wanted to disappear entirely.
“Perhaps not,” she said.
Sir Vincent narrowed his gaze.
“I—er—I think I see my friend,” Portia said hastily.
“Indeed?” Sir Vincent’s forehead wrinkled.
Fiddle-faddle.
Perhaps he was also thinking about how all of her friends had married.
“Which one?” he asked, his words coming out slowly, as if performing advanced mathematics to discover an unknown friend.
“Daisy,” she said, hoping she wouldn’t cry in front of him.
He widened his eyes. “Here? But she’s in a chair...”
Portia flushed. Daisy might be the most loquacious of her friends, but she didn’t walk, a fact that made her an unlikely guest at balls. Few hostesses extended invitations to her, perhaps in the mistaken belief Daisy might feel embarrassed or unhappy at any reminder she could not take part in the chief component of balls: dancing.
“Precisely,” Portia lied. “So you see, she’s quite short. You can’t see her past the other guests.”
Sir Vincent gave her a dubious nod, thankfully not inquiring why Portia could see her and not him, and Portia dashed away.
She fled the ballroom. Footsteps followed her, and Portia quickly opened the door to another room. She found a candle and candlestick to her right and lit it with a match. Good Portia would never have done this, but there was no sense being Good Portia anymore.
CHAPTER FIVE
COLIN TURNED AROUND slowly and tried to emanate innocence. Perhaps the maid had changed her mind. Perhaps she was going to holler and call everyone to her.
“You’ll need to wear a livery.” The maid jerked her thumb to the side. “The butler keeps spare ones for the footmen in that room.”
“Of course,” Colin said, and his heart beat merrily. He’d succeeded.
Colin entered the ballroom wearing his new livery and placed the tray on the punch table.
A footman wielding a silver platter topped with delicacies frowned and glided toward Colin with an uncomfortable rapidity for someone supposedly offering guests canapés.
Blast.
Colin needed to leave the ballroom before someone recognized him.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” The footman scanned his face.
“No, I’m new,” Colin said casually, angling himself away from the guests. “Just for tonight.”
The footman’s eyes narrowed. “But we have a full staff.”
“I suppose Sir Seymour wanted to make certain everything goes smoothly tonight,” Colin said hastily, lest someone recognize his voice.
Sir Seymour, for instance, could recognize him, as could Sir Seymour’s wife, Lady Amberley. Or their son, Cecil. Fortunately, Colin’s new livery seemed an effective disguise. No one expected a duke to serve canapés.
“Everything always goes smoothly,” the footman said. “I’m certain you’re not needed.”
Colin quickly realized this was a conversation worth avoiding, and he dashed away. Hopefully the footman was too busy to actually send a parade of well-muscled footmen after him, but just in case, Colin needed to find the library and relevant papers quickly. Sandridge better be dashed grateful.
Colin exited the ballroom, then entered a black-and-white-tiled passage. A lantern sat on a sideboard, conveniently at the space where the light from the foyer dimmed, and he picked it up and lit it. He moved hastily through the corridor, in case someone wondered at the flickering light, but no one was here. He soon came to a deep green room that contained a large desk.
Success.
Colin grinned and entered. There weren’t many books in this library—in fact, there might well be fewer books here than in any other library he’d ever visited, but he’d found Sir Seymour’s desk. That desk was unmistakable. It was large and important looking and just the type Sir Seymour might be prone to acquire.
Rustling sounded, and a figure ducked behind an armchair.
“Good evening?” Colin asked.
No sound responded, but then, perhaps people hiding behind armchairs were unlikely to engage in the niceties of greeting exchanges.
Colin hesitated and contemplated hiding. No one was supposed to be here—he could hardly rifle through Sir Seymour’s papers before an observer.
Still, efficiency was to be prized. Colin tiptoed toward the armchair to get a better view of the person who’d claimed it as a hiding space. He moved quickly over the thick carpet, and Colin felt a sudden rush of gratitude for the fact Sir Seymour did not come from a long line of barons who would have bestowed him with tasteful, thin worn rugs over which centuries of portly ancestors had trod.
A woman was hiding behind the armchair.
A woman in a bright yellow dress, the color vivid despite the dim light.
She scrambled up, and he was aware of luscious dark hair falling from an imperfectly knotted updo. “I—er—”
“I’m afraid I startled you,” Colin said jovially.
This must be one of the