Page 15 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

T he ballroom hadn’t been utilized for anything outside of Isabelle’s pianoforte playing since the Middle Ages. And, while Aunt Verda had modernized the huge room by replacing the flooring and adding more lighting, Noah couldn’t help feeling it would have been warmer with old-fashioned rushes tossed about. There were tables strewn around for seating, and long tables at one end were laden with lamb, pheasant, beef, and a wide variety of vegetables and fruit. Even single servings of custard were displayed on a smaller table for the taking.

As predicted, many of London’s elite had taken the Northeastern track. Still, Noah was stunned by the number of people milling about. He’d no idea Father had been so well known, which seemed a silly notion, considering how often he’d up and disappeared to London for weeks on end. He’d sat on the House of Lords, so of course he’d been well known. The peerage was always well-known and his father had been unmarried for so long. The true shocking thing was that since losing their mother, Father hadn’t trotted home with some green debutante to foist upon them; instead, had died a widower.

It was Noah who didn’t frequent London. Not like Lucius.

He shook off his maudlin thoughts, fearing they would drag him to the doldrums and remind him he was also unattached. But the image of the elfin features of Miss Wimbley filtered through him, leaving him with a longing so fierce, he had to stop himself from rushing out and dragging her into his arms for more of those tantalizing lips of hers. With a low growl threatening to erupt from his chest, Noah busied himself elsewhere in surveying the throng.

Despite the reason for the gathering, the crowd was lively.

Lady Abra entered on the arm of Baron Ruskin with her parents right behind her.

Lucius and Docia were talking, their heads together in a corner far from Rathbourne. Sander mingled with a confidence afforded the titled, despite being untitled, though he did maintain a firm grip on Aunt Verda. Isabelle had taken dinner in her chamber.

Inhaling deeply, Noah made the rounds too. One person he did not happen upon—he covertly surveyed the ballroom—Miss Wimbley.

And then she walked in. As proud as the queen herself.

The gown she wore— thank you, Docia —was so dark, it appeared black. The sight stole his breath. From the corner of Noah’s eye, Rathbourne frowned and took a step in Miss Wimbley’s direction. Noah moved quickly to intercept him. “Good evening, Your Grace. I take it your accommodations are to your satisfaction.”

“Yes, yes. Pardon me, Oshea. There’s someone I must speak with.”

Noah clasped his hands at his lower back. “Is your valet comfortable? You must let me know immediately if all is not well.”

“I said—”

“I’m sure we can find anything you need. It may take a while”—Noah let out a self-deprecating laugh—“Alnmouth is no London, after all.” He cut his gaze to Miss Wimbley. She stood near the Washington table, her blank expression telling, but Julius, his favorite younger brother, appeared next to her, offering her his arm.

She accepted gracefully and allowed him to lead her to the food.

“I told you, we’re fine,” Rathbourne ground out.

“Of course, Your Grace. If you will excuse me, I see my brother, the new earl. I must let him know that you are quite content with the chamber he graciously held off inhabiting in light of your appearance.” With a shallow bow and pulse erratically pounding, Noah worked his way in Julius’s direction, as Noah had no intention of speaking with Lucius about Rathbourne. Lucius had no care for how comfortable the man was.

By the time Noah reached Julius—thirty minutes later due to the overwhelming throng—he and Miss Wimbley were giggling like schoolchildren, speaking in low tones.

“You both realize this is a solemn occasion?” Noah said, taking an empty chair at the table, sounding like the curmudgeon he was. The orange blossom fragrance returned full force and he fought to keep his eyes open and maintain his posture. People were sure to notice if he gave in to impulse and lay his head on her shoulder.

Miss Wimbley’s face cleared. All but the sparkle in her eyes. “Apologies, sir. Mister Julius was just telling me—”

“That Father hated me and was hardly ever home,” Julius smoothly interrupted. “He rarely called any of us by name.”

Miss Wimbley frowned. “Why is that?”

Noah shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, but said lightly, “I’ve no idea. I just knew when he referred to me by name, either I was in for an ear-boxing, or he wanted some unfathomable task accomplished.” Hence, Julius.

“I don’t look too kindly on fathers myself,” Miss Wimbley said—somewhat darkly.

“Never say so, Geneva,” Julius said. The sardonic tone his brother’s voice took on hurt. Despite the ten-year age difference, Noah had acted as practically the only father Julius had ever known. And, to use her given name without her consent was wholly improper.

Noah’s gaze shot to his brother. “Jul—”

“I’ve been granted leave, Noah. I’m not breaching etiquette. I know you raised me, but you are not Father.”

Curiosity lit Miss Wimbley’s pert features. “You raised Mister Julius, not your uncle or elder brother?”

“Lucius was already at school when Julius ca—er, was born.”

“What of your mother?”

“She died in childbirth. She’s buried at the chapel.” Julius turned somber. “I never knew her.”

Miss Wimbley set her hand atop Julius’s and squeezed gently. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I would have done had I not known my mother. She was sickly from the time I was five, but I was fortunate to have her another decade.”

“You were indeed,” Noah murmured. “Julius, perhaps you wouldn’t mind fetching Miss Wimbley and me each a glass of wine?”

“Certainly.” He pushed from the table.

There was no time to waste. Noah leaned in and lowered his voice. “Why does the duke appear to disdain you so much? Miss Wimbley,” he added on the off chance she would give him the same leave in calling her by her given name as well.

“I was friends with his daughter at school,” she said with the hint of teasing in her voice. “And, we, er, were caught in a couple of scrapes.”

Noah’s lips twitched. “Of which you were not the instigator, I take it?”

