Page 12 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
“If you’re worrying about the risk,” Drew said, “do not. This might be dangerous for you, yes. From what we’ve discovered so far, Snowden does not take kindly to being crossed. But I agree that you’re not making a target out of Lady Charmain. She is not involved, except that she is doing a favor for a friend.”
“Making a target out of me is precisely the point,” Snowy commented. Snowden had repeatedly used his position, first as heir to a viscount and more recently as viscount, to avoid investigation, and had smoothly talked his way out of prosecution when he was implicated in a crime. As he had been last year, of conspiracy to kidnap.
There had never been any direct evidence. Even the fate of Snowy’s mother, poor lady, had brought him commiseration for his tragic loss rather than suspicion.
The valet returned to make yet another attempt at achieving perfection, and the discussion ended. This time, Snowy managed to remain perfectly still except when moving precisely as directed by the valet. He could not, himself, detect any difference between the creation the valet approved and the earlier ones he’d rejected. Perhaps the man was merely making a point about how capable he was.
The precise placement of a cravat pin took several more minutes fussing, and then at last Snowy was permitted to put his arms into his waistcoat. The coat came next. No wonder nobleman strutted and strolled. They could do nothing else in coats that stretched so tightly across their shoulders.
“You may inspect yourself in the mirror, sir,” the valet commanded.
Snowy did as he was told. He certainly looked the part—elegant and frivolous.
Some of his thoughts must have been showing on his face, because Drew said, “It serves its purpose, Snowy. Even for those of us who want more out of life than the next ball or carriage race and our quarterly allowance. It will serveyourpurpose. Who is going to look at you and doubt you were born in the purple?”
Gary grinned. “Certainly not Snowden, one hopes.”
Chapter Five
Margaret was moreexcited about the ball than any in the past three seasons. Mr. White had asked her to select the event for the greatest possible impact. He wanted his first appearance in Society to be notable. He wanted the Snowdens, father and son, to be present, although he would prefer not to be introduced to them just yet.
They had settled on the Duchess of Winshire’s annual ball for those of her goddaughters who were making their debut this Season. It was one of the highlights of the social calendar. Everybody who received one of the highly-prized invitations would attend if humanly possible, even, possibly, the Prince Regent.
Mr. Snowden had already told Regina how thrilled he was to be honored with an invitation. Mr. White had only commented that he had only ever been to public assemblies, such as those at Vauxhall Gardens. “Unless you count Cyprian Balls,” he added, watching her closely for a reaction.
She refused to dignify that remark with an answer and managed to hide her amusement at his teasing.
For both men, it would be their first Winshire Debut Ball. They would certainly find it memorable.
Aunt Aurelia had refused to attend the ball. She disapproved of Margaret allowing Mr. White to be her escort and had said so loudly and repeatedly. She had been suddenly smitten with what she said was a cold when she discovered Margaret would not be moved.
Perhaps Aunt Aurelia might have made the effort if she realized how much more Margaret expected to enjoy the evening with her maid to lend propriety rather than her carping great aunt.
Margaret was going in a new gown. It was a crisp apricot silk that shimmered in the light, the bodice and puffed short sleeves decorated with leaf shapes in autumn colors of red, yellow, orange and brown, with a knee-high band of such leaves around the base of the skirt, spaced apart at the top and increasing to a thick cluster at the hem. Each leaf had been individually edged, stiffened and sewn in place down the center with a stem of clear glass beads that sparkled in the candle light.
Her maid had tonged and pinned her hair into a cascade of curls then added more of the leaves with their glimmering beads.
The jewelry she wore had a floral theme—six diamonds in a silver setting forming the petals of a daisy or a forget-me-not, with a seventh in the center. Each earring was a single forget-me-not, and the necklace was a string of them, curving neatly around the base of her neck, with a teardrop diamond descending from the middle three flowers.
Long white gloves, apricot-colored dancing shoes, and her ensemble was complete. She was pleased with her reflection in her mirror. What would Mr. White think?
He was already in the drawing room and rose as she entered, his eyes widening. For a moment, before he collected himself, there was hunger in his gaze. And then it was gone, so quickly she wondered if she had imagined it.
“Lady Charmain, I shall be the most envied man at the ball,” he said. “You look amazing.”
Which was very gratifying, but did he mean it? And why should she care whether he did or not? She did not even like the man. She was merely repaying a favor.
They delayed their arrival, timing it so the reception line would still be there but most of the guests would have arrived. Still, they stood for some time in the queue. Margaret’s escort garnered a lot of stares and comments whispered too low for Margaret to hear but, since they did not happen to be standing near any of Margaret’s acquaintances, no one demanded to meet Mr. White or to be told who he was.
Those around her and Mr. White were all too busy shouting greetings and comments on the weather, the event, and one another’s clothes. The noise was incredible.
Her escort was easily the best-looking man in the queue. She found him compelling in his usual day attire. In evening costume, he was stunning. He seemed content to look around him, which Margaret appreciated, since any conversation would have to be conducted in a yell to be heard, or with their heads so close together they’d have no option but to call the banns.
The noisy crowd made its way fairly quickly up the stairs, and Margaret and Mr. White were soon showing their invitations to a pair of footmen who stood guard over the doors through which those ahead of them in the queue had been admitted.
One footman opened the doors, and the other announced them in a loud voice. “Lady Charmain. Mr. White.”
They stepped forward into a large room, where dozens of people interrupted their conversations and turned to look at them. All of Her Grace’s debuting goddaughters and their parents or other sponsors lined up with the duke and the duchess, which meant a lot of introductions and exchanges of the courtesies.
