Before the Midnight Bells Page 4

  “Well,” she replied, a gay tone in her voice, “you are certainly safe with me. I intend to spend most of the evening right here, hunting for nothing more lasting than the perfect apple tart.”

  Max laughed along with the woman standing before him. She clearly had no idea who he was, and had totally misunderstood his need to hide, but that hardly mattered.

  “Tell me, little matchgirl, do you always stuff yourself silly, or do you save it for special occasions?”

  His companion looked at him gravely. “Sir, I have not yet begun to stuff myself.” A smile replaced her sober look, and he beamed back at her. There was only one question left to ask.

  “Which end of the table shall we start with?”

  “The one with the chocolate, obviously.”

  ***

  Prudence was in an agony of indecision. Beatrice had taken to the floor three times already with different men, but every time a man approached Prudence she had ducked behind another girl and given him the slip. One had been too short—imagine dancing with a young man who spent the whole set staring at her chin! Another had been too red-headed—after all, a red-headed man might give her a red-headed daughter, and imagine that hair next to pink silk! She had avoided a third because he was too fat, a fourth because he was too mournful looking, and a fifth because she had seen his previous partner, and didn’t think much of his standards.

  But then! Then she had seen him. He was a nice height, not too plump, and had hair of a beautiful dark gold that would go excellently well with pink silk. His eyes looked cheerful as he danced, and all of his partners thus far had looked like lovely girls. In fact, the only problem with him, as far as Prudence could see, was that he seemed to have no intention of asking her to dance. Of course, she could go ask him herself, but that would be bold, terribly bold, and Prudence was not entirely sure that she had it in her to be that bold, no matter how excellently suited to pink silk a gentleman’s hair might be.

  So she adopted a strategy. Every time the golden-haired man led his partner off the floor Prudence would quickly make her way around the circle of observers, placing herself so that his eye would have to fall on her, and then she would stand, eyes demurely downcast, waiting for him to notice her modest perfection.

  So far it wasn’t working.

  In fact, she wasn’t even really sure he had seen her, even though last time he had changed partners she had been standing directly next to the girl he had engaged to dance. There were just too many women, all vying for attention, to be assured of catching his eye. Well, if she couldn’t catch his eye, perhaps she could force him to catch her. It would be easy to fake a fall in the press of dancers, and any gentleman worth his salt would feel honor bound to assist her. Just a little trip would soon see her in his arms, if not on the dance floor.

  ***

  Max was having a wonderful time. His companion seemed to have no other goal to the evening than entertaining herself, and was perfectly willing to entertain him if he wanted to stick around for the duration.

  “Now what on earth is that?” Her question was both amused and disgusted.

  “I’m not a chef, but I’m fairly certain it’s a rice ball.” He smirked at her.

  “Daft man, I meant the thing in the rice ball.”

  “Oh, that.” She looked at him with mock ferocity, but he just smiled. “That’s a quail egg.”

  “It’s raw.”

  “I’ve been told they’re quite delicious.” She looked at him skeptically. “Of course, only a truly adventurous soul would dare to try it and find out.”

  She grinned at the challenge implicit in his tone. “A gourmand daredevil, if you will.”

  “I will if you will.”

  Almost simultaneously they reached for a rice ball.

  “On the count of three?” If she was nervous at all her voice didn’t show it.

  “Agreed.” Max was hoping this wasn’t going to be too bad.

  Together they counted, “One...two...three...” and then stuck the balls in their mouths. The matchgirl clapped her hand over her mouth, but bravely chewed and swallowed. Max felt his eyes cross, but managed to do the same. For a moment neither spoke, then Max cleared his throat.

  “It wouldn’t have been so bad...”

  “...except for the caviar hidden under the egg.” She shuddered dramatically.

  “That was like...”

  “...eating a ball of fish slime.”

  “Exactly.” They shared one more repulsed look, and then laughed uproariously.

