What Would Jane Austen Do?

Chapter Thirteen

Eleanor had no idea what to expect. Even though the thought of a bath was appealing after washing from a basin, she walked to the bathing chamber with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner shuffling to the firing squad.

What was so difficult about a shower that it took so many years to invent? Shermont had done it with a gargoyle and a coal scuttle. More important, why had she complained about her tiny little bathroom with the ugly Pepto-Bismol pink tiles and the showerhead that whined and sputtered? She sighed at the heavenly memory.

Mina walked beside Eleanor and asked, “Is something the matter?”

“My mind is hundreds of miles away, that’s all.”

“Thinking about your home in America?”

“Yes.” At least that part was true.

Approximately halfway toward the end of the hall a screen had been set up to block the view. On the other side, they ducked past a curtained entrance into a wide alcove. A brass tub at least eight feet long and three feet high dominated the area. Warmth radiated from the fireplace that covered the entire wall to the left. Several big iron pots hung over the flames, and steam filled the air. Five maids bustled around the room, busy with various tasks. Deirdre and Mina sat on the bench that ran around the other two walls.

Eleanor hesitated. She’d never been a fan of group cleansing rituals. As a chubby teen, gym class had been torture.

“Step to it,” the old crone seated by the fireplace barked. “Water’s not getting any warmer.”

One maid took Eleanor’s robe and hung it on a hook. Another bent down to remove her slippers. Then two others each took one of her elbows and guided her up the steps leading to the foot of the tub. Three more steps led down into the deep water, and she wasn’t given time to take off her chemise. Apparently, Regency women didn’t bathe naked.

While Deirdre and Mina chatted, Eleanor chose honeysuckle-scented soap and a cloth from the tray offered. After she’d quickly washed herself, one maid scrubbed her back with a soft brush, and then another washed her hair. She was instructed to stand, and a bucket of fresh warm water was poured over her head to rinse her off. She climbed out of the tub. They wrapped her in a large sheet and guided her to a place on the bench beside Mina.

Two maids each dipped a bucket of water out of the tub, and two others adding steaming hot water.

“Step up. Step up,” the crone said.

Deirdre jumped up to take her turn.

“I’m glad you’re quick,” Mina said. “Mrs. Tuttle doesn’t like us to dawdle.” She indicated the crone by the fireplace.

“Then she’s the butler’s wife?”

“Good heavens, no. She’s his mother and very strict about the rules. We humor her because she’s been with the family forever. She was father’s nursemaid, maybe even grandfather’s.” Mina partially covered her mouth so no one else could hear her whisper. “We heard that at a certain house party, an unmarried couple was found bathing together, in the middle of the night no less.”

Eleanor eyed the large tub, and her imagination provided an inviting image of Shermont soaking there. Several enjoyable aquatic activities came to mind. “Oh, that’s … astonishing.”

“Something like that would never happen in Mrs. Tuttle’s bathing chamber.”

Too bad. “Of course not.”

A maid brought another tray with an assortment of creams and oils, but since Eleanor didn’t know what they were for, she shook her head. She also refused a cup of lemon verbena tea.

When Deirdre was done, she took a seat on a small stool by the fire, and Mrs. Tuttle brushed her long blonde locks.

“Whenever I think about cutting my hair, I reconsider,” Deirdre said to Eleanor. “However did you get the nerve?”

Eleanor shrugged. She’d worn her hair long most of her life, but after her breakup, she’d decided she needed a drastic change. She’d donated fourteen inches of hair to Locks of Love and decided she preferred it short. “It’s so much easier to take care of this way.” She fluffed her curls with her fingers and wished she’d brought a comb.

“A gentlewoman’s hair is her crowning glory,” Mrs. Tuttle said, her voice little more than a rasp. “If you cut it, you cut your chances of an advantageous marriage.”

“Well, I’m going to cut mine,” Mina said as she took her turn in the tub. “Not really short as in the Titus style, but I want those adorable little curls that frame your face. I’m going to wait to see the fashions when we get to London.”

In the warm bathing chamber, Eleanor’s thin chemise dried quickly and she feared she would sweat, thus negating any good done by the bath, “I’m going back to our room,” she announced as she stood.

“Have a good rest,” Deirdre said. “I’ll tell Twilla to wake you in plenty of time to get dressed for the ball.”

A maid rushed to hold Eleanor’s robe and another brought her slippers. As she ducked through the curtain, she encountered Fiona, Hazel, Beatrix, and their mothers.

After the normal pleasantries, Beatrix started toward the curtain. Mrs. Holcum blocked the way and folded her arms over her ample bosom. “We’ll wait until they are done. I don’t hold with public bathing. We’re not ancient Romans, you know.”

Eleanor fought the urge to roll her eyes. Obviously, Mrs. Holcum didn’t consider the servants members of the public.

“I don’t know why young people today are so obsessed with bathing,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “It’s unhealthy to immerse yourself in water so often. In my day, twice a year was considered more than adequate.”

“Moth-ther,” Fiona and Hazel said together.

“I agree,” Mrs. Holcum said. “It’s the schools that put these preposterous ideas into their heads. Before she went to Miss Simpkin’s Academy, my daughter hated bathing and had to be bribed every spring and fall.”

“I was a child then,” Beatrix said. The whine in her voice disproved her claim to maturity.

“My daughters were the same,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “But once in the tub, I had the devil of a time getting them out.”

Knowing from experience with friends and coworkers that motherly bonding could extend to hours of comparisons, Eleanor used the lame excuse of damp hair and the possibility of taking a chill to escape. As she walked down the hall, she heard Mrs. Holcum say, “See, Beatrix. You could learn from such a sensible, old-fashioned girl.”

Eleanor was still smiling when she entered her bedroom. The drapes had been drawn and the bed turned down in preparation for her nap. Even in the dim light she recognized her visitors.

“No need to ask if you’re having a good time,” the ghost of Mina said with an answering grin.

“Where have you been?” Eleanor asked. “I’ve called and—”

“You made us promise not to interfere,” Deirdre’s ghost said. “We’re only keeping our word.”

“Oh, yeah … well … then why are you here?” Were they going to take her back? Now that the time was near, she realized she wasn’t quite ready.

“We wanted to let you know how pleased we are with your progress so far,” Mina said. “You’ve adapted amazingly well.”

