Ignoring her husband, Millie swept her free arm to encompass the entirety of the Anstruther mansion’s grand ballroom. “I insist that you enjoy yourself, darling, the night is already a rollicking success.”
“The night’s barely begun,” Imogen murmured, imaging the scenarios of any number of disasters.
“Precisely, the evening is full of opportunity and possibility. Come morning, all of London will be talking of nothing but your incomparable affair.”
Impulsively, Imogen hugged Millie, kissing her soundly on the cheek. “You and your friends have been so kind to me, I could never repay you.”
Millie’s brilliant smile drew the stares of so many. “I’m lucky to have such women in my life, and am happy to share them with you, most especially in support of such a worthy cause.”
Smoothing her white glove down the front of her intricate apricot dress for perhaps the millionth time, Imogen scanned the ballroom, ticking off her particular accomplishments to soothe her nerves.
With the Marchioness of Ravencroft’s expert guidance, she’d draped the white marble hall in heaps of gold to match the embellishments on the Grecian columns. Billowing drapes caught the night air from windows left open to allow the late spring breezes to cool the room. Strings of lights, valances, candles, cast an ethereal glow over the crowd, accentuated by charming paper lanterns she’d had one of her boarders purchase from the Asian markets. Guests seemed to appreciate the flattering golden light, and some had already begun to turn about the floor as the orchestra cued their selections of music including Camille Saint-Saëns, Antonín Dvořák, Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky, and some Gilbert and Sullivan to appease the nationalists.
Speaking of the marchioness, Mena Mackenzie’s statuesque figure glided toward them, draped in bronze silk that set her hair ablaze. To Imogen, she conjured Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. Not only in her build and beauty, but in the dualism of the rather sensual divinity and kind benevolence that shone from her aspect.
Ascending the stairs to the entry landing, she held out her hands to Imogen, and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks. “Everything is just lovely, dear,” she encouraged. “And look at what a marvelous time they’re all having.”
Imogen had to admit, it did seem that everything was going well thus far.
“I’m intimately acquainted with that look,” Mena confided. “You’re certain something is about to go wrong.”
Imogen frowned, pained that she was so transparent.
“I was a viscountess before I was a marchioness, and I’ve hosted more of these events than you can imagine. Let me assure you, your fears are not baseless. In fact, you can’t completely relax until you’ve put out a fire, whether literal or figurative. But with our help, you’ll avoid, or at least be able to conceal, any mishap or emergency before it’s noticed.”
“I’m praying that the mishap this afternoon counts.” Imogen wryly referred to when Clara Boyle, a former fishwife who’d recently joined her employ, had shown the marchioness into the garden instead of having her wait in the parlor, without so much as an announcement. Imogen had been painting in little but her chemise and skirts, her hair twisted above her neck and her face ruddy from the heat.
Mena, of course, had been gracious and sweet, laughing off Imogen’s mortification while mentioning that she lived in the Highlands where men worked the fields clad in only their kilts, boots, and the low Scottish sky.
The lapse in etiquette worried her, though, as she’d planned on making a particular point this evening. That, given the proper training, education, and opportunity, even someone from the lowliest circumstances, like a prostitute or a petty thief, could live productive, lucrative existences in society.
They only needed a chance.
“Has anyone seen my wayward husband?” Mena queried.
“I’m certain he’s not arrived yet.” Imogen glanced toward the door, where Mena watched expectantly. She was certain Laird Ravencroft wasn’t in attendance, because the Scotsman surpassed even Christopher Argent in size, and therefore was impossible to overlook.
“It’s not like him to be tardy,” Mena worried. “He said he was visiting a friend here in Belgravia this afternoon, maybe you know him, the Duke of—”
“Lady Anstruther.”
Imogen turned to face Cheever, whom she’d promoted to butler upon her husband’s death. He hovered in a way that was both absolutely appropriate, and completely unsettling. Something had happened, she could tell by how he clasped his hands behind him.
“What is it, Cheever?” She was proud of how she kept her voice even, though her breathing had increased dramatically.
“Pardon the interruption, but there’s some urgent news from Croyden, madam. Might I consult with you in the blue parlor? Should only take a moment.”
Imogen felt the blood rush from her extremities, and she released her hold on Millie so she wouldn’t give in to the impulse to collapse against her. “Of—of course, Cheever.” Excusing herself from her guests, she made her way across the ballroom on legs as substantial as glass.
Croyden. This was bigger than a mishap. This could very well be the epic disaster she’d been fearing. Croyden was the code word Edward and Cheever used when discussing the Bare Kitten.
Imogen found Jeremy Carson in the blue parlor helping himself to some Turkish delight she kept in a crystal dish. He stood when she entered, and self-consciously swiped a dusting of confectioner’s sugar from his trousers.
“Ginny—I mean—Lady Anstruther.” He gave a rather exaggerated bow and tried to hide the rest of the confection in his cheek.
“Jeremy, what a pleasant surprise,” Imogen lied. It wasn’t that she harbored any bad feelings for the boy, quite the contrary; it was only that any news from the Bare Kitten promised to be dreadful.
Imogen was somewhat of an expert in handling dreadful news, but … just not tonight.
“I hope everything is well with you,” she prodded gently, keeping her voice deceptively mild.
His cheek pouched over the candy somewhat ruined his crooked smile, but it was endearing all the same. “Sorry to inconvenience your ladyship, I didn’t know you were having a toff to-do tonight. It’s just that, there’s something I think you should know.”
Bracing herself, Imogen reached for the high back of the chair, gripping it until her entire hand went white. “Go on,” she encouraged.
“That lofty duke, the one what lost his hand, he came round asking after you again yesterday.” Jeremy took advantage of her astonishment to finish chewing his Turkish delight, and she watched the obtrusion of his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed the entire thing.
“After me?” she finally gasped.
“Well, after Ginny, but yeah.” Jeremy removed his cap and held it in both hands, worrying at the rim. His hair, the color and consistency of oat straw, stuck out in wild tufts, though he’d obviously tried to tame it with pomade. “But I says to him, I says, ‘Oi, I don’t care what kind of title you throw around, I ain’t telling you a thing.’”
“You said that to him?”
“Well, not in those precise words.” He threw her a sheepish grin, revealing one gold tooth that was somehow utterly charming beneath his freckles. “But I told him that I didn’t remember nothing, I hadn’t seen you round, and it didn’t matter how many times he came asking, my memory’s not like to improve with time.”