  Ella was still giggling as she started poking among the dishes on the table. After lifting the lid on a soup tureen and viewing its contents she gave her comrade a wicked glance. “I’ve heard that stewed eyeballs are excellent for your mental faculties.” The poor man turned slightly green, and looked around wildly.

  “Behave yourself, woman, or I will take you to that novitiate and force you to confess your sins.” He nodded to one of the whirling dancers, visible for a moment through the open door.

  Ella saw the woman dressed in pristine white, and the sight drew her to the doorway to watch her for a moment. A wistful look crossed her face. The novitiate’s costume was a draped glory of white silk. Her sculpted wimple formed white wings around her head, and it, along with the white silk stole about the woman’s neck, was intricately embroidered in gold thread. It was beautiful, and perfectly made, and probably had cost enough to cover the next mortgage payment on the Emberton townhouse. She let a little sigh escape her.

  “How I wish that were mine.”

  Max cast a judicious eye at his companion. Her culinary bravado notwithstanding, she was a delicate woman. The novitiate’s costume would have overwhelmed her.

  “It isn’t really suited to you.” She turned back towards him, and raised one eyebrow. “You’re so small, you’d be swimming in it. This, on the other hand,” he waved his hand vaguely at her, taking in her simple shift, “suits you well.”

  It was an understatement. Max had been aware since the first moment he spied her that this was a remarkably lovely woman. The soft shift clung gently to the curves of her body, swirling just above her tiny, well formed bare feet. It more than suited her, it made Max think about sinking his hands into her tumbling chestnut hair and drawing her face up to his.

  She looked at him wryly. “I’m glad you approve.” Max realized that his admiration must be showing clearly on his face, but he couldn’t help it. Her delicate features were unadorned with any paint, and he could see a faint blush forming under her silken skin. It flattered her. So did the enjoyment that made her amber-honey eyes glow.

  “I fail to see how anyone could not approve.” He watched her full bottom lip curve upwards in delight at his compliment. He’d been watching her mouth all night. It always looked like it had a secret to tell. Probably a wicked one, given her sense of humor. In that moment he wished very fervently for some privacy, so he could explore her mouth further.

  “...making of it.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  She laughed at his distraction. “I said that I appreciate your attempt to reassure me, but I meant that I wish I had the making of it. I’m a dressmaker, but my shop is just a small front on Low Street. That voluminous thing must have come from Monchart or Treasseu’s.”

  Max had never set foot in Monchart, but Treasseu’s was where Vivienne got all her dresses made. Last year for her birthday she had made him sit for hours in the salon while she selected fabrics and patterns for a new wardrobe. “I’m sure both houses are highly overrated.”

  “Overrated or not, they have a healthy number of patrons.” Her voice sounded wan and worried, not at all like the fun-loving woman she had been a few moments before. She turned from the doorway and drifted back over to the laden tables. Max followed, feeling she needed help, but at a loss as to how to provide it. He watched her absentmindedly lift the lid of the soup tureen and pop a round object in her mouth.

  “Please tell me you didn’t just eat a stewe
d eyeball.”

  A glimmer of mischief returned to her eyes. She chewed with exaggerated motions, and made a great show of licking her lips.

  “Mmmmm... delicious.”

  “I may be ill.”

  She laughed, and the worry in her face fully retreated. She lifted the lid of the tureen and offered him a long-handled fork.

  “Care for a meatball? They’re Svinnish.”

  “You’re a very bad woman, you know that?” She tossed her head back and laughed, and Max grinned, pleased to make her laugh. He felt the urge to ask her more about her problems, but was loathe to ruin her mood. Instead he tried a related tack.

  “Did you make what you’re wearing? It’s nice.”

  Her eyebrow shot back up. “Don’t humor me. It’s nothing of the sort. I spent all week on my patrons and family, only to realize a few hours before dawn that I had nothing to wear myself. This was all I could manage.”

  “I’m not humoring you, I like that slip of a dress very much.” He let a little leer creep into his voice. Nothing like good old fashioned lechery to keep a woman amused. Sure enough, her eyebrow returned to its normal location, and her smile broadened. Max went back to his usual tones, “However, if it isn’t up to your standards maybe you could show me some of your other work.”