“We will return at midnight tonight,” Deirdre said. “So you have to chaperone us for only ten more hours. But the most difficult hours are ahead. With so many people at the ball, you must pay close attention and not allow yourself to be distracted.”

“But we have every confidence in you,” Mina added.

“Do you mean it hasn’t happened yet? I haven’t stopped it? What about last night in Shermont’s room? You do know what happened there?”

The ghosts looked at each other. Deirdre nodded to Mina.

“Yes, we saw. As to whether only one incident can predicate a duel, we can’t be sure,” Mina explained. “Since we’re here with you, we won’t have any memories of what you do until we return to the future.”

“But we have every confidence you will be successful,” Deirdre said.

“You could make this easier if you’d tell me exactly where and when this seduction happened.”

Again, the ghosts looked at each other before answering.

“That’s impossible to determine,” Deirdre said. “You see, there are certain pivotal points in each person’s life. In between those points, events can shift around without making a huge difference. You prevented one incident, but another may yet occur. However, if Shermont does not seduce one of us by midnight tonight, then it won’t happen.”

“That’s when we met Ackerly and Clifford and decided we should marry brothers,” Mina added.

“Not them,” Deirdre said.

“Good heavens, no. But they did give me the idea that—”

“It was my idea.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Girls!” Eleanor said in exasperation. “It doesn’t matter whose idea it was.”

“Quite right. Anyway, it was a pivotal point and one that will prevent the duel. After that, neither of us wanted to pursue Shermont any longer.”

“Fine. But it would be easier if I knew which girl to follow. If they … you … separate before midnight—”

“We cannot break our sacred vow,” the ghosts said together.

“Arrrgh! How do you expect me to follow both of you?”

“There’s only one of him,” Deirdre pointed out.

With that cryptic comment, they winked out of sight.

Eleanor hadn’t expected to sleep, but when Twilla entered with a tray of food, she woke from a dream. She had been Cinderella, Shermont her Prince Charming. The refrain from the musical stuck in her brain: Impossible things are happening every day. She tried reciting a poem and the multiplication tables to dislodge it, but until she hummed the Oscar Mayer jingle, that song wouldn’t budge. Then, of course, she was stuck with the commercial tune, but at least it didn’t make her think of her midnight deadline.

After eating the light dinner Twilla had brought, Eleanor dressed in a deep yellow silk dress she’d made to go with her amber cross necklace, which was back in place around her neck. Twilla insisted on helping with her hair. The maid attached a gold ribbon three times across the crown of her head for a diadem effect. Mina had lent a white feather rosette with a pearl center that Twilla pinned over Eleanor’s ear.

Since elbow-length gloves were not de rigueur as they would be in the Victorian Age, Eleanor chose the more comfortable short ones made from netted lace. With her turquoise tulle evening shawl, beaded reticule, and ivory fan, she was ready.

“Thank you for your help,” she said to Twilla.

“My pleasure. You look lovely.”

Eleanor knew guests usually left money for those who had provided for them, one reason why servants didn’t mind the extra work events such as house parties and balls caused. She would be leaving, but she had no money to give the maid. Instead, she pulled the string of blue glass beads from her case. “I want you to have these,” she said to Twilla.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t—”

“I insist.”

The maid reached out and took them as if they were precious jewels. “I ain’t never had anything so fine,” she whispered.

“Put them on.” Eleanor wanted the others to see Twilla wearing them before she left. Not so they would know she’d tipped the maid, but so no one would think the servant had stolen them.

They joined the others in their bedroom as the girls put the finishing touches to their own outfits.

Both wore the white appropriate for their ages. Deirdre’s dress was trimmed with embroidered edging and a sash of braided ribbons in several shades of green from mint to forest. Mina’s dress had pink satin trim and tiny ribbon roses scattered around the square neckline and along the three-inch hem.

Deirdre sat at the dressing table and rubbed a red-tinted paper on her cheeks.

“Lightly,” Mina cried. “We don’t want Teddy to know we bought rouge papers.”

“I look like a Punch and Judy puppet,” Deirdre said, leaning forward to peer closely in the mirror. She picked up a damp cloth and scrubbed her cheeks clean.

“Are you going to try again? Let me. It’s my turn.”

“If I can’t do it, you can’t do it either,” Deirdre said without relinquishing her seat.

Before they escalated into a full-blown argument, Eleanor noticed Mina’s paint case and had a brainstorm. “Wait a minute.”

She rummaged around until she found the largest brush in the case. Thankfully, Mina kept her watercolor brushes scrupulously clean.

Eleanor laid the rouge paper on the table, rubbed the brush over it in a circle, and then swirled it lightly over the girls’ cheeks. She wasn’t a makeup expert, but everyone agreed the effect was quite attractive and natural looking.

As Twilla helped the girls gather their accessories, Mina suddenly stopped. She turned from Twilla to Eleanor with a sharp look. “Are those your—”

“I think they look very nice on her,” Eleanor said.

Mina shrugged as if the gift was of no consequence, exactly as Eleanor had hoped.

She followed the girls down the hall, butterflies of anticipation tickling her stomach. Shermont waited below, and the look on his face told her all her trouble had been worthwhile. He made her feel beautiful and desirable with nothing more than his smile. She nearly had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Ordinary Eleanor Pottinger was going to the ball. She hoped she would have another chance to talk with Jane Austen and might even risk a dance with a handsome lord. She touched her necklace for luck and descended the stairs.

Even though the ball was scheduled to begin at eight o’clock, a number of guests had already arrived and more poured in as fast as the full carriages could unload them. Since country affairs were less formal and almost everyone already knew everyone else, the butler did not announce each arrival. Deirdre and Mina joined Teddy and Aunt Patience in the entrance hall to greet the guests. Shermont offered his arm and escorted Eleanor into the ballroom.

Armless gilt chairs had been placed around the perimeter of the room, and several chaperones had staked out their positions. Mrs. Holcum and Beatrix sat near the door, all the better to snag Teddy on his entrance. Mrs. Maxwell had chosen a spot halfway down the length of the room and sat with Fiona and Hazel on each elbow. Gentle music wafted through the air and Eleanor located the musicians in a loft at the far end.

“Shall we walk the circuit?” Shermont asked.

Those not seated promenaded around the room in couples or small groups of three or four. The glittering society was everything she could have imagined. The clothes. The jewels. Hard to credit the idea that this wasn’t everyone’s best and that a ball in London would have more of … everything. “Why aren’t they dancing?” she asked.

