Daniel rested his arms on his knees and clasped his hands together. He appeared to be a casually posed, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped his hands together. “He questions our loyalty?”
“I think he questions everyone’s loyalty,” Adele replied. “It is the nature of his work that makes him unable to take anyone at face value.”
“It is our work, too,” Daniel pointed out. He straightened up with a quick movement as if the very idea repelled him.
“Yes,” Adele admitted.
A loud cheer went up as the first shell crossed the finish line and the officials’ little steamboat let out a toot.
Adele got to her feet. “I should go back.”
Daniel let out a great sigh.
Adele rested her hand on his shoulder. “You know I must. Besides, if I have guessed M’s intentions properly, then he is most likely nearby, observing us.”
Daniel nodded, reluctance slowing the movement. “The Mercer girl is over by the refreshments bar,” he added.
Adele looked for bone-white hair and an equally pale face under an enormous hat with a pink ribbon and found it. She squeezed Daniel’s shoulder. “Thank you.” Before he could protest again, or coax her into staying, Adele trudged over to the refreshment bar and waited to be served with her back to where Lady Winnifred and her little group were sipping iced fruit juice from long glasses with sugar around the rims.
She could hear them rather well even from here, for the tiniest of breezes coming off the river drifted their words over to her, and none of them was trying to speak quietly. Perhaps there was more than fruit juice in the concoctions they were drinking.
“…such a handsome man—did you see him in his uniform? All those ribbons and medals!” A giggle followed the declaration.
“Wait until you’re married to the man,” one of the others teased her friend. “You’ll feel less kindly toward him then.”
“Augusta, that is a terrible thing to say!” That was Winnifred’s voice—light and slightly breathless, as if she was shocked at her own daring to speak. “Rothmere is a brave officer. He was decorated for his actions during the Boer War.”
“Have you ever spoken to him, Winnie?” Augusta said, with a touch of impatience. “The man is so full of his own self-importance—”
“Aren’t they all?” Martha added.
More giggles.
“Really, girls, you must be more charitable in your thoughts, especially about our fine gentlemen officers.” That voice and chiding tone could only belong to the chaperone.
“As it happens, I have spoken to Rothmere,” Winnifred said.
“When?” Augusta shot back.
“Winnie talks to everyone,” Martha said, with a touch of tiredness in her tone.
“I’ve never seen her speaking to Rothmere,” Augusta said. “Not even once. Have you, Martha? You are in his company more often than I am.”
“I was introduced to Rothmere at Lord Routledge’s Easter weekend party.”
“At the estate?” Augusta asked. “I wasn’t presented until after Easter, so I couldn’t go. Is the manor as grand as they say?”
“No, I want to hear what Winnie thinks of Rothmere,” Martha insisted.
Adele stepped up to the bar as the waiter glanced enquiringly at her. “Something light and refreshing, not too sweet,” she said.
“We have Coca-Cola, my lady?”
She shuddered. “Oh dear, no. Perhaps…iced tea?”
He moved away and Adele shifted her attention back to the conversation behind her.
“…famous ball of theirs,” Winnifred said. “We danced more than one waltz—Rothmere is a very good dancer, even while he boasts about himself. But it was a lovely night, with the ballroom all lit up with lights and flowers.”
Adele froze, her heart thudding.
“There, I told you,” Martha said. “Winnifred has spoken to every eligible bachelor in England.”
“No one can deny he does dance divinely,” August admitted.
And all three of them giggled.
Adele reached for the tall glass of iced tea the waiter put on the bar for her, her mind whirling.
She had attended every annual ball upon the Routledge estate since her coming-out, until the year she married Hugh. The Easter ball was famous among the ton.
But the ballroom wing attached to the estate had burned down to a crumbling stone shell, the fire started by malfunctioning old-fashioned gas lamps, last Christmas. This year, the ball had been held upon a dancefloor installed upon the well mowed grass of the vast estate, out in front of the manor. Modern electrical lights had illuminated the affair. Adele had thoroughly enjoyed the night air and the dancing.
If Winnifred really had attended the ball, she would have known that.
Adele’s belly cramped painfully. She could barely bring the tea to her lips and she didn’t try to sip it at all. Instead, she fought to keep her movements natural and slow, while her heart thudded in her ears, muffling her thoughts.
Think, she commanded herself.
The next race was announced from the starting line, sounding distant and tinny, for the man shouted the announcement through a megaphone.
Anyone might argue that Winnifred was merely attempting to impress her friends. A small lie in order to sound important and knowledgeable.
Only, Winnifred had been there.
The problem with society was that everyone knew everyone else and even though Adele had not bothered acquainting herself with all the debutantes and new bachelors, she saw the same faces over and over—especially at the big, annual and highly traditional events, like Routledge’s Easter ball.
Winnifred had been sitting at a table on the far side of the enormous dancefloor, under the Chinese lanterns. The chaperone who stood with her at this moment had not been there, that night. Instead, a different matron had accompanied her, for it must surely have been one of the earliest events in Winnifred’s first season.
She had worn pink organdy, with a ribbon about her waist, tied in a bow at the back. Adele had noticed her sweet innocence, and even though she had no idea who the girl was, she had dismissed her as another debutante who would soon be snatched up and married off.
She had been
