There was no panic like the one that preceded a young miss' attendance at a ducal ball. Two misses did not double the level of panic, but rather multiplied it. The fact that the misses had to contend with previous scandals (for the eldest) and financial woes (for both of them) ought to have made things worse, but there was only so much panic a human body could take before fainting.
The majority of the panic was concentrated in their mother. Farrah had absorbed maybe a quarter of it, and Margaret's sullen mood was slowly succumbing to emotional contagion. Tisiphone was fine. She didn't have the time to be anxious, and she did not have room for such overflowing feelings anyway, what with her utter exhaustion.
Also, her forearms had turned green.
Her dyed dress really was a gift that kept on giving. The bathtub hadn't recovered from Tisiphone's attempt at washing the darn thing, either. She gazed at her skin in hollow resignation. Well. Nobody would be taking her dress off, anyway.
"Tisi! Is your hair done yet?" Margaret yelled from the hallway. She barged into Tisiphone's bedroom. "Farrah is doing Mamaaaaare you green?"
"No," Tisiphone lied. "And I will take care of my hair. Yours looks lovely, by the way."
Margaret disregarded the hair topic entirely. "Why are you green?"
"It's only my forearms, Meg. It won't show with my gloves."
"You're aware we will dine at the Duke's, right?"
Tisiphone processed the information. She had known that, distantly, but had not quite connected that knowledge with her colouring predicament. Etiquette dictated one had to remove one's gloves to dine, unless suffering from some horrifying skin condition, like the smallpox or the bubonic plague. "Fricking hedge," she yelled, bolting to the washroom to scrub her arms clean. It was one thing not to care about herself, but she could not embarrass Meg and Emmeline. Especially not at a duke's table. Especially not in Bridgecombe's home.
The invitation to the Duchess of Willingshire's ball had come as a shock (especially after more than a week of no invitations whatsoever). It was the most convenient, beneficial-for-damaged-reputations invitation young misses could get. Tisiphone rather thought James Robinson had a hand in it. Really, it was the chance of a lifetime. That Tisiphone would rather die than go was secondary. In any case, she could not attend while green.
She was still scrubbing her hands when her mother joined her in the washroom.
"Sweetheart, you need to hurry so Farrah can do your hair… What are you doing?"
"Mama. Do I absolutely need to attend the ball, or can you pretend I contracted Margaret's imaginary flu?"
Nobody had openly acknowledged yet that Meg had been faking. The important point, however, was he had been feeling awful to the point of avoiding people, and was now recovering. Emmeline did not acknowledge Tisiphone's slip.
"Of course you must, this is such a rare opportunity. What—"
"Do my arms look green to you?" her daughter interrupted, showing her the skin she had been scouring with a brush. "I can't tell."
Emmeline stared. "Mostly, they look vividly red… And green. Oh no. The dyed dress?"
Tisiphone groaned. "We let it soak for days, I thought it would be fine."
"Alright. Go to Farrah, get your hair fixed, I'll get one of your gowns and extend the sleeves with lace. That will cover the damage. Oh, and snatch my pearl bracelets. It will make for an extra layer."
The next half hour was a mad rush to get each of them ready. By some miracle, they all managed to look somewhat presentable in time to leave, although the process had involved jewellery thrown across bedrooms and lace hastily cut away from napkins. Margaret looked perfect in her yellow dress, but her appearance had never been a worry. Emmeline had not quite polished her looks to the degree she had hoped, but no one could have found fault in her choice of outfit and hairdo. Tisiphone… Tisiphone would not attract anyone's attention, in her cloudy blue gown, which was both too plain and too tame for the occasion, but she would not attract anyone's attention. The gown's long sleeves — now adorned with lace — covered the green stains on her skin. Her mother's pearl bracelets, subtle under the lace, would conceal her wrists when taking off her gloves.
"Did I miss anything?" she asked Margaret as they hurried through the hallway. The coachman was readying the car, and would pick them up within minutes. "I'm certain something is off."
It was better to make sure before shoving oneself into a carriage bound for the Duke's manor. If there was a critical issue, Tisiphone could hide in the car for the entire party, but that was not optimal.
Her sister looked her up and down, her hand on the door handle. "I don't think—"
The doorbell rang.
"Don't op—" Tisiphone gasped.
Margaret, who was already in the process of opening the door, didn't stop in time. She pulled it wide open on James Robinson. And then she slammed it shut. A dreadful silence fell, lasted about ten seconds, then the young man burst out laughing on the doorstep.
"What is he doing here?" Meg yelped, arms flailing. She composed herself, and opened the door with quiet poise. "What are you doing here?"
Robinson couldn't answer through his wheezes. He had bent over, hands on his knees, and only managed a vague gesture to beg for a moment to recover. Meg scoffed at him. Tisiphone cleared her throat, checking the street for witnesses. While none of their neighbours were out, there was at least one person looking at them: the coachman of a large black carriage drawn by two horses. Said carriage was emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Duke of Willingshire. She did not get to consider that detail, for her mother burst in between her and Meg, not so subtly pushing them back inside.
"Mister Robinson! My apologies for the unconventional welcome," she said. "I am afraid we are in a bit of a rush."
It took him a few more moments to fully collect himself.
"I am…" He took a deep breath, wiping his eyes. "I am well aware. Good evening, Lady Russelby. Miss Lane, Miss Margaret." He swallowed a last chuckle. "I am equally in a rush, since we're heading to the same place. I commandeered one of my uncle's carriages and was wondering if you would like a ride to the manor," he explained, waving at the car. "It would be much more fun to have company."
"We have our own—" Margaret started.
"We would be delighted," Emmeline nearly shouted, poking her daughter in the side. "How kind of you!"
Meg was not deterred. "There's three of us, wouldn't it be a lot of people?" she demurred, with the gentleness of a rabid wolf. "We would not want to impose!"
Robinson grinned at her. "I'll let you know I've squeezed a whole twelve grown men inside one of those. Sure, some had to sit on others' knees, and it smelled like a boxing club's locker room, but we managed."