“The host will open the dancing shortly. Until then, we walk, perhaps stop to chat. See and be seen. Take those young bucks, for instance,” he said, indicating with a nod the group of four gentlemen sauntering along a dozen feet ahead. “They’re sizing up the new crop that will go on the marriage mart next season.”

“That’s a bit predatory.”

“Not the half of it. There’s not a full pocket among the lot. If they want to continue the life they’ve been accustomed to, they must marry well, an heiress preferably.”

“What about love?”

“Ah, a love match does seem to be the current ideal according to the doctrine of sensibility, but when a man must choose between a ladylove and his tailor …” He shrugged.

“Sounds as though you think of marriage as a business deal.”

“I don’t think of marriage at all,” Shermont lied. How could he ask someone to share his future when he didn’t remember his past? He rubbed the scar on his forehead with his free hand. “I take it your marriage was a love match.”

Eleanor hesitated. “I believed I was in love with the man I got engaged to. Unfortunately, I later found out he wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

“A testimonial for long engagements?”

“Not necessarily. It wasn’t his fault I bestowed qualities on him he didn’t possess.” And as she said it, she realized it was true. He couldn’t live up to her expectations because she had tried to make a Darcy out of a Wickham, which made her think of Jane Austen. She looked around the now crowded ballroom, but didn’t see her favorite author.

There were so many people in the room the temperature had risen several degrees, undoubtedly helped by hundreds of candles on two chandeliers. Eleanor opened her fan and plied it for a bit of breeze. One detail the glittering illustrations of the time period had not been able to show was the air tainted by so many perfumes. Even though liberally used, the fragrances did not conceal the underlying odor of unwashed bodies.

Teddy led a bejeweled Countess Lazislov to the front of the dance floor. As the highest-ranking female present, she had the honor of calling the first set. The Countess indicated her choice to Mr. Foucalt.

“May I have this dance?” Shermont asked.

Eleanor shook her head. “I don’t know the steps to most—”

The dancing master rapped his walking stick on the floor three times. “Gentlemen, choose your partners for the first dance, ‘On a Midsummer Night,’ ” he said in a booming voice, quite unexpected from such a skinny frame.

The announcement caused whispering among the crowd, but the men who had been in attendance at the earlier class and those who had been to recent town parties took positions on the floor.

Shermont held out his arm with a smug smile.

“How did you know?”

“Know what?” he asked with an innocent air as they took their places in the line of dancers.

“That the first dance would be the only one I know the steps to,” she said as the music started.

“Ah, yes. I don’t suppose you’d believe it was a grand coincidence,” he said as he bowed in the salute.

“No.” She curtseyed. He didn’t have time to explain. The dance required her to follow the other women and promenade the length of the ballroom in the step-close-step movement she’d learned earlier. The countess gave her a broad wink as they passed each other going in opposite directions. What was that about?

Eleanor returned to her starting place. “You were saying?” she said as she curtsied again, returning to their earlier conversation as if it hadn’t been interrupted.

He bowed. “The countess owed me a favor,” he said with a mischievous grin. Then he stepped out for the gentlemen’s promenade.

Leaving Eleanor to wonder exactly what he’d done for the countess. She watched Shermont as he danced the steps with masculine grace, and she noticed a number of other women ogled him as he passed by. A surge of jealousy took her by surprise.

She had no claim to him. The respite from his presence gave her the opportunity to pull herself together and rein in her wayward feelings.

When he returned, they had a few minutes to chat as they waited for their turn for the couples’ promenade.

“The music is lovely,” she said.

She felt the muscles of his forearm tighten under her hand as he shot her a quizzical glance. The amusement in his eyes said he recognized her attempt to depersonalize the conversation.

“I hardly noticed,” he said. “The dance is only an excuse to be by your side.”

He wasn’t making it easy. “From what I hear, the weather is particularly balmy for this time of year,” she said, trying again to move to a safe subject.

“Is it? I feel only the heat of your touch. Do you deny you feel the same?” he asked as he led her out for their turn at the couples’ promenade.

She did not respond to his taunt.

“I do not need to hear you say in words what I can read in your eyes,” he said. “After what we have shared—”

“No strings,” she reminded him as well as herself. “We have only the moment—no past, no future.”

After thoughtful hesitation, he replied, “As you say. Then we should enjoy these moments to the fullest.”

The finale of the dance called for him to twirl her around, which he did doubly fast, making two full turns before spinning her toward the gentleman on her left.

By the time she returned from making the round and being twirled by all the gentlemen, she was dizzy and more than grateful for his steady presence as the music ended.

“Just stand there for a minute,” she said, politely applauding the musicians. “I need to catch my breath before walking off the dance floor.”

“We can’t leave yet,” he said. “There is another dance in the set.”

She shook her head and started to remind him she didn’t know any other dances when Mr. Foucalt rapped his stick on the floor.

“The second dance of the opening set will be the waltz,” he called in his loud voice.

The first dance had caused whispers, but the announcement of the waltz caused a minor tumult. A number of couples committed a breach of decorum and left the dance floor. Some were forced to do so at the insistence of overzealous chaperones, including Fiona and Hazel and their partners. A few couples eagerly took their places.

Mr. Foucalt rapped his stick. “We will have order.”

As the orchestra played the opening bars, Eleanor stepped into Shermont’s arms. “I fear the countess has created quite a commotion by her choice of dances,” she said.

He laughed. “From what I know of her, Countess Lazislov enjoys making a spectacle and being the center of attention.” They moved to the music, making small circles as he led her around the dance floor.

“I don’t,” Eleanor said, ducking her head, her body stiffened by awareness of the censorious stares she received. The magic of the butterfly field was missing.

“Look at me.” After she complied, he smiled down at her. “We are the only two people here. You are in my arms, and that is all that matters.”

She decided to stop worrying about everyone else and concentrate on her partner. She returned his smile. “Then let’s enjoy the moment.”

With that he tightened his embrace and lengthened his stride, swinging her around in wider and wider circles, even lifting her feet off the floor. No inane chatting, no verbal sparring—just a man and a woman moving in harmony with the music and with each other. Although there were no overtly sexual moves, as in the dances she’d known in her time, she now understood why the waltz was considered scandalous.

They created a world of their own within the circle of each other’s arms, moving as one, responding to the slightest touch. Swinging apart and then swaying back together. A sensual, unspoken interchange. Then she stopped thinking and gave herself up to dancing in his arms. She laughed with pure joy.

