“My dear Venetian goddess, allow me a few more moments.”
“I don’t want to monopolize your time. Not when there are so many women you’ve yet to discover.”
“I promised a walk along the terrace. Or would you prefer a meander along the buffet? It is sumptuous. Last year, Lady Weatherby had a French chef prepare amuse-bouche using different truffles from France. The white truffle…” He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed the tips. “Superb.”
She smiled and bumped against his shoulder. “The buffet then, only because you have promised such euphoric delights for my simple palate.”
“No, I have only promised good food. Euphoric delights aren’t for innocents.”
The humming background noise of the ball, the orchestra and the multitudes faded as Carlow’s meaning hit its mark. She turned to stare at him, wetting her lips and then biting her lower one. Vengeance was like an archery target. There were misses, and there were varying degrees of success with each concentric ring. Carlow was going to willingly help her hit the inner circle.
A bull’s eye, years in the making.
If Nora were some young debutante, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, she would be afraid to handle a man such as Gabriel Sutter. Or Nash Hildebrande. Or Ellis Rawden. They were all men of the world, believing they could do no wrong. Propped up by their peers. Encouraged by their fathers and families.
Fortunately, Nora had been properly instructed by an avid bluestocking, one of London’s most intellectual women in her day, Hester Burney, Lady Fortenay. Her sweet and caring Gigi. She lived a quiet life in the country now, with her books and her equally intelligent counter-pointer-outer, James.
The spine Nora grew was all her own, though.
Nora knew very few people. She and Timothy had lived a solitary life in Dorset after their father died. Mother had gone soon after. Their saviors had been Lord and Lady Fortenay. Even now Lady Fortenay wrote with regularity, delivery of their mail at rectories on their route, worrying the two of them would find themselves in mischief.
Lady Fortenay knew Nora’s father and mother, of course, and was more forgiving of Papa than she ought to have been. Mama and Papa were second cousins and Lady Fortenay their aunt. As a child, once Nora understood that fact, she was more accepting about why and how she and Timothy had landed at Lord and Lady Fortenay’s doorstop.
Gigi knew of Nora’s plans for revenge too, but Nora believed Gigi didn’t truly think she would extract her vengeance in the manner she proclaimed. Slicing a lord’s manhood wasn’t considered too ladylike and really would defeat her immediate purpose.
The indulgences of Lord and Lady Fortenay would end at their deaths, and they were quite old now. What would she and Timothy do without their Grandy and Gigi? Nora and Timothy were wards; they weren’t heirs. More importantly, Lord and Lady Fortenay weren’t flush with riches. The underclasses might believe they had money and property. Such conditions were normally well hidden. Their sons had married money, both daughters of the merchant class: one who married for the promise of a title while the other son eloped to Gretna Green. Their sons spent very little time at Whitmarsh, but they’d hire a carriage the moment they heard it was time to distribute the small inheritance.
So far, Timothy hadn’t succumbed to the temptation to marry a cit, though her brother needed to marry. He was spending too much of his time in idleness and indulgence. And fishing with his friend, Dill. She didn’t want him to become like them. And Nora didn’t want to be a nag who scolded him from dawn ’til dusk. Let a wife do that, if that’s what he needed. But how would Timothy provide if he didn’t have an anchor and some reliable income?
There was so much against him: a tainted title, no income, no property, rumor and shame. Marrying money might be possible. A cit? Timothy’s pride was as wide and deep as Papa’s.
And it all came back to Henbury Hall. They would have no life if they didn’t get their home back.
“Oh, this looks delicious,” Nora said, admiring the lavish dishes.
“Roast veal with white sauce and mushrooms. I would recommend the roast fowl, though.”
“Is it tender? I don’t enjoy aggressively chewing my meat. It needs to melt in my mouth. Like butter, if possible.”
“Because it’s not ladylike?”
She laughed. “Slicing meat should always be done with a gentle hand. And that is impossible with a tough cut.”
“I would suggest a sharper knife.”
“Thank you, Carlow. I will keep that in mind.” He watched her intently, which made her a little warm. Nora let him see an excess of smiles and coy looks and the very daintiest of dainty touches, here and there.
The buffet was resplendent with confectionary, a variety of meats, savories, broths, sauces. The scent of grilled meat filled the air. And bread, all freshly made and piping hot. Her small plate was laden with goodies. She would much rather be sitting with her brother or Grandy and Gigi so she could squeal and delight in her meal without criticism or disapproval. At least not overmuch.
Carlow led them to an empty table where a single candle burned and a nest of fresh flowers circled the base. He sat next to her and removed his mask. He’d carried two plates to the table, one with meats, the other, surprisingly, with a variety of vegetables including a mound of pickles.
“Take off your mask, my dear. We have played this game long enough,” he said, picking up his fork.
“Oh no, not until the night is over. We must play by the rules Lady Weatherby has set down.”
“There are no rules. At least not rules you and I must live by.”
“My chaperone and
