“I became a little dizzy for a moment. It’s so loud in here, isn’t it?” she replied faintly. Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat was speaking with someone she didn’t recognize now, but his glance surreptitiously flicked in her direction every few seconds.
“About as loud as usual, I suppose.” Callie looked around doubtfully. “Let’s go outside, get a breath of air.”
“No,” Genevieve said, more forcibly than she intended. There was no way she was letting that man out of her sight. Callie and Eliza both blinked at her. “I’m fine, honestly.”
She wasn’t fine, though, and hadn’t been all night. The crowd of pressing bodies combined with the competing scents of over a hundred different perfumes had been making her feel light-headed for hours. And Callie had hounded her to come, when she hadn’t wanted to, but she had agreed that morning, hoping the party might distract her from memories of her encounter in the alley. But it was no use; while her eyes had been automatically noticing and cataloging the clashing colors of ladies’ gowns, the brief flash of an acquaintance’s face emerging from and then being swallowed by the crowd, the open mouths of a group of gentlemen laughing nearby, her brain had been constantly replaying the moment when the pile of rags in the alley suddenly merged into the recognizable shape of a dead human.
There wasn’t a body, and then there was. Over and over and over. All it took was a slant of light.
Genevieve took a deep breath and managed a smile for her friends, watching identical expressions of cautious relief cross their faces. Callie offered to get them all some lemonade and squeezed through the crowd. Genevieve watched her friend’s curvy figure, clad in green satin, draw admiring glances as she made her way to the refreshment table, then allowed her gaze to sweep across the expanse of the ballroom, over shiny bald pates and headpieces adorned with beads. The sights were so familiar, the same as at the dozens of similar balls she’d attended since coming out at the age of eighteen.
Her gaze inexorably returned to Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat, who seemed to stiffen slightly under its weight. What else wasn’t she seeing? she suddenly wondered. What else would be revealed if the light shifted in the right way?
Who was he? What was he doing at the Huffingtons’ ball?
“Why did I agree to this again?” Genevieve murmured to Eliza as they were severely jostled by the ample form of a passing matron dressed in a garish yellow taffeta. She scowled at the bouncing yellow feathers protruding from the oblivious woman’s retreating coiffure.
“I know you hate these things as much as I do, Genevieve,” her friend replied, taking her hand. “I am truly grateful you are here.” Eliza peered at her anxiously. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?”
Genevieve nodded absent-mindedly. “I was working late last night and am tired, that’s all. I am sorry I don’t come to parties more often,” she managed, wishing to change the subject from her near faint. “I can’t quite believe your father is still insisting you attend every social event of the season.”
Eliza scrunched her face. “You’d think he’d have surrendered the idea of marrying me off by now, wouldn’t you? I am twenty-four, after all; I’ve been coming to these parties since I was eighteen and still am not married. It’s quite clear I’m destined to be an old maid.”
“And you know you could marry half a dozen men in this room tomorrow, if you gave any of them the slightest bit of encouragement,” Genevieve replied absently. It was true. Eliza, though beautiful and wealthy, was famously uninterested in suitors.
“But I don’t want any of them, you know that,” said Eliza, a bit sourly. “I know it breaks my father’s heart every time I say it, but I can’t wait until I am officially too old to participate in this silly charade anymore. Just declare me a spinster already and be done with it. You are lucky to be spared, Genevieve.”
“Yes, I suppose I am fortunate my parents are not pressuring me to wed,” Genevieve murmured, fanning herself and looking in vain for Callie with their drinks. She kept half an eye on Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat, though; he had moved slightly toward the entrance to the ballroom.
Don’t you dare leave.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Eliza began sincerely, looking stricken, but Genevieve cut her off with a wave of her hand.
“It’s fine,” she reassured her friend with a smile, even though a slight pang went through her. A softer and quieter pang than it used to be, true, but it was there all the same. Both women were dancing around the topic of Genevieve’s broken engagement, now some six years ago, to Ted Beekman. Ted had ended their agreement largely because he disapproved of Genevieve’s eccentric family. Her parents, perhaps out of guilt, had not broached the subject of matrimony with their only daughter again. When she insisted upon pursuing a career in journalism afterward, the Stewarts had used their influence to help her gain a position.
“Is he here?” Eliza queried as softly as she could in the din, as if reading her thoughts. For a moment Genevieve gaped at her, thinking she meant Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat. Then she realized that of course her friend was referring to Ted.
“I haven’t seen him,” Genevieve replied just as quietly. There was no use pretending she hadn’t been looking, at least before she spotted the man from the alley. One of the reasons she avoided social events was the inevitable awkwardness of running into Ted and, of course, his wife. Amelia was a nice enough girl and had played no part in the breakup. She had become Ted’s wife simply by virtue of being of appropriate social standing, appropriately staid, and available. Genevieve often privately thought that being completely empty-headed may have also worked in Amelia’s favor; Ted disliked being challenged.
“The downside to having a family such as mine,” she continued,
