The party had grown in excitement, and every inch of floor held a foot tread in the next reel. I watched every square. And suddenly I could not find Gwenny. I located August, smoking a pipe at a window where he had opened the pane a couple of inches to draw in fresh air. “August? Where is Gwyneth? After that minuet I have not seen her.”
His face lost its charming appeal and assumed the character of a hardened man used to having his orders followed. “You.” He accosted the man next to him. “Have you seen the young lady coming out tonight, in the pink and lace frock?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “Fair as— Pardon, sir. I saw her, but not since the minuet.”
August’s face became frightening. “Find her. Search the house.”
The young man ran to do as he was told. I laid my arm upon August’s, finding it held none of the comfort as before, but was gone to stone. “I am sure she is dancing,” I said, trying to smile at another man who was now backing away at the tone of August’s order. “At least be discreet, sirs.”
August strode about the room, through the reel itself, upsetting three of the squares, and walked right through the hall made by dancing pairs, his eyes this way and that. I began scouring all the side rooms that led from the ballroom to alcoves and windows. At the far end, I opened the door to a room so dark that were it not for a reflection on her pink silk from the hall behind me, I would never have seen her. August reached my side as I threw the other of the double doors wide. There stood Gwenny in the arms of Wallace Spencer, his lips upon hers, his embrace swathing her. He looked up without a care on his face.
“Mother!” she whispered, her eyes wide and terrified. “I’m sorry.”
August pushed past me and said, “Unhand her, Spencer.”
“This is my house,” Wallace replied, though he did let her go and began adjusting his coat collar and vest, brushing at his sleeves as if she had left something there by her touch. “And the lass wanted her first kiss. She’d chosen someone quite unworthy to give it to her. Now, let us have no more about this and return to the ball.”
I rushed to Gwenny and clutched her shoulders, searching her face. I heard August talking to Wallace behind me as I asked her, “Did you ask him for a kiss?”
“No, Mother, but when he kissed me I couldn’t let go.”
“Where is the young man?”
She began to cry. “Out the window. Lord Spencer hit John in the face and tumbled him off.”
I went to the window. The young man lay sprawled below. “Is he dead?” I asked.
Gwenny cried louder. “I don’t know. He might be.” I turned. August’s and Wallace’s voices had grown louder and the music stopped behind the door.
“Are you challenging me, sir, in my own house?”
“You must apologize to my niece.”
Wallace snapped his fingers and from behind a set of drapes appeared two armed guards. He smiled. “It is a party, sir, and the crowd is quite gay. Kisses and little freedoms are part of the happy occasion. But to insist I apologize for kissing the child of a slave?” He hissed out that last word as if there were nothing lower on earth. “You, sir, astound me. Step aside or throw down your glove.”
At that, the slick of metal against metal heralded the two guards drawing small swords. August seemed not to watch them at all, but I felt he sized them up. He said, “Sir, I am sure you are aware that dueling is against the law. Perhaps we should meet alone at another place to finish our—discussion.”
Wallace looked at me with cruelty in his eyes. “Over a petty wench? I doubt you know who her father is, but if you should find him, tell him for me she is a choice little peach waiting to be plucked.”
I gave a cry of shock.
August said, “He is trying my bluff.” He turned to the two men with swords at the ready. “Captain August Talbot, at your service.” One of them developed a rain of sweat from his brow, his sword hand trembling. August said, “Ladies? I suggest you find Miss Roberts. Our host seems to have lost affection for our presence.”
He pushed us behind him as he backed out of the room. I shielded Gwyneth with my body and she turned her face toward the wall as we edged toward the large hall. August told the doorman to get a torch and help him find the poor man lying in the snow. America joined us and we followed him, tramping through snow and damp in our thin slippers. At last we came upon him. “Is he alive?” I whispered. “He is a most gentle man, the son of a minister.”
August jostled John and patted his face. He was but a boy, I thought, perhaps just a year or two older than Gwyneth. “There you are, good fellow. How is that head, now? Quite a blow you received.”
“Sir, I beg pardon,” John began, his speech a little slurred.
“Not at all, not at all,” August cajoled. “Hit your head, did you?”