder. “Just another minute. Do you know, Lady Adele, before you joined us, Madelene and I were reordering the company? Deciding who we would invite, if we were in charge of the guest list. I actually think we might keep Miss Sewell.” She nodded toward the older woman, who had, thankfully, turned her face away from the three of them to enter into conversation with Brandon Cleft and stoop-shouldered M. Odevette. “I have decided Monsieur Beauclaire has earned a place on our private guest list. Especially as he was so good as to remove Patience for us.”

Was that really what had happened? Adele didn't dare believe it. She watched how coolly, how easily James moved down the line of the country dance with Patience stepping beside him.

“Terese Summershaw is pleasant,” Adele remarked, trying to enter into the spirit of the imaginary guest list, and to force her gaze away from James. “Louisa Graham as well.” She paused, a wave of wistfulness overcoming her. How many times had she stood by similar walls, wishing she was somewhere else, with people she actually might be able to like? “Not that my opinion is ever likely to matter, of course.”

“None of ours do,” murmured Madelene. “That's our problem, isn't it?”

Adele smiled ruefully. “If it did, the first thing I'd do is ban Georgiana Delacourte's turban.”

Madelene's eye opened even wider. “But it is entirely the fashion!”

“It is, and it doesn't suit her any better than this”—Adele tugged at her ruff—“does me, or all that blue lace does Patience's pink dress. A dozen perfectly amiable ostriches must have been sacrificed to give Georgiana that forest of feathers. And those ribbons? The thing looks like it's about to reach out and throttle her.”

Madelene slapped her hand over her shocked gasp, but Helene just narrowed her eyes. “What should she wear?”

The question startled Adele, and for a moment, she thought the other girl was being sarcastic, but one look told her Helene was perfectly serious.

Unfortunately, Georgiana was in the same line as James and Patience. It was difficult, but Adele made herself look past them and concentrate on the older Delacourte sister, not really thinking, just noting the way Georgiana carried herself, the way she appeared against the surrounding crowd, the way the light fell across her skin and hair.

“With those dark curls and that complexion, she could wear green,” Adele answered slowly. “A real, rich green. And she should pin those curls up with diamonds, not cover them with a turban. She could carry off good stones. She's got enough of an air.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Madelene, a tone approaching wonder in her voice.

But Helene spoke before Adele could. “What about Madelene? What would she wear if you were in charge?”

Madelene was in pink, and it didn't suit her any more than the yellow suited Adele. But she couldn't say that. The girl was nervous enough. “You're lucky,” she told Madelene instead. “You're all sunshine with that hair and everything.”

“Oh no.” Madelene touched one of her trailing curls. “It's red. It's horrible. And I'm too thin.” Her eyes darted about the room. Clearly her nerves were getting the better of her again.

“Nonsense.” Helene took her friend's arm firmly and turned her a little to face Adele. “Go on, Adele. Tell us, how would you dress Madelene?”

Adele bit her lip and thought about some notebooks she had tucked away in her rooms. They were the results of hours of private daydreams. Could she risk showing them to these girls she barely knew?

Patience laughed. Adele's gaze darted back to the ballroom. Her eye lit on M. Beauclaire, standing in the corner next to Benedict Pelham. Patience was now on the other side of the room with the Delacourte sisters and Mr. Valmeyer. James nodded toward Adele, and she felt the heat of her blush rising and the ruff tighten around her throat as she tried to swallow.

She had to get out of here.

“Adele?” prompted Helene.

“I'll show you something,” she murmured to her companions. “But only if you swear never to tell a soul what you are about to see.”

***

“Good evening, Mister Pelham, Monsieur Beauclaire.” Miss Sewell drifted casually up to where James stood with Benedict.

“
Bon soir
, Miss Sewell,” replied James, bowing. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

James had originally met Miss Sewell three seasons ago. The sharp-eyed woman was a regular at some of the more political and artistic parties James was occasionally invited to. He found her to be a shrewd observer of society. Unlike some others, though, she kept her barbs for those who earned them. He was not at all surprised when he heard her name come up in speculation as the author of the three-volume novel that had so recently set society tongues wagging.

“I am enjoying myself very much. It is an extremely interesting party. Do you not agree, Mister Pelham?”

“There are several points worth looking at.”

And they all seem to be in one particular direction.
James could not help but notice how Benedict had been watching Lady Adele as she stood beside the pillar with her two friends. The artist had been so intent on that particular trio that he'd barely attended to the compliments the matrons paid him. Again, James found himself wondering if Benedict was nursing a
penchant
for Lady Adele. His gut tightened uncomfortably. His friend might not be heir to a title, but he had the rank and connections that James lacked, and an artist, especially a widower whose first wife had died tragically, had the air of drama that could not help but interest a young lady. Was Adele the sort to be attracted to the dramatic and the dangerous? She might be. After all, she was attracted to him.

