“Probably best.” Particularly as he had no details to give her as yet.
“Do you think it could be rack punch?” she added wistfully. “Not scalding, of course. But rather hot?”
“I will see what I can do.” He was pretty well acquainted with Mrs. Overton. He had done her a favor or two over the years. But he was not sure he could dictate the menu at her ball. Still, the request would be another eccentricity, and he was ready to pile up as many of those as possible in the time allotted.
* * *
“I never heard of such a thing as that,” said Tom. “It’s like a play, but at a ball?”
“You might say so,” Arthur replied. They were drinking mugs of beer at Rigby’s pub. The dim establishment had seemed to Arthur a fit place to plot new mischief. Not that he intended anyone else to know the whole of his plan. The retired boxer was throwing doubtful glances their way from behind the bar as if he suspected the worst.
“But why?” asked Tom. “And how will we work it so everyone can see?”
Arthur ignored the first question. “We’ll have a sufficient audience. The young ladies who investigate mysteries have agreed to urge people along at the right moment.”
“Huh.” Tom nodded. “So what do you want me to do?”
There was no argument or talk of madness. Arthur was touched by the lad’s implicit trust in him. “You will be instructing the actresses and shepherding one of the most important bystanders through the…action,” he answered. “Here are cards of invitation.” Arthur handed Tom three white squares. His reputation for correctness had stood him in good stead with Mrs. Overton. It had never occurred to the society hostess that the august Earl of Macklin might be planning a prank. “I’ve written out the…script for the ladies.” He passed over the handwritten pages.
Tom scanned them. “Seems like Moll and Kate are the professionals, like, making certain your friends are in the right place at the right time?”
“A fine way of putting it.”
“They can calm their nerves as well.”
Arthur bit down on an antic smile. “I’m sure their presence will be…soothing. But they must seem simply to be enjoying the ball. With no mention of any other purpose.”
“They ain’t to let on,” said Tom with a nod. “They stay with their characters.”
“Exactly. The…outcome of the scene is a surprise, you see.”
“For the players too?”
“For everyone.”
“Right.” Tom put the papers in his pocket. “Moll and Kate will do just as you ask. They’re first-rate onstage. And they’re over the moon about going to a real ball. Not to mention the dresses you’re buying for them.”
“Splendid.”
“Is it a surprise for the señora as well?” Tom asked.
“Most particularly for her.”
This did earn Arthur a speculative glance. But Tom said only, “We’ll keep mum at the theater then.”
* * *
Teresa examined the ornate invitation that had been delivered to her door by a liveried footman. It had come in an envelope with a note from Lord Macklin. She picked that up and reread the brief message.
You have been kind enough to say that you owe me thanks for recent efforts. I would consider it an equal favor if you would accept this invitation.
The true meaning was no clearer this time than when she’d first opened it. He seemed to imply that her appearance at this Mrs. Overton’s ball was a…payment for his help. But he had rejected the very idea of gratitude, had seemed revolted by the concept, in fact. He might have changed his mind, of course. But that didn’t explain why her attendance at a ball should satisfy him. Were they to dance? Did he mean to repeat his proposal? A ball was a poor place for that. She felt the queasy combination of righteousness and regret that had afflicted her since he’d asked. She shouldn’t go.
“That’s a fine-looking bit of writing,” said Eliza, shifting over the pasteboard as she set down the tea tray. “What’s in it?”
“It is an invitation to a ball.”
“A real ball? Like Cinderella?”
Was she the girl in the ashes? And Lord Macklin the handsome prince? But Teresa had no magical helpers. This was reality, not a fairy tale. Yet she’d missed him dreadfully since she’d sent him away.
A knock on the door heralded Tom’s arrival. He had invited himself today for some of Eliza’s lemon tea cakes and an unspecified discussion.
He devoured three of the former before tapping a finger on the invitation. “I came to see if I could escort you to this Overton ball.”
“You are going?”
He grinned at her surprise. “Not very likely, eh? His lordship arranged it. I reckon seeing a proper society ball will help me play a toff onstage.”
This might be so, but it didn’t really explain.
“I’ve spoke to Vining and hired his hack for that night. Be almost like having a private carriage.”
“What in the world is going on, Tom?”
“A ball?” He ate another cake. “No need to worry. I’ve had dancing lessons at the theater.”
As if that was her concern. “This makes no sense. Why am I invited to this ball? Why are you? Who are these Overtons? Surely they cannot have heard of either of us?” They had better not have heard of her.
Tom was nodding as if he agreed. “Like I said, it’s his lordship’s scheme.”
“Scheme?”
“Plan,” corrected Tom quickly. “I got an idea about it.”
“I would be delighted to hear this.”
“Well, what they call the season is just about over, eh? I reckon Lord Macklin will be leaving town soon. So I’m thinking he’s seeing this ball as a way of saying goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Of course he would be going. Society streamed out of London when the season ended. It would be months before he returned, and by then perhaps he would have forgotten her. He ought to. But she couldn’t bear the thought. Surely she could see him once more. She could have that. They might even waltz. “I will go,” she said. She simply couldn’t resist.
“Good,” said Tom.
Teresa began reviewing her gowns to decide which would dazzle one particular, discriminating member of the haut ton.
Sixteen
He had perhaps worked harder at other things in his life, Arthur decided several days later, but never in such a concentrated burst. He was accustomed to having a large staff making arrangements for him. He hadn’t wanted to involve them in his plan for Miss Grandison’s brother, however, and he didn’t really mind the effort. He told himself he was like an ancient knight on a quest to win his lady. An odd sort of quest, to be sure, but the intent was there. A massive effort was the point, wasn’t it? He didn’t feel in the least as if he’d lost his senses. Had he not rather found them?