Tempted By the Night (12 page)

“Or?”

He shook his head. “You have to promise me you won’t.”

“Won’t what?”

The old man heaved a sigh.

“Cricks?” Rockhurst used his status as the Paratus to push him into confessing what he appeared reluctant to reveal. “You have a duty and obligation to help me.”

“Oh, aye, my lord, I’m not forgetting who you are and what I owe you, but she was such a pretty little thing. And not likely to harm anyone…”

“Cricks, if she holds Milton’s Ring, we could all be in danger. Now tell me, how else can I end this spell?”

“Kill her,” he blurted out. “You would have to kill the miss. ’Tis the only other way to end such a wish.”

“Hermione? Hermione, darling? Where are you?”

Hermione sat up in her bed and cringed as she looked around the rumpled sheets. There wasn’t time to hide any of this. She glanced at the door to the hall, and then
at the one that led to the dressing room she shared with Viola, and considered fleeing for her sister’s room.

Not that Viola wouldn’t just turn her over to their mother, bothersome little scamp that she was. Still, perhaps Viola could be bribed, Hermione thought as she scrambled out of the bed even as her mother’s determined tread rounded the landing.

“Hermione, I hope you are ready, for I would like to arrive a bit
—”

Her mother swung into her room, dressed in her evening splendor—a great turban atop her head, feathers dancing every which way, and a morone gown, the bright red color like that of a peony. The grand lady paused, rather posed for a moment, smiling broadly, that is, until the sight before her registered. Her mouth fell open, and she gaped at her daughter as if she had just found her
in flagrante delicto
with a footman.

In her usual dramatic fashion, Lady Walbrook paled, then reached for the doorjamb to steady herself.

“Hermione!! What is the meaning of this?”

“This” being the books she’d borrowed from Mary and the one she’d taken, well, purchased, from Mr. Cricks.

“Are you…you cannot be…tell me you aren’t…reading?”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Hermione rushed to explain. “But you do remember you asked me to discover the essence of my character, and I sought out Miss Kendell’s assistance
—”

“That bluestocking!” Lady Walbrook teetered back and forth like an oak in a fierce gale. “I said to ask her, not carry her library over here.”

“I was only—”

“And those?” her mother said, an accusing finger pointed at Hermione’s nose.

She put her hand up and found the offending piece. “I couldn’t make out all the words, so I thought Cordelia’s old spectacles might help.”

She’d have been better served having told her mother she would rather marry a pauper than a duke.

“Take them off!” the countess intoned.

Hermione did, whisking them out of sight. “Truly, Mother, there is nothing to be upset about. Most of these are in Greek and Latin, at least I think they are. I thought I’d send them down to Cordelia and see if she could translate—”

Wrong again, Hermione.

“Oh, gracious heavens, why couldn’t I have an ordinary daughter? Just one!” her mother wailed, now going from dramatic outrage to outright grief. “One who sneaks French novels and the only study she would ever admit to is memorizing the pages of Debrett’s Peerage!”

“I was only doing as you asked,” Hermione shot back. “You said I should explore the character more if I was ever going to be convincing as Caliban. Miss Kendell suggested—”

“I meant for you to read the play. Weigh Mr. Shakespeare’s words. Not take up this…this…study.” She shuddered, as if even the word was enough to send her into spasms.

“I’ll put them away immediately, Mother,” Hermione said, scurrying back to her bed. For it hadn’t been that
many years ago that her older sister Cordelia had declared she preferred her scholarly pursuits to pursuing a husband in London. And off she’d gone to Bath, without any intention of ever getting married. Their mother had been inconsolable for months.

“You will do more than that,” Lady Walbrook declared. “Dorcas!” she bellowed, summoning her faithful maid. “Dorcas, take those dreadful volumes and return them to Miss Kendell. Immediately!”

Dorcas hurried forward, her usual patient expression strained by the countess’s high dudgeon. Hermione had no choice but to surrender the ones she held.

“All of them,” her mother said.

Hermione gathered up the rest of the volumes, and was about to give them over when she spied the Podmore lying at her feet.

Somehow in her haste to get up, it had fallen to the floor unnoticed.

