And he could certainly never replace Edmund, but, like it or not, Reese was the Earl of Warshire now. The title conveyed power, privilege, and a whole host of problems. The most pressing—and surprising, to Reese—was a distinct lack of cash. Fortunately, he’d always been good with numbers and felt sure he could do a better job managing the books than Edmund’s old steward had. Reese wouldn’t mind sacking a few crooked employees and tightening some belts. He’d turn the estate around and take care of it until the day it passed to the next in line—his cousin, if he outlived Reese, or his cousin’s heir, if he didn’t. Reese didn’t much care who the title went to. Probably because it was never supposed to have been his.
He scowled at the scene inside Lady Rufflebum’s glittering ballroom, where chandeliers glowed and the orchestra played. Elegant couples moved across the dance floor with the same precision as soldiers marching toward the front lines. On the perimeter of the room, matrons and older gentlemen gathered in clusters, forming encampments where they could safely observe the action without actually venturing into the fray.
Reese spied several young women with blond hair inside the house, but even from a distance he could tell that none of them was Miss Kendall. Though he’d only met her once, and they’d only conversed for an hour or so, everything about her had been indelibly imprinted on his mind. Her wildflower scent, her effortless grace, her lyrical voice. He saw her when he closed his eyes … and he suspected the valerian root was to blame.
He remained in his hiding spot, keeping company with the frogs and occasionally looking into the ballroom, hoping for a glimpse of Miss Kendall. The hours wore on, and just when he was about to abandon his post, he saw her.
Wrapped in an airy swath of emerald-green silk, she twirled across the parquet dance floor. Her hair was gathered in a knot at her crown, but a few honey-colored curls floated around her face and down her neck. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman there. She didn’t wear the most expensive jewels. She wasn’t even the most accomplished dancer.
But she was the only one that he saw.
He blamed the damned tea for that, too.
She danced with a large, dark-haired man. Reese didn’t know him, but he looked to be the sort who took everything for granted—his dashing looks, immense wealth, high-born status … and his current dance partner.
Reese rolled his shoulders and eased the tension out of his neck. Who cared if Miss Kendall danced with a rich, arrogant young buck? She could dance with the devil if she wished.
All Reese needed from her was the recipe for the brew she’d concocted. The one that had, by some miracle, given him a few hours of peace.
So he tried to be patient as she finished her waltz. Watched with interest as she joined two young women—sisters, if he had to guess—and embraced each of them warmly. He imagined it would be quite pleasant to be hugged by Miss Kendall, partly because she smelled nice, and partly because she cared about everything—people, plants, probably animals too.
She talked animatedly with her friends, and when she smiled, soft and true, the sight made his chest physically ache. He tried to rub the pain away, but it lingered like a phantom, taunting him. Telling him he’d never be enough.
Jesus. He tore himself away from the window, pressed his back to the brick wall, and closed his eyes. Clearly, he was in dire need of sleep. Any qualms he’d had about tonight’s plan evaporated like a morning mist. He needed to speak with Miss Kendall.
He raked a hand through his hair and straightened his jacket before stepping onto the terrace and making his way toward the double doors leading to the ballroom. He remained outside but managed to flag down a gangly footman who circulated among the guests serving drinks.
The young man approached and bowed politely. “May I be of service, my lord?”
Reese thrust a hand into his pocket and withdrew the note he’d written before leaving the house. Handing it to the footman, he said, “Deliver this to Miss Kendall, please.”
“Miss Kendall?” the lad said, shrugging.
“She’s standing across from the orchestra.” Reese nodded in her direction. “Wearing the brilliant green gown.”
The footman followed Reese’s gaze, and when he spotted her, his eyes widened in obvious appreciation.
“Your discretion is appreciated,” Reese added, dropping a coin into the young man’s palm. “But the sooner you can give her the note, the better.”
With that, Reese withdrew into the shadows … and went to wait for Miss Kendall in the garden.
* * *
“Champagne, ladies?” A whip-thin footman flourished a tray, offering fizzing glasses to Fiona, Lily, and Sophie. Fiona declined, but Lily and Sophie eagerly helped themselves to crystal flutes. They had just raised their glasses in a silent toast when the footman surreptitiously handed Sophie a small, folded paper. “For you,” he said under his breath before weaving his way through the crowd.
Something in the footman’s demeanor caused Sophie to keep the paper concealed in her fist. If Fiona or Lily noticed the odd exchange, neither said anything. But then, perhaps they were distracted by the arrival of their handsome husbands, who hoped to steal them away for a dance. When the sisters hesitated, Sophie waved them onto the dance floor. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll take the opportunity to check on Mama.”
While she waited for her friends to melt into the throng on the dance floor, the paper burned a hole in her palm. She, Sophie Kendall, was not the sort of young woman who routinely received mysterious missives. She’d never inspired a gentleman to write her romantic poetry. She’d never even passed a note to a classmate in the schoolroom.
She supposed the note could be from a member of the Debutante Underground, but that would amount to an infraction of rule number two, and she’d never had a member reach out to her outside of their established meeting time.
The most likely scenario Sophie could imagine was that the footman had delivered the note to her in error. Perhaps it had been intended for Lady Halton, who, like her, was wearing a green silk gown, but who, unlike her, currently had half a dozen men vying for her attention.
Sophie swallowed and turned the paper over in her hand. If it was meant for her, she fervently hoped it was not from Lord Singleton—who had already claimed a dance with her and had been keeping a watchful eye on her ever since.
As she casually walked toward a trio of potted topiaries at the back of the ballroom, she wondered if the person who’d delivered the note was watching her now. Whether he’d be gauging her reaction as she read his words.
She found a quiet spot near a spiral boxwood, carefully unfolded the paper, and read the bold, scrawling script.
Dear Miss Kendall,
I underestimated the power of your tea—and, moreover, you.
Please, meet me in the garden if and when you are able.
Sophie’s fingers tingled. Mr. Peabody had written her a note. Wanted to see her again. Tonight.
She scanned the paper once more before folding it and furtively slipping it into the top of her bodice, tucking it between her breasts in a manner that would have horrified her former headmistress, Miss Haywinkle.
Sophie paused to gather her wits. What on earth was Mr. Peabody doing at Lady Rufflebum’s ball? And why hadn’t she spotted him among the guests?