"We would be delighted," Emmeline repeated. "Do not mind my daughter. She is shy." On that bald-faced lie, she clasped her hands and redirected the conversation. "Could you spare a few minutes, so I can tell our coachman to collect us later this evening? He'll be glad to have a few hours free."
Robinson bowed his head. "Take all the time you need. We are not late to begin with and, should we somehow get lost on the way, my aunt will blame me."
"I'll be right back," she promised.
She stepped back into the house and closed the door, leaving her daughters outside with their visitor. They heard her dash through the hallway, heels clattering.
Tisiphone cleared her throat. "So. Um. Nice weather today."
Someone had to fill the silence before Margaret did. She was fuming.
"Why, yes. Quite seasonal!" Robinson was beaming. "Absolutely local. Positively English."
"Please do not mock my attempts at small talk. We young ladies are required to deploy the entire arsenal to prevent genuine conversation, don't you know?"
Robinson lowered his eyes, pressing his hat to his chest with a solemn expression. "Your sacrifice is appreciated, but I was quite looking forward to the tongue-lashing Miss Margaret was about to deliver."
"You!" Meg exclaimed. She waved her reticule at him. "What is this ambush?" She waved her reticule some more, this time at the carriage. "Why would you do this?"
Tisiphone took her arm and lowered it.
"Why!" Robinson gasped. "Can't a gentleman offer his services and someone else's carriage out of the goodness of his heart?"
"There's plenty of other young ladies who would have appreciated it more!" Meg snapped.
It was best to intervene before this turned into a scene the whole neighbourhood would enjoy. Tisiphone leaned close to her sister's ear and whispered: "I think he is courting Mother."
Margaret slowly turned to her, horrified.
Robinson collapsed laughing again. "This. This is why I am here," he wheezed. "You are genuinely fun company. And, alas, as lovely as your mother is, I am but a babe in her eyes." He straightened up, putting his hat back on. "It breaks my heart. A man couldn't do much better than—" There was a clattering of heels inside, followed by three slow steps. The door opened. "Lady Lane," Robinson finished. "Shall we go?"
And so they did.
They walked to the carriage. The coachman opened the door. He helped them in. Robinson's treachery was revealed.
Tisiphone ought to have trusted Margaret's instincts: when her sister had used the term "ambush", she had thought it was a bit dramatic, the kind of accusations a teen girl would throw about in a fit of pouting anger. But she was oh so very right.
"Lord Bridgecombe!" Emmeline exclaimed when they found the earl seated in the carriage. "What a pleasant surprise."
Why hadn't he come to their door? Wasn't it only polite to warn people of the company they would have to endure? Tisiphone was following her mother and couldn't have retreated without knocking Meg out. She greeted Bridgecombe with a saccharine smile and shot daggers at Robinson, who hadn't yet climbed into the car. If this was not his plan, he was at least an accomplice. He raised his hands innocently, but grinned.
Bridgecombe cleared his throat. "Good evening. Please make yourself comfortable," he invited as the three of them sat down on the opposite bench. He turned away, looking out the window. "It shouldn't be too long a ride."
Robinson heaved himself into the carriage. "Give them the chocolates," he instructed, dropping in his heavily brocaded seat. "That's why we have chocolate."
"Right," his cousin muttered, with an annoyed cough. He picked up an embossed tin box that had been resting next to him, and handed it to Emmeline, then retreated to his corner.
"I might have snatched a few," Robinson confided, peeking at his cousin with a discomfited look. He wiped that expression off his face and beamed at the three of them. "Open it, and absolutely try the diablotins. Ignore the ones with currant bits. I don't know what the confectioner was thinking. It ruins all the bitterness."
Meg took one of the currant chocolates just to spite him.
"Thank you so much!" Emmeline said. "They all look delicious. The diablotins, you say?"
Tisiphone made sure to thank their hosts, even if Bridgecombe was pointedly not looking at them. Robinson's efforts to monopolise her family's attention was pointless: no amount of pleasantries would be enough to compensate for the earl's rudeness. The latter had to be another victim of Robinson's ambush, for it was clear he would have melted into a puddle and dripped under the carriage's door if it had been an option. If he pressed himself harder against his seat, its back was liable to break.
She watched him lower his hat a little to hide his eyes, leaving only a surprisingly freckled nose exposed. She had never noticed his freckles: he had always seemed such a perfectly tailored ice statue. Here, he looked like a sulking child. Well. Sulking was better than antagonism.
All the same, she elected to be true to her name and mete out some punishment for Robinson's crime of deceitfulness. She turned back to the young artist and started a conversation about art, and how little of an income art provided to a "not a first son" kind of gentleman.
"OLIVER, I SWEAR TO GOD!" James swore to God, opening Oliver's wardrobe as if expecting to find his cousin in it. Joke was on him: Oliver was under the bed. "We have been here for five whole minutes! This was your idea. Come on!"
Ollie could only blame himself for not waiting for James to be engaged in conversation before fleeing. There was no need for him to attend the ball, really: his mother would handle the socialising. She would make sure to talk to the dowager countess of Russelby, and possibly to find dances for Miss Lane and Miss Margaret. Oliver had piqued Evalyn's interest. There was no way she would not get involved now. Taking that in consideration, his own intervention was no longer required. He had done what he was best at: getting others to do all the hard work
"I can see your feet," James announced. "Also, wow, you fit under there? You're a lot thinner than I thought."
Oliver slid his overly long legs under the bed.
"Incredible," his cousin commented. He waited a little. "Alright, get out," he sighed, grabbing Oliver by the ankles and dragging him away from the bed. This traumatised Mousey, the house's oldest tabby grey cat, who had been enjoying a nap on the bed. He galloped to the dresser, hiding under it. He and Oliver stared at each other with wide eyes for a second, before the human processed he was being dragged on the wooden floor like a potato bag.
"I can come out on my own!" he protested.