And unnoticed it would remain, Hermione decided.

“Maman
, is that your new gown? Why, the color is everything you declared it would be!” she said, as she handed the last of Mary’s books to a now overladen Dorcas, and at the same time with her foot, slid the Podmore under her bed and safely out of sight.

As a way of ensuring her mother didn’t notice her deception, she smiled brightly. “I’ve always thought you should wear morone.”

Lady Walbrook heaved a sigh as Dorcas passed by, but at the mention of her dress, she brightened. “Yes, yes it is. I fear the color will set tongues wagging, especially at my age—”

She left that opening hanging for Hermione, and she latched right on to it. “No,
maman
! Never. The color is divine on you.”

Her mother preened, her hands smoothing over the sleeves and the skirt, but her diverted attention didn’t last for long. The countess glanced up at Hermione again. This time her eyes narrowed. “Gracious heavens, Minny! You aren’t dressed! We are to leave for Lady Thurlow’s ball in less than ten minutes. Never mind dressing, your hair alone is utterly unfit to be seen.”

Her hair? That was the least of her worries. For she couldn’t very well tell her mother that in only a matter of twenty minutes or so, everything about her would be unseen.

“Well, there is nothing left to do but to summon Dorcas back and fetch up that girl in the kitchen. The one who did your hair when Dorcas was sick last month. Perhaps between the two of them—”

There was nothing like her mother now that she was determined to see Hermione placed in the forefront of Society. Still, she must find a way out of the evening’s plans. “
Maman
, I would only serve to make you late.”

The countess continued on, “But you
must
go, Minny. I have it from Lady Belling, who heard it from Lady Doust, who saw Rockhurst this very afternoon at Gunter’s.
Gunter’s!
Can you imagine anything more respectable? Well, if that doesn’t mean the man isn’t seeking a wife—”

Or an invisible debutante…

“—I’ll give away my pin money to charity.” She heaved a sigh. “Now where was I?”

Accustomed as Hermione was to redirecting her mother when she wandered afield, she answered her without thinking. “Lord Rockhurst,” she supplied, and then winced.

Her mother sparked back to life. “Rockhurst! Exactly as I was saying. He will be at the Thurlows’ tonight.”

“Oh,
maman
! You can’t believe such a thing.” Hermione shook her head. Really! Lord Rockhurst at such a dull event? It was unthinkable. Unimaginable.

“He will be there,” her mother insisted. “He told Lady Doust exactly that.”

That explained her mother’s determination all right. So there was nothing left for her to do but give the finest performance of her life.

Caliban, be damned. Hermione was about to do justice to
Romeo and Juliet.

She rocked back and forth. “Oh, dear,
maman
,” she said faintly, stretching her hand out to her mother before collapsing atop her bed.

“My head! Oh, my head!” Hermione moaned.

“Minny!” her mother called out, rushing forward and taking her hand. “What is the matter?”

“My head, oh, I am so dizzy.” She let her eyelashes flutter about. “Oh, I fear I read too much. For now my head aches so terribly. I should never have tried to translate Greek!” Hermione even got a tear or two to well up in her eyes. “Mother, I must be a horrible disappointment to you.”

Lady Walbrook was a formidable, bossy lady, but she loved her children unfashionably, and they all knew it. “Oh, there, there, Minny,” she said, patting her daugh
ter’s hand, before brushing her hair back from her forehead. “I had such high hopes for you tonight. Lady Belling also told Lady Doust that Lady Routledge is determined to see that Lord Rockhurst sets his cap for that dreadful Miss Burke.”

“Miss Burke?” Hermione blurted out, forgetting she was in the throes of her final moments.

“Yes, exactly,” Lady Walbrook said encouragingly at this first sign of life. “Think of besting her, my dear. Make that your rallying cry, to get you past this desperate megrim. Think of your new gown.”

Hermione cringed. For she did have a new gown to wear. A light shade of capucine trimmed in green that was stunning to behold. Sure to catch the eye of…

Of no one.
Dash it all. This wish was ruining her life.

“Minny, dearest, bravest girl,” her mother coaxed. “Just try to get up? For me?”

