The earl went on, oblivious to his impending fate. “It inquired about an English lady, but strangely enough, including a locket with a miniature resembling”—his calculating gaze slid to Sarani—“none other than you.”
“A miniature?” Rhystan’s heart pounded, remembering the robbery at his residence. The thief must have been commissioned to seek out only the locket.
But why? For what purpose? His gaze slid to Sarani’s ashen countenance.
Unless someone was already here…looking for her.
Twenty-One
“I wish to leave,” Sarani said to no one in particular.
Her brain spun with a noxious concoction of fear, dread, and powerless rage. Who could have written to Markham? There was only one answer, truly. Rhystan’s mother had the only motivation. She could not have wanted to be rid of Sarani so badly, could she?
Of course she could. The dowager duchess was ruthless, especially when it came to what she felt was best for her children. Sarani had seen that same protectiveness with Ravenna, though the duchess hid it behind a facade of detachment. She loved her children, but she had a strange way of showing it. But perhaps that was the English way of things.
Despite her roiling emotions and the nausea pooling in the pit of her stomach, Sarani did not blame the duchess. The past would have caught up to her sooner or later.
Right now, she needed to get away from Talbot, from Markham—that odious, bigoted brute had to be here somewhere—before she did something unforgiveable. Her kukri were burning a hole in their sheaths against her legs. She only had to slip her trembling fingers through the concealed slits at her hips, and they would be in her palms.
Not that she intended to murder a man in the middle of Mayfair.
She just needed not to feel powerless.
Sarani jutted her jaw, using the very people who had been staring unabashedly all evening. “Let me pass, Lord Talbot, or I swear to everything holy that you will regret it.” She shot the earl a scathing glance. “Unless you don’t give a fig for your reputation, that is, because I have no qualms making a scene to end all scenes.”
“Wait.” Rhystan’s voice reached her, but she could not look at him now, or she would fall into his arms. And she needed to be strong. For herself.
Holding her head high, she swept past the curious onlookers toward the exit. She would call for a hackney if she had to. Her gaze scanned the crowd for Ravenna as she made her way over to the entrance salon to retrieve her cloak, but there was no sign of her. She glanced briefly at the duchess, who, like her son, had not deigned to wear a mask and whose face remained impassive. Then again, the untouchable dowager duchess would never lower herself to show emotion in public.
A body cut into Sarani’s path, halting her progress.
“I told you,” Penelope spit out viciously.
Sarani grimaced, stifling the urge to shove the girl aside. “Told me what?”
“That you would never have him,” she said triumphantly. “Not when you were already engaged. Gracious, you do get around, don’t you? Setting your sights on an earl, then a duke. Who’s next, Prince Alfred? I’m glad I took the initiative to write that letter.”
Her pretty face was marred with spite, but Sarani’s brain was spinning at the boast. Penelope had written to Markham? How on earth had she made that connection? Or known about Rhystan’s locket? But as quickly as she asked the question, she knew the answer.
It had to have been Ravenna, not knowing what Penelope would do, of course. Sarani had learned about the locket’s existence from Ravenna as well, and come to think of it, she had mentioned saying something to Penelope herself. If one had the connections, which the Duke of Windmere, Penelope’s father, would have, as well as the stolen miniature, getting information about Rhystan’s former commission would have been easy.
Penelope let out an ugly laugh. “Such aspiration, Lady Sara, though one wonders whether you are even a lady at all.”
“What are you talking about?”
Penelope winked and whispered, “I heard you’re a bastard that poor Lady Lisbeth didn’t even know who your father was.”
Sarani truly didn’t want to sink to her level, but she saw red. Tears smarted at the backs of her eyes. She was sick of being treated with such scorn. She let a slow, cold smile form on her lips and lifted a brow. “Why, you should know all about that, shouldn’t you, Penelope?” The girl went pale, but Sarani didn’t relent despite the sourness pooling in her belly. “Being born on the wrong side of the blanket, I mean.”
“I…”
Sarani took a page from Rhystan’s book. “Walk away, Penelope, before we both say something regrettable.”
To Sarani’s surprise, the girl did, hurtling backward like she couldn’t get away fast enough. That was the thing about bullies—they did not like it much when the boot was on the other foot. Penelope might have been casting stones at Sarani’s origins, but she’d forgotten about her own.
Sarani retrieved her cloak and was about to leave when she was stopped again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “How hard is it to leave this place?”
“Currying favor with your betters, I see,” a voice sneered.
Vice Admiral Markham’s bulk took up her vision in the foyer. Her eyes widened. Sarani would not have recognized him if not for the voice. Unlike Talbot, who had not changed in five years, Markham seemed rather worse for wear—he’d put on a stone or two and he looked like he had a rampant case of gout. He did not wear a uniform but was dressed in rumpled evening clothes that had seen better days. Her nose wrinkled. He also smelled like the inside of a chamber pot.
“Please excuse me,” she said, unwilling to trade greetings with a man who had treated her like filth on the sole of his shoe.
“Leaving so soon?” he asked. “I shall have to find your betrothed, then. One of them, at least.” He laughed as though he’d made the wittiest of jokes. “If Talbot had his preference, he would have swum here the minute I showed him that letter. Devil knows what he sees in you. But I’ll tell you what I see.” He swayed slightly. “Opportunity.”
Sarani had had enough of men seeing her as a piece to be played at their whims—whether it was for money or her fortune or her body. Gritting her teeth, she hiked her skirts, darted past him, and fled down the stairs to the crowded streets. It wasn’t that much of a walk to Huntley House—a few blocks at most. No one out here would harm her. The true danger was behind her in that ballroom, not on the streets of Mayfair.
Besides, she had her kukri and she had her wits. A brisk walk would clear her head. On her way past the line of stationary, luxurious coaches, she glimpsed a familiar face on the back of one of them, talking avidly to one of the coachmen.