"You were not." James narrowed his eyes at his breeches. "You'll need to change before we head down." He gestured at the coat of dust that covered Ollie's clothes. "You make a great broom. Also. Oliver. No disrespect meant, but have you considered the absolute lack of consequences you have faced for your antics might have led you to escalate them to a superfluous degree?"
Oliver sat up, brushing the dust off his clothes. Rather than meet James' eyes, he elected to inspect a corner of the carpet. It had some loose strings that could use some trimming. "Maybe."
"You were hiding under the bed. The bed. At no point did you consider just, you know, facing me and telling me to leave you alone? Or, failing that, locking the door?"
There was a hint of annoyance to James' voice, which had to be an accomplishment: the young man was notoriously mellow (except, apparently, around gossips and scheming noblemen, but Oliver did not fall in those categories).
"There was no thinking involved," he muttered. "I know I'm stupid."
"No. No, no, no, none of that. Alright. First off. Clean clothes." James walked into the closet and came out with fresh garments. "This ought to do. I'll wait outside, you have ten minutes before I bodily carry you down to the ballroom."
He left, closing the door behind him with a carefulness quite at odds with his tense posture.
Oliver ran his hands over his face, then stripped. If even James was angry at him, he needed to get over himself. His family's patience could only extend so far. He couldn't keep burdening them. He shoved himself into the clean clothes, hurrying to the washroom to freshen up a bit and ensure he looked presentable. It allowed him to fix a hat-induced cowlick he had not noticed. He also redid his necktie thrice, changed cufflinks, and hunted down a new kerchief. Mousey, wide-eyed, observed the whole process from his spot under the dresser.
James knocked on the door, coming in with his back turned and his eyes riveted to the ceiling. "I trust you're ready."
"Yes… Yes, I am."
"Then let's go. I suggest we start with the gardens, if we're to enjoy them at all tonight. The weather is English today and I want some fresh air while we can still get it."
Oliver acquiesced. "Let's use the servants' passages, then, or we will never make it."
That was not a lie: while the assertion reeked of avoidance and bad excuses, there was no way he could come down the main stairway and cross half the house without having to greet the entire guest list. James considered his words, wrinkled his nose, then conceded. They slipped into the secluded corridor the staff used to cross the house, startling a group of maids on a break. A bottle of cheap cider vanished behind one of their backs.
Oliver tried to remember whether her mother had given strict assignments to the chamber maids. Were they supposed to be aimlessly wandering around with bottles of champagne, refilling people's glasses? If that was the case, their hiding spot was certainly better than underneath a bed.
He gave them a shy smile. "Good evening! Is everything going well downstairs?"
The one who was hiding the cider — Emma, who had seniority over the others — cleared her throat. "Yes, my lord. It is getting crowded, but the visitors are so far content. We were about to head back."
The four other young women shifted uneasily. The most skittish of them — Sigourney, a recent hire — nodded with terrified fervour. So they had strict assignments.
"There are seventy-five servants in this house and Mother hired a catering crew," he blurted out, relating heavily to the horror of being caught shirking one's duties. "Nobody will notice if you take a few minutes to enjoy a drink. And if someone does, tell them Mousey made a mess in my room and it needed cleaning. I'll back you up. Um. Err. You didn't hear guests arguing or gossiping about other guests, did you?"
Emma shook her head, solemn. The others exchanged glances.
"Um, there is always a modicum of gossip, my lord," Sigourney commented. "It didn't sound worse than usual."
James, who had been standing back, bemused, stepped in. "We are mostly concerned about friends of mine. Miss Lane and her sister, Miss Margaret."
Emma, Mary and Agatha winced. That did not bode well.
"What's wrong?" Oliver asked. "Emma?"
"Ah, it's not tonight especially, Lord Bridgecombe. It's more things we heard out on the market, from the gossip mill."
James frowned, crossing his arms. "Is anyone accusing Miss Margaret of something?"
Sigourney shrank back. Emma, who had worked in the house for years, knew how to remain neutral in the face of young lords' outbursts. Still, she would not repeat rumours pertaining to noblewomen. "It's all empty air, mister Robinson," she replied, bowing her head. "Nothing worth listening to."
"We are aware of slander about Miss Lane being an alcoholic," Oliver cut in. "And her younger sister being, um, um. A-anyway, our concerns only pertain to tonight, and the risk of scandal should disputes arise."
"Oh. Um. Well. Um." Emma took a deep breath. "Well. Keep in mind this is all gossip we overheard from other houses' staff who had heard it from, well, we don't know where. But some noble ladies seem to think the youngest miss plans to humiliate the Whitecove girl, I mean Lady Cecilia Whitecove, that in order to seduce her suitor away, or something of the sort."
Oliver stared at her blankly. "What."
"They say she is a social climber and a gold digger," Emma unhelpfully clarified.
Agatha nodded wisely. "There is some conspiracy, um, alliance, rather, among young ladies to protect Lady Cecilia by making sure the Lane girl cannot get close and do… Whatever it is she planned?"
"Miss Margaret was ill most of the month!" Oliver exclaimed. "Whatever could she possibly have planned? And… More importantly, what 'suitor' are we talking about?" he asked, frowning. He had not been aware Lady Cecilia was being courted. "So we can make sure no misunderstandings happen tonight."
Agatha coughed. Mary coughed. Even Emma coughed. Sigourney blinked, confused.
"Is it supposed to be Robinson?" Oliver pushed.
Emma shook her head. "Ah, no, my lord. It's supposed to be you."
"What?"
Willingshire House made it easier to understand Bridgecombe. More especially, it made it easy to understand why he would feel superior to people. The manor was grand. It was, actually, "grand" in several ways. For a start, the architect had built it for people much taller than average, for every doorway was uncannily high. Some were "palace model" high, which was not as disturbing to look at. Some were normal doors, just much taller than they were wide, which gave the feeling they were too narrow to pass through.
Another way the manor was "grand" was the overabundance of marble, gold, ivory, and floor to ceiling master paintings.
