Page 16 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
T wo days and many distractions later, occupying herself with long walks, afternoon tea with her friends, galleries, and several sojourns to the botanical gardens, Valeria was almost ready to face the prospect of a ball again.
“I thought we might attend the theater tomorrow night,” her father said from the end of the breakfast table, engrossed in the newspaper. “There is, apparently, an exceptional production of Hamlet at Drury Lane.”
Valeria looked up from her meager piece of toast, slicked sparingly with butter. “We cannot, Papa.”
“Do you have a prior engagement?” He lowered the paper to look at her, saw her stern expression, and cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. A silly notion. Shakespeare is never performed well at Drury Lane.”
He mouthed an apology to his daughter, going unnoticed by Beatrice, who was merrily devouring a plate of eggs. Oblivious to the cost of her luxurious breakfast.
“Although…” Aaron hesitated, chewing his lower lip. “I believe Lord Walworth will be in attendance. I have been meaning to speak with him.”
Valeria sighed. “Then, visit his residence or the gentlemen’s club.”
We cannot afford even one seat at the theater, Papa.
“Quite right.” Aaron smiled sadly. “I will call upon him as soon as I am finished with my breakfast. Do we have any engagements this evening?”
It took a great deal for Valeria to hold onto her patience, for though she loved her father more than anything in the world, he was as forgetful as he was kind-hearted. Both those truths were responsible for the situation they had found themselves in.
“It is Lord Sandford’s ball,” she replied calmly.
“Of course, of course,” her father said, offering another look of apology. “Why, perhaps Lord Walworth will be there.”
“I expect so.” Valeria nodded. “It is a somewhat exclusive gathering.”
So exclusive that we were only invited because Amelia and Isolde insisted on our behalf.
Every gentleman in Christendom wanted the opportunity to suggest business partnerships with Lionel, in particular. Valeria had never been more grateful for the influence of her friends, for the pool of bachelors that would be attending that night were precisely the sort that she needed. Wealthy.
“I would much rather attend the theater,” Beatrice said suddenly, dabbing her mouth. “This second debut is proving to be as tedious as the first. In truth, I am beginning to think I shall never marry at all. When my mother and father inevitably explode at the notion, I shall just stay with you, dear uncle, dear cousin.”
Valeria and Aaron exchanged a look, but if Beatrice was intrigued by it, she had no opportunity to say so. At that moment, the bell rang.
Dropping her napkin, Valeria was halfway out of her seat when the breakfast room door opened, and the borrowed housekeeper, Mrs. O’Rourke, entered with an enormous parcel.
“Something for you, Miss Maxwell,” the housekeeper said with a cheery smile.
Despite the Maxwells and Beatrice not being in their usual household, they got on very well indeed with the staff. The housekeeper had remarked on several occasions that the trio barely asked for anything at all, not realizing the reason why— Valeria and Aaron had gotten used to having almost no staff at all.
“For me?” Valeria frowned, approaching cautiously.
Mrs. O’Rourke pointed back over her shoulder. “That’s what the messenger said. Shall I set it in your room or here?”
“Here!” Beatrice shouted, jumping up. “I love parcels.”
Valeria grimaced, certain that she would have preferred to open the package in private. As it was, she allowed Mrs. O’Rourke to set the long parcel on a side-table and wandered over to investigate. Meanwhile, Beatrice hovered just behind her, peeking over her shoulder.
“I adore you, Bea, but might I have some room to breathe?” Valeria asked with a stilted laugh.
Beatrice put up her hands. “Apologies. I am too enthusiastic. I shall stand over here by the window and I shall not say another word.”
She did just that, giving Valeria a moment to shove down her anxiety as she eyed the parcel. It was not wrapped in brown paper, suggesting it had come directly from the sender: a long, white box, tied with a dark red bow. Her name was written on the top of the box in a worryingly familiar hand.
It cannot be…
But even as she untied the bow and lifted the lid, she knew it was: Duncan had sent her a gift.
