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Chapter Twenty-Five

“ W e thought to add a sun room to the back of the house,” Lord Crockford was saying, “made entirely of glass.”

“Well, not entirely of glass, my dear,” his wife chirped. “After all, one must have a little privacy.”

“Yes, but one must also have plenty of sun, for it to be called a sun room. Wouldn't you agree?” Lord Crockford waved his whisky glass to punctuate his sentence, slopping a healthy dollop on the tiled ballroom floor.

Gemma's gaze drifted over towards the buffet table, where Wyatt was attempting to extricate Lord Anderson from what looked to be a fierce conversation with Miss Henford's mother.

Thankfully, her daughter was nowhere in sight—no doubt she was off on another mission to secure herself an eligible nobleman.

Not, Gemma thought, that her mother looked any less terrifying.

She was spearing Wyatt with an expression that left no doubt about the fact that she was unhappy at being interrupted.

Finally, Wyatt headed back towards the group with a befuddled-looking Lord Anderson in tow.

Gemma turned back to the conversation. Lord Crockford was now onto a detailed outline of the new property's numerous guest rooms. Gemma nodded along, barely listening. She darted another glance towards the door, in search of her family. Unease knotted her stomach.

Where could they be?

Perhaps Wyatt was right. Perhaps her family was merely caught in the notorious London traffic.

Or perhaps there had been a flaw with the rundown Volk carriage that had needed fixing.

Or Veronica had taken far too long to get ready, as she had been known to do.

Gemma knew all these things were plausible explanations.

But she could not shake the concern that there was something else at play and could not shake the fear that somehow, her father was responsible for the delay.

She imagined Veronica and her grandmother pacing the hallways as they waited for him to return home from the gambling halls.

Imagined them pouring strong tea down his throat in an attempt to sober him up.

Imagined his valet trying to knot his cravat around his throat while the Earl sank deeper and deeper into his arm chair, demanding another glass of whisky.

What state would her father be in when he finally graced his daughter's ball with his presence? Gemma hardly dared to think about it.

She knew inviting her father in the first place had been a risky venture.

How many times over the years had the Earl embarrassed her and her family with his drunken behavior?

Nonetheless, he was still her father and she loved him dearly.

And there was no way she was not going to invite him to her own ball.

Heaven knew the Duchess had made enough of a scene about it.

“I will not have that lowlife under my roof!” she had said as she had scanned the guest list over breakfast last week.

Wyatt had shut her protests down with little more than a derisive shake of the head. “The Earl of Volk is my father-in-law. Of course he will be invited. I do not want to hear another word on the matter.”

Gemma had not missed the way he had referred to the Earl as my father-in-law . Somehow, it carried more weight, more responsibility and acceptance than merely referring to Mark Caster as my wife's father .

But now, Gemma began to wonder if she had been foolish to go against the Dowager Duchess's wishes.

So far, the ball was going off without a hitch.

With her husband by her side, Gemma had not been subjected to the same vicious gossip she had been on Bond Street with Veronica, and Wyatt's reaction to Lord Crockford's comment about their marriage had made certain that no one would be trying anything similar any time soon.

Even her encounter with the Henfords had not been quite as dreadful as Gemma had anticipated.

Yes, she had found her heart pounding furiously as she had faced Henrietta, but Gemma had stood tall and reminded herself that she held the upper ground.

And the title of Duchess of Larsen that Henrietta had coveted.

But all of that was paling into insignificance in light of the worry that gripped her.

“Excuse me a moment,” she murmured to her guests, hurrying away from the group before they could ask questions.

She made her way out of the ballroom and emerged into the entrance hall.

Guests were still flooding in, laughing and chattering as they made their way up the front stairs into the house.

Gemma could tell from the sodden hats and parasols they were handing off to the doormen that it had begun to rain.

At the sight of her, the guests made polite greetings.

She ignored the quizzical looks they gave each other at seeing the Duchess roaming around alone in the foyer.

She stepped onto the landing and peeked out into the night.

“Everything all right, Your Grace?” asked Fielding, the butler, arms full of coats. “Is there something I can help you with?” A frowned creased his wrinkled brow. “A coat, perhaps?”