Oh, gads, this was terrible, Hermione realized as she saw the mountain of expectation in her mother’s eyes. She knew that the countess had high hopes of marrying at least one of her children very well, and currently those dreams lay on Hermione’s slim shoulders.

Even slimmer chances now.

Leaning heavily on her mother, Hermione did her best to rise, and felt nothing less than crushing guilt when she had to collapse back onto the mattress groaning.

“Well, there is no use!” her mother declared. “Better you stay home tonight and be well rested for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Hermione replied faintly.

“Heavens, you are unwell. We are to go to Lady Belling’s garden party.” The countess paused. “What is it this Season with all these garden parties and Venetian breakfasts? Doesn’t anyone know how tiresome it is to have to arise before two?”

Hermione sighed. At least she could attend those events.

“There, there, dear. You get a good night’s rest, and you’ll be in fine form for tomorrow’s festivities.”

Her mother leaned over and placed a kiss on her brow, and never before had Hermione felt more guilty. She had no morals whatsoever about lying to her pinchpenny brother Sebastian about her expenses and shopping forays, but she didn’t like deceiving her mother.

Lady Walbrook smiled and waved from the door, before she left her daughter to her rest. Hermione lay still and quiet for the next quarter of an hour, listening to the familiar sounds of the house—her mother calling to Dorcas for her cloak, her chastising Griffin for being so late, and finally bidding Viola a good night.

When the front door shut for the fourth time—for it always took her mother at least three trips back and forth from the carriage before she was assured she had everything she needed for an evening out—did Hermione rise from her bed and slip to the window.

But it wasn’t the sight of the hired carriage carrying her mother and brother away that held her attention but the skyline beyond. For there the horizon burned red as the sun set, and Hermione felt herself slip away with it.

So much so, that when she turned to face the mirror, there was no reflection.

She was again unseen.

And left behind
, she thought as she took another envious glance at the carriage before it turned the corner. The Thurlow ball. It promised to be a crush, and now the night would belong to Lavinia Burke. Of course.

Hermione let out a breathy sigh. She didn’t even dare look in her dressing room, where her new gown hung. The one she’d thought for sure would gain the earl’s attentions. Why the ribbons alone had taken her a fortnight of dedicated shopping to choose.

She had envisioned herself wearing it more times than she could count. Pausing at the entrance to the Thurlow ballroom, so all heads could turn at the sight of her in such a ravishing creation.

Now all the attention would be on Lavinia Burke and whatever fabulous gown she’d donned, for there was no expense spared for Miss Burke’s gowns and hats and shoes.

Hermione plunked down on her bed and frowned. It wasn’t just Miss Burke who had her so crosspatched, but someone else.

The Earl of Rockhurst.

Hermione rolled over and covered her head with a pillow. Bother the man. It gave her no comfort that she’d been right about him all along—he was a tortured soul—and it would be terribly romantic and appealing if he weren’t inclined to murder every shadow that wandered into his realm.

Or at least, that was what Mr. Podmore claimed was the duty of the Paratus.

Still…
she mused,
he had saved her.

Then, and not for the first time this day, she found herself wondering how it was he’d gotten her to his carriage. Had he carried her all that way? In his arms? Up against his chest, with his lips just mere inches from her own?

She tossed the pillow aside. Oh, why did she miss all the best moments of her life?

And why hadn’t he killed her?

Hermione sat up. Perhaps there was some tender aspect of his heart that hadn’t been eaten up as yet. So there might even be hope yet for the Earl of Rockhurst.

Not that she was inclined to find out. No, not in the least.

She rose and went to the window, watching the carriages roll by as they carried members of the
ton
to the evening’s various entertainments.

Really, what was the point of being invisible if one couldn’t make something of it?

She bit her lip and tried to recall what it was that Thomasin had said. Oh, yes, that was it. If she were invisible,
I’d see to it that Lavinia Burke had one of the worst nights of her life.

Hermione giggled. Thomasin would do such a thing.

A mischievous little light burned to life inside her. So why shouldn’t she?

There was no reason she couldn’t go to the ball. And if someone just happened to tread upon Lavinia
Burke’s hem, well it was nothing more than a horrible, tragic accident…that would be the talk of the
ton
by morning.