The last way the manor was "grand" was that it required floor plans to navigate: the Duchess knew that, for floor plans had been provided in every hallway. They detailed the location of the various game rooms (and which games would be played in them), of the refreshment tables, and of the several washing rooms. There were salons: two digits worth of salons.
In any case, the overwhelming opulence certainly explained why Bridgecombe would consider the masses beneath him. His home's great hall was taller than the Lane's house.
"Something is off," Emmeline whispered to Tisiphone as they walked into the ballroom (which was helpfully illustrated with a little ballerina on the numerous floor plans). "Your sister seems ill."
They had arrived a mere ten minutes earlier, and Margaret had been "lively", if one had to be polite, during the entire trip. She hadn't said much to Robinson and Bridgecombe, but her glaring had lacked neither enthusiasm nor energy. There had most certainly been nothing wrong with her appetite: the currant-flavoured chocolates had met a quick demise. Her spite had deserted her when the two men had vanished into the manor, shortly after their arrival, but she had not wavered until faced with the crowd of party-goers.
Now, she was pale as a corpse.
Did this have something to do with the anonymous mail she had been getting? Meg had never been cowed by the ton before, but if she was being bullied…
Tisiphone looked around. Maybe a particular someone's presence had made Margaret uneasy. Who that "someone" could be was anyone's guess, but spotting an acquaintance might jog Tisiphone's memory and help her understand what was going through her sister's mind. She hoped for instant realisation: the kind of "clicking into place" she would get from seeing Marnborne skulking around. He wasn't there, though. Robinson had made sure to mention it once or thrice as they drove to the ball. Viscount Russelby was invited, but Tisiphone did not find him in the crowd. The only people that stood out were Lord Whitecove and his daughter. Lady Cecilia was glued to him. If she had female chaperones, they had vanished, which was likely for the best: young men did not seem quite as afraid of Lord Whitecove as of Lady Ashcroft.
"Ah, the Duchess is busy," Emmeline sighed, looking at a stunning, if somewhat older, woman in a blue dress. "Let's stay close. We must absolutely thank her for her invitation."
"It might take a while," Tisiphone commented. The Duchess was swarmed by noble ladies. There was at least one marchioness in the lot, and one of the other women looked suspiciously like the countess of Keenshire. It would not do to interrupt that conversation.
Curiosity revived Meg. "I didn't know she was that old," she whispered. "I thought she was closer to Mama's age."
"Both she and the Duke are in their early sixties," Emmeline explained. "Bridgecombe was their miracle child after many years without luck."
"Her dress is amazing," Meg commented.
Tisiphone didn't have much of an interest for the fine details of dressmaking. She turned her attention back to the crowd. The "miracle child" was nowhere to be seen. Robinson had returned, and was deep in conversation with a woman who looked strikingly like him. Not that "conversation" was the proper term: he was being talked at, and bravely enduring. His mother — it had to be his mother — commented on his collar, and he obediently adjusted it.
A maid stopped by them, holding a platter with three cups of champagne. Tisiphone absentmindedly refused the alcohol and stepped away for good measure, letting her mother and sister take their own glasses.
With so many people packed in the grand, grand manor, the Lane's family friends had to be attending. The question was not whether they were present, but where they were present. Alas, to wander off and find them, Tisiphone first had to greet the Duchess. Maybe she could get Robinson's attention and ask him who he had seen?
"Miss Lane," the servant pressed her, with the faintest bow. "Do you want some champagne?"
"No, thank you very much. I don't drink."
That answer did not sit right with the maid, who cleared her throat. She offered the platter again. "Are you sure?"
Tisiphone stared at her, confused. The young woman was sweating bullets. Guests refusing champagne was not supposed to be anxiety-inducing. And yet, she was all but shaving her platter in Tisiphone's face. Was this part of a prank? Was someone forcing the young servant to insist?
Tisiphone smiled. "I am sure. Thanks!"
The maid peeked down at the glass of champagne. It had spilled over a bit, soaking the dance card it was resting on. Tisiphone turned to Meg before the servant could try to hand the drink to her again.
"Do you see anyone we know?" she asked her sister. "I hoped Tabitha and her mother would be here."
Tabitha was Meg's childhood friend: they had lived on the same street for ten years, before Tabitha's family had relocated to Bath. Now, they only visited for part of the season, staying with relatives in Westminster.
"Oh, she wrote that she would come!" Meg exclaimed. "And her brother too. We should look for them."
The maid desperately cleared her throat, then scampered off, flustered. Tisiphone narrowed her eyes and watched her slip between guests. If she reported to any of them… However, the girl vanished through the same door as all other waitresses, which Tisiphone assumed led to the kitchens.
A gaggle of young ladies stampeded through the room. They shoved themselves between the Lane and the Duchess, spreading out in a wall of silk and cotton muslin. Between their dresses, fans and constant motion, Tisiphone could barely spot their hostess. She would have chalked it up to the ladies lacking situational awareness, had they not been giggling and making obvious efforts not to look at them. The nail in the coffin was a whispered "do not look at them, oh my God!".
She exchanged a worried look with Emmeline.
What is this about?
Margaret's mood soured. She pretended to look at the room, turning her back to the group of women. "I don't see Tabitha," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. Emmeline peeked at her, then at the ladies, then at Tisiphone. Tisiphone pursed her lips and shook her head.
The waitress materialised back by her side. "Miss Lane, do you want some juice or water?"
"I don't…" Tisiphone gave the servant a closer look. She had returned with several choices of beverages, which were evenly spread on the edge of her platter. She had left a hole between them at the front, so the dance card lying in the middle would stand out. And stand out it did, for the initials "T. L." were scribbled on it and underlined thrice.
"What is this 'cloak-and-dagger' nonsense?" she sighed.