By the time the music ended, she was breathless. She heard applause and turned to add her clapping to the accolades for the orchestra, which she had barely noticed. To her surprise, the dance floor was empty except for the two of them.

“Smile and take a bow,” Shermont prompted.

“How can you be so calm?” she asked, dropping into a deep curtsey and hoping her cheeks were not as fiery as they felt. She remembered her fan still attached to her right wrist and opened it to create a cooling breeze. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Why?” he asked as he offered his arm.

“Because it feels as though we just made love in a public place in front of a roomful of people,” she said behind her fan as they walked off the dance floor.

He grinned and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “We did.”

She spotted the countess barreling her way toward them with purpose in her stride. “I think Countess Lazislov wants her turn on the dance floor.” Even though Eleanor didn’t want him to, she felt obligated to excuse him to dance with someone else. “Please don’t feel as if you have to stay here with me.”

“I don’t want to dance with anyone else. Shall we walk out on the terrace?”

“Fresh air sounds appealing,” she said. She turned and practically ran toward the open French doors. Shermont beat her to the exit.

Stepping outside was like entering an air-conditioned movie theater for a summer matinee. Cool and dark with music seemingly all around. Several couples ambled leisurely across the length of the terrace from one curved stairway leading down to the garden to the other. Shermont guided her to a corner of the stone balustrade overlooking the grounds.

“The garden was designed especially for a moonlit night such as this,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we take a stroll?”

She glanced over her shoulder. The countess had appeared determined, and if she had seen them exit, she was sure to follow as far as the terrace. Eleanor wasn’t sure why she didn’t want that woman to dance with Shermont. Obviously he hadn’t learned to dance in a vacuum and he’d had other partners. She just didn’t think she could stand by and watch him hold another woman in his arms. Not right after their intimate dance. “That sounds perfect.”

She placed her right hand on his forearm and they descended the terrace steps to the path leading into the gardens. The white shells beneath her feet were crushed almost as fine as sand. Her fabric dancing shoes made no noise, his steps only a slight crunching sound.

“It’s dark.”

“That’s by design. To enhance the experience, no lanterns are lit along the path. Another reason why it’s so popular among young couples.” He gave her an exaggerated leer before relaxing into a grin. “The designer of a moonlight garden chooses plants with white flowers that bloom at night and foliage that provides delight for the sense of smell,” Shermont explained as they strolled along the path, bowing and nodding politely as they passed couples returning to the ballroom. “Such as this night-blooming cereus from the West Indies with vanilla-scented blooms.”

“Lovely.” She paused to touch one of the large flowers that lent an aura of magical fantasy to the garden.

As they strolled from one garden “room” to the next, he pointed out the intensely fragrant night jasmine, evening primrose, angel’s trumpet, and Nottingham catchfly.

“I didn’t know you were so into flowers,” she said.

“Into? Oh. I understand. I’m not really into gardens. Although I admit to spending an hour with the gardener this afternoon in the hope I would entice you into taking a stroll with me. In fact, I hate gardening. It took forever to get the dirt from under my fingernails.” He gave her that oh-so-charming smile that made her toes curl. “Are you into gardening?”

“I enjoy flowers but I know practically nothing about them. I’ve had little opportunity to garden,” she said. The sum of her gardening knowledge was a few unfortunate potted plants that she’d received as gifts and had quickly killed by overwatering or forgetting. No green thumb.

He glanced around and saw they were alone. He cupped her face and kissed her lips. “I’ve been waiting all day for that.” He slid one hand to the back of her neck and moved the other to her waist. “And this.” Tightening his embrace, he kissed her jaw just under her ear.

Shrill laughter signaled the end of their privacy. Shermont jerked away.

Unfortunately, a button on his sleeve snagged on her necklace. She caught the amber cross before it fell. The clasp of the chain was broken.

He apologized. “Let me have that repaired. I know a trustworthy jeweler in town and I’ll get it back to you in a few days.”

“No.” She shook her head. She would be leaving tonight after midnight and would never see him again. She blinked the tears from her eyes as she put the amber cross and the chain into her reticule.

“The necklace obviously means a lot to you. I’m so very sorry.”

“Easily fixed,” she said. “Don’t give it another thought. Shall we continue our stroll?” The Cinderella time limit made each minute with him more precious.

The group of laughing people passed, soon out of sight beyond a curve in the garden path.

“Let’s wait a few minutes,” he said, leaning against a marble pillar carved to resemble a Greek ruin. “What shall we do to pass the time? No chess set handy. Can’t dance. Let’s see. Read any good books lately?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

Guessing he didn’t really expect an answer, she shook her head. Her eyes had adjusted from the brightness of the ballroom to the gentler illumination of the full moon. In the moonlight, colors paled to shades of gray, yet she could see clearly, like being inside the classic black and white movie version of Pride and Prejudice from 1940. She almost expected Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier to approach along the garden path.

Shermont looked so yummy standing there in the moonlight. Eleanor clasped her hands behind her back to keep from reaching for him. She had to look away. Another couple approached and passed with polite nods.

“No ideas for an activity to pass the time? Well, then I have one,” he said, taking her hand and leading her at a quick pace to the far corner of the garden, where a humongous plant took up the entire area.

“What’s this?” she asked, touching one of the large three-foot leaves.

“To be truthful, I’ve forgotten.”

She chuckled. “You know, you could have told me anything, and I wouldn’t have known the difference.”

He brushed an armful of leaves aside and with a bow waved for her to go in front of him.

With a quizzical look, she ducked under his arm and walked through a green tunnel. Across from the entrance, two walls made of rough stone met behind a small bench. The plant itself formed a semicircle, making a third wall and a partial ceiling, enclosing the area into a cozy fairy room about ten feet across.

“How did you find this place?”

Shermont walked past her. “I gave a gardener twenty shillings and asked where he went to take a nap after lunch.” From under the bench in the corner he pulled out a folded quilt and spread it on the ground. “I thought it would be a nice place for a moonlight picnic.”

“I suppose I should count myself lucky he doesn’t nap in the toolshed.”

From a basket beside the bench, Shermont took out a bottle of champagne, opened it, and filled two crystal glasses. He held one out.

