Page 63 of The Wallflower Ruse

Lucinda stumbled—fortunately, because otherwise she might have forgotten to limp. “Ouch!” Stop pulling me!”

“What were you talking to Mr. Haraldson about?” Mr. Pearce demanded furiously. “Why did you leave the dance?”

“Because I turned my ankle. How dare you drag me away?”

He glared at her. “I want to promenade about the ballroom with you.”

She put her nose in the air. “You needn’t have dragged me away from Mr. Haraldson to do so.”

Chagrin flitted across his features. “I beg your pardon. I, ah feared for your safety.”

She huffed. “Don’t be foolish. He’s tired and wants to go home, but his wife insists on staying.” She steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder and pretended to try putting weight on her foot. “It’s not too bad; I believe I can walk, but slowly.”

They made their stately way around the ballroom, while Lucinda kept her eyes open for anything unexpected. Restive strolled about, making flourishing bows, seeming completely at ease. So much for hoping he would get Alfreda out of the way.

Unless—there was Alfreda, looking mulish, escorted by a simpering female in a pink gown, whilst Mr. Haraldson sent a footman running on an errand. She frowned, and as if the female felt her scrutiny, she glanced at Lucinda and winked.

Heavens, that was Davis! She couldn’t suppress a smile. Perhaps Restive had come to the rescue, more or less.

“You’re acquainted with that shepherdess?” Mr. Pearce demanded, for all the world like an affronted dowager. “She doesn’t look respectable. I’m sure she wasn’t invited.”

“Yolanda? Yes, she’s my friend, and don’t you dare disparage her. She may not be strictly respectable, but she has a heart of gold. I hope she drums some sense into Miss Wallace.”

She and Mr. Pearce circled the ballroom again. And again, while he grew steadily more agitated and kept glancing at the doors leading to the entrance hall. Lucinda tried to guess who might be a player in whatever game was afoot. She spied a Harlequin in a rather rumpled, baggy costume... Something in his stance was familiar. And where might his lady be? It took another turn, until she spotted a lady dressed as Columbine, checking a watch on a fob which hung from her sash, and impatiently tapping one foot. What time was it? What time would moonrise be?

On the next turn around the room, she scrutinized the Harlequin again. Something about him... Could it be...Monsieur Fortin? The height was correct, and the dark hair. Harlequin working with Columbine? Or might these two people be unacquainted and their costumes mere coincidence?

She sighed. Something nagged at her, something she needed to remember, something she must tell Restive—if he would deign to give her a chance to do so. For all she knew, he believed she would do her best to hamper him. He’d been willing to suspect her of treason once; why not again?

~ * ~

Restive spotted Monsieur Fortin from the beginning, possibly because Fortin wished him to. Fortin was almost as much of a loose cannon as Davis, but his allegiance was obscure and quite possibly personal. Restive was almost certain Fortin was one of the whisperers he’d heard at Lady Tollister’s.

The other whisperer, he thought, had been female and English. Lady Tollister? It was her house, therefore easier for her to skulk out of sight. Mrs. Haraldson was too large to do so easily. Mrs. Spence, he thought, was too forthright. Various other ladies had been there, but not directly connected with Mrs. Haraldson’s salon, or at least not recently.

Briefly, he wondered if Fortin’s friend Beaudry was present at the masquerade. How long had he been in England and to whom had Fortin introduced him? He was certainly a presentable man—more so than Fortin, actually.

What, he wondered, was Fortin wearing under that loose Harlequin costume?

And if Fortin wasn’t one of the plotters, who was?

What was to happen at moonrise? Did it depend on seeing the moon come over the horizon? Unlikely, given the unpredictability of the weather and various obstructions in the line of sight, but something, apart from a Beltane celebration, was about to happen tonight—likely outdoors.

Maybe that was the point. Covert work was easier in the dark. On the other hand, the bonfire would shed a great deal of useful light on activities in the garden. Would whatever was to happen take place before or after the bonfire was lit?

It wasn’t long now till moonrise; less than an hour until something should happen, unless the messenger’s information was incorrect. Lucinda’s decoding was perfect; he had, somewhat shamefacedly, redone it just to be sure.

There she was, walking with the poet but watching the Harlequin. Seemingly, she had recognized Fortin; now he had to warn her. He turned to ambush her in mid-promenade, but she was tugging the poet toward the terrace.

~ * ~

“Let’s go outdoors,” Lucinda said. “I’m dying for some fresh air.” More importantly, she now had a fair notion of the layout of the interior of the house, but she wanted to have a good look at the garden, in case the fireworks and bonfire were significant somehow.

“I mustn’t,” Mr. Pearce said. “What if Cousin James arrives while I’m out there?” Cousin James, she recalled, was the equerry of whom he was so proud.

“We shan’t be long. You’ll see him when we return,” Lucinda said. “I want to look at the moon. It’s so beautiful. Perhaps you can compose a poem about it.”

He shuddered. “I daresay I could, but not tonight. In any event, it’s not up yet, although it will be very soon.”