Mon Dieu,
Beauclaire. Get ahold of yourself. You sound jealous.

Worse, something of his unease was showing on his face.

“I am surprised you are not over with Lady Patience and her friends, Monsieur Beauclaire,” said Miss Sewell. “She will be feeling your neglect again soon.”

“Lady Patience has a very full dance card. I am afraid to be in the way.”

“And you, Mister Pelham, have you no particular friend here with whom to while away the evening until midnight?”

“Like you, Miss Sewell, I prefer to observe.”

“Oh? And what catches that sharp eye of yours? Do enlighten me.”

Benedict did not answer, and Miss Sewell smiled. “Our trio who has just left. Do they not give either of you pause?”

James found he had no answer for that. Miss Sewell smiled and changed the subject, a little.

“Poor Lady Adele,” she sighed. “Her aunt will keep finding the absolute worst creations to make her wear.”

“Why does she do it?” he murmured.

“Well, her taste is for fashion, not actual beauty, but beyond that, my first guess would be fear.”

“Fear?” James felt his brows arch. “What could Mrs. Kearsely have to fear?”

“What do any of us have to fear? The loss of reputation, the loss of income and regard. Her nieces are in her charge and so become reflections of herself. Her nephew the duke could push her out at any time, and then what would she do? Society would drop her in an instant. She must be seen to be working for her nieces' welfare with never-ending diligence, so that no one can possibly blame her when Lady Adele fails to catch a husband.”

“Thus does Lady Adele find herself a prisoner of her aunt's poor taste.” James's brow creased. “It is madness that a life should be made wretched by something so . . . trivial.”

“And yet all our lives turn on such trivialities,” murmured Miss Sewell. “A word, a glance, a meeting, a dress. Any of it can change a world.”

“Ridiculous,” snapped Benedict. “Harnessing human lives to folly. It's no wonder . . .” He clamped his mouth shut. “You must excuse me,” he said. “I'm suddenly not in the mood for company.”

Without another word, he stalked off and disappeared out the ballroom door.

“You must excuse Benedict. It is the artistic temperament.” It wasn't, and James knew it. It was old memories, of his wife and the life he had known before. But one did not speak of such things.

“A temperament with which I am quite familiar,” said Miss Sewell easily. “But now, I see Mrs. Beecham there, and I particularly wanted to talk to her this evening. I believe your friends are waiting for you by the card room, where life may also turn on trivial matters.”

James made his bow and let her glide away. She was right. Pursewell and Valmeyer were standing by the door to the card room, rather obviously looking in his direction. But there was Lady Patience, also with her back very obviously toward him.

Was it to be the lady or the cards? Such a trivial matter. A simple choice. The one so much more certain than the other. He had his duty; he had chosen his path and laid his ground. He knew who and what he was, and so did she. They would be most convenient for each other. He would have the income his family needed. She would have a husband who would cause an agreeable sensation among her friends, and afterward not interfere with her life in any way.

But during the dance with Lady Patience, James had been acutely aware of something else. Through each figure and turn and exchange, he'd known precisely where in the room Lady Adele stood. Now that she was gone, he suddenly found he didn't want to be in the room anymore.

A look. A dance. A stolen moment in the dark. And everything changes. Or nothing does. Duty remains. Always and forever. And duty requires money.

James set his jaw, and he fixed his course for the card room.

“I've never shown these to anybody. You have to promise me you won't laugh.”

The three girls stood in Adele's bedchamber. She'd brought the key for her cabinet table out of the bottom of the jewel case on her dressing table.

“We promise,” Helene said, and Madelene nodded.

Adele glanced toward the room's closed door, told herself she was being silly, and unlocked the marquetry table. Inside, the three shelves were filled with stacks of leather-bound scrapbooks. Adele reached into the middle of the stack, pulled one out, and opened it. The other girls pressed close to peer over her shoulders.

“These are marvelous!” cried Helene.

“They're daydreams,” murmured Adele as she slowly turned over the leaves. Each page held a lovingly rendered and tinted sketch of a different gown.

“Where did you get them?” asked Madelene. “You must have spent hours on the copies.”

Adele's cheeks were warming. Helene, of course, noticed. “She didn't copy them, Madelene. These are original designs. All of them.” She gestured toward the three shelves inside the cabinet, and all the remaining books.