“You’ve thought of everything,” she said before taking a sip of the cold bubbly. His machinations looked suspiciously like a seduction. Not that he needed to go to so much trouble. She hadn’t been shy about her desire for him. But it was flattering. Anticipation shivered deliciously up her spine.

“Won’t you have a seat,” he said with a courtly bow worthy of the grandest courtier.

She hesitated. Rolling around on the ground would wrinkle her precious dress beyond repair. The material alone had cost her two months of brown-bagging her lunch, and she had invested uncounted hours into sewing the intricate pattern of beads on the bodice. To risk ruining it was unthinkable. And no matter what happened, they would return to the ball.

Eleanor practically heard the minutes tick away toward midnight. Just like Cinderella, she would have to go home, so she made the decision to enjoy what little time she had left. She set her glass on the bench. After taking the beaded reticule from her left wrist and the ivory fan from her right, she set them beside her drink. Then she added her folded turquoise shawl and gloves to the neat stack.

Then quickly, before she could change her mind, she undid the hooks and snaps and slipped off her amber silk gown, laying it gently next to her accessories. Her chemise, corset, underdress, and stockings covered her more than if she had worn a pair of shorts and tank top to the grocery store. Not to mention what she would wear to the beach or at the pool. When she turned to face Shermont, he raised an eyebrow.

“One should never wear a ball gown to a picnic,” she said in imitation of Mrs. Holcum’s most proper upper crust tone. Eleanor retrieved her glass and sat on the blanket, her legs decorously curled to one side.

“Correct attire is always essential,” Shermont agreed, removing his coat and laying it on the bench beside her dress. He sat down on the blanket across from her.

Eleanor clasped her hands in her lap. “What does one do on a moonlight picnic?”

“Drink champagne,” he said, holding out her glass after topping it off. He raised his glass in a toast. “To your beautiful eyes.”

“Thank you.” Although she had a good idea where he was leading, she wasn’t going to let him off easy. “What else?”

“Your delectable lips.”

“No,” she said with a little shake of her head. “I wasn’t fishing for another compliment, but I do thank you. I meant, what else do we do?”

“I thought we might get to know each other. You are quite a mystery.”

“Me?”

“What do you enjoy doing? I only know you don’t play the pianoforte or croquet, and you don’t shoot a bow.”

“Was I that bad at croquet?”

“Actually, you did quite well for someone who watched others for direction on what to do.”

“You noticed that.” She ducked her head.

“I am aware of everything you do.”

Unsure how to respond, she directed the focus of the conversation to him. “What do you like to do?”

“You first.”

“I like to read and sew.” She could hardly tell him she liked to rollerblade or go bicycling with friends. “I like to watch the sunset on the beach.” And drink margaritas on the patio of a little Mexican restaurant. She smiled at the memory of the bon voyage party her friends had thrown there.

Shermont furrowed his brow. “If you live … how could …”

Oops. She realized she couldn’t have lived on the West Coast of America during the Regency period, and the sun would rise over the water on the eastern shore. “It’s something I remember from my childhood and hope to do again soon. When I get back to a place where that’s possible,” she said to cover her faux pas.

“Oh. Do you have a trip to the coast planned? I remember Huxley said something about going to see the butterflies in a fortnight.”

Eleanor shook her head. “I hope to be hard at work in a few weeks.”

“Work?” He was taken aback.

Another slip of the tongue, but one she couldn’t cover easily. “I’m starting my own dressmaking business. I suppose you think that scandalous.”

He shook his head. “No. And that’s one reason I’m fairly certain I wasn’t born to the aristocracy. I don’t have their inbred aversion to commerce.”

“Enough about me. What do you do for recreation?”

“The usual. I typically ride in Hyde Park early in the morning before the see-and-be-seen set hits the Serpentine Path. Spend time at my club. I spar several times a week at Gentleman Jim’s. Keep up with social obligations.” He shrugged. “I enjoy the racing season.”

“You play cards?” she prompted.

“On occasion.”

“That all sounds rather frivolous. And you don’t impress me as a trivial person.”

He gave her a sharp look that said he wasn’t used to his façade being questioned. His astonishment was quickly replaced by a bland expression. “I am cognizant of the responsibilities of my title. A great number of livelihoods depend on the success of the Shermont estates. If Parliament is in session, I attend to my duties in the House.”

She sensed he was hiding something. “And do you find that fulfilling?”

Shermont glanced down at his now empty glass. Her question went directly to the heart of his issue with the title. He understood hobnobbing with the nobility was the only way to ferret out those who bad no problem betraying their country for Napoleon’s gold, the privileged few averse to doing an honest day’s labor. Scovell was certain the foreign agents reached into the highest level of the aristocracy.

If she had been any other female of his acquaintance, he would have brushed aside her question with a witty reply, dismissing good deeds. But, for whatever reason, he wanted her to think better of him.

“To my surprise, I found myself involved in the cause of compulsory education for all children,” he said. “Although we are years away from passing an act, the groundwork is laid. I think nationwide literacy will influence the future for the better, and I find that rewarding.”

“I think that’s admirable.”

Although he basked in her approving smile, he knew he should change the subject before he revealed too much. His goal was to get her to divulge her secrets, not vice versa.

“We are too serious for a discussion held in the moonlight.” He pulled the basket toward him and unpacked it. “One must have food on a picnic. Sandwich?” He held out a plate.

Eleanor was baffled by the sudden change. Yet her time with him was limited, and she wanted to get to the seduction part of the picnic that she’d expected and hoped was coming. She played along. “What kind of sandwich?”

Shermont opened one. “Some sort of pâté.”

Although the little triangle and circle shapes were attractive, she declined.

“Here we go. Biscuit?”

Eleanor took a cookie from the second plate and nibbled on the edge.

“And the pièce de résistance.” He removed two more objects from the basket with a flourish. From one bowl he chose a perfect strawberry, dipped it in the smaller dish of clotted cream, and held it out.

Her hands were full, so she opened her mouth to take a bite. Thankfully, she didn’t close her eyes. A big dollop of cream slipped off the strawberry. With a small cry of dismay, she dropped the cookie and caught the gooey blob in her palm before it landed on her clothes.

Shermont tried to prevent the messy accident by lunging forward. Halfway prone, his outstretched hand came up underneath hers.

That spark, no less intense because of its familiarity, leaped at first contact.

He gazed at her and after a heartbeat flashed a mischievous grin. He tipped her hand toward him and licked the cream from her palm, lapping with quick thrusts and then using the length of his tongue.

