most sought-after belle of the ball, and Evelina not far behind.
As Imogen had predicted, there were some interesting toads and quite a few automatons. The first name on her card that she actually knew was one of Tobias’s friends, Michael Edgerton, who asked her to partner him in the quadrille. It was one of the dances where conversation was practical and expected.
“You dance so gracefully, Miss Cooper,” he said. He must have known how banal it sounded, because he looked faintly embarrassed.
On her side, Evelina fumbled for a response, because returning the compliment was out of the question. The tall, lanky Edgerton moved like a giraffe on ice skates. She tried to think of something she knew about him. Men were supposed to like talking about themselves, after all. “Are you still interested in the domestic application of an alternating current power supply?”
Edgerton fumbled his step, narrowly avoiding a collision. “In theory,” he said shortly. “It hasn’t been licensed for use.”
Which in translation meant that the steam barons hadn’t figured out how to monopolize it yet. She remembered some fellow named Ferranti had tried and been run out of London. Evelina executed a turn as she searched for an innocuous reply.
Edgerton broke in instead. “How on earth did you even remember my interest in that?”
“Because it interests me.”
He gave an awkward smile. “How unusual, Miss Cooper. A fellow doesn’t think to meet with that sort of thing on a dance floor. It’s typically all posies and ribbons.”
The way he said it left her unsure of his opinion. Was he pro- or antiposy? The dance ended and Evelina curtsied, then accepted his escort from the floor.
She decided to hazard a bit of honesty. “Do you truly find my question so off-putting Mr. Edgerton?”
“Heavens, no, Miss Cooper.” He paused, leaning closer to lower his voice. “I’m just careful, you know, about my interest in new technologies. You should be, too. Someone might mistake curiosity for something else. You know what they say—if you really want to try new science, it’s best to go to the Americas.”
It was an oblique reference to the steam barons. She bit her lip, cursing her thoughtlessness. “My apologies.”
Edgerton gave a surprisingly dimpled smile. “Don’t apologize for being interesting, Miss Cooper. It only increases your allure.”
Elsewhere in the room, Imogen had been cornered by The Stare. Despite the fact that she had turned down his proposal—and most young men would know enough to withdraw their suit—Stanford Whitlock had taken it as a challenge. Sadly, unless she wanted to alert her parents to her refusal, she was forced to endure his attentions. Such was the price of liberty.
Always handsome, The Stare was even more impressive in evening clothes. Unfortunately, he had consumed enough liquid courage to loosen his tongue. Still worse, some well-meaning Cyrano must have written his lines for him.
“My dear Miss Roth, how is it possible that you are so radiant?” he asked in his curiously monotone voice. The question concluded with a smile that might have been the effects of a mild stomach cramp.
“I only used the very purest of soaps,” she replied helpfully, accepting the glass of lemonade he offered. “It is quite impressive what the cosmeticians can do with oil of almonds.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, indeed.” Imogen felt sorry for the man, who had been born without the least talent for conversation. Or dancing. They had made it around the room once before she complained that she was too exhausted to continue the polka. In truth, she had feared too much for her personal safety—and that of any breakable object within a square mile. “Although I have read in a ladies’ manual that steel wool brings an attractive pinkness to the cheeks.”
His eyes widened. “Would that not be painful?”
“But a good girl will do anything to make herself attractive. That is our first duty to Society, Mr. Whitlock.”
He appeared to search his memory for a moment. “You are certainly an ornament to our company tonight, Miss Roth. Would you like some lemonade?”
“Thank you, Mister Whitlock, but you just brought me some.”
“Of course.” He got that searching look again, as if mentally flipping through a notebook.
She looked frantically about the room for rescue. “And you, Mr. Whitlock, do you still engage in pugilistic pursuits?”
“Yes, Miss Roth, I do.” There was a flicker of life in his voice, but it died quickly. “Of course, a fine young lady like yourself would not be interested in such a brutish sport.”
“No?” Imogen bridled. “I’m not afraid of a little blood.”
“Heavens, Miss Roth,” he laughed—a strangely wooden sound that went with the rest of his manner. “The fights are too coarse. There are men who place bets there, you know.”
“How savage. You must be very brave to attend. Oh, look, there’s Captain Smythe. We were going to have the next waltz. Hellooo!” she trilled, waving her lace-gloved fingers.
Diogenes Smythe was dashing in his blue Hussar’s uniform, with silver and gold braid glittering in the gaslight. He was slighter than Whitlock, but just as tall and darkly good-looking. Most important, he had all the verve that Whitlock lacked. He answered her summons in a trice.
“My snow queen,” he purred, bending over her hand. “White becomes you like a poem. I am positively ravished that you are released from the schoolroom and into our midst.”
He straightened, one hand at his waist, the other resting at his side where his saber usually hung. All that was lacking was a photographer, ready to capture his image. He smiled, teeth white and strong beneath his closely trimmed mustache.
But he was at least a good dancer. After bidding farewell to The Stare, they set off around the floor in a seductive whirl. The captain made sure to execute a turn every time they passed a mirror, as if to check his profile from every possible angle. Imogen didn’t mind. He was amusing, though all his stories were about himself and his swashbuckling military adventures. As Smythe was clever and daring and a friend to Tobias, she was predisposed to like him, but not enough to give him a second thought once he very properly walked her back to Lady Bancroft’s side.
Imogen hummed a little as he strutted away. The exertion had left her feeling a little unwell—she would never have Evelina’s stamina, and would have to pace herself carefully through the Season. Nevertheless, she was having a lovely time, with all the bright lights and pretty music.
It was a relief from worrying about her father and what he might be up to. She’d been on edge ever since she’d overheard his conversation with Mr. Harriman—afraid to speak of it to Evelina, and afraid of what trouble she might cause by holding back the information. There didn’t seem to be a good answer.
And with so much going on—murder, the Disconnection, the affair at the warehouse—a night of entertainment was a blessing. There were a lot of people she was worried about—all of her family, for starters, and Evelina, who was more or less family anyway—but those worries would still be there on the morrow. All the villains and dragons could cool their heels tonight. She would experience her first ball only once in this life, and she meant to savor every moment—silly young men and all.
She popped open her dance card, so fascinated by the smooth snap of the fan that she closed it so she could do it all again. When she finally settled down to reading the name of her next partner, she saw the next space was for a
“May I have this dance?” a voice asked softly.
She looked up, her stomach doing a pleasant little flip. “Mr. Penner. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
He gave a self-deprecating nod. He was tall and well made, but didn’t loom like Whitlock or strut like Captain Smythe. Instead, he had the air of someone biding his time—a little amused, and a lot forgiving. And he did look very nice in his best clothes. “Now that you’ve cast your lambent gaze upon me, will you deign to take my hand?
