He was riveted by this scrap of information, reading it over and over again. So focused was his mind that he almost missed it when—even though he had been convinced otherwise—something
did
change.
Luckily, she brought it to his attention.
“Jack?” she asked, bringing his head up from the pages. “Can you hear me?”
“Hmm?” he replied, snapping into the present.
“I asked, when you are finished with the paper, may I have it?”
He met her eyes across the table. He was shocked, unblinking.
“Of course,” he started. “Here, you can have it now.”
He handed the paper to her and she took it with relish, her
eyes shining with anticipation as she began to flip through the pages, like a starving man presented with sustenance.
This time he saw the silent frown on Lady Forrester’s face, cut off by an equally silent smile on her husband’s. He saw Amanda read over Sarah’s shoulder, and Sarah hand over those pages she did not desire to her youngest sibling. And he saw a sliver of the old Sarah Forrester peeking out from behind the Golden Lady’s facade.
There was no reason his foolhardy plan should have worked.
Except that it had.
No, it was not a miraculous change, he thought, astonished. But it was a start.
“O
H
, Phillippa! I’m so glad you’re back!”
Sarah enthusiastically enveloped her friend in a hug, regardless of the other guests in attendance at Mrs. Braeburn’s garden luncheon. Everyone knew Phillippa and Sarah Forrester to be great friends, of course. Besides, it was entirely possible that Sarah was freezing cold and merely sought the benefit of Phillippa’s warm shawl.
Mrs. Braeburn, a fashionably tall woman, was well practiced in the art of being a society hostess, as her husband had been very active in the House of Commons for over two decades. However, upon her husband’s decision to retire from public life a few years ago, which coincided with the marriage of her daughters, Mrs. Braeburn had found herself with nothing to display to the world, no reason to keep her hand in the game. And so, she turned to making her London town house’s garden the most spectacular showcase ever.
It was, therefore, unfortunate that she chose to hold her massive welcoming party the day after a freak night of bitter frost.
Not only were the guests bundled up against the unnatural cold, but the flowers—the tulips and daffodils, the crocuses and the rose bushes that had only the tiniest of buds sprouting
on them, all had their colors muted under a thin, protective layer of muslin.
But the weather be damned, it was June, and thus tea and cakes were being served alfresco.
“Yes, well, I wish it was under warmer circumstances that I am back,” Phillippa replied. Then, a slight frown crossed her face. “And happier.”
Sarah immediately sobered. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think. Did you know Lord Fieldstone well?”
Phillippa’s eyes fell to her waist. She wore a modest gray silk underneath a dark woven Indian shawl. She was not kin to Lord Fieldstone, but Sarah knew Phillippa’s penchant for happier, bolder shades and took this as her own kind of mourning.
“He worked very closely with Marcus, of course,” Phillippa replied, her voice betraying a certain amount of emotion. “And I admit I was very fond of him, too.”
“At least he went peacefully,” Sarah consoled, laying her hand on her friend’s arm. At Phillippa’s sharp, quizzical look, Sarah explained. “It was his heart, was it not? That’s what the newspapers said, in any case. That his heart gave out in his sleep.”
“Yes, of course,” Phillippa replied quickly. “But it is still a shock. Marcus is in such a state. He has so much work to do, I’m afraid he is going to disappear into the War Department all together. The only reason we are even here now is that he wanted a chance to converse with Mr. Braeburn.”
Sarah’s eyes flitted to where Marcus Worth had cornered a well-bundled Mr. Braeburn. Marcus seemed to be arguing a point, and Mr. Braeburn was nodding and shaking his head at turns. Then with a quick glance around, Braeburn turned and headed indoors, with Marcus following.
“What manner of things do they have to discuss?” Sarah asked, her imagination taken by the grim and determined expression on Marcus’s face.
“Oh, just something to do with funding, I’m sure. Braeburn spent so much time in parliament Marcus naturally seeks out his advice. But never mind that,” Phillippa said, shaking off the unwanted subject with a bright smile. “Tell me all about you! I can’t believe I stayed away so long. But the boys love being in the country and I find it terribly difficult to deny
them. What have you been up to?” Then with a sly look, “Or should I say, what
haven’t
you been up to?”