  Her face lit up and she grabbed his arm, dragging him back to the door and their view of the ballroom.

  “Let’s see, Mrs. Minglesall is dressed as a fishwife, but I don’t see her anywhere. Oh, the flower girl over there is mine, that’s Madam Fire Hair.”

  “Madam Fire Hair?”

  “That’s just what I call her. Look at those locks! I suggested roses for her flowers and a henna rinse to bring her natural tone closer to the roses. I have to say it worked out well.”

  Max agreed. He knew Madam Fire Hair, she was the mistress of Lord Durns, and he thought she looked much better as a flower girl than in her normal brocades.

  “Who else?”

  “Well... there’s my stepsister Beatrice. Being a tavern wench seems to suit her personality admirably.” As they watched Beatrice flipped her skirt at her previous dance partner, then winked and took to the floor with another. Yet a third young man was glowering at the other two. Max didn’t see the appeal, but whatever Beatrice was doing to charm them, it was certainly working.

  “I don’t see... oh, there she is. My other stepsister, Prudence. She looks rumpled, I wonder what happened?” Max just had time to catch a glimpse of a pale girl blushing bright red and smoothing her skirts, when his matchgirl dropped her hand and gasped.

  “Oh no!”

  She backed from the door and looked around, clearly alarmed.

  “What is it?”

  “My stepmother, hide me!”

  Max didn’t know why the girl would require hiding from her stepmother, but he was nothing if not obliging. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her over to the magnificent picture window that looked out over the hedge maze. Framing the window were heavy floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains, and Max pushed her behind one, slipping in after her.

  Not a moment too soon. Footsteps sounded in the room, and he heard a fluttery female voice.

  “Eleanor... Ella! I would have sworn I just saw her here.”

  Ah-ha! Now Max had a name for his little matchgirl.

  “Truly, you needn’t worry about it, Millicent.”

  That was a young man’s voice. Max looked down at Ella. Her eyes glinted with anger and her mouth was drawn tight.

  “Oh no, Fredrick, if I’d known you were hoping to dance with Ella specifically I would have made her come and find you.”

  “Perhaps later. The ball won’t end for hours yet.”

  “Indeed, and as soon as I find that girl I’ll send her to you.”

  “I would take it as a kindness.”

  “Not at all, dear boy, I’ve always liked you. I think you’d make a magnificent son-in-law. Now be a dear and fetch me some punch before we go back into the press.”

  Fredrick’s footsteps moved off, but Ella’s stepmother’s sounded even closer. Apparently she was taking a moment to view the grounds. Max pressed Ella further against the wall. He didn’t want the outline of his body giving them away. It wasn’t until he felt her take a deep breath that he realized just how close they were. As he gazed down at the woman in his arms he saw that she had realized it, too. She looked up at him with wide eyes, and they both turned to look at the thin crack of light penetrating the curtain.

  Her stepmother was out there, searching for Ella to throw her into the arms of a potential husband, and here she was, hiding not three feet away, in the arms of a strange man.

  If they were found, it was going to be very awkward.

  Ella was intensely aware of the man holding her so closely. The heat from his body seeped through the thin shift she wore, and her hands seemed tangled in the torn strips of fabric that criss-crossed his chest. The ragged edges of the silk beneath her fingers reminded Ella that her companion was a man of means; if Millicent found them she would likely be torn between horror at the impropriety and delight at her stepdaughter’s catch. Ella had a hard time imagining what excuse Millicent would give to Fredrick, though. “So sorry, dear boy, but this one is much better, we’re just going to have to throw you back?”

  The ridiculous nature of the situation was getting the better of her, and Ella just knew she was going to laugh. Quickly she pressed her hand firmly to her mouth, but not before a tiny bubble of laughter escaped.

  “What was that, Fredrick? Did you say something?”