The poor maid, who wasn't paid enough to get roped into such idiocy, whimpered. Tisiphone took pity on her. "Apple juice sounds like a great idea," she announced, reaching for the platter with the hand that was holding her own dance card. She put it down on the "secret note", took the glass of juice, and picked up both dance cards. The maid near collapsed in relief. Tisiphone nodded and let her run along.
Meg was still turned away, and Emmeline was focused on her, so nobody had noticed the peculiar exchange. Tisiphone slipped away to the closest refreshments table — close enough to her family that she could not be accused of running off — and peeked at the message. Barely legible, the warning had been scribbled across the folded dance card.
"Wotch ovt," it warned. "Y~~ sisten miyft be targcfcd by bullies."
She squinted at the wobbly zig-zags. The first line was somewhat decipherable. The rest required concentration, between the champagne stains and the fact that no flat surface had been involved in the penning of the message.
"Watch out. Your sister might be targeted by bullies. Rumours have spread that she means harm to Lady Cecilia (Lord Whitecove's daughter). Stick with her, ensure she only dances with friends. I will warn the Duchess so she can put a stop to any pranks."
There was more at the back of the dance card, including a signature, but champagne and fruit juice had soaked through the cardboard, reducing the pencilled words to dark splotches. Tisiphone took a deep breath. She was doomed to receive unsigned letters. The scribbling and excessive underlining did remind her of the Mysterious Stranger from the Closet. Could it be the same person? There was no way to know. The one certitude she had about the note's author was that he was an idiot.
Would it have been so difficult to tell her in person? She was hardly hiding (so far)! The warning could have been delivered in a two minutes conversation, along with useful information on Meg's predicament (the dance card had provided none).
She scoffed behind her glass of apple juice. "Seriously."
The good news was that Meg was nowhere near Lady Cecilia: the gaggle of young ladies had claimed the Duchess' attention, which left the Lane family awkwardly planted at the edge of the hallway, waiting for an opening that might never come. The Whitecove girl was surrounded by friends — self-proclaimed guards, maybe — and seemed unaware of Margaret's presence. Tisiphone took that as a sign the rumours had not reached her. Lady Cecilia had not struck her as confident: if she believed herself to be threatened by a guest, it would show.
Now. The Duchess. The author of the note planned to warn her. Hopefully, that undertaking would not involve secret notes delivered hidden between refreshments.
Tisiphone left her empty glass on the table and returned to her family.
"Where have you been?" Emmeline asked. "I thought I would have to fetch you from the park."
"I was two steps away, Mother!" Tisiphone took her arm. She whispered, twisting the corner of her mouth towards the invading ladies. "Anyone said anything about Meg?"
"Not that I heard. They… Oh!" Emmeline plastered a smile on her face, staring at a point above her daughter's shoulder. She poked Margaret, who whirled to them in a flurry of silk. Tisiphone turned.
The Duchess was coming their way, followed by three ladies and led by her son. They looked a bit alike, although she didn't have his freckles. They shared pale eyes and blonde hair. However, where he was cold and withdrawn, the Duchess was exuberantly bright. Age aside, she had all the traits of a pretty socialite. Her motions, her dress and jewellery reminded Tisiphone of a shimmering butterfly.
"Lady Lane! Here you are!" she exclaimed. "I am so very glad you came. And those lovely young women must be your daughters?"
Emmeline and Tisiphone curtsied. Meg, who had been lost in thought, hastily followed suit.
"Your Grace!" Emmeline beamed. "Thank you so much for your invitation. We wouldn't have missed this event for the world. And, indeed, they are! This my eldest, Tisiphone." -- Tisiphone curtsied. -- "And my youngest, Margaret."
Margaret, dutiful, curtsied again, then abandoned decorum. "I am honored to meet you, Your Grace. And your dress is gorgeous!"
The duchess chuckled at her starry-eyed awe. "Why, thank you! I'm partial to it myself. My modiste outdid herself. And you are Margaret, then. I heard a lot about you."
Meg blanched, and Tisiphone had to put a hand on her back to prevent her from recoiling. Emmeline inched closer, ready to answer the duchess, but Bridgecombe stepped in.
"Robinson has been singing your praises," he explained. "He finds your company quite enjoyable. All three of you."
The three of them gawked for an instant, unaccustomed to seeing the earl willingly engage in conversation. Tisiphone got even more confused when he made faces at her. His naturally downturned eyebrows wiggled between a frown and an upwards arch. She blinked at him, a polite smile frozen on her face. "I cannot read minds," she thought at him.
Meanwhile, Emmeline was using her actual voice to give an audible response. "Oh, that is so kind of him," she said, turning back to the duchess. "Your nephew is such a nice young man. And so is the earl, obviously. By the way, my lord, thank you again for giving us a ride today! Trips are much more pleasant in the company of friends."
The gaggle of young ladies, still present and eavesdropping, fluttered. Gasps were strangled. Whispers were hushed. Tisiphone attempted to eavesdrop back, but their hissing and rattling was not intelligible enough. Meanwhile, the older ladies accompanying the duchess had shown no reaction whatsoever. If they disapproved of the earl's choices in travel companions, they knew not to show it.
"Quite, quite," Bridgecombe muttered. He turned to the duchess. "Mother, I am afraid the Duke called for me at least fifteen minutes ago, and it is well past time I join him. I'll leave my friends in your capable hands."
"Alright, alright," his mother conceded, waving him away. "Go." She sighed as he scampered away. "You'll have to excuse him," she told Emmeline. "Large events like these always keep him awfully busy. And with my husband getting older, Bridgecombe is more and more in demand. Now, it just struck me that the young misses might not have been introduced to my friends yet!"
The misses shook their heads.
"How remiss of me," their hostess commented. "Well, let me fix that!"
Oliver stomped through the hallway, willing himself to become invisible. If that wasn't possible, maybe he could emit some threatening aura that would discourage people from intercepting him while he attended the next part of the Plan: get to his father and have him keep Russelby busy. Ollie could not allocate more than ten minutes to this endeavor, because he also had to inspect the seating assignments (in three separate dining rooms) to ensure the Lane were not seated near girls involved in the "Lady Cecilia defense league" or whatever their little gang's name was.
