She looked magnificent, even if it was vain to think so herself. Madame Lalbert and her mother had outdone themselves. Her dress was white, with a tight, scoop-necked bodice and short, sheer sleeves. It was the embroidery that made it stunning, however. Intricate designs in the deepest, darkest red drew the eye to the neckline and echoed along the flowing skirts. She carried a thick shawl of the same blood-red and her elaborately curled hair featured a silk ribbon in the same hue.
She stared at herself in the mirror and recognized how the striking combination flattered her pale skin and dark hair, and how the cut of the dress emphasized all the best features of her figure. And still, she couldn’t help but wish for her old armor.
Oh, how she craved her old invisibility.
But it was not to be. Tonight would likely end in notoriety for her—but only for her, if she could possibly manage it.
Everything depended on her ability to bluff Miss Paxton.
“Hart has sent word that he will meet us at my sister’s.” The countess was moving through the passageway when Emily emerged. She stopped. “Oh, my dear, you are stunning.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Hart’s mother looked her over. “Your first ball, is it not? Nerves are expected,” she soothed.
Emily was sick with fury, anxiety, and impending loss, but she couldn’t say that. She nodded, instead.
“My dear.” The countess gave her hand a kind squeeze. “Will you allow me the chance to thank you? I was unsure about this scheme of Hart’s at the beginning—but you have done him good. He appears relaxed . . . even happy . . . for the first time since we lost his brother.”
Emily breathed deeply. At least she’d accomplished that. She nodded again. “I’m so glad.”
The countess let her go and began to pull on her gloves. “Good. Now, let us go forth and conquer.”
She almost laughed. Oh, how she fervently hoped it would be so.
* * *
Young James was in the receiving line and he gallantly requested the first dance with her. Emily was touched and happy to give it. They’d arrived late enough that she didn’t have to wait long before they took their places. The young man looked as nervous as she felt, but he successfully navigated the steps and appeared as proud as punch when it ended. And again, Emily felt nearly as proud—here was another good thing she had accomplished. If only her time here was not so quickly ending.
But the end did arrive moments later, with a grimly smiling Miss Paxton. “Won’t you take a turn with me, Miss Latham?”
She dragged Emily into an alcove. “Marc—I mean, my men say you’ve done well so far, following instructions,” she began. “I’m glad to know that you are taking this seriously. Just do as I say now and you will emerge from this unscathed and free.”
“While you trick Hart into marrying you?” Emily returned with scorn. “I don’t think I will make it so easy for you.”
Miss Paxton flushed with fast-rising anger. “It’s not as if you have much choice.”
“I do have a choice.” She raised her brow. “Do you even pay attention to the world you live in? Expose us if you will,” she challenged. “Hartford is a man. Yes, his actions will be frowned upon. Some members of the ton will be scandalized. Others will rather admire him. Either way, it will be a three-week-wonder. Something else will come along to capture Society’s attention and because he is a man, Hartford’s reputation will recover. By next Season—maybe even by the end of this one—those shocked girls will be vying for his attention again.
The girl looked livid at being challenged. “Your reputation won’t survive.”
Emily laughed. “I don’t care. I never meant to stay amongst these people to begin with.”
Miss Paxton snarled. “Perhaps you won’t be so blasé about your family’s welfare. I will have you and your mother arrested.”
“For what? Making a fool of you?”
“For presenting yourself with a false name!”
“My mother has nothing to do with any of this. And unless Miss Emmaline Latham decides to leave her new husband and sail across the Atlantic to press charges, I’m afraid the courts will merely laugh at you. Until the earl and his mother testify for me, that is.” She gave the girl a look of pity. “You’ve played your hand and lost. Now do leave us alone.”
Emily made to leave, but Miss Paxton reached out and grabbed her. Her color was turning truly alarmingly red as she grew even more furious. “Not so fast,” she snarled. “You’ve forgotten your friend, the modiste. I’ll see her ruined, and her shop taken from her.”
Now that was a threat that could more easily be accomplished. A few rumors or insinuations and London’s gossip-susceptible ladies would decide not to frequent Madame Lalbert at all.
“And you’ve forgotten the fact that no one in Society has yet figured out your family’s dangerous financial situation.”
Miss Paxton released her. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I know what the milliners and the glovers and the coal men and all of the rest of the tradesmen are talking about—the mountain of your family’s unpaid bills.”
“Tradesmen’s gossip? No one would bat an eye. You could say the same about any Society family.” She laughed. “So, we are at an impasse. But still, I will win, while you and Hartford and your seamstress friend go up in flames. Come,” she gestured. “Shall we go and start a scandal?”
Emily hesitated, but she saw the ugly resolution in the girl’s eyes. “Any Society family, you think?” she asked slowly. “How many of those debutantes out there are wearing paste jewels? Only you, I’d wager. But we could ask and take a count.”
That shook the evil chit. She turned. “How could you—?” Her eyes narrowed and Emily could nearly see the wheels spinning in her brain. “It was you,” she said wonderingly. “How did I miss it? You are that upstart, dirty, little thief!”