  Max frantically motioned to Ella to be quiet, but as he looked at her, he could tell she couldn’t seem to help herself. She was trying her best, but small sounds were escaping through her fingers. Max tried to help by putting his own hand over her mouth, but that only made Ella laugh harder.

  “Perhaps I should send Beatrice in here with Frederick. A little privacy, some romantic scenery, before you know it she could be in his arms. Ella is just so resistant to that sort of thing.”

  Ella’s shoulders were vibrating with suppressed mirth. Max could do nothing but hold her tighter and bite his lips as he started laughing, too.

  “They really should replace these curtains with lighter material. This heavy velvet just obscures the view.”

  Millicent’s hand brushed along the dense material, and Max felt the curtain ripple along his shoulders, as her fingers ghosted along inches from his rear end. Max looked with desperation down at Ella, who buried her face in his chest, trying to muffle herself. Tears were streaming down Max’s face, and they both clutched at one another, in a failing attempt at keeping their hilarity silent. Max knew that if Ella’s stepmother kept up her one-sided conversation, they were going to end up in a heap on the floor, howling hysterically even as they were discovered.

  And that only made him laugh harder.

  At last her footsteps moved away, and Max and Ella both heard her say, faintly,

  “Bless you, Frederick. Now, let’s go find Beatrice. I’m sure she’d love to dance with you.”

  They tumbled out of the curtain, shrieking with mirth. Max had to prop himself up against the window mullions and Ella actually sat down on the floor. When she could finally breathe again Ella looked up at her accomplice.

  “My stepmother, Millicent, is dressed as a baker woman, but I should have had her go as a implacable matchmaker.”

  “Ah, but then, that wouldn’t have been a costume, would it?”

  That set them off into another round of laughter. Ella wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and explained further.

  “Frederick is a fine, upstanding young gentleman, but he has all the personality of a boiled turnip. A few years ago he mentioned to Millicent that he quite liked the look of me, and she’s been scheming for our marriage ever since. Mostly I think she wants free range of the house he’ll inherit—it has lovely gardens.”

  “I take it you object to lovely gardens?” Max was absurdly glad that Ella seemed unint
erested in this Frederick fellow.

  “Not at all, I simply object to them being a reason for matrimony.” Ella stood and brushed herself off. “Now that my stepmother has started looking for me, I should go. She’ll persist until she tracks me down, and then insist on introducing me to scads of other young worthies.”

  Max found himself reluctant to part. “Surely we could find a better hiding place, one fortified against young worthies.”

  For a moment Ella was tempted, but then she heard the city bells ringing, tolling the midnight hour. She regretfully shook her head. “I would love to, really, I would, but I’ll be getting little enough sleep this week, trying to finish my costume orders.”

  Max looked at Ella, really looked at her, not her features or her hair or her petite body in the thin shift. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her shoulders drooped from weariness. During their banter her natural animation had hidden these things from him, but now that her thoughts were turning towards home and the upcoming work week he could see the strain she was under. He had the bizarre urge to gather her up against him and let her sleep undisturbed in his arms, safe and protected. What nonsense.

  “Well, Matchgirl Ella, I have enjoyed this evening.”

  “As have I, Beggar..?”

  “Max.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Beggar Max; Eleanor Emberton, at your service.” She dropped a small curtsy, and Max swept into his most elaborate bow.

  “I assure you, Miss Emberton, the pleasure was all mine.”

  Ella smiled at him brightly, but her heart was heavy as she turned to go. Tonight, for what seemed like the first time in years, Ella had forgotten her cares and truly enjoyed herself. She glanced back at the man who had made that possible. For just a second she let herself imagine what it would be like if she had come here hunting a husband. If she might have invited him to call. If he might have accepted the invitation.

  But no. Though he had given only his first name, it was obvious that Max was Sir Max, or even Lord Max. He was wealthy and probably titled, whereas she was perilously close to being as poor as the little matchgirl she portrayed. Even if she wanted to marry, she would have to set her sights a little lower.