Meanwhile, James would be ambushing Lady Cecilia herself, trying to suss out whether she was involved in the "defence efforts" or not.
Or James… would not. Oliver spotted him on the edge of the ballroom, where he had been ambushed by his mother. Aunt Juliet seemed to have comments about her son's outfit, his hairdo, and his facial expression, which a sullen James adjusted one by one. He fixed his necktie, smoothed his hair, and gave his mother the most artificial smile Ollie had ever seen on a living person.
Alright. You'll have to handle Lady Cecilia yourself, Ollie psyched himself up. You CAN handle Lady Cecilia yourself.
His heart started thumping in his chest.
It would not be that difficult, Ollie knew it: Lady Ashcroft wasn't there, for a start, so he would only have to deal with Lord Whitecove, who respected young men of impeccable breeding and would likely make himself scarce if a future duke were to want to talk to his daughter. And Lady Cecilia seemed… nice enough?
That positive reasoning did not make Ollie feel any less faint. Still, terrified or not, he dragged himself to the Whitecove and bowed.
"Lord Whitecove, Lady Cecilia! What a pleasure to see you tonight. I hope everything is to your liking?"
All eyes were on him. Or maybe that was paranoia again. Oliver sure feel like he was being watched. And judged.
"Bridgecombe, my boy!" Whitecove greeted him, entirely forgetting the existence of his daughter, whom he turned his back to. "I was wondering where you had vanished to. How have you been?"
Lady Cecilia scooted to the side until she was visible again. Oliver watched the brief process with horrified fascination, then snapped to his senses. "Q-quite well. Somewhat busy. What about you?" He ran through his conversation templates, replaced the adequate keywords, and went on. "I trust your new 'ruby mine' in 'India' is doing well?"
"A sound investment indeed," the man replied. He pulled a raw gem out of his pocket and handed it to him. "Look at this. Isn't the quality just impeccable?"
Ollie, who couldn't tell a red rock from another red rock to save his life, examined the stone and nodded confidently. "A fine sample indeed."
"The rubies are just the ornaments on the piece, too. There's iron, and possibly gold, too. I hope the mines prove to be a good investment in the long term, though. You never know what size ore deposits are until you're done digging, after all. But… So far, so good!"
"I'm glad to hear that," Ollie commented, busy elaborating stratagems to get Lady Cecilia away from her father. "Tell me more."
And so Whitecove prattled on, satisfied to see his interlocutor nod whenever he paused to breathe. When he finally ran out of wind, Oliver (poorly) pretended to notice Lady Cecilia's empty hands.
"Ah, Lady Cecilia! We're here, chattering away, but the servants haven't once offered us drinks!" he pointed out (the servants had been instructed to stay well away from him and whomever he was talking to until further notice). "You must be parched. Let me fetch you something. Some champagne, maybe?"
Whitecove, who was familiar with the earl and his uncanny ability to vanish from a room, waved his hand. "I'll go. I see Hartvale at the refreshments table, I'll take the opportunity to greet him." Seeing his daughter panic at his pronouncement, he laughed. "I'll be just a moment. Try not to elope!" And, on that, he walked away, leaving his daughter mortified and Oliver paralyzed.
She cleared her throat. Oliver ran through his mental catalog of platitudes. "Um," he said.
"He… He does that," Lady Cecilia squeaked. "I'm sorry."
"It's alri… Never mind that! I need to talk to you," Oliver blurted out, his voice dropping to a whisper. "AreyouawarethatsomeyoungladiesareprotectingyoufromMargaretLanesimaginedplots?"
She stared at him. She blinked twice.
"Iiiii… didn't quite catch that. Would you mind starting over?"
Oliver swallowed what felt like a billiard ball worth of saliva, barely avoided a fainting spell, and tugged at his necktie. "Some young ladies believe the young Margaret Lane is plotting to humiliate you and are taking it upon themselves to defend you, are you aware of that situation?" He breathed in. "I don't mean to imply you are involved, of course."
Cecilia needed an instant to separate the syllables of his run-on sentence. Her eyes went wide. "What? No! That's the first I hear of this!" She looked around, trying to spot Margaret Lane.
With a perfect, blessed timing, Emmeline Lane happened to lead her daughters into the room and towards a corner. A second later, the secret squad of well-meaning debutantes followed, making a laudable effort to pretend not to be stalking the Lane. Three of them scanned the crowd for Lady Cecilia, one found her, and relayed her position to the rest of the squad. The group shifted through the crowd until it was positioned between Margaret and Cecilia. The latter was befuddled. "This is beyond bizarre. It looks like you might be right, but I swear I have nothing to do with it. What is going on?"
"Some ghastly rumours about Miss Margaret started to spread after she attended your gala — slander, obviously — and it seems to be culminating into a narrative where she is scheming to steal your suitor. Tonight."
She knitted her brow as if the entire sentence had been painful to hear. "What 'suitor'? I haven't filled three spots on my dance card, let alone been courted. And why would she need to? Men are falling over themselves to speak to her!"
Oliver cleared his throat. It did not help his voice exit it unstrangled. "The gossips were, ah… The rumours insist it's me. I am so very sorry."
"What? But that makes no sense! And I thought you were courting Miss Margaret?"
"What? Absolutely not! She is a child!" He belatedly remembered Lady Cecilia and Miss Margaret were of an age. "No offense meant. I am twenty-three, and six years is quite a gap."
"Oh. My apologies. Since you arrived together, I assumed--"
"We are getting sidetracked," Ollie cut in. "Before your father returns, can you please promise me to be careful tonight? It would be best for everyone involved to avoid drama tonight."
"Of course. I am not certain of what 'careful' would entail, however. I don't think I exchanged more than four words with Miss Margaret since I've met her. Should I talk to her? Should I avoid her?"
