Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“No breathtaking plumage?” Delaney asked.

“Well,” Penelope grudgingly admitted, “she does have beautiful clothes. But she was rather cold and standoffish.”

“Now, my dear,” Mrs. Stevenson said, frowning slightly at her daughter, “Miss Jameson wasn’t precisely cold. It is just that she is English. Very formal, but quite gracious in accepting our invitation. Did you not say, Delaney, that the English are far more restrained in their manners than Americans?”

“Something like that,” Delaney agreed.

“I thought her quite old,” Penelope said.

“Old?” her mother uttered. “My dear, she cannot be beyond her twenty-first year!”

Delaney laughed softly, picturing clearly Penelope’s pouting little mouth. She could obviously not bear to have competition from another young lady. The carriage slowed as they neared the Stevenson mansion. Set on the gentle north slope of Rincon Hill, the impressive structure was aglow with lights from every window. Carriages lined the road, and Delaney called out to Lucas, “Stop here! I’ll walk the rest of the way. Thank God it hasn’t rained—I wouldn’t want to soil my beautiful togs!”

Delaney fastened on his mask and swung the cloak over his shoulders. He paused as he neared the massive front doors, and gazed up a moment at the sparkling stars in the clear sky above. He breathed the crisp cool night air deeply into his chest, wondering as he did so if Marie were already here with Jarvis, her escort. She would behave herself. She was French and utterly practical.

The Stevenson rendition of a butler, a man named Boggs, was a rough-looking character with a battered nose and a mouthful of broken teeth. His history was unknown, which was probably just as well for the peace of the Stevensons. Tonight he was decked out in formal evening dress and looked for the world like a mongrel dog among curled poodles.

“Good evening, Boggs,” Delaney said. “It’s elegant you are tonight.”

“Thank you, Mr. Saxton,” Boggs said grandly.

Delaney handed over his silk top hat and wandered upstairs to the huge ballroom. Glittering chandeliers cast dancing shadows on the guests, many of whom were whirling about in a rather fast-paced waltz. The small orchestra was settled at the far end of the ballroom upon a dais, playing their instruments with urgent gaiety.

Delaney recognized most of the guests immediately, though they were all wearing the required masks. As usual, there were more men than women present, even including some of the more questionable females. He saw Mrs. Stevenson, her iron-gray hair arranged in ridiculously tight ringlets about her broad face, two huge ostrich plumes rising at least a foot above her head. Penelope was surrounded by a group of men. He could hear her tittering at their compliments from where he stood. He scanned the crowd, realizing he was searching for Miss Elizabeth Jameson. He saw Marie dancing with the stiff-kneed Jarvis. Penelope could learn something about style from Marie, as could most of the ladies here tonight, he thought, unconsciously nodding approval of her yellow velvet gown. Her only jewelry was a diamond necklace he had given her at Christmas.

There she was, the mysterious Englishwoman in question—he was sure of it—standing next to Dan Brewer, while Dan, bless his heart, appeared to be shielding her from the onslaught of eager gentlemen. She was wearing an elegant gown of pale blue silk that fell away from her white shoulders. He scanned her form, objectively noting her full breasts and slender waist. “I take it all back,” he murmured to himself. “There is style.” He could tell nothing of her face, but her hair was lovely, an odd combination of colors, like the leaves in autumn back in Boston, he thought. He moved no closer, content to watch her for a while. Only when Dan left her to go to the refreshment table did Delaney approach. There were a half-dozen other men closing in on her, but he deftly made his way through their ranks until he stood in front of her.

“It is my dance, I believe, Miss Jameson,” he said calmly, and proffered his arm.

Chauncey eyed the gentleman standing so much at his ease in front of her. He was tall, slender, and well-dressed. His hair was a light brown, the color of rich honey, and rather longer than an English gentleman would wear. He wore no side whiskers or beard. His mouth was well-formed and his smile attractive.

At least he appeared utterly respectable, and he did know her name. A man of some importance, she supposed, for the other men had stood aside for him. Still, she frowned a moment before accepting him, her eyes going about the huge ballroom yet again. Where was Saxton? Dan Brewer had assured her that he would be coming.

“You know my name, sir,” she said, bringing back her attention to the gentleman.

“Of course,” he said. “I promise not to tread on your toes. Waltzing is one of my major accomplishments.”

Chauncey grinned and accepted his arm. She found that he was a surprisingly good dancer, his movements easy to follow, and he did not attempt to draw her close.

“I do not know your name, sir,” she said, gazing up at him. His eyes were a light brown, nearly the same color as his thick hair, with golden lights. Or were they more amber? It was hard to discern his other features because of his mask.

His eyes twinkled down at her. “I do not think you have a beak of a nose,” he said.

“A beak! No, I trust not. What an outrageous thing to say, sir.”

“True, but I was informed that it was indeed the case. By a young lady, of course. No gentleman, even if it were true, would so castigate an unmarried lady, at least not in San Francisco.”

“I am beginning to believe that you would, sir!”

“I?” A mobile brown brow shot upward a good inch. He smiled, revealing straight white teeth. “Never! I may be a blackguard, but I would never insult a lady who dances as well as you do.”

“I do not dance with blackguards, sir.”

“I beg to differ with you, ma’am. If you have danced at all this evening, blackguards have already numbered among your partners.”

How slippery he is, Chauncey thought. At least he has wit and doesn’t pretend that I am the most desirable creature in the world! She was silent a moment, remembering, and suddenly she missed a step.

“I suppose,” her partner said pensively, “that I should have asked if you were a treader of toes.”