silent, wrapped in her own thoughts, Tucker ceased her diatribe, studying her mistress with a puzzled frown.
When the maid had finished, Jane thanked her and left the room.
The guests were beginning to return to the ballroom from supper, their voices heightened by drink and the excitement of blooming romance. The musicians began to play a country-dance, sets were made up, bows and curtseys performed, and the ballroom came to life once more.
Jane’s satin-slippered toes silently tapped the marble floor. An unaccustomed restlessness assailed her, and she forced herself to sit calmly and watch the guests who viewed the valentine greetings from years past displayed between each of the French doors that lined one wall of the grand ballroom.
The tradition of displaying valentines from former balls had been introduced by her grandmother. Starting with her own valentine greetings as a debutante, Jane had searched the attic trunks for more. The oldest was from a great-great-great grandfather to one of the famed beauties of his day. That faded date read 1691.
And so, their collection had grown, as friends donated their favourite cards, some decorated with lace and velvet, a few decorated with precious gems. The chaperons’ chairs were arranged in little groups far enough away from the French doors to allow people to stroll beside them.
Where was Cherry now?
Jane wished she had found a way to escape this enforced inactivity. Still, she knew she would do that which was proper. Impropriety was as foreign to her as civilization was to an aborigine.
Jane watched the dancers. Dark eyes met hers as Lord Devlin promenaded past with Anne Powell, her nearest neighbour, and for once, Jane found it impossible to hold his gaze. She dropped her eyes self-consciously.
Rising swiftly, she tried to appear calm as she moved among the guests viewing the valentine display.
“Jane, my dear, whose billet was this?” asked a rotund matron in a purple satin turban.
“That was one of my mother’s, I believe, Lady Tarpley.”
“She was such a beauty with that red hair and those great blue eyes.” The dame, who had been a great friend as well as rival of her grandmother, looked Jane up and down. “You always resembled your father’s side of the family, Jane dear.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am definitely a Lindsay,” said Jane. “Did you know we have one of your valentines on display this year?”
“Really? Where? I don’t remember giving one to dear Janine.”
“Actually, Lady Tarpley, I believe Lord Tarpley gave it to her after last year’s ball. He told her it was one he had written before you and he became well acquainted, and he had been too shy to send it to you. He planned to surprise you by having Grandmother put it up with the others this year.”
“That naughty man! Show it to me!”
“It is in the next group. There.” Jane pointed to an elaborately decorated heart with faded writing. The old dame peered myopically at the script before sighing deeply and smiling.
“I must see Herbert,” she said and, with a flurry of purple silk, hurried toward the card room where her husband had remained hidden all evening.
Jane smiled. Lord Tarpley was in for an embarrassing moment in front of his cronies.
Jane drifted back to the stately door on her left and peered into the dimly lit garden beyond.
A movement on the balcony caught her eye. Odd, that anyone should have chosen to stroll outside on such a chilly February evening. Pressing close to the cold glass, she gaped as a woman in a dark cloak hurried across the wide balcony and down the steps. A flash of silvery material was all Jane needed to guess the female’s identity.
There, heading for the summerhouse, was Cherry, the foolish chit!
Quickly, she slipped out the doors. The shock of cold air made her pull her flimsy shawl closer about her shoulders, and she stopped to allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom.
Jane muttered a mild oath before heading for the