The touch of his mouth sent goose bumps up her arm. He followed with warm kisses from her wrist to her shoulder, stopping at that sensitive spot below her ear. Strange how shivers could heat her blood so quickly.

She tipped her head to allow him easier access. She melted and raised her arms to wrap them around his neck.

Suddenly he rolled away, thereby avoiding the stream of champagne she would have dumped inadvertently down his back.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, watching the wet stain spread on the blanket and scrambling backward to get out of its path. “I totally forgot I had the glass in my hand.”

“No harm done,” he said. In truth, he’d been saved only by a stroke of luck. His attention had been diverted by the sound of heavy footsteps nearby, as if the owner of the large feet had wanted to be heard approaching. Then he’d recognized that the nightingale he heard was actually warbling “La Marseillaise.” Napoleon might have banned the tune for its revolutionary associations, but it was still the French people’s unofficial anthem. Was it a signal for the foreign agents to meet nearby? Or was it a warning for Eleanor? “I think the possibility of interruption has passed.”

But the magical mood had been spoiled.

“We should get back to the others before we are missed,” he added.

“Just what I was going to say,” Eleanor lied.

She turned her back to him to slip into her dress, gather her accessories, and regain her composure. A few more hours and she would never see him again. Perhaps it was for the best that he’d turned cool toward her again. She could think the words, yet her heart still ached.

She turned and headed toward the entrance, but the broad leaves had closed ranks. She couldn’t see a way out. He grabbed her hand and spun her into his arms.

“I’m sorry we must leave,” he said.

“Me too.” Her words held a different meaning than his, but her regret was genuine. She forced herself to breathe through her mouth, hoping to forestall her tears.

“We will have another chance to be alone later,” he said, promise in his voice.

“Possibly.”

“We must make it happen.”

Eleanor nodded, unwilling to trust her voice.

He gave her a long, gentle kiss and then stepped away to push the leaves aside and clear the path back.

As they walked up the steps to the terrace, she spotted Jane Austen and her sister Cassandra wandering around the terrace, looking for something on the stone floor.

“Can we help you?” Eleanor asked.

Miss Jane looked up. “Oh. Are we intruding? I’m sorry. We’ll come back later.”

“No. What’s wrong? Did you lose something?”

She put her hand to her throat. “My necklace. An amber cross, similar to the one Cassandra is wearing. Our brother Frank is in the Navy, and he brought them from Spain. The chain on mine must have broken.” She looked around her feet. “I was wearing it when we came downstairs, but we’ve looked everywhere.”

It seemed a bit presumptuous for Eleanor to ask what Jane Austen would do when the very woman was standing in front of her. She knew Jane would take the honorable path even if it hurt, and in her heart Eleanor knew what was right. She took her necklace out of her reticule and held it out. “Is this yours?”

“You found it!” Jane picked up the amber cross reverently and held it to her breast with both hands. “How can I ever thank you?”

Eleanor felt a sharp spasm of loss, but that was quickly replaced by a glow of satisfaction. The necklace had been returned to where it belonged. “No thanks are necessary.” Giving joy to the woman who had provided her with so many hours of reading pleasure was enough.

But when the Austen sisters turned to reenter the ballroom, Eleanor could not let the opportunity slip past. “Please …”

Jane turned. “Yes?”

“May we speak privately?”

She nodded, and they walked ten paces away from the others.

“I just wanted to …” Eleanor paused. How could she tell Jane Austen how very much her novels meant to her without revealing she knew Jane was the author? “I wanted to recommend a book. My favorite. It’s titled Pride and Prejudice.”

The flash of wariness in Jane’s eyes was instantly masked behind feigned indifference. “Well, thank you. I will remember your suggestion. If you will—”

“I am compelled to tell you how much I enjoy reading the story. I find the characters so filled with life. Every time I read it, I fall in love with the hero Mr. Darcy all over again.” Eleanor knew she was speaking too fast and verging on babbling, but this was a golden opportunity that would never be repeated. “I want to have Elizabeth Bennet for a sister or at least for my best friend.”

“Ah, but if you were her friend, then you might wind up marrying Mr. Collins.” Jane smiled. “You see, I am … familiar with the work of which you speak.”

Eleanor let out a sigh. Jane hadn’t given her the cut direct, or worse, run in the opposite direction. “Aside from pure enjoyment, I really think the story helped me learn valuable lessons, or at least helped me cope when life gave me an education in relationships the hard way.”

“A book did that?”

“Elizabeth’s journey taught me I should listen to my brain and my heart and to neither exclusively. Love does not demand perfection because imperfections make each of us unique. Appearances can be false, and what is important comes from the inside.”

Jane chuckled. “That’s quite a lot for an unpretentious little volume about unimportant people.”

“A person does not have to be of great consequence to be influential.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Jane took a half step back as if she was about to close the conversation.

Eleanor wasn’t ready to let her go. “Where did you … where do you suppose the author got her ideas?”

Jane narrowed her eyes and gave her a long look that said she realized Eleanor knew who the author was, but didn’t understand how. Then her expression cleared as if she’d decided not to admit anything. Then the other woman could not be sure.

“I suppose this author is much like any other,” Jane said. “I once … heard an author describe writing as taking bits and pieces of her experiences and observations, then she questions, dissects, and analyzes them. She extrapolates from them, stretching the thought out. Then she adds from her imagination a big dose of what might have been, a good measure of what would never be, and spices it all with wishful thinking.”

“So … you don’t think an author must experience everything she writes about?”

“Absolutely not. Daniel Defoe was not shipwrecked on an island for years as was his character in Robinson Crusoe, although it is known he interviewed sailors who had been shipwrecked. Jonathan Swift, as he portrayed through Gulliver, did not actually find on his travels tiny Lilliputians, giants, immortals, or a Utopian society built by horses endowed with reason. Now that’s imagination.”

“Of course, you must be right,” Eleanor said. After all, logic dictated Tolkien couldn’t have visited Middle Earth, Mary Shelley hadn’t built a Frankenstein from body parts, and the Baroness Orczy hadn’t been an English spy during the French Revolution like her Scarlet Pimpernel. “Although I’m disappointed because that means there probably wasn’t a real Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley.”

“Live heroes have the distinct advantage of being able to … dance with you.” Jane glanced obliquely at Shermont, conversing with Cassandra at the other side of the terrace. “Perhaps you have found your own version of a male protagonist better than any novel could portray.”