Gemma forced a smile. “Oh no, thank you, Fielding. Everything is quite all right. I—” She let out her breath in relief, suddenly spying a coach bearing the Volk coat of arms rolling up to the front of Larsen Manor. The moment the relief had arrived, it was washed away fear.

What state will my father be in when he emerges from the carriage?

She held her breath, watching as the doorman pressed on the handle.

At least if she were to meet them at the door, she and her grandmother could covertly wrangle the Earl into the library, or somewhere else equally as secretive.

The doorman held out his hand for the passengers to alight.

Veronica stepped out carefully from the coach, followed by her grandmother.

Both wore the hoods of the cloaks pulled up to protect them from the rain.

The doorman closed the door behind the Dowager Marchioness and rapped on the coach to signal to the driver to depart.

Gemma felt a jolt in her chest. Where is Father?

She hurried out of the house and down the front steps, meeting her sister and grandmother halfway down. The fine rain felt cold against her bare arms.

“Gemma!” the Dowager Marchioness hissed. “What in heaven's name are you doing out here? It is raining!” This is no way for a duchess to behave! Get back inside the house at once.”

Gemma noticed that, beneath her dark blue cloak, her grandmother was dressed in a simple gray and white gown, a far cry from the outlandish rainbow affairs she usually donned for such occasions.

There was not a feather or flower in sight.

It almost looked as though she had rushed from the house with barely a thought for her appearance.

The knot in Gemma's stomach tightened. “Where is Father?” she demanded.

Her grandmother looped her arm through Gemma's, forcing her back up the stairs into the house. “Inside,” she ordered. “Your father is not feeling well, that's all. It is nothing to be concerned about.”

But the waver in the Dowager Marchioness's voice betrayed her—as did the look of concern on Veronica's usually sunny face.

Nonetheless, Gemma knew her grandmother was right: it was highly inappropriate for her to be gallivanting about outside the house like this.

And she was fairly certain that if this silky ballgown got wet, there would be no redeeming it.

She was also fairly certain it had cost enough to feed a small country.

She waited impatiently in the foyer while Fielding took her sister and grandmother's cloaks, then she escorted them back towards the ballroom.

“What kind of illness does Father have?” she asked the Dowager Marchioness as they walked. “Is it serious?”

“Not now, Gemma,” she murmured. “I shall tell you everything. But let us at least keep up appearances as best we can.”

Gemma's stomach rolled. From the grave tone in the Dowager Marchioness's voice, and the way she was barely even attempting warm greetings to those they passed, she could tell something was very wrong.

A server carrying a tray of champagne glasses met them at the door, and the Dowager Marchioness scooped two up hurriedly. She handed one to Veronica who took a tiny sip. Gemma's younger sister chewed her lip edgily as she glanced around the ballroom.

“Look, my dear, there are Lady Charlotte and Lady Mary,” said the Dowager Marchioness, referring to two of Veronica's close friends. “Why not go and see them?”

Veronica's nervous glance darted to her friends, then back to her sister and grandmother. “Are you sure? What about?—”

“Of course I am sure,” said the Dowager Marchioness. “Off you go, my dear. Do try and enjoy yourself.”

No word to Veronica about finding a match tonight. Something is very wrong indeed.

Veronica took another tiny mouthful of champagne then made her way towards her friends. At the sight of the Dowager Marchioness, the Dowager Duchess hurried towards them, kissing her friend on both cheeks. “Pippa, my dear, I was worried you were not going to make it!”

“I would not miss it for the world, Sandra, dear.” The Dowager Marchioness forced a smile that Gemma knew was for the benefit of any onlookers.

Her and Wyatt's grandmothers were the best of friends.

No doubt the Dowager Marchioness would tell the Dowager Duchess everything, as soon as they had a moment alone.

Gemma hoped her grandmother would do as she had promised and extend her the same courtesy.

“Hasn't your granddaughter done a fine job?” the Dowager Duchess crowed, looping an affectionate arm through Gemma's.

“Oh I cannot take any credit for this evening,” Gemma said hurriedly. “It was all Mrs. Walsh and the rest of the staff. They've been working ever so hard.”