Page 50 of A Delicate Deception
Amelia could not say she was surprised. Georgiana was spending increasingly long hours at Pelham Hall, and it had occurred to Amelia that they might be developing an attachment to one another. Perhaps not a romantic one, but an attachment nonetheless. “And what did you tell him?”
“That I had no interest in going to bed with anybody. He said that he doesn’t have any interest in going to bed with women and wouldn’t think to trouble me in that capacity, unless we agree to endure one another’s company in that regard in order to beget a child.”
“I assume he’s proposing a marriage of convenience?” Amelia asked carefully.
“Not exactly,” Georgiana said. “I don’t think I could love anyone, not in the way most people mean when they talk about love matches. But we’ve become friends. I’m really frightfully fond of him. He wants to stay in the country for the most part, which suits me fine.” She cast an arch look at Amelia. “And I’d make a very good duchess,” she added.
“You’d make the best duchess,” Amelia agreed.
Georgiana’s cheeks were pink, not with embarrassment, Amelia guessed, but with happiness. Georgiana had found somebody she wanted to spend her life with. Amelia firmly tamped down an ugly swell of jealousy, and kissed her friend on the cheek. “You look very tired, Georgiana. Try to rest.”
She waited until she no longer heard footsteps from Georgiana’s bedroom above, and then slipped out the door towards Stanton House.
Chapter Twenty-One
Amelia knew exactly where Stanton House was, of course. For over a year, she had carefully avoided going anywhere near it or any of the other large homes in the area. Getting there wasn’t the trouble. Making herself walk through the gate was where her mind kept snagging.
She had expected to find Stanton House closed up for the night. House party or no, it was past midnight. But carriages were lined up along the drive leading to the house’s portico, and every window on the ground floor was bright with flickering candlelight.
A carriage passed them, its wheels crunching loudly on the gravel lane. Nan growled.
“My sentiments exactly,” Amelia said. “They’re having a ball.” She counted the carriages. Where on earth had Lord and Lady Stafford even found ten families near enough to invite? And that wasn’t even counting whoever was staying at the house. She straightened her spine. She had not come all this distance to quake in fear at the prospect of crashing a ball.
She stepped towards the front door, then thought better of it. The servants’ entrance would be much more sensible. It was easy enough to find, with servants walking in and out, even at this hour. The door was propped open to let out some of the heat of the kitchens, so Amelia walked in.
“Excuse me,” she said, approaching a woman who looked like a lady’s maid. “An injured little girl was brought here earlier today. Her family sent for me to help nurse her, so would you please show me the way?” It wasn’t the truth, but Amelia had always been a good liar.
“Oh ma’am,” the maid said, getting to her feet. “I don’t even work here. Bess!” she called. “This lady says there’s a sick girl here?”
Bess cast a discerning eye over Amelia. Amelia followed the path of her gaze. By the light of the kitchen lamps, Amelia could see what she had not noticed outdoors in the dark: her skirts were muddy and covered up to the knee in nettles. Nan, not a prepossessing animal on the best of days, was in much the same condition as Amelia’s skirts. Amelia did not even want to consider the state of her hair. Bess pursed her lips. “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Powers,” she said, then disappeared down a corridor.
If this Mrs. Powers was the housekeeper, there was no chance of her appearing in the kitchen on the night of a ball. She would have work to do upstairs, and a lot of it. And no lower servant would give Amelia, in her current bedraggled state, permission to venture further into the house. So Amelia had a choice: she could sit and wait and trust that eventually someone would get around to showing her the way to Sydney and Leontine, she could sneak upstairs when the servants weren’t looking and prowl about until she found the way, or she could go to the front of the house, announce who she was, and demand to be helped.
Amelia sighed. “Come on, Nan. We have work to do.” They retraced their steps back to the front of the house, past the line of carriages, directly to the front door. The night was fine, so the door stood open. Through it wafted a familiar scent: floor polish, lemon oil, beeswax candles, several varieties of perfume and eau de cologne, a faint undertone of sweat. It was the smell of a ballroom. Something deep within her filled with that old dread. She rubbed her arms. No matter what happened, it would be over soon, and she would never have to do it again. She scooped Nan up in her arms, both because acting like the animal was one of those tiny dogs ladies carried everywhere was the only way she could think of for getting Nan into the house, and because holding the dog close was at least slightly soothing.
She sailed through the door as if disheveled and mud-covered women bearing filthy dogs routinely presented themselves at all the best parties. “Good evening,” she said to a man she assumed to be the butler. “I’m here to see the little girl who was injured earlier today.”
“Who shall I tell Lady Stafford has called?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Amelia said, using her most clipped and polished accent. “There’s no need to bother her in the middle of a ball. And as you see I met with some misadventures on my way. If you could whisk me away before one of your guests catches sight of me in this state, I’d be forever grateful.”
Amelia would never know what finally convinced the butler—whether it was the dread of being discovered in conversation with a woman who looked like one of Macbeth’s witches, or whether it was the prospect of rendering aid to a lady who might have deep pockets. But in any event, he ushered her to the servants’ stairs and through a series of corridors until halting before a closed door. He tapped on the door and opened it without waiting for a response, then gestured for Amelia to enter.
“I told you, we don’t need—” Sydney said, looking up from the bed where Leontine slept. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Amelia heard the door snick shut behind her. “You really are a bear when you’re anxious.” She put Nan down and stepped closer to the bed. “How is she?”
“She woke up an hour ago, asked about the pony, complained about her leg, and then went back to sleep. So her head is probably fine. I’ve already sent word to Lex. How the hell did you get here?” He looked at her dress. “Please tell me you didn’t walk three miles in the middle of the night.”
“All right. I flew. I tunneled beneath the hills.”
“Amelia—”
“I turned myself into bats and—”
“Sit down,” he growled. “Why are you here?”
Sitting in the chair beside his, Amelia cast him a doleful glance. “Oh, just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