Eleanor smiled sadly and shook her head. “He’s some lucky girl’s Mr. Darcy, but unfortunately not mine. I must return to my … home soon.”

“Then I wish you a good journey,” Jane Austen said. “And, if you will excuse a bit of advice from a stranger, life is short, and the opportunity of love rarely comes around a second time.”

Was she referring to the plot of a book? In Persuasion Anne Elliot was given a second chance at love with Frederick Wentworth eight years after turning him away. Or was she just referring to the fact that she thought Eleanor was a widow? Did it make a difference?

Was Persuasion a bit of wishful thinking on the author’s part or simply a big dose of what would never be? To ask her was not only impossible because the novel would not be published for another three years, but it would be an impertinent invasion of privacy she most likely would find abhorrent.

“Thank you for the advice,” Eleanor said. “I’ll remember our conversation.”

Forever.

Jane must have somehow signaled her sister because Cassandra excused herself and approached. “If you will excuse us, we should let Edward know we’ve found Jane’s necklace.”

“Of course,” Eleanor said politely, even though she would have liked to prolong the conversation.

After again thanking her, Jane and Cassandra left. Eleanor walked back to join Shermont.

“Do you want to explain what just happened?” he asked.

“Nope. You have to trust me. Everything is as it should be.”

“But you gave her your—”

“Trust me.”

The music ended and flushed dancers flooded the terrace, including Deirdre and Mina. They spotted Shermont and headed directly toward him, their partners in tow.

Shermont leaned over and whispered in Eleanor’s ear. “Meet me in the library in fifteen minutes.” Then he swung his long legs over the balustrade, pushed off with his hands, and landed on the shell path below with a crunch. He turned and gave her a deep courtly bow before disappearing into the darkness.

“Where’s Shermont?” Deirdre asked as they approached.

“He was right there a minute ago,” Mina said.

Eleanor simply smiled. Who could blame the guy for escaping after the mess the girls had nearly incited the night before? “I suppose he had an errand.”

“Let’s go for a walk in the garden,” one of the dancing partners eagerly suggested and offered his arm to Mina, who giggled her response as she placed her hand on his arm.

“It will be much cooler there,” the other youth said, and Deirdre laid her hand on his forearm.

“Ahem.” Eleanor cleared her throat, but neither girl took the hint. “Not without your chaperone.”

“We thought you were on our side,” Deirdre said.

“You’re supposed to be our friend,” Mina added.

“I am. That’s why I don’t want you to ruin your reputations before you get to London. I mean, I don’t want you to ruin your reputations at all. Propriety is important if you want to have a wonderful, successful Season. Do you want to ruin any possibility of that?”

“Then you come with us,” Mina said.

“No, thanks,” Eleanor answered. “Not only have I been told I do not qualify as a chaperone, I can’t think of anything I’d like less than the responsibility of keeping you two in check.” And keeping track of them was a near impossible task—something she knew from experience.

She took Deirdre by the shoulders and turned her toward the ballroom. “You know I’m right, so let’s go find your Aunt Patience.” Eleanor gave the girl a gentle push. She snagged Mina’s elbow and pulled her after her sister. “Come along.” Then she added, “How will new dancing partners find you if you’re outside? Did you think of that?”

Mina stopped struggling. The boys followed with sour faces, their amorous plans foiled.

They found Patience holding court with three older women. “And believe you me, I told him exactly what he could … oh, here are my darling nieces. Come sit by me. You know everyone, don’t you?”

But she made a point of introducing poor, unfortunate Eleanor to everyone. The boys excused themselves, leaving her standing alone in front of the others.

Two young men arrived to ask the girls to dance, and they jumped up eagerly. A third man showed up and offered his arm to Eleanor. She declined, explaining with real regret she didn’t know the steps. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself stumbling and bumbling through the complicated dance maneuvers.

“You’ll never find a new husband like that,” Patience said much too loudly.

Eleanor forced herself to nod politely. “If you will excuse me, my toothache has returned with a vengeance,” she lied. “I’m going upstairs to have a cup of willow bark tea and a bit of rest.”

“Put a dollop of rum in it, my dear,” one of the gray-haired women advised. “Quicker with liquor,” she added with a giggle.

“Brandy is better,” another said.

“Where are you getting brandy with a war on? Bourbon is best.”

Eleanor left, unnoticed by the women as their argument continued. She went to the library.

Shermont circled around the moon garden and joined Carl on the other side. They spoke in hushed tones as they walked around to the back of the mansion.

“What was so important that you had to throw a rock at me?” Shermont asked. A ping on the back of his neck had caused him to turn and catch sight of his valet, who motioned for him to follow.

“You didn’t respond when I whistled.”

“That was you?”

“Apparently you were so preoccupied, a rock to your head was the only way to get your attention.”

“Fine. What do you have?”

“You were wrong about Digby. While everyone else’s servants were running around readying fancy clothes for the ball, his valet was cleaning and pressing traveling clothes.”

“So I’m right, and he’s planning on leaving tonight,” Shermont said.

Carl shook his head. “His valet hinted at a trip to Gretna Green. That validates my theory that the oak tree was a trysting spot.”

Shermont avoided contradicting Carl for now. “The best time for him to leave would be just before supper is served—no, during the fireworks.”

“There’s going to be fireworks?”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise. I was out in the gardens this afternoon and saw them setting up the displays. I talked to one of the workers, and he said they were to start firing the rockets at eleven o’clock.”

“I love fireworks.”

“And they provide an excellent distraction.” Shermont shook his head. “I know I’m right about Digby.”

“Then let’s take him into custody.”

“Not yet. We can’t arrest a peer of the realm without solid evidence.”

“What about the female?”

“Not her either. I never tip my hand until all the cards are dealt and the bets are on the table.”

“So now what do we do?”

“We check his rooms for evidence.”

They entered by a back way and took a deserted servants’ stairway up. The lock on Digby’s door proved only a moment’s delay against Carl’s lock-picking acumen. Moonlight flooded through the windows, and Shermont used the night lantern on the hearth to light a candle.

“Nothing seems out of place,” Carl said. “Maybe he really is just going on a trip.”

“In secret.”

“Eloping to Gretna Green is not usually announced ahead of time.”

