Bena’s smile cracked until it broke, exposing white teeth that sparkled against her dark skin. “I am afraid so. And the purple coat with the gold cuffs.”
“You reckon he was raised by circus folk where he comes from?” Westie said. She looked at her reflection, tugging at a clump of hair wound up in the gears of her machine, and gave a shrug. “At least I won’t be the only silly thing there.” She turned to Bena, who fussed with a hem. “Do you think this is a bad idea?”
“This dress? Yes.”
Westie smiled. “You know I’m talking about the plan.”
The plan—the only reason for the ball—was to get ahold of Lavina’s key to her rooms at the inn so that Westie could look through their belongings for anything that might prove they weren’t polite society folks like everyone thought.
Bena gave her a smile, the kind that made the skin around her eyes crinkle. Westie loved that smile. It reminded her of her mother, even though the two women looked nothing alike.
“I think using this party for your scheme is a terrible idea, but I would do the same if I were you. Just try not to get caught. If Nigel finds out, it will break his heart,” Bena said.
Westie nodded. Though there were a lot of parts to her plan, she was sure they could pull it off.
Bena took Westie’s hand in hers and gave it a maternal squeeze. “If it looks at all like there could be trouble, walk away.”
Westie swallowed hard and nodded.
“We had better get downstairs before Nigel gets suspicious,” Bena said.
Nigel waited for her at the entrance of the ballroom, where a black curtain had been draped to hide Westie from the guests.
Westie asked, “Where’s Alley?”
“He’s parking carriages out front,” Nigel said.
She found it harder to breathe with each passing moment and wished Alistair were there.
Bena said good-bye, leaving Nigel and Westie alone.
Nigel gave her the dance card in his hand. It wasn’t a card at all, but a paper fan with red satin backing lined with copper. A few names had already been scrolled on the flat part of the folds in gold ink calligraphy.
She took a closer look at the names. There were spots for Nigel, the mayor, and Costin. She noticed only one spot for Alistair—she would have to make that dance count.
Nigel gave her the pen to fill out the rest of the names. Next to Nigel’s elegant script, her penmanship looked like someone trying to write with their toes. She wrote James’s name in most of the spaces. Even if he was unaware of the Fairfields’ dastardly hobbies, he might be able to add the missing pieces she needed without him even knowing he was exposing their secrets.
There were places on her dance card for Cain and Hubbard as well, but only one for each. She would have left them off completely, but that would’ve looked suspicious.
“Remember,” Nigel said when she was finished writing. “Not a single drop to drink.”
The mention of alcohol made Westie’s stomach twitch with the acidic pang of vomit. Before she’d tried it herself, she’d doubted the healing ability of the vampire blood, for there had been times when she’d craved the drink so fiercely, she’d rather have died than be without it. The revulsion she felt as she remembered the sting of whiskey down her throat had turned her into a believer.
“Not a drop,” she promised.
“Good. Now, I’ve asked James to escort you, since Alistair is busy with the carriages.”
She nodded.
Nigel went beyond the curtain to announce her arrival. She barely heard his voice as he spoke the common words of one’s coming-out. He told the crowd she was a proper lady now, fit for society and suitors. When Nigel called her name, she took a deep breath and walked into the room, a shaky smile on her lips.
Twenty-Three
It seemed everyone in town had shown up for the ball. Even the sheriff was in attendance. Westie had never seen the sheriff’s family before. He had a pretty young wife and seven daughters. He was younger than Nigel, maybe in his early thirties, but the comfortable way he wore his authority made him seem older. She’d seen him take down men twice his size with his bare hands and had always thought of him as a cowboy, but the tender way he danced with his wife and daughters was enough to melt the stoniest of hearts.
As Westie looked around, her eyes lit up at the sight of several Wintu in the crowd: Grah and Chaoha, and three women whose names she couldn’t remember. Nigel had invited the tribe but hadn’t expected them to show, since no one but her family wanted them there. They probably came in defiance of the mayor, but a part of Westie hoped they were there for her. Either way, she was happy to see them.
James waited for Westie, his arm crooked for the taking. He looked dashing, with tall, fitted boots over his trousers, a black tailcoat, a high-collared white shirt, and his dark hair oiled as it always was. Other than Nigel, she’d never seen someone wear a suit so easily.