“What do you mean?”
“For heaven’s sake, child!” Phillippa said laughingly. “You told me you might take some early nights when I was unavailable to play escort, not disappear from society altogether! Upon my return to town, I was told by no less than five people, one of whom was my own housekeeper, that the Golden Lady had become housebound with illness. That I had to rush to your side to make certain you were not dying of some terrible wasting disease brought on by too much food at the Whitford banquet!”
Sarah threw back her head with laughter. “So
that
’s why Lady Whitford keeps calling on me, with deeply concerned looks. How ridiculous—the banquet was weeks ago!”
“True,” Phillippa’s eyes were full of mirth, “but Lady Whitford is very conscious of scandal coming from her banquet.” Phillippa replied cryptically before sobering from her own smiles. “Now tell me what has happened. Did your mother restrict your movements for some reason?”
Sarah pressed her lips together pensively. How much should she tell her friend? “No, nothing like that,” she finally replied. “I think, perhaps, I started to find the whole thing a little … dull.”
That, at least, was not a lie. And it had been dull. Ever since that night at the theatre a se’ennight hence, when a man in a mask had pressed a packet into her hands and then pressed his lips to hers, everything else had lost a little luster. Became grayer in the cold light of day.
But what Phillippa had said—that she had become a virtual shut-in—was patently false. She
had
been going out. But every time she went to a ball, or the park, or the opera (to which she had gone no less than three times, each time making certain to pass by a particular cupboard behind a curtain), the problem was she spent the evening looking for a man who she couldn’t identify. Although, she was certain she would be able to identify him when they met again. After all, wasn’t there something written about the fates, and how a soul could recognize it’s mate instinctively? Well, she was convinced she would be able to do so.
Indeed, in the past week, Sarah had indulged—admittedly a little too much, but that was part of the fun, was it not?—in the fantasy of the Blue Raven.
If it was him—and it had to be him—she was well positioned to determine the truth. After all, she had scoured every word of him as a child, and still had that book of pasted-in articles … drat that it was still at Primrose! But she could recall with perfect clarity all those articles. She let her imagination run away with his deeds of heroism … his sneaking into ladies’ bedrooms … then she let herself imagine that he might sneak into
her
bedroom…
And the best part was, she could indulge in these thoughts without worry. After all, it was not as if she was risking her heart in a daydream.
But suffice to say, those daydreams certainly spurred her desire to find him! She could only say he was of a certain height—maybe, he had been somewhat hunched when they met. Also, she could say he had a cultured accent … but that could be faked. She knew he was a single man. After all, what married man would kiss her like that? (Although … oh God, what if he was married?) Upon further depressing reflection, Sarah had to admit that she knew almost nothing about the Blue Raven. The single thing she knew for certain was that he wore a moustache; therefore, she spent far too much time courting the attention of gentlemen who wore moustaches. Heavens, she even considered Lord Seton and his moustache as a possibility, until the thought was too laughable to further contemplate. She may have known little about the Blue Raven, but she knew he did not wear stays. She invariably ended every conversation, or dance, utterly disappointed.
By the time she went through the card party, or ball, or theatre performance, her nerves were frayed from being on constant alert, not to mention she was entirely exhausted. Thus, she started going home earlier and earlier.
Then, she decided, why not stay home altogether? After all, the Blue Raven said he would retrieve the packet from her … well, how was he going to be able to do so without knowing where she would be? It was better to remain home … where he would know where to find her.
Besides, she and Bridget were still trying to work out the
mathematical equation on the back of the compass … her curiosity about the man’s identity was almost as strong as her curiosity about what he was up to, and as such, she and Bridget had become embroiled in mathematical texts, atlases (they thought it might be a method by which to tell latitude and longitude), and anything else their less-than-scholarly minds lead them to. It was the first time in her life that Sarah had wished she’d gone further in her studies, past what was dictated proper for young ladies.
“Dull?” Phillippa repeated, pulling Sarah, blinking, out of her reverie.