It was the most exquisite thing Valeria had ever seen. A feat of exceptional craftsmanship. A gown so beautiful it made her want to weep, her heart stopping altogether as she lifted it from the delicate tissue paper.
The gown was a dark, burgundy red, trimmed with muted gold lace. Not just that, but it appeared to be made entirely of Italian velvet—obscenely expensive. The sort of material that even a queen might hesitate to purchase. Delicate beading created the subtle image of flames at the waist and neckline and hem, while a simple garnet necklace—a teardrop on a velvet ribbon—had been coiled up beside the gown.
“Valery…” Beatrice had given into temptation, creeping up behind her cousin. “My goodness, who has sent this? It is… the most beautiful dress my eyes have ever seen, and my mother has one of Marie Antoinette’s gowns hidden in the attic, smuggled out of France.”
Valeria noticed a small card buried in the tissue paper and covered it discreetly with her hand. “I do not know,” she replied. “Caroline said she wanted to send me something. This must be it.”
She felt terrible, lying about Lionel’s grandmother like that, but it was the only believable thing she could think of. The formidable Caroline Barnet had a wealth of priceless gowns in her possession that she had not worn since she was young, so it stood to reason that she might have one altered for Amelia… or one of Amelia’s dearest friends.
“Valery, I am positively sick with envy,” Beatrice lamented and cheered in equal measure. “Next time you visit the dowager, you must bring me with you.”
Valeria mustered a smile. “I promise, I will.” She put the dress back in the box and picked the entire thing up. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must find a place for this in my bedchamber.”
She hurried out, cursing her haste to make up that story about Caroline. If Beatrice and Aaron thought it was from the Dowager Countess of Westyork, then Valeria would have to wear it. Whereas, if she had been honest, she could have explained that she would never wear such an obvious expression of a rake’s guilt.
Once inside her bedchamber with the door closed, Valeria finally plucked out the card and opened it.
A net to catch a husband before summer’s end – Lockie.
Shaking her head, Valeria tossed the card into the fireplace, watching as the flames licked ravenously at the paper, gobbling it up. It was not the apology she deserved, but at least she knew that Duncan would be there at the ball tonight. There , she would gain her apology, whether he liked it or not.
“Do you hear that, Valery?” Beatrice asked in a mischievous whisper.
Valeria glanced at her cousin. “Hear what?”
“Why, I do believe it is the sound of eyes popping and hearts breaking.” Beatrice grinned, clapping her hands in giddy delight. “Every gentleman here will want to stand at your side, and every lady will want to be you. Although, I must say it is rather rude of them to try and sneak ahead of me, for I have always wanted to be you.”
Valeria did not know whether to laugh or grimace at her dear cousin’s encouragement, though she had to admit, vengeance had had a rather transformative effect upon her confidence. Where Valeria had struggled and doubted herself in that first, midnight blue gown that Duncan had sent, she had no such inhibitions now—her head held high, her body moving with grace, the extraordinary gown an extension of her rather than a hindrance.
“I really ought to talk to you about your vivid language, Bea,” Valeria said with a chuckle. “‘Popping eyes’ is so… unpleasantly visceral.”
Beatrice laughed. “Yet, it is the only worthy description. Look around and tell me I am not right.”
Pretending she needed to find something in her reticule, Valeria cast a discreet, sidelong gaze at the ballroom she had just entered. Her eyes were drawn first to the orchestra, playing a lively tune for the enjoyment of the equally lively couples who danced in the center of the room, but as she widened her observation, she saw exactly what Beatrice meant.
Among the groups and gaggles of women, many had stopped talking altogether, staring in open-mouthed shock at this new version of Miss Valeria Maxwell. Among the clusters of gentlemen, however, discussions seemed to increase in haste, hushed sentiments rustling through the crowd toward her, along with their stares.
