Page 42

Clara was having fun. Most of the people around her expected her to be sour or scandalized. She was neither.

She was winning.

All because they thought they knew her and did not consider for one moment that they might be wrong. Did not think to look a little deeper. All weapons in the hands of a Spinster. She wanted so desperately to lay her cards down. To hear them choke. She knew it would sound like angels singing.

The win goes to Lady Clara.

It would be lovely. A vindication.

But she was not here for vindication.

She had to think of the long game. If she won now, they would watch her later. She might become mildly interesting. She could not afford to be interesting. Not now.

Although it physically hurt, she laid her cards facedown on the table, withdrawing. Someone snickered. Bram’s hands tightened over the back of her chair.

“Perhaps whist might be more to your liking, Lady Clara,” Lord Howell said.

Selene played her hand. And won. She tapped the end of her fan flirtatiously on the tip of Lord Howell’s nose. “And that’s what you get for thinking you are always right.”

“I am all apologies.”

“Good man.”

“I can be even better.”

“I look forward to it.”

Clara’s fingers twitched to take notes, to write down every word of their suggestive banter in the little notebook she kept tucked in her copy of Four Diocese Sermons. Instead, she stood up, watching her tokens get claimed. She was fiercely glad Selene had won. Losing to her did not sting. “Good evening.”

“Yes,” Selene agreed, rising gracefully. “I think that’s me done as well.”

There was a chorus of protests. “You’re not going to give us a chance to win our money back?”

“Certainly not.”

Clara held her secret triumph close all the way past the dancers and into the gardens. Torches had been lit in a procession down to the pond, where musicians played a lively tune. Acrobats cartwheeled and somersaulted, wearing very tight spangles. The moon turned the water to silver and silk. Her dress suddenly felt like glittering gossamer instead of plain white satin.

“Gah, pale as a ghost, that one,” Lord Whitlow said loudly, with an exaggerated start, when he saw her. “And just as dour.”

It was a struggle to hold on to her sense of confidence, but Clara would not relinquish it so easily. She had earned it, even if she had not been able to show the world even a peek at who she really was. Who she could be. And even if she chose to never leave the comforts of her disguise, she deserved the same courtesy as anyone else. Disreputable house party or not.

Lord Whitlow said something to his companion, who laughed, eyes darting toward Clara.

He was still smirking when Bram crossed the grass and then very calmy leaned over and pushed him into the pond. Lord Whitlow went top over teakettle, as Matilda would say.

Someone gasped; someone laughed themselves into a state of hiccups. Someone else snorted.

That was her. The snort of a laugh was definitely her.

She couldn’t help it. The expression on Lord Whitlow’s face. The resounding splash when he fell in. The affronted departure of the waterfowl currently enjoying the pond—it was all so glorious. Perhaps Clara had not been able to claim a public victory, but she had the image of the viscount choking on water weeds to treasure for the rest of her life.

Bram did not even look over his shoulder to see if the man could swim. She half expected the marquis to send a footman to remove Bram from the premises. Two footmen. Make that three.

But nobody came. Nobody dared.

In fact, it was simply part of the entertainments.

Bram extended his arm to Clara. “Shall we?”