Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)

“Why would I smile?”


Ned handed back Gareth’s pitiful attempt at carving. “Smiling is that thing most people do with their lips to indicate amusement or enjoyment.” He turned to Madame Esmerelda. “You ask the impossible. You’re a cruel woman.”

The carriage came to a careful halt, and a footman opened the door. Cool night air rushed in, and the conversation halted momentarily while the party exited the carriage.

Gareth carefully placed the ebony in his pocket. “I’m not going to feign amusement. Or enjoyment.”

“Like I said,” Ned replied airily. “Impossible.”

Madame Esmerelda patted her skirts into place. “Have you considered actually enjoying yourself?”

“In this venue? In this company?” Gareth glanced toward the brightly lit entry. “Ned’s quite right. It’s impossible.” He stalked away, leaving Ned and Madame Esmerelda in his wake.

“Whew.” Behind him, Ned whistled between his teeth. “Cold fish.”

If only he knew.

“LORD BLAKELY. Mrs. Margaret Barnard. Mr. Edward Carhart.” The majordomo’s announcement hardly cut through the din of conversation that filled the glittering room that opened up before Jenny.

She frowned at Lord Blakely—it was he, after all, who’d directed the majordomo—just before he leaned in and whispered to her.

“Congratulations, Meg. You have become a widow. Also a very distant cousin of mine. Do try not to tell fortunes here.” He tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow and led her forward.

He acted as if she were nothing but a liar, as if she’d chosen her profession because she could not help but speak mistruths every time she opened her mouth. It had taken her years to perfect Madame Esmerelda’s character, and almost a decade to bring her profession to this height, where word of mouth had replaced the need to advertise. She could not just adopt a persona on a whim.

But before she could think of a way to castigate him, she entered the ballroom, and all other thoughts were driven from her mind. The room seemed on fire, so bright was the illumination.

She had seen gas lamps on the street, dull globes of orange casting dim shadows about them. She’d even tangled with oil lamps herself on occasion—messy to fill, burning with a faint fishy odor. But she’d only walked outside houses illuminated as this one. The night fled from these bright chandeliers, shining with unspeakable wealth.

She’d never seen the like. The entire room was lit by what seemed a thousand golden suns. It was noon-bright, and twice as hot. No corner of the room stood in shadow. The only difference between this light and day was that the heavy yellow tinge of the lighting rendered the brown of her dress as mud.

Mud was what she felt like next to Lord Blakely.

His finery had been calculated to take advantage of the brilliance. The dark red embroidery in his black waistcoat subtly caught the light. Jet buttons, exquisitely cut, sparkled. In this light, she could make out the subtle, rich texture woven in the fabric of his dark jacket. All that black brought out the golden flecks in his eyes.

She had never felt so intensely shabby before. Her gown was plain and untrimmed. Simple lines; easy to put on and take off. The kind of dress that a woman, living alone, could don without assistance. And because only a woman living one step above genteel poverty would purchase a gown built on those lines, she’d chosen a sensible and serviceable brown. Anything else would have seemed out of place. But “out of place” was precisely where she stood now.

When she lifted her eyes to the scene in front of her, that feeling of unworthiness only intensified. She’d thought herself quite clever, putting up her hair in ribbons, with curls carefully crafted in papers the night before. Around her, she saw perfect, fat sausage curls dangling from exquisite coiffures, decorated with flowers real and silk, ribbons dyed with colors far richer and more exotic than the pink and faded beetroot she’d employed.

When the other ladies moved, their every step swayed with grace. They all seemed clean and crisp at the edges. Even from several feet away, she smelled ambergris and rich food.

And then there was the room itself. It fit as many people as the most crowded London street. She’d never seen so large a space indoors. Jenny followed the lines of the high Ionic columns ringing the room up, and up, and up, to a gilt-decorated ceiling towering five times her height in the air. It made her feet sweat. There was no reason for vertigo to afflict her when she was safely on the ground, looking up.

But it did.

Her fingers tightened on Lord Blakely’s elbow.

“Don’t fear, Mrs. Barnard,” he said coldly. “We’ll get you married off in no time.”