“They are probably asking one another who on earth I think I am, strolling into someone else’s ball in a gown of Italian velvet,” Valeria murmured, flashing a wink at her cousin. “It is poor form to dress more ostentatiously than the host.”
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “What nonsense. It is not as if Lady Sandford needs to find herself a strapping, handsome gentleman to marry… not until Lord Sandford carks it, anyway. Though, by the looks of him, that might be sooner rather than later.”
“Beatrice!” Valeria gasped, fighting to swallow the laugh that threatened to bubble up.
“What?” The younger woman feigned irreverent innocence. “He is either dozing in that chair over there, or he has already passed. You cannot tell me that he resembles a man of vigor.”
Valeria noticed Lord Sandford, slumped in a chair at one of the tables on the periphery of the ballroom, a spot close to the doors that led through to the refreshments room. She had to admit that he was long past his lively days, but she was rather more impressed with how he was managing to sleep through a noisy, chaotic ball.
“Nevertheless,” she said diplomatically, “it is impolite to speak so crudely of others, even if you are terribly amusing.”
Beatrice seemed to bask in the veiled compliment, plump cheeks flushing a happy pink. “Mother is always telling me how ‘terrible’ I am, so I might as well be ‘terribly’ funny.” She pulled on Valeria’s hand. “Come, let us have some punch. I am parched .”
“We ought to wait for my papa,” Valeria said, turning back to see where Aaron had gotten to.
He had been right behind them not two minutes ago, but the lengthy hallway between the ballroom and the foyer showed no sign of the man. Valeria frowned, spotting two gentlemen veering left, halfway up the thoroughfare. They passed through an ordinary looking door, attended by an ordinary looking footman, but Valeria saw the brief nod pass between the men.
“Never mind.” She sighed. “Let us have that punch.”
Her father had undoubtedly ventured into the smoking room—that secret place where no woman was allowed to tread—to hunt down Lord Walworth. Whether what her father had to say would be of any benefit to their situation, she did not know, but she had no choice but to let him try.
Meanwhile, she still had her part to play.
Gentlemen of the ton, I am ready for you. She pulled back her shoulders, adjusted her posture, and glided toward the promise of punch with all the subtle appeal she could muster, making sure to walk slowly so that any man who had taken an interest would know where she was going. Just some of the crafty tricks that Duncan had taught her, bolstered tenfold by the most exquisite gown in all the world.
Indeed, if her actions did not speak loudly enough, the dress certainly screamed: Let the game of courtship commence.
Yet, as Valeria paused on the threshold of the refreshments room to cast a cursory glance across the ballroom—pretending to be looking for someone but really giving potential suitors a moment to decide if they would approach her—there was only one gentleman on her mind.
And he was not there.
All of the primping and preening and rehearsing and deliberating what slights she would hurl at him to claim his apology, and he was not there. She was almost two hours late, wearing his gifted gown, and he was not there.
“What are you staring at?” Beatrice asked, snapping Valeria out of her thoughts.
Valeria shook her head, putting on a smile. “Nothing, dear girl. I thought I saw an old friend.”
She would not admit, not to anyone, that Duncan’s absence had poked a needle of disappointment through her chest, threatening to deflate her mood for the rest of the evening.
It is just another amusement to him, she told herself. And I will not be his sport. Indeed, tonight, I have a hunt of my own to fulfil. A purpose far greater than gaining any stupid apology, that would likely be insincere anyway.
She thought of his note, turned to ash in the fireplace, and felt her confidence inflate again. She wore the net, had garnered the skills required to make the hunt a success—now, all she had to do was catch the husband.
In a Mayfair house filled to the brim with eligible bachelors, her chances had never been better. Indeed, if she could not strike at the heart of even one man present, in a crowded ballroom of the wealthiest and brightest gentlemen that society had to offer, then she would have no choice but to admit defeat.
If it comes to naught tonight, she promised herself silently, then, tomorrow, I shall send for a matchmaker.
The thought made her blood run cold; the perfect motivation for making the night a triumph, no matter what.