Portia Da Costa (32 page)

28

The Belle of the Ball

Three quarters of an hour later, they stood at the top of the steps, looking down on the ballroom at Spencerleigh House, waiting to be announced. Adela reached out and straightened Wilson’s white tie, even though it didn’t need it, her nerves jangling. Wilson in turn nudged the Ruffington diamonds until they were set just so around her throat. She could almost see him calculating the fine measurements so the magnificent drop lay exactly centered. His eyes flicked to her hair, and she turned to show him the disposition of the new clips, too, their elegant glitter holding thick brown tresses away from her face.

“You look like a goddess, Della. Quite stunning. I hope Sybil doesn’t take umbrage with you for outshining her on her big night.”

“Oh, don’t worry, she’ll probably think my dress is peculiar and my choice of coiffure downright bizarre for a married woman. And Mama will have a fit of the vapors and accuse me of turning up looking like something out of the circus.” Adela laid her hand on Wilson’s immaculately tailored arm. “But they’ll both be delighted with you.” She brushed away an imaginary speck of lint. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you look so sartorial.”

It was true, Wilson looked breathtaking, and apart from his wedding suit, was dressed in probably the most conventional attire she’d ever seen him wear. Tails, white tie, white gloves, the perfect gentleman. Only his slightly unruly hair, which refused to be tamed, remained defiantly Wilson.

“I feel as if I’m being throttled.” He ran a gloved finger round the edge of his collar. “I wish I was wearing my dressing gown and a comfortable shirt. Perhaps I should have retained my tweeds?” He gave her a sly, sideways glance. “We both should have, sublime as you look in that dress.”

“Don’t be absurd, Wilson. People are staring enough already.”

It was true. As they waited behind several other pairs to be announced, curious eyes were scanning them. Adela’s loosely flowing gown with its lightly defined waist was drawing disapproving—or maybe envious—stares from women laced into the tightest corsets. What discomfort they were enduring for fashion. Adela drew in a deep breath, enjoying the simple ability to do so, and lifted her head proudly. Even if they didn’t care for her choice in modes, they were certainly covetous to a woman of her legendary diamonds...and her beautiful man.

At that moment, a gap opened before them. They stepped to the top of the staircase. It was their turn to be announced. Even more curious sets of eyes were turning in their direction from the dance floor below. Music played on, something bright and cheerful, but in her state of nerves Adela heard only an ominous silence.

“Mr. and Mrs. Wilson Ruffington,” rang out in the master of ceremonies’ sonorous tones.

There seemed to be an empty space in Adela’s stomach. She’d never been so anxious—even when she and Wilson had been breaking the law and burgling Blair Devine’s house—and she didn’t know why she was. She didn’t care what people thought of her. She cared only what Wilson thought. But conventional as it seemed, she wanted to be a credit to him, to be seen as much a jewel on his arm as the diamonds were around her throat. She wanted to be the belle of the ball, and as much a desirable and admired woman as Coraline would have been at such an event.

It was like being frozen in a block of ice, a block of time.

Then she turned to Wilson and his smile was like the sun, thawing her fear and warming her heart. He tucked her hand under his arm and put his own palm firmly over it, the sensation of his sure hold on her shoring her up and making her soar.

“Shall we?” he said softly, but then, just before the first step, he leaned in close, his lips right against her ear, and whispered, “You do know that I love you, don’t you?”

The top step seemed to shudder under Adela’s feet, but Wilson held her steady and she seemed to float down the grand staircase, almost oblivious now to the fellow guests who might be watching their descent. To her there were no other people in the grand room, nothing but the pounding in her heart and joy bubbling up like vintage champagne, making her giddy.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, she turned and said to him, under her breath, “Wilson, you really do pick your moments, don’t you? I could have gone arse over tip down the staircase! Making an announcement like that when I was teetering at the top...”

“I’m sorry, my darling.” He was grinning and unrepentant. “But I thought it bore mentioning at that juncture.” He patted her arm and urged her into motion. “I thought a declaration of my feelings might boost your confidence. I know I’m not the most romantic of men as a rule, but I’ve deduced that women always feel more assured when they receive pretty compliments and protestations of affection.”