“Go on and tell that one, too,” Emily invited. “And I’ll tell them all about Marcus Lionel Holt—and his babe that you carry.” She shook her head. “No, I am afraid you will have to settle for taking the father of your child to wed, and leave Hart alone.”
Miss Paxton had begun to look wild. “Marcus has no money!” she hissed.
“And yet,” Emily shrugged.
“No. I will not be beaten by the likes of you! Listen to me! You will go and have a footman tell Lord Hartford to meet you in the garden. There is a bank of flowering Hawthorne beyond the fountain. He will meet you—me—there.”
“No.”
Abruptly, all of the girl’s florid color faded away. And suddenly, the grim look of despair and determination on her face frightened Emily more than all of her angry bluster.
“This is all your fault,” Miss Paxton whispered. “All of it. You’ve left me no choice.” She sucked in a long breath. “Now I will remind you of how similar in looks and coloring Marcus and Hartford are. And I will tell you that if you do not do as I say, I will march out to the middle of that dance floor and tell my tale of woe to everyone here. How Hartford found me alone in the park and seduced—No! He brutally forced himself upon me. How I fought, but he laughed and overpowered me and left me without a glance.” Her lip curled. “Let his reputation recover from that! Either way, by the slight embarrassment of being caught in a tryst, or by being labeled a depraved abuser—he will pledge himself to marry me tonight.”
Aghast, Emily backed away. “You would tell such vile lies about an innocent man—and then force him to claim your child?”
“Without a second’s hesitation.”
The world tilted and Emily watched her slim chance at happiness sliding away from her. A ringing started up in her ears, but she ignored it. She had to think. She would not lose everything in vain.
“No.”
Resolute, she brushed past the wicked girl.
“What are you doing?”
“You are right. It is all my fault. And so I shall tell them all. The whole sordid story, beginning at the night I blackmailed you for a paste earring. I accept the blame for everything.” She glared at the girl. “And I will also take a page from your book, Miss Paxton and exercise my imagination. I will tell the same sort of ugly lies about you that you mean to visit upon Hart. Except mine will have a foot in the truth. How you got yourself an entire wardrobe when you cheated a dozen modistes by disparaging their finished work, claiming it was unsatisfactory, and then wearing it anyway. How you cuckolded Lord Ardman. Mr. Holt is here tonight, is he not? His reaction will only help sell the story. I’ll tell how you got yourself with child and when Lord Ardman’s absence made it impossible to trick him, you masterminded a plot with me to trap Hart into paying the price. It will come down to my word versus yours—and you are the one carrying a fatherless child. I’m sure I can come up with a few more sordid details as I go, too. I shall see how the muse moves me.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
Emily laughed. “Oh, I would dare. I may be ruined, but I am taking you down with me.”
“No!”
“Yes.” On wooden feet she left the girl behind and headed for the ballroom.
* * *
Hart moved quickly through his aunt’s house, looking for Emily. He knew she was here somewhere and he feared Miss Paxton had cornered her in some out of the way spot and was making her miserable. He searched everywhere, then headed back to the ball room.
From the top of the short stairs he could see almost everything. A country-dance set had started to form—and there. Emily moved down the center, between the two lines.
“Excuse me!” He pushed his way down the stairs, past the stream of guests flowing in and out. “Excuse me!”
He lost her when he reached the bottom, but threaded through the crowd toward the dance floor.
“Excuse me!” It was her voice this time, echoing his words. He heard her as he drew closer, but couldn’t see her yet. “I’m very sorry to interrupt the pleasantries,” she said loudly. “But I’m afraid I have something to confess!”
Hart abandoned politeness and began to shoulder his way through. He could judge his progress by gasps and protests and exclamations.
Not fast enough.
“I’m afraid I must offer my apologies to you all!” She was still talking over people. “I’m afraid I’ve lied to you. You see, my name is not Emmaline Latham.”
Quiet settled around her and Hart broke through the crowd. Too late.
Confused murmurs and questions spread around them. He moved toward her, holding up a hand. “There is no need, my love.”
Tears welled, making her grey eyes shine. “There is, I’m afraid. You don’t know, Hart, the evil intent she carries.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he began.
“It does. The things she means to say . . .” She shook her head.
“It’s all over already, my darling. Her maid knows all of the truth. Molly convinced her to throw her lot in with us. I’ve spoken with the girl. She’s safely ensconced at Herrington House.”
A small, strangled sound made him look up into the ring around them, where Miss Paxton’s wide eyes conveyed her panic. He took pleasure in continuing. “She’s already told her story to the lady’s father. And to the magistrate.”
The young lady sobbed, then whirled and fled. Hart ignored her and turned to Emily, who, though still paler than he’d seen her, showed signs of fledgling hope.
“Truly?” she whispered.
The crowd muttered in confusion.
She looked around. “It’s too late, Hart. I have to tell them who I am. I will deal with the consequences, and then, maybe—”
“What is all of this?” someone demanded.
“I don’t know who the chit was supposed to be in the first place,” someone else complained.
“What’s kind of theatrics are these?” a woman asked.
“Tell us what you mean to say!”
Hart turned to address them, but stilled as the elderly Duke of Danby stepped forward to enter the open circle around them.
“Perhaps my great niece will allow me to explain.”