She didn’t speak for a long moment, eyes lowered. “Of course I was. You couldn’t possibly believe the daughter of a duke would be caught writing suggestive text on a chalkboard, could you?”

“Like what?” he challenged.

“Hmm.” She cleared her throat. “‘ If she be black, and thereto have a wit / She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit. ’”

Noah was hit with a violent fit of coughing. “She didn’t.”

“She didn’t, it was I.” Her adorable nose wrinkled. “Surely, it’s not difficult to imagine what occurred after that, is it? Abra came after me like a feral cat. A fight ensued.” She lifted a delicate shoulder. “It was quite hateful of me. I was full of anger. Young girls are quite vicious, you know.”

Good God, she’d had no idea what that passage actually meant. Still didn’t, he’d wager.

Julius returned with their wine and took his seat, his mouth gaping. “A fight? Between ladies?”

She grinned at him. “Indeed. Alas, the instructress walked into a classroom of chaos. Our punishment was the three of us sharing a dorm room and taking all our meals together for the remainder of the term. As it turned out, we had much in common.”

Noah looked across the room where Lady Abra sat with her parents and the baron, then turned back to Miss Wimbley and angled his head. “Oh?”

“Abra and I were both outcasts of a sort. Her mother being of foreign ancestry, of course. Her father does not discount her; in fact, he absolutely dotes on her. But there are those who are petty and vindictive.” Again, her nose wrinkled. Self-disgust? “I happened to have been one of them at the time, even though my own background was blatantly more questionable.” She paused and Noah was struck by the contemplation in her dark eyes. “Our punishment created the bonds of a friendship that can’t be severed with mere words.”

Gripped by curiosity, Noah asked her, “What did Rathbourne’s daughter have to do with the situation?”

“Does it matter? Meredith, er, Lady Pender,” she modified quickly, “was in the room when the fight broke out. She was actually friends with both me and Abra. Her attempts of intervention lauded her a blackened eye.”

Julius gasped and Noah barely held back his own.

“Needless to say,” she went on, “when the duke learned of the incident, he was not pleased. She begged him not to take her out of school. She very nearly hadn’t escaped that fate.”

With that bit of context, Rathbourne’s reaction to Miss Wimbley made sense.

“But why is your background questionable?” Julius asked her. “Obviously, you belonged. Such a school would not be free, would it?”

Miss Wimbley’s head snapped to him as if the thought had never occurred to her. “How true. And very logical of you,” she said softly.

*

Geneva couldn’t believe she’d never questioned how she’d been able to attend Miss Greensley’s School of Comportment for Young Women of Quality before. She’d grown up in a flat on Berwick Street. But Mama had talked endlessly of her own school days at Miss Greensley’s and how Geneva would follow in her very footsteps. Her mother’s diligence in teaching her to speak properly, to mind her manners, to carry herself with grace… well, it had never been in question. Not to her, at any rate.

But who had funded her education? And, more importantly… why? Other vague occurrences whispered about her mind—how Mama had grown up in a grand home, then quickly saying, speaking of such around Papa upset him. “So, only speak about it when your father is at sea, darling. It makes him feel as if his providing for us is inadequate…”

Her head hurt, spun with questions and the lack of answers. She pushed away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Oshea, Mister Julius. I require a-a moment.” On trembling legs, she willed herself upright, to walk, not run or collapse, as she made her way across the huge ballroom, quite aware that not only were Mr. Oshea’s, Abra’s and Lady Westbridge’s eyes on her, but Miss Hale’s, Lord Chaston’s, and the Duke of Rathbourne’s were as well.

She escaped into the hall but found no solace. There were people everywhere. She snatched a candle from a nearby table and managed to maintain her composure until she reached the privacy of the stairwell to the secret room she’d decided to claim. The perfect isolated sanctuary where no one would witness her crushing humiliation. By the time she’d reached the small chamber, the silent tears coursing down her face were rampant.

She went straight to the sideboard and lifted a pitcher.

Empty.

Despair of some fifteen stone weighed on her shoulders. She’d cried more in the last two days than the last six years—since her mother’s death. “Oh, Mama,” she whispered to the room at large. “Where did you get the blunt to send me to Miss Greensley’s?”

Drawing in a deep, unsteady breath, she plunked the pitcher back on the sidebar and took up the candle. Minutes later, she entered her chamber in the Blue Suite. She set the candle on the escritoire and dug out the case with her mother’s letter to the previous Lord Pender and read it again. Unnecessary, since every word was indelibly imprinted on her brain.

Lord Pender,

I beg of you, please. Things have turned most dire. My husband… is a violent man. You must do something to save my Gen… All that is precious to me is in your hands. Everything in my posse—

Who had funded her education? The only name she’d come across was Pender’s, so it seemed the most plausible explanation, except for the question of why. It would behoove Geneva to remember that the note she held hadn’t been sent. Perhaps her mother had entertained others. But a picture of Mama having taken to her bed— the great, swirling, black greatcoat— from the year since in bouts of darkness left her doubting that notion.

Everything eddied and churned in Geneva’s head. Around that time she’d been five years of age and the imposing figure wearing that bellowing, black greatcoat. How the memories dominated her in this grand castle with its secrets and gothic undertones.

She went to slip out of the lovely, dark-blue gown but groaned, realizing she required assistance.

There had been no other men in Mama’s life but Geneva’s own bastard drunkard of a father who, in retrospect, had spent most of the life she had been home at sea. Gone for a year or two at times. She shuddered at the memory of their last encounter.

Grabbing one of her old frocks, she went to Pasha’s small chamber for assistance.