He managed to force down the swallow, but only barely, and his throat and lungs protested with a violent coughing fit—a condition not helped by repeated back thumping from his well-meaning friend Rupert.
“Egads, man, this champagne is meant to be sipped, not gulped. I thought you were among the few Americans who knew that kind of thing,” Rupert drawled while continuing to pound.
Daniel shrugged his friend off his back with an irritated twitch of the shoulders, his breath easing slightly. Rupert raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, then, expire right here in the middle of Andrew and Sarah Huffington’s ball. Everyone has seen that I have tried to help you and was rudely rebuffed. You will have no one to blame for your senseless death but yourself.”
Daniel ignored his friend’s typically ridiculous antics. His eyes had not once left the rose-silk-clad figure across the room.
The reporter. She’s here.
What had she called herself? Polly Palmer? Surely a pseudonym. And what was she doing in the Huffingtons’ ballroom?
“Are you quite recovered?” Rupert regarded him with his typical bland facade, but Daniel discerned actual concern in his friend’s eyes. The jolt of seeing the reporter must be showing on his face. He quickly rearranged his features into what he hoped read as impassivity and straightened up.
“Fine now, thank you.”
“Good, because my probable future mother-in-law is heading this way. Don’t make me talk to her alone.”
Mrs. Elmira Bradley, mother to Esmerelda Bradley, Rupert’s almost-affianced, was indeed heading straight for them, in a gown so vividly purple it was almost eye-watering. Daniel rearranged his features yet again, this time into a polite smile aimed at Mrs. Bradley, though over her approaching shoulder he kept his attention on the woman in rose. The reporter was talking to some other young ladies, one of whom he vaguely recalled meeting at some function or other over the years. He searched his memory, hoping it would jar a connection, but came up short.
She didn’t appear to have seen him yet.
“My dear Mr. McCaffrey, are you quite all right?” Mrs. Bradley had reached them and was fluttering around Daniel like a small, pesky bird.
“He is fine, Mrs. Bradley, absolutely fine,” declared Rupert, as he plucked another glass of champagne from a nearby tray. The glass was pressed into Daniel’s hand, and he grasped it automatically. “Simply drank this wonderful vintage too quickly, and is now in need of more.”
Daniel took a dutiful sip, the bubbles unpleasantly tickling his irritated throat. A crowd of people had gathered in a small knot near the refreshment table, partially obscuring his view of the reporter. He shifted his body slightly to the left, pretending to nod to an acquaintance across the room, and got her back in his sights.
Mrs. Bradley beamed. “Ooh, you do like it, then? The sommelier is coming to work for us, you know. We had a devil of a time luring him away from ol’ Huffington, but apparently he’s the best, and I wanted the best. And you know I get what I want.” She gestured with a lavender fan toward Rupert’s chest to emphasize her point, before unfurling it and fanning herself. The numerous diamonds decorating her purple satin–gloved fingers winked furiously in the dim gaslight provided by lamps festooning the ballroom’s walls, which had been hung with gold silk for the occasion.
Daniel resisted the urge to snort. Get what she wanted, indeed. Elmira Bradley, like many of the newly moneyed of New York, held a particular fondness for the British titled class, craving the perceived old-world glamour and entitlement that accompanied such aristocracy. She had been pushing for a match between Rupert, the sixth earl of Umberland, and her heiress daughter for months. The fact that Rupert’s family had barely two pounds to rub together seemed not to matter a whit.
The cluster around the refreshment table loosened. He had a direct view of the reporter now, and if she looked his way, she would have an equally direct view of him. Her companions appeared engaged in animated conversation, but she seemed listless, barely contributing to whatever they were saying.
She was more attractive than he recalled. Her honey-colored hair was piled off her face, and her simple, dusky-pink gown draped over her perfectly.
Attractive, despite her obvious tiredness.
Should he leave? Daniel toyed with the idea, imagining himself making polite excuses to Rupert, who would be surprised and irritated and would later accuse him of reneging on his promise to attend the ball. His hostess Sarah Huffington would be gracious but disappointed. He didn’t go out in society much; he knew his presence was a bit of a coup for her.
But he did want to go out sometimes. He would be in New York for several months and had no desire play the hermit during his stay. If this girl was part of the Astor 400—and she must be to have been invited—surely their paths would cross again sooner or later.
Mrs. Bradley beckoned to someone to her left, and a painfully thin, pallid girl with pale-blonde hair emerged from behind a potted palm. “And here is Miss Bradley!” she exclaimed, nudging the girl in Rupert’s direction. “Though I think it might be appropriate for you to start calling her Esmie,” she added with a wink.
The reporter had accepted a glass of her own champagne but wasn’t drinking it. Daniel took a sip of his, this one going down easier, listening to the exchange between Mrs. Bradley and Rupert with half an ear.
Esmie offered Rupert a nervous flash of a smile, which quickly faded as she regarded him in what appeared to be utter terror, despite the fact that the couple had been courting—or going through the motions of courting—for some time. Mrs. Bradley nudged her daughter again, less gently this time. “Esmie, talk to his Lordship,” she hissed in a loud whisper.
Who was the reporter, really? Daniel