“Details,” Shermont reminded him. He pictured the way the room had looked several days earlier when he’d joined Digby for a drink before the card game started. The first objects that struck him as out of place were the works of art on the walls. “Those two paintings used to be in the hall.” He pulled out a chair that had been shoved back, and two empty frames fell forward. “The Gainsborough landscape and the Rubens unicorn have been cut out of their frames. Probably rolled up and packed into a small trunk.”

Carl threw up his hands. “How can you know the trunk size?”

“Because the large Reynolds over the fireplace would be of equal or even greater value, so there must be a reason it was left behind—hence, a small trunk.”

Carl could only shake his head.

Shermont went to the desk and flipped open a case that had been left out. “If a man leaves his jewel case accessible it means there is nothing of value left to steal.”

“Or he trusts his servants.”

He flicked though the items lying on the velvet lining before closing the lid. “Not in this instance.” He stared at the top of the desk. He remembered Digby fondling a letter opener with a diamond- and emerald-encrusted handle before placing it in a leather sleeve in the first drawer, using a tiny key on his watch fob to secure it. The drawer was no longer locked, and the leather sleeve was empty.

Shermont checked every drawer in the desk, examining for false bottoms or secret hidey-holes. Then he picked up the candle and carried it into Digby’s dressing room. Two large armoires flanked a cheval mirror. Both were still crammed full of clothes.

“Interesting.”

“What? It’s clothes. Oh, I know. He hasn’t taken his clothes, so that must mean—”

“But he did.”

“There’s so much. How could you—”

“If you were in charge of this wardrobe, wouldn’t you keep the number of clothes in each armoire relatively equal?”

“You don’t think the valet is in on—”

“Actually, no. Look here. Every hook has three or four items, except this one on the far left. And every shelf is crammed full, except for one. This tells me Digby planned carefully what he wanted to take and placed those items together. He could grab them and pack quickly without help. My guess, based on what appears missing, is two changes of clothes and four shirts.”

Shermont looked around the room. Luggage would have been stored in the attic until needed. If the valet wasn’t part of the plot … “Aha! The play! Digby had a servant fetch a portmanteau from the attic to use as a prop in the play, and then, none the wiser, it would be available for his trip. Clever.”

“Then let’s arrest him.”

“Unfortunately, this is all circumstantial. A man can’t be arrested for keeping plans for a trip secret or for stealing his own paintings.”

“So … now what?”

“We wait. Our one advantage is that he doesn’t know we’re onto him. We watch and wait for him to make a move that will convict him.”

“And hope we don’t lose him.”

“That will be your job. Find him and stick with him.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Look for evidence.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Carl said, turning back. “I heard from our contact in the Admiralty. They have no record of a Captain Pottinger in the United States Navy. He suggested Pottinger may have sailed under letters of marque.”

“A pirate?”

“A privateer. A private ship, outfitted at the owner’s cost, whose captain is authorized by President Madison to take our ships as spoils of war. Lucrative if they are successful. However, a number have disappeared without a trace under fire from British warships.”

That made sense. If Eleanor’s husband had invested everything in such a risky venture, she would have been left penniless when he failed.

“Thank you,” he said to Carl. “Since that line of inquiry has hit a dead end, let’s concentrate on Digby.”

Shermont scanned the room one last time before blowing out the candle and leaving Digby’s suite. There was still a missing piece to the puzzle. Minimal clothing, jewelry, and two rolled up paintings. Not enough to fill the luggage piece he remembered. What was Digby leaving space in the portmanteau for?

Eleanor paced the library, trying not to watch the clock. Not wanting to appear anxious, she sat on the settee, carefully arranging the skirt of her dress. She checked her breath and armpits. Should she be waiting in a seductive pose? She put up her feet and laid back, one arm over her head. But unless she scrunched up her legs, her head had to rest on the arm of the settee. After a few minutes, the position gave her a cramp in her neck. She tried a stance near the fireplace, but that felt pretentious. She wandered around the room.

What would Jane Austen do if she were waiting for a suitor to call? She would want to appear nonchalant, not indifferent, but not overly eager. Eleanor decided to sit on one of the wingback chairs, an open book on her lap. That way she could close it when he entered, a signal that he was more interesting than the book, but when he wasn’t there she was pleasantly occupied. Perfect.

After twenty minutes, her anticipation faded. She made excuses for his delay. He met an old friend and couldn’t break away. Maybe the countess cornered him and demanded a dance. After thirty minutes, she concluded he wasn’t coming.

Probably for the best. In a few hours she would be going home, and then her memories of him were all she would have. She blinked away tears. She set the book on the table and stood, then paced the room again to get hold of her emotions. Was he even worth her tears?

Although her heart said yes, she forced her brain to deny it. The man had stood her up—couldn’t even find a servant to bring her a message. He didn’t have to dance with the countess or spend time with an old friend. Shermont wouldn’t have if he’d really cared about her. She fanned her anger because it helped her cope.

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to wait any longer. Did he expect to find her an hour from now, welcoming him with open arms and grateful for his belated attention? Like hell he would. If she happened to see him in the ballroom, she would give him the cut direct. She stood and stomped to the door, but paused with her hand on the knob. There was still the matter of keeping track of him until midnight. Damn.

The girls or him.

She’d come to care about the girls and wanted them to have their wonderful Season untainted by their brother’s death in a duel. It wasn’t as if she thought all her recent actions had been in noble self-sacrifice. There had been plenty of selfish, lusty satisfaction. Well, she would find Shermont and stick by his side a little longer, but she would be strong and resist her physical attraction to him.

She left the library intending to find him, wait with him until midnight, and then meet the ghosts in her room for the trip home. Six steps outside the door, she stopped at the sound of Deirdre and Mina’s voices drifting from above.

“Aunt Patience said she went to lie down in her room,” Mina said. “Where can she be?”

“You’re the gypsy seer,” Deirdre said.

“I knew you were upset about that.”

“I am not.”

Eleanor certainly didn’t want to explain why she wasn’t in her room. She did an about-face to return to the library and nearly ran over a couple headed toward the same place. But she didn’t want to go back to the ballroom because that’s probably where the girls were headed, and she wanted a chance to find Shermont without them. She spun around and took off in the opposite direction, even though that took her to a hallway she’d never been down before. Her evening shoes with the soft leather soles made no noise on the thick carpet.

Yet the voices followed her. The hall dead-ended without an exit. She had to turn around and start back. She tested the first door on her right. When it opened, she ducked inside. And encountered a surprise.