"I… didn't think that far. Don't snub her? I--"
Bells started ringing, announcing dinner, and servants came in to usher the crowds to the appropriate dining room for their age and marital status ("Ladies should get to have civilized conversations, men should have productive conversations, and the youth should have fun," Evalyn had decreed). The guests started moving, in a chorus of platitudes on being "ravenous" or "beyond starving". Whitecove was returning to collect his daughter.
"Alright, um, do you have some room for me on your dance card?" he asked.
And, as she handed him the piece of paper, he penciled both his and James's names in.
Willingshire house had several dining rooms. Tisiphone hated it. She understood that hosting dozens of people — maybe hundreds — could prove a logistical nightmare. She was aware that splitting those people into smaller groups allowed for quieter dining experiences and (possibly) easier room decoration. What she objected to was the arbitrary decision to split the guests by "marriageable or not". The "grown-ups" got to eat with the duke or the duchess. Meanwhile, the "children" (the debutantes and the eligible gentlemen under the age of twenty-five) had their own table.
It meant that Tisiphone and Margaret were separated from Emmeline, when they should have been presenting an united front. Tisiphone was ready to fend off bullies and creeps on behalf of their mother, of course, but Margaret could have used Emmeline's emotional support.
The seating arrangements were also beyond strange. One would have expected the assigned seats to somewhat respect rank (or clout), but they did not. Bridgecombe was seated at the head of the table, as was suitable for the host. To his right was Julian Robinson, his cousin and James' brother. Next to Julian Robinson was Lady Cecilia. Next to Lady Cecilia was Lady Blunt, a widow who served as a chaperone for the table. On Bridgecombe's left was James Robinson. Next to Robinson, Margaret. Next to Margaret, Tisiphone. Next to Tisiphone, a seventeen year old boy whose entire attention was on his plate. All of the "stars" of tonight's "drama" were conveniently walled in, with Meg and Cecilia facing each other. The young ladies who had so diligently stalked the Lane misses all evening were seated as far as the table would allow. Was this the invisible hand of the Duchess "putting an end to pranks", as promised by the warning message Tisiphone had received? She was pretty certain by now the note came from Robinson. He was certainly in a position to request help from his aunt. Also, he had "mysteriously" gotten the seat next to Meg's.
And Meg was crying.
Well, not "crying" crying. Tears did not stream down her face. She was not wailing nor sobbing nor anything of the sort. But her eyes were wide, unblinking and wet, and she dodged eye contact and conversation.
Tisiphone had to find a way to stab Miss Tabitha Harold -- that spineless turncoat -- before the evening was over. Surely, with all the cutlery at the table, one knife could be spared for murder.
Margaret had been so eager to see her friend again. It had been months since their last meeting, and she sorely missed her. So, when Tabitha had written she would be present at the Duchess' ball, Meg had been overjoyed. She was still overjoyed when she had entered the dining room and found her friend and her brother getting seated. She had raced to them to greet them. Then, Miss Tabitha "the backstabber" Harold had scoffed at her, turned away, and started a private discussion with her brother instead. Tisiphone had to collect her frozen, heartbroken sister and lead her to their seats.
If Tabitha survived the evening, she would be going down, one way or another. Hell had no fury like a sister angered.
"So who wants to see what an art snob looks like when his dogmatic views are being challenged?" James Robinson exclaimed, trying to infuse some life into the stilted conversation their end of the table had been holding. "I have sketches."
His brother and cousin groaned. Lady Cecilia, who was stranded among strangers, smiled politely and prayed for someone else to answer, so she would not have to. Meg did not react.
"Sketches?" Tisiphone asked. "Do you have them hold the pose while you are challenging them, or is it from memory?"
"They all make roughly the same face." Robinson pulled a tiny sketchbook from his pocket. "A mix of confusion, outrage and utter disbelief."
He moved bottles and candlesticks from the center of the table, and spread the sketchbook right between the women. It forced everyone to lean closer to look at his drawings (those so inclined, at least: Bridgecombe and Julian Robinson did not bother). The rest of the room got to see the supposed archenemies, Margaret and Lady Cecilia, placidly discussing art, with not a sign of animosity. It was nicely played.
"So you can draw," Meg commented, staring at an incredibly realistic portrait of an old man wincing in confusion, outrage and utter disbelief.
"What! Of course I can draw. I'll let you know it's my bread and butter," the artist declared, a hand on his heart. "Go on, look at the rest, and then tell me again I can't draw!"
Margaret rolled her eyes and turned the page, revealing two new portraits of offended gentlemen. The technique remained excellent, with the features vividly detailed, including warts and nose hair.
"Is that Lord Whilton?" Lady Cecilia gasped. She covered her mouth and turned to see if anyone had overheard.
"It is!" Robinson leaned close and added in a conspiratorial whisper: "I spent forty minutes enlightening him on the artistic properties of an art piece painted exclusively with jam."
The young woman stared at him, uncomprehending.
"That's what he does," Julian Robinson explained. "He concocts those asinine 'art pieces' with whatever he finds lying around, then he goes bother respectable people with them. It is a juvenile form of protest that will have him weep in shame once he matures."
"I don't even have the support of my family," James sighed, shaking his head.
"I for one think you have genuine talent," Cecilia comforted him. She turned the next page, then the next, then slammed the notebook shut. "Oh!"
Meg pounced. "No, no! Show us!"
Robinson slammed his hand on the cover. "Ahem. I forgot about those pages."
His brother joined the fray, snatching the sketchbook . "Oh no? What are you hiding, James? Dirty secrets?"
"It's art class stuff, you dunce. While entirely proper, I feel dinner is not the time to expose young ladies to multiple pictures of butts."
"Oh, now I have to see this," Julian said, flipping from page to page while two teenage girls watched him with rapt attention. "Here we… Wait, those are all men! Why are you drawing so many naked men?"
There was a lull, then Meg giggled, quickly followed by Lady Cecilia.
