“Judith, dear,” she said, her voice cloyingly sweet, “I hope you have thanked Lord Rannulf properly for his kind condescension in leading you out. Mother seems very tired. I am sure you will not mind helping her to her room and remaining there with her.”
But Mrs. Law swelled up rather like a hot-air balloon, glittering and jangling as she did so. “I most certainly am not tired, Louisa,” she said. “The very idea of my missing the rest of the ball and leaving my dear Sarah to sit here alone! Besides, Judith has promised the set after the waltz to Mr. Tanguay, and it would be ill-mannered of her to disappear now.”
Lady Effingham raised her eyebrows but could hardly say anything more in the presence of Rannulf and his grandmother.
The waltz was next and he had been effectively forced into dancing it with Miss Effingham. He found her amusing, at least, he thought as he bowed and turned away to find her. Not that she would be flattered by the nature of his amusement, he supposed. And he had the last set to look forward to. And tomorrow morning. Though he must not be overconfident about that. If Judith Law did not wish to marry him, she would not do so merely because of who he was or because of his money.
She would have to love him before she would accept him, he suspected.
Did she love him?
Insecurity, doubt, and anxiety were entirely new emotions to a man who had cultivated ennui and cynicism for most of his adult years.
Julianne was looking more flushed and brighter-eyed than she had all evening, Judith could see. But that look could be accounted for entirely by the fact that she was dancing with Lord Rannulf again. It was a reaction Judith herself could sympathize with.
More ominous was the fact that Horace was approaching Uncle George and drawing him a little apart from the group of older gentlemen with whom he had been conversing. Judith had refused an invitation to go with Mr. Warren, who did not waltz either, in search of a drink of lemonade, though she had smiled her thanks. She needed to stay in the ballroom. She watched, her heart pounding. Surely that nasty plot being hatched in Julianne’s dressing room this afternoon could not have been a serious one. Whoever would want a marriage with a husband acquired in that way?
But Julianne desperately wanted to be Lady Rannulf Bedwyn, she knew.
And Aunt Effingham was just as desperate to marry her daughter to him.
Horace was probably reveling, too, in the prospect of getting some revenge for what Lord Rannulf had done to him outside the summerhouse at Grandmaison a week ago.
Judith was only partly aware of the shocking, thrilling nature of the waltz, in which ladies and gentleman danced as couples, touching each other with both hands, twirling about the dance floor in each other’s arms. Under any other circumstances she might have been envious indeed of those who knew the steps and had handsome partners with whom to perform them.
She was only partly aware too of the nodding plumes of her grandmother and Lady Beamish, who sat in front of her enjoying the show and occasionally commenting upon it.
Branwell could waltz, she noticed in some surprise. He was waltzing with the elder Miss Warren, laughing with her, as if he did not have a care in the world.
But even the minor distraction of watching her brother proved almost fatal to Judith’s vigilance. When she found Lord Rannulf and Julianne again with her eyes, they had stopped dancing, and he had his head bent to hear what she was saying. She was rubbing one wrist, talking fast, and looking somewhat distressed. She pointed in the direction of the door.
Horace meanwhile was still talking with his father.
Judith waited no longer. Perhaps it was all meaningless though it looked very like the beginnings of the plot she had overheard. Perhaps after she had left Julianne’s dressing room they had changed the place.
But she would have to take a chance on that. She slipped out of the ballroom as hastily and surreptitiously as she could, raced down the stairs, saw with relief that there was no servant to see her and wonder at her destination, and slipped into the library, which was so much her uncle’s private domain that she had never been inside the room before.
It was quite dark, but fortunately she could see enough to find her way to the windows and throw back the heavy curtains. It was a moonlit, starlit night, the clouds of the day having moved off some time during the evening. There was enough light in the room that she could see what she needed to see—two walls of bookcases crowded with books from floor to ceiling. She hurried toward one that was behind both the door and a heavy sofa.
The next minute seemed endless. What if she had come to the wrong place? What if Julianne had dragged Lord Rannulf off somewhere else to be discovered kissing her or otherwise compromising her?
And then the door opened again.
“It must be in here.” It was Julianne’s voice, high-pitched and anxious. “Papa gave it to me for my come-out ball and he would be dreadfully cross with me if I were to lose it. But even if he were just to see that I am not wearing it he would be hurt and upset.”
Judith could not imagine Uncle George being either cross or hurt or upset.
“If you know you left it in here,” Lord Rannulf said, sounding perfectly calm, even amused, “then we will recover it and will be waltzing again within two minutes.”
He strode into the room, without a candle, and Judith saw Julianne shut the door with a backward kick of one foot.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “that door always swings shut.” She went hurrying after Lord Rannulf and then exclaimed with triumph. “Oh, here it is! I knew I must have left it here when I came down for a little rest earlier, but of course I was terribly afraid that I was wrong and really had lost it. Lord Rannulf, how can I ever thank you for sacrificing part of our dance and slipping down with me before Papa noticed?”
“By putting it on your wrist,” he said, “so that I can take you back to the ballroom before you are missed.”
“Oh, this clasp,” she said. “There is not enough light. Will you help me?”
He bent over her while she held up her wrist, and she slipped her free arm about his neck and leaned into him.
“I really am most terribly grateful,” she said.
The door opened again as if on cue and Horace held up his candle, muttered an oath, and tried to block his father’s view of the room.
“Perhaps it was not such a good idea after all to come down here to get away from the noise,” he said loudly and heartily. “Come, Father—”
But Uncle George, as he was meant to do, had smelled the proverbial rat. He moved Horace aside with one arm and came striding into the room just as Julianne shrieked, jumped back, and struggled with the bosom of her gown, which had somehow slipped down and come very close to revealing all.
It was time to begin the counter plan.
“Ah, here it is,” Judith said, stepping forward with a large book spread open across both hands. “And here are Uncle George and Horace to help me adjudicate the winner. And that is Julianne, I am afraid, Lord Rannulf. It was a raven that Noah sent out first from the ark to see if the floodwaters had receded.
Then he sent a dove. The dove was sent out three times, in fact, until it did not return and Noah knew that there must be dry land again. But still, it was the raven first.”
The way all four of them turned and gaped at her would have done justice to any farce. She shut the book with a flourish.
“It was a foolish thing to argue about,” she said, “and to bring the three of us downstairs in the middle of a ball to hunt for the answer. But Julianne was right, you see, Lord Rannulf.”
“Well,” he said with an audible sigh, “I suppose I must concede defeat, then. It is as well, though. It would have been ungentlemanly to crow over a lady if I had been right. Though I am still of the opinion that in my Bible it is a dove.”