“It's just something I'd do, especially when I first came out. I'd sit and dream about what it would be like when I was finally married—the parties I'd give, and the dresses I would have. I would plan it all out.” She touched the notes that surrounded the gown. “I wrote down names of warehouses and suppliers and modistes and . . . well, this is what I thought of when you asked what Madelene should wear.” She turned another page to show the drawing of a simple champagne-colored gown, its sleeves and hems trimmed in plain silk ribbons. “But maybe beading instead of the ribbons.” She considered. “Yes, clear beading, and a gold brooch at your waist and pale roses in your hair. You'd set off the entire room.”

Madelene colored and pressed her hand over her mouth, but at the same time she stared at the dress eagerly.

“Which of these dresses is yours?” asked Helene. “Yours especially, I mean.”

Slowly, Adele turned the pages to a gown of deep red and rich cream. “This one.” She ran her fingers down the page, but she wasn't seeing the sketch. She wasn't seeing anything. She was feeling James Beauclaire's arms around her. She was imagining standing before him in this daring dress and seeing his gaze deepen. His eyes were such a bright blue, made all the sharper by his black hair and brows. He was startling. He was disconcerting. He was devastating.

He'd take her hand, slowly, and he'd kiss her fingertips. He'd smile, and that smile would be just for her.

Abruptly, Adele slammed the book shut. “But as I said. It's just daydreams.”

“Lovely daydreams, though,” murmured Madelene.

“Maybe they could be more,” Helene said.

Adele laughed bitterly. “Maybe I'll be crowned Queen of England at Almack's next Wednesday. No. I'm twenty-two, and my aunt won't hear of my dressing myself. And even if one of you could find a modiste who'd actually make any of these, it wouldn't change anything for you, either. I'd still be the dumpling, you'd be the bluestocking, and Madelene . . .”

“I'm the redheaded stepsister,” she muttered, and for the first time, Adele heard the touch of anger in the other girl's words.

“And we're all equally doomed.” Adele hugged her notebook to her chest.

“I don't accept that,” Helene said.

“Then tell me, what can we do?”

“I don't know.” Helene stared into the distance, her amber eyes shining with that hard light of intelligence particular to her. “I don't know,
yet
. I have to think. Can we meet in the library tomorrow morning? It will have to be early, before anyone else is about.”

“Meet?” Adele said. “Why?”

“There you are!”

All three of them jumped, then turned. Adele thought she might die on the spot. Patience stood on the threshold, hands planted on her hips.

Adele shoved the notebook behind her back.

“What was that?” Patience demanded.

“I . . . It's mine,” stammered Madelene, lifting the book out of Adele's fingers, but keeping it behind her. “P-poetry.”

“From the Far East,” added Helene loftily. “A translation.”

“Oh
lud
,” muttered Patience. “All right, now that you've had your little look at whatever it is, you can go. I need to talk with my sister.”

This could not lead anywhere good, but Adele glanced at the others and nodded. They made their farewells and took their leave, with Madelene still carrying the scrapbook. Patience barely spared a glance for them. Her glower was entirely for Adele.

“Well, I suppose you think you've accomplished something.”

“I . . . what?” Adele's mind was so full of the other girls' responses to her drawings, and Helene's extraordinary idea of an early morning meeting, she couldn't understand what Patience might be talking about.

“I . . . what?” sneered Patience. “You complete goose! Did you actually think you could steal James Beauclaire out from under my nose?”

“I don't think I stole anyone. I didn't even know you were interested in him,” Adele added, because confusion was a familiar refuge. Patience was always willing to believe she was thick as a plank.

Patience lifted her nose. “Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. He's quite in fashion. I want to try him on for the fit.” Adele looked away, and Patience gave one hard laugh. “Oh, now it's the righteous dumpling, so terribly, terribly shocked that her sister is a dreadful flirt.” She stalked forward and poked one hard finger against Adele's shoulder. “Listen to me. You didn't earn that dance with him. He's only paying you any attention to get to me.”

“I don't understand.” This time the confusion was genuine, as was the sick, sinking sensation in her heart.

“That's because you don't understand how anything works. I'm too popular. A man like James can't approach me, hat in hand. He's got to pique my interest, get closer gradually. If he's making up to you, he has an excuse to be near me without looking like he's just hanging about.
Now
do you understand?”

“I see.” She did. Maybe she always had, but here it was, laid out as clearly as one of her own sketches. Adele looked at her sister and tried to keep from shaking under the weight of sorrow and anger.

“I hope you do. Now, I've got to get to the dance, and you need to come along quietly. I told Aunt Kearsely I was coming to get you.”

Which left Adele with no choice but to follow, and swallow the tears that wanted to stream down her cheeks.