“Well, y-yes,” she stuttered. “I mean, none of it really matters, does it? The parties, the gowns, they can be fun. But if you know you are not to meet with someone of some worth, then it’s all cake and no stew.” She crinkled her nose. “Do you understand my meaning?”
“I do,” Phillippa replied carefully. “Such notions are often why I enjoy country respites with my sons almost as much as they do. But I did not think you would suffer from exhaustion with your fame so quickly.” Then Phillippa stepped closer and, dipping her head, lowered her voice, glancing aside for the potential of prying ears. “But you do know the importance of keeping up your current level of … er, social interaction, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Sarah was quick to say. “And do not think that I impugn all of your good advice, Phillippa. I doubt I would have survived a single week in society without your assistance. But I…”
“But nothing, my dear! You’ve had your respite. Now that you’ve had the entire town rabid for your appearance you have to capitalize on it. Return brighter and better than ever. I have even been told that you have refused
two
invitations to go riding with the Comte de Le Bon.”
Sadly, as the Comte was without a moustache, Sarah thought it wiser to spend the time she would have been riding, working on deciphering the clues. She did not mean for him to think he had lost her favor, but what other option was there?
Besides, if she had to hear the story of how he walked out of a Burmese prison one more time…
“If the Golden Lady has thrown him over as one of her
favorites,” Phillippa continued, “we should be finding you a new one…”
Phillippa would have continued on in that vein, blithely dictating Sarah’s return to form (apparently the Braeburns’ garden party was a good start, but not a spectacular enough one, and her dress was too yellow and not enough gold—this would have to be taken up with Madame LeTrois) if not for the look that inevitably crossed Sarah’s face, caught by Phillippa’s keen eye.
“Unless you have found a new favorite, all on your own,” Phillippa said, her shrewdness making Sarah blush uncontrollably.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Sarah tried, futilely.
“You’ve met someone!” Phillippa cried, loud enough to draw the attention of people huddling for warmth nearby. Shocked into propriety, she took Sarah’s arm and practically pulled her into the house.
“Come with me,” she said in a rush. “This conversation requires privacy. And something warmer than this tea.”
Once the privacy and warmer substances were located (the Braeburns’ library and its sideboard provided both of these quite neatly), Phillippa sat Sarah down.
“Tell me everything.”
Sarah knew she should demur, and say that there was nothing to tell. But the truth was…
“Oh, Phillippa, I’ve been absolutely bursting to tell someone since it happened!” She began, clutching her friend’s hands tightly. “And I couldn’t tell anyone—not my mother, not my sisters, not anyone. But I’m sure I can tell you. Can I tell you?”
“You haven’t told anyone about him?” Phillippa replied, alarmed. Likely shocked by the strength of Sarah’s grip. “For heaven’s sake, what do you mean, ‘since it happened’?”
“Since we met! I cannot even describe him,” Sarah began dreamily.
“Well, why don’t you give it a try,” was the bemused reply. “Tell me where you met.”
“At the theatre—
Figaro
—and it was only for a moment, but it was magical. Simply magical.” She bit her lip, remembering for the thousandth time those few minutes in the cupboard of the opera house.
“He wears a moustache—” she began.
“Well, we will simply have to make him shave. Nothing more passé than a moustache.”
But even Phillippa’s comments could not stop Sarah’s reminiscing. “He’s tall—but not too tall—and well formed, or at least I think he is, I’ve only ever seen him in looser clothes.”
“Then we shall have to get him to a tailor if he’s to be seen with you on his arm.”
“I don’t know if he’ll ever let himself be seen with me on his arm,” she replied darkly. “Indeed, I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again.”
“See him?” Phillippa scoffed. “Of course you shall see him again. I shall arrange it.”
“I don’t think you can.” Sarah covered her mouth and closed her eyes against the pain of it. “You see, Phillippa—I do not even know his name.”
Phillippa cocked her head to one side. “Do you mean—you were not introduced? I’m afraid I am terribly confused. Sarah, have you even properly met the man?”
“I … I don’t know.” Sarah took a deep breath. And then … it all came out. “I need someone—I need
you
to tell me I have not gone mad, and that I’m not imagining things. Although I know I’m not imaging things, else how did I end up with the packet and the puzzle I cannot possible solve?”