Devil in Spring
Page 58

Pandora looked dully at the red wax seal on the envelope, stamped with an elaborate family crest. If Gabriel had written something nice to her, she didn’t want to read it. If he’d written something not nice, she didn’t want to read that either.
“By the holy poker,” Ida exclaimed, “just open it!”
Reluctantly Pandora complied. As she pulled a small folded note from the envelope, a tiny, fuzzy object fell out. Reflexively she yelped, thinking it was an insect. But at second glance, she realized it was a bit of fabric. Picking it up gingerly, she saw that it was one of the decorative felt leaves from her missing Berlin wool slipper. It had been carefully snipped off.
My lady,
Your slipper is being held for ransom. If you ever want to see it again, come alone to the formal drawing room. For every hour you delay, an additional embellishment will be removed.
—St. Vincent
Now Pandora was exasperated. Why was he doing this? Was he trying to draw her into another argument?
“What does it say?” Ida asked.
“I have to go downstairs for a hostage negotiation,” Pandora said shortly. “Would you help put me to rights?”
“Yes, milady.”
The lavender silk dress had been crushed and crumpled into a mass of wrinkles, which obliged Pandora to change into a fresh day gown of plain-woven yellow faille. This frock wasn’t as fine as the first one, but it was lighter and more comfortable, without so many underskirts. Fortunately her elaborate hairstyle had been so well anchored and pinned that it needed minimal repair.
“Will you take out the pearl pins?” Pandora asked. “They’re too nice for this dress.”
“But they look pretty,” Ida protested.
“I don’t want to look pretty.”
“What if his lordship proposes?”
“He won’t. I’ve already made it clear that if he did, I wouldn’t accept.”
Ida looked aghast. “You . . . but . . . why?”
It was over the line, of course, for a lady’s maid to ask such a thing, but Pandora answered nonetheless. “Because then I’d have to be someone’s wife instead of having my own board game company.”
A hairbrush dropped from Ida’s lax fingers. Her eyes were like saucers as she met Pandora’s gaze in the vanity mirror. “You’re refusing to marry the heir to the Duke of Kingston because you’d rather work?”
“I like work,” Pandora said curtly.
“Only because you don’t have to do it all the time!” A thunderous expression contorted Ida’s round face. “Of all the ninny-pated things I’ve heard you say, that is the worst thing ever. You’ve gone off your nob. To refuse a man such as that—what can you be thinking? A man almost too beautiful to live . . . a young, strapping man in the full vigor of his years, mind you . . . and on top of that, he’s rich as the Royal Mint. Only a donkey-headed halfwit would turn him away!”
“I’m not listening to you,” Pandora said.
“Of course you’re not, because I’m making sense!” Heaving a tremulous sigh, Ida bit her lip. “Blest me if I’ll ever understand you, milady.”
The outburst from her overbearing lady’s maid did little to improve Pandora’s mood. She went downstairs, feeling like she had a brick in her stomach. If only she’d never met Gabriel, she wouldn’t have to face this right now. If only she hadn’t agreed to help Dolly, and managed to trap herself in a settee. If only Dolly hadn’t lost her earring in the first place. If only she’d never gone to the ball. If only, if only . . .
As Pandora reached the formal drawing room, she heard piano music through the closed doors. Was it Gabriel? Did he play the piano? Perplexed, she opened one of the doors and went inside.
The drawing room was handsome and spacious, with intricate parquetry wood floors, wainscoted walls painted a creamy shade of white, and abundant windows draped with soft folds of pale, semi-transparent silk. The carpets had been rolled back to the side of the room.
Gabriel stood at a mahogany grand piano in the corner, riffling through sheet music, while his sister Phoebe sat on a bench in front of the keyboard. “Try this one,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. He turned at the sound of the door closing, his gaze meeting with Pandora’s.
“What are you doing?” Pandora asked. She approached him in cautious steps, tense as a horse ready to bolt. “Why did you send for me? And why is Lady Clare here?”
“I asked Phoebe to help us,” Gabriel said pleasantly, “and she kindly agreed.”
“I was coerced,” Phoebe corrected.
Pandora shook her head in confusion. “Help us to do what?”
Gabriel came to her, his shoulders blocking them from his sister’s view. His voice lowered. “I want you to waltz with me.”
Pandora felt her face go bleach-white with hurt, then red with shame, then white again, like the alternating stripes on a barber’s pole. She would never have imagined him capable of such vicious mockery. “You know I can’t waltz,” she managed to say. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Just try it with me,” he coaxed. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I believe there are ways I can make waltzing easier for you.”
“No, there aren’t,” Pandora retorted in a scalding whisper. “Did you tell your sister about my problem?”
“Only that you have difficulty dancing. I didn’t tell her why.”
“Oh, thank you, now she thinks I’m clumsy.”