Roslyn sighed and stared off into the distance, blinking her eyes.
“You’re not crying, are you, Roslyn? I meant to cheer you by coming out here.”
“I’m not crying. I never cry.” She blinked her eyes harder. “Maybe I do need love. Maybe I am softer than I pretend to be. But don’t you go and tell anyone, Sandrine Oliver. I might be forced to harm you if you did.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“These events make me sick,” Cleveland said sneeringly. “Rotten nobility who would never lift a finger to help a starving family on the street but who eagerly buy tickets to an event where they can display themselves in their finery and their false generosity.”
“Are you drunk, man?” Dane asked Cleveland, wondering why he would express such an incendiary sentiment to the man who was paying his salary.
“I’m not.”
“Have you forgotten that I’m your employer?”
“How could I? I’m only a lowly hired servant. You lot never allow me to forget it.”
The look of pure hatred on Cleveland’s face stopped Dane cold.
“It was you.” Why hadn’t he seen it before? “You hired those men to blackmail my brother.”
Cleveland made a derisive noise. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You know everything of my brother’s finances. You knew that he was skimming from the charity funds.”
“If you’re looking for someone to blame, have you thought about the duchess? Her lavish expenses always exceeded her allowance, and the duke refused to give her more.”
Dane hadn’t even thought of that. Could Piety truly be behind this?
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please.” Kenwick had climbed onstage and had told the orchestra to stop playing. What was he doing? This wasn’t part of the scheduled entertainment. Perhaps Sandrine had added something at the last moment? Where was she, anyway? Dane searched the room with growing unease.
“Sandrine, Roslyn,” Marta called, rushing across the garden. “There’s a commotion in the ballroom. Lord Dane is asking for Sandrine.”
“Perhaps he’ll do that public groveling after all.” Roslyn jumped up from the bench and held out her hand to Sandrine. “Come on, then, you simple country girl. Go and get your duke.”
All three ladies entered the ballroom together and were soon joined by Francesca, but it was Kenwick, not Dane, who’d taken the stage and was calling for silence.
“There she is, ladies and gentlemen,” he called.
The crowd parted as the four ladies walked toward the stage.
“Kenwick, what are you doing?” Roslyn hissed. “Get off the stage, you inebriated lout.”
“I’m not inebriated, not in the slightest. I’ve never been more sober.”
“What is he doing?” Marta asked.
“Can’t you see?” Sandrine squeezed Roslyn’s hand which she still held. “He’s going to ask Roslyn to be his bride.”
“He wouldn’t...” Roslyn said.
“Oh yes, he would,” called Kenwick.
Roslyn glanced wildly back at the balcony doors, as if she planned to make a run for it, but Sandrine pressed her hand again. “You can do this,” she whispered. “Remember what we talked about.”
“Lady Roslyn Stockard, we may not always get along, and you hate me more often than not, but I think we could be happy together if you gave me a chance to prove myself to you.”
Sandrine held her breath. She knew Roslyn loved Kenwick, and he was madly in love with her, it was plain to see. But sometimes love wasn’t enough.