By the day of the ball, he had checked off all the tasks on his list. He’d made certain that Quigley, Trask, and John Grandison all planned to attend. He had used all his powers of persuasion on Mrs. Overton and convinced her that serving rack punch at her ball might set a new fashion, though Arthur suspected that she was moving over into the category of those who thought he’d gone a bit mad. The idea filled him with an unfamiliar glee. It had been a very long time since he’d confounded anyone. Had he ever? Really? He couldn’t recall an instance, but he did have a great deal on his mind.
Tom and the two actresses from the Drury Lane Theater had been provided with the right sort of clothing and fully primed for the “scene” they were to perform. The ladies seemed to find the whole idea good fun. Miss Grandison had done her part as well, reminding the ton of her youthful embarrassment despite rising doubts about Arthur’s mental stability.
On the night, Arthur dressed to be more conspicuous than usual. Actually, he never was the least bit conspicuous. So this ensemble would be a first attempt. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” said his valet, Clayton, when he discovered a certain garment that Arthur had dug out of the back of the wardrobe. “There has been some mistake. I will just…”
“No, I’m wearing that one,” Arthur interrupted.
Clayton turned, holding the waistcoat that they’d rejected as unacceptable, its cherry-red and silver stripes too garish for public view. “This one?”
Clayton had been with him for more than twenty years, and Arthur valued his canny insights as much as his personal services. But in this case the valet wasn’t aware of the plan. “That one,” Arthur confirmed.
“But, my lord.”
Arthur saw that he’d gained another recruit into the ranks of those who feared for his sanity. So all was going well. “I am determined to wear it. A bit of a change, eh, Clayton?”
Though Clayton was an unassuming figure in middle age, with a round face that was pleasant rather than handsome and quiet brown eyes, he had the ability to exude disapproval. He exercised it to the fullest as Arthur finished dressing.
The waistcoat had the desired effect. It drew astonished stares when he entered the Overton house, and Miss Grandison couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from the garment when he went up to speak to her at the beginning of the ball. “The event will take place at the interval, when the refreshment room is most crowded,” he told her.
“Event?” She stared at his midsection.
“Delayed justice? Act of redemption? What do you wish to call it?”
“At this moment, Lord Macklin, I cannot find a phrase that satisfactorily expresses my feelings.”
“Well, you needn’t worry. The plans are all in place.”
“Worry. Am I worried? I don’t seem to be able to discern what I am.”
Arthur offered her a polite nod, as if they had been discussing commonplace matters and stepped away.
“How do you intend…” she began.
“It would be best if you were not aware of the details, don’t you think?”
“Best,” repeated Miss Grandison as if the word was untranslatable. He left her before she could figure it out.
His waistcoat attracted more attention, with smiles or frowns depending on the source. Certainly he was being noticed much more than usual. It was an interesting experience.
And then Teresa arrived with Tom, and he forgot everything else. In a gown of deep-blue silk with sprays of tiny sapphires sparkling in her earrings, she was gorgeous. Arthur’s heart began to pound like that of a gambler who was risking all on one desperate throw.
Just as she’d imagined, Lord Macklin came up to Teresa and asked her to dance. She accepted and took his arm to join the set. It was more than a pleasure to walk across the floor beside him. Although he didn’t look quite like himself. It was the stripes, she decided. “Your waistcoat is certainly…festive.”
“Worthy of a celebration,” he replied. Incomprehensibly. His blue eyes had an almost feverish sparkle.
“Why have you invited me here tonight?” Teresa asked him.
“I? Mrs. Overton invited you.”
“That would be the lady who greeted me at the entrance? The one who clearly had no idea who I was?”
“There are so many guests,” the earl replied. “This will be the last great squeeze of the season.”
The music began. They moved through the first steps of a country dance.
At the next opportunity for conversation Teresa said, “Tom thinks that we—he and I—are here because you will be leaving London soon and wished to say a…ceremonial goodbye.”
“Does he?” Lord Macklin looked pleased. “He is a clever lad.”
“So it is that? You wished to make some…grand gesture of farewell?”
“Grand but not goodbye, I hope,” Arthur muttered.
“What? I didn’t quite hear you.”
“You look ravishing tonight,” he said. “You throw all the other ladies into the shade.”
Teresa felt her cheeks flush. She was glad he found her beautiful. She thought him…everything a man should be. When he swung her around in a turn of the dance, her senses swam. She saw herself throwing her arms around him and begging him to carry her off, right here, in front of everyone. If he proposed marriage now… She shoved the idea away. It was no more possible than it had been before. Music and movement and a glittering crowd made no difference. And men didn’t ask again when they’d been refused. Of course, they didn’t invite one to balls and call one ravishing either. In eye-popping striped waistcoats. “It isn’t like you to make dramatic gestures,” she said.
“No? Are you sure you know me so well?”
She met his gaze and couldn’t look away. Love was there. As well as…anticipation? Something was happening tonight. She didn’t know what, but she had the sudden sense of a turning point looming. “What…” she began. And the set ended.
People stepped apart, dispersed. Lord Macklin turned and was inundated by a bevy of young ladies in pastel ball gowns and a babble of greetings.
“My brother Cecil is full of admiration for your waistcoat,” said Miss Deeping to the earl.
“You do understand that this is ominous?” asked Miss Finch. “To be admired by Cecil Deeping is to destroy any aspirations you might have to good taste.”
“Oh, Harriet, he’s not so bad,” said Miss Moran.
“Have you seen his waistcoat?”
“I was too dazzled by the coach-wheel buttons and the many fobs,” said Miss Deeping. “Henry said he looks like a mountebank.”