James Delacey glared at her still. But it was the grandfather clock behind him that she noted, its face showing twelve minutes to nine.
Delacey could glare all he wanted. But in twenty minutes, the show would start—and after that, he’d regret everything.
IN THE END, it was even more glorious than they had planned.
Oliver’s undersecretary, looking pale and frightened, came into the ballroom. Free had been watching for him; he stole through a servants’ door, sweating profusely. His forehead shone in all that crystal light. He plastered himself against the wall, looking about the room until his eye fell on Delacey.
He inhaled, straightened his spine, and then did his best to slink to the man through the crowd.
That was Free’s cue. She signaled, and a servant brought her a sheaf of papers.
Andrews, meanwhile, bumped into everyone as he moved. He ducked his head in apology every time he did, jumping away and inevitably jostling someone else as he did it, necessitating yet another apology. Free would almost have felt sorry for him had he not been part of the plot to destroy her. As it was, her sympathies were low.
“Pardon,” she heard him mutter as he moved by her. “Pardon. So sorry. Argh.” That last happened as he knocked a wineglass out of a woman’s hand.
By the time Andrews found Delacey, half the room was pretending not to watch him. Free had situated herself a strategic ten yards away, with a perfect view of the coming storm.
“Sir.” At least, that’s what she assumed Andrews said; from here, she could see only the movement of his lips.
Delacey turned to Andrews and then turned a little pale. But he harrumphed creditably and narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”
“Sir.” This, she could hear. Andrews spoke a little louder, but just as importantly, those around him had stopped talking, the better to overhear. “Yes, sir. Of course. We’ve never spoken before.” He said that with a little flourish, as if he were winking at the man. “But the thing we’ve never spoken about…”
Delacey took a step back. “What part of I don’t know you escapes your understanding?”
“Yes, I know, that’s what we say, but—”
Delacey scowled. “I do not know you, you idiot.”
“But things have changed. I’m suspected, and I must give you this because—” Andrews leaned in close, whispering.
“What did he say?” someone nearby asked. Those closest murmured to their neighbors, and they to theirs.
“He said…there’s a horse in the grain?” someone near Free said in confusion.
“No,” another man contradicted. “He said he’s being called out.”
But by that time, the poorly understood whispers were irrelevant. The little undersecretary removed a sheaf of papers all bound up in twine from his jacket.
It was Delacey’s own file. Mr. Clark had stolen it that very morning. Delacey must have recognized the contents, because he took a step back, his eyes growing wide. “How did you get that?”
Andrews held it out helpfully. “You gave it to me?”
“I didn’t! I never!”
One of the few protests Delacey had made that was actually true, Free mused. Poor man. He had no idea what was happening to him.
“Take it,” Andrews gestured. “Here, before they find me—”
Delacey stepped back just as Andrews lunged forward. The papers slipped from the secretary’s grasp, scattering widely over the floor.
“Here,” a nearby man said. “Let me help you gather those.”
“No!” Delacey said, leaping on the pile. “Nobody look at them!”
Naturally, of course, everyone did.
“I say,” a man near the papers said, “Delacey—this is a draft of a letter to the Portsmouth Herald, asking them to print a column.”
“By God,” another voice said. “There’s a statement of account here—according to this, he’s…” The rest of that sentence was caught up in a swelling murmur.
Free didn’t ask questions. She didn’t ask how Edward had stolen a file that had notations in Delacey’s own hand. The details of his plan, while not spelled out, were hinted at in such detail that it became clear what Delacey had been doing—that he’d filched early copies of her columns and paid others to reprint them to discredit her, that he’d hired the man who had set fire to her home.
It was possible that Delacey was such an inveterate record-keeper that he’d kept written notations on the arsonist he’d hired. And if he wasn’t? Well. He was now, and she wasn’t going to feel sorry about it. If he kept this up, next time, he might actually kill someone. Sometimes there was no point in playing fair.