Weaving through the throng, nodding to acquaintances as they went, Adela was in a state of shock. She’d hoped... She’d sensed... But hopes and inklings weren’t the same as confirmation. She grinned brilliantly at a rather disapproving dowager as they passed, and was rewarded by a sudden softening in the other woman’s demeanor, as if the power of such obvious happiness had touched her.

The Spencerleighs were in possession of a tremendously imposing mansion, and the ballroom was vast. Adela and Wilson’s progress was slow, as many people stopped them to exchange courtesies. Her husband was a highly regarded man in political, academic and even business circles, for his brilliance, but titled ladies and fashionable women who normally wouldn’t have wanted to pass the time of day with Adela were suddenly amenable and gracious.

“My dear, how lovely to see you. How well you’re looking,” gushed a politician’s wife who Adela couldn’t remember for the life of her ever speaking to before.

“Do let me congratulate you on your marriage. You’re so lucky. Your husband clearly dotes on you,” murmured a noted Professional Beauty, rumored to be a conquest of the Prince of Wales himself. “Do come to tea one day next week. I would so love to chat.”

A footman proffered champagne, and despite her interior effervescence, Adela accepted a glass gratefully. Drawing her to one side, Wilson clinked his glass to hers.

“To us, Della. Partners in crime...and partners in life.” He gave a little shrug, a hopeful little gesture, as if he were momentarily unsure of himself. “Look...don’t trouble your mind if you can’t fully reciprocate my sentiment. I believe if you can simply like me a little...well, sufficiently to put up with me for at least a portion of each day, we have the basis for a viable and quite pleasurable marriage.” He paused, something almost imploring in his eyes. “At least for a while.”

What did he mean, “for a while”? Did he love her or didn’t he? Surely if he did, the pleasurable marriage should last indefinitely? She opened her mouth to question him, then heard her own name called out, in Mama’s familiar tones.

“Adela! Wilson! You’re here at last. Where have you been?”

Her head filled with her own questions, Adela spun round to find Mama and Marguerite bearing down on them. A shudder of distaste rippled through her at the sight of Blair Devine, so smug and smooth, in their wake.

“Sorry, Mama, something cropped up at the very last moment. We came as soon as we were able.”

As she hugged her mother, she caught sight of Marguerite smiling. Their parent, however, remained blissfully in ignorance of the true nature of their tardiness, and as Adela stepped back, Mama rounded on her. “Oh, Della, what are you thinking of? What will the marquess and marchioness think of you, turning up in a tea gown? And with your hair all awry?”

Wilson stepped forward, took his mother-in-law’s offered hand and dusted a chivalric kiss on her gloved fingertips.

“Look at Wilson...even he’s made an effort,” Mama ranted. “Dressed the perfect gentleman, while you look like a gypsy.”

“Please don’t scold Adela, Mrs. Ruffington,” Wilson said as he gave Marguerite a brotherly kiss on the cheek. “I approved her gown and I think she looks exceptionally fine in it. She has superb taste and her choice in all things is both elegant and modern.”

“If you say so, Wilson, if you say so.” Mama didn’t seem convinced, even though she obviously had a soft spot for her son-in-law now that was what he was. All ideas of removing him as the Old Curmudgeon’s heir seemed never to have existed, and cousin Wilson was the apple of Mama’s eye now.

But he’s not my cousin. Not really.

It was all so perplexing. But now wasn’t the time to ruminate on the repercussions of what they’d discovered. Especially as Blair Devine was pushing forward and grinning unctuously. As he opened his mouth to speak, Adela wanted to punch him right in it.

“Mrs. Ruffington, may I say how beautiful you look this evening.” He aped Wilson’s graceful gesture, raising her gloved hand to his lips. Adela had to exert supreme control in order not to cringe. Especially when his eyes roved to her throat and cleavage. “The famous diamonds look most becoming on you. You should wear them on every possible occasion.”

Beast! She wondered precisely what Wilson had said to him when they’d faced off against each other. Did he realize that she knew everything her husband did? Or was he just aiming his barbed remarks at Wilson?

Those dear, blue eyes were like chips of ice and narrowed as they fixed on the smooth solicitor. Adela could almost imagine psychic daggers emanating from them and hurtling toward their foe.

