“I hadn’t realized that was even an option.”
Mirabelle leaned forward as if imparting a great secret. “The trick, you see, is to be the least of all evils,” she said with a small smile. “My group comes from those who must dance to make their mothers happy. In my first season, I made a point to refrain from simpering, flirting, or stepping on toes. If possible, and it generally was, I made them laugh. In short, I helped them discharge their duty in the most pleasant manner possible, and at the next ball when their mothers began demanding they dance with one of ‘those poor plain girls,’ they remembered that. In exchange for my efforts, I get to dance with some of the nicest gentlemen in the room and even have the pleasure of naming a few of them as friends.”
Sophie stared at her friend for a moment before shaking her head and smiling. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed with your cleverness, or horrified by your scheming.”
“Oh, impressed, without question.”
Sophie was denied a retort by the approach of an attractive young man who executed a proper, if somewhat uncomfortable, bow to Mirabelle.
“Miss Browning.”
“Mr. Abner. May I present Miss Sophie Everton?”
Sophie curtsied her hello.
“Miss Everton has just returned from extensive travel,” Mirabelle informed him. “Most recently from China.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Abner commented. “Excellent, excellent…. And are you enjoying your season in London?”
“Very much, thank you.” Sophie replied.
“Excellent.” He tugged once on his cravat, then seemed to think better of it and gripped his hands behind his back.
Mirabelle favored him with a kind smile “Mr. Abner is quite famous for his fencing skill.”
Mr. Abner beamed, shot a quick glance at a formidable-looking woman who was staring at him pointedly from several yards away, turned back and asked, “Miss Browning, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
“I’d be delighted,” Mirabelle replied gracefully, taking his arm.
It took all Sophie’s self-control to keep a straight face. She thought she was safe once the couple turned their backs to leave, but then Mirabelle shot a look over her shoulder of such exaggerated innocence that Sophie was forced to make for the nearest balcony doors.
It was a convenient escape, and one she might need to utilize later in the night. She’d already made the prerequisite trip to the washroom, and discovered the only locked door in the main hall was, unfortunately, directly across from the billiards room. It was safe to bet that the room was already packed with gentlemen seeking a respite from the ballroom. There was no way she could sneak into the study through the door.
There were also Mrs. Summers and the other chaperones to contend with. They had claimed a strategic corner of the room that allowed their charges free range of the ballroom, but left no chance of one of them sneaking down the hall or out the patio doors into the garden without being seen. The chaperones’ view of the dance floor was somewhat limited, but they definitely had both exits covered.
Sophie sighed and peered over the edge of the balcony. It wasn’t more than a six-foot drop to the ground. She could manage that well enough. Of course, it might be easier to enter the garden from the other side of the ballroom and work her way around, but it was dark out and some of these larger homes had hedge mazes. The possibility of becoming lost in a dark maze was too nightmarish to consider.
Besides, it was a private little balcony, and she was less likely to be spotted than if she had to trudge through God only knew how many well-lit garden paths.
Sophie peeked back into the ballroom. The orchestra had moved on to a new dance, and Mirabelle had moved on to another partner. Beyond that, little had changed. Which, to Sophie’s mind—and absolute disgust, translated neatly into this: a certain gentleman had yet to arrive.
She really—really and truly—needed to stop concerning herself over Lord Rockeforte. She ought to be giving her full attention to saving Whitefield. She was being paid by the Prince Regent himself after all, or at least on his behalf, and here she was fretting, not over her newly acquired position as spy, and not over her tenuous grip on her ancestral home, but over a man. A man who, no doubt, viewed her as just another conquest.
Sophie straightened her shoulders, hauled up her skirts, and began maneuvering over the balcony railing. She was going to break into Lord Patton’s study, and then she was going to go home.
The prospect of wasting a perfectly good evening in an overcrowded room making inane conversation with people he generally disliked usually caused Alex to break out in a mental cold sweat. But after Sophie said she’d planned to be at the Patton ball, Alex had immediately sent his regrets to the Wycotts for their musicale.