Liliana groaned.
Pen held a gown away from herself and eyed Liliana as though she were one of the paper dolls they’d played with as young girls, waiting to be dressed and accessorized at Penelope’s whim. “Pastels just don’t do you justice. A deep blue or a lovely aubergine would suit your darker coloring so much better.” Penelope tsked, her blond curls bouncing as she shook her head. “However, as delicate colors are all the rage this season, at least the lavender will bring out the violet in your eyes.”
Liliana waited until the maids moved out of earshot. “I have no desire to be all the rage. I leave that to you. I just want to appear as if I’m here to catch an earl, like everyone else. I’m counting on the machinations of the other women to keep Lord Stratford adequately distracted, leaving me free to investigate.”
Penelope laid the ensemble out upon the counterpane and turned to Liliana. “And I will do my part, as I promised, out of love for you—even though I’m not entirely convinced the Wentworths are complicit in Uncle Charles’ death.”
“It’s the most reasonable explanation, Pen. It was a letter from someone in this family that lured him to his death. It had to have been a Wentworth who betrayed him.” Liliana swallowed her frustration. She couldn’t blame Penelope for her doubts, since she’d been unable to bring herself to tell Pen the rest of her suspicions.
Once Liliana had realized that the letters had been in some sort of code, a hypothesis naturally formed. Though she had been only ten at the time, Liliana remembered her father acting oddly in the weeks before his death. Hurried. Distant. Secretive. The timing was suspect, also. The Treaty of Amiens had broken down by the time the first letter was written, and hostilities between Britain and France had recommenced in May of that year. So why would her father have coded letters in French and from the late Earl of Stratford, dated well after war was declared? Given her father’s claims of betrayal and his violent death, the most logical conclusion was that he and a member of the Wentworth family had been involved in some sort of espionage gone wrong.
But she would never voice such an accusation. Not without proof. Proof she intended to find before she left Somerton Park.
“Well, if that truly is the case,” Pen said, her voice softening in a rare moment of gravity, “the Wentworths will surely not want their involvement known, so please…be careful.” Penelope turned to select her own wardrobe for the evening.
Liliana clutched a sketch pad to her chest, mulling over her cousin’s warning.
“La!” Aunt Eliza sailed into the room, dressed for the evening in a turquoise organza gown, a matching turban covering her hair—a concession to the rush to get her charges downstairs, no doubt. “Why are you trifling with that now?” She snatched the pad from Liliana’s hands and tossed it aside, shaking her head as if she’d never understood her niece and never would. Catching Liliana by the elbow, Aunt pulled her to the dressing screen. “You both must get washed and dressed at once.”
A maid came around the screen bearing the lavender evening gown Pen had selected. Liliana gave herself over to the hurried ablutions, turning her mind to the meeting ahead.
Penelope had reason to worry. With the current earl’s connections to Wellington, he was fast becoming a powerful political figure. He would not want any complicity in her father’s death made public. She’d have to school her features well, not betray any emotion or thought. If he suspected what she was about, he’d banish her from Somerton Park without delay.
Or worse. She mustn’t forget that. Not for one moment.
“It is as I feared. We’ve missed the reception line,” Aunt Eliza grumbled as the trio pushed their way into the crowded salon. Guests milled about in stylish clusters. The assembly, more female than male in number, certainly seemed energized. Bright faces and even wider smiles abounded. And why not? One of London’s most eligible bachelors stood on the marriage block.
Aunt raised her voice over the din. “Some other girl has probably already caught the earl’s eye,” she groused, stopping just inside the door. She craned her neck in a frustrated half circle. “I can’t see Stratford, but judging by the collection of women near the back corner, I’d say he’s holding court somewhere in that vicinity.” She nodded her head in the direction where, indeed, a small crowd had gathered. “Come.”
Liliana followed her aunt and cousin, turning this way and that as they squeezed between rustling skirts of taffeta and silk. Cloying perfumes—a hodgepodge of orange blossom, tuberose, jasmine and plumeria to name but a few—assaulted her nose. The diverse scents proved quite unappetizing when mingled in the same room. The overly sweet haze wafting from dozens of husband hunters only increased the churning in Liliana’s stomach, and she quickened her step, anxious to get her first meeting with the Wentworth family over with.
Though taller than most, Liliana struggled to see over elaborate coiffures and plumed headwear. The slow trudge reminded her of one of her earliest experiments. When she was seven, she’d decided to find out how quickly snails could move. She’d meticulously observed and recorded the progress of six different specimens. They’d averaged four inches every seven minutes. Liliana shook her head as her party inched forward. Those snails would have reached the Earl of Stratford before she would.
She strained to get a glimpse of her adversary amongst the glittering masses.
“—more handsome than his brother, don’t you think?” an older woman in the crush was saying to her daughter. Liliana turned her head, drawn to any snippet of information she could collect.
“Wellington himself has said Stratford exemplifies the best of English courage—”
“—almost died saving another man’s life,” came a whisper.
“How heroic,” said another woman with a dramatic sigh.
Heroic. Liliana frowned. The word contradicted her expectations of the man—though she had, of course, heard tales of his bravery.
“Sure, he ruffled a few feathers with that poverty relief bill he championed last season, but all great men have their crusades. He’ll step in line, with the right woman’s influen—”
Aunt Eliza tugged Liliana forward before she could hear any more.
These women talked about Stratford like he was some sort of paragon.
Liliana firmed her jaw. Well, maybe he was. But hero, saint or crusader for the masses—it mattered not. She would discover what had really happened to her father, even if she had to ruin Stratford to do it.
“At last,” Aunt Eliza said as they came to the pastel-clad barricade surrounding the earl. Not to be denied, she dug a discreet elbow in here and there until she broke through, Penelope and Liliana in tow. Liliana drew in a lungful of air and braced herself.
“Lady Belsham, you’ve arrived.” A woman, presumably the countess, stepped forward to greet them. Her smile was that of an accomplished hostess, though not a particularly warm one. The countess was flanked by two men of remarkably similar appearance. As one of the men looked obviously older, Liliana assumed the gentleman to be an uncle.
Her eyes fixed upon Stratford. He stood mere feet away, tall, rigid and oddly detached, as if his mind were elsewhere. Black hair complemented winged brows of the same hue. An aquiline nose lay above long, full lips that Lothario himself would envy.