“Thank you, Mr. Devine. That’s just what I plan to do.” She looked at Blair Devine levelly, aware of Wilson having moved up right beside her, and placing his hand on the small of her back in a protective gesture. “Until such time as I have a daughter, or a daughter-in-law, to whom I can give them as a betrothal gift.” There may well not be a child if she and Wilson were to be together for only a short while, but that horrid wretch Devine wasn’t to know that, was he? She felt Wilson’s fingers curve against her spine as if in approval of her bravado.

“Yes, indeed,” her husband said, giving her a fiery, slanted smile. “The Ruffington diamonds will be a treasured heirloom. It seems only right and fitting that they should always be passed down to beautiful Ruffington brides.” He paused, and Adela noted the slight tension in his lips. Like a quirk of challenge or triumph, as if he’d taken off one of his immaculate white gloves and smacked Blair Devine across the cheek with it. “Always,” he finished, with a vaguely pugnacious emphasis.

Devine’s face was a picture. He looked flummoxed. Unsure. Perplexed. There’d been no mistaking the timbre of Wilson’s voice. The intent and the message. Blair Devine knew something was awry now, but not exactly what. It was like watching him twisting in the wind, desperate for an explanation but unable to ask, because he couldn’t reveal himself.

“Um...yes, of course,” Devine said, frowning. His face was flushed, and he appeared slightly angry, as well as puzzled. “Might we have a word, Ruffington?” He touched Wilson on the arm, as if to urge him away from the group.

“I’m afraid not,” Wilson responded, cool and imperious. “My dear wife and I are just about to go across and congratulate the guests of honor at this happy occasion. Come along, Della, time to wish Sybil and Algernon all the best.” Tucking Adela’s hand under his arm yet again, he drew her along, sure and unstoppable, nodding briefly to her mother as they went.

“Oh, dear, he doesn’t look very happy, Wilson, does he?”

Wilson squeezed his hand over hers where it rested on his forearm. “Don’t you worry, my love. Let him stew. He’ll be a lot less happy when I acquaint him with what might happen when certain parties take delivery of their stolen papers, and how they might exact retribution if word should come to their ears about just how those papers came to be missing.”

“But
we
broke into
his
house,” Adela pointed out in the softest voice.

Wilson winked at her, and replied, equally sotto voce, “And we got away, remember. There’s no proof we were ever there, and don’t forget, there are those in high places willing to allow me a very great deal of latitude, even if we were suspected.” He leaned across and pecked her quickly on the cheek. “Now let’s put Sybil out of her state of anxiousness so she can enjoy the rest of her party free of worries.”

“Oh, yes, let’s!” Adela looked toward her sister, standing receiving guests, with Algernon alongside her. Sybil looked dazzlingly pretty and adorable, and Algie was positively splendid in evening dress, but to the careful observer they both bore signs of strain and tension, in their eyes and in their stance.

“Darling, what a wonderful affair this is.” Adela embraced her sibling. It
was
a splendid affair. The mansion house was breathtakingly decorated and filled with examples of fine art. What young woman wouldn’t be thrilled beyond measure to know that one day she would be its mistress, with a doting husband at her side? Well, most young women, corrected Adela instantly. It was too ornate a place for her. She preferred her new home in Chelsea, and even Ruffington Hall was less palatial, suiting her better...but only if there was the prospect of sharing both residences indefinitely with the tall lean figure at her side.

“You look very beautiful, Sybil. Pretty as a picture,” opined said tall figure, greeting his sister-in-law, kissing her cheek before shaking hands with Algie. “Evening, Framley.”

There seemed to be a little lull around them, and Sybil grabbed Adela’s hand. “Any news? You said you might be able to, um, do something,” she said, her sparkling smile slipping completely and revealing her anxiety.

Adela touched her sister’s cheek gently, smiling in reassurance. “I’ve got a gift for you, Sybil.” She unfastened the clip of her little evening bag, and drew out a familiar ribbon, holding up its length before pressing it into Sybil’s palm. For a second she exchanged sideways glances with Wilson, and saw a grin on his face. A job well done.

“Oh, Della...Della...” Sybil’s pretty mouth opened and shut, much like a pet goldfish, for a moment. “And...and the other things?”

“I’m afraid they accidentally fell into the fire, Syb.”

For a moment, the intimation of a pout appeared on Sybil’s lips, but then she pursed them, squared her shoulders and seemed to straighten up in a way Adela had never seen before. Her little sister was an adult at last.