James rolled his eyes. "Because Mother would have an aneurysm if I attended classes with naked women, Julian. Now give me that!" He took the sketchbook back and returned it to his pocket. Then he leaned back against his chair, looking at the laughing girls, and gave Tisiphone a thumbs up behind Meg's back.
"I can't believe nothing went wrong," Ollie said, lying down on the thick Persian carpet of salon number six. "This was masterfully done. Also, I can't believe you showed noble girls drawings of asses."
"Well, I had to cheer them up somehow," James pointed out from the sofa. "And it's not like they never saw drawn butts before. I hope. A lot of excellent art features drawn butts!"
"My mother is going to laugh her ass off."
"I hope so, because the alternative involves me being punished, and shaming myself in front of Julian on purpose was enough punishment for a day."
"Well, he is the one who couldn't wait to look at male bottoms."
James snorted.
Oliver stretched. "One crisis mitigated, but not resolved," he mused. "Why was Miss Margaret about to cry when I arrived? Did something happen?"
"The Harold girl snubbed her. I'd hazard that they were pretty close, and Miss Margaret did not see it coming."
The rumours were taking hold, then, even among those who knew the girl personally. Someone credible had to be repeating them — many "someones", even — for the lies to convince even old friends. And the flames were being fanned, because they had not been smothered by fresher, juicier gossip. Wondering who might be feeding the fire with tidbits of slander led to an obvious conclusion, yet one Oliver felt inclined to disregard: defaming a family member you were in conflict with did not elicit confidence. And here, the rumours were well believed.
He sat up. "Do you think Russelby is doing this? Spreading those lies, I mean. I find it more than a bit suspicious that this all unfolds while he boasts he'll soon have Margaret 'eating from the palm of his hand'."
"Marnborne's hand," James rectified. "And I've been thinking the same, but people know that Russelby is a snake. His word alone wouldn't travel far."
Oliver grabbed Mousey, who had just emerged from hiding, and put him on his lap. "His wife then? She--"
His mother entered the room, holding Katharina, one of their many respectable and prickly Abyssinian cats (their tabbies, like Mousey, were living proof that fancy foreign cats of respectable pedigree were the same species as the common local cats, and would produce adorably common local kitties if someone forgot to close a door).
The duchess yawned. "You boys are still up? You should head to bed, it's nearly three!"
"We are plotting," her son announced. "Since the cats are out, I assume we are rid of the guests?"
"Every single one of them!" She looked at James. "You are not a guest, you are family. What is the plotting about?"
"The same as usual," Ollie sighed. "We avoided a catastrophe tonight and James engineered a display of friendship between Lady Cecilia and Miss Margaret--"
Evalyn whirled to the social engineer. "I heard about that! You showed those girls obscene materials!"
"I…" James sat frozen, with the wide eyes of cornered prey.
"Julian showed the girls artistic nudity, Mother," Oliver corrected. "And it was all part of the engineering. It made them laugh!"
"I am teasing him, silly. I heard it all from Lady Blunt, who said you salvaged a 'most hopeless' situation."
Oliver gestured at his cousin. "He."
James bowed. "I did what I do best. After painting, of course. But, jokes aside… I am worried for the Lane girl. This feels… calculated?"
Katharina meowed to be let down, and Evalyn put her down on a sofa strictly forbidden to cats, then sat down carefully, smoothing her lavish dress. "The ton likes to turn against those who stand out. I have seen it before, and we will see it again. Miss Margaret is beautiful, visibly emotional -- so hurting her brings immediate satisfaction to bullies -- and an easy target due to her low status and familial reputation."
"She's being targeted like her sister before her," Oliver snapped, gesturing so suddenly that Mousey bolted. His human shook his head. "Mother, I need to ask you something. The viscountess was here tonight, wasn't she? Did she comment on the rumours at all?"
Evalyn let out an exhausted sigh. "She was certainly asked about them whenever Emmeline Lane left the room, so more than once, but as far as I could tell, she gave neutral answers and changed topics. And then I made it quite clear that vicious gossip about literal children was not my cup of tea."
Well, so much for my suspicions.
He laid back down and stared at the ceiling. Mousey eyed him suspiciously from under the sofa.
Ollie wanted to help the Lane, he did, but the lies were too pervasive, too wide-spread. Changing one mind at a time with heartfelt conversation was not going to cut it. Yes, he had swayed Lady Farcliffe; yes, he had warned Lady Cecilia. But what good was it when dozens of other voices repeated the rumours? He needed to either get to the root of those, or make the Lane family too dangerous to offend. Calling them "friends" in front of their guests tonight had been a start. Now, he just had to be loud about it. And persistent.
Everything you are not.
"Mother, the women who asked the viscountess questions, were they the 'gossipy' type or the 'respectable' type?"
She drummed her fingers on the armrest until they got swatted at by Mousey. "An excellent question. Hm. A little bit of both. It has snowballed to such a point that reliable people hear about it from reliable people. Not everyone raised the topic out of malice either. Some merely wanted the truth of it in order to know how their families ought to behave."
"What about Lady Harold?"
"She did not join those conversations."
"She might need a little chat," James commented. "Her daughter sure swallowed the lies hook, line and sinker."
"I'll see what I can do. But, boys… You do realize that your extraordinary investment in this might give the impression you are courting those young misses, right?"
James burst out laughing, with such a mad laughter that he was soon wheezing and coughing. Evalyn and Ollie gawked at his little episode until it passed. Then they pretended it had never happened.
"You did arrive with them," she pointed out. "That didn't go unnoticed."
"Well, SO BE IT!" Oliver snapped, enraged. "People will gossip, whatever we do. I'd rather quell the malevolent rumours and deal with the usual kind later. I will not sit here and do nothing while an entire family is being abused!"
"Of course, of course. I just wanted to remind you to be careful in your endeavours."
"I am careful to the point of paralysis at the best of times, Mother. I will keep all interactions public and purely frolicky."
"… 'Frolicky'?"
"Um, friendly. I meant friendly. I'm sorry, I'm exhausted. I think it's about time I head to bed."