The crimson-and-gold ballroom was ninety feet long, with a coved ceiling, a balcony for spectators, and a musicians' gallery with a delicate iron railing. Footmen were sanding the floor, upon which lay paper templates of holly, mistletoe, and ivy, and some maids were making a mistletoe bough that was three times the size of the one at Radcliffe House. A consignment of hothouse ferns, considered de rigueur for all balls, Christmas or not, had just been delivered from a market garden outside the town. By the evening they would have been arranged around the blocks of ice on stands, which would be necessary to cool the hot air due to all the people, candles, and fires. In the musicians' gallery the orchestra was rehearsing a Mozart minuet, which died away as the first violinist rattled his bow crossly against his music stand and complained about the cellists.
As Megan and Chloe watched from the ballroom entrance, Chloe noticed someone she knew in the adjacent supper room, and excused herself from Megan for a few moments. No sooner had she gone than a cold draft signified the opening of the door from Ship Street. Megan turned and saw Oliver coming toward her.
His clothes were as much the tippy as ever, but there was a large graze on his forehead caused by the falling ladder. After glancing into the supper room, where Chloe was chattering with her acquaintance, he confronted Megan.
"I thought you and Miss Holcroft would never part, coz," he said softly.
"You have been following us?"
"A shabby trick, but one which has now paid dividends," he replied coolly, his eyes sliding once more toward Chloe. However, she was deeply engrossed in conversation and had no idea he was there.
"A shabby trick by a shabby person," Megan responded with mettle, for she was prepared for him.
"We have some unfinished business, my dear."
"No, we do not, sir," she replied.
Oliver held her eyes. "On the contrary, coz, for we were engaged upon negotiations last night when we were rudely interrupted. By the way, who was your rescuer?" This last was added lightly, but was clearly of intense concern to him.
"No one you know," she answered.
"I'm not to be trifled with, madam! Who was it?"
"All I will say is that if you threaten me again, he will come to my assistance, and next time he will not be so gentle with you. As to your financial offer, I have to decline because I wish to stay with Lady Evangeline. And please do not suspect me of attempting to extract more money from you, because that is not the case."
Cold fury darkened his visage. "I'll make you very sorry for this," he breathed.
"I think not. You see, I have written a letter and lodged it in a safe place, to be opened if anything should befall me." That wasn't quite true, of course, but it was as near as made no difference.
"You have more pluck than I expected, coz," he murmured thoughtfully, his voice almost drowned as the orchestra resumed the minuet.
"I fear that you have lived down to my expectations," she replied.
"Does this mean that you intend to regale Miss Holcroft with my past actions? Perhaps you already have?" He saw in her eyes that as yet she hadn't, and he smiled. "Your letter will not protect you from my revenge, my dear, for there will be nothing to connect me with anything that might happen to you. Hold your tongue to Miss Holcroft, or take the consequences."
Megan had no opportunity to respond because Chloe suddenly saw them talking and hurried out of the supper room. "Why, Oliver, what a pleasure this is!" she cried, her lovely face alight with a smile, but then she saw the dressing on his forehead. "Oh, goodness, how dreadful! Whatever happened?"
"I, er, walked into a cupboard," he replied, taking her hand and raising it palm uppermost to his lips.
Her fingers closed solicitously over his. "I do hope it isn't too painful?"
"I am assured it will soon be well again." He gazed into her magnificent blue eyes. "It is most fortunate that I have happened upon you like this, for I have just acquired that new team of roans I mentioned yesterday, and am about to go for a drive along the East Cliff. Would you care to join me?"
"Oh, yes!" Chloe replied eagerly. "Miss Mortimer and I would love to!"
Oliver's smile froze for a fleeting moment, but then he was all smooth apologies. "I, er, fear that cannot be so, Chloe, for the curricle will only seat two in comfort. Three might be a little dangerous."
"Oh, yes, I wasn't thinking." Chloe's face fell, and she looked imploringly at Megan, who knew what was expected of her.
"Please go for the drive, Miss Holcroft. I am more than happy to return to Radcliffe House on my own."
Chloe hesitated, well aware that she was in the wrong, but unable to resist the curricle. "If you're sure you will not mind, Miss Mortimer?"
Megan smiled. "Of course I don't," she fibbed, for she minded very much, not on her own account, but on Rupert's. If she could have thought of a way to tweak Chloe's conscience right then, she wouldn't have hesitated to do it.
"I am in your debt, Miss Mortimer," Chloe declared, then linked Oliver's arm to walk out to Ship Street.
Megan watched the stylish curricle leap swiftly away toward the corner, beyond which the sea was gray and choppy beneath the cloudy sky. She heard Chloe's laughter, half exhilarated, half frightened by the recklessness with which Oliver urged the new horses, then they turned the corner and were gone. With a sigh Megan followed them to the bottom of the street, then crossed the uneven track that ran atop the low cliffs of this part of the town. To the west the track ran between the town and the shore, and at first it did the same to the east, but then one of the town's defensive batteries blocked its way, forcing it to swing inland toward the Steine. Now a road, it passed between the Star and Garter Inn and Mahomed's Baths, which actually jutted above the beach.
It was low tide, and wheeled bathing machines stood where the mounds of pebbles by the cliffs gave way to gleaming sand. Fishing boats had been hauled above the high water line by capstans beside Mahomed's Baths, and nets and lobster pots were strewn all around. The air was sharp with the smell of salt water, seaweed, and fresh-caught fish, and a flock of seagulls screamed and dove around a solitary boat that was coming ashore.
Megan walked down some rough stone steps to the pebbles. There was no one using the bathing machines, which was hardly surprising in December, nor did there seem to be anyone around the beached fishing boats, which had cheerful paintwork and lighthearted names. She smiled as she read them. Martha Mary, Letitia Anne, Salty Sylvia, Philip pa's Fancy, Belle Bevington… She looked again at the last one. Belle Bevington? Now, where had she recently seen that name before?
A burly fisherman suddenly straightened from the depths of the boat, where he had been applying some tar, and on seeing Megan, he touched his hat respectfully. "Good day to you, miss."
"Good day." Megan stepped a little closer. "Why have you called your boat the Belle Bevington? Is it a family name?"
"Oh, no. It was a notion of my late brother's, God rest his soul. He saw the name on a brass memorial up at St. Nicholas's and decided it would be just dandy for the boat he was abuilding." Of course! The memorial was set into the floor directly in front of Lady Seton's fine marble tomb.
"She was a London actress, I believe," the fisherman added.
"Actress?" Megan's interest quickened.
"That's right. From the time of Nell Gwynne." He clambered down from the boat. "Well, that's me finished for now. I'll bid you good-bye, miss." Touching his hat again, he walked up the pebbles to the steps.